Category Archives: KATHERINE SOPHIE

10 – Katherine Sophie – Seasons In A Live Stream

My Stream – One – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Katherine says:

It has been a misty morning, after the velvety night at Camille’s with elfin Fanny who gently roots into the luxury of the stately apartment and the depth of the plush beddings, I rode with her to her concealed school where she catches up, according to Camille’s and Hugo’s advice approved by the Powers That Be, with another curriculum than being raised a whore, and Camille knows all the codes and shortcuts firsthand. A service car is provided to the still overprotected high-risk witness on her way to and from, daily.

A tad drowsy but elated, I bring home fresh baked croissants in their butter-soaked paper bag, unshoe, undress and brew tea in the household chimera pot, before stealthily sneak up to our grand bed still deep into a hushed warmth in the familiar scent of geranium-orange as someone has showered before bed. There are two dark heads peeking out of the sheets, Malo has stayed after the so-private party with Melchior, who may have brought round some of his fine myrmidons to endlessly drain the quintessence dew out of my own nonpareil genie.

As I have learned about her sensitive keys, I reach for her feet under the quilt as if I would care for a child; they sure have been titivated for the thrill of the godlike connoisseur, with midnight blue nails polished as Fabergé spoons. Gently huddling around them I salute every little toe bone as I imagine her Far did to induce better dreams up to her soothed head; I figure I fiddle some unreal musical instrument inside her blue garden, I suffuse some of Fanny’s sighs in her silent song.

Before I myself snooze back into the birds’ cloud the worshipped tootsies faintly respond, then play just like I knew they would. She wiggles and grooves lightly and confusedly grabs Malo’s neck and shoulder, then yawns and moans to the moon, waking like a breeze. I inhale some warm euphoria in nosing between their two bellies so they chant the new day and crave for breakfast.

As they flee to the bathroom and pee, I draw the curtains and in the daylight I notice a twinkling detail on the side chest, which happens to be a sleek band of hinged platinum squares paved with diamonds and trimmed with lines of onyx between a few carnal rubies; I instantly feel evil, shuddering at the thought of all the lovely debauchery this marvel has rewarded. My depraved heart digresses into the fantasy of bringing Sarah at Victor’s, as a licentious rewind.

 

My Stream – Two – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Sarah says:

Nowhere else in the world does curled up layers of flour and butter taste as this close to heavenly food; and I should know, because Danish pastry is also an acme of breakfast requisites. French butter, through tough regulations I suppose, has kept a wealth of unmistakable echoes of the land and its rich hays.To many, dipping croissants in black coffee is the epitome of a guilty addiction, apart from the deadly ones. Here we have chosen the sophisticated melodies of tea, specially the heady ones grown by the heirs of the British, for whom Robert Fortune had stolen a few samples in China and saved three of them which have populated the gardens of Darjeeling. Hugo keeps a weak patch for Taiwanese high-grown beauties and we may agree.

This morning Malo is all over me, still enthralled, says she, by my utterly licentious abandonment to Melchior’s dark-skinned assistants who spent all my nerves so much as I can’t remember; she herself took a good share of the expense in her pale languor elegance and we fainted both, eventually, till Hugo brought us up here and sluiced our souls with waters after we peed in his mouth and else. In one of my boro robes, she’s as fresh and mint as dawn.

When we wake up our phones, we have messages from Marie de Chasseline, our valiant photographer, she wants to come up at noon with a truckload of macarons.

Malo says:

This is the place I prefer on earth, and not only because Hugo helps me tirelessly; he attracted the best areopagus of gifted libertines under the high goodwill of powerful men like Melchior, who provided for most of my comfort. Sarah has all the troubling charm of the legendary courtisanes, by choice, inclination, gratuitous vice, vocation. Kate is the disarming fairy who was back from soulless perdition and still is the triumphant whore that flies high, with the manners of a girl and that elusive northern gaze.

I ask Sarah to wear the new jewel at her slim wrist and in her indigo sublime rags just as the ones she lent me she is suddenly so lavishly dressed-up that I crave again for her laser-smooth pubis at once, but the door bell stops me.

Katherine says:

Marie boasts a sun blond mane around a radiant smile, in her kiss she smells of chamomile and honey, happy sweat and something more animal and troubling. She sports camouflage khakis and unlaces stark ranger boots like a baby soldier; I steal her white socks and appropriate her minute feet so as to resume my morning crave whilst my girly boy is flirting with the musician, for now.

She goes on unbuttoning her chic fatigues over white underwear and theatrically lifts her tee shirt while laying on a pillow. She says she has some kind of announcement to make; we are all gazing at her white belly when she tells us she is really pregnant. Breaking our stupor, she joyfully explain that for sometime she has toyed with the idea of raising her own child and decided to make it happen without asking for a father.

She happened to be on assignment with a big pornographic production in a lavish estate in southern Spain, shooting animal expenses in various shines of perfect skins, among crews of double-checked male fighters unleashed in their pulsions so she figured she could let any of them hit on her backstage, the main issue being that these connoisseurs preferred coming into her smaller hatch. Anyhow, having had her IUD removed before leaving Paris, enough of the troupe carried the necessary count of vivacious zoons and after three weeks she felt one of them had nested so she came back fulfilled.

She is soon entirely denuded under our caresses, the only difference we note is in her breasts which have already grown and hardened like oranges we jostle kindly. She is crying for joy, I lap her tears.

My Stream – Three – ©Chasseline @katerine-sophie

Marie says:  

Happy my little ploy worked, my candid indecency show has defused the dire questions that will leap up from my big folly. For now, we have displayed the orgy of multicoloured macarons on copper Moroccan plates and reached Hugo and Gauthier, I have already shared with Camille who has been impeccably discreet.

Hugo is at first overjoyed to find himself in his little brothel of choice with every girl nude or in open robes; over the abundance of pastry, he sniffs a bouquet like lustful sugary flowers, crazed frangipani festooned in mandarin drops, mimosa wasps in almond milk, until his nose snoops between my thighs. Then he clearly begs for the privilege of serving as my child’s sponsor, for what, due to our mutual past, I am comforted and moved. I am about to cry again, my tears wet an orgeat cake and it tastes good.

Sarah says;

Gauthier has brought his sister soul Donovan, whom he tracked all the way to New Zealand out of nostalgia and finally lured to Paris at the risk of the most bitter disappointment which, as we witness, did not occur. His first love on the gay side, amongst the rags and dolls in his father’s castle where his mother and a hive of Polish assistants sewed phantasmagorical theater costumes while their children groped each others behind the piles of fabrics and stuffs, Donovan was there, curly black haired and slender as a Canova, wearing a timeless three piece magnolia yellow suit with lavender stripes only his mother could have had the fancy to make him wear. He had been the cause of Gauthier’s deportation to a catholic institution when some bully snitched his shenanigans to his father. Now the father had just died, unforgiven by his son, and his best boy was here again.

Hugo says:

The faint Scottish accent is at once desirable, even were he not Gauthier’s lover. They both look like two young gentlemen on their first visit in a whorehouse, one still in a mourning black Indian attire with a purple shirt, the other as dandy as a yellow butterfly. Gauthier has soon enlightened his friend about the manners herein and while Sarah unbuckles his jodhpur boots, he strips him down as we see pink johnny poking through his shorts at the boy’s own amusement.

There are robes for everyone and Donovan shines in one of Katherine’s ikats, whenas my best Gauthier dons the oversized deep purple terry cloth housecoat that sets off his copper glory.

Mary touts her skin around for petting, with a waist still as flat as the palm and a blooming cunt, like the little whore I had once bought, on a tip from Camille, and watched wisening up since. She garners more wet kisses from the boys and myself; the Ladies are a tad moony, as I could explain.

While the fervent pair tilts the willowy nymphet over with all attempts at her demands, Malo and Sarah about to lull one another off, I huddle in Kate’s arms I haven’t smelled in yonks, as would Lord Bawdy say; she’s in a sweet beastly mood, as she became more easily after the Berlin affair, a slut in her own right, a seaweed in the dark waves, a whirl in a rose bush, the opal fire in a gold mirror. Spent from last night’s women lusts, she wants to be speared and again so wholly that I find might from deep guts to properly vandalise her so as I briefly think of the gilded pill Melchior gave us last night.

Malo dreams under Sarah’s richly adorned arm, her legs pulled up so her ass is offered to any wandering troll; as satiated as I could, Kate now can’t rest at the dare and, letting her legs wide opened for her dripping fount, she darts a pointed tongue into the shrewd little wink, only to watch Malo’s body meander at ease and crawl over Sarah.

Meanwhile, on the carpet, Mary sucks on a British knight as the sparkling rider rocks her tender back alley, like I have my habits. It is not long before the two become friendly neighbours in her vale and I run at her mouth to resurrect. Like a wolf pack we take turns around her panting anatomy until she lays drenched and smelly, eyes in the wind.

The day is vanishing when we emerge back, cuddled up together, hair stuck over our faces, pulling each other towards the showers. Mary glows like victory, we all cover her gracile figure with heartfelt wishes beyond the lust and the rave, I feel the blank future of someone new happening in her eyes.

My Stream – Four – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Katherine says:

Camille is sorry not to be able to join us, Fanny hasn’t yet security clearance to come to our house, so we order a chauffeured van, secure the macarons in a basket and bring the cello in its surprisingly light carbon case, to find opulence already on display at Camille’s like a miniature Mandarin banquet.

Fanny wears heavy silk satin Lanvin-blue pyjamas a half-size too long on her bare feet, she greets everyone like the house’s pet genie. Hugo remains quaintly shy around her, like he used to be about me, whereas she hustles him with feather-light familiarity. She hugs the two boys so as to make them smell a whiff of Williamine spirit and Virginia tobacco she has been into at Camille’s whim; already in her intimacy, Gauthier lets his manicured hand wander on the silk as he introduces his partner to the swaying-eyes djinn who might teach him some.

She grants me a lip-lap kiss and gropes me hastily before I find breath to present the new nymph in war attire, her tee shirt replete with bountiful balls she brushes against as she offers her cheeks. When she understands the tale of our celebration mood, she withdraws into a pensive gaze and embraces an all-generous Mary who lets her invade whatever she wishes: she needs to know Mary will keep her baby now that it is being called to life, or else it wood be wiser not to speak about it. Mary knows; she lifts her shirt, brings both Fanny’s hands upon her womb and whispers in her ear for a while until her pants are down.

I join them in the deep garnet sofa spread with dark silk panne quilts and help them to strip bare, excited by their merry new acquaintance, while tea and opalescent carafes are brought along with English china and Bohemian crystal. Camille has begged Malo to play in the halo of a single high taper, Sarah sucks on Donovan’s well-designed tools, Hugo and Camille share the boy of dawn as the cello’s long sostenuto drone searches for the room’s soul.

Malo thinks:

My family, my dedicated few, do they know I hold them in a spell, forever in their bedazzled memory? Lines want spiral, my bow spins figures through the forests of your dreams, scuffs the frozen mirror of your lives as you fly, panting amongst the colours of your dainty pleasures and I tie all the flowers in your hungry hearts. Through the circles of my harmonics I reach your frights and gifts to a garland of voices you never answer. Like lulled children in rolling waters you follow my unforeseen lead to climaxes I choose only for your beautiful eyes.

Camille says:

There, slow, the gold-headed squire creeps along my spine and fits deep in me as I contort back towards his mouth. Our Grand Master latches on to us both as he buggers the gentle jester in tempo while he twiddles my tits. Malo’s volutes unfurl accordingly, as it feels she scores the whole orgy by magic of her fiddlestick. I watch the pale Scotsman pin down the pussy boy on the carpet like a transfixed somnambulist, and she grabs her own butt cheeks to make way for his thrust; she looks towards me with her eyes swayed.

Katherine says:  

When it sounds that everyone has reached crisis and back to quiet, Malo sends lyrebirds through beaded cupolas, tiptoes on blue topiary trees of some frozen Tivoli terraces, slews across crystal prairies and lays us in the dying waves of a never breeze.

Everybody catnaps in ravishing indecency, pretty much as in the Radeau De La Méduse, by Géricault, in the Louvre, Sarah slips out first to shower, followed by Camille and her cavalier, I hear low mumbles as I breathe an invite at Malo who has rested her instrument. She crouches next to Fanny and caresses her in long passes from her neck to her muff. Mary takes her hand and soughs her admiration for her music, but Malo wants to lick Fanny’s wet pink smile and Mary lets her open wide. I slip my tongue into Malo’s tight bonny-honey and Mary crawls up to her chubby slit; occasionally our tongues meet, but we succeed at making the virtuosa cry grace.

My Stream – Five – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Mary says:  

I feel like a big ball of thrills, as if sharing my life’s wager with the hellfire elite let me elude the matter of worriments to come endless, unabashedly defying my own course of fate, spending my soul around inside a warm crystal like the little girl who stole an invisible bird.

My mother was so young, she couldn’t tell life from trash, but she did not drink or else before I could run and I did not look back. I know there is an amazing realm I never could recall or feel and so I might not want to lose a grain in the hourglass by which my very own rightfully called offspring will grow up. Perhaps it is as simple as that,

Hugo’s reaction overjoys me beyond my wildest fantasy; ever since I was first thrown in his path he played fair to me. I was a rare piece of a trull because I looked so young he wanted to see my identity; it was a close shot, but he went on, the booty was lavish so I let him take his time and he made me talk while reaping off my rags. Savouring the boon, he waited until I gave myself instead of being taken. I was stunned when I awoke in his bed the next morning, I suspected he had drugged me, but I was perfectly fit and clear and he said he had lulled me. Upon breakfast, he overbid my already shiny benefit and ordered me for the next day.

At the same time of my life, I had met a photographer who had been looking for models; he used me in all kinds of ways but I breathed enough to steal from him the basic knowledge of camera work. He wasn’t horrendous to cope with and took care not to bruise my fragile body because he mostly shot me nude. But he was stingy and kept me quite miserable in a hovel when he did not need me around. Once I saw how much money he had banked on my images about what he had said nothing, so I asked some cool nerd I had met in a café to come over and overwrite all of his computer drives and fled, leaving one of my panties hanging at the door knob.

So, when Hugo, to whom I had been addressed by an old hotel concierge who had lifted me up at a bar on the Champs Elysées and wished me well after he tasted the wares, provided for a decent living against a courteous arrangement, I moved in a clean attic apartment with amenities he kindly recommended for, bought myself some equipment and started my search, helped in that by my sponsor who laid me all over his labyrinthine citadel and on luxurious prints he shares around the circle of his libertine affiliates.

As he touted my henceforth couther, gracile person to well-to-do aesthetes, Hugo also delighted in the tales I sold him of my flourishing trade; he had introduced me to Camille who has long sailed these same winds from despair to power. He shared the emotions he fostered around Katherine when she alighted into the dovecote above his lair, where he had not let me nest. Sarah had moved in the maid’s room at Camille’s “L’Etoile Amusée” ,which Hugo and his friends funded, and soon cuddled into Camille’s grand bed like a bowed ballerina before she also dazed Hugo’s days when Katherine vanished.

Then pure-hearted Sarah drummed forth the Berlin expedition when she heard Katherine drown in her own tears, hustled and bruised, stunned in a cage with a blind death-wish. Hugo demonstrated his clout and mastery, the healing fairy repatriated to the château and they all travelled to Venice as a celebration, grasping a disarming orphan on the path, barely noticing it. Hugo recounted any heartbeat of the adventure when I wended my way to the couch he would summon me to while the upstairs artists frolicked with Gauthier or James, an assiduous admirer and sponsor. Then Fanny barged in

My Stream – Six – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Marie says:

It was a hectic and altogether genuine camaraderie under the Spanish sun, the team was fit and tanned and fresh, my entryways available at all times for anyone while my intimate little plot clicked on quietly in my mind, I managed to drench my twat with cum as often as they would, fantasising the tiny shaggy egg cell stumbling down the tube as all the millions of would-be someones jostled like the crowds in Shibuya station at 17:00. I gained a reputation and the producers tried to bring me onscreen but I went on backstage.

One morning, I woke up with an urge to pee and stumbled numbed to the bathroom, stepping over the magnificent black athlete who had eventually dozed there after using me. Sitting on the loo, I felt it dawn on my soul that I might have won and my womb was occupied for a while, fabricating what would end up what they call a bastard. My nerves felt slightly dizzy, the evening had been exhausting, the beast had no mercy, although he performed like an archangel and let me whoop for pleasure many times; I realised I was smiling silly,

Sarah says:

She feels serene laying there, smelling her own scent after a quick shower, she refused any of Camille’s perfumes, she does not tolerate any, since she acceded to budding motherhood. She incarnates, she makes me feel unreal and I reckon I prefer staying such, but I like her new assured languor, eyes moves a tiny tad slower in a perpetual afterthought. Yet she responds to my passes with cunning smuttiness, like she is a better slut now, and she is already wet like my tongue.

I fiddle with her body lightly, her feet and ankles, she is a running survivor, a wind flower wearing tough shoes as a ruse, all her joints are sleek and tense, the limbs graciously drawn and the belly muscular, how will she lace such a body with a skin-flask full of a baby and return without damage?

I have always watched my mother’s photos as a young naiad like they were another person’s. She looked at me as a thief until she did no more, resenting my Far’s affection as unfair. But I also knew mothers who could carouse around naked and arouse me; it would be either a matter of luck or taking care, hard work it already is anyhow.

Donovan, who shagged me earlier like a disembarked sailor, joins us while elsewhere, on an opulent chair with large armrests, Gauthier and Hugo court Fanny who offers easy hospitality, then Kate grabs the already fierce young sire for a turn of her hips. I pimp my partner to the Scot but keep my positions as he begs her to suck; then he overthrows us so she licks me and stands on all four, bottoms up at his will. He penetrates her kitty cautiously, but she thrusts back and takes in the whole length of his bobby with liveliness; she rages on my angry bud and makes me switch off. Later, it seems she fires another salvo and mumbles unknown love blasphemies through my tummy, so I grab her head and put it back in my snatch.

My Stream – Seven – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie


Hugo says;  

Malo has resumed chasing wolves with her soul-bonded instrument con sordina in the flickering golden gleam of the candle. From where we rest naturally embraced, we may marvel at her shapely bum sway on the velvet stool. She sweeps long billowing scarves across the moonlit mirage of echoes as Kate and the bright sorrel pony slow their dance under the spell.

My last catch is eerily calm as I invade her precious cantons in cautious touches and she discloses her foils at will, offering her pretty tongue as a grace. Her short-cropped head seems small in my hand, she is the cygnet and the fawn and the madness of a lilac morning; I am horny as a ransacker in a fit. She holds the spur in a clever hand, imperceptibly turns on me, opens her thighs and shows me to her fancy.

It is altogether heartrending and arousing, because she goes as easy as a brook lily, but I feel I will surrender all my apoplectic effusion sooner than I would think, so I pace down and reach for her mouth and neck her silly for a while, twiddle her twin buds and then her valiant little nub until I burst in the illusion that we came together as she squirts on my balls.

Malo’s bow strokes soar as I emerge back at Fanny’s amused face and carry her to the rose marble shower and ask her if she would pee on me again hugging tight. She feels like she is enjoying herself too, she is free giving, she plays in the waters. Then we wipe each other.

Camille says:  

That randy bacchanale should indeed worthily celebrate such an unexpected announcement by our little strumpet Mary sharp eyes. I feel no right to elaborate upon her will and the plot she weaved. In here, any of us beautiful buggers came to life in a manner or another; some in the course of a planned evidence, others in awful nonsense, and haphazardly we stumbled upon each other into the orb of His Eminence and the subterranean hydrography of the Mighty Hearts.

Of course, Fanny trades gracefully with a master like Hugo, and she will, because she was carefully trained in it, be a successful whore in the world, as well a I trod this very path, goodness!

I will trade my life tale with hers, we’ll figure what to make of the capital she owns already in terms of trading it for securities, in the most lavish and lustful ways; first she should be clad in diamonds. Furthermore, she does good in her education, mostly languages and literature, liberal studies, I will provide the rest.

Mary says:

Crew-cut tomboy gives a bold peridot coloured gaze with a darker rim, she shows no fissure of the soul, no crack. Whatever ordeal spared her made her strong, who knows what monstrous kind of atonement instilled itself through the arrangement she grew up in. I feel no self-consciousness while detailing her, indecently rested myself, and I have professionally watched many models who instinctively troubled the mirror in such a situation.

My Stream – Eight – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie


Katherine says:

I will work out an action plan for Fanny to navigate a tad more freely between our different haunts, or she would have fled a sun-baked prison for another jail of luxury. If our front door is forbidden, she will go through Gauthier’s apartment in the other half of the building and eventually join us after she crossed the bugger’s bed.

When she asks us to wait in Dr Méant’s cosy salon, we might go afterwards to a convenient evening swim at the public pool where they let us breast-free because there isn’t much to hide anyway!

I often mull over taking a sweet crew to the family house in Kampen, on the island of Sylt, Fanny would love running nude in the dunes under the white summer light; she could meet another scarred soul, my brother Simon. We could sail with Sarah to the Kettelaær barracks on Christiansø, we love island, ask Melchior to fly us to Mustique?

 

Hugo says:  

As I read in Camille’s glance, it is about time to withdraw; Malo has ran out of whispering code and swaddled back her dearest confidant; she slips on black silk and rolls up her hair in a bun, kisses everyone and me, picks her case and runs.

Fanny sleeps at Camille’s side when we decamp orderly and take Mary back home. I’m thinking of an early writing session, so I leave the party at their late cup.

 

Gauthier says: 

The girls are still a tad puckish, so we stay for a cup of tea. Mary is again stripped off first like a daisy after she went to pee and laugh with Kate. Sarah brews white peony tea with my Donovan at her butt; the two of them could be siblings, one is a bit more hairy.

The sound system streams soft and easy ambient music, the kind which leads the hands in warm carnal folds; as I sit along The all-reclined Mary in the couch, I reach for Kate’s butt crack and pull down her leggings as she licks the Queen of the day.

On the other side of the crowded mess, Sarah peels off Donovan who does me; she ends between us two and soon meanders as to be penetrated doubly, her eager face towards mine, cobalt sparkles through her squinted lids,our tongues fighting doggedly. Her leg up in the air makes way for Donovan but some lubricant would help, she reaches under the cushions and finds a bottle of gel with what she smears her asshole using two fingers so as he slides his bobby Scot inside like in a sheath next to my wriggling rod inside the kitty embrace. She is so fulfilled, she groans songfully and slows the dance churning deeper inside her womb. We stretch our arms as to ease ourselves and let her cuddle down between our driven efforts. She collapses faster than she expected and so we frisk further in her exhausted body to climax in unisson inside her ecstasy.

Katherine and Mary emigrated to the open bed so as to content each other’s coochies so we soon hear beautiful whispers and fluted notes, then the music alone flies, it really seems to be the end of a caroused journey. Awkwardly, I bear the leggy tomboy to the bathroom where she douches her lovely paths while smiling at me, then smudges me with their fruity lather and fingers my dookie hole.

 

My Stream – Nine – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Katherine sleeps:  

I huddle in an upper corner of a vast concrete bunker hall, with many birds alongside me, rucking their wings against mine. They are my nest fellows Marie and Sarah, I read their eyes of amber and cornflower blinking. With a faraway rumble of collapsing walls and erupting storm, clouds of thick grey roll in the space like ashes on Herculanum. Now, the whole structure is tilted and I topple over, stretching upon a fleeing dark snake the scales of which spell red Cyrillic letters. A shrieking metallic voice chants what seems to be numbers in an undecipherable language. I can hear the noise of a train coming, a Berlin Ubahn yellow train with two big round headlights, chasing dirt on the way. The cars are dark, but I discern a crowd inside; behind a door’s pane tattooed with ideograms stands Marie with her hands resting on a smaller self’s shoulders. Under the rambling train, between the wheels I can see Sarah’s bare feet in the rubble, but the train never ends, now its cars are packed with disquieted gray dogs which silently maunder behind the windows. I wear a slate-coloured caftan exotic boots embroidered with silver snakes, I walk towards the rear of the train; the rails climb up some narrow bridge whereas the ballast path leads down to a dark water pond. The train cars are empty now and dilapidated, the windows broken and rags hanging outside like dead; I hurtle down and find child Fanny inside a rabbit hole, waving her hand which I hold. Fanny pulls me inside so I crouch and follow her rosy-cheeked butt along a corridor jammed with derelict furniture and piles of papers and rubbish that fall down after me, chasing rats and all kinds of barnyard animals whispering gibberish. We reach some kind of abandoned chapel and Fanny is her actual self with the profuse head of hair I knew in Venice and her topaz eyes implore. Now Victor, my perverted fiancé, wearing a bowl hat, plays on the wheezy harmonium some dislocated hymn while Sarah, wrapped in ripped net, sits beside him and holds his stiff pecker out of black leather tights, masturbating him gently. Golden rays dawn through the rickety stained glass bays and an old propeller plane approaches, mixing its roar over the music into loud pulsing riffs as Sarah nude rides Victor facing him and Fanny hugs me, breathing Cynthia’s name in my ear, then we dance. A blue bird flies astray in the tall vaults crying shrill harmonics to the rowing turmoil, Fanny holds my hand and leads me to a concealed passage behind a dark-wood confession booth; we run on carpets and graze past heavy curtains and I lose my clothes and she fondles me into the velvet and pulls her tongue into my mouth. Behind her emerges from the dark a smiling Marie with her small self on her back, her pretty feet quivering from under each arm. Fanny slips her fingers in my pussy and makes me shudder with her tongue behind my ears. Marie and the child play with my feet and legs, I topple over in a jumble of soft stuffs and caresses

 

My Stream – Ten – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie


Sarah says;

I followed Marie to the bathroom, on the loo, I press her tousled head on my belly, rocking her slightly, pretending to sing merry wishes and her letting me. Sitting down on her lap, I devour her nightly mouth and pee on her as she moans to let me know she feels it. Under the warm shower, we rub each other’s nooks with the finger tips and no soap. Sitting on the white-wood stool, she wants me to groom her feet with the pumice and the nail clipper, I am eager to oblige, albeit mine won’t need any, for I had the royal treat before Melchior’s visit. I do my utmost from her heels to her gracile and parted toes, I call them monkey feet so she withdraws them then flaunt them in my face as I try to bite.

Kate is still sound asleep rounded on herself, offering her ass, but will not respond to any sort of kisses. I lend Marie a kimono through which I can still watch her, throw on my favorite boro robe and we head for the kitchen to brew a pot of tea; I choose the big greenish earthenware pumpkin and drop a measure of morning Darjeeling leaves from Tara’s garden.

Marie agrees to stay with us for a few days, she will lounge in the studio as we work. James W. Manner will visit and grope her holy womb like an old amateur he is. Being an artist himself and a teacher, he knows how to behave and he likes to read for us, only to beg for favours when he feels he can. He’s the one who offered the red couch up there. Hugo too, will buzz around her belly now that he wants the child to be his in a way.

Marie says:

These two are amazing, like funambulesque fairies in the citadel, roof dancers at the secret carnival, wild souls in a writer’s inner pandemonium; they are alive, generous and fruitful, although fully aware of their utmost privileges and swift like squirrels before the worldly trappings, it would seem.

Am I different? Hugo liked to pay me, I liked to sell myself and still do, he kept it going that way and made me build my mill,would I change it?

Katherine says:   

It has been quite a trip for free, who needs psychotropics when you have two gentle souls under the quilt? Fanny’s breasts are deliciously pointed this morning as I pull aside the silk, I am sure she already frolicked some with my little indigo master who sits quite indecently too on the chair with her feet pulled up on each side of her soft cootie. They let me gather marmalade kisses on their tongues and tell her the best parts of my dream, the ones when they got raped by navy cadets in the engine room.

Oh, sure, Marie is welcome to live in our bed, she needs benevolent company, and a lot of dedicated cuddles. I am waiting impatiently for the time when the little thing will start to kick around.

One year without sunbathing, not a drop of alcohol or any toxic and all the sex you may stomach, instead of compulsive food binges, and she might stay clear of deplorable stretches on her fine body. And she has a profuse patronage already to remind her to spare her only skin.

My Stream – Eleven – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Marie says:

James is an old faithful of mine, but here and now he will be served only one of my feet, as a fair courtesy. I know it lets him see my sweet doodle but the day is young, so we bear our studious faces, don’t we? This nicely weathered old Don has once befriended most of the original surrealist generation, at least those who did not die prematurely, he lead us, mostly Sarah and Kate, because in my case, photography is another turf, in the resistance against the derisory bastards of Dada Duchamp in the likes of pop art. Poor Marcel.

James says;  

I find the cheeky brood in the high nest raving about names for a sure trouble-maker in the works. The culprit, reclined on a grey satin pillow, a primrose yellow kimono, jauntily scribbled over with dark garnet lines, conveniently fallen from one thigh, finely smiles at her own display, expecting me to kneel in awe.

Her slick pubis smells of raw lust, she hasn’t diverted her own scent with any kind of creation, as I kiss her newly proud breasts, I nose into her secretive armpits till she giggles. I can tell she has enjoyed an ebullient yesterday by every petal of her blooming, and I will enjoy the same vivace immodesty if I go down on her studious accomplices.

The kilim upholstered easy chair is all convenient in the light, for I have brought some magazine articles I might read to my pupils for their benefit, if the utterly impious Primaticcio madonna would deign to lay her feet on my lap for a while.

 

Sarah says:

As we need a new plentiful reserve of light tea, I try to figure what is good for an ideal pregnancy, no joke. I believe white tea is less potent, furthermore I will rince the leaves beforehand. I am quite sure she will need to drink and pee a lot, Hugo will provide some more light very soon, I feel.

Kate is engrossed in her intricate graphic convolutions, in the same kind of distressed oversized sweatshirt with sleeves rolled-up and the knitted leggings that I like to pull down so easily; mine are in spandex printed with bluebirds in grey foliage, James’ eyes are on Marie’s crotch half revealed by the kimono, she’s a crafty little slut.

James says: 

I know this little foot quite well: arched, supple and wiry, well-groomed and, so to speak, artful; you would never say when you see the sort of clodhoppers she usually wears outside.

My intended morning screed was rested on an old article which came to my mind in an intuitive convergence of psychoanalysis and perceptivity applied to art. As my present audience knows, artists may have a case regarding their mothers; some say they strive across their whole oeuvre building the motherly shrine unconsciously. The knowledge of this ultimate metaphor would constitute the last opening of a successful art tale, whenas the spell were enough surreptitiously binding and the outcome universally fulfilling.

 

My Stream – Twelve – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Katherine says: 

 James spins shrewd rhymes like wisps in a kaleidoscope or cherry stones in a tin box, and I figure myself playing hopscotch in my corduroy dress, navy blue under a seedling of tiny forget-me-nots, wait, my mother liked this dress but I didn’t; some Gunther had boasted he had watched my knickers under it when I played and I did not get what it was to brag about. James has a point, I must call my mother if I ever find where she is. Why do I never call her? She is an artist as far as I know.

Isn’t James’ spin a boy’s babble? But will Marie be the only girl here? Aren’t we, Sarah, myself and other Hugo’s angels avoiding our fate for a fantasy?

If I introspect the original pearl of my dedication, I fly back to Kampen’s rainy weeks when Simon and me went everyday to the comfy house where lived this old artists’ couple; I know it is where I was struck, an epiphany of heart and soul, whereas a seven years old is usually too wound up to perceive such a long echo. Presumably, family life was unraveling irreparably in our home, in my little girl’s head, Achim had wiped off our father, he had won my heart too. Simon was immature like boys are, but I could not have explained to him that we were losing our Dad. Not very long after, Achim died abruptly. We still went to the art house, in the dunes too, and we cried, and snuffled, blow our noses and wander in our windcheaters. That summer, Poul the old Dane artist gave me troves of clues and all leeway to rave freely on large sheets of paper, offering patience and stealth wisdom, while at home our mother stoned herself to oblivion with whatever pills she found.

Sarah says;

James succeeded at putting Marie to sleep by manipulating only one of her feet! Otherwise, apart from the Mother underlying apologue theme, about which I feel I may except myself, by biographical happenstance, or according to a planetary configuration, I followed the thread on the elaboration of an artistic conjuring of the watcher’s capacity to read the artist’s proposition, until it flips the mental dimensions onto what becomes the watcher’s own existential questioning. Brilliant. Might very well stand beyond my reach anyway.

I buy into André Breton’s proposition of a “pure psychic automatism” disencumbered of all traps of dualism, levitating at the equilibrium origin, traveling in concentric orbs, I would say, much like in the best of the psychedelic utopia.

The scope is immense: in 1941, Max Ernst, a major Magus of Art, berths in New York City with a cohort of escapees from the dire madness in Europe, and Peggy Guggenheim, a most prestigious socialite soon to become his wife and promoter, opening a brilliant gallery through which she churned a whole new generation of groundbreakers. From all the researches Max Ernst has already experimented like dripping, rubbing, staining, abstract expressionism will soon spawn while visionary realism continues under the blaring, albeit soon derailed, lead of Salvador Dali. Marcel Duchamp, a well-off dandy, lives in the Hotel Des Artistes and plays chess.

James says:  

Obviously, Sarah acts out her resentment towards her mother, under the table her cute feet gambol out of step to her ideas; she sure received all the unconditional love one may deserve on both sides of the soul, taken as I will in the sense of psyche. Her all-important father, as far as I know, steered his family barque with the same trademark flair he has the reputation for. There were carefully screened nannies and guardian angels, she still knows where to get good mothering to her needs.

Nevertheless I would not pose as Sarah’s analyst, the accounts she let me hear were friendly confidences; yet I have fathomed that the tragedy with her brother, at the age when it occurred, sealed her personality, and the special school Lars chose for her was the right chance for her to bloom as we know her.

Landing in Paris, speaking in her untraceable accent, she soon found Camille, the reborn protégée of Hugo’s, who mollycoddled her in an intuitive return for the blessings she felt she had been granted, notwithstanding her miserable start, and in pure lust for the utterly privileged light-footed sylphide.

Life spins differently with Katherine, whose mother reigned over the grand Alster Haus with unswerving love to the point that she did not figure out the relationship between the two siblings. There was no father in the realm of swans, only a distant curatorial figure she saw once upon an unforeseen event and funded her freedom.

Would the metaphor hold sail in a joint presentation of their work, as Camille had let me hear, in a near future? I would think they are too young for a far-fetched convoluted speculation like that, Sarah’s creed is more of a playable petition, for whom would discover their universes.

 

My Stream – Thirteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Marie moons: 

 James’ voice drones like a baroque-pitched cello as he acts out his favorite Finnegan’s Wake’ song with lots of fun while he straps me face down onto the padded table in the crimson vault of his greenery sheltered house, my feet wide apart to the heavy table legs. But he is not drunk, he bought my night for the most clearly conscious expenditure, not for skull-breaking waste. He rubs my shoulders, combs my hair and loosens my mouth at his pike’s ease, stiffening while I go soft at his will. He wears dark brown leather fitted pants with a slit-opened crotch, knee-high dancing boots and a matching leather justaucorps. He injects warm milk into my silly bum-trap and lets me flush it out and again. Lyra cocks parade on the ground around his feet and growl in tune with the now impenetrable song; he dances to the other side of the table, quick foxes flurry in causing cackle and shamble as I feel tweazles along my crack. I am surrendering and ready to pee when I wake up, disrobed and exposed, and jump up to the bathroom, laughing myself at my reverie.

Walking back, fresh and aroused, I ask if anyone knows about the black grouse the French call lyra-tétras when Sarah gently jolts and say she has dreamt about them after seing their parade in the snow in a random video.

As I tell my fantasy, James meows of ease, I hug Sarah’s back and shove my hands under her clothes to play with her chicleberries, she might say. I rest my head against hers and close my eyes, like pouring my emotions in.

I feel quite naughty then and yield to my caprice of sliding a hand into Kate’s cashmere pants; not stopping her pinpointing with her nib on the board, she gives me way and moans behind closed lips as I do my best without jostling her. She smells angelica millefiori and some more personal animal note in her snoop neck, I am wet.

Sarah says:

She’s back at caressing Jame’s pride with her dinky foot while blossoming out like a shameless orchid so as to make him give up on theory and open his fly to masturbate on it. He hastily sets a date for one of their special sessions suddenly interestingly revived.

A recognisable noise of nail drumming on the door announces the hardy boys from next door, one of which I still feel in my bungie bell. As it happens, they bring sushis rolls in bright red boxes and Marie is overjoyed, offering them her rippling silhouette in a bustling double embrace before running to pee again which we all clearly hear. I smile to the idea that she will become more and more raw and bold with someone else inside her.

As we make tea, unfold a butler’s tray and fondle more of Marie’s, the boys go fetch two more of our garden chairs downstairs, but Marie sits on James’ lap and nastily giggles on his willy in hopes to restore its might.

Donovan is delicately thoughtful around me, pushing me against the wall to press and kiss in quite a raving way. Whispering in my neck, he asks if he hurt me and when I tell him that I still feel him, he gently rubs a wet figer around the rim, forgetting he’s going to eat with it now!

Marie has tied the kimono, the red boxes have unfolded into sleek trays and saucers of dip have been disposed. Marie is rapidly filled up. Now we learn that Donovan is a contemporary art expert with one of the big auction places in London and New York, Geneva, etc… Kate wants to know his catch on our morning topic; he says he won’t partake in the psychoanalysis idea unless it were part of some artist’s argument in a piece of work or a manifesto, because he says he has had so many such mind grenades in his young carrer that he is already all-spent at that level.

However, Gauthier reminds him of many sincere surrealists that he personally likes and would collect more keenly if he had the funds, for many of them, the timing is right, while fortunes are gulped into worthless simulacra, moreover the price is not the subject matter here today. So, the magnetic compass of “unadulterated psychic automatism” is still looking north.

Still, James labours the psychoanalyse point, citing Francis Bacon’s hauntingly successful painterly life’s achievement and, in a lesser focus, that, amongst any other, of Lucian Freud. Bacon tells mischievously on video the seminal catastrophe, which happens in his troubled adolescence, of his sadistic homosexual father barging upon him dressed with his mother’s underwear, beating him to a pulp, then selling him away to one of his pervert comrades far away in Weimar Germany.

As for Lucian, grandson of the prominent psychoanalysis’ promoter who deemed womanliness as obscure and unworthy like Maie Bonaparte’s clitoris, himself bearing his mother’s name, “Lucian” for “Lucie”, he fathered randomly at least fourteen children to nearly as many women and eventually wrapped us, viewers, in huge draperies of obese feminine skin, just like I meant, James concluded on his Freud apologue.

 

My Stream – Fourteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Katherine says:  

When it comes to British giants, Moore overlooks any other by a long flight, to the point that the rickety dwarfs of the Royal Academy petitioned against the donation of his studio’s contents he granted the Country, just as Turner had done, hence the creation of the Tate Gallery, letting the whole legacy move away to Toronto, for the shame of future British generations. Henry Moore, a solid working-class hero from Yorkshire was the epitome of the modern, bold, individualist, first-degree darer whose planetary presence should bring confluence to all of James’ proposals.

We should rest with André Breton’s principles, don’t you think? He did not make many mistakes, did he? Except on homosexuality, big time, the boys are right. Was it because of his hatred of Cocteau? Like all homophobes, the group tolerated homosexual love for women, because, like Queen Victoria declared; “It doesn’t exist”; I would have died for Lee Miller, wouldn’t you?

James is kind, entertaining and a mite worked up by our legs when he comes here, and I admit he entertains like we were worldly players on the Art scene, fate spare us, we wander along the byways sheltered by intricate hawthorns alive with larks and finches. I will question my best workmate on the pillow about whether we are unbeknownst weaving some metaphorical amnios everywhence and wherever?

Gauthier says:   

All Marie wishes as of now is laying indecent between Donovan and myself and be served and cajoled; she likes his British staff, he shows a noble capacity to partake in conversation while sharing his complete erection at her busy hands. While James is now reviewing his notes on the unconscious means of art, Kate and Sarah remain mostly entrenched behind their pulpits with magnifiers on their foreheads; only, Sarah’s foot has snuck onto Kate’s.

In my time of gathering my themes and arguments for a potential thesis, I followed path in Anton Ehrenzweig construction, and the two main currents of the research at the Warburg Institute, Panofsky vs Gombrich, easily coming round to the latter, shunning the tonnage of the imposing iconological vessels. Ernst Gombrich, who involuntarily fathered the best selling art history book ever, has a very humane doctrine of keeping his conclusions simple, letting the reader pursue at his own will the intellectual ramification, whereas Panofsky strategically piles up the quotations on the way to a philosophically unsettled necessity, given as a scientific truth.

Nowadays, as I rest nude aside a gloriously pregnant awe-inspiring libertinist, who is currently manipulating my friend’s pride, I protest that I would better keep the mental elaborations from our hostesses’ highly desirable souls because the course of their creative streams sprung from the pure crystal of their desire.

Attempting to roam consciously the undifferentiated underworld is vain, unless we drop the magic sugar lump for a pillow flight-trip like we ever did without looking back.

I will personally shelve away the rhetorical babushkas of Freudian delights for keeps so as to elaborate unanswerable demonstrations of my curatorial might, when I stooge philistines into moral scams, all because my now-defunct father once gave me away to bigoted curse-ridden torturers.

Was I ever so thankful to meet, and again, these astounding sister-souls in the realm of Malaquais, singled out by their accents and smells, gay like spring and aristocratic. Kate and Sarah, recovered in Venice, of all places in the world, and their unrestrained invite near Hugo, transfigured my lorn fate but not to the height of their inspiration, I will remain a playboy, willing to emulate their unearthly grace; hence, I would not scratch the mirror for them.

 

My Stream – Fifteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Sarah says:

It’s Hugo’s “discrepant dining room”, where no element matches, in dizzying manner and baroque layout. All pieces of furniture are orphans, and the panelling has been composed disorderly around fragments of mirrors and paintings, scattered with silver sconces. A large crystal pearls chandelier in the shape of a cloud is populated with satyres and nymphs holding candles, under turbulent stucco skies strewn with flocks of circling swallows.

Of recent construction and decoration, it is accessed to through a contorted corridor from the Moorish lounge room or other passages from different wings and buildings. This pathway only has the floor leveled flat with a Venetian style colour marbles pavement in disrupted curves. The walls unfold like distorted foils of an expressionist paravent up to the faceted ceiling; all along unfolds a lunatic decor of trompe-l’œil details of velvet and silk garments like the endless robes of fleeing Majesties along a twisted byway. Sparsely indirectly lit, the crimson glazed creases slashed with gashes and stitching, embroidered, beaded, jeweled like a procession cloak, altogether oppress and elate the chest in the heavy scent of fresh spike oil.

Before we went downstairs, we pampered our pretty selves and dressed. Marie wears a dawn three layers embroidered silk chiffon flapper dress, shimmering onto her creamy skin, and nothing else. Kate has fetched an open Uzbek robe of sage-on-eggshell ikat and nothing else. I put on night-blue white trimmed silk satin pyjamas and nothing else.

Gauthier and Donovan came back in black silk suits, white shirts and black velours slippers, one with the sun and the moon embroidery, the other with the moon and the sun. James is his same cypress green jacket and tawny trousers with coffee-brown boots and saffron oxford shirt.   

In a whiff, Kate smells lime tree and talcum with some sexy hay in the head; I applied pure neroli and petit grain everywhere it can be eaten like Earl Grey bonbons, Marie still exudes her own girly euphoria.

Gauthier radiates like a summer broom bush on a sea cliff at low tide with afterthoughts of iodine and kelp, whenas the Scot lets me sniff a single malt lavender tweed perverted of bay rum and pepper; James is poisonous Craven “A”, licorice and hashish up to the moustache, of course.

Katherine says:

Hugo beams in pride at our awestruck glare. He wears a dark garnet brocade doublet buttoned with fiery carbuncles and holds Marie’s hand. Surreptitiously, from nowhere , well up the all too familiar voice of Malo’s instrument, slightly disheveled with many echoes and phase twisting harmonics like pearly coronas. She would sparkle sensitive glitter warmer if she played in the room, but now she dwells around our brains in clusters of colours.

On chests and consoles, candle chimes ring tiny silver bells on randomly rotating wheels, producing a sugary dust to the ears while other toy-mills cast kaleidoscopic colour wisps onto the scattered collage of the panelling. From inside the cloud chandelier, a swarm of white LED lamps split rainbows in the scrolls of crystal beads. On the white linen-dressed table, a spectacular epergne erects large quartz shards among which gilt nymphs and satyrs play obscene games.

On vermeil and crystal serving stands abound nibbles of inventive earthly sustenance like langoustine bits under orange slices, haddock on avocado cream, shrimps on skinned pomelo carpels in saffron heavy cream, urchin coral on celery shavings, raw fish lace on cucumber, sour grapes, green apple, cauliflower, ginger and melon.

Hugo wants Marie next to him and showers her with compliments while smoothing the silk on Sarah’s breast on the other side as Donovan has a hand in her open fly. I rest my back on James’ shoulder and Gauthier has thrown aside my richly lined robe tails to stroke me panting

Some conversation is advisable in order to postpone the arising crisis and keep some play going long enough, so Hugo tells the best of this proud achievement that none of us has detected. Firstly, he had acquired the adjoining building and began its restructuration, all manutention running through the other entrance, under a tarp awning. A team of skilled craftsmen came from Italy with their secret recipes for masonry and stucco, pavements and mosaics, brought ready in plastic wrappers, as good as real ones. I had myself been hoarding all these fragments, scrapped here and there, in different stockrooms, and skilled well-paid handymen, who lived here for three months, turned the refuse into what you see, a baroque ermitage for libertine banquets!

We drink iced white tea and rose kombucha from disparate Venetian ewers and glasses. I understand that Sarah’s intimate encounter with Melchior has happened in this new ermitage, and some other rich rake might be onlooking tonight through any of the mirrors scattered around, so I recall my days and nights at Victor’s in the infinite lupanar where I will decidedly introduce my sister whore of all lecherous glory.

 

My Stream – Sixteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Malo says:

This music conch alcove is warm and cosy, but I feel it’s time to join company in the flesh, if I may say. So I put my precious to rest and push the padded doors to run and kiss Sarah’s neck madly. She is so overtly capsized on Donovan’s lap that I shiver and tell myself I am in love. At my tongue’s attempts, she regains feeble wits and grants me an unflinching gaze and blooming lips. I wish not daunt Donovan off, I will be fulfilled sharing and watch her enraptured.

Over there, Kate is clasped firmly by James who mingles tongues in her mouth turned back to him, while Gauthier, taut and sturdy, humps her through and through, forcing a moan out of her chest, her arms abandoned and her legs distraught.

Marie is prancing over Hugo’s shaft, her shapely legs at a steady stride tauten her muscular butt and her knotted spine like an athletic dancer. She tosses her blond curls around as she climaxes and show her fine acquaintance of her ballet master. Once she is contented, she rests a while in his neck, then soughs that she needs to pee and she wouldn’t dare spoil the chair they’re sitting on. They slink off through a convenient camouflaged door.

Donovan could be Sarah’s brother, or at least a first cousin in that they share an almost same pale complexion with discreet freckles on the muzzle and shoulders; they share the perfect upright nose with virtually no recess at the root. Donovan’s mouth is a tad more sensuous, his eyes rounder, but it is the same composure, an inner reserve behind the blue shards in the gaze, and thick raven black curls. She never wants to speak of her own brother, she swiftly dismisses the subject, but here she greets his courting almost avidly, and languidly welcomes my sneaking into it. As they reel on to properly fuck, I think of what Kate mused about Sarah’s feet and wrestle to catch one so as to suckle on toes; impaled deep and spread out, she meanders to try and reach my damp minge with her kiss, to what I help willingly.

Katherine says:  

Maraschino cherries on pineapple beds, candied angelica, almond cream puffs, chocolate shavings on coffee buttercream, nougatine cups filled with pistachio mousse… James is licking the happy sweat on my shy nipples with the touching sedulous care of a fawn, lending some carnal tone to his morning tirade. Fantasise the utter dedication of the chef pâtissier as a mental strategy to retain motherly love? He is licking Gauthier’s liquor and mine from my gladly spent slot, rimming around the wrinkled treat he wants to indulge into, I guess.

He got hold of a ruby red heart-shaped container called “orgy balsam” on a nearby chest, and he surreptitiously massages what and where it is intended for as he bites my earlobes; it won’t be anything new and I trust his arty manners. When he reads my calm and the rolling of the hips, he flings in with bravoure and revives my still radiant womb with another glow, so I climax as fast as I breathe and expect another salvo with him keeping pace not to waste away a perfect regal in haste.

Hugo says:

The little loo is all tiled with chips of broken plates found in the wreck of an East India Company retourship off the coast of Portugal. It is lit in turquoise and pink through embedded cabochons; the bowl is an English antique of white and blue glazed earthenware, ornate with pompous roses. I let Marie impale herself again and wait for warm floods; she widens her seat and holds on to my head. She comes twice.

 

My Stream – Seventeen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Sarah says;  

Marie, who is as tall and willowy as us, is snuggled up in Kate’s arms and sound asleep in a showily tranquil stream. Malo is not here, she has fled the scene after she fiddled me ad libitum, not so as to discourage a Scotsman to plough again my garth. I wish he stays along with our copper-headed squire, they share a lovely legend, they might take over the family château, now that the old man has left, invite us chase some slavic elves along the corridors?

Meanwhile my teeny penny purse is sensitised of all the good will it showed and now I roll my arse around like a used trollop. I wish I had some fresh fruit, so I pull foliages leggings, a silk navy flight jacket, black sneakers, rocker’s shades and flounce to the shops at the milkman’s hour, or is it?

Katherine says:

We have passed out in the dunes when the stars jubilated across the clear vault, Simon cuddles on my bosom and I scent his tousled head but something is not him. I know we caroused and revelled with a bottle of elderberry lemonade and a tin of cumin cookies, he rose up again a few times in my watering cooze for my enthralled eager soul and I capered upon his smooth body like a flame. Now he rests and I root in the moist sand, I will spawn flowers over his peaceful forehead and dissolve in the summer mist… and Marie frees my arm numb and turns to my face kissing my crying eyes.

She trots to the loo and streams wildly keeping her legs apart over the bowl, she wonders where Sarah might be at such an early hour, or did she go to bed with us? She brushes her blond shock into human shape as I tell her why I cried, so she presses me tight on her belly as I sit peeing in my turn, and she wants to know. I wonder, and inquire, if she will bear with our story, I do not know all of her past, except she landed at Hugo’s door terrified but adamant to sell her young arse.

Mary tells:  

As a child, I lived at my grandparents’ farm. They were sad alcoholic bums with enough income to macerate in their mediocrity. The land was leased to neighbours and the buildings tumbled down slowly. I went to the village school along with crass riffraff who had been taught to hate anything about my grandfather’s estate. The old man had done something universally scorned, far ago, unspeakable.

And so he was indeed. In the afternoons, while my grandmother sat in front of the blaring TV set, he dragged me to an empty bedroom and made me pull down my knickers and hold up my skirt while he masturbated miserably. He was so totally cold that I do not even remember feeling ashamed or frightened. He did not touched me.

When I was ten, he died an ugly death, in a puddle of vomit and blood. My grandmother emptied the bottle of illegal booze and passed out, peeing herself. Only the next morning did I gather the courage, after having slept in a cupboard in the old laundry room where I used to wash my own clothes, to run to the Gendarmerie in the next village.

Sarah says:

I do not know what it is that happens here. I brought blueberries, blackberries, raspberries and fresh whipped cream, but it looks like everybody has been crying here and so I store away my goods and make tea, wondering. Kate hugs Marie and keeps me to date as I join them, there, there…

I fetch an ample and soft alpaca sweater and slip it on over her head down to her thighs, then I rub the heat in and kiss her eyes. But she bursts and sobs even louder and eventually mumbles she needs to tell us. Then she tells us, in a fragile tone of voice.

Marie tells: 

My family is but a wretched troupe of destitute criminals. My father’s good name was shattered since high school for gambling and swindles, booze and hard-drugs. My mother had withstood at least until I was born when she was seventeen, then he became so erratic and dangerous that she thought I would be sheltered with her parents. She had been the prettiest farmer’s daughter in the vicinity of the Chasseline estate and he had been grounded there after being sacked from his school; he pretended to improve his lifestyle for a season or two, made my light-headed mother pregnant and got married at the château with hundreds of guests.

They had been given a Neuilly apartment and he was set to work with the family’s import-export firm. It took him three years to bankrupt the whole structure by his constant overbidding towards ruin, due to his pathological addictions. He caused his father’s suicide, although it was publicised as a car accident, he had ploughed into a stone wall at full speed out of a desert road. His mother elapsed into early dementia and mouldered away in a state asylum.

My father had mortgaged all the properties before anyone could even think of a supervision or trusteeship for he was dementedly brilliant and morbid. My mother had become dependant to opioïdes, she overdosed when I was four but I knew it four years later. I do not want to know what became of my father. I kept his name in spite of eventual reeks of rancour I may encounter randomly in society.

This capharnaüm of desperation was my sole world in the dilapidated farm. At school, I caught attention of some teachers, I read and learned well for my own little self, mind you. So when the mute howl in my chest became unbearable, and I had to pull my sad pants down for a disgusting slob, I killed him.

 

My Stream – Eighteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Marie cries:  

There was an old tin of rat poison in the barn, among other refuse. I devised to mix poison grains in a vial where I had poured some of their liquor, then wait for two days and add the potion in his bottle. Thankfully it was not long; he must have been accustomed to weird tastes in his beverage. I was outside in the sun when I heard his body collapse. As my grandmother coughed out, I ran to hide myself in a cupboard upstairs, hoping death would complete its course.

The gendarmes brought me back along to the farm and recorded the death, called an ambulance to carry my grandmother away, closed the house, told me to gather my belongings and took me to the social services for children. I refused to see my grandfather buried. The château became invisible amongst the vegetation, Chasseline is a deserted place to me.

Katherine says:  

Marie’s in tears and sweat, soon Sarah brings cotton wool and rose water to soothe the face of whom feels like the little girl we just heard of. I apologise, for I reckon I provoked her heavy confession, and, kissing her rose flavoured lips, I breathe I only had a fear to tell about my bond with my brother, nothing of importance, if she will.

Sarah strips off and suggests that we shower all this away. We make a large expense of lather all over our skin, nooks and folds; the throat-wrenching frights ease away in the scent of citrus and whatever ylang is ylang. Long later, we lay dry on the bed and share some tea gone cold; as a reflex, I hold Marie’s hand.

Sarah says: 

Now Marie needs thick knit socks to wander about, as we migrate upstairs with my morning purchases in a basket; it is better to leave the place for Lena’s care. She feels hollow, she either shuns or begs for looks. I puff up a pillow for her to rest on the couch and switch on our preferred webradio of beat-less electro mist low enough to elide mentally the outer world of the conscious city. Unfocused, she goes pee.

Marie recalls:  

That box room in the barn had been a refuge where none of them ever caught me. Pigeons had soiled the poor furniture until I chased them out. I had found in there weird looking bottles and packets left over from the forsaken farm activities; but this one round tin bore an orange band at the bottom of the label with a skull-and-bones warning, quite inviting. I wanted out, I would die immobile, laying under the triangle of the pointed roof of the empty hayloft, he could no longer climb the ladder to get there. There was a very old dead cat lying in the dust up there, mummified and dry as paper. My tiny soul would elope into pretty umbels like those which burst in july, when school was over and I hid into the weeds.

He would carry on his ridiculous fiddling of himself alone until it would rot down. I lulled myself with my complot for a season, erasing mentally the traces of myself, foreseeing light windy skies over the now vandalised château singing my derisory name for ever.

Was it a blue tit that verily talked to me, perched on a lone post in a bunch of stinging nettles? Or was it that my plot tired out itself? The baker who smelled of sourdough who suddenly gave me a chunk of clafoutis? A frog, tranquil in the rill? The whole world, with all the colours, capsized top to bottom: I wasn’t going away, he would. When I ran, from that discovery, I could hear a tic-tic inside my skull and it felt like the blue tit words.

Katherine says: 

We sob and sniffle like snotty kids, it is no use to sit at our work places, we crouch at her knees, hold her hands and encourage her for more. Sarah wets a towel with cold water and pats her swollen eyes, whispering conjurations against bygone hardships and deep-rooted praises for her resilient grace. I fetched a hairbrush and I dress her hair back. She closes her eyes, she soothes down and she sleeps. We remain stunned.

 

My Stream – Nineteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Sarah says

I went downstairs and brought back our quilt and pillows so we can lay on the floor at Marie’s feet. I have undressed Kate so we can warm each other inside my robe. Our phones are off, I have mailed to the usual culprits so as they leave us alone for a good reason. I guess Hugo will await news from us. Kate needs a kiss, long and heady, a reminder of our faith in life. Necking like teenagers but still shied by the echoes of the storm we saw, we let the room dissolve into the fine humming sounds as the twilight falls.

It comes to my mind to wonder what would Julia Grant, my infaillible big sister from Saint-Loup times, make of such a situation? I don’t even fathom if it is advisable to let Hugo into the secret; we became unabashedly accomplices and I stand with it but would he accomodate such responsibility?

A gentle foot sneaks in between us as Marie runs for the loo. We laugh and kiss. When she’s back she looks for the switch and dazzles us, then creeps in between us. She apologises for involving us in her misdeed, she begs us to forget it, although she reckons it is not really probable. I ask her about Hugo, who will scent a plot among us anyway. She says we do not want to know if he is aware, and ventures timidly kittenish touches with an instant success. I reach for her smooth pubis as if I quieted whatever reigns here.

Katherine says:

Hugo would love to see us again and we are rested and hungry, after all. We make ourselves desirable in foulard printed jersey gowns and silk stockings, mauve slate paisley for me, maroon and navy diagonal stripes for Sarah, Indian summer maple leafs for Marie whose eyes show her grief. We dive into the drawer of sandals.

He suggests a very delicate orgeat drink he ordered along with yet another raw fish and fruits de mer dinner. Soon, Marie pretends she doesn’t know where the loo is, so he shows her to it. Meanwhile we sit in the dewaniya, on low couches covered with silk carpets, and my hand slithers up to Sarah’s poon, for starters. She eases her legs but sits up.

On the low table, with a heavy arabesque-inlaid top, rest some black and aniline-violet maroquin-bound albums, a few precious silver and gem crystal dildos and a silver plate with an art-nouveau enamelled ewer and highballs. Sarah wonders about the albums, pulls one and unlocks the silver clasp. The rigid pages show opened frames into which sepia photo prints of brothel scenes and nineteenth century pornography in preternatural detail, the youth of long-vanished abandons denied by the then-technically inevitable forlorn gazes.

Lines of pearls on snow-smooth thighs, hitched-up open lace pants and underskirts, meticulously ironed, festooning around nascent or profuse tufts; Pompadour heels at polished kid mules obviously not made for walking; precious velvet dog collars bearing diamonds; the hands possibly show something of a woman personality amongst the array of available amenities. The books seem to have been the catalogs for the shy or stealth clientèle of the maison close, of both lustful or heinous memories, irregardlessly arousing our present souls, as my wandering hand may now tell.

Hugo says:

My pretty little tramp had indeed some urge, and it was not to water down on my hand, told her deepened golden gaze. She mumbled that I should help her, That she did not know what she had pulled the girls into, and spilled her wits on my chest as fast as she could, then perked back up and said she had never really told me what she just did, that, say, we had parted for lewd reasons, like we usually did, didn’t we? There, my mind parsed her facts and ruled out collusion after the facts, which were obviously prescribed and would never resurface, whatsoever. I cuddled her as normal and soothed her mind out of her guilt, casually assuring her spirits on talking the whole matter freely. She granted me a thorough kiss, sniffed, and, pulling up her gown, peed, anyway.

We find the girls in their only black stockings, enjoying an eyeful of old-time debauchery for sale, like Ms Barney shopping for pussy. I state as calmly as if I had just only fucked Marie that we may now help her appease her gentle soul. They greet her into their midst as I come behind the backrest with a furious envy to unbutton. But first I lay what my limited knowledge in law let me to think that there could never be an actual Chasseline case, come what may. The girls are slipping Marie out of her dress and drill tongues in many places of her body.

Like in many other cases, my friends and I have known that Marie had been unfairly served by fate, and whatever choices had brought her to our doors, deserved another consideration. She responded gracefully, remained in the books of acquainted patrons and thus thrives until now, with an unfazed look on her angelic frimousse, for as long as it should, says I, devouring her foot after ripping off the stocking.

Sarah says: 

Any threatening shadow having cleared, we bustle at not letting her cry anew, were it not from relief and carnal atonement. She abounds to all of our sollicitations and son, unavoidably, is properly skewered under our cheers and suckles.

Hence having cooled off our plexus and brains, we may taste welcomed crafted bites of seafood and fruit, puff cups of creamed vegetables and fish lace all as perfect as to leave our breath windy fresh.

Meanwhile I recall my ten years, hovering above the edge of the biggest city ever, the dead power station still there by the river, its three tall white chimneys looming. Weed-jungle wilderness was far from there along the Sund in Denmark, in weird countries where I never had time to catch my breath. My sufficient scope of free nature had become where lived the naughty squirrels. Nobody, then, ever told me to lose my knickers or anything of the kind, only myself lured others into kinky shenanigans, or chose to let them do me.

Marie, the “treehugger” as we had granted her, is a disowned orphan saved by an improbable tiny bird on a dumpsite; or was it the scattered sentiment of her own shady origination, fixated in the spectacle of a derelict mansion in the brambles as thorny as the derisory society around her in a mean village. Camille must have resonated with her intimate strings and hidden to others what could as well be washed away for good. It happened that Marie, who had thrust herself into the direst risk I can think of, giving birth, simply because that once she was flying high with us and warmed into our bed, fell for the morbid compulsion to try us into her memory. so I am proud that both of us here stood fast for her.

 

My Stream – Twenty – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Marie dreams: 

It’s a chalk grey dawn and I sit in a train compartment soiled with chicken shit dust. The windows are pasted with newspaper sheets that flap in the air. I am cold, my socks don’t stay up in my ageless shoes. All I wear once was my mother’s. I cough, like always. He said I did not budge from my place and he went and he fell from the train and I heard it like dry branches on the rails. My underwear is too large and my coat too. I keep my hand in my pocket daintily clasped on the little blue bird. He said it was dead but I know it isn’t true. The train hurls into a tunnel and the world turns dark and silent. The car capsizes so I am rolled in the baggage net when the roof splits open to the starry nigh when a flock of swans turn their heads to watch me float. Little girls, all nude, curly blonde hair, fly across the black vault, perched on cut-paper airplanes, singing unintelligible television garble which seems to make my little tit laugh in my hand. A pair of soft-coloured jellyfish sway their frills, puffing smoke rings that smell like warm cakes. Little girls, lined up as septuples, mimic some synchrone pantomime to the tune of an ad for pink beans, then they brandish blue steel weapons against a cavalry charge which gallops blindly, trumpeting a Coca Cola fanfare. Sarah waves hello in an oversize raincoat full of squirrels on the look-out from every side. The little girls flee with the joyous squirrels towards a rolling colourful Ferris wheel. Two cartoonish British bobbies seize Sarah who is naked in the Mac and start raping her, but I find a big sack of lemons near me and start knocking their heads successfully so they fall in the void as Sarah begs me to hide her in my pocket. She’s greeted with loud chirping and my hand feels tickled. He flies by, mouth open, his eyes eaten away, his pants unbuttoned and dirty rags drifting off. The gendarmes show their new red kepis as they draw the shutters on the rooms with horrid stains in the floor’s grime. I wonder why they do not play the sirens as they drive through the moonlight while black-and-white shaky television Chinese magicians bend in salute. Sarah and the blue tit sleep in my hand, deep in my pocket, I pick a star and entrust it with my vow to let them dream of me.

Sarah says;

Her eyes are open but she doesn’t see, although she breathes calmly and feels easy. Hugo says she does that when her dreams carry her beyond life, when she roams the forgotten wastelands. She responds to my downy ruffling on her cheek but I dare not insist. We wrap her in a vague silk panne shawl and tuck the pillow under her trippy head.

Marie dreams on:

A swag of long benign wisteria panicles has rippled by my face and suffused dawn light among the rounds of chattering swallows. On the velvet bench seat across mine in the flying train, the little girls have rounded together in a rosy cloud and the grey squirrels play tag screaming tiny “cat”. Now they rip my ugly shoes and busy themselves on my feet, licking and nipping with bustling gaiety; they tickle as they climb up my legs and tear off all of my shabby rags and my gaping knickers. They carry blooming roses to rub my skin fresh and moist at little Sarah’s rapture along me, while Blue Tit invites her flapper gang around my forehead with tiny cheering words .

I revel in mild shudders all over my body and roll on the bench, so I see far down the landscape of springtime greeneries over which the wild pink cloud now spirals along the newly winged little girls holding their pet squirrels with aerobatic dexterity. In where, I understand, laid the Chasseline estate, a pond has formed in the shape of that stain, dreadful smear out of His mouth, ajar against the grimy floorboards, buzzing with heavy flies in the low grey light as I grasp the sturdy hand of the gendarme. It smells of harsh booze and faeces, blood and utter ravage; the gendarme pulls my head into his uniform and guides me away from that house, forever. On the byway, peasants and snotty kids who spurned me stare blandly at the derisory play.

Katherine says:

When I sit along on the other side of Marie, whose head has been leaning on Sarah’s thigh, she swiftly grabs my hand and mumbles that I take her to the toilet. As she flows, she hugs and kisses my belly.

Marie wants to apologise for sleeping out, but Sarah tousles her hair and tells her there was nothing wrong and she missed nothing. She sees black chocolate macarons in a crystal stand and wolfs it down, gathering our gazes, then savours a white calisson, expressing that she will talk. She tells about the dream, the first she has ever had on the subject. We tell her about her wide opened eyes, she looks down and says Hugo already told her but it is nothing to be afraid of. Carefully seizing Sarah’s kindly face, she asks her what she was doing in that train, and Sarah says she was looking for Blue Tit, and pinches one of her nipples. Marie eases across the couch and sighs that she could either pay rent in a shrink’s mind for that dead-undead bird, or keep it in mind for free.

The deep-garnet cherry macaron dances in my chocolate blackened mouth so well that I want to share tongues with someone and Hugo obliges, elaborating tactics to overcome any of my mock resistance. He mingles the chocolate taste with my honey dew, then, while Sarah and Marie mutually recover from a dark dream, we roll and I engulf his baronial branch into my sinner’s pride with eager spasms and rob him of his finest spurt, for starters.

Marie handles the convenient silver dildo at Sarah’s service, with loving craftiness, and renews her efforts at crashing the artful backdoor with the help of the heart-shaped bottle that happened to be there, again. I myself want to feel the aquamarine shaft and play catch-up with my sleazy glutton that Hugo services at once, but he lets me drive because he ogles Marie’s butt crack and jumps to it.

The shower head is wide enough for us all and we carouse unfettered in baby-like lather. I brought an ebony schmuck from the table display with the intention of buggering the Master of the castle, which I accomplish while he is embraced with the two dreamers, one of whom did not know. Sitting on her knees, Marie swallows the dong like a professional and passes to Sarah who graduated in suckle-johnny and swallows long and lovely before sharing the taste with Marie and me.

 

My Stream – Twenty-one – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Hugo says:

Some dreams look like Grande Complication machines to us unbeknownst triggered among a messy arsenal of time bombs. Inner horology engineered upon our seminal griefs and reliefs, wound ready at a standpoint in our intimate chaos, either left to corrosion or preserved by any kind of spell, for a fatidic attainment of what remains of our souls at the right alignment of the wills and events.

Marie licks up little crumbs at the corners of Kate’s mouth, circling her arms around her neck while resting her butt on Sarah’s lap, behind her. From clever alley-cat who often overawed my fairy pair with her crafty savoir-faire, she transfigures into the lithe little slut who feels safe on earth.

I own quite a few notebooks about Marie, scribbled in after she surrendered to sleep, like a spent animal, notations of her youthful improvised babble, rich of budding poetry with troubling undertones I am now beginning to parse a tad further. How did she clasp onto Camille’s soul like a magnet on a set of keys? Am I attracting the floating mines like an innocent ship in the forlorn straits? Were we not sunk yet, in our unlikely trade?

When Gauthier creeps in, he bears the look of vague resignation. Donovan is gone back in the world, for now. He sees Sarah with a renewed lust in her acquainted allure and beauty. Throwing his jacket apart, he lays along Sarah and pulls Marie’s leg open over her, so she’s offered wide. I join and romp about her womb while I help Sarah to untangle the boy from his threads and seize his master nerve. Kate rolls and offers me her butt cheeks as she binges on Marie’s mouth, I see the move as a need for a shag so I furbish the weapon and bash in the dear carnation of both the lain tramps.

Gauthier jollies his pike deep into Sarah’s tighter path from her back, clutching her arms on her chest and breathing in her neck, they meander like one, mingling their feet, she tames his vigour as to revel more of him, she goes off and again a few times before he unleashes his shot, which seing makes me spurt out mine in Kate.

Marie feels she has been under-zealously served; among the collection displayed on the table, she choses a realistic phallus in supple and soft silicone, anoints it properly and drives it into her cute pleated bunghole, all the length, and begs Kate to frak her sweetly, which Her Grace obliges, dutifully, as anyone grabs a morsel to madden it kindly.

Katherine says:

It smells of raw jism, spunk splatter; I follow Marie’s small tushie to the emerald room, ask her to pee on me before showering with her and the others who joined. When dry, I want to make fresh tea, Marie comes with me to the kitchen while Sarah wallows at two worshipers’ hands. We choose Ya Bao flowers and a generous glass pot. The kettle hisses as she embraces me tight and suckles my tongue as a lollipop and we dance. In the half-lit room, I sense a presence and see a young thin figure with short blond hair and clear eyes, hip-swayed in tight yoga pants and black and white striped marinière; it is Natalia, Lena the caretaker’s daughter, who has been growing into a most impressive flapper for my taste.

Being spotted, she brazenly walks to us in a pair of unlaced sneakers and says she’s been watching us; she pats Marie’s pointing breasts, turns to me, showing the most disarming smile, then as swift as a squirrel she pulls her pants down, grabs my hand to her cooch and says we made her wet, that I can feel. And she flees.

Slightly stunned, smelling her on my fingertips that Marie licks playfully, I remain a tad concerned. Lena has always been a precious person in Hugo’s realm, managing day-to-day care in a jiffy, and up to now, her daughter only rarely cropped up stealthily in her wake, never to raise any awkward concern of decency towards her youth. But some girls grow this way, suddenly they spawn as objects and subjects of want and lust. In one year they spout up, bony and moony with pants getting shorter by the day, careless and sweet to the teeth. One might unleash there some Humbert Humbert rage and start some reptilian constriction, were some means available, and this house certainly shows aplenty, but here we all play in our own league; save for art and literature, whenas fantasies know little respect for any coveted neighbour, real or not.

Hugo smirks faintly when, bringing the silver tray with the sleek glass cups, I told our encounter with the wildlife in the kitchen shades. He says it had been bound to happen and he trusts it would play rightfully for Natalia’s future, otherwise he could send her somewhere, in Switzerland for example, says he, stroking Sarah’s tummy in her wide abandon. He says Lena gave him permission to take photographs of her daughter, the kind I remember from before he ever touched me. The girl knows she has much more to garner with her grades than with pandering her crack away; besides, she is a minor.

Marie says:

The small flowers in the tea pot sink down, head up. Still lustfully clasped at one another, we open the wondrous albums on the table, one of them presenting platinum prints of full-length portraits of girls for sale, in the utmost alluring sets and attire, if not indecently nude across velvets and furs. Contrary to some other albums, either older or cheaply realised, this here must have been shot on sunny days with a northern exposure, so the eyes did not wink and the gazes are real, expensive-looking.

The pearls on the firm slender necks look real and profuse at a time cultured pearls weren’t ubiquitous. Chances are that the necklace crept from one body to the next, under the doubly keen eye of its owner. Silk shawls with long interlaced fringes shyly unveiling clear morsels of the nude bodies they hugged in their gleam, or pulled aside in swirls so as to glorify the pubis of a real blonde; chiselled velvet mantels seemingly thrown at random on one shoulder as the most part of the haunch dared a creamy exposure; most provocative tease with the offering of the butthole under an opulent fur stole, along with more obvious raw anatomies, nonetheless “chaussées” of fine kid bottines and silk stockings, in order to dissipate any doubt on the subject on sale, apart from the awesome technical work of the photographer, made me revel into the luxuriation of submissive abandon, like I had crafted quite often, possibly for Hugo. Did he scheme somewhat to entice and debauch Natalia with seemingly funny old photos? It had worked on me at the same age, would I complaint?

 

My Stream – Twenty-two – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Sarah says:

It is a balmy hour, Gauthier has revelled in me and Hugo relished sharing with both of us, as it went. We freshened in running water and Hugo smoothed my skin and theirs with the dry oil of an idea of lavender and neroli as light as a wink of Kate. The way Gauthier is treating me at his touch tips twirl me round anyhow he pleases.

The tea is slyly evocative and so to speak herbaceous in a sweet way, but in effect I rave on what happened just now in the kitchen, because I know that glow in Kate’s eyes and it is well worth spending, saintly mind.

Marie is engrossed in the lavish albums, as much for the incomparable finesse of the prints as for the offenseless vice they portray. Her dinky bottom mimics just naturally the invite she reads through time, that is a game she has played with Hugo better than me. Kate reaches my armpit and noses in with an approbative hum, and it is all on me soon, as I let go for the three of them, when Hugo seizes my head and reads my eyes, asking for my tongue; Gauthier wriggles into my easy bunghole and Kate ravishes my bitchberries as she learned well, until Marie takes a fancy for my toes. After a short while Gauthier overturns our pair and offers my kitty for Hugo to boogie in, then Marie gently sits on my mouth, before Kate stirs up in her mauve jacksy with a very ornate walrus tusk dildo from the pacific islands, asking the same service from me with a baroque silver shaft out of Hugo’s ethnic collection.

It is a grand festival crisis of sorts as everyone unbars the plexus fire all the way up and down the spine and collapses over me; I pass out in the endless fermata.

Hugo says:

Breathless, unraveled, unhinged in awe after the magnificent chorus of shimmers. Sarah rests in her childish clear waters like an unfettered Ophelia among the lilies; Kate clings to her side in the kindly stream of unfurling conscience whereas Marie cuddles for deep currents of unbound forgiveness.

My flamboyant companion in arms buries his face in Sarah’s crotch brimming with animal scents, embracing the long shapely legs. I feel a last passion for their feet, groomed to perfection, unadulterated and witty in their soulful symmetry. Mary’s are runners, acrobats, trained tools of her conquered leeway, they quiver in the caress, they jump; Katherine’s recall the unending sands of her childhood wonderment, beyond all boundaries in the high spheres of northern light, madly transgressive and bold, she wants room for her loose toes; as for Sarah’s toes and slim arched feet, all-time objects of her father’s worship in their sneaky pride, they flee out of any shoe no sooner she lands dry, but they are nonetheless citywise and educated, she lets them climb bare on your lap if you wish in most surroundings.

Gauthier says:

The whole troupe is raddled out, spent beautifully. Hugo and me groom the abandoned bodies with some fleur d’oranger water on muslin, leaving them fresh as dawn. Kate unconsciously rolls to Sarah’s side while Marie asks me to the loo and lets me have her mouth as she pees. We tuck them into rich silk shawls and let them sink in oblivious fantasies as we secure the camp at the wings.

Late morning, the brood is still buried deep into the multicoloured stuffs, with only one tempting foot poking out of the jumble. I meet Hugo in the kitchen, he wears the grand vellutto sopraritzzo robe with the scarlet Persian lions on dark gold silk; he pulls aside my cover and strokes my chest as he kisses into my neck. He says we will treat Sarah with french toast and cherry marmalade, so she will be as naughty as a schoolgirl; he beats the eggs in the sweet vanilla milk, dips all the dry bread slices he could find and arranges them on a plate under a sprinkle of brown sugar when they are golden. Now It may wait, in the meantime he plays with my dick, until I wish I took a shower and prep up myself.

Eventually, the merry slappers have inundated the bathroom before appearing before us butt-naked in different shirts of Hugo’s, with wet hair and fresh mouths. Sarah is overjoyed with the appetizing reminder of her Swiss paradise and offers the chef an armful of herself. At the yawning and stretchings of Kate, I turn up gloriously hard, for the enjoyable amusement of Marie.

Two pots of vigorous Darjeeling will be necessary as they peck at the toasts in a mess of tangy-sweet cherries, and I know Hugo and me must leave soon for an important sale, so we gather tiny crumbs on their lips and run.

Katherine says:

There’s a toe-fight under the table when Lena springs in, apparently thinking that the place is free for her to work. Parsing the late hour and our indecent get-up, she understands and smile. On the retreat, she however ventures a soft remark about her daughter, who might have feared she offended or shocked us last night; I swiftly soothe down the tone and swear that there was nothing to be thought of and Natalia is the sweetest person, only she must know that there are some natural encounters to happen in the upper floors, but Lena knows that already. I invite her to keep on her plans if she doesn’t mind us a little longer. She agrees quite matter-of-factly, then laughs at the shirts we wear and moves on.

Back in our apartment, where Lena has already tidied and sorted everything, we fetch our kind of studio fatigues but visibly Marie needs another round of exultations, which brings us ravaging her again on the bed until she cries for mercy, because we know all too well these manners of trade. She’s beaming in a light cotton gown, a bit tight on the breasts, with woolen socks but no knickers, which tells her mind well.

Among our thriving library wall, Marie has picked an all-traditional treatise on picture composition, proportions and neo-Platonist metaphysics of a unified order of the universe, so as the visual creator, from Veronese to Kandinsky, may asseverate that his demonstrative construction is an echo of an esoteric harmony of the sensible world. With a pinch of salt, it isn’t too hazardous to roam through this once in a lifetime, then wink, each time you parse that you just instinctively played according to one of these rules, like improvising according to one scale or another, like a skilled musician. This laid down, while the muscatel flavor of a new cup unfurls onto my satiated plexus, one may trace back to the conversation we argued with our artful James, in which my bosom pal and me ranked with the claim of surrealism to let our souls, in the lay sense of both articulate mind and inarticulate background, as a living whole, lead our personal cartography of the passion archipelago.

While Sarah has crossed her legs on her seat and meditates on her cup, Marie has fetched a new notebook in our stash, an automatic pencil, and scrawls notes and sketches from the book and the system she had only vaguely known about, through some technical jargon of photography, and she visibly feels she might put to use in a way or another; she’s prettily absorbed, and by pulling up her feet on the couch, she bares her sassy cunt and, realising, smiles to us.

Sarah says:

My old master Tudor Weiss taught us that philosophers, like Plato, despise artists because these aim to transgress their mental universal apparatus. Until the defeat of God, artists were submitted, casual victims of microcephalic Savonaroles and inquisitors; then roped into “social” or “national” realism. And so, to dodge the arrows and comminations, they rationalised with an exquisite calculus a godly design only them could extol, provided their complacency to unrevealed sexual shenanigans of the different clergies more or less. André Breton, the “anti-father” with a black diamond voice, rallied beyond death and the sublime dowsers of free thinking. I wish I had reeled all this off to James, but I will.

Now, not only do I see Marie’s happy cookie but also two wide eyes. Little did she foresee the kind of manifesto I just laid out. From where she came, she achieved so much more than we did and kept her head up, whenas I reveled like a squirrel on the lakeshore. But if she wants to stay with us longer, we must order a third work-seat so she takes an end of the table and draw, like Irving Penn or Man Ray.

 

My stream – Twenty-three – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Katherine says:

The slim cadet and me have been exchanging our works, while Marie hardly breathed in her meditation. She scribbled many pages with sketches of frames, as far as I could see. She had covered her fine thighs, for a while. We played ambient soundscapes and drank light oolongs; Sarah “helped” her to pee once, as well as it goes.

We went out and bought some fine fish terrine and chartreuse slices, eggs, a box of fruit salad and a few bottles of fresh kombucha. Marie was already languorous and feline. She bought flowers, a ready-made bouquet of rather rustic varieties of cornflowers, thistle, echinops, columbine, daisies, a jumble of simples and her fetish umbels, that we disposed in a Royal Copenhagen round vase, a present to Sarah from Gauthier. She confessed that she knew she would find that bouquet in that shop, she had slept with the florist a few times and given him a few advice.

The food is welcome and rewarding, a green cream sauce goes with the terrine slices and the soft-boiled eggs I can do. I slipped into a pastel blue light corduroy shirt-dress and nothing, Sarah shows her shoulders in a black tank top and a short denim skirt and Marie chose a lilac oxford shirt and decides it will be enough with black stockings. We mingle feet like teenagers, it feels simple and clear, I wonder aloud how she manages, like the one time she had taken us to the forest, to ease the time being and weigh no more than a blue tit on the flowers?

Sarah says:

The way she intended to fill my vase touches me like a dainty dedication and Kate sees it. She tells of the minuscule purple-red flower at the center of the wild carrot umbel, which was her secret confidant along the never-ending maddened years of her devoid childhood; through many dreams, that she welcomed, she never discerned how she was inspired the right choice for ending her misery without hurting anyone but the evil. After the farm was sealed on itself, deported to a Breton orphanage, it was easy to confide in simple social workers and teachers, watch her feet grow, work soap lather into her and other girl’s tender nooks, parry the poison away and let the shudder in her chest radiate like the tiny garnet at the center of the modest umbels. She played with my hands.

Marie stares vaguely, a random glint from one lamp in her yellow eyes, a serene smile for me as she plays footsie, then shrugs slightly and picks fruit cubes from the box and turns towards Kate who is busy gathering egg yolk with a piece of brown bread on her fork. As the French say, “un ange passe” and the city feels very far away; my educated guess tells me she yearns for Simon, or Cynthia in the open vastness of the sand banks. Without pulling my feet, I seize one hand from each and break the silence with a jaded reminder of James’ metaphor about the primal mother.

Marie says;

I remember feeling you two descending upon this house and Hugo’s soul. First he wanted to lure Kate into his party, and Sarah who was nested with Camille. I had been a regular anecdote of his, for years, after a few misfires of mine and a troublesome apprenticeship in photography on both sides of the lenses. Before, I had been raised on public expense, quite honestly, with more of trustworthy tutors than abusive gits, albeit there were, and one is enough to rot your life. Probably because I had dodged fate a good once, I grew up untouched but all the way bitchy as you can tell. No, no, don’t protest, I could show you both. At eighteen, I needed liquid money to buy all the vanities I had lusted on, like a silly blond fool; I had already sold my ass a few times to unaware fiancés, traded my charms for the necessary rudiments of my would-be profession, but my life became far more in-line when I met the circle of my rich admirers.

Camille had spotted me in her gallery, and made eye contact at once, in case I would not come again. After some casual bavardage, she enticed me to bring some of my work, since I had laid that I was more into art photography than reportage. The next day, she craftily crept into my game and kept me well after closing time, dazzling me with her house, her tales, and her dexterity.

She actually knew much more than me, who had nevertheless been cramming the classics and subscribed to the best magazines, about photography as an art. She had asked for the images of me I had stolen from my ex and kept them in her computer. She groomed me, made me feel independent and able in her realm. We reached a mood of intimacy such as she avowed her own origin and heard mine almost entirely, so eventually I chose to follow her path and thus she loved me more yet. She never failed me since.

You sure know that living in Camille’s bed is grand and she is captivating. I could not have enough of her mercenary adventures with mighty but mannered gents, could you? At first, we went together There were a few in cushy hotels or in spacious palaces, in distinguished shag pads or even sophisticated homes like here. She gradually emboldened me in the depraved acting according to what I felt was expected; back in her bath and bed, we felt lasciviously fulfilled and spent. Money was piling, I paid most of my things cash. She reminded me about my cameras, sent me out working, devised my studio for post-production needs, filled my walls with reference books, like yours, except she missed your treatise on picture construction that I must now find, of course.

One day she brought me here and Hugo liked me enough to fuck me in every corner, although I still discover more. With or without Camille, he played me, sometimes with friends of his, boys he craves too, and all the time I revel in being his whore, like I want to be yours. I know he took pictures of you two with his precious collections, but he hasn’t shown them to me, yet; he might give me some advice for doing characters and nudes, I do not feel able in that field.

 

My Stream – Twenty-four – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Katherine says:

It has started to rain outside, it plops on the zinc window ledges in soothing rhythm, while on the large screen overlooking our bed a multi-randomised software unfurls lines, ribbons, arabesques and textures upon the innumerable givens of the scrubby input soundscape. In the shattered light of our festival electrical garlands, we round our graces over the satin sheets, in reminiscence of the many previous trips we dreamt from here to “never never land” and back. Tonight, unorthodox medicines are obviously ruled out, for the sake of the betiding One in the zealous womb of our vigilant Marie; but placebo stimulations suffice in our ever-expanded minds to trigger the fireworks and sensations. Soon, my spine feels like a soft pinball machine and my lost kids accomplices scent legendary.

My dream has withdrawn as a tide of galaxies upon white sands, the last rounds of birds hover higher and vanish in the subdued harmonies of a sly trumpet as I open my eyes to the familiar carousel of our playful fairy lights. Alongside of me, a very live filly rubs her butt to my tummy with a faint hum of contentment, her face into Sarah’s neck.

I close the door when I pee, then I brew some Margaret’s Hope and squash two oranges. In the icebox I find leftover French toasts and white macarons in a box; these fulfill my needs. As I pour the tea, I feel a deft hand on my tits and a kiss in my hair, then Sarah sits on my lap and steals my cup for a while. Then she takes place opposite me and offers one wolfish gaze in the midst of her black mess of hair; her azurite eyes beam under rich lashes and her mouth blooms a smile in no words. It is mild enough to stay undressed; her goodberries lurk on her clear- skinned chest.

Marie says:

I drain my bladder and take a quick shower to cleanse dream sweats. I was kept on watch by a gathering of crimson crows perched on ruined walls, and my poor clothes were already torn to rags by the bramble stems, but I pointed my camera on the birds and they pranced around as if nothing. The firemen set fire to the bramble bush which consumed into an upward tornado and I saw myself nude in the middle of lustful fire fighters in their shining helmets. A girl I have known sent me a checkered tablecloth to cover myself, at the rumbling disapproval of the onlookers, but I could not walk because the ground was still hot, so they called a bright red truck bearing a sophisticated contraption supposedly to lift me out of the ashes. I am carried up in a soft red hull and multicoloured lights twinkle around in a theater where I lay in a friendly bed, deserted.

Undecided on what to wear, I find them unclothed anyway, so I can bother them tenderly one by one as they check their Google news and find an invitation to join Camille and Fanny for a stroll in Versailles; I like that and bustle with Kate’s neck and nipples, straddling on her, to hear a yes. As usual of late, I start to bite into the toasts and jam but I can’t swallow much, I want fruit; Kate squashes more oranges and that will do, I feel, along with tea which has infused long enough to enliven my taste buds. I drift in the thought that, in the backlighting of the spattered window, they make an ideal scene, so I jump for my compact camera and shoot, at the AI good will.

Sarah says:

In waterproof sports outfits, we walk to the Boulevard Saint Germain to meet the grey van with shaded windows, followed by security detail in a plain car. No sooner the sliding door opens by itself than Fanny pulls me next to her on the back row and cuddles me; when she slides a hand under my sweatshirt, I look for Kate’s eyes and read one eyebrow up and then a swift smile of friskiness, emboldened by Marie’s ribbing at her own side. In an hour’s time we park inside the domain near the Grand Canal in a bright sunshine, so we lighten the clothing down to simple shirts; we all seem like schoolkids on the run, followed by a couple of handsome men in jeans and nylon flight jackets, who ask Marie not to take pictures, to what she gracefully obeys with a smirk, and runs diligently to the car to pack away the camera under the chauffeur’s guard.

Fanny holds my hand now, her French has notably improved, she knows about Versailles history, we now see the Grand Trianon; she says she feels for Marie-Antoinette as a woman, she fantasise her as a sensuous aristocrat saddled with a frustrated dullard, whom she can’t believe waited seven years to concede to a much needed circumcision before he coud discover the intercourse. She wants to know if I like fucking, she is quite straightforward about sex, she watched me being apparently trashed down on the carpet and begging for more, so I joke on what partners may obtain with some dedication in the manners, which Donovan sure had devoted at my own relish, on that night. And my rump still feels aroused. She says that Camille is the sweetest lover she could dream of, I concur and tell her I had been in Camille’s bed for two years before I came at Hugo’s realm and meet Kate. She nods, adding that Camille has promised her as many well-hung men as she would cram into her coot, as her name would hint to a naughty ear.

She goes on asking, jumping to English randomly, about my life and upbringing. She marvels at all I have been through and known already. I explain to her how privileged we are, Kate and myself, but that it won’t deem her of less value in her future, if she rests on solid friendships and parses her given in life with a few principles Camille will undoubtedly massage into her spine safely, (and there, I have to elaborate on what a metaphor is). I tell her that today it may be a terrific asset to have been groomed up as a total whore, since she survived whole and unabashed. She may confer freely with Doctor Méant about the geometry — there I hold her head to my face gently, wait for a few seconds and kiss her– of her soul, to build her own tower of crystal on the shore, to let whom she will decide in, or not.

Marie says:

As we follow the canal’s ledge, I side with one or the other, arm in arm. testing babies’ names with Camille, devising libertine strategies with Kate whose wildness suggests that she experienced more than she tells. I skilfully steal Fanny from Sarah who was sensibly representing some safeguard to the motherless reborn in our course of debauchery where she can teach and more.

She is radiant, lithesome in well-cut jeans and a peridot-green shirt with rolled sleeves, opened on her shy breasts with pale nipples. In her boyish haircut, a touching cowlick at the forehead emphasises her witty berylline gaze, unflinchingly tense and yet almost infant. I feel compelled to fathom her quasi praeternatural survival with eventually the strength to fight out of her misery. She collectedly explains, as she has unraveled the threads with her therapist, how necessary bonds had somehow sewn her together, mostly Miss Novak beyond her own terror, and even the Captain by his few self-restraints until she escaped. Letting me stroke her breasts, she says to my face that she believes there are no such things as blood ties, we root where we are like the gardener’s cuttings; most of the time, one has parents, sometimes one makes up some.

I have to agree with her, although I cannot remember for sure who helped what in my inner struggle, and what was there at the first years, possibly enough as a base to my clumsy construction, enough from what let my second-life tutors guide me usefully? Obviously so, if I review all the soul-searching I did, included the ultimate transgression I devised altogether easily. Or am imposing my overbearing whim upon a conjunction of precious wills whom happened to circle me in their love? As I may know, Camille too, bloomed spectacularly upon a mass grave, only she wouldn’t have thought of birthing somebody, would she? She wisely sublimated her ordeal into art and those who do it, while, as wisely too, she perverted the social consensus at her will. Notwithstanding, I do not perceive any speck of doubt in the round of fairies and fauns who scent me so near and rejoice in my renewed carousing.

Fanny says:

I caught Sarah back between us and try to make her blush with compliments, helped in that by Marie whose cheeks beam. We have walked around in the woods and back to some café near our cars, they serve hot cocoa and blueberry pie. At the mild amazement of our official angels, Kate embraces Sarah, sliding her hand to her tootleberries and they laugh stealthily. All agree to finish the day at our place so I anticipate new cavalcades and it makes me wet. They start ordering the usual hatful of relishes on their telephones. In the black seats, we fight again for each other and I find Marie’s hand in my pants.

 

11 – Katherine Sophie – The Gentle Straddler From Oz.

Dr Cynthia Möhlitz wrote:

Dear unforgettable Katherine,

As close back as yesterday, your slinky brother Simon, whom I had eventually traced to the Fraunhofer planet, told me all of your harrowing ordeal and the good hopes anew.
Never would I lose memory of our unleashed youth around the Alster and across the sands of our islands, we have been unforgettably formidable for these few years, and you gave me and some others strength to confront our awkward fate.
When my parents, who had devoted their careers to me and my then unorthodox fulfilment, moved to these antipodes for a position where they could endeavour the cause, I was struck by the primordial necessity to involve myself firsthand with it.
I have kept in my chest the biting remorse of having lost you and your dreamy eyes, your easy soul to swim with and your brilliant brother, your overwhelmingly touching relationship.
Simon says he recovers daily from his bygone wounds and fosters no grudge towards you, he parsed the whole event and is determined that, as wasted as you said you had been, it was none of your fault. He loves you and your friends dearly, as you may tell.

Today, I want to ask you a favour. For a few years, in Melbourne and Sydney I have smoothly befriended Theo Flannery, who is a beautiful soul of ambiguous genre, a somewhat perfect companion for someone like me, apart from you, of course. Theo wants to be a “he”, knowing he never responded to male hormones and grew up with mostly feminine sexual characteristics, and a smaller penis with resolute erections, though.
Theo is a writer, a poet. He always fantasised about Paris, better than anywhere else, and he wants to spend a year or so in your city, as I learned, could you help him find some kind of perch somewhere safe? He lives rather well-off and speaks French, he is no cumbersome company, you will know at once. I would bet you will not be long before you thank me for the encounter, and I know you well. I remember how your family worships swans of the lake; here is a beautiful black one, will you shelter him?
I already revel in the expectation of sharing glints of your life, Fairy belle, Simon brushed a very arousing portrait of your sister soul Sarah, I wish we met again before it were too late, on any island, this one here is big enough.
It buzzes in my chest as I again write that I love you always.
Cynthia.

Simon wrote:

Faraway star of a sister,


Resurgence of Wonderland, Cynthia wrote out of the ocean blue and revived a heap of emotions all over my soul, urging me to reunite with you, and Sarah, and all the realm.
I narrated for her the accident and your returning to Paris, without whatever details you will feel like sharing with her. She became an impressive character, you should see her on Skype. I think I will visit her, when I feel assured I would not constitute too much of a disappointing surprise to her who pretty well knew me, then. She is a Doctor, though, she would overcome the sight of a few scars, as you did, pearl of my dreams.
Cynthia said she would like you to chaperon a sweet friend of hers coming to Paris, will you?
I want to see you both soon, I have secured some free time, tell Sarah I want her too.
Be good, Kate, as you know it.
Potamus
Simon

Katherine answered:

My Rothenbaum rake,


I kept such a fervent trust in you that I think you know you may ask anything and I will consider it a joy to oblige, in all my means and will. We have extensive resources around here, it should not raise any obstacles to lodge a gentle person around, in the best surroundings in Paris.
Yet, I hope you fathomed that since our school days we did not quieten the least, and we actually live in quite libertine ways. Nevertheless, rest assured that no one I know in life would take exception to gender-free ways of life, all the more in the kind of character you would recommend.
Although there would no longer pass quiet days in Clichy, not by a long chalk, the city remains inhabited by enough captivating minds and informally driven by clever networks of all in all morally sound might; I wouldn’t extend to the medical powers, which are still entangled in greed and bigotry, worse than those your parents fled in Germany

As for the question of intersex, Switzerland seems to have opted for sane regulations, eluding the social pressure for reassigning children genre, as if there ever had been such thing. Only educated adults may consider such a leap. In her Swiss school, Sarah befriended off-gender students who won their pride socially, in the school circle at least, and besides, it was some uncommon Swiss school anyhow.
So, it is exciting to await for some new acquaintance; not so long ago, we greeted a fugitive from the aftermaths of the Balkan wars, a young orphan of nowhere who had hustled me in Venice, on purpose, and helped corner a gang of evildoers. We can’t be totally sure she is not mentally maimed, but she is working her way and I am proud that she chose me.
It would clearly be a brilliant idea if we met again, on a free island, all of us, and it is not unfeasible in our loose schedule, it would certainly be your call, tanned amazon of Amrum. Have you ever had any news of Aenne Anker, our shy gay protégé?
Simon said I should call you by Skype, to look at you; he was impressed!

Send us your debutant, lovely, you can imagine all the intimate thoughts it spurs up, talking of old times with you.
My love and deep respect for who you are and what you do, Cynthia.

Katherine Sophie

 

Katherine says:

I referred the letters to the Lord of the Manor as first person susceptible to see to a means of accomodate Cynthia’s candidate in our snug part of the city. Hugo remembered well my story with Cynthia, and seized the occasion to lay me in his office’s couch and fondle me gently; I let him do and joked I was ready to prostitute for my friend’s request. He made me feel like he already agreed and we had a light-minded aparté first, then he told me that Gauthier could see a new neighbour on his floor who might meet his tastes, possibly? Would it be close enough to me? As an answer, I played whore and remained on all fours at his will, he only needed to lick my arse a little. We dressed back up, I only wore a polka-dot black and white silk twill dress that slid back on as fast as it had slid off, he fetched some keys and pushed my satisfied bum towards the stairs.

On the third floor of the other part of the building, in the evocative smell of fresh paint because everything was new or renewed, he opened the door next to Gauthier’s and greeted me in a cosy little apartment of three rooms, a day room with a kitchen counter, a bedroom and a study, with a lavish bathroom with a convenient walk-in Italian shower, in which he pushed me against the mosaic wall and wanked my still drippy gash for a tender moment after what he opened a cupboard and gave me a towel, holding up my skirt as I washed in the bidet, he reveled in the whole sequence. The view was on inner courts and gardens. He suggested we helped Theo furnish and decorate the place.
The main access was from a different street. I was very proud of him and said so, he bit my earlobe and said he hoped he would meet Cynthia, too, one fine day.

Sarah liked the idea of a newcomer with a mystery, she wanted details of my whorish request to Hugo and almost asked for a reconstruction right away on the studio floor, but I told her that I did not wear my slutty dress, so she contented herself with my licking her standing up and me kneeling.
We wrote the good news to Australia and asked if we could start to arrange the place so as it would be liveable as soon as Theo landed. Were there elements to be avoided, being understood we could let him see by himself to the fabrics and colours, if he chose.
Sarah was wired with the idea, and so she groped me at any occasion like a mad puppy.

 

Sarah says:

I had heard so much about Cynthia Möhlitz and it reminded me about some gentle characters of Saint Loup’s sleeping quarters that I craved to make a new intersex friend, for a start. At a time when my Far had parsed my psychological bruises, due to my brother’s unforgivable abuse of me, ferreted out, through his networks, the prized advice about Saint Loup, near Geneva, one of his customary stations, it had been a windfall of blessings to find, inside Julia Grant’s orb of sway and the stealth conspiracy of many all-decent adults, Harmony be praised, all the promising buds of tolerance and leniency towards wild fawns like me. I reckon today that we had all been wrecked some way or other and were luckily granted another chance by privileged parents. Among our fuzzy troupe, the uncommon sexual cases came to be regarded as interesting souls and worthy desirable characters, as all of our parents had been advised in the school’s chart, Far be blessed for that, too.

The Aussies soon green lighted our nesting ardour so our days’work soon summarised in surfing the web for ideas and directions while eventually petting each other like otters in a bath.
On photographs, Theo was a boyish, coffee brown-eyed, half-long fawn haired, one dash more laddish than Hilary Swank, that which set me expecting already.
What sort of matchmaking had Cynthia devised? There was no doubt about her knowing Kate’s sensuous dispositions and nothing had changed at that, Theo wasn’t being unbeknownst lured into an unwelcome partnership and he would readily learn about our liberal ways, wouldn’t he?
Kate was confident that Cynthia was granting us a big favour, as well as securing a fruitful venture for her friend.

 

Katherine says:

As early as ten in the morning, we met them in Skype, it was obvious they were lovers, just about the same as us over here. Cynthia resplendent, short straight black hair over the ear, piercing green look through the same thick lashes as Sarah; she displayed neat square shoulders in a jade green shirt.
Theo was kind of hiding his boyish smile behind a blond forelock like a wild poney but spoke smoothly and wilfully, with a gracious twitch to send his hair aside, in a charming and relatively high-pitched tone of voice, in fact like us girls, using distinctive vocabulary and turns of phrase. Beside Cynthia he appeared as tall but willowy with long animated hands; he wore a black shirt opened low on a tanned chest.
They were overjoyed with the answer given to their query, he had no requirement to ask, after hearing the description of his lodging. He was cutely shy to meet his future neighbour but took our word for Gauthier’s perfect manners. Having researched our address, he had understood that he would dwell in the midst of a legendary literary land, even if nowadays only atypical writers like Hugo could afford that vicinity; we did not elaborate on the landlord’s social status.
Cynthia had a few fits of nostalgia, looking at me alongside Sarah who revived the tale of the young Alster lovers and our mad trio into the dunes of Sylt and Amrum. We exchanged promises of never losing track of each other again, I clung to my distinguished cadet and swiftly caressed her kitty, off the frame of the cam.
There were three weeks until he would land, it would be superfluous to wait longer, and enough time to gather the necessary stuff, a big bed, first.

 

Sarah says:

We have ran and bustled like squirrels and now the apartment is most civilised and inviting. We spent like there were no tomorrow and Gauthier went puzzled about us, but was circled a few times in the new lair, and eventually helped us in good will. Hugo lent some paintings of his own collection, visibly aroused by this new recruit to come.
Now we wait at Roissy airport for our boy, who finally shows up with three suitcases on a trolley. He is stunningly beautiful, tall and slim, ethereal like a dancer, I want him at once and he reads it in my gaze; he reads the same in Kate’s smile. We cram the heavy bags in the car and head to town.
He’s rather drowsy but enthused to see Paris, albeit we drive through kilometers of rubbish land until we enter the city by the opposite side; once crossed the boulevards the views get Parisian for real.
At home, help is afoot to carry the luggage upstairs. Theo is bedazzled, he agrees to a cup of tea and is stunned to see that is is brewed in his own kitchen with his own crockery; we sit with him on the couch and armchairs and watch him doze out and sleep. After a while, we take him to his bed, take his shoes off and let him alone. Like two malandrins with a big loot, we stand guard; and like two lustful slappers, we kill time on the couch with the best of our abilities. Cynthia’s protégé found a new shelter.

 

Katherine says:

Hugo’s people did marvel at our choices; beige satin rendering on walls, old ruddy tiles on the floors with antique carpets, maple shades on the windows, deep leather couch and armchairs, ship wood low tables, maple shaker round dining table and chairs.
The study has been lined with bookcases and a spacious maple desk stands in the middle, with three working chairs, in case of a literary conference.
The bed is high enough for fucking on the side, the mattress is of the extra-thick sort. A wall-to-wall mirror hides huge storage. A triptych painting of elaborated intricate textures in deep warm tones sets the scape of a subterranean sabbath over a dark chest of drawers, two other paintings jolt into an undecided space random details of seemingly young models in rapture, gazing at the viewer. Thick carpets, designed after traditional patterns of the Tibetan stylised tiger skins allow to possibly fall from the bed and roll around.
All lighting is indirect, concealed and adjustable the eye never meets a dazzling spot.
Our “wallaby?” will likely ensconce himself in here, courted by the whole house and more, attended on by the same help as his neighbour, two minutes away from our hospitable bed. In a few days we will start updating him to the amenities of the voisinage, stores, caterers, macaron genius, sushi wizards, late night cries for help at our doors.
If he woke up now he would find Sarah stark naked licking her friend like a heart of barley candy.

 

Sarah says:

After a few exultations each, but we know there is no limitation to this, we came to yawning wide, understanding that our duty commanded that we sleep there. the teapot was empty, we had eaten most of the treats we had brought, he was still sound asleep when we deftly stole his clothes, did not yet peek at his crotch, we left him in his underwear an buried him into the sheets and quilt, tiptoed away, after taking blankets for ourselves.
I still like cuddling into Kate’s arms closed on my chest, I passed out in bliss.

It’s morning on a first heatwave on forty-second street, I walk in the nude escorted by an agitated brigade of squirrels holding tiny red jingle bells; they babble together but, as usual, I don’t understand. Drab exhausted characters smile at me and my court of rodents which salute at random and collect chunks of candy bars. Around Grand Central, the buildings are draped in curiously mended tarps and trussed up. Upon the bridge running elephants, decked in motley rags, trumpet joyously. I walk inside the station in a hullabaloo of jungle, steam and bird cries. Three men in dark Amtrak uniforms and cap circle me, to the instant disarray of the squirrels which climb into palm trees; they undo their ties and show me to cover myself with them, and so I do unexpectedly well, piecing together a very short mini-dress which seems appropriate nevertheless. One of the employees orders me to wait there and brings back a pair of black varnished round-tipped escarpins I had been wearing once for some marriage ceremony in Helsingør. It is June, I am still too small to look over the tables and see if anything would be palatable, but the squirrels are jumping among the plates and the crystal glasses to bring me dragées and raisins and jewels of gold and pearls. They tickle my neck and shoulders when they try to fit the necklace, they play with my ears and nose, then Kate pushes her tongue between my lips and I find myself in front of young man in an African blue djellaba and gold embroidered black babouches.

After responding to Kate’s kiss, I recover my wits and realise that we are already laying nude before a mere stranger who might be scared off, although he doesn’t show. I cover myself like old times and grab some clothes, not sure if it is mine or hers, Theo drops in an armchair and looks amused, offering some tea. I can’t help but stretch out and I see that he peeps me over, interested. Kate takes her time to slid on the sweat shirt and shows her bum, pulling up the leggings over no underwear; he nods, I wink.

 

Katherine says:

Theo wants to call Cynthia in Skype with us, he has already called his parents on his phone. He asks if he can sit with us, we let him in between us, he smells cinnamon, like I could lick his neck; he opens his laptop on the low table and asks for the connection password. He is very fast on the keyboard and quite soon, the tone rings and Cynthia appears, in nightly lights. She comments on the scene she sees and we tell her that not long before we have been caught in the nude, sleeping. Theo declares it has been a true Parisian delight and it made him feel at home right away, like the best of omen. Cynthia responds that she can’t venture about one of the hosts but she knows full well about the other on how he should get along with; I tell her there are a few more around us he should appreciate, too, and I give her a rapid insight of the fine tribe, with timid hints about the manners and habits, testing sideways Theo’s reactions. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were slyly rubbing along the cute brunette on the other side. We greet plenty of bliss on both sides of the world, promise to talk to each other every possible day, and kiss.

I have not been seeing things, these two touch each other and might soon be kissing, actually, she deftly jumped the gun, as a little streel, would you say, one who learned in the best school, indeed! A tad disconcerted, I decide not to withdraw and begin to comb with my fingers, the long strand of hair across his forehead, as if to help his face be kissed by Sarah, and it works; deliberately, he wanders both hands on both sides and finds her mouth all available. Yet, I am not in the mood to step aside, so I poke a nasty tongue in his neck and ear until he turns to my face and play. After a few more return kisses, his long robe starts being pulled up and eventually fly off with our shirts and tights, so he may blush as a virgin at the hands of succubus sisters. Skimming around his sleek chest and thighs, we jointly let him breathe to his own heart, live his own lust, smell us around his own soul.
His weeny still sulks in fright or disarray, but he meanders under our skillful strokes like an otter on the shore, and Sarah says low peaceful words while I guide his thighs apart and reach and swallow this knob so as to wake it happy and going.
It is a stiff and forward plaything with not much of a ball-sack, but cute enough for me to fondle it in details, as well as his bunghole Cynthia must have reveled in for long.
If Sarah straddles him now, I am left at pleasing her rimming what she offers wide and vice versa. Theo moans movingly while we both interweave upon him, then he bucks up and, with only some slobber, threads into her unprepared back hatch and humps bravely till crisis. I have been capped alright at the post, but I admire his firm butt, as genderqueer as Sarah’s, yummy.

My phone cries a new message, it says Gauthier asks at our crush’s door. I inquire and give as much details as I feel will entice Theo towards his flaming neighbour, he says we might only take a shower first and that is what I type.
We befriend loosely under the water, he fingers us with baby soap and we smell like a prairie when Gauthier comes in and congratulates our freshness with a fine innuendo and a wink.
He carries shiny red boxes of macarons and avoids to ogle Theo too obviously but I can tell that he is in heat already. Sarah brews a pot of oolong and fetches four wooden bowls. Theo has never tasted any pastries like these. He now wears black moleskin slacks and a grey paisley print foulard silk shirt, shows his fine feet, like us, to madden the coppery headed gentleman, when I take them in hand. Sarah jumps and gives him hers, playfully opportunist.

Conversation rolls on about the trip and mutual memories of jet lag, but both are already engaged in eye tango, with us two jaded for the while, only Sarah jollies Gauthier, with her foot on his fly and a cute smile.
A call from Hugo offers a welcome reunion in his den later this evening with a heap of delicacies, if Theo survived.
Meanwhile, Gauthier has hopped at Sarah’s side and opened his pants in a proud response to her, but also a deliberate dare to Theo, if he were so minded, too.
But as Sarah is on to another easy shag, Theo clings to me ostensibly, disrobing me again and frolicking over my body, the girl way. Yet the gold knight is no beginner and ruse with Sarah’s consent or not to sneak inside Theo’s shirt and make him surrender his mouth while I pull his pants down.
Theo asks for truce, says it is all too fast, offers some chat in the nude, visibly Gauthier frightens him; I give my best to comfort him and cover his crotch with my hand.
Gauthier subdues himself, keeping his galant attitude towards Sarah who pets his noble erection and slides the other hand under Theo to come pat my nape. Eventually she opens her legs and takes a firebrand into her ready play sheath while Theo kisses her mouth. Good excuse for Gauthier to slowly twirl caresses over both busy faces as he keeps rummaging deep into the familiar magic.

In this rather abrupt manner, an however mild acquaintance is threaded between the beau neighbours and after Sarah has drawn her splendid bow in an arching climax, two wolves wrestle tongues upon her chest and in her mouth. There is still a place where I can play and I bid my pride at recalling Theo’s letch and bring him to yet another spend for me. In her haziness, Sarah must have felt some carnal debt towards me and so, as she leaves the new buddies exhaust their mouths, she crawls to my wanting clit and tortures it to an end.

 

Sarah says:

There, there, Kate feels involved for a reason in Theo’s welfare from her old lover’s commendation and care, originating from her knowledge of his intimate social frailty. We discoursed on this thoroughly and there is not a pencil-thin shadow of a confusion in my mind as to how she lives her responsibility. Plus, she knows full well that I already dealt with non-binary comrades honorably since my early teens.
Come, come, we sail clear waters and there aren’t any clouds upstairs.
I happened to fall for the dark eyes, which might also squint an adorable swaying little bit. I hurtled to his face a little wildly, but he responded as lightheadedly as I wanted and did certainly not complain afterwards, did he?

On the leather, we smell like fornicating animals, but I like it on Kate, while the young stags explore each other, Theo strikingly feminine at Gauthier’s hands, on an armchair.
Time coming, after some lewd water sports, we groom again our asses and leave the boys for our lair to put on whorish easy-off attire; nothing Hugo likes best than feeling in a brothel scene, nothing we agree better than playing sluts with him.
I have this dark purple silk redingote that Gianni cut close fitting so I can wear it with nothing but sleek cavalier boots; I might hold a riding crop. Kate ties a long marine satin gown that leaves her back nude. She picks azurite-jewelled sandals, gift of Hugo’s, and remains without undies.
She wears a lush composition of youthful roses he once made for her; she certainly wants him to use her. I keep on the leather inspiration with a masculine blond pipe tobacco scent like in the McBarens tin that had remained in a cupboard under the roofs in Taarbæk, aggravated with soot of wood fire and perverted by cinnamon and Hugo’s fantasies of me, if he will. for once, I touch my eyelids and lashes with a bit of mascara, then puff a veil of powder; I do her, fingering her slit to watch the right expression on her beloved face. We laugh fantasising the boys doing the same kind of preening upstairs.

 

Katherine says:

Hugo has been inspired by a charivari of silk flowers once sublimely crafted by Trousselier, four high bouquets spring up from new illuminated porcelain vases in the troubadour taste, only they depict gracile nymphs in the depth of waters, their ovals bordered by elaborate laces of gold. All the more in the brothel taste, says I , feeling his hand inside. He is thrilled with our inspiration and almost rapes me right away.
The boys show not long after, Theo in a bright scarab green textured silk jacket on black tee-shirt, slacks and boots, Gauthier in a thin night blue suit, assorted slippers embroidered on top with seashells, and a light white silk tee-shirt.
Our host wears a garnet and gold brocade robe fit on his shoulders, burgundy trousers and black thin skin ankle boots.

As I introduce Theo whom he doesn’t yet know, he keeps his hand and admires it, then sounds tentatively the dark stare and suddenly becomes almost shy, breathes and then speaks welcome words, explaining how I had vaunted his fine reputation and bid my life for him. He shows him to a couch and offers drinks of subtle savours, as we tell our day all to the host with more and more details, enticing him to nose playfully into our clothes, accordingly.
His complete leeway upon us tests Theo for his keen eyes, he craves the boy in his salon. As we avow a string of lewd villainies, he slowly undoes us just as we foresaw.
Theo smiles from across the low table where cristal food stands offer the full scale of exquisite delicacies, the one bite at a time way so suited to orgy. Gauthier wisely holds his hand and make funny comments mezzo voce.
Reading our eyes, Hugo is very soon aroused, all the more by our half-nude outfits, so he murmurs in Sarah’s ear and she goes for his flute and obligingly plays. Gauthier’s hand is soon all over Theo and mostly in his pants, then he does what Sarah did and sucks his neighbour. I hasten to his peen and work it into a proper staff of desire until he spits a loving spoonful of slime. I am proud of him and myself and he pushes me back to the other couch to return me the favour with talent, I take note to offer my comments to Cynthia. But while he fulfils my joy, Gauthier pulls his pants down, uses convenient lubricant and pushes inside his folly ring inexorably, without troubling his tongue searching, only giving him the idea to gather some drippings to send three fingers in my own arse at my full bliss.

 

Hugo says:

Preterhuman is such a rare neoteric word and yet I wish I draped young Theo with it, his miraculous immaturity, like the white cheetah of the Serengeti, doomed, whereas he reigns in Faerie more real than the day, were we not to purvey the exceptional, the needed oneness of a veritable oeuvre d’art.
Far above the hollow skulls of the gnawing crowds in vengeful fear, have these ineffable beings been, for centuries, fantasised hovering in the music of total forgiveness. Yet, the social rule of the dominant culture will despise the nature of the unmatchable, the life ways of the ambiguous, however gainly they might evolve. Read my words, angels have always been of unattainable beauty. The conspiracy of lecherous hypocrites have strewn the ceilings and ledges of their lucrative soul ambushes with representations of undetermined characters that still overwhelm spectators like me and my crews.
Otherwise civilised nations, still today, tolerate the utter brutality against gender-queer newborns, butchered by medical bullies and fooled parents for the sake of a normalcy they cannot fabricate whatsoever.
This shapely fornicator, currently misbehaving on my carpets, has never been taught to live Joe Bloggs’ life and will hopefully breeze past the ticket booth of conformity without damage, so help him the consolidated fraternity of rightful libertines.

Sarah senses that I lost her on the way to ethereal baroque angels, she doesn’t deserve such an affront, so I log back to her azure eyes and watch her mindful face rewind to the great fucking we do, she spreads her thighs wider again to let me properly ream deep and come with her only, my classy teddy girl who scents of Danish perverse poisons as blue as her soul. Then we roll and I hug her into the snug corner of the couch for a wealth of kisses, forgetting the other wild trio.

 

Gauthier says:

Theo is a slinky boyish ride who knows manners of buggering with grace. Kudos for Melbourne’s reputation! Or is it Sydney?
Humping the best of two worlds, a cadet honey child, a newfound sibling for Sarah, who knows also how to make a fairy shiver!
That swaying rump in sweats at the tip of my urging rod kept on all restraint because I need not an expeditious shag and I can feel he revels in it till now; I want to become friends with the angel next door.
I warn him when I sling my shot as far as I may into his guts and it seems to trigger Kate’s release whatever it tastes in his mouth.
Everyone has been served at heart and changes partner, pecks treats and gulps kombucha from cooled pitchers; Hugo has grabbed Theo and strokes his shoulders gently; I can tell he is impressed.
I push the girls to the bathroom and we pee ourselves laughing in the shower, then recover our loving humour anew, bustled and fresh.
Hugo and Theo join; the boy, at rest, is indeed smallish of the prick and shies at first, but we all pet him and I, the perpetrator, give him an orange blossom enema while the girls flit around his mouth.
Back in the salon, in thick terry robes from limitless Hugo’s collection, we sprawl on each other and Theo dozes out, his head on Kate’s thighs.

 

Theo says:

I walk in dry white sand from which, at each of my steps, slither small wriggling coloured straps of seaweeds that sink back in deep. Tall windows show the blue sea on each side and I think I follow the length of some meridian of the planet because I have been alone. In the sunlight I discern three gold tokens of undecipherable origin with the number twenty-three, seven and twelve. On my right, my father, so much younger, in shorts and tank, say it adds up and I should keep them in my pocket, but I know my pockets are holed so I keep them in hand, warm and buzzing. He says they have looked for me but it’s fine and we will find a way home soon. He grabs some sand and sends it fiercely to a banded snake approaching in meanders, then he takes hold of me and runs through a window to a black tarmac lane painted with a big yellow twenty-seven. He hugs me and gives me to drink fresh from a metal gourd, laughing about the deadly snake. Over our heads kites are dancing in bright colours, bearing Greek letters, I ask my dad what it means but he says it will change all the time, unlike his caring for me, oh, Theo! I want to hug him, so the three gold tokens fall on the tarmac and melt, leaving the figures which are not the same, twenty one, six and four, but as he embraces me, I let it go with the numbers. We hurry to my mother who lies in an aluminium lounger amidst a bed of marigolds wearing a saffron bikini, shades and a straw hat with a striped black and white ribbon. She says marigolds fool the snakes, but my dad sniggers and caresses her feet she lets him have. I am sitting against her tummy and I pick up her magazine which is filled with numbers, when jet noise grows loud on the nearby airport and I wonder why she came here as the huge airplane takes off, losing tens of snakes down from its wheels as they retract. We all cover our ears and shout our lungs out within the blare and I jump for joy seeing the marigolds fly like a flock of lemon butterflies. Once the carrier jet has vanished, the ground teems with glass needles twinkling and chiming under the feet, so my mother fetches my shoes in her arlequin bag and, before putting them onto my feet, pulls a kerchief, wet it with water from a bottle she kept, looks at me, rubs my cheeks and mouth, then my feet and shows me the yellow colour on the tissue; she buckles up the sandals and I laugh at their girly canary tint but they are snugly fitted and she plays with my showing toes and croons my name. My father drives a bright buttercup coloured truck and calls out, runs to us, picks me up in his warm strong arms so we sit in the cabin as he gears up and the car jolts on the pebbles while I hold on to my mother who kisses my forehead many times. As the skies have turned darkish and we head to a wide wooded valley, knocks multiply into a loud rattling noise on the cabin’s roof and windshield so we see the hailstorm surrounding us and the snakes jumping mad above the brush, so then I hide my face onto my mother’s underbelly and she holds my head until the racket quietens out. The engine has stopped, the silence is so deep that I hear the faint grazing of stuffs on Mom’s skin. My Dad has shifted near us and I feel his arm on my back as he embraces Mom and I want to cry.

It smells so sweet, transfixing rose in skin exhalations just like Cynthia’s slumbers, and my mother’s resting shelter in all memory. Creamy satin all free for my face to roam in as I still delay allowing the real. Kate responds, now, lazily, and rummages my hair like parsing my dreams, deep into the bed sheets, upon her womb, as I embrace her legs and Sarah presses along me because she must be kissing her friend.

As the breathings become woken, after a few yawns, I slither up to their faces and blink in daylight in a bush of kisses and an armful of hugs. I tentatively reckon the night and miss the reason why I lie in their so inviting bed, to my inquiring they tell how they carried me up with Gauthier, so flimsy may I be; and no sooner said they make merry on my skin, not avoiding my weeny bit, in case I thought they had mocked. I mumble in Kate’s neck how overwhelmed I am that Cynthia foresaw unmistakably just what I am reveling in now. Kate answers she will retell me all they did together with her brother, to show me how far they go back, happily.

Sarah is really sucking me, morning style, so I soon let go in her mouth and she swallows like a well-bred girl, leaving me taut-up as a cello; In gratitude I devote myself to her discreet little patch with obstination while Kate minds her cootberries for thrills so, together, we blow her out in bliss as fast as that. She has a revenge under the shower while I finger her arse again, our day is settled.

They have excellent tea, make rich fruit smoothie and gathered some of last night’s sweet bites. Snugly wrapped in precious robes, we banter like sixth-graders talking sex, and apropos, I take Kate’s hand and ask her if she found it weird, the first time she got into Cynthia’s pants; the best way I thought of to ask them how they see me. Kate understands at once and explains that when Cynthia invited her in her room, she already was quite knowledgeable in the psychological and moral aspects of her uncommon nature, whereas myself lived this happily uncommon relation with my brother, so I was no white goose and since I had teased her thinking she was a girl, she unveiled an even better truth, with skill.

Sarah jumped in the conversation and, like a cunning newlywed with a hand in my robe, let me know that from the age of thirteen, she had lived together with all kinds of lovely freaks, and learned gender tolerance in the very flesh without damage on any side, only regrettably after her own brother had disgustingly betrayed her; a bygone story.

Reassured by her educated attention, on which Cynthia had been expecting, I told them how I had grown in the full glare of happiness, with undisputed love from highly educated parents, my father a physicist researcher and my mother a professor in psychology, both at Melbourne’s University. My life had met a sour turn at age seven, when a school doctor had detected an early sign of dysfunctioning endocrine system showing that I was not responding at all to the male hormones, whenas I have been born a true boy. My parents did not like the lectures by the different medical authorities to which I was submitted; they undertook their own research, read different opinions as to what kind of life awaited me. By the way, they read from Cynthia’s parents upon this occasion. Very assertive specialists bullied them on that I could not be let in such a state and I should be reassigned physically accordingly to my inner glands, although they had to confess that it would have made of me sexually an empty travesty, with no real organs at all, and no hope of any sort of life. Raising their voice, my parents warned the whole faculty against the practice, until they made sure that, at least in my case, I could be left alone with my forever underdeveloped penis as you know it.

 

Katherine says:

Bless the wits of Cynthia’s. Fulfilled to heart, between her and Simon, for these few golden years, I had let the most precious sand of the dunes flow away, and a fistful of it has spawned up here again with one of her angels.
He says that he knows she had missed me dearly, eventually coming to conclude however that she had some mission, together with her hard-working parents, for the sake of all of her invisible peers in infortune left at the mean will of mere butchers, actual and moral.
Overwhelmed at first by the easy going, tolerant philosophy of Melbourne’s society, she soon probed the networks of students and schoolkids with the topics of gender awareness, queerness and ambiguity consciousness.
With the same candour which I had readily fell for, all the way into her bed, she rallied a disarrayed troupe of socially shunned souls, under the generosity of the rainbow banner, prettified with new ribbons so as to herald intersex causes.
When she met Theo and his parents, they had been so long at odds with the faculty that it had taken a moral toll on the family, albeit they kept the cell bound together; they joined the circle and met the Möhlitzs for their great relief, reporting and learning together, with a chest full of hope

 

Theo says:

The German Amazon with a flapper haircut was our leader, meagre band of disparaged characters mostly at odds with their own parents, some already irreversibly medically damaged and suffering, held in contempt in the dirty area of self-conscious wary others, always prone to suspect our disturbed views upon their derisory inseam, or worse, to expose ours.
Cynthia chatted with anyone in all good faith and respect, solicitous about reversing the flow of shame and anger that plague the hearts and souls of most of us, seeking out signs of self-inflicted injuries, conjuring auto-deprecating attitudes and allures, exhorting us into emulating the gay crowds in their long acquired pride.
It took time, during which the struggle followed course on ethical grounds, in the circles of education, psychology, justice and state-of-the-art medicine, when tools of genetics and endocrinology sideswiped many certitudes and revealed a much greater number of nonlinear logic to human biology.
All in all, I was one lucky sprite in the forlorn nation, I could rest on my parents full support and I also reveled in Cynthia’s bed and all of her inventivity, that is how I enthused into writing my soul out in gay and queer zines, gave readings on our Youtube channels and televisions, testified in front of frightening panels in suits of power and helped, as feeble as you see me, our continent to pioneer a conscience of tolerant welfare for all beings, were they weird to some inhibited castes.

 

Sarah says:

Theo is not fully landed yet on our hemisphere but he needs so much to show us how articulate he became in Cynthia’s orbit, and worthy of our hospitality, of which he has only seen the preamble. After mixed fruit squashed in the blender by Kate, sweet crumbs and Darjeeling, we migrate to the studio and scarf down the city noise with indefinite sound textures, not obtrusive enough to help us from speaking.
He watched us slid on tights and sweats but he asked me if he could stay in the boro coat that smells me; I answered that i would watch him. He browsed our library, chose the heavy catalog of Hieronymus Bosch and settles on the couch, body exposed down to the underbelly. After ten little minutes, he asks if we want to marry. It takes a good few seconds for us to discern if there was a question. The actual answer is that we have never thought of such a contingency. We have been together like forever and nothing ever occurred that would have raised such an option. As for me, I cannot envision living permanently away from Kate; in my long life, I have left many dear souls behind or they did of me, but ( and there I actually miss my Far) no other being has better imprinted so deep into me. Our seats have rolled towards the other and we kiss a strong deep one.
Theo says Cynthia wouldn’t marry him, that the best relationship she ever knew was the trio on Amrum and Sylt islands, and in fact, in Melbourne, she was involved with two other girls he knew and he slept with, too. Only, his parents’ image rather obsess him and haunts the fictions he writes in a way that won’t fit with his life.
Kate then tells him that he most certainly will be granted the opportunity to steal some precious lights from Hugo who very obviously lusts after him. He grins in near disbelief, but we both laugh and bet him a round bliss that Hugo will offer him some sumptuous trip somewhere, in private, before long!

 

Theo says:

Privacy time with a successful, seasoned, European writer, that would make for some pure bliss course; Hugo emanates some singular drive of lust, it should be mellow to let him enrapture my days and nights as a theme of study, I would dedicate myself at making it reciprocal. If I wake enough of my mind upon what I lived since I nested among you, I parse like a garden of delights, masterfully sourced from a flow of voluptuousness, beyond contingencies; I long to read his writings. For now, I will borrow this book and try not to pass out into its pages, I keep your spellbinding coat, Sarah, with great care, for a little while.

 

Katherine says:

That crafty little head is already at work, in its antipodean literary field, with an intricate backdrop of nonconformist life, undoubtedly heavier to burden than my favourite tomboy ever was regarded as, but Sarah has long known all differences, a shrewd activist of free and easy sexuality just shy of the border hazards she met a good once.
Theo only just trampled upon some gossamer agreement that has existed since I almost unravelled myself down the drain and she called for the cavalry to my rescue. As of yet, he reads us as mere cis persons kind enough for him to be recommended to, mistrust should alleviate as fast as jet lag, I suppose. By now, he might be on Skype with Cynthia, teasing her to fly over here and shag our pretty arses.
Through the music stream, I have somewhat drifted from my course of graphic lucubration and I realise that I contemplate Sarah’s profile engrossed in some fine execution of hers, undisturbed by my candid indiscretion. Once again, I am seized by the fantasy of subjecting her lissom figure to Victor’s realm of indulgences along with myself. I will send twenty-seven yellow roses to his address and wait, she will like to sell herself against his sort of gold, just like she wetted for Melchior’s.
And now I have to creep to her crotch, like a bitch, to luxuriate in my raffish thoughts about her, I will unveil my plan later and watch if it urges her to retaliate somewhat in my blooms. She lets me pull down her tights but wants to continue what she is at, only she opens wide to let me operate. Quite frenzied at the thought of bringing her to a den of stylish vice, I make marvels into her foliages until she perishes of rapture and tastes like happy tears. While she catches her breath back I overkill my act on her holy feet so well as to make her guess something is spinning inside my dirty brain. She slithers down to me, disrobes me and starts to tongue-bugger me like the Bishop an altar boy; in a matter of minutes I collapse on the floor and she proudly comes licking my raggedy mouth and we lay spent, smiling.
Under a well deserved shower I reveal my fantasy to her childish face; she dares me to arrange it.

 

Sarah says:

I had been staring at the Øresund from the Kettelær estate, waiting for the northern lights, but only silver airplanes drew curves onto the crimson dawn, boats blinked messages in double entendre, while the squirrels played with my toes. I stretched myself and breathed a familiar breeze from the waters, felt along my side the soft mellow skin, timid and animal as always had Ayla offered like a precious gift. I can smell cinnamon rose, almost a boy’s scent, though, with a gleam of ylang-zibar and a sweat of jasmine? Who is fondling me with immaterial tips, if not my lost squirrel of Saint Loup? I wish I would not open my languid eyes and remain so for ever, but on the other side of me I can feel the Princess in a deep spiral of oblivion, while another girl, as her pubis on my butt told me, is hugging me rather madly. It is still in the blue hours and I assume at first that I am tripping on some delayed benefit of a drug I would have dropped sometime, but it, apropos, dawns on me that young Natalia is very finely raping me in my bed. Seing my lips move, she gags me with a slow, skilful kiss and pulls my thighs open like a devilish courtisane. She then whispers to the pillow that nobody was in the house and she had craved for us too long, besides, she is the age of consent, were I?

She is wired as a fawn, but deft and attentive, now that she has won. I hold her garçonne head with an exciting fringe and a pointed chin and let her frolic on my ember berries beyond any kind of wisdom because I want to taste her teeny poon. Kate has been awake for a while and smiles at our unbridled hand-to-hand to which she can’t resist either; she is in a better angle to lick our heated cunts and dookies so as to soothe us for a long stare into each other’s want. Then Kate seizes her lithe waist, playfully grumbling that she’s here again and she won’t swerve. She revels in Kate’s puckish manoeuvres as I keep roving into her dark gaze and I kiss the squinted lids, stealing her pleasure tears, reminded of the rhymes I lulled Ayla with in the garden of Eden. Her breasts are proud fruits too, in the feast of her sleek womanly skin, she jumps at my puppy bites, twirls at Kate’s crafty hands on her deep young squirting spring.
Overcame in her wish, spent and smelling of licks and sublime sweats, she rests contented in our midst as we regain consciousness of the outcome of the beautiful charivari, as for the peace of the household. She reminds me of my own effrontery at even younger age and I reckon on all the lucky guidance that found me after I had fell. She tells us of all the demonic teases she spun around Hugo’s pants and the sort of arrangement he granted Lena about her. Is the worst she might fear a few years among the squirrels?

 

Theo says:

Trying to re-tune my clock right earthwards, I balance my moods between resenting estrangement and unfurling debauchery, as foreseen by Cynthia. Hugo beckoned me to his awesome lair in the morning and while he lightly coddled me, without unsettling any of my nerves, he proposed a trip with him to some Atlantic islands in the Gulf Stream; I know now what it would mean in detail, and I feel I would like to whore, for a gentle while, with him. He said Gauthier liked it and again; we should fly in a week or so. Meanwhile I will comply to any whim of my new neighbours.

Now I need to walk around the city with the GPS and whatever I will remember of my readings in French, like the missing ghost in Balzac’s world, on dry land, compared to the cesspool he described, of which most was razed as shown on the Marville photographs. And could I afford to dream of Rimbaud, who was not as sadly intolerant sexually as the Zeus-like Breton? Would I have nested in the shady demi-monde of houses where Anaïs Nin (real or not) traded her skin? Sold as a rarity by one of Pascin’s procuresses, my underpants opened for the lust of some drooling john?

Were it not be for Cynthia’s absolute trust in Katherine, and an intuition she had grasped of a tight bonded community worthy of sending me to, I would personally have shunned Paris altogether and cruised London at my own risks; now I am intoxicated with all their lavish smells and manners, I doubt I could land better over there, bar a fireside in some Oxford coop where I would be courted with Stilton and Port!

Joachim Patinir – Saint Hieronymus in the Desert – Louvre – Paris

 

I opt for the Louvre, across the Seine and the dusty gardens; I buy myself a year-pass and walk straight to the “Virgin On The Rocks”, only to find that the Angel in London moved me more, infinitely more. On another planet of the Museum World, the Rollin Chancellor is still staring at a butter-face extra holding an ugly toddler, in a bejewelled loggia overlooking an inconceivably chiselled view of a fantasmatic Jerusalem or any unutterably wealthy city in Burgundy. I looked for the Astronomer but I find the Land of Patinir and remain struck, happy, like I had found why I have flown for two full days. A very soft voice reaches me in the blue mountains, it is that of an elegant man in a black silk suit, who knows at once that I would not understand his French and soon invites me to a nearby ugly pretentious café but keeps me under a very tangible spell, seizing my hand from time to time. He actually succeeds to draw me to the Palais Royal where he lives in a sumptuous apartment decorated like Sissi’s, with a crowd of benevolent ephebes in bronze, marble or gold, and then he starts to kiss me, which is not unpleasant but far enough for me to warn him before his lust gets flamed up. I jump up on the carpet and have time to stutter about my confusing nature so as to calm him, but he becomes all the more maddened and falls at my feet embracing my legs and soon nosing in my crotch. Having said what he could expect, I succumb again to his tone of voice and feel like a defiled whore; he is carefully unclothing me, pecking kisses on my lips and grazing my hardened winky in my shorts.

 

Florenz Marc is a handsome cavalier with wavy swept back silver hair smelling of real musk and cypress; he shows a dry muscular body with impressive pectorals and abs to a sylphic boy like me. Sweeping around the salon where we stand naked, his other hand flattering my butt-cheeks, he avows being an offspring of an antique dealers lineage, hence the showroom in which he claims I defy concurrence, this morning. He fondles expertly all of my hairless skin and swears he has never met such miracle, from toes to lips and back to my straight dinkle he sucks so well he gets a salty reward he still tastes when he kisses.

Still subduing my foolest part under his irrepressible voice he must have long tested in his prestigious decor, he devises he would rather fuck me and shows me to a rosy marble bathroom where he intends to give me a gentle enema, and I comply, and sit on the most ornate bowl, sucking on his honorable stiff staff. The towels bear his own green cologne as he pampers me and carries me to a bedroom all draped in creamy rich lampas, he tells set off my childish complexion, before pushing me upon sheets of percale, poking his tongue everywhere. He fetches a jar of ointment in a convenient drawer, as well as a box of condoms, while I offer my unrestrained self to his preparations. He tautens a gold coloured French “bite” with silver frills at my willing joyhole he must have regaled with some sly drug, for I don’t remember feeling so aroused on this side. He pushes daintly, his eyes trying to catch every sight of me from my arse to my eyes, easing out, so not to discharge too soon, asking me to roll to all fours, banging deeper as to let me feel the curly muff and the clapper of his balls, claiming victory like a stag bellow and slapping my butt as he slides out with his cum in the bag. He hands me a fresh towel and wipes his own affair, then rolls next to me, holding my head, wild eyed.

Unlike many other men I have been shagged by, he remains attentive and plays on with my willie and fingers my gaping arse as if he needed another go. We talk, he likes my story, he might know Hugo, if not only by name; he wants us to revel again, offers to walk me around in distinguished private homes, to lay me in historical linens and legendary gardens, but eventually warns that he doesn’t care for any steady relationship and he will love me all the more, knowing I shag with my left bank posse.

We shower, he asks how my rosebud feels as he plays in it, the sensation is still quite vibrant and I tell him he must have used some tricky medicine for it, he smirks and says he will let me have a jar of it if it makes me sway my butt like I am doing. Once dry, he dolls me up with some heavenly talc, smelling like one Claude Monet summer prairie, all over me, hard again so obviously that he sucks me again to an ending. He draws me to an impressive library where I feel frail, disconcerted. He as tied on a dark green silk robe and he still manipulates me like an art piece, speaking of my career as a writer. He opens a wire-netted door and fetches a leather-bound volume that he gives me, insisting it is a gift. I open and read the frontispice of “Les Fleurs Du Mal” by Baudelaire, elegantly, but cautiously, dedicated to “A young friend”, the book being forbidden at the time and until 1949; this fine 1920 Swiss edition must be worth a fortune, but all Florenz answers to my scruples is to tickle my little balls. He says in my eyes that perhaps I have been lucky today and he hopes I will become accustomed to randomly be screwed in his gilded gallery, as I seem to have liked, but nonetheless, wake to the dangers of cruising among grown men in Paris, even if he trusts Hugo to advise me. I give him one of my email addresses, he gives me his private voicemail, in case I would have kept a desirable souvenir of today. He helps me dress with furtive hands and wraps the book, drops it along with an opaline jar and a cypress green kerchief, bearing his perfume, in a blank tote of the same colour.

 

Katherine says:

We had forgotten about our doorbell to the studio, a sprinkling silver carillon for a dolls house or , as it was, a whorehouse… Theo smells of a sunburst upon some spring embankment in a British dream and looks rosy fresh. As he kisses, I feel him pampered as a Lady; we both await for a tale of schoolyard smuttiness. Falling on the couch in a laid-back pose, he says he has been slutty, in his own will, and starts telling roundly from the Louvre encounter. As Sarah and me have more than once threaded adventures from the palace’s galleries, our pré carré of sorts, it becomes at once girl talk, not to say whorish gossip; we want details, we beg to try the magical balm in our arses, we eventually crawl to his fly to scent the luxury talcum inside the crack and commit lewd exactions on this consenting prey.

Theo soon dozes out after his double success, Sarah reaps his shoes off and massages his fine feet as I finish her again like an easy slut. I lay a plaid on the boy and we watch him meet up with his lucky slumbers again. Sarah brews some afternoon oolong, we plug in a chill-out stream, grope each other a little more and then slid back into our gossamer trappings, funnily bursting at quotes of his first epic in Paris, envying some of his privileges.

 

Sarah says:

Back from peeing, I can sniff a settled cloud of all our desirable animalistic whims, as I rub my pubis against Kate’s shoulder, without bothering her more. In her compelling tone of whisper, she comes again on her fantasy of prostituting me to the Victor’s circle and watch me revel as a slapper. She means it, with all the safety requirements and the random rites, albeit she swears she would team up unflinchingly. I wonder if, given the regal relationship we enjoy with him, we might chat this with our mentor, whom we know participates in such debauchery confederacies from where he friended Camille and Marie, among others. She says she will beguile Hugo into her idea, were it in return for letting him play us, at his own hand, too.

I am all wet again, like I would open my thighs to rub against my seat, like a beast. I recall the nights when Julia Grant gave me away to the horde and I finished soaked with young cum in the laundry rooms at Saint Loup; she had been there, although she picked one of them for her own, to set the tune on score for frank depravity, albeit bar the weirdos out. Decidedly, Hugo would have some perverted pillow talks, in the next few nights.

 

Katherine says:

Incidentally, amongst a growing mood of lecherous fantasies, Hugo took Theo to a romance in Bruges for a few days. I needed a night with Fanny, and Sarah bumped into her old acquaintance Liselotte on the place Furstemberg and it went unexpectedly smooth. Liselotte is still Professor Y.’s bitch and became a lot more palatable to Sarah’s taste. She invited her to her low-ceiling top floor apartment for a cup of tea of the best provenance; good marks added on Liselotte’s slate when she made obvious that she did not wear undies in her intricately patterned zig-zag silk twill front-buttoned dress. It was not too difficult to lead Sarah’s hand down the button line and steal a long kiss while she wrestled with her casual jeans and sweater, they were nude and wet before the tea was lukewarm. Sarah liked what was happening to her and retorted her best, fisting Liselotte’s easy arse so as Sarah thought she had been prepared for some buggery when she met her. It was a hell of a cup of tea, as a matter of breaking up, Liselotte insisted, her hand again on Sarah’s burning clitoris, that she would arrange with her master to take her on a visit to Dottore M.E. at his hotel, so she could make a very powerful ally in the art field, wouldn’t she? She seemed in a hurry now, but she took time to lick her toes, thus obtaining her phone number and mail address.

That was what Sarah told me that morning when we met, me from my Fanny school ride and her down from Gauthier’s apartment where Donovan had been, too. She was radiant, I was moody, I would have wanted Fanny over here. Fatally, Liselotte called on a plan she had and tried to sell to my Sarah, all abandoned to my tongue and mouth so as she had to tell the other one she was cumming. It was an invitation to a worldly party in a suite at the Hotel Morand and she wanted me to join in, swearing she would make amends for whatever I might have not liked of her in school days. Sarah having described her as sexy, imaginative and libertine, Fanny and Camille going to a therapy session, I nodded and went back to Sarah’s amazing legs.

 

Sarah says:

After our sizzling morning, ninety minutes of sweating on the torture contraptions, another shower with lucky hands, we worked and talked until seven, with a gingerbread break. We expected anything for the night, from bland to repulsive, but Liselotte had been more than perfect during the hour she took to convince me. We plotted an easy strategy. First, we would behave like close lovers, both dressed in black silk shirt-dresses over the knees, no bras; black stockings and tight knickers; sleek sandals. One ring each, tennis bracelets, sapphire for me and aquamarine for her. Dark lips, pale face, some mascara and eye shadow. No handbags, vague black silk satin vintage evening coats, all attires revamped by Gianni.

The hotel belongs to an Indian dynasty and retains the polish and patina from a bygone era, much like my Far showed me in London, to the amazement of an army of shaky ghosts denying their cirrhosis with an impossible accent. We reached a muted suite in the upper floors where a jazz quartet played cool with a muffled saxophone, a koa Les Paul guitar, drums, bass and a load of pills. Lights were as low as New York’s in copper reflectors, most of what went on was shaded. After giving our coats, we sat in a curve and started kissing. The voice of Liselotte, a tad drawling, greeted Kate from over my shoulder; she was all nude, except black varnished hi-heel escarpins of good make, and a velvet padded gold-locked collar to which was clutched a long gilded chain held by Y. who kissed our hands. She sat on her heels, legs apart and her lips in bloom; she ostensibly small-talked while her hands searched our dresses, a hint of disappointment when she found our doors closed.

She was resplendent, in the music and the reverberated lights, her pussy opened, she impressed Kate and was rewarded kisses while she lifted her dress to the waist, fondling her thighs. A girl with long black unfurled hair sat a Kate’s side and unbuttoned down the black silk on her pale skin. Liselotte, bolder, seized deftly the belt of the knicker and pulled it away in one move, then tasted her trove avidly as the newcomer ravaged her mouth with savoir-faire. Y. stood impassible, bar his prick out of his pants, stiff and shaky. As my fingers were finding Liselotte best hole, he moved and stuck it to my available mouth, preventing me to see who was unwrapping me so fast, stealing my pants and starting to wank me for good. We had fell in a masterful trap and it looked like we were going to like it. My shoes and stockings and garters went on the same pile, as some apparently small hands slid in my bum and inserted one of the fetish tails of Y. who was still ardently fucking my throat and spurted fully with no warning, grasping my head firmly for long immobile minutes. When he went limp, I took pride not to show any expression, I looked him in the eye until he insensibly thanked me, tilting his head I would have rather slapped.

The new generation of art students who had, here, volunteered as bait were, by all means, scrumptious. She who had swiftly disrobed and animalised me, tasting her owner’s cum in my mouth with her daring little tongue, swayed her big black eyes under theatrically drawn lashes, lids and brows, as overwhelmingly as an expressionist film diva; she had beautified the mere grapes of her tits in the same claret colour as her lips, labia and nails. I wanted her badly, but she was the one harnessing me up with a collar, large cuffs to my wrists and ankles, while fingering on in my slits, my hips bewitched by the music of the onlooking artists. On her side, Kate was now preyed by three elves, a girl with moving mandarin shaped breasts, natural drawn brows over soft-brown capsized irises, visibly tripping of some sort, two boys, one dark skinned with the most intrusive member, the other dark ginger with honey eyes in long golden lashes trying to offer an elegant straight stinger in the dolls’ faces who eventually let it join their game while the black trouncer drove his stake all the way in, on tempo.

 

Katherine says:

The setup was efficient, my black assailant had crept under me and was now inside my back alley, ginger boy was serving me duly in the lily while the artsy delightful infuriated her mouth about any part of me she could loot, mostly excelling on my feet. The music sounded like it had been edited upon my emotions, the musicians had opened their shirts and reveled in a high. People, mainly young, were grouping and undressing, helped by Liselotte who revealed herself as the rouée instigator of the event of us. Sarah was being pulled to a padded bench and hitched to it, face down, wrists and ankles at the heavy mahogany legs. On the marron leather, she showed as alabaster pale, the dark tail fidgeting up. Her lovely tamer took a paddle and started to discipline her butt cheeks, while, on an order muttered from a couch where I singled the notorious Dr M.E., an elfin blonde brought an ornate silver bucket, pulled it under Sarah’s dismayed face whenas she still twitched at every paddle strike. Stretching out her labia, the fine little slut took funny care at peeing into Sarah’s mouth, as she was surrendering completely to the lecherous theatrics; her bum was scarlet ripe when the first guest pulled the tail off and used her with good manners, like many; some others peed in her arse with another vase, the tempo did not flinch until the host asked for rest.

The young diva torturer unlocked the cuffs but let them on Sarah; she fetched perfumed towels and pampered the dizzy star of the performance while my own handmaid did me too. M.E. begged Sarah to join him, he still wore an ample white shirt much like old time’s nighties. His impressive choad still pointed up and she understood she was meant to sit on it so she cadged for some cream to her arse, which was brought and applied in by yet another delicious student.

After that many assaults, she took him fully and faced the crowd with her thighs wide apart; I would not resist and went to her perversely arousing defiled face, wiped the mess while she was being bumped, and found myself with another one in my own, who had missed the first charge, I presume. Now that the boss was at manoeuvre, the orgy restarted; the musicians had rested their instruments but not the kind I felt pervading my womb, some had a taste for the boys who did not balk. M.E. jizzed with hurrahs in my Tommie’s already dripping hatch and so did my unknown gentle minion. Extras brought some finger food and fresh beverages, eyeing the strayed fauna in their beyond obscene attitudes and understood it as a one-of-a-kind invitation, dropped their pants and played game. M.E. had taken hold of us both, asking if we were married or else, liked the answer and went on fingering our bruised harebells. When we needed the bathroom, we talked and decided to flee; we told Liselotte, she agreed and tried to help collect our things, but we found the dresses, the shoes and the coats, enough to ride a cab home.

 

Sarah says:

We somehow caught our breath back in the shower, after a soothing orange blossom enema, a thorough shampoo and long shivering hugs; I was almost passing out, we slept until late like two devastated marmots, but thanks to Hugo’s divine pharmacy, we barely felt any ache or stiff, our impish byways blooming like orchids. Next to each other at the breakfast table we couldn’t help cuddling and giggling. We did not go down to the gym that morning

Later in the afternoon, Liselotte called from our door and came up for the first time; she wore a striking coat of black and white large houndstooth pattern over a tight-fitting black oblique-strapped jumpsuit and black varnished mocassins. I was kind of jaded on the minute, but she was yummy, no make-up, keen eyes. She allowed herself to grope Kate a bit, remembering all we shared the night before, but did not became heavier. First, she was bringing a large book of M.E.’s, dedicated precisely to me, and in it two unsealed letters, stamped and addressed, and it took me some time to grasp they were letters of recommendation for two high-valued prizes of the arts realm. I was awe-struck, the old fucker-toad indeed had kept his word, whenas I had scattered my arse like a pea-brained dope? A manuscript note invited Kate to show her work during his next visit, Liselotte would certainly oblige? As for now, she was triumphant and stole me a large kiss aggravated by a hand in my tights.

Reading want in Kate’s eyes, I untied the knot of Liselotte’s top, with the result of letting all the supple sand-washed silk to collapse at her feet. I winked and Kate grazed the perfect belly with the back of her hand that Liselotte seized to pull her forward and thrust her tongue into her mouth, like a true slut. Then she joked that we should go now to the post office and post the most precious missives, before rushing to bed, shouldn’t we?

I posted the letters, registered and tracked and insured; then, as we had tacitly obeyed to Liselotte program, which was to revel on our own selves, we began with a spree at the utmost macaron emporium and retired for tea; we had some wonderings about the ambush and the wild crew, the talent of which we could still feel, couldn’t we? Casually fiddling Kate’s touches, she told the affair. She was now acting as Professor Y.’s plenipotentiary in the worldly affairs, and that included sex embroilments most of the time; she also wheeled and dealt into providing fresh souls to be damned; as I knew well, she had a knack to let herself be underestimated, only to lure young beauties into Y.’s office for his gently perverted ceremonies. Notwithstanding, he genuinely considers the art work beyond the moment’s lust, for whatever importance art may bear in today’s world, and sometimes refers it to his mentor M.E. who, I will comprehend at my own benefit, albeit with a little occasional pain in my arse, is a very potent operative of what you could deem as the universal art scheme, including the most revered institutions and museums.

She was unbound, while rummaging randomly our savories, carnal or else, she elaborated on all the cute butts she had lead to M.E.’s truncheon, but mind, for nothing worse than a little stretching of the sheath, for the bugger is skilled, isn’t he? She stroked Kate’s smooth chest, scenting into her armpits and asking if she would come in Y.’s office? Kate laughed and capsized her half-stripped, pulled away the silk, and munched her to madness. I bestrode her enraptured face and, while giving her my perineum to kiss, asked her if she would return the favour to our own mentor with her lovely burrows and rillets for his fox-hunting? She shouted yes and embroidered my crack with her tongue, as I tickled Kate’s sensitive arse.

 

Katherine says:

Liselotte asked to see our working place, so we went upstairs, undone as we had become, all feverishly promiscuous for she was wound up as a kid. She decided my work was so worth it, and she was pressing on my back, if I was ready for Y.’s deranged manners. Sarah laughed and trumpeted that my arse cleft had known a world of deranged lust, but only short of real deranged, and she hugged me strong. We extended our gossip to manners and ways of prostitution in a worldly sphere. Liselotte told us that her hairdresser arranged lucrative commitments for her, only safe encounters because she was too good for trashing herself. She went only in the best hotels, with 24/7 room service and fresh linen; she was reputed among old gents for whom she had to execute more pantomime than athletics, but we had watched her perform with aroused stallions in M.E.’s suite, she was no bluestockings.

Liselotte was becoming more and more interesting, and her face grew all the more salaciously candid as her stories were debauched. I was reckoning she might very well join us at Victor’s if some company was useful. Am I not a whore, Sarah? We did more watersports in the shower, she wanted to fist me but I was still a tad sensitive, so with two fingers she forced me to squirt my soul out and it felt so fulfilling, and she did Sarah the same bliss, she was quite a beast.

She leaves us rather breathless, we grasp she has appointments. She says she will arrange a meeting for me with Y. because I should not shun an easy opportunity, as easy were my current situation, I could not insult the future. She looks lovely and even more provocative in the silk which lets her pussy be drawn and her nipples point. Her medium length thick dark hair seems wild; her olive brown eyes have an irresistible little squint, her complexion is creamy and her mouth easily pouty, with generous lips as I can tell. Her most distinctive feature is her brows, bold like I like, boyish and styled, mobile as she speaks.

 

Sarah says:

That evening, pecking into our special provisions, we silence with a faint smile on our reclining faces, Kate still groping me some times and dancing faintly with my absent will. We soon sleep like spent children. A few hours later, Ayla is here again grabbing hold of me, nose into my armpit, rubbing her feet to mine stealthily. As I wake to Natalia in waves, my plexus rings of bliss for that tiny love of the wee hours but I do as to lull her, pulling the quilt over her and closing my wing on her; she quiets down, slides her hand to my crotch and we fly. In the morning, Kate stares at me and asks me about Natalia being in our bed; Through the steam of tea, I realise she says the truth, so I confess again my resurgent grief about my little lost girl, and my incapacity to scold Natalia who feels rightful in asking our love like Ayla was. I touch my wrist a if I only now perceived that her gift band is lost.

At work, enthralled in searching for my own fringes, it dawns on me that, despite my stone solid rationality, part of me believes that Ayla too is calling on me, and it would not hurt to search for her. Kate, who recently received generous news from Cynthia, is in the mood to encourage my quest. First, I mull over what might have been her name, Ayla what? A voice resounds in the school restaurant, someone shouts: Ayla Naveen! of course! Setting our works to rest up on easels, we open our computers and start to call everyone we can reach in Saint Loup. Kate is eager to inquire a little more into my childhood paradise, she offers me big stares of trust, penetrating an inch deeper into my soul. Two hours later, I speak to Harmony, all humbled by the reproaches she doesn’t speak. After I sketch my rather happy fate to her, albeit I still harbour somewhere in me the question of what life I could have pursued by the Lake for ever, I ask her about Ayla. In a rather short time, she remember the astute little face and also the sad story she couldn’t help. Ayla’s father was an indie film wreck who had died the year before the girl came to Saint Loup, the mother was a part time junkie who stopped paying the school a year before Ayla fled, although someone had, later, through an attorney in Geneva, whom, contacted, could not help Harmony find her. Nonetheless, she thought the art teacher Tudor Weiss had been in touch once or twice, and said she was somewhere in Switzerland.

Tudor is a rightful person, a graceful soul, I lived with him for five years and he knew all of my shenanigans. He helped me parse my priorities, since I was lucky enough to be able to chose. I asked Harmony to pass him the message that I needed to speak to him. That had been a big step in my mind, Kate came to cradle my head on her belly which grunted funnily. She asked all about my Swiss wonderland, I warned her that it had been only a pinpoint near Geneva quite certainly overseen by my father and the likes of him, for privileged kids with bruised souls and broken wings, under the dedication of dream teachers, and the goodwill vigilance of a lioness called Julia Grant, but what of her, too, yet?

Tudor called at sunset, with a lot of questions, first, on my becoming. While we spoke, I send pictures of my work and the best I found of myself, in a reflex of teasing him a bit. He finally avowed that he knew where Ayla was, in Zurich, but before he gave me her coordinates he needed to ask her, and think it over; as he was quite assertive, I agreed that he would call next morning, and perhaps gather other adresses, Julia for example. He still sounded his same old self, still enthused with the coloured crowds and the nifty intrigues in the boxwoods at dusk, he was still very much in love with all of them.

There was something overly conscious in his speech when Tudor called back in the morning, I could hear Swiss birds in the background, so he was somewhere in the fields, away from the school ears. He said he had been talking to Ayla and she sent keen regards and late apologies. She had asked him to probe my willingness to hear the bare truth about her fate, so he kind of beat about the bush as to the reason why I wanted to hear about her, what souvenirs I kept of her, what I fathomed of her stealth move some ten years ago? Tudor and myself had long had a cozy understanding since I had condoned some errant ways on me, reckoning I had been myself accessory to the soft abuse, of which I kept no scar or grudge; so I foresaw rather fast there was some kind of moral modesty to his report of Ayla’s current conditions. He moaned about such confidences being easier in person, the telephone making it look like bad, merciless gossip. He eventually laid it out that she was currently living as a call-girl, which is perfectly legit in Switzerland, and that she was not envisaging any other career, given her chances. She would keenly wish to speak with me, provided that I kept in mind she was a willing prostitute, not seeking any kind of redemption, for that matter.

I recorded the most sincere message on her voicemail, letting it sound as if she could shun it if she did not wish to confront any shame before one she had known hitherto as a lucky junior miss. I knew she had been somewhat appeased by Tudor, since she gave a number which, I figured, might be safely uncirculated. Near my heart, I had the cold void left by a boisterous soul in need, who had fled rather than beg for her life. Presently, another nervy damselfly, fooled by our sensuous manners, had flown blindly into our sheets with all that she cognised to make a desirable pixie, all herself, reaching out for the golden moon. I was already disheartening Ayla’s resurge with the worrying fate of someone else she had never known; I was bidding for some cold shower, wasn’t I?

Ayla called mid-afternoon, I instantly cried to her voice, Kate rolled her chair next to mine and wrestle as she could to hold the best of me, then draw me to the studio couch and let me talk upon her chest. Ayla crumbled the same at the other end, I could not mutter better than that I loved her. Kate’s fingers rummaged through my hair, there was some time, here. Ayla shuffled out the tale in rags, I could not help her, I tried my best to let her feel she owe me null; I jumped on her silences to address the one I had at once taken in my wing, like for ever. She threaded the events together again, first, the money unpaid for good, the letters to her mother returned unopened, that long unwinding shame; then, the unexplainable, miraculous bright spell, and Harmony swearing to her that she was fine with the school. She burst in harrowing cries of love, kept mumbling, she threw at me that I never parsed out that my own father was taking care of Ayla, for the sake of me, for the greater shame of her own disgraceful birth. When she gathered enough hints and trails, it was at the memorable show we had cobbled lovingly together, she dared ask my Far some money, as an ultimate dare, using whatever she knew she could fire up in her gaze, and he gave her all that he carried with him, watching her run away.

Kate was listening, terrified and overwhelmed; she hugged me so tight I was shaking. Ayla went on with her rambling the Swiss many squats where her mother had squandered all she could, only to learn that she had died of a miserable overdose of trash, in a dumpster. She never cried of that. She crashed in a cool Zurich youth hostel and began cruising the neighbourhoods, until she guessed the sexual workers and made herself obvious. She was accosted by a woman named Barbro, a handsome tart she adamantly claims is her new mother, with no fault, albeit having pimped Ayla’s arse with her own johns, but that was what she asked. Barbro taught her the basics of squeezing the banknotes out of the pocketbooks when the lust was still blinding the billies, then suffer the least during the ensuing bustle. Barbro loved Ayla like only a whore can love, she took her home, she showed her the regular socialization of the trade, made her thrive into the best whorehouses and networks, until now she shone in an exclusive ring of expensive escorts under the full shield of the Swiss wisdom, for the years her skin will radiate.

Barbro had reveled in Ayla’s tight butt and sold her as a special extra to those of her clients who could afford to pay double. She had soon grasped the scope of talents my little alley cat had nurtured at Saint Loup, without the ugly downside of self-depreciation, guilt-fueled death-wish leading to substance abuse and morbid alcoholism. She was such a sane whore that she kept her regulars, went on vacations with them and afterwards shared the best of chit chat with Barbro. Now she owned a stately condo in a quiet neighbourhood, drove a sleek convertible and pay her taxes, like any of the executives she fucked. At least, Fortune had dealt her with beauty and wits; thus she sometimes reckoned that her mother had kept clean while pregnant.

Since I was still listening with a keen ear, she offered that we met in Skype the next day, because she had appointments. We parted endlessly with garlands of best wishes, I promised I would tell her all my own life of an amateur harlot myself, so she wasn’t surprised and laughed out loud. Kate was all aroused about me and what she had heard; she readily despoiled me of my rags and made me warble like a virgin. We fantasised all evening on Ayla’s life and considered, for one that she sounded like she had made the right decisions, two, that we, lucky brats, were not living such a different life, only missing the little pinch of not knowing who will fuck you, next, because that is what you do.

We ordered a spinach-ricotta pie with eggs, a wholly self-contained feast with dark creamy Keemun tea. I wrote to my Far the most gentle acknowledgement of his gesture towards whom I regarded anew as worthy, however astray the fate she revealed. Touched at heart, I needed to talk to him as closely as we had accustomed in my Swiss bubble time. I made it clear this new reunion was my deed, an urge from inside a dream, not any kind of reckoning of his caring for me. Kate helped me sound kind and detached of after-thoughts, just only happy to reconnect with a lost part of me, whatever it meant for my present life. We had cried warmly about my ingrained intimacy, we let flows of warm water heal remembrances with lather of citrus and ylang-ylang, she missed her brother, we wrote him a poem.
Unavoidably, Natalia happened into the lewdest scene of debauchery Ayla’s tale had stirred in my shady soul freed by sleep. Although I was laid on the left side, she cuddled over me and fiddled my rakish berries patiently till she was part of the dream. I drew her slowly to nestled between us and sleep after Kate had made her squirt craftily well. In the morning, she had left a wet spot with a smell of rain.

Kate was nursing my feet, clipping, filing and polishing nails when Lena wandered in, casually gathering laundry. She showed an open, witty face and eventually ventured some question about Natalia bothering us or not, because she had grasped her goings-on, seen her sneaking up nude to our door in the deep of the night and stay till dawn. It weren’t that she might disapprove, she had openly laid the matter to Hugo who gave her confidence as to her daughter’s becoming, but she feared of a surreptitious misgiving in case we, worldly girls in view, might tire of a maid’s offspring. We both quit our slovenly stance and rushed to her, making her put down the bale of linens and look at her hands. Indeed we enjoyed Natalia’s shenanigans, because she had grown beautiful and smart and she knew it, but shame on us if we sneered at her social or wealth footings, as Hugo unfailingly must have told her, if anyone in this chosen community laid eyes on her child, one committed oneself to her fate, henceforth at her own free will. Lena granted us a weary glance and asked that we watch at keeping Natalia on track, for she was grateful of the situation she held here, but was overflowed as for her kid’s goings on. She gave us leeway as for Natalia, reckoning she had not herself built much more than Hugo allowed, mindfully.
Far’s message came in the floating lapse in which Lena had left us mulling. He wrote he was overjoyed with my overall thinking of Ayla’s. Yes, he had known her whereabouts and whatabouts, and he had shunned telling it to me, for prudishness, mainly. It was easy to keep an eye on Ayla, although she did not seem to need it, nowadays. He concluded that he would be delighted to meet his real daughter and whomever she felt fit at the Hotel Caravant in three days. With love. I deserved a major tickle by Kate, so much my abs went tense of the joy all these news caused.

 

Katherine says:

Without some more foot care from me, Sarah might have blown her top, or else. She set the show on our bed and ordered me to attend, in a most becoming black tank top and leggings, herself had unearthed a starry-night blue Liberty shirt from her Swiss days she was so proud still easily fitted, over black moleskin shorts. It had been agreed that Ayla would call, so we prepared a tea-tray with tangerines.
When the Skype fanfare sounded, she almost panicked, so I had to set the computer over the sound system. Ayla also sat on a large bed with wide striped black and white pillows doing a dynamic pattern. I scented some code in her outfit, very similar to Sarah’s; she too showed heavenly legs and shapely feet, wore not much more than a black corduroy shirt, with a single button fastened, and tight satin shorts.

Ayla is a captivating pixie with medium long thick black hair, swayed on the side of a sleek forehead, natural bold brows and dark chestnut eyes ensconced behind long lashes in brash gazes. She asked who I was, I told her myself and Sarah kissed me demonstratively enough. Ayla asked for closeups of our faces, while she held her own cam near, she whistled her compliment as Sarah was blown. Only just sexy mauve shadows in a teenage face, she lost herself counting. Ayla played with the button and opened the shirt, showing her insolent little diddies to which Sarah swore she had kept them intact, only a lot of groping had ripened them. She lost her shirt too, I knew where this was heading but I was only guest. As we gamboled a tad already, I took away the tray and then dared to undo Sarah’s shorts’ button, cheered by the Swiss contender; it cost me my top but earned me a sweet comment on my shy lotus buds. It turned into some sex chat and we gave her a peep of our daily life while she cared to caress herself. She has fine feet, she must have impressed Sarah’s dad, who knows to what extent?

They revived an old camaraderie about which I shied at first, they had shared unfettered with many souls. Yet my own lecher drove me to unbind and I found myself as wide open as them, still feeling my arse bustled from a few nights ago. She was explaining her debuts as a real hussie in a sex house, some using extensively cameras and screens to ease the customer’s fears, watch for the girls’ safety, and sell to peeping toms. One of her first constant regulars was a quiet gentleman who came on late Thursdays, checked the three or four numbers she had scored and had me warned, as soon as the last john left, not to wash, for him to smell me defiled, drenched of sweats and squirts. This one was rich enough to make her consent to three stooges, good operators and smooth fuckers, visibly and sensitively overjoyed to ravage such a young and pretty game and leave her, all spent, for the use of the delighted weirdo. she played as submissive as he craved, but also reveled in his madly thorough licking and enjoyed giving him all the dripping and pissing he could take. This is no exceptional service whores do, although this man made her quite rich in a few years before he suddenly disappeared. Some teams of business partners wanted her together, because one of them had boasted her livelihood or whatever, these were high value hours, provided she duly lubricated herself, and drained their balls fast. Then Barbro estimated she was sly and trained enough to follow her tracks in the palaces corridors, at the pleasure of the over-privileged, with the benefits of around the clock service. Most of these are enthralled busy men and only wish for a complacent young girl to suck them while they battle on the phone, they all taste the same, and they tip you grandly if you swallow casually. Others want you to wander nude in their suite, turning when they wave a finger, taking them up your arse when they find themselves erected, fading away with your enveloppe without saying a word.

 

Ayla says:

I was only of legal age when I started doing for money what you had known me to do for play, and it was very young, hence the high demand Barbro managed fairly. When the age was raised, I fit in too, otherwise I had had some offers in Austria. Look at me, all in all, for the catastrophe I came from, I still do well, I perform two, three, maybe four times a day, I allow myself to cum on the job, Barbro cares for me, fuck the Swedes, they make girls like me miserable in their shitty country, and the French who copy them are shameful hypocrites who go to whorehouses at everyone of their borders. I know French girls, here, who fled unspeakable family and social nightmares in France and make a good living for themselves, with benefits, for a few hugs a day, whenas they had been raped and beaten by all the men in their stinking families, they would die rather than repatriate, they learn German. As regarding drug abuse, prohibition is never the solution, Swiss is a beacon, as it was long ago about contraception and abortion, as it is, nowadays, about barring surgeons from touching intersex children like the French scalpel-mongers still do freely.
Sarah, I became squeezed in shame and guilt when I realised in Harmony’s office that your dad certainly paid for me. I love you, and I felt I was stealing from you on my parent’s behalf. I should have been your little sister, but I didn’t know what your immense dad would be willing to make of that, some more years?

 

Sarah says:

You have bewitching legs and feet, a face and body worth more than the millions they give you, but I know your soul, I wore your bracelet in paradise, little sister. We need to find our big sister Julia, she tutored me all the way down to the laundries, did you go? I would say she though like you just said, and she was so fast to make up her mind. As for genderqueer persons, my Kate here had one as her lover back in Hamburg who moved to Australia and just sent us an intersex boy with all the feminine sexual characteristics, save for a small penis and tiny balls we can play with. Kate can also be a frank harlot and likes it, could you see us in Zurich?
We enjoy a stardust living around here, we became to shun the heft of city trappings, like high-heel shoes, off-the-peg look and cuisine. We are subjects here of a most stealthily influential monarch who provides for bespoke excellence and perfume as we practise the most genuine soul-searching. Tudor is proud of me, mind you! My Kate has drifted a few times on lethal byways for she is so beauteous, these days she longs for a maid child she saved from the slavery she had been bred for, from birth, and that is dedication and reveling, all together. As a last addition, now I have a pixie of the kind you were, with dainty little fingers like yours, who creeps under my quilt in the middle of the night, and, by the way, inspired my new search of you in the manner you know. I haven’t yet devastated this new little one as much as I did you, fox face, you may smile.

As she gave us the address and codes to shop for her online, like true whoremongers, we remained on the bed with the computer screen connected to our large wall-mounted monitor. Ayla had warned us that we should have to trust our debit cards numbers, telephone and verified email, but she swore it was as safe as buying books on Amazon, if we were. We navigated an austere set of windows, visibly designed to bore away unaware visitors, until we punched in the first sesame code she had given. So on, back and forth with my mailbox, we accessed a choice of desirable hostesses; for each, we could have explored levels with numbers of hearts and stars, corresponding to the price of the contemplated service. We stayed on Ayla’s menu, but I was dumbfounded when I saw that she was advertised as Sarah Woolf. She had not warned, but of course she could not tell her name. Kate immediately frolicked with her newfound slag for a sweet minute. There were sets of images in the usual decors, hotel room, night bar, beach, forest, etc… She flaunted a singular presence to the camera, she really had it. We browsed the two-stars videos in which she masturbated and sucked cock and snatch with the same equanimity. One star up, she was shagged in the whole repertory, her long legs thrown like wings for young well-hung models we could have done for free ourselves; she made it look like and endless carnival. Three stars involved her well-known childish arsehole, nonetheless willing to engulf considerable whangs while her smile remained unfazed; she was letting them drill her rump like Sunday Mass in Heresyland, with the same rapture eyes as the Bavarian angels. Some beautiful black athlete was treating her so considerately that I think I know how many times she climaxed before he stood, transfixed, sunk into her butthole. Now we fetched our assortment of toys and we practice, having hit replay on the Mandingo prestation.

Kate has scurried out of the bed and caught the intruder on the threshold, she draws back a defying Natalia, splendidly bare, at the peak of another orgasm. Dumbfounded, I realise we should have foreseen that, how much has she seen, is it so worrying? After what her mother told me, should we lock our door to her? Kate holds her like she’s not hers, I push the toys and order her on bed. She’s still attracted by the spectacle on the screen, I switch it off and lay her down, eyes in hers. I tell her who is in the video and why, I feel she can coffer the truth, but I also lecture her on the fact that she will put us in trouble, eventually. Damn, she’s so lovely that I do not refuse her kiss. Kate has joined and grazes her nape with her lips, she tells her she terrifies her mother, who doesn’t want to flee that place and can’t afford rent in the center of Paris. Obviously, we are as caught as she is, all nude, smelling of guilty gardenia we used in the lube, helpless before her almond shaped hazel eyes, we treat her in broad light like we have before in the shade, but she wants to look at Ayla’s dance and flows endlessly with the large vibro in her butthole, she came generously, she’s in our possession, now, with all it implies.

 

Katherine says:

Sarah asked me to join her meet her dad at the Hotel Caravant, an art-deco sleeping beauty near the Etoile. I found them in the lounge, inevitably she had kicked her Todd’s and let him fiddle with her feet I had readied and polished. She was bright-eyed, he was spry. As before, he looked through me like he would have me anytime, so I acted as if he was, and Sarah sensed it, so she held my thigh. She said they had parsed out the sad story of Ayla and come to the same conclusion, he would try to meet her in Zurich, in any case. We shared some of our concern regarding Natalia, so he smirked, saying we attracted forlorn damsels with our easy manners, no blame intended. He told he had read excellent reports on Fanny, gazing my eyes and tilting his head, it seems she chose the appropriate lifesaver, and Mrs Stern is a trustworthy asset in her life, too. I wondered what amount of insight would serious services collect? Did they rightfully ignore deviant lifestyles so long as educated consent was respected? Himself, lulling his ravishing daughter by her tantalising feet, had he grasped any hint of her penchants and drives? Would he know how she would earn the Wiltshire Grant and the Kaltenbrandt Prize?

He spoke about their land, he was freshening up the Taarbæk house, the Admiral had finally passed, leaving the old barrack to them, which he was redesigning, but saving the map room and the archives; we might enjoy it next summer, bring friends far from mass tourism? That was a loving father, like I never knew one, till Hugo, in a weird way. But looking finely, aren’t all real human relations weird? He questioned Saint Loup for Natalia, if her grades weren’t exceptionally promising in the French system, there should be adequate professional help to make her catch up. Was there a topographical move, inside the seemingly vast house of Hugo’s, allowing some breathing air to the boisterous damsel? Sarah evoked Lena’s feeling of overflow, sensing her daughter obsessing on our lifestyle and convincing her pretty head that it would be effortless, meaning she would put her body and soul on the block. As she literally did with us. Mr Kettelær finely pointed that there was the heart of the matter; we had let Natalia root her hopes in our nest, so we had an undoubtedly charming monkey on our backs, with some parenting to endeavour, not sweeping her away. He wrapped my hands in his and said that in his own situation towards me, he had found no other solution because I had been trying impossibly to root into him, and he had a better idea of being a father. A telephone rang in his pocket and he left us, telling us to begin dinner. I craved Sarah when she met her dad, she revived some old Nordic attitude that called for moral jostle, whereas she was more cosmopolitan than I ever was, I took her feet, and talked about Natalia; Hugo would be back the next day, regaled with his new minion, he would decide.

 

Sarah says:

Whatever crumbs of his life he would grant me, I had a real father. of course I would no more run astray to make him spend a head-spinning week in London with me alone, but the bond still was. He offered us to come over to New York before any evil endeavour came obscure our terraces on the River; he touched Kate’s hand and told her he would take us to unthinkable places, and I was fantasising them making out in secret hideaways. I cannot behave. We ate lobster in saffron cream with peeled grapefruit carpels, just what I like most. Far came back in good mood, “something” had been unlocked, probably; he recommended the frozen nougat, and that let me think he had been there without telling. He wasn’t even sleeping there, a jet waited at Le Bourget. He watched me, wearing a deep blue purple silk taffetas open shirt on black jersey leotard and leggings, Melchior’s gift at my wrist casting all its fires, and he beamed out, his lips on my black varnished nails and the family crest of my ring. My foot reached Kate’s under the table, she wore a carmine and green over white ikat vest over a blurry white embroidered linon knee-long dress, carmine sandals, a Welo opals choker and her Venetian green opal ring. Two men in black approached our table, we stood up and hugged, Far smelled frankincense, cinnamon, patchouli, tobacco, Denmark. In the taxi, Kate confessed she had wetted; I checked, she wore no undies.

Back home, we played a game. We undressed, put on some random “Soma FM” drone zone music, which was preset, and shut off the lights, drinking white tea. It took fifteen minutes to our hotel rat to deftly turn th knob and sneak in nude too. We saw her elusive shadow running for the bed, scan the room, retreat and collide with some warm body she scented in tthe neck and whispered Kate…who pushed her open on the bedside and kissed her jolly molly while I crept from the other edge. In a smallish voice she asked to see again the girl of last night. Since the pleasure was still alive, I complied to her whim, trying not to let her see the code, and Ayla-Sarah smiled to the superlative organism with his master dong almost stiff already. I fetched a bath towel and spread it for her fountain to feel free; She was installed against pillows, scrutinising any single move to detect some trick, but the picture was hi-res and Ayla really did enjoy the piece in her. Kate was doing her the biggest of our dildos, so I caught her hand, lubed it and showed her to push it in me, deeper, deeper. Dashing and young, she came quite a few times for the glory of the mandingo hero and rang my bell, too, after what I sodomised my best Kate’s moon side as the baby tried her untrained anus vainly. Remembering Hugo would be back the next day, and we wanted to parse this little hoe’s fate with him, I whispered to Kate’s ear that it was time to quiet and sleep happy, so we all went to the shower, noting that the towel was drenched.

 

Hugo says:

Hearts have bustled in our home while I yielded at the wonderments in Theo’s clear soul, not even risking to write down any sort of observations during our diverted trip from the Scilly islands to the sleepy shores of Bruges, so enthralled my companion had revealed about the magic lights of Flemish images, spellbound by my friend Florenz in a Patinir dreamscape. Theo had been a foppish but dainty lover to please, keeping the untold for his journals and poetry. He would enrich greatly our realm, in all his extraordinary delicacies kept unspoiled by Katherine’s providential fairy, now unfortunately estranged from her. The unfazed bond between her and Sarah takes roots in the lasting harmonics of the unlikely trio she lovingly perpetuates.
And now, predictably, Natalia has bitten in their somewhat candid hearts and thrown herself, and her mother, astray in the realm of debauchery, as I hear. As I read the soul of the enviable culprit, there are all good reasons to keep her in our tree, while alleviating the worries of our indispensable Lena. So, I will nest another tenant at the care of Gauthier and Theo, she is mature enough to live and run on her own with the failsafe network of us all, isn’t she?

Sarah came first, she has access to my private nooks and wanted to whore a tad as to how to revel in Natalia without distressing Lena, whom, whatsoever, was all but naive, herself. I grasped she was indeed poisoned, she smelled tuberose, neroli and gardenia I recognised as one of my old lecherous attempts, and fitted her morning seductive venture in my bed. After having enjoyed the genderqueer squire in a plush refuge for some days, it was a tiny exoticism to enter a proven vagina, be it that of this rangy tomboy. She earned an honest spirt and seemed to come off easier than usual, in some perverted manner I greeted so as to rekindle the conversation while I contemplated her slit dripping. When I laid the offer to lodge the nymphet in the new rooms, she felt like she had won it with her ass, and she wriggled her rump in elation. I bantered about preparing to snag every poppet in the conspiracy and wanted to hear the tale of their reveling on Natalia.
Then it wasn’t over, and she was still gently wet. She asked me to remember a young pixie girl she had lost in her Swiss parenthesis, and I recalled her telling the heartily depraved couplets she associated with the dubious smell of boxwoods. Her waist was swaying like a trout in the stream of my bespattered sheets. She had become troubled by this girl’s fate when Natalia’s daring manoeuvres reminded her vividly of Ayla’s.
Prettily worked up, she unwound the tale of her young harlot of a friend, sharpening my appetite all the more when she said she could reach her professionally and show me the videos which had sent Natalia over the top. Casually groping my rested peter, she disclosed a scheme she had, at my will. If the presentation of her on the site excited me, Sarah was asking me to go to Zurich, score with her all his content, and offer her whatever help she might wish, or not. She knew I would bite in it, she took another shimmy hard one up her wazoo.

That evening we went for dinner at Florenz’s with Gauthier and Theo, and I was relieved to let the cadets perform, so much Sarah had drained my balls. Gauthier was superb, his gladius tense, and Theo obedient to any necessities of the choreography. On the way home, our car smelled of Cabyria nights and lotus, too bad for the jaded chauffeur.
Early in the morning, Kate dived into the new set of sheets, seized my erect peter and swallowed it, in and again, almost whole, and swallowed my night provisions, like the perfect job. I tasted my own on her swollen lips, then she spoke before I could retaliate over her smooth body.
Of course she too came touting about Natalia, whom, I told her, did not need that to arouse me and others. Clasping her arms in her back and grabbing hold of her gracile neck, I whispered in her loved ear all I had already promised Sarah and she knew well. She wrestled with her legs parted and worked me until I penetrated her, poking her tongue on mine, extorting another unload in deep.
When her breath quieted, I took her in the shower and we preened each other, smiling. In their animal ways, they were both equally committed in Natalia’s fate, at least in the near future, depending only on the girl’s will.
I asked about Ayla, she retorted she did not know her, but she had wanked fiercely watching her perform, I should go and smell her, she bet I would enjoy. I wiped her long legs slowly and eventually slid my tongue into her buttonhole, just to watch it bloom open.

In the evening, Theo had been invited to the Opera by Florenz, I ordered salad bowls from “Lustful Nights”, whatever it spells in Chinese, and a perfect fruit basket to their place. They showed great keenness and Sarah led me to the bed for a tour of her treddle friend. Her pictures already had me hardened, and the successive scenes, given the relation to Sarah, turned me into an eager client of the girl, sometime soon. When the scene where she served the three musketeers before others, with grace and spirit, so to speak, unfolded for our eyes, I badly needed to bugger Sarah’s little butt, to what she readily complied while Kate licked the twin berries. At the truce, Sarah recalled the forbidden orgies in her old school, Ayla brazenly ahead of her age and miraculously unaffected, suddenly looming on her jewel little feet, in places where she could not fend off from her baby kisses. I enthused to the idea of going to Zurich for a first appointment, not ruling out her coming here once the confidence would have bonded.


Sarah says:

When Natalia slid under my nightshirt, I felt her heart beat and was about to cry. Kate had reminded us earlier that her own blond pixie slept in Camille’s bed, ten minutes from here. I pulled my shirt and embraced the daredevil gamine, dazed her with kisses and gazed in the deep of her eyes, asking what she thought she was up to, what she wanted her mother do? She stayed mute and big tears rolled with no end; when her lips ended trembling, she only could tell me to take her. After a while, I asked her to cool down her ways, to make amends with Lena, sleep at night and better days might come. I had promised not to tell her about an arrangement before Hugo had laid it clear with Lena in due form.
Natalia had stolen some perfume at Hugo’s, or he had perfumed her during an encounter, she smelled of wild roses on a sea cliff, she was wonderfully dangerous.

Hugo called us mid-afternoon to his salon, where Lena and Natalia stood wild-eyed with cups of tea. Clearing his voice Hugo said he had wanted us two to witness the conversation and take some part in the decision he was about to grant Lena and Natalia. The latter would move, herefrom, to an apartment nearby the boys, upstairs, to live independently on a monthly allowance he would provide; Lena had been of indisputable help to him for many years, he estimated he owed her this reward, hoping Natalia would profit in her studies. He had hired a retired prep teacher to see to this with her.
We all followed Hugo upstairs, Natalia insisting to hold my hand or wrist, Lena giving me a glance of relief. In the lift, a mischievous hand groped my bum. We gathered in front of a door in front of Gauthier’s, she would face the rising sun. There was a small entry with walk-in closets, a square living room with a kitchen corner, a bedroom with a comfortable double bed, lots of closets, a shower room and a small study. Natalia, who could not have complained about her room in Lena’s ground floor apartment, was ecstatic; I prevented her from jumping on the bed. Hugo smirked smugly exactly like the one he made about a coveted acquisition, Natalia would soon enter the round, like us, and we would help at it, wouldn’t we?
Anyhow, she stared at all the new fixtures, the two settees, the round table with four chairs, the large monitor wall-mounted, the floor-standing speakers, etc… she accepted her mother’s hug and cried. Hugo laid the set of keys and a card with all the current codes, recommending asking for help to the neighbours. We left mother and daughter together, I was so sure she would invade our quilt next midnight.

In the lift downward, he told us he was going to Zurich the next day, in a palace overlooking the Lake. My friend sure wasn’t cheap, but she sounded like millions. He thanked us for our attitude towards Natalia, she had a few more harsh years, if she wanted to become something steadier than a party-girl, it belonged to us to make her parse the components of life as it goes; he would not fail her, anyhow. Things said, he went. I beamed to an idea of swimming during dinner time, when the waters are clear of cumbersome bathers. We ran the kilometer it took to the brilliant public swimming pool we paid our subscription to and undressed as usual in a cabin, not yielding to the current bra simulacre whereas there is nothing to either support or hide; we wore convenient boyish black boxers and did not let ourselves be gazed at too longingly. Wet, we would have caught eyes with our legs, but they stayed mostly in the water. finally, we weren’t there hustling or cruising, so it went smoothly and we disentangled our synapses in swirls of energy.

On our walk back from the evening pool, we shopped for vegan bouchées at Margit’s, a girls’ must near Saint Severin, with her Baltic blonde assistants behind the daily displays and her art-deco willow- green boxes; the only drawback being that they did not deliver, when you did not feel like dressing up.
First, another shower and massage with Hugo’s recipe of Macadamia oil infused with skin care quintessential, after our corrosive marinade. Liselotte called to invite Kate the next day meet Pr Y. at his private office, she elaborated drivels to recommend some womanly dress code, like a dress, if Kate figured the point? In short, she was telling her to appear half-nude to his kinky simulacre; which lead to implied invites from Liselotte herself to her beauty salon and somewhat beyond. Kate agreed smoothly to the said appointment with Y. and gave thought to further masquerade parties if I was welcome too.

We had wanked our arses off watching Ayla and her colleagues all evening, so I did not wake when Natalia joined and eventually slept with us. In the morning, she was dewy fresh and witty proud, arched back and jumpy. She knew nothing about tea but dipped her toast swiftly, letting a drop of marmalade run on her baby breast only for me. I texted her neighbours, in case they would like to befriend the new ship’s cadet. Gauthier ran at attention promptly, in a sunny yellow tracksuit, bare feet and loose; he did not know the newbie would be so young, and almost nude. He greeted the news of her moving from downstairs to skyways cheerfully, getting interested and spreading jelly on the next toast. As he felt in our mood, he even went on the play a bit footsie with the wise little rascal who let him do. I saw what was churning there and couldn’t see bad, Gauthier is a brilliant gentleman altogether. Theo was already dressed with a fresh white shirt and a brown checked tweed vest, his beige flannel pants cut sleek. I anticipated his encounter with our master tailor Gianni. he even donned elegant lounge slippers; he puzzled Natalia with his refined manners, she almost sat on his lap. The pair, who had acquainted each other in perfect tone, begged for the honour to help at the decoration of her place in whatever taste she might claim. Natalia came and sat on me, one arm over my shoulders, I had to show pride, but I hid her pussy under the shirt she had grabbed in haste. That way, the air cleared, Gauthier was still teasing her feet, and we laid the plan that was to help her succeed in some studies, the caveat being that an old teacher would haunt their corridors, at times. after having picked some shorts in our closet, she took the boys home for a first evaluation, her apartment having been left drab white.

 

Katherine says:

In the morning, Natalia wasn’t in our bed, Sarah was hidden; it would be some masquerade day, I had let it happen. although I had not paid attention to Y. before the salacious plays Sarah had told me, and the just recent charivari. I was ready for any lame accolade of my coveted villainy summed up in the necessity to sodomise me in a more awkward position than Y. had fantasised, as far as I had estimated the level of vice in the character. Sarah yawned and asked me in what outfit I thought i would lead Y. to his aneurysm, and she sat on me. In her time, she had been taken off-guard, just letting the half-rape go to completion with no real part to play, other than loosen her pretty arse; that fit her beautifully. Came up an idea I could have used at Victor’s, I had somewhere a lace dark-bronze crotchless bodystocking I could sport in an Uzbek Kaftan with gold embroidered Moroccan mules. Sarah bantered that I did never used that one on her, and I owed her that, now, sometime in an orgy. The tea was heavenly, she peed on me with, all ingenuous. She pampered me like a new bride, drying my hair in volume, laying new varnish on my nails, chasing any re-growth of body hair, massaging all evil in my evil body. I had decided to show Y. a flash key with my name engraved that he would copy or give to M.E. if he enjoyed my delivery.

When Liselotte rang, I had been parading in the apartment in that obscene and ostentatious outfit that Sarah had wished she could sell me in. She appreciated the desired effect and dared, since we were mates in debauchery, now, finger along the uncovered parts like a connoisseur she was. We called a car, she continued to finger me, with a witty smile. Climbing the eighteenth century stairs gave me the feeling, I knew, of a Hogarth Trollop. The apartment smelled of immemorial benzoin, like the crowded pot hideout I had tripped out in during my art school days in Hamburg; beeswax too, was Y. submitting tenderfeet slaves to polish his furniture as a prelude? All the shutters and curtains were pulled and it took me a few minutes to parse the scene. As he lead me to a padded stool next to a perfectly tidied desk, I saw three silhouettes entirely sheathed in black leather, wearing mirror glasses. I had not noticed that, under the back silk trench coat, Liselotte was harnessed in leather and silver; Y. tested her kitty, smelled his fingers and came back to me, offering a hand to take my coat. As I stood up and opened the richly ornate silk, he stilled his move to grasp what he saw, then made me pivot to unrobe me and watch all sides of me. He mumbled a litany of compliments, palpated, fingered, got it that I was really ready, so suddenly called “Roby”, who stood up from the settee and walked to us, Liselotte attending to unzip the tight pants and ease a tense manhood with considerable balls, oint the tool and shove it in my arse to my better release, for I knew they would all have me thus. by the bye, he called “Flens” and “Rifles”, who also brought considerable artillery to my attention. Y. was predictably transfixed, his pecker stiff as I had seen it. The mad dogs did not take long to inundate my shattered rill and bend back, breathless, shown out by Liselotte, with some smile. Y. was sniffing me out, slumped on the stool, dripping. Liselotte wiped off the gulps of jism and masturbated me with some cream, smelling of lotus; she easily sunk her thin arms deep in me, finding ways to reawaken my pleasure. Y. held my head, gaze into my eyes and said something about Sarah and me, plunged his tongue in my mouth a few times, sidestepped and, Liselotte keeping hold of me, began buggering me with time and method till I almost passed out.

Short-breathed, I flounder in a trough filled with black floppy damp gloves and feathers. In the next stall, horses buck on planks, and neigh, out of despair. Wiggling in the slimy peat, I push to extricate my right fin out of the box, but any move slips. The side door of the wagon we’re in cracks open by the whacks of the dirty grey horses that run distraught. The train is dismantled inside a tunnel where innumerable cables run along the concrete walls. Four grim, tall, greenish-black dressed men, wearing top hats and whitish gloves, gather next to my overflowing crate, try to grasp it, and spill the sludge on the rusty rail tracks where all the gloves fidget frantically to creep under the brownish scree of the ballast. They turn me upward, grabbing my gills, and start butchering me out of the fish that scatters down on the pebbles, releasing the stench of gas oil on seaweeds. The three foaming horses gallop back towards us, stumbling on the firing stones, chased by swarms of bats. The top hat four shield me out to a beaten door and push me in an obscure corridor in which I feel carpeting under my bare feet. They bustle and hustle through to a feeble light reflected by a polished copper plate saying “Zurich”. Pressing the button, they make two steel panels slide aside, opening on a glitzy booth I remember having seen, lined with gold-toned mirrors in which I find myself desirable, like it seems, moreover, to be the taste of my keen personal detail. In howling of cable scraping, we reel about as the booth feels like it sways course sideways until it stops, springs open onto a ballroom of inconceivable luxury. As my escort, whose outfits have spectacularly rejuvenated, their hats whirling of reflections, run to stand at order before every door, I begin dancing for the mirrors in the gem-clad grotto, illuminated by four crystal chandeliers. I smell of wisteria dawn and in my chest an enthused thrill vibrates from my perineum to the focus point of my skull, as if I flew up into the alembic of pure love.

My eyes are delicately wiped and I see Liselotte,as nude as myself, inside a richly upholstered closed alcove dimly lit by two diamond shaped gaps in the doors. In the dark, her eyes are black, she seems not to have enough of cuddling and licking me she does otherworldly well. Were it not for going really to the toilets, I tell her I could spend days in that box under her caresses. She pushes the doors open, and I see a small low room paved with ancient azulejos, she leads me to a tiny cabinet with a tiny window behind the seated toilet. When I estimate it suitable to go out, she gently pushes my bum to a shower not much bigger in which she rubs on me and washes interminably my dirty ways with her long fingers, whispering that she has wanted me for a long time that way, and she hopes it will come again soon, she has views for us. She sprays me with some androgynous “rosewood – blackcurrant” heady enough to trouble Sarah. After we share a perfect black Keemun tea cup on a small table in the cozy boudoir she explains was Y.’s daughter’s dream, where he helped Liselotte carry me, when I had passed out of all the ravages I had been through, She helps me slip the bodystocking back on, with regrets when I hide in the kaftan, and she shows me to the car she has ordered for me. Still a tad befogged, I let her believe we might do over. In her simple black and blue cotton dress with white ballerines, she is indeed palatable, her long nose is strait and thin, her eyes deep and sharp, she could figure in a Klimt.

 

Sarah says:

It had been ages since I was completely alone for a whole night, I read part of the “Psychoanalysis of Artistic Vision and Hearing”, by Anton Ehrenzweig then, again,”The Book Of Monelle”, by Marcel Schwob. But what had they do to Kate? In my time, I had made a fool of myself only a few hours, to their delectation. She arrived, in her grand “pavement princess” attire, and she smelled beautifully like a Doge’ s mistress in a shady casino. I raped her, like a teddy bear, and she was totally submissive. She retold what game had been of her and let me feel her pink bloom, but her eyes were utterly mischievous, she had reveled all the way to exhaustion, like the crafty scoundrel she is. She stole my feet for a long fiddling, we devised of what had been of Natalia and Ayla, in two far away galaxies.

A message came in from Hugo, with a photo on which he hugged a visibly bare Ayla, as ingenue as a cygnet, that I hastily saved in my memory. He thanked me for the introduction and imagined that we would all be together sometime soon. The upstairs crew descended on our quiet, Gauthier’s team would invade Natalia’s crib for a few days, so she was asking refuge to what I answered that I had missed her while she debauched with the boys. She took a pensive pose, muttered that she had learned quite a lot, and rubbed her puny hips between the boys. She wore slim white leggings under a pastel blue shirt so big it must have been Theo’s, who donned a natural beige linen suit and a willow green tee-shirt, while Gauthier was in a pair of baggy jeans, a white tee-shirt, and held a passed brick red safari jacket. Theo wore tan mocassins, Gauthier wore a new pair of sneakers. I entertained the company in my sleeping apparel, Kate had been surprised naked while coming back from the bedroom, she remained so, for the amusement of Natalia who went to hug her, then to me, pointing out in all innocence that we did not smell like we had slept together; Kate told her that she had allowed herself to be despicably reprobate, in another house, and that was what she smelled. Theo came near and sniffed Kate with restraint first, then openly when he was assured to claim a sincere enchantment about this scent of debauchery, he let his hand graze down her shy nipples, and went behind me, caressing both our girls’ napes, which simply bent for a kiss. Gauthier fully embraced Kate and hummed, she agreed but let know that she was spent, pushing him into an armchair and sprawling upon him, with a tender smooch, promising to tell the whole torment she had endured. Theo declared he would start his day in the Gustave Moreau Museum, at the heart of the old literary Paris. Natalia was all aroused by the sexual innuendo of the talks, she began to slid her hands on me, I would teach her a rewarded lesson as soon as we could be together alone.

Gustave Moreau – Œdipe et le Sphinx – 1864
Musée Gustave Moreau Paris

In another message from Hugo I read while in bed with Natalia, without letting her see, he was again embraced with nude Ayla and also with another girl, blonde with short hair, light blue eyes and the neck and shoulder of a Canova, she smiled all glee, too. He wrote that someone had a three days appointment with some Leo D. Bronstein, whomever that was. I shut my phone before Natalia could be appealed to a sheer extolment for whoredom, about what she would have to read some more. As of now, she reveled in full moral upheaval, having shared half of her night with exquisite, fragrant, touchy-feely princes of the inner crystal ball she had grown up next to. Murmurs and giggles from the sitting room let me think other scallywags had read Hugo’s impish bantering, but it could sound like they were casually tickling each other. As I snooped near carnal pleats exuding that very special “Fleur d’Oranger”, I knew that the bright-headed squire had gamboled, not in the least minding his lustful tracks. Eventually, Kate crashed by us when Gauthier was called in the apprentice’s hutch, she languished in the giddying sensation of having fired off all resilience and yet wiggling for more; Natalia arched her back between us, quenching Kate’s fantasy on her mouth and mine between her thighs, in total blamelessness.

 

Katherine says:

Before he flew back from Zurich, Hugo asked us to invent whatever feast we might for his late arrival; he would love to gloat about his extraneous encounter of one of his best little prostitutes as yet. He is not the man for big ones, notably. Our difficulty rested with Natalia, whom we could not bring and hear a highly licentious report. She neither could spend the evening in her room, wrapped up by decorators and infested by solvents. From the studio, I called Theo and laid down our quandary for him, hoping he had not already been asked. He retorted that he was fond of the nifty debutante and he would love to invite her out, if she agreed, then entice her to his home and try to reach second base, if ever. That said on a jolly tone alleviated my embarrassment, moreover when the invitee loved the idea.

Hugo was enthralled with the shrewd little Swiss harlot; while pecking at tiny stuffed pouches from Albertine’s, he assaulted joyfully Sarah, who had slid in a thin ultramarine corduroy gown and was swiftly ass-bare for us; readily apropos too, my ample jersey chemise that held on to me with four buttons, two of which were already undone. Ayla had exacerbated her prestation with all manners of tales about her childish romance with Sarah, all the holy hive and the wolves; so as so Hugo revisited his fondness for that lithe pale tomboy Ayla had cunningly evoked, among them. We longed to hear about the blond pixie of late hour, he told it had been Ayla’s inspiration, or possibly a plot to get her, Leanne’s foot, which was deliciously pampered, on the ladder, as they say. In any manner this probably novice courtesan had been foxily groomed by her sly facilitator and she had not baulked to any of his ways, none of them thuggish, as we know. He might consider bringing them over, for one of our celebrations, might he not?

Although it had been some night and morning, he had craved Sarah’s crafty little soul until now and he buggered the boxwood genie with friskiness, while I exerted myself on the bling berries and the pink little knob and made her water off with two fingers. He also told us that he had passed the tip to Melchior, who else? And a reservation for three full days had been concluded in Zurich. Predictably, I dozed out before I could tell my adventure, he was happy to do the same with me in his arms. We woke up in the morning under shawls, smelling like tramps.

 

Sarah says:

I had left Kate in Hugo’s arms and, after a geranium-orange shower, rounded in a dream with Ayla, on the slopes of Saas-Fee and the diamond strings of the Milky Way. Early at dawn my arse was amused by a flickering tongue and I let some time roll before fishing out a merry daredevil Natalia. I opened wide my legs and embraced her, she put unusual nerve to her all over groping, she had something to say. Theo had been an angel with her, he had explained many things clear like spring water, they had played, she had asked and insisted so as to take his childish tool in her, they had shared her two slits to her enjoyment and he had flowed into her behind, was she no virgin anymore? That was so amusing that I hugged her tight and slid a finger into her, again. We babbled it and gossiped until Kate returned and Theo showed in a honeycomb white bathrobe, blushing, smelling of a sleek patchouli. As I was still in bed with the gamine, I invited him to sit and gave him a tell-all kiss. We did not have to retell the bound-to-happen night, Natalia posed indecently over my hips, I ordered them to kiss, for good, and I winked for Kate who had all figured already.

Mr Brunoy, that is Emeric Brunoy, had, in order, met with his client, Hugo, Natalia’s mother, Lena, and was sitting with us having tea and rich financier cakes from Chalmont’s. The main suspect was at her school. The retired teacher appeared to have been a young retiree, smelled of a refined pharmacist’s Cologne, showed no weird habits or twitches, spoke elegant French, English, Latin, Greek, and German. Behind frameless spectacles, the gleam in his eyes told the glamour he had envisioned at the offer by the labyrinth’s overlord, and his breath was soothing down as he parsed that there would exist no power play among the areopagus of the adults concerned in Natalia’s well being. He had not yet met the subject, only scanned through her school reports, with no fright. Two hours, five days, sounded like a sure course, up to him to make it last all the time needed to embark the princess on a safe career, this deliberately pronounced by two bona fide non-conformists he pained to read–understandably. We knew it would take some time for him to accustom to the peculiar gravitation laws inside this private dominion and its satellites; he would reckon, for his own peace, that all he needed to scrutinise was our work, and at that there were threads to weave, if he dared. He had prepped generations of the French elite in the finest institution, not far from our home; he would care to acquaint with Natalia’s teachers. He would come and go through the other staircase, thus not interfere with our Olympian lifestyle.

 

Theo says:

For a moment, I feared I had crossed some intangible line circling Natalia, although our hanky panky had never felt unlike what I had smelled out between her and the girls; besides, she was not underage sexually, although only slightly. Happily, she acts out as no harm is done, and I have watched her being as loose with Gauthier, who owes me a report on her behaviour in his bed, sensibly less innocuous than mine, mind you! Besides the carnal niceties Cynthia had foreseen around Her Faerie Queen, Paris keeps offering venues for accomplished vows, like this dark easy path along windows for prints where I encountered Rodolphe Bresdin, one of the legendary figure in J. K. Huysmans’ “A Rebours”, as well as a young art student who needed to be fondled in his medieval attic and did not care much about who went on to suck him out; he smelled of cinnamon coffee, his pubic hair was blond.

Rodolphe Bresdin – Le Bon Samaritain – 1861

In addition to the sturdy public collections, what strikes me is the number of art and antique galleries, again notwithstanding the vivace hustling to what I am a tad too often mistaken for, I will need training from Lorentz about codes, before my clothes are ruined! I saw how Gauthier behaved in a posh gallery by the Seine, but his mere stance and the golden mane transfixed at order the same attendants who would have jostled me to some dark closet for a quickie, or was I the one inviting to such nastiness? Cynthia merely joked when she witnessed me unleash unwittingly lewd manners; or perhaps should I learn sexual discernment from whom had it ingrained from long: fairies, that is, Kate and Sarah.

Together with Hugo, in the luxurious hotel overlooking the canal in Bruges, life had been so light to bear, in the midst of such wealth of devoted art, one hour from the legendary “Mystic Lamb”, which was chased all over by nazi black SS, denying in ourselves any moral order upon our good pleasure, reappropriating the least of the lay morsels of the obsessive lawns under the sinners’ feet. He had called for the hairdresser, the manucure, the pedicure, the dermatologue, etc… so as to worship what he called my nonpareil body; we had lied down in mute rapture after long courses of heated relentlessness, listening to the placid heartbeat of the flat country. The heavy silver limousine had lulled me, in a flutter of lashes, back to the sweet sheepfold, where everyone is one’s own lamb.

Van Eyck – The Mystical Lamb – main panel – 1420-1432
Ghent – Saint Bavo’s Cathedral

And amongst the pastureland of these floors, the golden piper –whom wouldn’t he play with?– has devised, in accordance with the woman-child of the new heights — on his part too, much coveted– her homely staterooms with colours. His staff of decorators have in no time spread the fantasia. The living room walls in toned down Sienna earth, against what the subdued blues and mauves of sofas and chairs sing; a slate counter, parting the cherry wood and black steel kitchen corner, the lavender blue enamel on the refrigerator . He had sprawled an autumn bliss carpet on the terracotta floor. In the bedroom, he let a pale, mauvish, pastel-blue reign, with red ocher accents playing the counterpart to the sitting room’s palette, and he thought of thick warm desert sand carpets in case Natalia would roll down on the floor. The small studio was pearl grey with sleek white shelves, a maple desk and a very comfortable silver painted office chair, as good as to skip the unconscious excuse of awkward sitting.

On the walls, the pictures must have come from Hugo’s reserves; a wall-high Stängl made a killing of scattered playful touches about a mental dismemberment of an absent-minded nymphet; some vermilion horse defied the wind in the sunburnt hills, by an undetermined artist; some epic Lakota drawings, and in the bedroom an important –it was my idea, it cost dear– deep garnet Australian Aboriginal dream tale of dot lines and spires. In the living room, a wide west-coast American Salish Indian mask hovered across a wall-mounted monitor; wireless speakers stood in the corners.

When the miracle was accomplished, Gauthier’s artists could encompass bigger challenges, the little Mistress happened to be wearing a short cornflower dress of nothing and maybe the minimum of a thong; she danced around and hyperventilated like a toddler. Everyone in the Castle came running, watched her and forgot the plainly successful decor. Thanks to Sarah, who purveyed, she could make tea and display almond macarons. Lena was together moved and shied, considering her dumbstruck baby in her own perils, heading to whatever her revealed little arse would mean, under the potent gaze of our Squire.

 

Hieronymus Bosh (workshop) – The Last Judgement – 1486
Grœningen Museum, Bruges.

Sarah says: M. Brunoy gave us his sincere report on Natalia’s scholar levels and showed hand-written tests she had passed before him; opportunely, he suggested a second chair in the studio. He was in no way worried, she wrote articulate French and English, she understood concepts of history and what now holds place for geography, she was ready for assimilating concepts in philosophy, politics and soft sciences, showed appetite for natural sciences and, moreover, women studies. M. Brunoy avowed his incompetence in aesthetics and art, but would let that domain to us; he did not hold in high esteem art education, my ironic pose let him tell out. Eventually, he spilled out that he could recommend his own daughter for mathematics and physics; she was in the process of writing her doctorate thesis and he felt she could tutor Natalia efficiently.

I mulled over the many good people who had tutored me almost safely in the same age years Natalia enjoyed, feared and somewhat shunned in the stream of her days. Sooner or later, she would amble her tight little butt in the studio, distressing our workflow and questioning its necessity, What would we protest if she found it an appealing manner of living? Were we mature enough to demand from her that she genuinely tried other paths, now that she was shielded from hardness? Would’n it ever be still time to sell out if need be? Inside a black scribble in my mind rested the idea of a last resort with Dr Méant, but I erased it, for now

Katherine wanted to sleep with Fanny and Camille wanted to watch them; Hugo was with Theo; Gauthier had Donovan, so I told myself I had not yet rummaged around in Natalia’s new linens. She invited me swiftly as soon as I mentioned sushis from Yoshitake that came in a basket itself in a refrigerated black lacquered box. She had adapted her outfit with her new living colours, having found an ample indigo-wash and chalk striped jersey gown sharp on my taste of her. She had made up her flecked amber eyes and let her hair puff up naturally, thus impressing me more like of a made woman, albeit she rolled on no more shapes than I do, flat as an Arcadian shepherd. She would tan easily, but here she was, silently boasting her unlawfully sleek legs and feet to my nose in the most palatable creamy complexion, so, irrepressibly, I seized one and shivered at the still novelty. While I massaged, unabashed, every sweet cog in her foot and ankle, as I have been long taught, I summed up, staring at her momentarily docile eyes, M. Brunoy’s conclusions and our frankly trust in them. She has moved towards me and given both her legs, I revel in their lightness but vaguely intuit, in the now, that the contention could spawn from a Miss Brunoy, if ever. I keep chattering, as if she had expressed her hesitation, requesting her viewpoint on the required skills in hard science for most nowadays careers, my ambush being rested behind medicine, hers in our life’s example. Currently allowing my eager self upwards her singularly smooth legs, her being dark haired, and too young for having afforded herself a laser treatment, I bluntly lay that us two always knew and acted like spoiled offsprings of wealthy families, and none such question ever occurred through our course of so-called studies. But still, might not she keep pride to wrestle out a fate she might call stringently hers to the face of the world and the love of Lena?

She has pulled off her gown as simply as she should, her parted legs ensnare me as she quietly masturbates. She rushes for a moment, then releases, pleased to show how fast she can do, fixes back her gaze in mine and , with a whisper, tells. Along the years, her mother has grown confused, embarrassed with her, inside a house where she knew well the libertine philosophy prevailed, at the good pleasure of Master Hugo, although she never witnessed any other wrongdoing than ignoring the traditional rules for mating or relating between habitually handsome persons of any sex that happened to appear in it. She had figured out that a number of visitors were prostitutes, but also became possibly freewheeling regulars and more or less confidants, like a secret society of debauchery. Lena appreciated her position, comprising an honest apartment at the garden’s level, and the salary was far superior to any she could compare. Her only misgiving was exactly what was happening these days. Natalia had been an easy child to care for, and she often told her that, at least, she had made her beautiful, later helped in that by the free gym and dance lessons at her nearby school. But like in so many children’s books, not only the pretty maid would not go unnoticed, but the high life in the upper floors would come to fascinate her, as she snuck more and more often upstairs, she fantasised debauching along with the the charming persons she greeted on the ground floor. Eventually, Lena taught her daughter all the safeguards she could think, for the case she found herself in an intimate situation with the rich and powerful; then, not a believer herself and not having mentally crashed Natalia under cumbersome metaphysical fears, she waited for the proper time to speak and allow the obviously appealed Hugo to consider her daughter, with full knowledge whatsoever. That told, Natalia capsizes me over, pulls down my tights and unbuttons my shirt, muttering that she is also good at mathematics.

And so crafty was her that she had parsed that she would have the luxuriation, rape these art goddesses, sell herself to the rich man, and meanwhile protect her indispensable mother in the place. We had a shamelessly wanton evening, so as to ascertain the whole scope of our pact. Late beyond exhaustion, a message rang in, I had some idea. That was a picture of Ayla nude, her eyes a tad ringed, wearing a sumptuous choker of diamonds and spinels. Leo Bronstein could have been none other than Melchior, and she had undoubtedly outbettered me. It took some delightful time to put Natalia in the know of why a young prostitute bragged her new treasure to me, I asked her if she would dare send Ayla a picture of us two, because she was my treasure for the night, and so we did, but after that I had to lull her down to sleep.

I mulled over Ayla’s choker, and my wrist-band, and I would give Natalia a line of gems for her lithe neck, yellow gold is certain, diamonds are a sure choice, but she is too young for that, I would conspire with Hugo, he would love that and wouldn’t tell. I dreamt of both little girls, for Ayla remained how I fondled her in the boxwoods after a swim in the pool, how I watched her unleashed in dark nooks or in my room. Whatever Natalia chose, she stood on better grounds to confront mathematics, or not.

Hercules Seghers – Pile Of Books – etching, ca 1615.

Theo says:

My three massive trunks of books have arrived, recommended as heavy loads to the transporter, who accordingly translated to heavy bill. I will stow them in their storage once I sort the contents in this gracious study of mine. A few years back, I boldly strove after an academic work on the post-romantic philosophic order after the actual defeat of god, coinciding with the worldly genocide of indigenous peoples and cultures, figuring that my birthplace, Australia, constituted one of the most appropriate cauldrons to boil that poison matter in. Then, my own poetic essence taking precedence into the priorities of my will, the impressive corpus of hard labour involved lately in the very cause, I deflected towards literature, and aimed to rehash the hidden narrative in journals and memoirs written by the lucky few enjoying their depravity in the staterooms of the empires on the move. This pompous program boiling down to attempt at spilling the beans on the brothel’s carpets, to write the best literary pornography, per se. Paris once was one of the biggest purveyor of graphic pornography; when Pierre Louÿs’ estate went up for auction, large boxes containing thousands of photographs were sold unopened and have disappeared because of their now illegal content, along with eight hundred kilos of unpublished manuscripts. Really great writers of the triumphant Capital of the arts have been avid collectors of such, long before colour videos were streamed into our cortex full time from the Inland Empire or Saint Petersburg, healthier than sports, anyhow.

My personal library consists mostly of the nifty references I can’t yet unearth in the world wide web, or make me feel safer on smelly paper, like the Kinsey report, for one. What comes to light today about gender ambiguity, however, is very well online and fighting, but that is Cynthia’s war and I am no warrior, I was happily spared conscription, from the beginning. I am a white girafe. With three trunks of fetish books.

 

Ingres – The Spring – 1856
Musée d’Orsay

In the French language, Hugo has already shown me shelves of naughty literature in his Wunderkammer; translating the volumes he would recommend might be an excellent start, I will at least scan most of it. After our escapade, the bijou neighbour has been busied with schoolwork, by M. Brunoy and his daughter Adrienne, an athletic blonde who moves in long strides; my radar has blipped when I crossed her in the lift, she will do mathematics, indeed.

Hugo wants to invite Lorenz for dinner, they know each other, and our lucky encounter offers an opportunity for them and myself to extend networks bonds; he suggests Gauthier would make a perfect fourth; indeed it would let me not be the only one coveted in a party of wolves, it would be arousing to watch the golden-headed one respond to the advances of another curiosities baron. At my question of possible other guests, Hugo feels that since Lorenz is not personally interested in feminine intimacy, it would create an awkward climate for everyone and, besides, he is not known to care for recent art, yet least in the making. I concur he wasn’t too keen to take me to a show of the Rite Of Spring at the Théâtre Des Champs Elysées next month and since I wouldn’t dare to ask Hugo, I thought I could try with the fairies themselves. He finds it an excellent program and we should go, the four of us, in hopes the Dutch might revive the old thirty minutes gem while upending its plain stupid story, or elaborate their sublime bodies along with unheard soundscapes, eventually, far from Lorenz’s fragrances?

The fairy sisters eagerly wanted me to meet Gianni Capodimonte, the exclusive couturier, tailor of the house. Naturally curious, actually, I had noticed, while pawing one or the other through some of their elegant attires, other than the usual sweats and tights I would promptly peel off, that the finishing touches were impeccably handmade and the structures bespoke around their features. I had found the name, threaded in gold on black taffeta labels, in hidden pleats or pockets. There had already been privileged times when, exhausted and yet formally dressed, they would allow for some shuffling of the fine stuffs about their bewitching skins, the smell of their young sweats enlightening the trails of different perfumes they had worn in the secret of the linings.
He greeted me as his two patrons stood half-nude, all the more arousing to me, at his will; a young slinky black-suited boy fetching for him anything he needed without much of an uttered word, in a sexually cryptic ceremony, as I saw it. Had they been wearing any knickers earlier? Flitting to and fro, he began considering my own body and Kate teased him to dare undress me, for I might be more of a wonder au naturel. They knew their cunning part, Sarah swiftly disrobed me and caressed me all over in a way to open up my stance, so as to let Gianni awestruck. He grabbed a notebook in his inside breast pocket and otherwise started to measure me every which way, unabashedly groping me in the process with the result of making my peen more interesting, sort of –he measured it too– and held it so skilfully that, to the overjoy of the fairies and the amazement of the apprentice, I spurted some drops on the carpet. The girls kissed my temples as Gianni unfolded a considerable white kerchief he had drawn from his pants’ pocket to wipe me thoroughly. Sarah brushed off my stains with kitchen towels. As if the event had been self-evident, he casually spun on around the three of us, enthralled in his own inspiration; he tried on a Marlene Irish tweed three piece suit on Kate, which he deemed correct. Sarah awaited, like a Giacometti alabaster maiden; he helped her closely to slip in black silk crepe pants and a black moiré silk dinner jacket which teared off a cry of wonderment out of my breast, so smooth it set out her bare skin inside the cleavage. Gianni was in some nervous trance, holding hands to both his models; he jokingly advised me to redress myself before I became besotted again over Sarah’s silks. I went to wash-up my again humble peen, and clothed back. He told me he would refit for me the never worn wardrobe of a young Lord that had been kept in camphor-wood trunks and eventually given away to him after the owner was killed in a polo game accident, ages ago. Holding my butt pensively, he muttered he would only need to round things over here, and phrased a compliment for my Melbourne tailor, who happened to be Neapolitan, too.

Gauthier has not had yet the favours of Gianni’s indefatigable hands, but he wears bespoke. When it is time to show at Hugo’s door, he checks on me, steals me a long kiss and pats my bum to the lift. He smells of amber and cedar wood with a pirouette of osmanthus that pulls my hand to where it stands in the small cabin. Lorenz appears somewhat tense in another Monarch stag’s intimate territory, but mellows instantly when he is able to touch us, and show how intimate he feels towards me. Hugo, munificent, smiles; he has displayed a few of his recent finds, and those he thinks might tickle Lorenz’s yens. A finely chiselled gold statue of Tibetan Tara radiates of peace in a bubble of light; a twelve folds lacquer screen presents a wind-bent cherry tree, by a gentle brook, against the wide-spread gold of dawn; a gilt-silver reliquary in the shape of a young maid’ head with loose long hair and a mystic grin contains the menace of being opened on whatever sordid carrion the counter-reform might have conspired. Silk-road vividly abstract ikats have been hung over his permanent trove to create an opium-eater’s best dream embalmed with south seas sandalwood. Having announced that there could not be alcohol, he offers flower drinks and cold tea, which are eagerly greeted by Lorenz, whom I knew favours these soft drinks. I read a glance between Hugo and Gauthier, who starts petting me, softly but overtly on the couch while the big males talk market, then we are invited to one of the rooms where an octagonal table is dressed-up in vermilion table-cloth. A young asian extra in a red dragon on black vest swiftly composes a wealth of small lacquer dishes chartered with bite size delicacies, for it would be an untold settlement that it is the way Hugo and his chosen kin play house.

The dark mahogany chairs are comfy, so the conversation may roll, from Gauthier’s lively presentation, double entendre commentaries on his education and asserted bisexuality, the blissful reunion in Venice with Katherine, Sarah and Hugo about the time the antipode city of the many lifts burned, again, to my unswerving love with Cynthia who revealed my true nature and the manner to live along with it, my vow to spin into literature of mine a passion I had for post-romantic Paris, in times when my own ancestors had been deported as far as possible from dirty Albion, with unwritten leeway to commit any genocide they would. And again, it was Kate, high school lover of Cynthia’s to whom she sent me with the warmest commendation, and in turn introduced to the generosity of our host. Lorenz listens keenly, but he also has craftily grabbed the pants of the young extra under the red dragon. Hugo teases that he knew he might do, and has dealt with the boy, who keeps a dreamy smirk and ends on the man’s lap, his fly opened. We moved back to the drawing room and slump upon the heavenly patinated and stuffed leather. Hugo soon teams with Gauthier on my submissive little self whenas on the other bank the boy’s pants went down on palatable sleek legs, as the dragon shows a dark stem of desirable size that Lorenz entertains with his skilled mouth, trying to stop at each fatidic moment, till he has to gulp, letting the boy pant. Hugo has whispered in my ear and so I go to the toilet and prepare myself in no time, ready to let Gauthier steadily shag me while Hugo sucks all of my jewels to completion. We rest content while the nude boy serves some tea in glass bowls, and as he shows me his butt, I slide a hand is his crack, wank him softly and wait for him to move back on me; we embrace and soon hear raves upon us; he is touching, I like his ways, I part my thighs so as to let him in me as hands are groping us in every way, it lasts a long, dear time and we kiss all along, up to when I feel him discharge deep in and stay quiet until he slips out. When he goes, Hugo takes the place and asks me; I feel totally whoresome, dripping cum as his familiar truncheon takes its ease and carouses in my unfettered bunghole. I exult at the instant thought of retelling all this to Sarah and Kate.

 

Charles Meryon – Le Vampyre 1863

Dr Cynthia Möhlitz wrote:

My unrivalled Katherine Sophie, Theo has sent lovingly worded stories of his grand settlement among you and your friends; it is so generous of your mysterious sponsor, my best hobgoblin is jumping clouds in his so anticipated city of Paris! Thank you, maiden swan, a warm caress in the dunes, I swear you will soon be mine again! We have a good connection here, why not see ourselves on Skype? I never saw your sweet Sarah, I am sure she is as graceful as Theo says she is. Send pictures of your work, revel in your days, I love you! C.

 

 

 

12 – Katherine Sophie – Hector & Victor

Sarah says:

Though she is now courted and fulfilled in most ways she had foreseen, Natalia still knows where our key stays, and picks it up to sneak in our door, tiptoe to our bed and slip into the warmth of whomever dreams in the linens. If there is still a star for lovemaking, she might watch, only, or sit by. She is our girl. She radiates the same candid presence as Ayla spent thoughtlessly upon us all, pulling the wool over her angst, dancing on invisible embers. Except this one foxy pointed-face imp is well and truly pegged to our lines, under the sun or the moon; by the bye, she thrives under the crafty yoke of the the Brunoys, curly blonde Adrienne made her taste her voluptuous assumption of mathematics, she smells like a lark in a chamomile bush, with a laugh as clear as a silver bell. I would crave to tip her over somewhere but Kate and me conspired to let her feel it, and make sure it wouldn’t topple the salutary balance she brought to Natalia.
One day she had been called to Vienna, Ayla sent an enormous Sachertorte in its neat wooden box, specifying it would keep for weeks in the refrigerator; we brought it at Camille’s where Natalia met Fanny. They spoke French, wrapped up their personal stories with much uncharted territories, but gave trust in each other’s manners and ambitions; they climbed the same big art deco armchair up and down, sniffed their armpits and did what we were doing, too, for the great delight of Camille’s who shared chocolate with me, whenas Kate cuddled showing Marie, who asked all details on Ayla.

One morning, after a gentle training in the gym and a broom flower scented shower, I ventured in Hugo’s and found him in his bed on the phone with some apparently important caller; as he made a gesture asking me to wait on, I went to his kitchen and brewed a pot of Darjeeling. Lena came up, all smiles, and laid her hands on my warm shoulders, like comrades do; She whispered that I was a good person and fled. I brought tea to Hugo’s bed, he asked me in and started to grope me some. I wanted to hear again about his somersaults with Ayla, so he dealt that I would ask all I wanted in return for giving him a morning fuck, and he turned me over. He was stiff in his morning glory, softened my bunghole with Lorenz’s miracle, and buggered me steady till his conclusion. I needed a tad more, so his provided an expert complement of hand polishing that I spurted on happily. In the bathroom afterwards, he gazed in my eyes and asked what it was I had had behind my forehead in all this. I warned him it was a fantasy; he was a connoisseur, he should find a dedicated patron to prostitute me to, like he practiced with his circle of friends. He laughed, but I knew first hand that he was aroused; however, he casually explained that I would have first to have a blood test and carry an electronic card updated weekly, like Kate had recounted of her episodes at Victor’s; some thrills in my tummy told me I was in, for real adventure.

I went to our usual clinic nearby, they fabricated a shiny black card with my name on it, bearing a chip where all the useful contagion data were to be stored and would green-light the way through a small reader. The check-up should not be older than a week, there are a few labs in every big city, the network has been used by the porn industry for a long time, now. Camille called me up, wanting to set business details with me, not letting me say anything over the phone. When we met in her office, Fanny was away at school, she kindly raped me on her desk, calling me names and mostly sluttish ones. She told me I had a first magnitude admirer I would love to whore to, provided I swore to tell her all about the encounter, a collector who owned some of my drawings, who had seen me in the gallery and made insinuations to Camille about inviting me to his Wunder Kabinett? He would pay a hefty sum, and still behave properly, if certainly not bridled over my body and soul, as she was currently demonstrating for herself.

Kate was into the secret and was as wet as myself, she swore that if I did that she would bring me to Victor, bound hands and foot, wasted. She pampered me, manicured me, dolled me up. I did not need to tease my client, so I chose hi-waisted Katherine Hepburn style trousers with a fitted jacket, in powder blue baby cashmere, an inspiration of Gianni’s that Kate tested as lewdly functional, the fly opening all the way down to the perineum, and the whole outfit with only two buttons. I had white richelieus and light turquoise stockings. Wetting our fingers like schoolgirls, we decided I should at least wear a pair of open underpants, so as not to stain my crotch; as i wore no shirt, I would very soon run in the nude. I wrapped all this and myself in a cloud-white gabardine coat and called a car.

The suit was a wholesome caress in itself, all lined in sleek cotton satin and fitted like a peel on a fruit. The building is a later-years aristocratic Faubourg Saint Germain hotel, with overworked balustrades and pediments, but built in the best fine-grained limestone, the whole weighing as heavy as the memory of three wars. I had called from the car, the concierge booth was lit, the heavy door opened softly as soon as I rang. At the other end of a vaulted entrance hall that smelled of straw, beeswax and incense, a door was ajar atop three large steps, next to a life-size gilt bronze nymph spiralling up. A tall greying character, in a red and gold lampas robe with those satin padded lapels and three rows of silk drawstrings, took my hand and started right away to ogle me like a yearling. He spoke in a subdued tone, with promising compliments while a beautiful young burly man with a butterscotch-hue complexion and curly black half-long hair takes my coat. Louis-Guillaume is the name of my host who grabbed hold of my shoulders and treated himself with a wide kiss in front of a stunning antique painting of a fierce rhino in a fancy jungle. He repeated that he likes what he sees, unbuttoning my jacket on my pale skin, calling me a sweet boy while unzipping my fly and sliding a deft hand to my undoubtedly girlish slit. In a few minutes, as if he needed confirmation that I were his slave for tonight, I stood in my turquoise stockings, letting him kiss and suck whatever he wished. He understood that my fool-berries would numb my spirits and he played with them gallantly. The young servant, whom he called Hector, brought a silver tray with an English tea set steaming vapour; he raised an eye on my crotch when he placed the tray on a convoluted table with two matching chairs, in amaranth wood and horsehair upholstery. I remembered that he had not operated the mutual card control, so Hector handed me back my jacket and I fetched my black token of health to cross-check against his as they laugh; he asked the boy for his, and showed me the green light, so I understood that I had two partners, while sipping a heavenly tea, naked with two buttoned-up gents.

Louis bantered finely that it was of peculiar interest to him to let me drink a lot of tea; he waved around and explained that all I would see in this part of the house had been scavenged from shut down historical brothels; the large beveled mirrors, in their ornate black frames, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, are two-ways and come from the notorious house of Mrs Blanche, in the rue Bailleul, near the Louvre, where the “Emperor” Napoleon III had a stealth entry, like in most pleasure places in Paris. We stood up and he held my nape, admiring my head and trying to parse my ethnicity, to what he failed, galloping astray between Ireland and Italy, stirring his tongue in my neck when I told him what I know of my family, pulling out a jolly morsel of hard flesh from his open frock. When I told him I needed the restroom, he roared that he was waiting for precisely that to come. He called Hector and ordered him to take my shoes and stockings off, that he did, unequivocally groping me in the process, massaging my feet with talent, for I can tell. Louis drew me through a darker corridor upholstered in purple chiseled velvet, carpeted with a mad peonies pattern, peopled by a crowd of licentious portraits of women in obscene postures. But he pushed my but towards a golden gleam which radiated from a rotonda covered in mixed gold mosaic strewed with blue water life forms and ending down in spiraling waves of deep blue. When I woke from my astonishment, Louis stood naked against me, hugged me face to him and ordered me to piss on him while we kissed and he fondled my butt crack. I let go with true relief and managed to flow on his dick which was splashing on my belly. He loved my mouth for a while, then he drew me to a warm shower. Now he wanted to practice an enema on me, there is a bowl in the same mosaic protruding from the wall, he seized a fine hose, felt the temperature, made me stand legs apart over the bowl and slid the rounded horn end into my ass, waited for me to expel, went in and out again a few times, kissed me again as I dripped, and in the end he inundated my arse with a vaseline-like, lotus-smelling gel from a tube, telling me to keep inside as much of it as i could, for my comfort.

One or two finger in my butt-crack, we entered a dramatically lit salon, under a mahogany and gold mouldings coffered ceiling, a deep purple room of English chiseled velvet, interspersed with large silver sconces in which burned wax candles before convex mirrors; concealed spotlights beamed upon paintings, framed in Dutch ebony and tortoiseshell frames, representing orgiastic celebrations, by an obviously anonymous old Master; everywhere stood apparently nonsensical contraptions and furniture in amaranth wood and bronze presenting padded cushions in different inclinations. The whole extravagant array was duly dusted and polished and oiled like some utterly precious Niebelungen workshop, and Louis announced that these awaited me, while riffling through my curls. He invited me to sit upon some recliner armchair with a dividing seat, operated some cranks and wheels so as I felt smoothly tilted backwards, legs parted at the right height for his mouth as he sat on a leather stool; I saw then Hector, undressed and prettily aroused, who soon jaunted his fearless dick over my face, waiting to enter my mouth, which he did simultaneously with his Master pushing into my arse patiently, so there we went and I obeyed simply in the quivering of lights, taking turns at Louis’ will until their contentment. The machine was so heavy that I had felt flying around my butthole in total silence except the splashes of squirt and cum; Louis fetched thick white towels while Hector wiped the seat; he sniffed me all over and came kissing my mouth over and over. I smelled of pure indulgence, sweats and discharge; he manipulated me endlessly, Hector, still physically at attention, brought the tea tray and I did not object to a few more cups, finely glancing at Louis’ dark pupils.

He ordered me to sit backwards on a “voyeur chair” with a padded elbow rest and a shallow seat which let my butt overhang; Hector then sat on a second chair which he pulled against mine, thus readily buggering me again by a good length. Louis strutted his half-baked weeny in my face and made me talk about my childhood, he regretted that minors were off-limits, except in very few countries; he showed me photos of little girls involved in old-time, sepia toned orgy compositions, with crafty little tongues. So, while the Egyptian servant went slowly to and fro in my arse, I made-up silly tales of schoolgirl naughtiness, in the manner he wished, at once false and true, without giving him clues on my real whereabouts. He rode high again, eventually, and asked for my kitten tongue before taking Hector’s position and rush in, while pinching my kushberries as hector was forcing the bottom of my throat. Soon drenched in cum and drooling like a spent horse, I mumbled that I was about to pee, so Hector carried me to the rotunda, Louis fetched a wooden stool, sat me across his lap and waited, licking the indecisive slobber on my face and eyes until I streamed upon his rested prick and dripped of his own cum; he asked Hector to shower us then rub and cream me. He wiped me again, carefully; he wasn’t as spry as his server but he was still standing up, after what I could evaluate as a robust assault, though his unguent had tenderised my ways and healed the stretching. Nevertheless, I let see I had somewhat enough for the while, massaging my womb and my perineum but showing some smile. I began pondering if Camille had known she was selling me to a double bull who, admittedly, smelled good, but also was about to flatten me out! Hector carried me up and to a golden green salon with a large ottoman of buttoned leather on which he laid me down, and backed off. The room resembled to some kind of arena, with deep armchairs all around; Louis sat next to me, combing my hair, inventing poetic compliments I had never heard, licking my toes studiously, as if someone had snitched on my weak spot.

Hector, his dong still half aware, brought the tray, with pyramids of oriental pastries on plates, and more tea. Louis was wielding all parts of me like I was a new toy, he did it with skill, sliding his fingertips along ligaments and joints and making me jolt and relax. The sugar of the dates, almonds, honey gave me a slight rush and I stretched my body, to his lust. He palpated my shady pathways and applied plenty of balms, I felt all the more debauched and whorish at his will. He embraced me and in a long kiss held me on top and rammed inside my cunt which had not yet been jostled, so it took a few minutes to adjust to his tool; I heard Hector take away the tray and soon he was homing back along his master in my arse as they shuffled together. I was feeling mashed up and spent away, engulfed; images bustled behind my lids, scarlet crows over the thick and dark forests hurling shrieks so far away, my veins running cinders and sharp crystals from my pumping womb; my heart like a dragon devouring the arteries of my neck as I suckled this man’s tongue in a black cloud of oblivion. The clear blue efflorescences of pleasure beating against a chaotic night in which porphyry angels spiraled among the glittering red flocks of flying shards, pulsing from the nethermost of my cry, exhausting all streams of life, and I blanked out.

Weightless, I swam in skeins of agitated black weeds in black streams of echoes under a vast riddle of emerald stars. My longing underbelly felt like a swarm of slow whipping wisteria racemes and smelled of vanilla pear. I stretched my limbs like searchlights and threw my head backwards into the silky night as a relentless vibrant thrust filled my well to the rim and rested, warm, at the beat of my tranquil heart. From aside, in a mad array of silky crow-sheen quilts, Louis was lurking for a glance of my eyes, and hunkering deep in me.
As the chain-lights on a toy train, my consciousness bloomed up my spine, from my reveling womb to my hovering brain, and I twisted to beg for a kiss.

Except for his ardent spear snug in my sheath, I could not fathom the pit in which we paired again. The sounds of touched bronze singing bowls twirled around as Louis found enough lever to jolt my innards by way of his loins lunge. The multitude of pinpoint lights of blue-green reeled when he came and pulled me along, devouring my face with lip tips, avidly sipping my tears. When he slipped out, in a rush flow of semen, he carried me back to the temple of healing waters and played injecting my holes and anoint my intimacies.
Offering me orgeat in Venetian goblets, he nevertheless acknowledged that my eyes tilted back to oblivion and so the night was over. I candidly mused about what exactly had the pastries spiced with? He unabashedly retorted that Hector was a master at space delights, laced with the purest cannabis this side of the Ocean, didn’t I know? Didn’t Camille tell me? Did I suffer? I was already too spent to argue that it felt like an entrapment, besides, my brain cells had conjured harder headspins, notwithstanding rape as such, and I showed him that I would have had preferred knowing it, in any manner; I wasn’t so sure I would recommend him to my girlfriends, if that had been a fantasy of him. He helped me redress but begged if he could keep my underpants, as I sure wouldn’t regret, said he; I granted him the innocent fetish, reckoning It wouldn’t be of much use on my way back home. He handed me a tote bag, with a funny little drum tin box inside, decorated with multicoloured butterflies, explaining that was more of the space pastries, in the event it would remind me of our night. He stealthily slid a lilac envelope in my inner pocket, grazed my troubleberry on the way and kissed my mouth like a lover, saying that a car awaited me.

There was a powerful limousine in the deserted street, and I recognised Hector, driving, so I opened the passenger door and smiled to the boy who had shagged me four or five times an hour ago. He drove marvelously slow, the seat was heavenly soft, and I could foresee what happened at the first red light, he groped me gently, scrounging for a kiss, I let him rummage in my pants for a few seconds, but reminded him that the clock was off and I needed to sleep, really. He geared forward but smelled and licked his fingers. He bantered that he was not the wealthy one, but if I ever wanted pastries and shag he would oblige, as much as I wanted. I left him, after another invasive hug, a few doors past ours, and tried to disappear while I heard the discreet engine pull away

.I dragged myself upstairs, undressed, and tidied my suit, feeling the nonetheless heavy envelope, and opened it. I was sort of flabbergasted, the sum was astronomical for a little arse like mine! I slid the pay dirt between two books and postponed to later the thinking of it. I read it was nearly five and I pulled myself to bed. Natalia was there, embraced with Kate, it woke the devil in my chest and I crept behind her, stretched myself along her still dream, not troubling her in the least.

It was then around midday, I fell down from such an abstrusely concatenated mental farandole that even myself could not spin it into a dream, so I woke up, only to feel my arse had been rammed like an old sock, when I walked bent forward, to the loo. But at once, touching myself, I felt it wasn’t bruised or the kind, only touched. I showered loosely, I was indeed clean, and cranked up for the day. While brewing my first pot, I called Hugo, then Kate, who were working but wanted to hear my confession forthwith, and so they rounded up at our table. They fought to hold me on their lap, in my Boro rag robe, having checked I was intact, so to speak. Hugo would catch my mouth every such phrase, Kate needed to coddle my crotch, I finished naked on a chair opposite of them and bragged that I was the sneakiest slut of the left bank. Hugo wanted to take notes of events and the many rounds of play, but I eventually broke down nervously, we went up to the studio, played some ambient not so different from the singing bowls I tried to describe. I warned Kate about the tin box in the refrigerator, but suggested that we might try some together one day. Hugo wasn’t surprised by the boatful of cash I had reaped, he told me Louis was really loaded, and generous towards beauty, Camille had aimed right, and besides, he was a collector of mine. He begged me to give him one of my nights, I agreed I would be all available the next day.

I called my facilitator Camille and went to meet her in the afternoon, while Fanny was at school. I noticed a new assistant in the gallery, an upcoming art-school sensation named Anisette Pullman, which sounded westerly of adolescent ingenuity, another sheer sample of Camille’s fondness in girls; a clumsy, appealing, tall, leggy, dark garçonne hair, swaying coffee-brown gaze, and pouty mouth; my eyes already were unclothing her from worn black jeans and hi-tops, white boy’s shirt with unbuttoned wrists, no bras on visible nascent breasts. Camille embraced me so as to let Anzy –as she would call her– infer on our manners of relations, and let bloom a tiny irresistible dimple on her smooth cheek. I wondered were she had nested this new seasonal catch, but for then she was eager to know my gossip on Louis. She drew me upstairs for tea, soon pulled away my leggings and knickers as if I might be a foretaste of her soon-to-be new bedfellow. She had known Louis’ refined cabinets and contraptions, the unmatched water rotonda and the thorough washes, she upended my complimentary bottom allegro vivace, calling me her best sister slut. One leg over the couch backrest, I floated anew in last night’s unfettered moods, but nevertheless I mused a comment on, one, they had been vigorously more than one, two, Louis had drugged me, unbeknownst; he had raped me, even if the awakening had wiped the bitter taste Camille knew full well would haunt my mouth. She apologised, it had slipped of her conscience, albeit she knew and had herself been toyed with Louis’ medicines, and asking for more, the hell of it. But the aftermaths of her sequence with him had alleviated any harsh judgement on his over-devious cravings, she had kept only the endless grasps of her soul, and she artfully made me squirt on the plaid.Also, yes, there had been other assailors at Louis’ orders, demanding indefatigable young bulls, for he wanted to watch his whores fully spent and mollified, though not bruised or hurt, was I? I avowed to my crafty inducer the stealthy thought I had fantasised in Hector’s car, while he was fingering her ultimately, that she could offer to bring along Kate for a game; Camille mimicked choking, seized my waist and called my phantasmagoria brilliant and utterly debauched, if I would set it up. I mused that Kate would rave upon Hector’s Egyptian spear, and I took some immediate revenge on Camille’s twat.

I left Camille by the time Fanny came back, but on my way through the gallery I was titillated by some hint, and whimsically trespassed Anzy’s private space, pushing her to a recess on the way to the toilets, forcing my tongue into that mouth, with all the folly my spend with Camille had triggered; she let me, she swaggered and she responded, just like I had foreseen. She smelled of rain on leaves in the urge of early spring; winning, I told to her eyes that she was beautiful and I would ravage her once; she wanted another of my kisses, before I ran, I told her to stick with Camille, as I had done, fortunately; and so as to make it clear, I slid my hand in her pants, she was deliciously wet.

Kate was avid to share the account of my carnal expenditures and had already set up the bed tray for a sushi binge, if ever. She was unclothed, and stripped me off while I told her about the new imp in Camille’s web, making her smell my fingers, like a twelve years old, at least in my school. She had pampered herself, here and now she smelled the perfect balance between boxwood and roses, elderberry, angelica, pool water, rubbed skin; she had her nails polished and clipped. She caught the wind at the demonstration of the pleasure or pain contraptions, asking me to take the pose, to contemplate how to abuse me thus, and she did, and I revived some scenes in my room in New York alone with Elsie Chautempt, the cinnamon skinned imp, tied one after the other in long confuse shenanigans until we fired up and touch our diminutive pussies and teach ourselves the key to bliss just in time to get dressed again in a hurry. And indeed that was no longer the case in this boundless bed of the light hearted shores of Paris. She wondered about the “arena”, sitting an audience around my sweet ordeal, a shadowy crowd of voyeurs breathing heavily, wanking surreptitiously, as Hector unerringly ejaculated inside his devoted booty, moaning in ultimate rapture.

As we kept raving heatedly, I became more engrossed in my figment of luring Kate along with me in Louis’ lecherous athanor, all the more so as we fiddled each other’s shuffle and stir to exultation repeatedly. She bit at my fantasm, but instantly retorted that I would, then, submit myself in Victor’s pandemonium with her, in turn. We sniggered a lot to that trade, but I remembered where she eventually spun off to, from Victor’s castle, and I wavered, some instants. That was when she unveiled her plot to recapture the über-geek’s favors, with my own arse as an apology premium! That was a proper whorish conspiracy, mischievously refined of her; she reaped hard labour on my girlishness, for it, and I reveled intensely in all our flights of fancy.
We finally reached our exhaustion, smelling of licked sweats, into what chimeras of our two perfumes diffused lewd apparitions, as we embraced close on the way to cloud nine.
Long later, in the dizzy pearls of morning, our usual passenger rummaged with her dainty nose in our underbellies, inebriated with some hinted folly as yet unknown to her; she cuddled between us and tortured our rib cages to learn more, but she had no time to hear all our lies, she had to run to school.

After our reckless night expended at fancying of mutually prostituting our bawdy skins away, the day nonetheless became dustily sunny like the best of these local skies, as they glow in landscape paintings sensed under them. Brewing pots of evocative tea crops, as for some languid water-games in the shower, self-emblazoning our own enamoured creatures, we endlessly procrastinated through desultory comments of what was now simmering deep as a double contrivance in vice, for our sole enjoyment, and that of our accomplices, Hugo most of all. Listening to our playlist, we scribbled and chased the dragons in the grain of paper, floating up ideas more licentious one of the other; then she received a shock; in a message, Victor playfully thanked her for her roses and proposed a date in the following week, answer? I was snared with my own lustful noose and, pivoting her chair, she was sliding her bare foot between my legs; smiling, I nodded. She typed a few volleys, her eyes twinkling at the responses, then she hung up. Victor was now expecting us any night at our choice, aroused.
Meanwhile, I foresaw a night of either backbreaking submission at Hugo’s whims, or, otherwise, a rich garland of sprinkling climaxes if I drove him to his better imagination. Meanwhile, Kate would pick up Fanny at the school’s door and begin groping her in the car, she would grant her a whole new array of devotions, and let her deploy her young weaponry. In fair balance, I wondered if Camille would have already unraveled Anzy’s shyness.

Hugo had set up a red harmony with blue trimmings, like some no-fault colonial pleasure house, Kashmiri shawls and harlequin quilts, outrage roses and frivolous irises, all which made me feel light-hearted to wear black, a silk velvet fit and flare dress, lined with ultramarine satin, and black nail polish, a black pearl choker and my onyx and diamonds booty bracelet, as a mindful reminder of my meeting Melchior in such premisses. He was charmed, kneeled down to kiss my bare feet and stroke my smooth thighs.
In the glow of silver girandoles, he had displayed the pink grapefruit and shrimps in saffron cream; the raspberry mousse strewn with candied blackcurrants and deseeded redcurrants; bigarreau cherry juice, all in faceted crystal ware and swan-like ewers. I felt like whom I was, we played with each bite, he took his time to unbutton the dress; I did not regret my time making up my eyes.
As it were, he knew Louis and his wunderkammer, he had participated to some most refined parties along with couth harlots and gentlemanly amateurs. As he had peeled off my clothes, he begged for my comments and followed the steps, he blessed my narrow path with Lorenz’ balm, and embraced me endlessly, listening to my girly raves, kissing my neck from behind. I laid down easy over his mild thrust, I liked it and told him so softly that he came early, and had to help me shoot my own while he remained strong.
He made the unwonted request that I stand on all fours, turn back and front, lick his salacious arse, in ways he would not have dared before my further debauchee emancipation; I had serviced many arseholes in my busy life, provided they were clean, more those of girls but the holy wolves had demanded the treat in return for their keen efforts. Hugo’s carpets were bulky and soft, I arched my back at his will and he played in all my ways, between poses of my blooming pink.
At the evocation of Hector’s pastries, he fittingly asked me if I would risk my life at his hands, fully. He craved to possess me fast asleep, in a word, drugged out. I explained my afterthoughts about Louis’ entrapment and the bitter taste it had woken in a young girl’s mouth, in the cold sand of Jutland; he backed off, shut up and kneeled on the carpet, kissing my arse, in his turn; I agreed to sleep, whatsoever.

I woke up in one piece, clear headed, snug in the quilt. The room was dark, silent, I felt like morning and needed to pee. My intimacies and my whole body purred in unison with my spinal stream, this molecule was a dainty one. In the faint gleam of a single led point, I found where the bathroom was, let flow and saw myself in a mirror, clean as a newborn, dumb. At my left wrist, I wore a new bracelet bearing two lines of baguette sapphires around another of deep rubies.
I stretched, rinsed my teeth with a finger and headed to the kitchen where I was greeted by the evocative scent of French toast, and wholehearted caresses. I let myself go on his chest and thanked him. Nude as a nymph, perched on the table, I sipped my cup, ate my toast and fled to the gym to enjoy my pretty joints and breathe high; after a shower I climbed up and found Kate in the stairs, gazing at me and bursting in a huge kiss. A washed-out Calvin & Hobbes sweat shirt, white knickers, grew tights and vintage sneakers, I was up in the studio and I had some to tell Kate.

From start, Kate announced that she had seen Anisette naked and she seemed like a younger sister of me, outwith the eyes. Camille had made out with her on the couch, taking advantage my undressing Fanny, she had naturally stripped the slim newbie who revealed not so dumb, at once. Things did not go as far as some kinky reunion, but watching had been lovely, Fanny had been aroused; there was a new chick in the yard.
She whistled when she noticed my new bling I had kept on purpose; while re-focusing on my long term work, nevertheless, I told her my night, and my sleep, and the new genre of cravings in our mentor, my elation at wake with a chestful of relief. My womb had been overjoyed all night, included during the unconscious bout, but this time there had been no visions. She asked me if I was wanking, for my legs were apart and my hand in my knickers.

Katherine says:

I switched my phone to silent mode, because Victor was bombarding with propositions and salacious double-entendres, even as he didn’t know yet he might host a double feature. In the hearty mood we showed both, I bid that a jaunt to Camille’s, that night, would kindly blow in our wings, as I saw the lushy glint in Sarah’s eyes. I suggested we might accept Victor’s welcome on the day after next, might not we? On her side, she laid a proposal to Louis, both of us, in a week or whenever he would.
Camille and Fanny have been thrilled, Anzy did not sulk, it seems, at the overture; I offered to bring a bucket of vegan Chinese noodles in their soup, so Camille was to order a saraband of deserts.
Fanny played the house girl irresistibly, with her mix of profligate and good-hearted, in her phase of balancing her life into a rightful soul. She’s fond of Sarah and she knows how we sail together, she ought to. Camille held her lanky new pet by the waist, lopsided and defying, long bare feet, black slim jeans and half undone white shirt, acknowledging Sarah and kissing her, checking on what it might mean to me, probably in the afterglow of what I could watch last night. I playfully grabbed her shirt and gently made her feel that we were conniving, now on, for the best, hopefully. From behind her, Camille unsnapped the studs of her shirt and went on with her fly, while I did not let loose of her neck and face, trying to catch her crazed eyes. Sarah had danced away Fanny, and undone her white trousers and her bluish blouse, in an eager trade of her own togs. Camille still wore a long jersey gown and predictably nothing else; it was mine to pull it over, she hugged Anzy tight, I groped her heart-shaped bum and whatever I could grab of her two. We were all set.

Since it had been my idea to start with, I took care of the rich soup, along with Fanny; I carried the big Victorian silver tureen, the one with a lying nymph on seaweeds on the lid, and she disposed silver-rimmed wooden bowls, and silverware, to play food. The lowliness of the table forced us all into showing animal moves while fishing noodles, mishmash of vegetables, mushrooms, cashews, and miso cubes.
Were it for novelty, I felt as tickling a crush for the gangly new kid as Sarah had, and we manoeuvred to wedge her between us two before the soup was finished. But we all wanted a piece of her, who almost swooned at the tips of crafty tongues, she became bit by bit more demanding herself, she wanted Fanny’s little cunt and arse, she fiddled Sarah’s twin pin berries, she opened her spindly limbs in demanding more pleasure.
Camille seized Sarah by the waist and threw her in a wide armchair, to question her about her trip in the purple brothel pandemonium; she had herself known it in many manners. Yes, she had known Louis’ taste for psychedelic dives, had it been any anguish?
I kept busy with the kittens, Anzy looked appeased by Fanny’s tranquil relish; if these two were to build a breathable companionship, it might provide some leeway to Camille, in her daily schedule, possibly allowing Fanny around town. They possibly could meet with Natalia, even. When the effusiveness relented into a lovely laid-back stream of talks, Anzy eventually opened up and told, in a subdued voice, of her life.

Anisette Pullman, born Fayelle Chevasne, was raised in Meudon, in the western suburbs of Paris, her father a gastroenterologist doctor who had married an hospital nurse. The couple had turned to become a passive-aggressive stalemate and so she did not see much of her dad in her prime youth, being merely tolerated by her depressed mother inasmuch she was the hostage for her material subsistance. When she reached thirteen, she tried to appear on her father’s screen, popping up in his hospital service, only to learn about a stranger’s many lives and finally be considered as a funny brat with an interesting butt.
She had kept aloof of his paws, as long as she physically could, but it only rendered him more obsessed in her. Her mother had spiralled down in a daze of booze and pills, she wanted her dad to lodge her somewhere safe. He did, except for the safe part. She could move to a small apartment not far from her high school, but now she had her weird father stalking her, not in a fatherly manner. She felt mostly ashamed to be his daughter, parsing his game of petty tyrant around.
One of her schoolmates, who had confided to her about some similar ordeal in her home, had slashed her veins in the bathtub. In the sore hubbub that followed, she heard of other family rampant disasters, from troubled girls, but it began to appear they all were. She decided to nerve up and confronted her father through her friend’s tragedy, trashing her fear. He stood mute and she never saw him again, however keeping a lasting grudge against him.
As far as she could from her dad’s intellectual territory, she snuck into art studies, supporting herself with odd jobs, and raids on her mother’s home.
She shyly haunted galleries with hopes of garnering the energy to apply for an assistant internship, but what happened was that Camille laid an eye on her, as punkish-looking she might have been, and made a pass at her. She had been out with girls before, and found it more liveable than boyfriends, so she let it be and now was beginning to like the manners hereby.
But besides the pussy games, she had not yet fathomed the situation; she was meeting rich desirable women, she liked how they treated her, how they smelled, what they made in life. Camille had recounted where she had survived from, as to why she would offer her more than just a fling, because she had gained confidence in her.

Now she was crying, softly, her eyes in mine, spread opened to Fanny’s cuddles, her small face surrounded by dark embattled hair, her cheeks heated by our kind jousts. Her rounded forehead over straight brows showed will, her long straight nose conferred character to her otherwise childish traits, her mouth prone to sway aside in distrust but wholly generous in her kiss. I twiddled with my tongue tip in her ear and made her twitch out of her sorrow, gaining a cute square-mouth smile. Her breasts were stealthy dunes in a scape of even, pale satin skin. Her rib cage was apparent but she wasn’t too bony, only elongated shaped, with long hands and feet, too. Her hips were tight and her pubis bulged, for Fanny’s delight, she, or Camille, had waxed off all hair. I rested my head on hers and listened, so to speak.

In the car on our way back home I checked my messages and showed Sarah an insistent invite from Victor, and dared her again to join. She yielded but panicked at the thought that it would happen so soon; I grabbed her stomach and rubbed her courage in, she kissed me.
Natalia already slept in the middle of our bed, we wedged her between us, she purred without waking. She smelled of new hay, lavender and bees, she looked busy in a bustling dream.

Sarah wore a black corduroy knee-long shirt-dress with sapphire blue trimmings and buttons, strict black stockings and black Stubbs and Wootton deerskin slippers embroidered with the sun on the left foot and the moon on the right, with blue trimmings. I wore a blue-grey zigzag silk jersey shirt-dress with grey mother-of-pearl buttons, over dawn grey stockings and Stubbs and Wootton mist blue starry slippers. I had chosen a rejuvenated tuberose with Florentine gloves, she had spread me all over with fumes of lotus in a drape of roses so carnal that I wanted to wank myself.
A München grey berline berthed for us on the quai Voltaire and Victor opened the rear door. The silence was impressive, it made the Louvre float; he glanced a few times, overjoyed, at me, then he said Sarah’s name and welcomed her to the realm of abandon, might she decide. From the rear view mirror, he asked me to uncover a tad my girlfriend’s legs, Sarah played, she lifted my dress up to my belly, we started petting like schoolgirls.
On the right bank, he soon reach the byway to his lair, the garage door pulled up, and he parked the car near the elevator door. He clicked off his belt and turned towards us, discovering Sarah’s eyes, her white body in the opened dress; he watched my eyes in a most friendly way and reached for my knee.
Inside the lift, Sarah watched his sharp featured face, his mocha dark eyes under striking brows, his tall forehead and combed-back curly black hair, while he was diving into her blue gaze and groping her firm body.

The reception rooms felt bigger, less bare metal to be seen, real precious carpets, two life size raw wood groups of standing human characters in sexual scenes, the kind they can scan and mill with stunning detail, wall size live screens displaying some apparently random bustling of textures, shapes and colours, from one screen to another, reminding me there would soon appear some blue powder.
Sarah had kept her stockings, standing against the large panes, with only the roaming lights of the scenic boats on the Seine.
Victor wore a black, tight fitted, wool and silk suit with a white silk tee shirt; he unzipped his fly, brought out his unmistakable dick and asked me to suck him, pushing a cushion for my knees, I did my best while Sarah came near so he kissed her.
Some fuss grew behind a door, evening dressed people burst in and cheered at Victor, who introduced us two while a typical orgy maid, wearing black stockings, hi heels and a mere apron, brought coffee on the wide grey leather ottoman. The guests kissed us and slid hands overtly in our crotch; a couple of chic middle-age characters pushed Sarah to a leather bed and the lady pushed her tongue in her mouth while the man licked her.
Victor called for attention and pushed a black lacquered cart on which stood only another new jeweled box beset with aquamarines; as he opened it with keen precautions, it started playing its tiny music. He asked me to go first snorting the blue powder, reminding me that it was potent.
It dizzied my brains and I happily fell into someone’s hands and gluttonous kiss. Victor brought Sarah to the powder and helped her, saying two spoons would be a hefty lot, but worth it.

Victor had fetched a shiny gold object and put it in a place without carpet on the floor boards, it was a penis, he told us it had been molded on his own and cast in massive gold; he said we could not guess how heavy it was, and asked me to lift it with my vagina, he would give it to me if I could pick it up. Already in euphoria, I went to it and slid it in me, it was indeed heavy; I tried to lift it, insisted, so it seemed obvious and I believed my vagina to be muscular enough, but eventually all i obtained was an orgasm, plain and frank. He invited the maid, who tried with her arse but could no better, so he concluded that gold being much denser than lead, no pussy could get a hold of the thing; he replaced it by its platinum twin and asked Sarah to step over it, which she did and engulfed the whole 25 cm and got it that the piece wouldn’t budge, so she rammed herself to climax beautifully and left the ingot drenched; the relative density of platinum is 23.5, that of gold is 19.6.
Victor was now in Sarah’s kitty, playing gold. A gentle woman in a couture suit and jabot blouse held me on her lap while her fully clothed partner licked conscientiously my arsehole; she caressed my face and my hair, as the man overturned me to fuck me, I snuck my hand up to her wet twat and fingered her as she said nothing and rounded her eyes. He was a fast shooter, she straightened her pose, keeping an eye in mine while I wiped myself slowly.
Three nude young cavaliers entered, and we irresistibly sniggered when recognising our old mate Fulgence, his familiar dong upwards and so it was for my booty hole, but not without ointment, Mr Rotor, he buggered me like a horse, to the admiration of the still plain-clothed guests. His acolytes were here for that, they humped the maid, a brave little blonde girl with a snub nose and grapefruit boobs, both ways, and one dressed gentleman used her mouth, too.

Fulgence Rotor was the one alpha male I would condone in our affinity group at the Beaux Arts. He is physically statuesque, with an indefatigable, bent-up dick that will rifle through your womb like a saber in a straw bale, leaving you stupefied of your own guts. Unlike Sarah, who froze rapports at first because she sensed the chaos-monger she wasn’t willing to harbour, as a wise libertine, recovering from an ugly intimate crash.
Fulgence had been a thrilling over-thrust, a few times, on the slope where Annie Loyseau loomed, so as to confirm that Sarah had seen right. Now he was telling me that he had been the unbeknown conduit that brought Victor to approach me, during that art performance where he had known I would attend, in all available worldly sluttiness, my word.
He smelled his own lava mix of Peru and Zanzibar, it would seed its gems of grit into my lower back beacon, we roved through the maze Victor has laid in search of a bed. Like in an action game turned real, corridors and tunnels lit up, doors were locked, others offered more corridors and we found shelter in the vermilion glow of a high hall offering a velvet divan, in front of a bigger than life elephant, bejewelled with all manners of bling, like an apparition of Ganesh into a gold-sprinkled black lacquered box, taking up four fifth of the air, watching us licking our arse holes.
We would be tripping for hours upon the spadeful of powder we had thrown into our skulls; he reveled like a mad puppy, I was all dispensable and easy, after repeated orgasms, he brought me to annihilation, stupor, bliss.

Snuggled inside a deep garnet rose,I can see the town capsize over slowly in a star field. I lull a baby upon my belly, its hair is pearly like Xmas ornaments, I wonder how I will feed it, but for now it cuddles me, eyes closed. Crystal sail ships fly through the night, stippling twinkling lines and figures and birds hover in their masts, as the city and the whole planet pull away. The soft petals around me falter away one by one, in my arms, I now hold a stone-green tortoise that is trying to lay eggs into my wet pod. I swim back away from it, to the luminous balls in which the children chase each other with clear calls, like Midsommernachts under the moon, on the beach with Simon. He draws me to the shore, his prick in erection, and means we can do what we want in the water. We embrace totally, he tastes of vanilla, he dares me to let him in. In his eyes the stars take colours and the moon pulses like I feel in my cherished slit. We sing, Onkel Achim swims by, we can’t hear what he says because his head is under the water most of the time, we sing louder, Simon ejaculates and I come, too. He pulls me under, showing a blue submarine with searchlights and guns and nazi flags; it doesn’t move, its gills wave. Simon holds me at the waist and rubs his nose on mine, Onkle Achim swims to us and shows the surface, we shake our heads. Deeper, there is an amusement fair, crowded with dark blue fish and water babies chasing them. On the merry-go-round, Cynthia laughs, stretching her legs, showing her daguer. We fool around together so they partake me in a well of bubbles, bustling in my neck and hardening my nipples as fish bite my toes. The submarine swims up and his enormous periwinkle eye glares at us with its tiny frenetic pupil. It contorts itself and opens a luminous mouth in what we fall on spongy tongues and frolic, at Cynthia’s will. A gang of rosy seals bump us around to a pearlescent tunnel through which we are thrown up in the crumpled sheets and I catch my breath, and kiss another girl, and recognise Beryl, grown up Beryl with the same candid smile.

She had brought tea, she knew, I was laying in a dawn room, with air light as childhood hopes, she was a fully grown decided girl, and caressed me, as if she needed to reassure herself that I was. She let her hazy night gown slip and embraced me. We cried. She sobbed that Victor had thought I was dead, that something or somebody had killed me. When I reappeared, he asked her to come over and see me wake, bring me closure on bygone errors, boast what she has become; she is currently mastering in modern literature at the Sorbonne, mind you, her mother is overjoyed about her, so is Victor, the big bad wolf.
I couldn’t help yawn, stretch and grope her. She asked who was the slender tomboy with Victor? She remembered Sarah very well, she liked that we were still together. I summarised the ugly months gap when the brave little cadet had rescued the lecherous tramp headed for perdition. I never mentioned Annie.
She pulled me by the hand into the labyrinth to a sort of control room, with many screens, on one of which she showed a bed, in night vision, where Sarah laid alongside a hairy Victor, both fast asleep. They might have watched Fulgence and me catapulting our spirits and fluids in supercharged mode, I asked Beryl if the system records, she said she didn’t know, it is operated from Victor’s main desk.
She smelled of mandarine and roses, like a demoiselle; I felt a tad sluttish again, I asked her to find us a bed; she retorted we might join the sleepers.

We found Sarah alone in the large bed, tangled up in light tatters of vanishing sleep, her hands on her crotch. She stretched and took a thin voice to wish for a shower, and so we helped. At first, she did not parse about Beryl’s presence, but we headed for the grand kitchen in merry company. There was tea, fruit and kisses, Victor was anywhere, hunting in the cyberspace, I knew the groove, a lady in black brought us our dispersed outfits, neatly gathered on a hangers trolley, along with a black lacquered box of which I knew what it contained. Beryl slipped a short indigo trapeze dress on, a grey camouflage parka and black sneakers, bare legs and white panties; with aviator shades under her chestnut fringe, she smiled like a celebrity on the move.
While hugging Sarah and rubbing her happy loins, whispering lewd compliments in her ears, I was musing about introducing Beryl to Natalia and possibly our other young hinds, if only to talk them into safe paths. As she was bewitched by our delicate slippers, I asked the chauffeur to stop at the new Stubbs & Wootton shop so as to spoil her tanned legs; she walked out with a few galaxies at her tiptoes.
She sat on our couch with an art book about Christian d’Orgeix that Gauthier had left; a few times I stared at her panties and she noticed. Sarah brewed a pot of “Long Red Gown” oolong.

Sarah says:

Salad night at our perch, young peppery shoots in olive oil with balsamic sweet vinegar, croutons, soft boiled eggs, saffron monkfish slices, and grilled cashews. From “Danske Leverancer”, with care, in separate cardboard boxes.
Hugo was touched by Beryl’s knees, who was also touched by Natalia’s bare feet and tights. We recounted most of our bawdiness of the night before, to the amusement of Beryl and the scrutiny of Natalia who wasn’t all sure.
Later, when I saw Hugo’s hand on the bare crotch of Beryl, I caught the younger one’s toes and made my way up; when she proudly showed her butt and all, we crashed into the couch across and watched them; Kate reached Natalia’s mouth.
After the first burst, I talked so as the schoolgirls found common topics, sat next to one another and Beryl found the tone to entice the damsel to the bathroom, where they helped mutually to wash and more.
Hugo was overjoyed with the new faces, and he had not yet met Anzy; when he left us, contented, the four of us gathered in our bed and talked further and yet again. Our students took complicit dates, we lulled them in our midst.

I received a message from Louis in the morning, eager to meet my girlfriend that night, I was not late to answer that he would await for us at twenty-one.
Handwork went smoothly in the day, under swarms of harmonies and tinkles out of the cybershere. Kate foresaw a weird carnal carrousel and expected lewd mayhem from my description of Hector, his mighty manhood and his magical pastries. We focused on our outfits, I opted for easy dresses, with a touch of lacy perversion, I dithered about bawdy open pants but reckoned that it were the patron’s choice when we should wear costumes? I had a silk crepe, navy, Peter Pan collar dress, with cute white trimmings and collar, short sleeves, that would fly off at the slightest whim; high shy white stockings and black ballerinas, on top of what an ample black hammered cotton capuchon. Kate chose a multi layers willow green jupon dress, short socks and black varnished Mary-Jane sandals, under a light-turquoise raincoat. I put a thin, beaded, black and dark iridescent blue dog-collar.
At seven, we started to doll ourselves up, make-up our eyes, paint our nails, black for me, Veronese green for her. I put on perfume of dazed jasmine and clove, she put some foolish wisteria, all the way to her butt crack. The driver would be stunned.

Hector was waiting for us at the street door, he showed us the way, after a formal salute. Louis wore a classic evening jacket with satin lapels, black crepe trousers and black braided boots. Only his salmon-pink silk shirt with a Nehru collar did that he did not look too mortuary. He kissed me on the mouth and turned to Kate, who granted him a craftily manufactured ingenuous look. He seized her hand and played with it on his mouth while he was already frisking between my legs. He drew us side by side and asked us to show how close we were, which was an easy prologue and set us underway as we were becoming seasoned trollops. Hector brought the tea tray and stood, in a powder blue modern livery. Louis told him to take our coats. As we drank his miraculously suave beverage from paper-thin cups ornate with obscene illustrations, he uncovered Kate’s butt and fingered her as she swayed her hips. One button, and her dress fell at her feet. I put my cup down so Hector, who had already knocked me over many times a few days before, helped me loose my frock. He served more tea. Then, Louis pushed us by the butt towards the brothel’s laboratory, enthralled by Kate’s mouth and using it. He laid her down on a padded bench with a recess for her head and Hector turned a wheel to lower it and make her mouth level with Louis’ shaft, which he started to offer to her tongue first. He told me to lick her on the other side as Hector had deployed two devices to hold her legs up, I would be seated on the reverse chair. She did well, he was stiff as a billy goat.

Hector was now calmly sliding our stockings off, picking our shoes; he offered us more tea, while Louis had vanished through some shady recess, I knew why. He came back buck naked, proud as a war ship, and cajoled us towards his golden rotunda for the water follies. Kate realised that my tale was authentic, and played like an otter, pissing on Louis brandished spear, injecting my butthole a few times and offering hers. This time he rubbed us with a lotion of neroli which he said tasted as good as it smelled. He led us to an emerald green room where were hung five mesmerising drawings by Hans Bellmer on fragile paper, framed in malachite under beveled crystal panes. We had leisure to watch the masterpieces, two of which on criss-cross sheets torn from notebooks.
The shamanic dance of inexorable spirals around the obsessive hole in a stretched butt, near a mean wandering hand, an eye in disguise. I suddenly feel deep Unica Zürn, as if we, “pure psychic automatism” marauders, my blood-sister and I, braved the last big jump. This gigantic wizard holds the unmatched pencil, honed to perfection under the razor blade, possesses her deliberate entrails so as to shape the eternal doll in preternatural overthrow of language, as if beyond the bland two-dimensional grid of frail blue lines bloomed in dehiscence the unhinged urges of animal species’ short-circuits.
I can close my logorrea onto my sister’s lips, and feel the mastery sleight of hand dress my avenues with slippery goo, the all-tangible pounding in my womb like the giant bell humming in wait for the flight of doves.
There on the cypress-green field of the stage-bed, we could not have escaped gravity, mingle ourselves as totally as Bellmer still summoned us to. Kate panted, Hector was encroaching in her holy tripes with might and obstination, she searched his beat through her breath next to mine, the assailors’ practice at the swordplay ascended in our spines with carnal pulses of sparkles, the two men’s flow exploded in the same blink and lasted till elated void.

There’s a raw fleshly relish in carnal expenses’ aftermaths, beastly smells, under which perfumes lay trashed, but new sweats withhold the truth of accomplishment, the back trail of desire, for worse or best.
The men carried us back to the dawn-like springs for rinsing, Hector still in good shape, as Kate grasped, before she was taken up by Louis to a colourful Divan room scraped from a defunct Moroccan maison close, of the protectorate era. Hector and me, after he took a small turn in my back yard, followed to the richly decorated room, surrounded by slim alabaster columns, behind which a mural painting depicted orgy scenes with slaves of different shades. Hector laid me on the all-round couch upholstered in Turkish lampas threaded of gold and silver; he fetched a small octagon table inlaid with nacre and silver on which were displayed chocolates and candies. As he went again ravenous for my lower belly, I mused out loud that these were laced with drugs, to what Louis agreed matter-of-factly, smiling at me, as in “I know you snitched”. Reaching for Kate’s thigh, while Hector tentatively humped me from behind, I briefly retold the cannabis adventure I had flown through during the previous session, it was nothing more, and besides, Louis was part of the Hellfire Club, for that matter, he wasn’t about abducting us. The men ate one each, I queried the gazes around, found Kate’s consent and Louis’ good faith; I chose a chocolate with a candied violet on it, and munched it, it tasted of sugary almonds, a tad cloying.

This time, I knew what to expect, I wrested out to Kate’s arms to let our eager pulses beat in unison, while our fanciful patron, Louis, took fun at kissing our heads. As Hector insinuated a tongue into my butt crack, my spine was wheedled up in a snake dance to what Kate answered in her belly. Beautified, in a fluid embrace, we offered our entertaining little bud vases to the exigency of the hairy priers intensely meticulous in their efforts.
The intricate coffered ceiling, painstakingly ornate with Moorish patterns, shuddered along with my chest in a wavy moan entwined in Kate’s. My servant whiffled tickling puffs in my neck, causing me to let my entrails flourish around his stubborn spear, for a long forthcoming bliss. He unleashed, and I heard an echo from my sister fairy, who swooned.
Inside my present mood, the sight of swirling arabesques naturally fused with the previous rutting of the fierce riders, the visions of Bellmer’s infinite embraces, and my intimate dive in Unica’s notebooks. The perpetual motive of convulsive vulvas and eyelids, sprinkled with meaningful minutiae and lacy words, swamped over the skin of my most significant muse.
Time was unbound, I was concerned not to let my arse drip over the precious micro mosaics and embroideries, so I slithered upon my funny hands and knees towards the golden wells, asking for rain. Kate had wiped herself in a random kerchief, but felt like splashing around again like an wonder otter.
Decidedly, we had to revive the male prides by ways of our mouths and other drolleries, inasmuch we did not too constantly drifted off course. The Alpha, and his minion, whom, in open nature, would have serviced the whole herd, jolted us to a hazy-blue pillows stash with music, or so it felt.

Clung together like drowning, Kate and I had fits of giggles with the animal tamers; they watched us fuse our souls in the heavenly scents of fairyland and glutted their every urges out of our dances. Hector was again insatiable, when Louis sought telepathic brainwaves and womb currents, whatever incantations to our inner follies beyond pleasure.
Hector was awfully skilled with his maypole that we forgot our reason, and Louis came to drink our tears of delight. I absconded behind my eyelids for the parade of pearly blooms and beaded palms, greeted by my own timeless genies, squirrels in the boxwoods and twiggy elves in white socks, long boats on the lake with only us, raspberry tinted lips meeting my own pale fragile offerings.
Slowly tossed about in the bales of hospitable linens, I sank in millefiori of granted affections, little girl in a short white dress flat on her stomach on long boards of sunlight as the sea breathes through the open windows and no draft will ever slam them. Barefoot on the lawn chased by the hedgehogs who look so candid when they run. Later in life, drenched in the rosy sunlight on the terrace in front of the dead chimneys for the angels to rest, says my Far holding my feet as I will doze in the armchair.
Kate showed that smile of hers, from the indistinct realm of dunes, the wild armfuls of light and the blurry blasts of wind. She was nested with the sacred swans of the Alstermeer, which let her closer, by magical derogation, with Simon whom she had broken in a grey freeze-frame.
Defuse, sweet soul, breathe back with colours! Louis had grasped the torment happening and massaged her cranium on his crossed legs, I did her all the carnal treats I knew for her, Hector spread her legs and busied his mouth in her till she swayed and responded and took Louis’ slumped dick in her mouth and earned him resurgence, to what I joined, festooning with the tip of my tong all over his testicles. My best slut of a soul-sister was back on saddle, Hector deep in her. Louis sat me on his renewed ardour and drilled me hard as Kate licked our arses madly.

The high moods were withering away, Hector had fled and Louis half-slumbered with a wholehearted smile. We found the way to the golden springs and peed on each other in the shower with exhausted laughs. Naked through the hall of contraptions, we reached the entrance salon, knowing nothing better than to dress. Our clothes had been of course tidied, we took time and yawned a lot. Louis appeared in a black satin gown that made him look like Lord Byron; he wanted a last hug and kneaded our butts, kissing Kate’s face keenly, begging us to return. I felt the thick wad in my pocket.
Hector wore a black town-suit when he lead us to the car and opened the door. He drove otherworldly the silent car, saying to me there had been two of us this time, but he could yet again shake us, all wet. Once alone, I slid my hand in Kate’s clothes and found another bunch of bills, we were getting stealthily rich. Natalia had found some other teddy heart to cuddle in.

Later, in the pearly wee hours, drawn from the kaleidoscopic dew in a Swiss orchard where some dear pals had pulled their shorts down, I raised to conscience that Kate was unhappy on her own, sobbing in her sleep. We both unwound from the psychic trip we had experienced, and it certainly wasn’t novelty to us; apparently, some unseen grain of sand had derailed her stream of invention towards the dire straits in her past, albeit the oversewing work daintly operated by Doctor Schubert and the labor of time should have healed her bruised soul.
I promised myself to ask her to spit it out to me, if she will, in the morning, or come along to Dr Méant’s with me? I lulled her as good as I knew, she eventually dived back into graceful flows, and I joined her.
At the unsurprisingly late breakfast, I seized her idle hands and told my reading of her night’s fears, regardless of the number of humpings she had stood up too, rewardingly, as it seemed. She smiled meekly and caressed her twat with a satisfied nod, but she recounted the distressing tatters of bugbears that had haunted through her slumbers, unforeseen, sharply concerning Simon, bringing back hellish strains in her chest.
I petted her along the nerves, as I figured them, also convinced her to ask Simon if he would come and see her for some soul-searching on memory lane. They exchanged all day, apart from me, as if her brother had already sussed the spell out.
At one point, she asked me if I would welcome Simon home, she grasped my heartfelt relief and added that she would let me enjoy a piece of him, since we were to lay in the same bed. The rest of the day was beautifully alleviated, there would be an all-girls night at Camille’s, with Beryl.

The night had been a diaphanous midsummer beehive, at Camille’s. She was overjoyed, dishing up all these flat tummies and podgy pussies with regal sushis, in a heady garden of lustful scents and the undertones of pleasure. She had a crush on Beryl, who wouldn’t let go of Natalia, who kept an eye on Enzy in our keen midst, who liked the casual abandon of Fanny. I clasped my claws a little further on Enzy’s heart, while inviting Kate on her; this gawky one will thrive among the gallery crew, she’s unfolding from her chrysalis, her skin is silky.
Beryl ended on Natalia’s perch; we dared not kidnap yet Enzy for a night; now Simon was en route.
He had been sailing around Rügen,his short hair had gone blond, at the collar of his tee-shirt, some white skin line would show, randomly. He cracked a wholesome smile, embraced Kate who was about to cry like a fool. She offloaded frankly the angst that had coiled into her mind, acknowledging that some substance might have ripped her rivets off; in any case, she felt all rekindled touching him, kissing him. She remained clung to his mighty shoulders, they really had the same eyes, except hers were misty.
He was proud to let us see his scars, which had been regularly treated with micro-abrasion; I could not help stroking them, he was becoming muscular, athletic, all the more desirable. His minor regret was that in the summer dunes, buck naked in the free light, they would reappear like a photograph in the developing bath, because scars don’t tan.
He wanted one of the fashionable Danish salads, and ginger kombucha, I stole his shoes and socks first. He gave a hazy report of his becoming into the Fraunhofer galaxy, letting shine his pride to have surpassed their father in skills, Kate’s hand was on his tense fly.

Because she was hungry no more, at least not of vegetables, she soughed their small potamus routine, to what he responded, letting her strike the “Washington” signal. She was cool enough not to ditch me already, as they undressed fast, we wore shirts and leggings, he wore white jeans, we danced together to the bed. He was starved, he ransacked both our bodies at once, but shagging his sister deep, first. I had my turn in due time, and again, till we needed a recess and running waters.
As we gathered at the dining table for a fresh drink, the two schoolgirls, who might not have known Simon was visiting, –and anyway, didn’t Natalia creep in anytime?– walked in, like daisies, merely wearing oversized tee-shirts and white knickers, and peeped on Simon, a tad befuddled.
Beryl is a crafty little slut, she reached out to the sailor, making faces not to look at his dick; Natalia is still some kind of a virgin, but she acted like the brave little house girl, the way she knew would arouse everybody, until I wrapped her in my arms and frankly groped her breasts. We made the presentations, Kate and me on the lookout for the moment when they would catch who Simon is. Beryl was rightfully first to understand, she was seasoned enough to steer clear, unabashedly; Natalia, who had parsed the attitudes, prettily stepped into the matter and dared ask, so she got the truth, as naked as we were, and did not know better than begging me for one of our usual kisses, so the good mood resettled.
So, that was that, we made some tea and lounged on our couches, Simon keeping an eye on the frail white not so innocent knickers. Beryl had more or less claimed property on Kate, who had her hands under her shirt, tempted to slip it up and share with her brother, Natalia was nosing me like she did almost every night, I took her rags off and rubbed her satin smooth body so as she stretched like a kitten. Simon ventured compliments on my little toy doll, seized our feet and shuffled them, meanwhile Kate undressed the very consenting Beryl and made her undulate upon her body, she dared Simon to pound them, between kisses. He felt enabled to risk his hands on Beryl’s buttocks and loins, he bent to gather some tongue petals.

Katherine says:

My Simon. He came up as if it was the best idea in his life, reliable and openhearted, my all-German hard-wired engineer, with the same live putz, up for play. I feel that he likes our steady pair and the sweet-smelling web of affection we live in, although he would like to see more of us in Kreuzberg and Kampen. He is even hankering after taking over the Alstermeer villa, if Mother was to retire somewhere near the Bodensee. He says that she grieves of my shunning her, that she wasn’t aware of my becoming at the time after the accident, and that weighs on her heart. He says she has been keen to him, and however she knows more or less our lifestyle details, without judging, as much as he can parse from her comments. I fancy that I would invite her to our next hanging in Camille’s gallery, so she could step into our magic pond and test the waters, as I see her. Our father is also ready to give us the house in Kampen, a hefty charge, if we will, and he would like that; he is ready to settle as a real well-off Hamburger who puts his Porsche on the train on Fridays and sails the whimsical northern winds, or shags us aboard, as whatever lazy-jacks secure the boat, on sunny days. Sarah loves to get laid on high seas, and he is smitten with her, too.

Notwithstanding, Sarah crafted a courtly dinner at Hugo’s with the two students, so as to let Simon an me, head to head, if that was the word. She did not appear before the next morning.
All the way in Washington, we recapped again, from whatever had hit me from the deep in Louis’ pillows; psychedelia dreads of half-baked harrowing tales, obviously I still dragged along my guilt like a torn fishnet caught in my propeller, and since he was the living cause of that blame, I would beseech him to vindicate my befuddled soul, again.
Like old days, eye to eye and bare-butted, we raved wholeheartedly in our language, letting stealth bits of the rich narrative find their righteous perches.
Irregardless of the life plans he had laid before pertaining a posh standard of living in Hambourg, he confided eventually that he was not happy at all; since his body had been defaced, he was distraught towards girls or else, and ended most of the time masturbating while fantasising me and what he knew of my life.
When he had been pulled out of the coma, stitched and sewn over, he had wondered of my whereabouts, but by the time he could question Mother I had already fled and they did not grasp that I were in Berlin; he had only been terrified of what I could do to myself. He never had bitter thoughts on me, but when they learned where I had been washed up, unaware of Sarah’s and Hugo’s searches, he was already in deep depression because of his shattered pelt.
I remained dumbfounded, he was drained by his release of the real ordeal he had lived through, I began to mull over what kind of therapy regular visits with us could bring him, Sarah, too, would undoubtedly devote herself and others to that kind of salvation.

We were clean as the beach at dawn, we smelled of the angelica foam of the soap I had used on him, too. His eyes were calling for some redemption and that’s what they received in the ways we had crafted by ourselves. I sucked him up dedicatedly while he handled my crotch full strength, till he toppled me over and slid the perfect gauge in my cunt, in the same timeless manner we knew. Effortlessly, we came together.
Soon unwound, we silently congratulate each other and drink kombucha, he wants me to tell the details of our debaucheries, so while he plays with my feet, he gets plenty. He wonders if we have time left for working, I brag we do not have much else to do apart from work and fuck. I propose we climb to the studio, so he will make sure we did not turn full time whores.
Up here, he likes our exploits, especially when we traded hands, which might spook the collectors, but not Louis. He likes the room and infers that we would have no reason to wish we lived elsewhere. He’s sprung up again and draws me to the couch for an eager kiss, he says in my neck that he wants my tiny burrow with jelly and he is overjoyed to observe that we have some at the work place; I claim that some of our patrons have irrepressible whims that we wish not to frustrate, as he can assess then.
He keeps buggering me, for some long while, he has gained in strength and kept his young drive, he makes me turn my back on all fours and chose the depth and rhythm as he masturbates my nub in circles, I will peak as soon as he discharges, and he collapses, moaning and smiling.

Raddled but gratified, we sip a last cup before we huddle under the quilt with music around. Later, one has subtly slithered to Simon’s side, rubbed one’s chest upon his back, picked daintly the morning pride, and handled slily the foreskin over the glans, as steadily as one may, until one half-rapes the sleeper by straddling over. I do not wish to wake fully, but I want to pay tribute to her dear arse with wigwag fingers, and let be.
Sarah is fussily caring of us, she has bought croissants, toasts and marmalades, she begs for mock pardon and garners a sugary kiss. She fires up her vivid blue eyes towards Simon as if she had sensed his hidden unease, she grasps the untold and makes no more pass, alleviates all tensions, reaches for my hand, asks whatever she might come to know about, inhales the steam of her tea.
She has understood; a scarf of reflected gold sunlight dons her lissom body, she still plays footsie with Simon, but is it not the very matter we mull over? She decidedly agreed that a few more visits would loosen up his unease, so to speak, and she heartfully applies for a position in the plan, all the more if that were along with me. After what she gleaned that morning, she is gallant and reaps many smiles, we shake our languor and slip on fresh togs, with grace when she pulls up the tights on her crotch in front of him. He whistles at our new slippers. Today we bring our tray upstairs.

Simon slid on an antique white shirt of Sarah’s collections and remained in his trunks; he had not foreseen to stay longer than this hectic day, but was now willing to meet girls at Camille’s tonight, on Sarah’s sly prompting.
Meanwhile, I fetched some folding table for his computer, as he could not skip one more day in the cloud. Our hazy music did not bother him, he shifted his eyes to introvert mode, just like Kate would in a matter of minutes, and ran his fingers on the silent machine.
With pauses for tea and grazing some student mix of nuts and raisins, the day whizzed by in abstract concerns, secretly holding our horses until evening. When time came, we twiddled our buttons in the shower, all the same, eager to carouse, a tad. I chose a black tank dress flared wide enough to be readily pulled over, and buckskin slippers; Sarah swirled in a black Liberty Lawn shirt dress, strewn with myosotis, elbow-long sleeves, a short pied Afghan vest scattered with inlaid mirrors, and black repettos. We walked to Dalila’s for stuffed dates and other tiny fabrications in nuts and honey.
The trio was irresistible, bare-feet, mini-dresses black for Anzy, azure for Fanny, and gold for Camille, they smelled of jaunty wild bushes at sunset, Anzy had let Camille style her hair with a side parting, she wore a few Celtic silver rings on her long hands and an ankle bracelet that caught the attention to her also long, sensual, feet. Fanny shone all by herself in a fair-weather blue bell dress, candid and available like the day she entrapped me in Venice, her eyes had been finely lined with a striking effect, she also might wear some blush. Camille donned a high-waisted dress flared from her breasts in foulard-patterned turquoise and gold twill, with a turquoise choker necklace, wrist and ankle bracelets; she beamed like some sort of northern fairy would would have bewitched a couple of lost maidens inside an opulent brothel.

Simon craved these bustling pussies under their corollas, he showed an obvious bump in his white pants. Kate had lent him a cypress green moleskine jacket with badges of Papua New Guinea. He tentatively sat in a wide armchair, only to see Anzy land on the left rest. She had heard of him last night, she played remarkably clever, he felt like making a pass at her, she did not shy off.
Sarah was already up in Camille’s bare legs and hips, like old times, untainted story. I hustled Fanny down on a couch, she was always so willing, her eyes ready to sway aside, she scented of honeysuckle and apple flower, had no underwear; I twirled my pointed tongue over her belly, to make her slink and moan, in her poignant wild mind, she would see me as her saviour, as randomly as it had happened.
Simon conquered all he wished, Anzy’s butt was round and white and consenting, he pulled the dress off, she checked his eyes for an idea of what she inspired, he swallowed her labia and rummaged to ferret out her pretty bud.
Seing that all others were handsomely engaged in plain lubricity, he undressed, wary of Ansy’s reaction to his body; it happened that she had been warned already, and she judged the damage was more of the sexy kind, she gently kissed a scar on his chest and spread her legs widely. When they collapsed in their embers, we were all wanting a piece of that. She clung to his neck as if she were in love.

Anzy wanted the bathroom, and Simon followed her; we decided to rest our throes and feast, Sarah played the house girl she had been just before she slipped herself into my bed at Hugo’s, and eventually rescued me from a shady path; she went to the kitchen. Camille joined us on the couch and inhaled our tepid fragrances into the gap between our clenched bodies, she savoured, like a connoisseur of rare peonies in a meticulously tended garden.
Sarah had brewed tea in the biggest pumpkin shaped yiking pot, she brought platters of nifty canapés and the sweet confectioneries from Dalila’s. The elated pair, who came back with a whiff of white scents from the shower, and a still brazen nob to share, smiled and eluded our stares. The thin Anzy shimmied more girlishly than she would have thought, she obviously craved cock.
I fussed into my brother’s hair while I read bliss in Ansy’s lowered gaze, my hunch had been fulfilled so that he would at least gain some heartwarming, unexpected clemency spell, beside our luminous bond, for the while. Was it not the reward for having flown readily to my side when I said my threads felt ripped?
Sarah wanted a taste of Fanny’s sweetened lips, and then some. Four girls mingled on the couch opposite the one where the smitten ones kept to themselves and shagged, again. On this side, Fanny’s candid bum crack swaggered for attention and reaped wee bits of tongue strokes; Camille fiddled with Sarah’s long limber legs.

Camille had been shrewd enough to let Simon and his catch (or was it the other way?), sleep in one of her bedrooms, coveting a share of their overflowing revel, on occasion. Fanny also laid eyes on the springing dick in the house, both events were bound to happen, if Ansy had grasped the streams of current in our neighbourhood.
At home, all evidence showed a possible new romance in the upper floors, Natalia was no longer our nightly pet, Beryl would soon recount their fling. I wished to give time to Simon’s good fortune, would he be able to rapture Ansy to his northern estates, if only to rebuild his once glib assertiveness?
But then it seems his future shines upthere, and I doubt she speaks German; here I go, weaving their bedazzled lives, whenas only one night has burned, yet.

Simon came back from Camille’s alone, Ansy had somewhat flinched, or he had not known better, they would meet again, or not. Then Natalia and Beryl turned up, arm in arm, and stood charmed by our likeness; my bidding went on Beryl, because I read her crafty looks. She neither paid attention to the scar that showed on his neck, she acted as she were in Hugo’s, she frolicked for him the feline way, while I bent Natalia backwards, she smelled of mint
Along the small talk, I did my best to show him that, again, it was free buffet. Beryl laid her hand on his crotch, and grasped what was there, cunningly; no sooner had he left Ansy’s lips that he measured up to those of a masterful she-devil for the game of it.
Sarah emerged, unaware, grinned interrogatively, then sided alongside our best phantom and slid her hand.
Dumbfounded, Simon let himself drawn by the overjoyed imp to our bedroom and we heard the swish of clothes unbound, the wet flits of petting further, the soft moanings. Natalia was aroused for two, we let be of Simon recovering his lust and pride, we undressed her and she stripped our tights, poking around like an otter in the stream.

Sarah says:

Simon is, at heart, as unfettered as his sister, but his mind is all set on hard reality, all the more since his fanciful all-time lover brought him, unforeseeably, to near dismemberment, my word. He has parsed our private planet and reckoned it is delicious, all the more to a nerd like him. He will soon be back at Ansy’s cherry arse, and eventually steal her, taking her away to the dunes.
Time was set for our joint show at Camille’s gallery, it felt like some lunar wedding, we raved on it, I wanted my Far, my Saint Loup family, most of all my little whore, and I would ask Far to inquire about Julia Grant, what became of her exceptional personality. It also meant that Hugo and his club would attend in full, giving us shivers.
Apropos of thrills, we returned to Victor’s headquarters, with Beryl, and he promised we would meet Fulgence again. We had another turn in the outrageously sensuous berline, to a meeting roundabout in a suburban forest where we misbehaved while Beryl sucked him on the front seats. Back to the château, after a binge of blue powder, we were given to masked dark-skinned executioners, I found myself chained to the wall in a mute black room, wearing a leather helmet with pinhole goggles, letting my mouth available, serving all my holes to a number of warm bodies, cumming endlessly until I fainted.
Internally panting, I waked on cerulean sheets, tied to the bed, face down, legs spread. Some skilled hand was my innards with mellow cream, easing the way for those who ransacked my well, more gallantly this time, after the hungry herd, older, it felt.
I was carried to a warm marble hammam, together with Kate and Beryl, who had sustained the same devastation and slumbered, like me. Fulgence entered and kissed us with pertness, mocking our languid mood, anointing our swollen cunt and arse with lotus. Beryl wondered, Victor would not let her enter such games but had told her where she could find us, after enjoying her tight body.
The steam room, alternately with cold showers, rekindled our bones, eased our muscles, and restore suppleness to our pleasure sources. Fulgence, who once was a rough dog, showed dexterity and patience, wiped us and led us to a vast hall under a luminous ceiling of subdued aquamarine tone.
An array of moss green terry cloth seats and benches waited in the center, with a few welcome crystal faceted ewers and highballs on ebony pedestal tables; I wondered if I had relieved myself at any moment, he showed us an oversized bell button, a young, absent looking curly maid, in black lace over a black dress, brought a large silver vase and waited.
He disposed us comfortably at his fancy and turned around our group, penetrating wherever he felt like, more often into Beryl’s untrained butthole; we cuddled each other while he ran his random want, eventually, he came intensely deep into Beryl’s loins and huffed.
He wanted to profit the very most of us, like one who knows he will have to return the keys, but soon he was humping sleeping beauties.
In what might have been morning, the hall was daylighted, and on one side a wall had slid aside, opening the view of a lush winter garden of dark green velvet, gleaming of silver crystals under silent storm skies, which must have been cast on large seamless screens.
Beryl was struck, she had not known this room, a scent of musky cypress exhaled from it, and a tea tray awaited on the deep green structured carpeting. Not all convinced our sleep was finished, we drank in platinum-trimmed porcelain and wondered where the loo was.

There was a regal bathroom, with a round white marble pool large enough for us three, overflowing warm water waiting for us; we straddled over and sat on sleek benches, massaging each other’s feet. Thereafter, we checked the washbasins and found new wrapped toothbrushes, lotions and hairbrushes. Beryl shared with me and stared at my eyes, she begged for a real kiss and fingered me. Once fit to fly, we found Fulgence in the garden, in a bespoke black vested silk suit, along with the maid who pushed a silver coat rack with our clothes and shoes. She had been wearing an Ikat kaftan emerald and carmine on white, and emerald stockings and court sandals. Beryl wore a short turquoise bell dress, white stockings and ballerines. I wore a delft blue, fit and flare, opened dress, matching blue stockings and posh slippers with silver snakes embroidered.
Fulgence revelled in watching us dress, Kate seized his hardened prick and muttered dirty words in his ear. He looked now like a fashion model, with dark curls, strong jaws, aquiline nose, square shoulders and a steady pose, his mouth was together firm and generous, and he could kiss like a girl. Under the thick prominent brows, he kept his moss-green eyes squinted.
It was another car, silver ice white and tinted glass. He called Beryl in front and asked her to show her sanctum once more, that she did with her pointed smirk. Fat mauve envelopes had been hidden in our dresses’ inner pockets.
Fulgence asked us to pull out our telephones and he sent his number in our contacts. He warned he would not call, but he said we could.

Since we slept away most of the day, we felt peppy at dinner time with Hugo, whom ever awaited our recounts of the turpitudes we would have thrown ourselves in, and moreover in the flesh. He had called for baskets of sophisticated salad and creamy relish pots from Hydroponics Inc. with an elderberry kombucha from Oued Ourika’s; soft-boiled eggs were homemade, and the seeds bread was from Roncin’s.
As often, he was taking notes, probably more to delay the part when he would better participate carnally to our reenacted quivers. He was curious as to the blue powder, which, in our know, was only a superior kind of cocaine, that would not trigger Kate’s angst. She concurred, and retold of her downfall, when other substances had been forced on her by Annie Loyseau; the blue powder was a powerful stimulant, an antidepressant and an aphrodisiac, so it left the body strained, spent. Louis’ space sweets were laced with refined THC, like a concentrate of soul dragons, desirable or evil, full size, unfettered; it had woken the wounds ingrained through her memory, beyond the healing, in the inarticulate chaos of the mind library, where the bland hours of her spineless addiction had been recorded. Nothing of the kind in the blue powder; it’s effect, though potent, did not tilt over the gravity node, only did it make easy to transgress one’s cultural behaviour, as if sluts like us needed that anyhow. I ventured we should try not to snort anything, next time, if there was any.
When we finished to nibble, we had also lost all clothes, he steered us towards the grand bed of maroon percale and thrust aside the quilt, so as we fell, embraced.

Katherine says:

Sarah has indeed kindly spilled my beans, now she’s all honey to my mouth, and we are such an outstanding couple, all by Hugo’s craft.
He is altogether proud of us, he likes saying it, he cuddles our butt cracks while we kiss. I plot another one of my whims, which dawned in my mind when Simon stayed with us. I know there is more space behind our bathroom, Hugo told me, once; wouldn’t it be neat to have another bedroom in our apartment? I venture my idea as my legs are wide apart, at his face; he annoys my bud a while, then comes up to my face and nods, saying that he sees. He explains that the space I speak of is his writing hideaway, and, besides, it would be impossible to access from our living room; but, possibly, he could arrange a room next to our studio, with his magic wand, while some other comes foraying into my kitty, and Sarah is openly laughing.
As a skilled courtesan, overjoyed by these news, I made him come in a few sways of my hips and contractions which make me come too, all in all, we too, are perfect lovers. I wish my Sarah exults, too, so I slide two fingers in her, and aim at her Gräfenberg spot, a sure mean to see her squirt, so then she devours Hugo’s mouth.
He has perfectly parsed what led to my demand, after Simon’s visit, he wonders why he would no more sleep with us, should we order a larger bed, if that exists? I say our bed is as big as his, and we are currently three on it; four would be uneasy, once the orgy appeased.
I tell him the moving encounter Simon did at Camille’s and what makes me wish I could buoy up my brother’s self-confidence. He likes the story, I can tell he will beat the waters till the new trout comes swimming in his pond, for a while.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

13 – Katherine Sophie – Show up, show down, show off.

Sarah says:

As the date of our emotional show at “L’Etoile Amusée” neared, the hustle and bustle about readying our pieces, asking Marie to photograph them, answering Camille’s messages about them, regarding the catalogue she was publishing, all this was surpassed by the worries as to the guest list. I did not go back to New York City days, the gap would have been too wide, but I strove hard at spreading the word in Saint Loup. Tudor Weiss, our art teacher, was at once keen to attend; we reminisced on Skype, and apart from a network of tiny wrinkles, he hadn’t changed that much. He was helpful in finding the coordinates of comrades in the art workshop. I would solicit the numbers for other species, of whom I kept precise recollections of, from Harmony’s desk.
I was assured of Ayla Naveen, I left messages for that little bunch of wide-eyed animals who had been with her in the dormitories. But I had no hunch about Julia Grant’s whereabouts, and I was beginning to fear something. It was my Far who ferreted out her track, or his intelligence relays; he explained that she bore another name, too implicated, but he had left my coordinates in a message, with enough credentials to be taken seriously, and so I only had to wait; he felt we had had enough intimacy to justify my search of her. He also told me that there was only a thin chance that my Mor would attend, for reasons I knew well.
As for Paris, Liselotte had caught fire and rummaged through her address books, in the hope it would lead her back in our pants, or more. I doubted that our work would earn us recognition from many Beaux Arts “anciens élèves”. I took a micro-sadistic pleasure telling her about Fulgence and us, while acknowledging that she was, however, worthy of his consideration. She suggested in return that we could solicit her good friends again, and she would concur, accordingly. I mused on the eventuality of bargaining my arse for some support, and in all sluttiness, I did not rule it out, yet.

I received a message from whom I will keep calling Julia Grant, she warmly affirmed her pleasure to be with us on the great day and possibly a little more; she had plenty to tell, to hear, and was eager to get to know my partner. She would call as soon as she were in Paris, she had kept a vivid remembrance of our Swiss days, she even mentioned the boxwoods.
Meanwhile, Liselotte had sensed my bawdiness as to selling some of me to Professor Y., set up an afternoon appointment, and she explained that Y. was indeed keen, he offered to shadow-write one review for each of my “visits”. She insisted that it was worthwhile, Y. could pull more strings in the media than I would ever want to know; besides, had he ever been overly vile to me? She did not think so. I yielded, with a little shudder in the chest, but I had experienced far worse, lately, if only for the vice of it.
We were expected at his formal office inside the school’s compound, which added some kink to the shenanigan, and I might run into some old acquaintances, on the way to fudge my integrity, if that bore any sense nowadays, when I could rationalise that whoring was pertaining to my art form. I dug out of the far end of our wardrobes a still fresh marine blue linen shirt-dress with white lace trimmings at the collar, the short sleeves and at the skirt’s flounce, with an allover girly candour look, that I pondered would tease Y.’s lust, and the simplest of Greek sandals of the same colour. It worked the way I had foreseen; again in the sight of his Liselotte slave, Prof. Y. ordered me to stand at his desk’s end, eyed me slowly, looked over my portfolio of prints and mumbled favourably. He told me to pull my dress up to the waist, to spread my legs, to look down. He had been overjoyed at the sight that I was nude; he came near, sniffed at me, I smelled of santal, gardenia and blackcurrant, he exhaled of balsam and black pepper that made him look less taut than I recalled, put apart his Johnson he was pulling now, poking me around with it, and ordered me to kiss its tip. He unbuttoned the dress til it would fall and Liselotte picked it up. He talked, threading metaphors on my moonshine complexion, my lithe rump and limbs. He commanded to Liselotte to undress, which she instantly obeyed, and lick my arse as I bent forward, so he could then bugger me; she did it with dedication, I knew she had a crush on me, she also furthered her fingers in and out of my lady-bits on her own account and went on, as Y. pushed to penetrate the still-scowled little hatch he had said he coveted, albeit his glans dripped of smoothing drops, to that very end. He was a steady fucker, he wetted himself in Liselotte’s mouth, told her to wet me, and eventually was half homed into my dry sheath, but it seemed it had been his crave to make it harsher; I only could hope he came fast, which happened.
He ordered me to lie on the desk, with my legs up enough so he could continue in the same orifice, while Liselotte covered me with kisses. Now he was at ease and he thumped deep, holding my feet and biting my toes. For a change, he hustled into my other gash and it felt warm as a string of pleasure beads grew up along my spinal stream and, unwittingly, I moaned in a broken tone.

In the small bathroom, Liselotte and I helped each other primp; she was wanting, and I sympathised with my best handwork. The professor was back at his tidied desk, unruffled; it was some understated pleasure to play along his line while listening to my entrails, still tepid of his endeavours. Matter-of-factly, he growled there might be some new opportunity, five days later. I did not answer but gave him an eye.

Julia Grant wrote:

Blue forest veronica, best squirrel of Tudor towers, elf in the boxwoods, my chest is overwhelmed at the thought you searched for me, have you kept your helmet of curls? Do you still go lucky upon the prairies of your dreams?
I am staying at the Fersen, on rue du Bac, I could walk to you any time, shall we party at seven? Eager to see you!

Katherine says:

Sarah wished I impressed her fondly remembered elder, and so she chose for me to wear a simple antique white linen man shirt, knee-long, and nothing, like she was offering me to the notorious girl-chaser, the leonine Julia Grant. She remained in her “try me” attire of the afternoon. She smelled light sex, she touched-up her eyeliner. I wore one of Hugo’s scents with lily, jasmine and orange blossom that would trip her over if she wasn’t expecting someone who had, of all semblance, overtaken her soul at a key time of her age. Nevertheless, she nosed into that shirt and reveled, for my sweetest pride.
A boy of black leather brought our feast of canapés from Gustollo, he sported a bushy black exploded hairdo that earned him a rich tip; his way of watching us could have earned him other things. Julia called from downstairs and soon walked in our lair as someone raised under high ceilings, with indisputable grace, and presence.
She had a glorious mane of honey gold hair, light-speckled skin and amber eyes. She wore an ethnic woven blue and green dress tightened by a Navajo belt, turquoise necklaces and beaded sandals. They hugged with moans and sobs, like a cosmic return, and Julia started to knead her like old times, sniffing into her neck, asking who she had shagged lately. Tousled, Sarah made no detour introducing me as her most significant shag of all, rubbing my belly towards her in a lewd way; she kissed me and asked me for a dance, feeling my nudity in the linen.

As we sat, legs up on the settees, she kept next to me, showing her taste in me, sliding her hand into my shirt and uncovering my shoulder while grazing my breasts. Sarah laughed that she had known she would do so, reclining on the armrest, one knee up so as to expose her crotch under a deep blue canopy. Julia pushed her forehead on my ear and begged for a kiss, so I played openly and responded, she was indeed desirable, she smelled of a transposed masculine bittersweet grapefruit and bergamot blend, with ylang-ylang suavity. I unlocked her belt and reached up her thighs, she was, in all, the legend Sarah had told me, the frank straight shooter, who wanted me. Sarah came over and pulled off Julia’s dress, she showed modest breasts, to my taste, and a chubby pussy; her belly was daringly muscular, in the smoothest light skin.
Caught in our transports, unsurprisingly, we did not pay attention to the intrusion of the henceforth house girls, from the shadows. Natalia and Beryl stood enlaced, a vast smile on their impish faces. Julia, who had some background in schooling the nymphets, called them in and asked their names, noting the sparsity of their costume, which summed up in oversized tee-shirts. And so were it an orgy, for our greater prestige, and contentment of Julia’s thirsts. But Beryl saw that we needed tea and took Natalia to the kitchen, if only to give time to the unexpected encounter. I explained the habitual presence of our finest schoolgirls, and the leeway they had to barge in, like house kids. Julia had a whim for Natalia, she asked her next to us and groped her legs; the young doe swayed her neck and lent her mouth, she was a crafty imp. After a sweet while, albeit I would have sunk in bliss readily, my responsibilities began to kick in and so I enquired, tentatively, about class in the morning, anyone? So, not before they grappled some quick thrills, they put their shirts back on and left, giggling, making obvious that they were not yet sleeping.
Back at wanking me, Julia gazed in my eyes as I gave more details about our youths, and Beryl particularly, what kind of salvaged little whore she was. I could not tell if Julia wanted to know the precise truth, she got involved in my body and made me climax.

Julia had brought a basket of marzipan fruit, so we sweetened our mouths and chatted. She held me from behind, and Sarah licked us randomly. She said that we should get accustomed to see her security detail at our door, reminding Sarah the escapade to Geneva and all the fun they had, revealing to her Far his daughter’s ways of life, prompting none but his smile.
All in all, Julia was merely not more than a family asset who could be targeted, it was utterly boring; but she could not spend her life in one of those gated compounds for the wealthy, so safe that the protected themselves become dangerous for each others, therefore she was cause for some handsome ex-marines to get a rich-smelling, well paid job, and yes, she had laid some of them, with no dire consequences for them, as far as she knew. It was like the word had been passed that she was a kind, beautiful slut.
She agreed she would sleep with us, on both sides of me, I heard them revive their Swiss paradise and the infinite opportunities for lecherous characters like them. She learned about Ayla that Sarah hoped would attend the vernissage, at least. Julia remembered her, for all the lecherous reasons, and she craved to meet her again, should she even pay for that.

Sarah says:

My own better Julia did not forfeit her sharp wisdom, neither her eager taste for loose damsels. It is warming to see her covet my Fairy Queen as fondly as she had bewitched me, then. She has thinned, a tad, she shows less hip and tummy breadth, she has become a trimmed down icon of cool, turning her frankness into wit, looming inside your pants gracefully, so as you’d better yield and no fuss. I waited to see her do with our boys, or Hugo, yes, she would be introduced to the landlord, and disrobe for his ever alert lust.
Kate was overjoyed with homages that surfaced from my past, she had fantasised the nights of Saint Loup and caressed me to keep telling; I might succeed in providing some more.
Julia knows no morning languor, she pees, brush her teeth, and smiles. She smells womanly yummy, all the more when she has tormented your best friend. She whispered to me, begging for coffee while absentmindedly teasing my lady-parts, and so I pulled the morning-sized Italian coffee pot, popping open the tin of Moka we kept for just that, a coffee-buff shag of ours.
I do not brush my teeth in the morning, evening is more appropriate, in my logical view; if I want to kiss someone, I rinse my mouth with orange juice or water. She gave me a thorough kiss while the coffee pot spurted its song, infusing our house with its irresistible smell. She went down for my nightly labia and clit, were it only to show me she wasn’t merely agitated in the morning; sitting on the worktop, I accepted her gift without thinking, but she ran before I could retaliate.
Kate bore the aurora-struck gaze she kept when a dream had enthralled her; I cuddled her with her face in my neck and Julia grazed her butt, mumbling some vaguely lewd rhyme. The day started in serenity.
After my call to downstairs, I announced that we would be expected for dinner with swarms of beautiful persons of all sexes; it sparked Kate good spirits, and questions from Julia on Hugo, at answering to what we surpassed our awaking craftiness, in laughter.

In the studio, she marvelled at the view overflying Paris and the Louvre roofs towards the early sun, she said she could feel home and called us spoiled girls, aren’t we? She had known my research in Saint Loup, so she traced some of my ways; I showed her the remnants of my skulls pieces and brushed the naughty ways by which the project had been duly validated whatsoever, so they could mockingly harass me. I looked at Julia and lashed out that I reveled in being some kind of a a tramp, and laughed, she might learn more, eventually.
She eyerolled and owned up to being not as free as she saw there, she often regretted our Swiss days, she reckoned that she might be more useful, to others and herself, teaching over there, joining Harmony, and waking up new generations every year, in our odd doxa. But, beforehand, through the years, had anyone ever heard of any suicide attempt among our bustling crews? Yet it happens in many such institutions; adolescence is a tough age, my word. Unbeknownst of anyone but Harmony, Professor Achenbach would ferret out a strain of dire depression or melancholy; from his Cheshire-like observatory, he spinned the many crafty fictions of the young crowds, like the traffic controller, at a busy airport, on a weekend night; his good-natured exchange, never primarily enquiring, had tamed my own squirrel-fast soul, for one.
I ought to speak for young Ayla, that I craved to cuddle again soon, who hid her misery to all of us; I blamed myself about her. Later, we tried to call her on Skype, and she appeared in a simple tee-shirt, with a tired smile that bloomed into awe when she saw Julia with us; she was at breakfast, on her undone bed, in her double intimacy, and she smiled like the first day I saw her. I insisted she should be with us for the opening, she would meet many people, under our patronage, and, moreover, she already knew Hugo. She confirmed that she would be there, of course, Hugo had already offered to organise her stay. Julia was moved to watch this desirable girl of her past, but I knew she felt awkward to know she would be totally shunned and doomed by the society in which she lived, so she elaborated further, she tearfully reproached Ayla’s silence when it had been time, still, to keep her with us. The little rebel bluntly said she had tried, but we did not hear the words, only my Far maybe had sensed some distress. There, I told her he would be there, too, and so, in a breath, she was like dumbstruck, then instantly recomposed, joked that she would steal him from me. “Gesundheit!”, said I, as it flew through my head, “you have means I don’t, but he’s in love with my feet! “.

In front of the screen, Julia had perched on my lap, like we were team, and thrown her arm over my shoulders; she smelled the same geranium-orange as us, but on her it rang brighter, like the brass section, whereas, in Kate’s armpit, it flowed like strings. As I stretched a little to scent her, she rubbed her cheek over my head, and Ayla, seeing that, made screen captures, in rapture. Now she was pulling off her shirt, like a chaturbate pixie, and exposed her crotch wide, like no amateur, for us. I was surprised to notice she was left-handed. I asked her to show her feet, which were dainty and unspoiled, she had been wearing expensive shoes.
She displayed humble round boobs, a tad more mature than I remembered, for having seen them rise in a season of pride for her. She playfully bragged that she had props, too, and fetched a black leather collar she buckled up at her neck, and then a leash, I moaned, thinking of some of my own performances; I slid a hand into the sweatpants Julia had borrowed, she asked for Kate’s kiss.
After Ayla hung up, Julia went to the couch and swiftly undressed, releasing some tension and squirting on the tiles, under our applauds. It wasn’t yet time for me, nor for Kate, but we cheered her heartfully. I mulled over the idea that Ayla was probably scoring her first client now. I proposed to get coffee for Julia, who understood I was showing my approval of her.
When I came back up with the coffee pot, Kate was sprawled across the couch, panting with delight, I laughed, recognising Julia’s endless talent. I brewed some tea. If there is only one coffee pot, there are teapots everywhere, I chose that one in the shape of a traveller’s bundle, wrapped in a blanket, with the knots on the lid.

in the evening, we preened for Hugo, donning easy flared dresses, lending Julia a bias-panelled black velvet model lined in satin, which slid swiftly over the skin; since there was carpets all the way, we avoided the shoes, and it was mellow enough to run bare. Julia had a milk and honey smooth complexion, I told her she would soon know Hugo’s grand bed, and more.
The great amateur greeted the American princess with ample salute, daunted by her legs and feet on his Iranian rugs, her carefree stance and frank gaze. He joked about the security at his door, told her about the secret services having watched us during the escape of a young victim of human trafficking.
He offered fruit and flowers soft drinks, but asked if she would rather drink alcohol, to what she laughed, and said she had known me for ever with an alcohol aversion, and knew already this had not changed and furthermore it had gained my loved ones. She threw her arm around my neck and said she knew why and lived happy in my rule. Neither of us needed booze to crash any complex and get laid.
Hugo said he could spend nights listening to my uninhibited recalls of our wolf-cub days and our fruity shenanigans. He made a swift move to grab Julia’s foot and keep it like one of the bibelots in the room. She smiled as if ready for a kiss, but he stood looking, so, she turned to me for one long one.
In the micro-span of a minute, Kate must have felt outcast, and so reached under my dress and uncovered my legs to her want. I enlaced her waist, still bewitched in Julia’s kiss, and let her shuffle my labia as she would.
Julia described my blaring advent upon the school’s lawns in mock- predication emphasis, a twiggy tomboy of black and red sporting a black fedora adorned with trinkets of kitsch, her wild candid eyes contradicting her bold postures, she had been spellbound, and felt compelled to mentor, and seduce, the otherworldly newbie, with Harmony’s blessing. Retelling about that day, she felt only rightful to my ears and soul, I warned her that I was going to cry, she moaned we had all been so dazzling in the lakeshore sun, and forever troubling in the blue shades of the moon-lit boxwoods.

Kate was eager to catch-up into our crystal ball, she unbuttoned me all, and, grumbling mad compliments, denuded me under her caresses, causing praise from Julia, whose dress would untie in the back, my hand following the hem undoing the clips, till Hugo could strip the velvet at once, and rave on her honeyed skin. Letting him free to roam further, I turned to my best accomplice ever and checked in her eyes for a squall on her shore, tickled her ribs and stole her easy-off dress, then rolled over her to erase any waver, while Hugo was embracing the sunlight maid on top of him.
The mood in the hifi had threaded into an endlessly over-sewed calligraphy of subdued synthetic sirens, slow phase shifts, and the array of sensitive chaos prone to ditch you into carnal awe, all it took to make me confide my past flutterings into Kate’s heartbeats, alleviating the remorse of having left Saint Loup.
The island fairy sensed a veil of angst in my breathing and kneaded my skull, as it was her joke with the skull artist she once won over; it forced us out of the vague sorrows we shared, meandering along the sinusoïdes of the electronics,
Julia had opened wide for Hugo’s feast of her Venus mound and all of its shudders; when he stood to sabre her, his robe spread as wings over her belly, she pushed up and he answered. We joined on both sides, on her bosom and her armpits, her mouth. She jolted with his tossing her hips, Kate was helping her clit, she yelled along with him.

Hugo says:

In a much pleasurable epiphany, while daintily fucking her to the spine, I read into Miss Grant’s glare much of my Sarah’s best grips onto your soul, her ceaseless attention to your syntactic stance, a raptor’s unfazed pertness in otherwise candid eyes, they cast the frisson of their sharp focus through your veins, like a probe of your own yearnings. She has already fathomed my desire for both her epitomes as Sarah’s providential mentor, or a splendid windfall encounter, brought, unattired, to my want, by her best true-blue follower.
As Julia plays my moves in a most gracious swordplay, I digress unmannerly, watching Sarah wiggle her loins, I revive my bias for the lithe young stem who had been groomed and trained by my faithful Camille, just when Kate vanished. She was the twinkling star out of the profuse lineage of an European legend, having been airily midwifed by this returning fair American embodiment, on a lake shore.
Julia too, here, seeking bliss, offered a crafty vagina, she squeezed me in wavelets at a cheering pace, as likely for her own good, keeping a half-toppled smile all along, until I gallantly ended in a carnal panache, in my view.
Fetching a soft kerchief to wipe her, I saw the two merry cousins at each other’s merriment. Kate was always the incestuous swan, in her glory, and Sarah craves her beauty unconditionally since they met; they synchronise any passion, like Swiss clockmaking and trains.
Nowadays they live effortless jointly, they wouldn’t think of any other kind of arrangement; they garner so much more benefits in sharing that they wouldn’t think they missed any other chance in life, that is what they learned, and I praise that.

Regaining a better hold on myself, I kneeled before Julia, who had finely parsed my vagabond mind and could take offense; luckily, she showed delicate feet, and so I might wholeheartedly play with them, collecting my skills for her best delight, to the point of assailing her tighter ways of entry, rub cream in her unfettered bunghole and push, again, from front, her legs high up.
Anyhow, Sarah had taken advantage and sat on Julia’s mouth, while licking her toes, Kate was damning her slutty tongue into my own arse, like a fanatic. I began to view galaxies and pearly drapes in my furious spend, I seized Sarah’s foolberries, plunged my prick by all its length and let go of me in Julia’s innards, as Sarah infuriated her hand upon her familiar bud, and Kate granted me a raging kiss.
Eventually, Julia emerged, in sweats, a little distraught, and that made her desirable all the more. They circled together in the heady smell of copulation, we caught our breath, I suggested we gather under the shower with other scents. We used our fingers for our monkey trade, I wasn’t able to take advantage, were it Sarah’s little hole; the shampoo washed away the remnants of lechery, until soon. I hugged Julia, reading in her fawn pupils, grateful and content, turning her, I held her lower belly in my palms, kissing behind her ears, the other nymphs came on with pointed smiles.
I had bottles of a garnet drink of hibiscus flowers and squashed fresh sugar cane, made by Adel at Dalila’s, it perked up the morale and led us to sugary feasts. In the kitchen, we found fruit, nuts, and honey bread from Casa di Lucia, light rum chestnut cake, marzipan, the whole Pinocchio.
As she savoured the tidbits, Julia questioned me, now that I had jostled all her privacies, driven and helped by the debauched cousins, she re-threaded our acquaintance, mannerly, orderly, and I let her do, buck-naked on my stool, at orders. Her hair was drying and needed tousling up, I proposed, but Sarah went and fetched a convenient hairbrush.
Like most of our visitors with some wits, Julia was intrigued as to the gravity’s rainbow in this household, prone to suspect a lode of black matter weighing from another dimension; she wondered and mused, with faces that made me guess she had been born in the imperious spheres of the Empire. I let her presume whatever fit her, mostly conveying in return a heartfelt admiration of her beauty and appeal. Like all our visitors with some wits, she was to content herself with the obvious. She turned to Kate and flirted, soon to find herself under the bewitchment of her quiescent, yet lascivious gaze; the Wattenmeer fairy could either smile impenetrably and frustrate any pass made at her, or lay her slender graces at your will in the gleam of an alabaster blond skin. As Kate had grasped Julia’s unease, she responded complacently and frankly enlaced the sunshine girl with her legs parted.
I knew I would meet Sarah’s dream anytime, like she had allowed to die in my sheets for a night, I relished her gracile neck and took her back to the couch. We dozed out together.

Katherine says:

Sarah and Hugo had sailed to the intangible, I covered them with a shawl and led Julia upstairs to our bed. We were almost enervated but anticipated sleeping together like some last elation for a long day. She left her hand on my pussy.
At dawn, I was overjoyed to feel the gamines over us, Natalia pushing her nose in Julia’s groin, Beryl clasped tight on my back. Julia was waiting for me to emerge so as to grasp what caused the invasion, but she fell for a young muzzle, still in the bounds of her dreams, showing her total innocence.
I woke up to see Natalia flying, stretched wide at Julia’s will, who licked her nerves passionately. Beryl had not dared trouble my dream but she flocked endless kisses on my lids as soon as I tried to open my eyes. She smelled of honey and straw, her night sweats left a blessing of lust in her armpits and crotch, she knew that I would tumble her over.
Once the morning torments appeased, Julia turned a silent glare at me an open palm turned upwards as in wondering. I took some pleasure telling her these were our pet neighbours and she might as well get accustomed to their nifty homages.
Under the shower, we peed ourselves standing embraced, laughing, then rubbed the foam all over. I played with two fingers in Natalia’s bumhole, to punish her for nothing. Beryl forced Julia to squirt and again, with pride. When Sarah returned from Hugo’s, she found us all aroused. We had splashed some cologne spirit on our dazed bodies, full of bergamot, lavender and jasmine with all the undefined alchemy; she was vibrating of sacred woods behind the most carnal gardenia, she had stolen some untold verse of night, she tasted of almonds.
There was no school that day.

Sarah says:

Julia left after breakfast, she wanted time, on her own, in the great city of Paris, and she had people to pay a visit to; she would not be away for long. We greeted the opportunity to recoup our wits in the studio, heeding on our long term work; not that we considered that carnal expenses were unwitty. Only did we not expect one main magnitude epiphany to fall upon us, like a cartload of fresh peonies, on our feet.

Ayla had been summoned by Hugo, ahead of the vernissage, and so she called in the afternoon to say she actually was downstairs, climbing up to see us. She wore one of Hugo’s antique robes of purple brocade , and, given what she didn’t wear in it, intended to lose it fast.
We cried in each other’s arms, she smelled of rare wisteria, indeed, and the robe smelled of timeless incense. She was back from the haze of nowhere, beautified by a good seven years of constant care, a perfect skin on her triangular, girlish face.
I wore my easy working outfit, an overwashed, greyish sweatshirt and liana-pattern printed opaque tights, in mismatched sneakers. As we hold and shake each other’s head, her robe opened and uncovered her elfin silhouette, her creamy white complexion and lotus-bud tits. Kate had not avoided to come near, she hugged our harlot princess and gave her a ladylike kiss while I uncovered her entirely.
After she blew her nose and wiped her eyes, she fetched something in the hidden pocket of the robe on the couch, staring my soul of all her dark obsidian glare, she tore the purple tissue paper pouch and held a supple bracelet, in white gold, with a line of small sapphires, that she clasped to my wrist. Taken aback, I think I watched her stupidly, but she reveled the moment, Kate ventured that she had nailed me, Ayla retorted that she had not yet, and slid both hands under my shirt and started to pull my tights down, like old times.
Once we were all naked, we sprawled on the couch and I made a vivid praise of Kate, who was conquering every patch of the coveted pet reclined on my lap. We retold her of the notorious broom closet in which she had been proud to have hustled me firstly, the laundry room gang bangs that aroused her, and the sex contraband in the boxwoods, we made Kate one of us, and it lasted until sunset, when we felt a bit famish. Ayla was inundated, we played more games in the shower and headed downstairs. We ordered salad bowls with poached eggs and croutons, she applauded to the idea of kombucha. Hugo wasn’t home.
Perched, nude, across our Windsor chairs, as free as squirrels but wildly aroused by Ayla who knew it, we dared question her on the good side of her life, she retorted that up to now, she had avoided the bad side, moreover because she was fully legit in Switzerland, in a fair and square society structured like a palace hotel; she was one of the well paid staff, contributed her taxes, paid her insurances, and could ask for help if needed. She knew most of her clients, they praised her scheduled availability, they wanted to keep her, most of them succeeded at making her come. Kate wanted descriptions, but it was none of the sort she could experience at Victor’s and it intrigued Ayla, who frankly declared she might fly over, the next time we wasted ourselves among his collections.

Ayla confessed that she missed girls, as she patted Kate’s tummy, her daily sensual operation consisted in offering the best of her body to almost undistinguished gents, she could no longer cuddle a girl through the night, as she had done in the brothel, but she reaped so much more money now. Kate was overwhelmed by the overtly professional ways by which this new girl relished her, she abandoned ship to her and drowned in the sea of dreams.
When Natalia came alone, later, she found Ayla and did not , in the dark, figure who she was, she enlaced her thinking it was me; we had splashed ourselves with the same cologne. Only in the wheel of hours did appear to Ayla that she was being captured by some unknown lightweight animal with gracile hands. As she told later, she had all gently turned round and tried to see, in the black, whose face it was. It did not match any, but she liked it; this young girl slept peacefully against her and smelled of sweet citrus and lavender, she had preened before creeping into the bed. Ayla began with tiny kisses and tongue tips on the lips, found delicate muscles and nascent breasts, reached an unaware moist vessel that she knew how to bustle softly. Natalia came and woke together, she seized the face of whomever treated her so deftly, instinctively discovered it had not been me, widened her eyes and grasped there was a quartet of us in the bed, of whose one was unknown to her but most palatable, till now. Ayla caroused her silently, drove her to lap at her feverish bud and the nymphet improvised some legerdemain tricks of her, they acquainted their craves, attuned their shudders, fiddled their nerves, next to us, for hours, and fell back into their dreams, clutched together.
Ayla overslept, I went to glance over her, her forehead was serene, her breath steady, and she smelled sex. I turned to Kate and jollied her about her capacity to knacker a trained harlot out, to what she yawned that, had it been her, she would have been a somnambulist, and she had no recollections at all, apart for some lullabies. We massaged our guest out of slumberland, gave her all the caresses she wanted and waited for a conscious gaze. When she parsed out that it was the two of us, she jittered impatiently and eventually asked where the girl was. It only took us the first words of description to guess who, I pressed Ayla’s head upon my chest and told her.
She was overjoyed, she wanted to meet the night fairy again. I told her she would, and then another one, for free; we explained who Natalia was and how she happened to sneak in our bed almost every night. She was moved by Hugo’s gesture, I was thinking that we could have done the same for her, I told Ayla we were the weird kind of big sisters, but Natalia also had weird big brothers upstairs, and more.
Ayla became more and more intrigued with us all, she fled.

Katherine says:

Liselotte said that I could meet Professor M. E. for some critical help, as he had singled me out and grown a fantasy of me. He wasn’t appealing in the least, but the point had been to trash myself for some benefit, had it not? I confided to Sarah about the proposal, for she started the whole scheme, anyway, and we had been team. She took some time hugging and mused that it made no difference if I were to tell Liselotte to go away, but she, herself, had eventually no regrets of her debauched expenses with the institutional mafia, but she was a whore at heart, wasn’t she? I went to the clinic to give samples, so as to keep my account clear. I knew M. E. carried a black card, too, but we never checked on each other, Y. did.
I met Liselotte at four on place de Furstemberg, she was radiant, in a black trench-coat on a black and white daisy print crepe short wrap-dress, and classy black and white man’s richelieu shoes with white socks; she carried a black leather shoulder bag. I instantly figured how she would spread up her legs on the first settee available, she was pale and desirable, she let me leer at her cool expression, she was in for show, already.
We took a cab to the right bank, the Fleury and its white stone beaux-arts façades with maroon awnings. She tentatively groped me in the car, so as to check I wore nothing under my floral loose shirt-dress, she smelled pure white jasmine, she said she had bought it at Zelda’s on fifth avenue; she nosed in my neck and moaned about the scent on my skin, an expensive elaboration of seashore blooms breaths, inebriated by ultimate chemicals, suffused by the bedazzling Parisian vice. On my shoulder, she sighed that M. E. would certainly die today.
The mighty Professor’s shirt was already out of his trousers —if he wore any under the flows of white linen. A boy stood next to him, naked and erect at his hand, pinkish young under a mess of blond hair, he reminded me of the fauna in the sands of Sylt, he had a candid stare, I wondered if M. E. had plotted to let the boy shag me.
He softly suggested that Liselotte help me undress, so she unbuttoned my dress with indolence, let it drop, threw it on the next armchair; she stood against my back, fiddling my arse. Letting go of the boy’s fierce willie, he sent him to me, so I enlaced him, for he was affecting. M. E. encouraged our moves, as if we needed, and I grasped that I should let him lead because, to hell, it was his call.

The cadet was thin, all the more so that his nudity revealed a bony structure, but he was standing straight, square shoulders and hips swayed; a blond fuzz ran upon his upper lip, his pubic hair was soft and light; his eyes were cornflower blue with a darker rim, his gaze was frank, I kissed him boldly, holding his pulsating prick.
M. E. liked, he told his slave Liselotte to unclothe and suck him, which she did, exposing her arse hole in a bountiful backside; he wanted Mats, the boy, to hump me in the rear, standing, so he could better watch, and so I was hustled round and the youthful thorn began to push cruelly on my pansy. I put a stop to this useless rape, before he had me teared, looked at M. E. and said it would go nowhere that way without preparation; he was already rolling his eyes under Liselotte’s skilful manoeuvre, affected an impatient grimace and told me to ask the boy to spit in my hole. Liselotte intervened, in a most deferent manner, whispering she had brought what it takes; from her black Alexa bag, she fetched a small night-blue tube of lube and handed to me, I had thought of clearing my ways, but not that.
Mats, who might have been Swedish, had remained unflinching with his bodily means, he threaded me like a pearl, once mother nature was attended for. M. E. was panting on the couch, his vast shirt pulled on his paunch while Liselotte coddled a goodly flesh truncheon; briskly, he invited me to straddle upon it and lean back, then he dared the young squire to ream in my open fig, which took not long in our wet alleys, while he relish the feel of the lad’s spear along his stump. I supposed that Liselotte busied her mouth at Mat’s rosebud. The crisis was prompt, first the boy, then the senior knave, flowed warmly in my shivering entrails, causing me to swoon back on M. E.’s shoulder, so he could point his tongue in my ear.
Like a crafty professional, I woke up with the attitude of a job well done, my delicate dodging to the bathroom implying there would be no more number to the matinee. M. E. played fairly, complimenting on my supple ride, claiming that he would advertise our show dutifully, provided that he could shag Sarah too, as Liselotte would tell. Knowing the clout of the old bastard, I reckoned it was not too far-fetched to ask, I would warn her to bring in some KY.

The blond cadet with candid eyes was indefatigable, Liselotte sucked his drenched candy bar and guided it into her back hatch while she turned to the Professor’s staff of debauchery; I let her reap her share and ran. I had a naughty restless arse syndrome, I walked back home. Sarah was in the studio with Marie, still radiant and rounded like a cookie jar. The afternoon ought to have started as a photo op for recent pieces of work, there were lights set up, but now they were both in the raw, sprawled on the red couch. It was another delight to retell them of my whoring to an old vicious academic. As a merry pair of trollops, they mockingly approved of my professional standards, and moaned that they could indeed use the young staffer who still felt in my crack, so they checked.
Marie was sculpturally gorgeous, her doctors, those expensive bigwigs that she paid in true acme slut skin, they had prescribed the right amount of unguents to keep her body unscathed while the would-be baby girl lived her aquatic season. She had, from early times of her outgrowing, felt urges to breathe, drink, eat and fuck in pure elation, her instincts drawing her simple path. She had started to smell everything relating to her body, and shunned all made perfumes, she felt like a dog, which did not prevent her to sniff at us lecherously, that part of her instincts having overwhelmed her soul, with bliss.
I brewed tea in the appropriate pumpkin pot and opened a tin of Sarah’s Royal Dansk chocolate and orange peel cookies, curious to see if they would pass the test of Marie’s nose, they did, to Sarah’s kidding pride.
On a hunch, I pulled on rags and went upstairs in the other staircase, with the whim of bringing back our golden knight and his dainty dagger, in case he relished an honestly pregnant cunt. He had been reading Dominique Fernandez, he fondled me some, took a shower, wrapped a saffron yellow silk brocade robe, slipped in a pair of embroidered babouches and walked with me, kneading my butt in the elevator.
Marie was overjoyed at my intervention, like all the Xmas mornings she had never had, she coveted what she foresaw inside the bright silk, and I had warned Gauthier against perfume, fine soap would be enough.
She begged for kind hugs, Sarah and me cheered her want by the handful while she dolled up his noble trophy of a dick, attuning the new guest with her stirred-up lust till he would bugger her sweet arse with method, and KY.

Sarah says:

Marie was easily reclining aside on the sofa like the Etruscan spouse, with Gauthier’s dick in her jacksie, Kate cherishing her face and new bulgy breasts. Like everybody was getting their fill and I would end up wanking; in a whim, I texted to Hugo, asking if he would like to lull me out in his bed. The answer was swift, James was with him, and they could rock me fine together, if I wanted what would inevitably ensue. We could start with some petits fours or anything I would wish.
The scene had aroused me, so two wicked silverbacks was what I needed to wake up as satiated as Kate showed. Downstairs, I took my time, preening like an artful courtesan, clearing my paths, touching up my lashes and painting my nails indigo. I sprayed myself entirely with a scent from our collection, prowess of Hugo’s, a subdued violet laced with incense in a bed of tuberose, that would make my absent self bewitching and contained no alcohol, for my sensitive folds. I wondered if I would have rolled back eyes, like deadly rapture, and thought I would ask the gentlemen to take a photo of their complacent victim.
As a lustful augur, I dazed my bud and stirred the perfume with my own cum along the vulva, I felt beasty. I chose the dark night robe on which was embroidered the starry sky in silver thread, and shoed my feet in silver sandals, nothing that wouldn’t fly off at a first whiff of their desire. I wore a strand of sneaky grey pearls to my neck, wrist an ankle.
For the big prospect of the current days, we needed James, he would parse with us the elements of whatever restrained communication we would let go, and support our endeavours in the gallery, in the adequate word salad. He owned a well-rooted reputation as a trend leader in the fringe realm of the art field, and he had never caved to the speculative powers. Being somehow publicly linked to him would set the conjectures about us on the right clock. I was indeed again being self-serving, and depraved.

There was a splash of light, on one couch in Hugo’s drawing-room, where he led me to; I spread out the skirt of my robe around me, keeping three buttons tied, enough to let the men drool on my pale cleavage. James exclaimed his awe at my feet and Hugo concurred, foreseeing their complete relish.
On the low table were trays of multicoloured canapés and flasks of kombucha, candied fruit in tiny boats of crisp pastry, strawberries and cherries; they begged me to disrobe and I complied, shining in the circle of the black satin lining, surrounded by constellations.
Hugo made me retell our recent orgies and turpitudes, which I did with the most bookish diction, so as to drive them frantic. James wore a golden green silk velvet jacket and vest, sleek black trousers with a big bump, up the front. Hugo wore black heavy silk pyjamas under a scarlet and straw brocade with scattered lazuli flowers, in striking contrast with his greying manly features; him too, was erect.
We reckoned together that mine and Kate’s whoring, well played, would churn out the best buzz in town at an unrivalled cost, although one of my nights was priceless, obviously. Unabashedly, we were determined to roll on.
Hugo evoked the pledge, by Malo, to participate at our opening, in music, and in her best costume. I took a minute to chew my nibble, trying to figure a nude cello in the gallery, and declared the idea brilliant, bringing to all three of us an otherworldly dimension. He jubilated, yes, Malo was an event in herself, but our presence around her gave her incarnation, remained to design a proper set for her, he had thought of some profusion of roses, and possibly a young extra to hold her a robe when finished.
They felt impatient, albeit they knew me through and through, and we chatted about the party, which was taking form, as I followed them to the bedroom. Hugo handed me a crystal tumbler with clear water that had a faint bitterness, then I laid, my limbs to the four directions. James needed to lick my feet, toe by toe; Hugo savoured long kisses in my mouth, they took their time.

Katherine says:

Gauthier kept Marie with him, she cared for a boy’s body, he is a fine specimen. Downstairs, two entwined scallywags were warming the bed, I lounged myself behind Natalia, she murmured random phonemes. In the morning, they had fled, not before tucking me in, so as I slept my heart’s content. Julia Grant would ring up soon, I let her in, letting her know II was only half-alive yet, going back to the bathroom, where she followed me in a good mood. In any case, after peeing, I brushed my teeth and shambled to the kettle. She needed tenderness, we petted like schoolgirls, I let her dispose of me but I craved toast and tangy apricot jam. She dazed me in a virtuoso kiss, we sat for a cup of Darjeeling tea.
Sarah appeared, wet from the gym shower, her bathrobe untied, her eyes funnily spacy, childishly desirable, as she sat on Julia’s lap, and wrinkling her nose at me. She avowed what she had herself be done to, again, by the two stooges, and that she loved it, waking up. A tad unsettled, I hesitated but ventured a comment on her staging over again the worst moment of her young life, if I had grasped her description of her ordeal in the Jutland wild.
Julia knew what I meant, she had probably helped her out of the void’s pull, back then in Switzerland. After a ten seconds glare, she concurred, and said she had heard the wind in the trees and smelled the sea afar when emerging from the blank dream, each time, with the thought of a bird nested in her heart. What Hugo had done of her bereft parenthesis left some cohesive bond in her soul, that shed some reason upon her search, instinctively, and perspective with her work, sunshine in the hollywoods! She only wished she could confide to good Professor Achenbach. Julia woke one of the Danish berries.

Sarah rounded the table to come sit on me, she smelled linden bloom, and after what I had unleashed on her, it overwhelmed me, and I couldn’t help crying in her neck. Now she was the one consoling me, and she declared she had a nifty piece of news for me. She retold what Hugo had said about Malo, and I saw at once the transfiguration of our exhibition, the welcome synergy of our endeavours in heartfelt connivence; she drank all of my tears.
Julia was stunned at our description of Malo’s act, Sarah went back to her to make her resent the mood of the musician’s chants, then decided we tried to invite her, to seal our project. Hugo wouldn’t answer the phone or read messages, she decided to risk going to him, if by chance he wasn’t at work. She slid in salt grey paisley leggings and an antique white boy’s shirt with tails down to her knees, grey velvet slippers with silvery white S or K embroidered on the vamp. She ran.
Beyond the morning agitation, Julia was moved; she remembered Sarah at Saint Loup, a popular tomboy everybody had craved, on both sides of the river. She was enthused by our joint accomplishment, the forestalling we brought to each other.
I recounted, broadly, the course of Sarah and me, the unsaid attraction we had fostered in the unsettling school surroundings, the gravitation around Camille and Hugo, my fall, her doggedness after me and the salvation we built in this house of scents, under Hugo’s watch. Julia had already parsed my providential atonement in Simon’s heart. All that she heard of our incomparable life gave her a yearning to settle and court us daily, in earnest.

A delivery came in of a big wrapped box, in the name of Sarah’s, along with a closed note from J.W.M., James had wanted her to know his grateful emotions in the morning, she had not shown the least doubt as to her tormentors; I felt a nasty knot deep down my entrails, I cursed evil Annie and my own head, back to the yet unclosed season in the Berlin bunkers, but a clear vision of a swaying gold chain and pocket watch let me suffuse my veins with the familiar streams of oblivion, so when I heard Julia’s voice as she held my hand, asking if I needed anything, I answered to her amber eyes that Sarah’s nonetheless dicey and selfless endeavour was lacing my soul with crippling afterthoughts, the blanket amend operated in my annihilated brain by Professor Schubert might have been torn by the idea of Sarah’s boldness; for a short lapse, I had recoiled back to his almighty empire, like I had submitted myself to, during the fateful sessions.

Hugo was the conduit to Prof. Schubert’s science, I would open my soul to him, that is, all the capharnaüm from the apex of my brain all the way down to my nifty arse. I needed Simon, too, despite all his too kind protests, I still mulled my guilt, whereas I reasoned that I should not impede his accomplishment on the path he had long chosen.
Julia drew me aside to a couch and vigorously hugged me, kneading my back so as I released my shoulders, wrenching open my plexus by passes unknown to me, letting me stretch over, as simply as she devised, like the famed wolf wizard.
Sarah came back, spruced up and candid, saw the gift and read the message “A la sublime rêveuse, I will never forget”; she unwrapped a sharp crystal box in which a stem of seven black orchids spawned from a silver pot on three legs. The dangling beauties were indeed wholly lascivious, offering their dainty scarlet vaginas inside nightly velvet coronas. She was like shied, standing her frank boyish stance, looking at us as if she did not know she had done that. I grabbed her hand and pulled her among us, she smelled sex, I pulled down her pants.

Sarah announced that it had been Hugo’s intention to invite the whole of us for a bit of music by Malo, anytime that evening; she was in charge of gathering up the audience. We ordered a raft of Minelli’s glass pots of hors d’oeuvres, salads from Agnete & Sanne, a couple of Danish girls who catered from a backyard in rue de Verneuil and macarons from the new chef Alain Gobert.
I insisted with Camille as for her attending with her two darlings, using a wig to hide Fanny’s face; she promised to consult the services in that regard. Anzy was most welcome, if she was still around; Camille laughed and said she certainly was, for long. It was too short to call Simon, I wondered if Liselotte would entertain the crew, once properly lectured. I asked Sarah’s advice. Gauthier would warn Donovan and Theo.
Malo was overjoyed with our welcome to our event, we warmed up to the idea that it became a three-women show. Liselotte appeared in black and red, black silk stockings, a vermilion mini dress, a short black silk evening coat, black gloves and fedora, she smelled pure indecent roses, she was a high-class tart ready to roll over. Anzy and Fanny, arm in arm, looked like a gentle couple chaperoned by a madam, who said she had missed our lair and rummaged into my dress. Fanny smelled of young jasmine, in a bluish simple, cloudy, silk jersey tunic; her cavalier, in black, smelled gingery grapefruit in a fistful of chamomile which struck me with an urge to make her pee, at once; she wore leggings under a knit bias pullover dress, in what I found her all nude. Theo wore a straw-bran-coloured three-piece Irish flax suit with a light mauve Nehru shirt and white canvas oxfords, his eyes were lit, he was ready to get raped. Gauthier and Donovan came in lustrous beaten cotton blue-black Targui gandoura and black ornate babouches, they looked like the Tangier amateurs. Hugo had donned one of his sumptuous ikat robes over a full-length ivory-white silk shirt, and one of his guests had already got him erect like a sailor.
Camille inquired about my exploits, I advised her to try Liselotte’s cunning talents, to which I had sold my arse, first for the sake of it, and for some academic support; she rolled her eyes and groped me like a mere slut that I was.
Sarah had let our night fairies chose from her wardrobe, if it was possible to differentiate from mine, Natalia wore an old Danish white lace nightshirt and nothing, Beryl had found a not too oversized white and sunshine yellow bare shoulders beach dress, she was barefoot too; Gauthier caressed her legs and up under the skirt, like lovers do, Natalia frisked into his golden mane with awe, Theo breathed funny things in her ear, and she showed they acquainted like chamberfellows.
We played the house girls to Hugo’s relief, feeding the troupes and being groped over and over; Fanny and Anzy served drinks, Anzy still a tad savage at the game, Fanny as complacent as a cat. When only the macarons stood on silver plates, Malo walked to the chair on which her cello rested, disrobed of her maroon crepe evening dress and held the gleaming instrument between her legs, testing the A from her own tuning fork. Hugo had gradually lowered the lights, Sarah captured Anzy and pulled her pants off, Fanny had drawn me into an armchair and begged for kisses. Malo smiled in a golden beam and woke a bumble in the low chords.

Camille says:

I felt pride in my spirited battalion of mollys, to say I know each of them from inside out and again, their elfin dew in the first arousal, their skin under my saliva and the surprise in their effluvia when I achieve my aims on them, before leading their attempts on me.
This new Liselotte feline was an intriguing persona with some enviable moral gleam to her, good or evil; in all likelihood she was after me, out of malice or excitement, owing to what my better fairies had told her. But when she reached me in a couch corner, pressing a dark glare upon my senses, she played fair and square, breathing the question, in my ear, if I did own so many beauties in my realm?
She was desirably pale like a night lily, she kept stealthily silent when her hand crept up my thigh and we pretended to watch Malo draw enticing chords. In turn, I found a few buttons to untie her pricey red rags; she appeared laser-smooth in a whiff of black rose and stuck her tongue in my mouth as if to unhook my head. I wore a light mauve dress which opened in the front, we both had foreseen an easy disrobing, as it was unfolding then.
Malo, rosier than Liselotte who had quieted, now that she owned me, at least for a moment, floated her seamless, unravelling poem in the thought of a cloud above us; she had distilled an improvised festoon of images in the manner of ornate calligraphy, telling of her two friends, for whom knew them. I could read the analogies and predict a success in the gallery, all the more by the sensation she would inflame with her simple costume.

Hugo says:

My dear suave antipodist, not an acrobat, drifted like a straw on waters unto my side, playing some surprise. He smells like the closed gardens of narcissi on the Scilly islands, his curls have grown to a soft renaissance mane, just like I showed him in Fontainebleau, on the heavenly bodies painted by Primatice. He raved on the long legs and the fluid hips, he coveted the chubby pubes and the realistic, in his nifty view, penes. In the Duchess of Etampes’ bedroom, he had some style epiphany, all the more literary that the place of a king’s beats of passion was now converted into a grand staircase.
Theo’s skin was youthful, silken, womanly; he rubbed my erect manhood with his butt, following Malo’s traits. I twiddled his girly nipples and refrained my thrust, like everybody around.
James, whom I thought would want keenly join such a heady reunion, crept in stealthily and found Sarah enlaced with the new wild-eyed maid child. Anisette Pullman had twigged, already, the manner of letting any of the good company fondle any piece of her lissom self. Seing that Sarah had surreptitiously smiled to the new gentleman, she let him casually stroke her leg up to her crack. His belt buckle vaguely clinked as he lost his trousers and pulled her hand for use.
Malo spun a long note to die and woke under a bouquet of compliments. She waved at the couples of all kinds and strolled about, as if she weighed who would do her. She had not met Theo but liked what we were doing, so she kneeled and kissed us all, soothing her fingers with the diminutive rattle that began to spruce up at his smooth pubis, yet. I made the presentations, and left her some space with us, so she could kiss his mouth and open for his stiff little toy, while furthermore I aimed at his convenient boutonnière; he went playfully, possibly inspired by a King’s exploits, and we reached the unisson in arpeggi, so to speak.

Sarah says:

There was smuggle of Lorenz’s redolent cream in its cobalt glass jar, but my impermanent fling was not keen on sodomy tonight, although she twirled her butt on my two fingers like a baby otter in the rill. I wondered if Simon still spared her that part of the treat, or else she was not yet ready to let avail her timid candour at any flex dick and that is her bon plaisir.
At one time, Liselotte garnered the favours of the two young squires together, and it moved my cadette to watch, the debaucher in the middle had talents, she had earned her day, which did not prevent her to come lie against Anzy’s back when she had freshened up, teasing my eyes, biting the newbie’s ears, and unabashedly offering me to trade three columns and a picture in “The Beacon”, if I would spend an afternoon at Y.’s, bringing this new rosebud, now that she had seen her. This latter did not grasp, although Liselotte did marvels along her spine, so I unveiled the usual plot to her ear and awaited for the delicious small vertigo that she would trip on softly, or refute altogether. She smirked and let two ravenous libertines denude her cuddlesome soul.

Camille says:

Malo was overjoyed, James had rightfully shagged her bootyhole with all the due sensitivity, for he fantasises her as her instrument, as I enlaced her, then let her drip on me. She foresaw the show opening as a coming out of sorts, a threshold, we would print a CD.
The specialised press was giving already, thanks to the girls’ cunning diplomacy and Liselotte’s licentious dedication which I let her guess I would not overlook. She’s a gifted lover, she confided she had been enthralled by the two “Germans” since school, machinating plots to lead them to prostitution, until Sarah bit her bait and beautifully sold her arse for honours, as it should. I mused on what Hugo and his circle would elaborate upon a recruit such as her; she is desirable and willing, he will soon peel her to the raw.

Sarah says:

For the last week before the event, the house has rumbled and whispered, putting me in a bittersweet lull, like the first summer break at Saint Loup, when the ones with real families anticipated whatever sports on endless beaches, leaving us, near-orphans, all the space in the school for daydreaming with Ayla, who now breezed in, all smiles, and did not bother to find her own bed.
Simon caught up with Anzy in the new cosy room next to our studio, she brought all of her stuff and woke up in the morning with her eyes ringed, but a disarming smile. Nevertheless we had tender threesomes, Simon is so attuned with my own Kate, and the stray kitten is now so relieved that they make my smile shine.
Liselotte would not neglect the fishing line she had floated onto my crush for Anzy, as a contrivance to angling her, and watch; I was one to know it would only turn into some inoffensive worldly playlet, and situate the palatable debutante usefully through the corridors of the scene she had vowed herself to, sometime. Notwithstanding her grand spend with her German engineer, she agreed to come along with me and fulfil the whims of a taciturn professor, for the coveted purpose of reaping some of his professional influence upon our exhibition. During a sincere expense of caresses and words on the red couch, I let her know that I would be using her just like Liselotte and Y., and I offered to let them consider her as a first-time amateur, free to reclothe herself and leave, if ever she became to taste the cookie sour.
Therefore, we were summoned the next day, and Liselotte came to help us costume for the intimate ceremony, as it were. She thoughtfully stripped off Anzy and lauded her body strained by the long days of shagging, and the mauve shadow at her lascivious eyes; she was already wet being considered as a mere desire animal.
I gave her a rosewater enema like she had never done, sprayed her with an understated violet and Indian rose, slid up black silk stockings and lent her a short black faille dress that would slip down as soon as someone pushed apart the shoulder straps. White powder and mascara would kill Y. She shoed some flat varnished black Mary Janes I happened to have, just enough girly to make her desirably self-conscious.
As for myself, Liselotte first fondled my upper thighs and pretended to share advice with the young doll. I inundated myself with blue tuberose, pulled on black gossamer stockings to a flimsy lace garter belt, then loosely buttoned a deep blue and purple black changing taffeta shirt-dress; my Stubbs and Wooton black velvet slippers showed embroidered gauntlets on the vamp, pointing a silver star on the box.
I gave Anisette a thin geometric patterned bracelet of onyx and garnets, which made her round a pretty mouth, and faint Liselotte of envy; I was proud of my gesture, whenas I would trade her tender skin to a twitchy deviant scholar who could.
Liselotte contemplated the impression she had suggested of us and loved it, whatever she had schemed with the instigator; she could not help her hands and lips.
Swathed in light black smocks, we hasted to the umbrageous doorway to resonant corridors, smelling of rotting wood and cat piss, leading to Y.’s forgotten chambers he was so proud about. A deaf lady in rags pretended to polish the ramps in some timeless liturgy. Even Liselotte had not figured how to switch the lights; she craved Anzy’s shudders in the silk.

The silvery bell sounded ages afar; I did not remember having climbed this way before, Liselotte whispered there were a few other paths, like in many ancient structures of old Paris; she asked if I had explored the caves and quarries, as I most certainly should.
A young man opened the door, dressed as your casual art student, tee shirt, baggy jeans and frayed sneakers; he sported a bold smirk and showed his natural pull towards Anzy who responded coyly, I contemplated biting in his tanned nape, I was already in heat.
Y. greeted us with swift kisses, in some precious African long maroon gown lavishly ornate with ochre-yellow embroideries, buttoned all the way down front with gold pellets, altogether a wearable program of the ceremony to come.
After Liselotte had introduced Anzy, who was still moved by the sailor boy, I gamely stated my bid of rule regarding my protégée, who would be asked permission for any liberty on her person, unlike what I had permitted on myself, unregretted whatsoever, to what Y. smirked briefly.
Fabrics swished in the muffled room as we shuffled off our day cloaks, and Y.’s gaze lit up. As I had dared a tad more than during our previous encounters, but still let him very near, he seized my waist and led me to a table where proof prints were displayed, with ghostly photographs of me, quite evocative, albeit not showing what had occurred when he had recorded them; as I browsed through the article, I comprehended enough that it was a sound accolade of my, and our, overreaching endeavour, in all correct wording. Y. had repaid us our expense at his vices, he was a thorough master; he was pulling my skirt and taking pride of my wet labia. Liselotte cuddled an easily disrobed Anzy while with the other hand she handled the boy’s unleashed peter.
I could not help crying for real in Y.’s neck; he struggled to keep his composure. Reining back the game, he told me to order my underling to fetch his cock and service him duly with her mouth; I started to pop the golden pebbles out of their slits, as Anzy smiled at the other two’s passes in her cleft. Y. looked for submission and did not force her; she offered flowery indolence, her eyes down. He asked that she offered herself to Axel, for such was the sun bleached stud’s name who was now in the raw; I read that she was more than willing and embraced her down on Y.’s desk, guiding a turgid shaft into her. Y. let her play his flute as she moaned of the boy’s thrusts. Liselotte took possession of me and deployed her overwhelming skills, triggering me to dare her soul to tilt in bliss, finally surrendering to her unending kindness.
Y. reached for my hand, asked for my eyes and told me he wanted my arse now, turning me face to the wall where hung a small German etching of a nymph shagged by a muscular faun. He prepare the way for his considerable envy and invaded me in a seemingly new yearning, as if my response to his written acceptance of our life aims had softened his possessing of me.

Camille says:

Hugo has been in my bed like old times, still his own smell, his auguring gift of a dick which once nailed the last day of my fall, one I would cajole endlessly, to feel his pleasure like gems. Are we not proud, these days, of our shameless sylphs, well-to-do maidens turned cunning harlots, best even to my street-hardened craftyness, mind you!
We are so proud of them, like Paris is haunted with their scent, abuzzed in word of mouth and else in their light glory, they managed to fuck every good soul in the book.
Answers have poured like Zeus on Danae, from all over an empire, the attendance will permeate our walls for aeons of fame, I will gather cohorts of willing fairies.
They earned a dazzling preface by no less than Professor Y., Hugo would have imprinted too obviously among rumours, he publishes a longer article in the New Review, which transcends his personal relationships with the corps de ballet.
Melchior, for one, and other magnitude luminaries have pledged to attend, Malo will radiate, I hired a handsome assistant to pose as a lackey and carry her instrument, I told him it wouldn’t hurt if he made a pass at her in the heat of emotion.
We did not print any poster, but a seventeen colours catalogue on an exclusive Singapore machine, plus a number of flyers of the same pictures.
My Hugo, haven’t we succumbed rightfully when we fell in love with these talented and unabashed tramps?

We chose to treat our guests on center tables, and later upstairs, not to move out to any after-party, other than the probable random exultations we know how to care for. The caterers would be Agnete & Sanne, whose red lorries have signalled healthy roundups for quite a while now, they draw inspiration from the timeless tradition of Nordic smørrebrød, and thus the viking adaptability to foreign delicacies; by our exhibitors’ decree, the food code was vegetarian with fish and eggs, altogether organic and responsible, bohemian and peaceful. I knew I could not avoid champagne, but our two Danish matrons also concoct kefir and lemonades of all colours, for those who do not need to be drunk to get properly laid. My precious fairies insisted about a supplementary cargo of macarons, arguing they keep well, in any case.
Then came the unforeseen security protocols; black suits would spawn from any street corners like a world conference, none in an official capacity. Sarah’s daddy, Melchior, Fanny, whomever Julia Grant thought of dragging along, I could not manage that many details. Fortunately, I could lay out my concern to the Captain who had lovingly driven Fanny to her school for some time, and he more or less coordinated the actions, except for Melchior’s janissaries, but these were known as faultless whatsoever. Sarah floated an allusion about a chauffeur called Hector. Captain Thierry brought three unidentified sullen types with black cases who literally auscultated all the furniture and walls, pipes and vents.
On the ground floor, I had the four salons arranged in the likes of the 291 Gallery’s, of glorious memory, so as the smaller formats of the fairies wouldn’t shy on deserted walls; we had fixed narrow shelves at elbow height and hung ruched velvet underneath, only to invite one’s lower waist to brush on easy, while scrutinising the obsessive complexity of the mental visions. I chose an overall dull grue colour as inoffensive to the works and suggestive to the viewer’s mind, off-white trimmings set off enough architectonics and the deep dark slate-grey carpeting muffled the sounds like in jewel box. Sleek LED ramps diffused their scientifically neutral light over the presentation area in such angle that the treated glazings would disappear.
As soon as the decorators cleared the place, Malo came with her most precious gleaming contraption and we tested, with Fanny who possesses a trustworthy ear, many settings for her to sit and play, to eventually agree that the axis of the gallery enfilade was best; Malo risked the suggestion that the wall behind her not be velvet but some hard surface, I agreed that a floor standing antique mirror would do fine with her arse, wouldn’t it? She played for us, she undressed to let us feel her from a distance, and finally duet with an amused Fanny on her lap.

Katherine says:

Gianni went into Neapolitan mode, most certainly swearing all the time in his born vernacular, begging us to come to his mill, a large storeroom in a disused department store, where we could meet his brigade of dexterous wasps of all ethnic and genre qualities.
He refitted for me a rainbow-dyed, couture, bias-pleated, ankle length, sleeveless silk jersey dress that hardly covered my timid breasts; I could throw a cloud of pearly silk mousseline over my shoulders. On my silver sandals were white opal cabochons, I would varnish my own nails pearly white. I intended not to bother the sight with any kind of underwear.
Sarah brought some black heritage boy’s uniform tailed jacket, trimmed in bright red, with two rows of gilded buttons; be it inherited family canon, it fitted her chest flawlessly and she intended to wear it shirtless. She wanted off-white, high-waisted, thin wool casimir sailor trousers that would give her endless legs. As is his wont, Gianni groped her indecently over her leggings and promised to cut some heavenly trousers, with a bridge over her crotch, lined in satin; she stood half nude in the lit spot of the workshop while he admired the craftsmanship of the jacket, lined in thin-striped ivory cotton satin that showed no traces of having been worn, her great grand cousin had died before he could sport it, said her; Gianni nodded, pensive, and went on checking my sailor had not grown. I waited to hug her.
Having watched from a chair, Natalia anticipated to get disrobed from her jeans and multiple shirts, Beryl played cool, next in turn. Unfazed, Gianni seized the elfin model’s fingers and showed her to pivot on herself, muttering in his sabir, then, holding her chin, made her blush with flowery compliments on her beauty and perfect allure. He said he pictured a maid-of honour dawn yellow taffeta minidress, gathered at the neck, sleeveless and cunningly slit under the arms so as to let one guess her nascent breasts at every move; she could wear white tights and yellow court ballerines, show her angelic butt and make all the black-suited voyeurs sweat. She too, grabbed me on her bare chest.
In no haste to redress, she helped denude Beryl; they scented the same orange and lavender mix that Natalia boosted a tad more. Now the seamstresses of all genders in the room had stopped working and watched. Slightly taller, Beryl was perched on the sleekest streamlined legs, bound on elongated butt cheeks, as moving as the most expensive yearling’s; being given to watch them both scattered shudders through the silenced shop. Gianni marked his lead by running a delicate hand down Beryl’s spine and tapping Natalia’s lobe; he went to the far end and fetched some hanger on which was a dark purplish fussy-printed biais twill flared high-waisted sleeveless dress he threw over Beryl’s head and started to shorten with pins, taunting her she, too, would display her thighs for the connoisseurs. Natalia was still in her white cotton knickers, and she hinted a dance embrace with Beryl, making Gianni grumble.

Having been felt up all over by Gianni and his petites mains, we let ourselves randomly flatter and sniff as we decided to homeshop for shoes on the perfectionist Stubbs and Wooton website. Sara and me knew our exact size, Beryl wore our shoes, Natalia seemed a tad smaller and dreamily narrower; otherwise, when it came to sandals, K.Jacques is still paramount, in our manners.

Sarah says:

We’ve been fly casting all over the memory pond, willing to counterbalance the fine-tuned PR work by Camille and whomever she deputed accordingly. Our mail inboxes have bulged, as we try to grasp the whereabouts of mostly old crushes, sweet tingles in my brains and spine, about what these might even not remember my name; I doubt.
Ayla Naveen will bring some new girl, she tells with a hint of lust. Tudor Weiss is all too happy that I thought of him. Harmony agreed to forward the news to the kindest smelling animals of the farm, and fortunately, no bad news of anyone bounced back, so I ready myself for even more dishevelled times than usual.
Liselotte, who cunningly threaded into our ways, as a gifted entremetteuse and a superb partner, has kept records of the best of the Beaux-Arts, she recommended Fulgence to Camille and Y. provided some of his best victims.
Simon dug up from Kate’s shady period, when Cynthia flew away for good. there had been a Jinlo von der Ghenz, a desperate admirer of her and her affair with Cynthia, an elfin boy who longed to emulate their feminine manners, and smelled of expensive scents he stole from his mother. Jinlo was mocked and rebuked, bullied, so they had granted him shelter on school grounds, and taught him delicate bed manners, like Kate was a wondrous expert at since kindergarten. Now she said Jinlo came along with Simon, and it woke chaotic episodes of her coming of age story.
Far would attend; I did not even know my mother’s address, nor those of my entire Dane kinship; the old Admiral had died and Far was having the old barrack on Christiansø restored. I fantasised staying over-there with Kate and others. I could have related to many persons who had contained my special life, nannies, guards and chauffeurs whom I had not always regarded duly, teasing some of them beyond any restraint, testing my nascent seductions over their male instincts; I might have been a privileged lolita, so it ended in the Jutland sands and it led me to the lake shores, god vind! To me, Far would remain forever my harmonic damper, like, he once craftily explained to me, one sits at the top of the tower Taipei 101, and I relished the double entendre of the metaphor.

Camille says:

At least, Fanny and me had an extended, balmy night in expectation of the next frantic evening. Anzy had run to the castle of thrills at Simon’s call, she wouldn’t emerge back in fitter before most of the crew. But Agnete and Sanne provided a brigade of six or seven maids in black jeans, short-sleeved shirts and sneakers, all poppy-red trimmed. Sports trained types, motivated, clever, they displayed the buffet in iceboxes, ready to run to the celadon green tables.
I shouldn’t have been surprised by the quantity of flowers that were delivered, my damsels entertain a princely areopagus, when the lights fade in their studio.
At the end of the far side, in the gallery, the decorator had stretched a twelve leaves lacquer screen behind the gilt-wood and purple velvet chair Hugo had certified would fit Malo, for she had sat on it, before, to play. The screen presented an animated pond overlooked by a silver heron standing in the windswept reeds, on the lookout for appetising frogs.
The black polished carbon fibers cello case had an anthropoid presence next to the chair, while its owner collected inspiration among Fanny’s vales, deep in my bed, upstairs.
First to show, four men in black took a steady position at the doors, after they checked the toilets.My own bouncer, so to speak because he was a professional, for whom I had let myself a fancy from time to time, a Korean athlete who shagged like a diva and whom I could trust to filter out the scroungers at my door.
A Dottore M.E. entered first, in a double-breasted flax-coloured suit and two tones shoes that made him altogether look like a Don; a thin young assistant in a navy blazer carried his attaché-case, obviously; he intended to be granted a tour, and revealed a most precise knowledge of the matter of the show, before he dropped he had authored three reviews for it, leaving me speechless, and even cunningly hinting he had very personal relations with the artists. I was unsettled, raving on the novelty of the four-hands plus pieces, he cornered me down to touch me with his belly, whispering I sure was lucky to foster such gems on my walls. I grasped, at his delight, and I felt proud of my two crafty protégées. He spoke in the most exotic French and smelled of the Florentine hills, he reminded me of my best jockeys, I would ask the girls about his manners.
Prof. Y. soon joined, along with an inspiring Liselotte, bare shoulders once she handed her silk trench to the vestiaire attendant, whom she leered at for a few seconds. I knew Y. from old times, of course he had asked me, and obtained, favours as twisted as a demented schoolboy would invent, then shagged me in mostly dark and deserted oratories and mausolea he obsessed about at the time. Altogether, the remembrance of these characterised abuses upon a doctoral student did not bitter my mouth, and I had sussed out that the same shenanigans had occurred with my sweet stargazers, when I read clever articles about them in The Paris Studio and The Golden Wing, signed by him, totally ignoring any reference to the current academic endeavours of “airport art” and the billionaire’s poodle speculative schemes.

As the hungry boho fellowship rallied by Liselotte, at my girls’ demand, berthed along the well supplied tables, the two academics congratulated each other, anticipating some future reviews of the body of work, so to speak.
The young troupe of funambulists smelled sandalwood and body ardour, I knew I would see a good many of them in the raw, eventually soon, when the fairies would have sorted through them. Currently, they dwelled in peripheral territories, in subsidised artist shelters built in cheap concrete, but they sported inventive accoutrements with no lack of elegance or taste, and swayed their hips like royalty. I treated them like desirable.
To go along with his finely aged golden green velvet jacket and vest, James held the arm of an unknown, British for sure, tall and thin pale redheaded beauty he came to introduce as his daughter, of whom nobody had known of. She wore a long lichen grey gown printed like Margaret Mac Donald Mckintosh’s screens, I knew she noted my gaze at her feet, she was savvy on these manners.
Now a bronze-coloured limousine put ashore, under the direction of uniformed police, and let the main becoming cohort descend upon my emporium; Hugo cladded in a waisted maroon silk velvet shawl collar jacket over a lilac Nehru shirt, black silk trousers and varnished loafers. Kate flitted graciously, almost nude in a charivari of rainbow chiffon, weightless on silver toe ring sandals; at her neck, wrist and ankles, white opals panicked gently. Sarah displayed graphic elegance in black and white, her high waist, wide off-white crepe trousers propping high the fitted black uniform tail jacket, punctuated with silver buttons; although she did not button up, she wore no shirt, and her Melchior-given art-deco white jadeite, black onyx and diamonds choker made a killing. She wore her sacred platinum tank watch along with Ayla’s present, and the Kettelær ring, as she wanted to beguile her dad. She walked in white braided-leather bespoke Jodhpur boots.
Ayla Naveen trotted all smile, holding hands with a thinner nymphet, both in dark fluid sequined trapeze dresses hung from their minute breasts. ebony and gold bangers at their wrists, multicoloured jewelled chains at their ankles, over black lacquered simple sandals. Be it keen mimetism or Ayla having played doll with a newbie, the show was striking and visibly aroused Hugo. They gazed from under the same fringe, the younger one showed crisp little ears, and displayed a sizeable diamond at her long tapered hand; I thought that, had I time, I would shell out some to lure her into my bed, or both of them.
Sparkly Anisette was proud of her princely catch, whom had visibly shuffled her whims at no end, and was willing for more, Simon wore an elegantly cringed ecru flax outfit, as always buttoned up over his scars, rawhide loafers and a wild ponytail. She wore, as a tempting surprise to me, one of Sarah’s ancestor’s long shirts, a deep blue strass belt and possibly nothing more but black docs; with her newly bloomed smile, she was devil’s bait and I knew all of her numbers.
Finally, Natalia and Beryl jumped out of the car like the maids of honour at a mob marriage, all the more blithely in pristine Victorian undershirts of embroidered linon on impalpable white leotards, one with ankle socks and Mary Jane shoes, the other with flat white deerskin sandals, for Beryl had edible toes.

Guests queued up and had been warned that ID would be checked; Louis hugged me demonstratively and couldn’t help lush comments on the attendance; I was surprised to recognise Victor, more like an old jockey of mine, of fair sport memory, as a tingle up my spine meant. He brought Fulgence Rotor, a Beaux Arts alumnus of my belles, who had renewed some mutual ardour in a recent encounter in Victor’s realm. The voracious lone wolf still bore his charm with panache, he would certainly entice one or more of the guests in his glittering berline, to firstly disrobe them on the rich leather and feel them wet for the peeper’s lust, as I recalled it, relating to some of the girls’ erotic confidences; he smelled Greek scrubland and moonlit shore; Kate’s downfall resurfaced as an emotional shudder, I took a deep gaze in his black eyes and ushered him in my home, where Beryl came, wiggling like a kitten at his side.
More impassible servicemen took position for Mr Kettelaer, undoubtedly her father, whatever Sarah called him. She ran to him, leaving Fulgence to Kate who was dancing the seven veils for the beautiful lad.
Three black vans brought Melchior to my door, and signals were exchanged for the now overcrowding security not to shoot each other; a cloud of German cologne floated, I was shrinking of fear, but happily Hugo ran to us and introduced me to the greying man with piercing cerulean eyes and pinhole pupils. I let him watch my breasts in my opened shirt, with my most engaging face. My ink-black, pinstripe suit was adjusted on my hips and I saw that the manly fly attracted him, as he did not try to hide it. He smelled of silk road loot, balms, resins and rare woods, he could have anything of me, too.
The energetic team in fitted black jeans were building up some imperial tip for themselves, the bite-size Danish inventions were swept and resurged at a frantic pace. Fulgence helped pour Champagne for those in need, ewers of pale beverages kept all adorable lips fresh.

Sarah says:

I never felt such congeniality with the artsy gang as I had relished at Saint Loup, we would have nothing much to share in conversation about the hung pieces in the cruelly posh setting of L’Etoile Amusée. Dandy surrealism has perished away when Daniel Cordier let his arms drop at the showcase front he had fought for; as sexy as they showed, they lugged along mediocre pop clichés, picking up butts from Duchamp’s careless ashtray. My musing about mental automatism, as a kaleidoscopic conduit to the (soul?)’s focal point, like it was vigorously charted in bright metaphors by André Breton, only met mundane marketing concepts from otherwise doable colleagues, and unfailingly brought up interrogations, winding or frank, about our obviously desirable means. Boys or girls, I used my impeccably provocative allure to snub them aside from that kind of ethos, even if I could fantasise buying some of them to a furious bed.
James introduced me to his daughter Annabelle, with enough proximity for me to sniff her maddening English rose, and read her reciprocal yearning for fine-grained girl’s skin; as her dad let be seen our thorough sensual connivance, as you may allow in a heated gathering of rare species, I sensed that we would soon crease some fabric together, and I shared gazes with her moor-green eyes, in the most benevolent manner, so to dare speak.
Malo appeared in a black satin domino that Hugo untied from behind her, unveiling her sleekly pale figure seizing her cello from its robotic case and laying her slender feet on each side at an angle, under an elaborate shattered crystal chandelier held up with a thin rod from behind the black and gold screen behind her. She silenced the audience with a few spacey traits she had rehearsed for the rooms and let go forte. There, she was no longer facing a party of intimate libertines, although she could have picked almost anyone for her whim, the tense security squad included, she was happening through our companionship and recorded by three sophisticated devices manned by Gauthier’s recruits who spawned out of the shadows in tight black outfits, headphones on. Her ethereal wreaths and scrolls, so familiar to Hugo’s household, detangled the nerves of the assembly, which weren’t a confederacy of dunces, be that as it may; the fray of expensive kinds of stuff loosened kindly, and I swooned into Far’s Denmark’s scent, and let him support me, closing my eyes, reviving the Tudor terraces under the snow, lighting up my plexus thrills as if I stole Malo’s volutes for us two. He masterfully dropped in my ear the words that he wanted to talk to me, so I weaved us out to a faraway corner and smiled, face to him, who, most thankfully, did not change. I was always unconditionally bedazzled by his professional skill to alleviate any irrelevant dregs from his talk. He gave me a solid fatherly eye, the very same as mine, and shot in few words that my Mor and Martin were in Paris and humbly begged to meet me briefly, whatever aftermaths it might. He swiftly went on to assert that a party like the one there was the best emotional jamming around a quick encounter, even if I chose to ignore the plea. The music was truly poignant, I could not have spoken, I took Far’s manicured hand and slid it under my lapel, on my bare chest, where my heart beat like a scared cygnet.

Far said he would go outside to call, and he came back soon, and Martin was following him like a brainwashed warrior. He fixed me with a frozen gaze. We really looked alike, only he had probably worked out the American way and became too burly for my taste; he stood silly, said that he had thought of me much, and he needed my permission to ask Far for my coordinate and write like once a week, if ever. Far came back over, Malo was granting us an angelic coda, I said yes but I could not cry, Martin thanked me, almost clicking his heels, half-rolled his eyes and ran.
The music had ended, Hugo wrapped Malo in the black silk and hugged her. I noticed Theo had arrived with Florenz, Kate crossed my eyes and hurried to me. Far hugged me again, he greeted Kate and said at once that I had had a hard knock to withstand and she might help. I couldn’t leave his chest, after a while he asked me for a tour of our works. We met persons curious about my new cavalier, I did introductions, first rather icy, then I felt like thawing, and flocks of scarlet crows were flying away in my visions; unintentionally, I held Kate and Far in the same embrace, and she wasn’t shied. I told her in her ear, Far let us rock ourselves, as we do. We walked around and gave him the most sincere report of what had induced, so to say, the trip of all the pictures he saw; after some time he risked that we should write what we were telling him in a book, along with the pictures, Hugo, who had approached, agreed to this idea and was visibly thrilled to know my father. Kate was now embracing me as usual, our demonstration to Far, that no one knew but stood with undeniable charm, became a fortuitous attraction, after Malo had captivated the souls. Impromptu, Ayla came forward at a threshold and made a gracious curtsey, lowering her eyes then staring at Far keenly; he asked for her hand and kept it to his mouth a tad too long, unabashed, as if to manifest some superior respect; she then took my wrist and kissed the gift she had clutched to it, then returned to her young fling, as in a swanky tableau, and winked to Far’s eye.
As ever, Far should move on, but invited Kate and me for dinner the day after next, promising that there would be no more Martin apparition out of the blue; Kate was in love with him. Suddenly, Julia Grant stretched a straight hand and laughed, seeing Far reminisce the saucy comedy scene in the hotel, so he laughed of good heart with us three and said Geneva had been altogether a good idea, to what some masculine voice concurred positively, as we recognised Tudor himself, and Julia jumped to his neck, providing a distraction as for Far to flee, followed by his usual detail.
Considering the three girls in front of him, plus Ayla who ran with her protégée when she saw who he was, Tudor turned his palms to the sky and rolled the eyes, mumbling he wished Harmony could have come too. He seized Ayla’s little face and kissed her forehead, telling her he was overjoyed he snitched on her; she slid back her hand on my chest in a move that ravished Melchior, who passed by and leered at me, again.
The invasion by Martin was thinning in my mind, I felt nasty. Louis requested my attention on the side, asking me to look at the young girl he had come with, short light brown mane on a small head carried high, tall androgynous frame and round butt, in black moleskin shorts, loose Liberty boy’s shirt and distressed docs, Louis read my lustful mind and said, briefly, she called herself Liseron, still stayed at her working parent’s, and was on the verge to waste herself out for real; he was asking me to show her the codes and pits of a lifestyle she had never lived, and bring her along if I reckoned she was my kind of class, he would reward heftily my endeavours and hers. He took me to her and introduced me, telling her I had many keys available, or not; she fancied my outfit, was tempted to do what Ayla had done, smiled as Louis left. She timidly asked for the cloakroom, I took her hand and guided her to a much quieter bathroom in Camille’s office.
As we snuck in, we heard some unmistakable sort of beastly noises, at least two were shagging in here; strung up as I had been, I jumped on the opportunity and put my hand on her mouth, pushing her against the wall, like in a good schooldays’ shenanigan. She smelled some intoxicating man’s cologne, with a hint of a pomander kept in a cedar drawer, I kissed her blooming lips, she stroked my tadberries, her shorts fell, her shirt floated. Simon heard the breaths and the rustle so he stopped and whispered, asking who was there, I said it was me and pushed Liseron who was hesitant but moist like dawn, near the desk where Simon was humping the whole nude Anisette who invited a kiss from the new girl.

Katherine says:

She wore Bacall blond rich hair and a formal flared black with white polka dots twill dress, 3/4 sleeves, and black satin cuffs, collar and side pockets; black varnished richelieus and opaque stockings. Stunned as I was by all the red stickers under our labours, I shrugged off the inner appeal she had produced, there were a few new beauties cruising around that night; howbeit, she called my name and stared like I should hear a bell ringing; Indeed she was my Jinlo, as a girl, and a superb embodiment altogether, radiant skin with no makeup, sensuous lips I kissed a tad longer than casually. She was thin and styled, as tall as me, she moved like a born Highness, actually. I offered a drink, she asked for the pale mauve lemonade and we tucked ourselves in a corner, at everyone’s wonder. We had been frequent lovers after Cynthia flew away, so we stared mute each other’s eyes, hers darker than mine and rimmed, she had a blessing of long thick lashes, I thought of dragging her away upstairs . She was overjoyed with her instant success, she told me she had spotted me here, in Paris, for long, but had worked out her transition, with the vague view to win me over, were it just once. After a blank, she told my eyes that she had, nevertheless, kept her willie, which I had acquainted merrily all around the Alster lakes, and also had Simon, as of late.
I was elated, it was a pearly ribbon in our triumph bouquet, and since I sensed that I could not shag her on the spot, I looked to show her to Theo, who graced between Lorenz and Gauthier with Malo in a gleaming orchid-black pencil dress, barefoot. They linked up swiftly, Cynthia was their mutual idol and, as it came, had spoken of Jinlo in graceful terms.

Mary wore a short dress, undergrowth-coloured, silky, fishbone-patterned knitted, sleeveless, showing her praised breasts; dark yellow tights and avocado-green Mary Janes. She was disappointed not to be let to shoot around in the beautiful assembly, a series of posed official mementoes had already been made, none of the attendance wished to adorn any social register. Her new intimate condition did not reveal itself yet to the obvious, only for the friendly eye would she seem to stand with her feet at a slightly more open-angle. In the Epicurean mood of the evening, I craved her and wished I share some more of her undoubtedly unique variety of pleasure, given the tribe’s inclinations and the errs of the planet around. She asked if we came swimming a few days later, I thought if would be a grace to feel her in the water.

Sarah seemed besotted with an unknown androgynous tall child of her own, whose marsh green eyes shied from any others but eventually stood up to mine, and livened up to a smile, as I made my best welcoming face. Sarah floated that she was about to drive Liseron home, for it was a school night, and I grasped that she was chasing schoolgirls, lately; her gaze meant that she would clue me into the loop, later; and she seized her catch by the waist, towards the street.
Simon’s nape smelled sex, obviously, and Anisette looked like I would have reveled upon her blooming labia, and she knew it. But then, I was taken aback when an older lady in a flax beige power suit pivoted and i saw my mother, reaching out to me, as beautiful and classy as I could have figured. I had not seen or talked to her since the deadly mess I had spawned, fool-headedly. She was there for a major reckoning and I read that Simon had engineered his own closure masterfully, and now, that, was making me cry like a girl. Hugo and Camille were alerted, but finely grasped the situation and remained distant, until Simon could Introduce them as best friends to his swollen-eyes sister. First, Mama saw the whole art show as mine, disconcerted to see that I had disavowed my previous trends to intellectualise my stance, as young artists easily do in the German situation; it went to show that we had not discussed as artists since ages. She read my bend backwards to some Sylt holidays in the old couple’s workshop, and Simon concurred, there had been rainy days.

Soon, Mama responded to my clasp as if not thinking of what I had unbeknownst inflicted to her; I reasoned that Simon had already worked out with her the dire quid pro quo in which I had woken, defaced, twirled in the withdrawal syndrome, nonetheless shameful and wasted. Her soft-tone musing on my art, then, surreptitiously harboured the motive as to why I had not killed myself any further, but sought refuge in that random klinik, whenas I would not bid a grain of faith in their practice more than any church of sorts, we had elucidated the swindle, foremostly in the German realm, with my stellar lover Cynthia, who knew very well that, by the time Freud was capitalising upon the upper class nightmares, the likes of a Julius Hallervorden were slaughtering and dissecting hundreds of thousands of people and children deemed nonconforming. One day, Cynthia had taken me to the gravesite where forty-nine brains of euthanised children were rested, in a small rose garden, she explained that none of the doctors who had perpetrated these murders ever were prosecuted, after the collapse of the “third reich”. Cynthia and her parents had literally fled to Australia in front of the horrendous comments that the direct heirs of the unrepentant nazi medical staff had dared utter as to her undecided gender.
Now I pressed my reassuring mother’s arm, and overly talked in front of Sarah and myself’s elaborate mirrors of our soul-searching pastime, she smelled her timeless rose as if she never had worn any other scent; she tried to know about Dr Schubert, incidentally, and wondered where my partner was.
Camille’s arrangement did marvel, the voices were muffed, people felt somewhat coddled by the dressed-up walls. Liselotte had rallied some of her old mates near the two academic connoisseur bird-watchers, and seemed hatching one more of her, on reflection unobjectionable, private parties; she swiftly winked at me with her hand under someone’s jean belt. Tudor, who lived his light-weigh life amongst privileged youths, engaged in cerebral joust, for the pornographic pleasure of exchanging with alluring libertines, in case one of them found Switzerland exotic.

Mama said I’d been yet again swooped out in another cloud, like I always did, Anisette realised I wore nothing under my flurry dress, like most guest had figured, she squeezed up to my side, she smelled of Camille’s shower lotion and, in her neck, Simon had licked her skin.
Melchior and his goons had vanished, so had Ayla and her heavenly youngling, we would learn. Julia Grant had been to the restroom, and so had Fulgence, who nonetheless triggered a flirt and hinted about our last conversation, as in our last merry shag. I felt a needed to pee, and led him to the door written “Private” in the diverted service corridor, and in a shady backroom, lit by a green emergency lamp. As he began fondling me through my dress, our sight adjusting to the glaucous obscurity, as well as some discreet panting, made us seek through the shambles, and see the white skin of Gauthier, butt naked, buggering Malo’s arse as she pulled up her dress. We kept the whispering mode to cheer them, Fulgence was utterly tense as I held his conspicuous manhood, he chucked my rags over my head and tweaked my body into a shudder mill, swiftly surpassing the talent he had shown at Victor’s while the others accelerated their quest, too. He spewed his cum in deep, inflaming my entrails and prying loose the orgasm I deserved, still rummaging my arse for more of my tremours. Malo and Gauthier had exulted, too, and came around; beyond the room’s awkward scent, sweats and pleasure distorted broadly our parade fragrances. It happened that the hardy boys knew each other well, enough to mutually wank back to order.

Sarah says:

My pupil availed all her trove to me on the cab’s back seat, on the way to her quarters; accustomed to private means, I did not pay much attention to the driver, who took care not to be reminded of. In as few words as I could, I asked her if she knew what she was up to, at my hand, for Louis’ project, eventually. She murmured in my neck that she was aware it was prostitution, but it was nothing new to her and her boyfriend had sold her to Hector, to whom he owed his junky life. No, she had not been hooked on anything herself, only had her enjoyed recreational psychedelia, and not heavily, because her mother would have sensed it and stirred the whole kinsfolk of puppets she called a family, not to mention her sly dad who had forced her to swallow his jizz, as to avoid stains on his grey flannel, ever since he had had his office on another floor. Her old boyfriend had all the videos of what he had made her do on a webcam, she had plotted to ask Louis and his might to rid her of the whole vicious trap, and she asked for my help, for that was what he had advised her to do, swearing it would be rewarding and safe. I devised to break down the whole plot to Hugo, Louis was one of his peers, and to my soulmate.
Back to Camille’s, I went in through the back and splashed some water over my merry hide, tried on some Florentine talcum, and trotted through the pantry towards any more carnal delicacies. Julia was keenly chatting in her best English with James’ newfound gracile daughter, she noted I had read in her eyes where the soft conversation would lead to, so I only mimicked an air kiss behind Annabelle’s bonny head. I noticed that her array of veils weren’t stitched in the back, and it itched me to feel her back arch, right then, but I let Julia lull her towards her hotel, she would later tell if there was treasure to be revelled in.
As Liselotte mislaid a silk gloved hand along my ribs, we affected to gossip like Ladies. I confided to her lecherous greed that I would avidly spend some pussy ardours on a well-hung squire, if ever. She asked if she could watch, possibly, gazed at my slightly powdered face and smirked away, telling me to sneak out to the office.
One of the stray poets who smelled weed seized me from inside my jacket and while tonguing me like the adolescent he might have been, daintily unclothed me. Soon, Liselotte joined us with two more hopefuls she wanked hardily as her dress fell down. My servant laid me on the desk’s leather and it was obvious that I was on the other two’s plate, Liselotte already easing two slimy fingers into my accesses. They eagerly took revenge on the distant spoiled brat they probably had lusted after, to no avail, as students; her best skills were to wind other’s embers and sit on my face, conveniently.

Hugo says:

Theo and Jinlo held hands, they sang Cynthia’s praises, cocooning themselves apart. Sensing that, Lorenz had pulled easily one of the bohemians whom he would play to enslave to decorum and fine haberdashery, anyhow, I had seen the hand upon a sizeable dick before they evaded to the high style Olympe of heavenly balsams, the model was elegant, he might be traded back on my shore, at a pinch.
Camille had freshened up, she worried about the younglings, whatever I would demonstrate as to my circle being trustworthy.
As a matter of fact, Fanny wandered back on set, her short flaxen hair wet, wearing opulent silk pyjamas, no shoes on, and a sweet tooth over the colourful plates of confectionery that were being brought then. Her unaffected poise in the bronze-coloured, maze pattern printed, gleaming satin, her perpetually candid silvery-green gaze which had worked marvels as for her new life, I seized her quietly but granted her a full fledged stealth erection that she acknowledged handily. I complimented her mellowness, in my low tone of voice, and hinted that she ought to have exulted in a galactic spend, skimming her steady heart under the alluring little breast. She confessed to have bewitched her sitter when he announced that the program was over, the high powers reckoning that the cobweb was exterminated. He had been desperate and elated altogether, but he was a soldier, eventually, and the sharpest strain, that is. She rounded her drifting stare as the timeless figure of the wordless survivor; I sought to soothe what I had read as the shadow of a fever, she cuddled herself into my jacket like a pet, and Camille smiled.

Beryl and Natalia beamed up, with sparkling eyes, out of some time corridor of a few hours, safe as love. They confided in my keen ears that they had followed Victor on his promise he would show them amusement without harassment or any of the kind. He drove the big two-tones blue berline which felt like submarine; Beryl soon coddled her beguiled cadette in the smooth swaying along the sleepy avenues, Victor emoting rave compliments at the rear-view mirror as Natalia was denuded on the rich leather. With the help of some true crooning from the big center speaker, the two nymphs did what they knew best and reaped shudders of joy unabashedly. The luxury carriage had slowed insensibly and stopped, now strangers looked eagerly through the side glass windows, for the girls’ merriment and Victor’s who masturbated in a white kerchief. There had not been much more going, and the wide-eyed Silver Wraith had released its angelic shipment where it had picked it up, an awaiting chauffeur letting a besotted Victor revel into the scents of the back seat.
I knew that Beryl played as Victor’s agent in sensuous regards to Natalia’s fine lechery, so I let her feel watched and liked as far as it had been, pawing her tight butt against the panelling.
It was time to gather up the household, I called the big town car and covered Camille’s hands with kisses. A host of aftermaths to this night would start at dawn, but I plotted to sleep along with the two younger light-hearted damsels, whom, I suspected, Victor had aroused, on edge, as a message to me. Beryl is one crafty little whore, at what tender age had Victor baptised her?

Sarah dreams:

Down from the Tudor terraces where the industrial angels freeze upon their pinnacles, the relentless waves beat the derelict shore, attack the disused powerhouse where the scarlet crows nest. It snows. I wear my heavy blue and blue scarf, and a flannelette pyjama printed with red squirrels scattered over a dark starry night. I am cold but Martin has locked me out, the house is dark. The stone sitting corner chimeras grumble fast comments about me, some crows watch over from the overlooking monumental chimneys of the ruined plant. My bare feet make a darker imprint on the pavement, I will eventually die unnoticed until thaw, I wouldn’t make an acceptable industrial motif in the decor, besides, I have no symmetrical counterpart, which seems to have been the main concern for our building to exist. The street lights are so far down that the quantity of snow enshroud them away, only the night is clear enough. Squirrels have scaled the facades and coalesce as to pull me back to the French window I came out from, I feel the scratches on my feet. They rage upon the windows frames and their tiny claws finally unlatch the casement so I follow them in, so do some crows which scatter, laughing, in Far’s enormous bookcase. The squirrels have naturally ran to the kitchen, I can hear the rummage through the cupboards, then louder the train that hurtles along behind the glass walls of the library, unknown to me before. My feet rest on a carpet of moss stud with curious teensy blue flowers that stare at me and shut when I will walk on them. My brother Martin barges in, wearing the Westpoint uniform with a red thunderbolts badge on the sleeve; he runs up the library ladder and jumps on the dark train. I lay down on the smiling lawn and wish I was nude, when my mother passes by, from the kitchen, with a large tumbler of clear water; she says in French that my squirrels are pillaging the breakfast news and I’d better find them a refuge before the Swiss army kills them for fur. A train has stopped, crystalline and gloomy behind a plane-glass door in the wall. At the touch of a finger, the two halves part with a pneumatic cry, so then the little red troupe runs in, leaving a trail of sweet cereals behind them. As I walk, minute plants spawn from the steel floor in my traces, at the hilarity of my turbulent escort. They call for my attention towards a dump of rags in a shady corner of the mirror chrome clad car that seems to wriggle more than the train course would cause; I try to draw the top blanket and see a girl I knew, Elsie Chautemps, in a simple tee shirt, who begs me to tear off the blanket because it is so heavy she has been laying there since Mayday. I rid her of the rags, she smells like the fresh-baked orange cake with a hint of cinnamon, the scent she always offered to me to lick off her skin. The tiny jokesters gathered and they rub on her gracile body; she asks where have I been.

Katherine says:

By any trick, Natalia was sleeping along my back, in the morning, and she smelled daintily animal when I turned and cuddled her. Time for me to go pee in my own shower and rinse away the ebullience of our tightly filtered social confluence, one might say. When I finished wiping and brushing, the two of them had found each other’s warmth and dreams. Finding only true stale bread in the kitchen, I went for French toast, a sure mean to see Sarah ramp at my feet, as fair game, to start with. However, Natalia’s purr in her neck and my own predictable, though stealth, rummage, then my beating the eggs in the same heavy porcelain bowl, had driven her on my path, except she was still wet when she grabbed me from behind and listened to my heart and breath.
She brew strong Darjeeling tea thoughtlessly, parsing the events of what remained of her dream’s, as I still heard the long beating of low summer waves on the whimsical Wattenmeer sands. Mama had yet to avow what might have gone horribly wrong when Achim died.
With her ticklish feet on my lap, I succeeded to open my bulging mail box, her dad was first in row, with a shared heartfelt review of our unfettered endeavours, funambulistic attempts at a cartography of souls, for the inner peregrine to follow. Lars von Kettelær is a wandering wizard, I would nest in his breast pocket.
I was dumbstruck by the equivocal squibs by some of the Liselotte squadron, could I have so mislaid myself together with Béraud de Fourchez, and Nathan Vidal, and Pol Fannon? Or was it of no matter, anyway? Sarah puffed in her icing sugar and mumbled that we had been brash, indeed, on debauchery, but only once we had made everyone giddy with metaphors, enough to let them waver as to our sanity for the years to come. She did not believe those three squires would utter differently, had we shagged them or not, by the bye.
Natalia still smelled of all the licks she had reaped when she lifted Sarah’s feet to sit down in their place, and once they were upon the table, she chewed on them; she was light and careless, she parted her legs and set her feet on the chair’s rungs, she was wet like a daffodil.

Beryl yawned as she shuffled in, wearing one of Hugo’s shirts loosely buttoned; she floated they both lost their outfits, and she stole a mouthful of her beloved pupil; she smelled of windy honeysuckle all over, like Hugo does to you when he lays you happy and massages you more than once. She pulled a chair next to mine and groped us like toys. Sarah fetched a new box of oatmeal, mixed some with raisins and flaked almonds, brown sugar and cinnamon, switched the hotplate on and asked Beryl to stir gently while she pleased herself with her languid body.
Simon and his flame, hand in hand, came begging for something to eat, too. Anzy beamed, she wore borrowed boys trunks and singlet so wide she shows her goodies that we grabbed and stroke, Natalia and me, so as Simon extended in his own shorts. Beryl made a complimentary smile and served the plates of porridge, for the time being; Anzy had not yet known Natalia, she wanted a full kiss.
More tea, more hand tricks, yet the gossip took over, and then appeared Ayla and Esther Thamar, for that was who was the new marvel she brought along, black eyes and half-long hair, peach-pale complexion with irresistible freckles, thin like a gazelle. Everybody looked at her with greeting smiles and lust shivers, sensed the refined sisterhood between the two girls in casual faded hoodies, coral for her and pea-green the other, greyish plumage leggings and pastel paisley the other, both on thin flat sandals. No wonder Sarah got prime hugs and rubs until the sweat-shirt surrendered and dropped from the sylphlike body, winning her a general awestruck sigh, for the greater pride of Ayla, who stripped easily.
Anisette had pulled Simon by the knob and sucked him thoroughly on the couch, so Natalia ran to help and my dear brother swooned once more.

Sarah says:

Having slipped into an antique white shirt, I excused myself to climb up to the studio, my laptop in hand. I followed procedure to reach my Far and waited for green light. Ayla had followed me, dragging up Esther; she went eager on me, like old times, said she, showing me her catch who sat on my lap, in the red couch. She began to retell their venture at Melchior’s, and I knew what that meant, her intern of sorts had came back with more diamonds she had ever touched, and the artfulness of cat for more so.
Esther, who spoke enough of the Swiss languages as well as Youtube English, was almost seventeen and a runaway, like Ayla had been, who had picked her from the street soon enough before it turned real sour for her. Esther was not a registered prostitute, as of yet, but came in as a prized co-star for a choice of connoisseurs; soon enough she would reap gold in her coffers, she already was rich by her natural virtue, so to speak, but Ayla wouldn’t let her spend her gains; also, she had home schooling in languages and some literature, according to what my crafty little whore recalled of Saint Loup. At first, she had thought of leaving Esther at Harmony’s, but she was already too old, and morally astray, her mother had sold her repeatedly at a very young age, eventually Ayla was the only person who could bring Esther the guidance she would profit from, and the self-esteem that made her so beautiful; from the wasted rag doll she had scavenged from a dark nook in a hotel corridor, bruised and torn, she had woken this alluring apparition of a higher grace; new shoes, well adjusted outfits, sleek haircut, laser, manicure, and so the gleam of youth had recalled its due territory and Esther could hold up her pensive face, whereof a long straight nose was the mark of a noble soul and a wide sinuous mouth the promise of ardour; the Egyptian eyes needed no pencil to outline their vivacious shrewdness, Ayla’s teaching had diverted the use of most of the compulsive tools young girls wield upon themselves to ruin their own inner harmony, specially on brows, Esther’s were as daring as Ayla’s, her inky-black lashes bountiful, too. The aesthetic and erotic sisterhood of the two girls composed this obviously costly duet I was given to party with, knowing they had availed endless treasures to the Master high-flyer all night.
We conspired as rashly as we had, by the memory shores, in the boxwoods, besotted by another little whore to whom I sang a passionate welcome.
Once she had enough of our ardours and laid spent, I recovered my spirits and asked if they would join Far and us, Simon, Anzy and Julia, whomever loved my dad. After two pondered seconds, I grasped Ayla’s hands so as to make her feel that I sensed that she had not confided the whole truth about my father and her, but I trusted her and fed no grudge and would not demand elaboration.
Far sounded overjoyed that I rounded all this blossoming youth at his stopover, he very well knew how to corner me in a crowd for an intimate connection whenever he deemed necessary, or enviable.

Katherine says:

Sarah and I went ahead to her dad’s hotel, to orchestrate a classy smørgåsbord of the French kind, with the help of the well known in-house brigade.
With mostly girls, it promised to be a ruffling henhouse, in which she expected to see her brother perform, as well. We spent like Xmas, a private salon and sheaves of wild flowers, fresh removable upholstery on chairs and settees smelling lavender for the bare legs and arses. We had plotted to run barefeet, I share all with Sarah, we would be imitated, for sure, but at worst, it might be touchy to avoid letting Ayla undress, and keep an innocent gaze. We told the butler where to order the fine fruit lemonades and kombucha.
The season was blossoming like a dream, evenings lasted ad æternum in the breath of Guanyin. We wore short waistless skirts cut by Gianni Capodimonte on us in new ikat rolls from the silk road, lined in contrasting coloured silk and stitched so as we could show our undies, or none. Sarah was unmistakably blue on blue lotus, lined in marigold fever, I donned sweet-pea carmine on jade lined in turquoise shiver, my knickers were skin-coloured and thin, but I did not intend to tease His Excellency.
Hugo arrived with Camille, Fanny and Malo, sans instrument. He wore a diverse coloured raw silk herringbone knit Nehru jacket on off-white tee-shirt, pleated trousers and oxfords. Camille fitted herself in a pine green Chinese dress opened to the navel and slit up to the hips and a gold and jade dog collar, like the white hooker in a Shanghai opium den. Fanny’s cloudy shirt dress was printed with large faded chrysanthemums, the sleeves were rolled up and a braided pale silver silk belt underlined her elfin waist over her mignon butt. Malo had avoided her often dramatic make-up and only touched her lashes and lids. a beaded Poiret tunic flew around her narrow frame like a small chute of crystal candied berries I wished I spilled on the high pile carpeting.

Our mother has always felt on me as over-elegant. She walked in prudently, in a celadon green, fuzzy bias cut silk bourette ensemble with zouave pants and silver Egyptian sandals, holding a silver bejewelled flat pouch; she serenely sat next to me and I immediately sensed her unconditional bond, as it had never failed me, had it? It glowed like some underlying manner of mutual pride, an immediate wash of pardon overcame by Simon’s will, he whom, unabashed, embraced our midst in simple joy, soon to run back to an indeed blushing Anzy. She had chosen long black chiffon Gipsy petticoats scattered with coloured dots and went barefoot already, fumbling the carpet with her dainty toes, much in some onlookers’ taste.
Sarah’s dad was on time, her mom at his arm. She wore lush couture, subdued-coloured peacock patterned twill, in layers of different lengths skirts, under an open shirt; at her neck, and wrist, three rows of dark iridescent Tahiti pearls; she had cultivated smart looking feet, tanned with black-purple nails and sandals. Her father donned some textured duck-blue two buttons blazer, black pleated trousers, black loafers and powder-blue open shirt and socks. We reveled in watching her pride, although I dreaded the entry of her unfazed brother into an otherwise melodious assembly; she acted her house girl part, was read rightly by our dignified Hugo whom played second, triggering edginess among the white jackets.

Thankfully, Martin von Kettelær, Julia and dainty Annabelle had met in the lift, and Julia’s radar had sensed possible unsavoury tremors, then parsed out who was here, speaking to them with a Californian college accent, self-conscious and wired like a debutant. She took lead and, while holding Annabelle’s hand, deployed a Faraday cage of small talk upon Martin, whose Kettelær porcelain eyes became all too happy to beget enchanted by her stare, introducing him to most of us as the Princess’ brother she had not known, minutes ago. Tactically, he manoeuvred, in his faultless night-blue silk suit and open white shirt, to reach behind the couch where his parents sat.

Annabelle moved as fluidly as a prairie stream, lending a pensive smile to any of the guests and accepting to join Camille and Fanny on a settee, visibly welcome. She wore a long multi-layered sage grey chiffon gown with long sleeves, under a long vest as intricately re-threaded and embroidered as a spring’s edge; she wore matched, painted of honeysuckles, long Mary Janes, and lichen stockings —or was it me— fancying they weren’t tights?
Her alluring date Julia was now embracing Sarah like so as to keep her from rooting in the middle of the room; as she had precisely known her relation to her father, foremost since they had been caught in bed together in a room of his hotel by some unforeseen “men in black” and he had laughed the matter away, Julia knowingly respected him, and loved him.
Julia was the thin muscular type, the picture-perfect glamour girl, but wholeheartedly aware of others. She wore a classy copy of a deerskin American Indian tunic, randomly embroidered in the style of the traditional prairie maps, beaded with rustic turquoises and porcupine spikes, fringed along the sleeves line and at the knees: she ran in beaded mocassins as well. Her mane was tied back with a bejewelled headband of Indian motives far too precious to have been crafted in the ancestral lands. She winked at Mr Kettelær and came by to hit on me.

 

Sarah says:

Far went to Kate and kept her hand a while, as she did not seem to have minded; he pulled out his tortoiseshell spectacles to read her grey eyes, and flattered her so as to make her step sideways cutely, he could do that to me, as well. He was warm with Julia, asking if she had hoodwinked her security detail, she bantered back, venturing that one never knew who might be behind the door, obviously giving him the eye. He was overjoyed with a more intimate and benign crew of appealing persons. He remembered Fanny, from photos, and complimented her on her fluent English, thus associating Camille as naturally as if he knew and approved the arrangement. Beryl was impressed, Natalia was strung up and aroused altogether like the fairy tale streetwalker she will never be. Anzy paled nicely when he inquired about Simon’s good health, cheered at the news of his achievements, and became somewhat abstruse about his family clout in Hamburg, to little echo, irregardless, from their mother. Simon, embracing Anzy for her relief, just retorted that he thought of re-settling in the old family house by the lake, and was told that the city had become a most pleasant place in the world, indeed. Anzy could not have slurred a word. He then became honey-smooth around Annabelle, who sharpened her Scottish accent and insensibly arched her back as he watched her through her dress.
Ayla’s streamlined legs were sheathed in black silk, in black varnished Salomé shoes. She whirled in a striking short, black, grosgrain trapeze dress graphically trimmed with three graded white ribbons applied to the cleavage, the bell three-quarters sleeves, and the hemline. Her modestly double-lined eyes flung shards of obsidian while her smile won her all hearts; all Far did was to hug her and tell her name. I ceased wondering what the two had ever conspired together.
The young apprentice stood mostly in black herself, her dainty pale shoulders out of a twill, flared dress, applied with all-over, toned-down purple, crimson and Siena smoke-ring shapes; she movingly floated a tad in what ought to have been her lover’s size, my craving of her pinched my womb. She wore long black evening gloves.
Far and Hugo shook hands as worldly club men, Far disclosing, in conversation, a solid knowledge of our dear writer’s corpus, a tad more than a mere intern could have churned out for him; Hugo beamed, probably more because Far’s considerations as for his daughter’s whereabouts had not sensibly crossed him, as long as she demonstrated happiness.
I clutched his arm and seated him at the edge of the centre settee, there, where I could slide my feet under a cushion, for him to find them, at the understated amusement of Kate, Julia, and Ayla.

He announced that he would leave us in two hours, Kate protested but I remained unfazed, as ever about Far’s schedules; stroking my right foot, pointing at Martin to approach, he started mezzo voce in our Danish. He said he was setting a family trust through what Martin and I would own all his inheritance, provided we let our Mor live forever at Tudor City, her allowance being cared for otherwise. There were also houses in Denmark and in Sweden, the supervision of the trust had been rested with a Danish law firm, the same who had advised our family for ages. He invited us to Copenhagen, a month later, to do the paperwork, in the grand townhouse overlooking Rosenborg’s gardens where everything smelled of a terrifying mute Grand Far.
He had switched back to his dignified English, and he described lovingly the works he had ordered on Christianø island, in the old Admiral’s barrack for which he had protracted the lease with the Søværnet. He showed us pictures on his telephone, sent by the architect; I was overwhelmed by the tide of emotions that washed up to my soul, my pretty young self totally unbridled that very summer, getting shagged in the smell of wet wool in the rowboat, half-raped on the fisherman’s charts table, his poignant repentance, and after that an after-season in the raw among titillated holiday-makers, the roots of my contemporary art farce, eventually leading rightfully on Y.’s desk with a foxtail in my arse! I swore out loud that I needed to show Kate the tiny world where cats and dogs are forbidden; we could, among our usual lucubrations, roam through the Admiral’s trove of charts in the vast chests of drawers. Kate agreed, only if we went to her sacred home in Kampen, on another emotional island, to what Simon exclaimed eagerly, and Anzy lost the thread, but cuddled under his shoulder.

At said time, a butler crept in swiftly to murmur in Far’s ear, making him press my toes and then kiss my forehead; after holding everyone’s hands or shoulders, he ran through the door where two grey-suited athletes awaited, and off he was. I sensed some cute amusement on Ayla’s face, she fed tidbits of calisson to obedient Esther.
The night was young, my Bror stood behind the settee where Kate had filled Far’s imprint and taken hold of my feet with warmer hands. Martin ached for conversation, he eventually dropped that he wanted to move back in Europe and set up a law practice, profiting from his international credentials; the topic did not thrive, only Mor and Julia had any faint lights on such opportunities; I only grasped that he would be closer to me, bearing an indelible mark like old tale’s renegades. He craved a hint of an answer from Kate, his fly at her nose’s height, but she kept only just tending my little bones. Most artificially, I asked Martin if he would like to live in Copenhagen, he joked that he would let me keep Denmark and the Queen while he would besiege Brussels or Strasbourg.
After a complicit stare at Kate’s eyes, I excused myself to the powder room, where, unluckily, no one showed. When I returned, the two brothers had found common ground, and I intuited that Anzy had switched out, so I could catch up with her palatable face I had been fast, before, to make out. Hugo and Camille helped me entice her aside, she smelled of Cornish rose after the rain and it maddened me, even though the two dowagers, for whom that evening had been some crucial alleviation, in the wake of their daughters’ worldly debut, somehow chaired this cunning assembly of trollops and libertines, I let myself enlace my whim bait, in her weightless chiffon mess, grabbed her butt and greedily kissed her. That was my move as to Martin’s attempt, many in the room donned a fine smile, Ayla swayed her dainty chin when we turned towards the room; I was thinking of not letting anyone believe I abused Anisette, I kept her tight as Simon came back and hugged us two. Mor winked at me.

By the time the disguised fruits, cream puffs and other nougatines were left alone, some other plan was cast on me, by the craftiest of players. The dignified mother queens had left, Beryl had rang curfew with Natalia, indisputably, though effusively; now Ayla clasped on the bracelet she had owned me with, and summoned me to her hotel room, making Hugo’s brows jump up with envy. Esther smirked candidly, I bit Kate’s lobe wishing her good night as it seemed she was to welcome Julia and Annabelle in our grand bed.
I tipped the impeccable staff and implied they save the untouched treats for their kids, then I was ushered into a night cab, between two Swiss keen trulls. Their hideout wasn’t long away, with a fancy grey and red porter in a top hat; they strolled through the lobby, unfazed, offering a smile at the always unwavering concierge.
We became fastly as nude as lilies, sniffing one another brazenly as our lickings infuriated animal scents. Esther’s offered, smooth labia swelled, as I deployed my utmost bounty upon them before the genie of the mirabulous broom closets made me swoon upon her lover’s bum. And the relative newbie had all the same stamina Ayla had shown, among our beloved school’s best battalions; she proudly knackered me off, wet and spent, at her mentor’s delight, into slumbers.
In the morning, I felt like a bee in a may field, unable yet to grasp my whereabouts, except that I smelled sex and needed the loo, where I loitered to on all fours. I perceived brutally that I had been alone, whenas the whole sequence on that voluptuous bed recapped in my fluffy mind. In a moist and inebriating terry robe, that I had picked up where one of them had dropped it, I found their breakfast relics and a note explaining that they had some appointment in Zurich, where I owed them a visit, definitely. Another line in different handwriting said I was more awesome than A. had ever been able to tell in words, it was signed E. with a star drawn on the tip of the middle bar of the E.
I found a new toothbrush, a hairbrush, drank the rest of the still fresh orange juice, dressed and went down to the lobby where I asked for a taxi, letting the new concierge eye me, not knowing if I was one or not, as I tipped him, reasonably. Although I felt a tad crossed with them for fleeing like thieves, my chest radiated of happy thrills and I craved to tell my chums, with a cup of tea.

Katherine says:

As geometry goes, there’s always a circle in a triangle. From Sarah’s vivid tales, I deemed Julia Grant some superior intellectual ascendancy, not hearing about where her clout might originate from, having just read Mr von Kettelær’s attitude before her. Nevertheless, when we became nearer to jump in bed with a real Scottish fairy we both had leered over all evening, Julia revealed carefree and candid about what might happen. She taunted her own taste for sex and vowed not to hustle any one’s pace on that trail; she had already her hands in my dress; she asked Annabelle what a pale beauty like her had been into, as yet. Pulling off her shoes, so as to rest her feet next to my thigh on the settee where we had nested in the meantime, she delivered a scanty resume in which she had not known her father before she mastered in art history at Saint Andrew’s as her mother had done. James had known her existence and contributed to her student life, a few years back. In short, she knew of our lifestyles and had cultivated something quite similar in her mellow, granite-clad, shelter. To that, I let my hand stroke her feet, and up, while Julia undresses me. Annabelle went on, marvelling at our Boheme arrangement when summoning her, James had omitted any physical descriptions, albeit beauty had all along been Hugo and his circle’s motive, and she was still stunned by the look of all the women she met with us. Now she appeared to wear no undies, and Julia had moved to help her pull carefully all of her delicate veilings, untousling her extraordinary hair. We shuffled to bed, Julia had lost all vestures, she nosed inside the armpits, onto the modest breasts but prouder than mine. Annabelle preferred some freshening before we hurtled on each other, so we revelled in a whole party of watersports, in which she seemed wholeheartedly accustomed; she peed on us, too, and thoroughly splashed in her coochie edged with fluffy gold.
She was a dedicated amoureuse, she came and again like waves on the northern shores. She kept her moans mostly to herself, whilst Julia burst and sobbed, shaking her head sidewise. I could not say what sort of song I voiced, they were so lovable on me.
Late in the morning, Sarah snooped in, with the unmissable smell of croissants and chocolate rolls; she had been brewing tea; she peeped in and could not resist eyeing the new one, who let her pull the quilt away from her languid pose and lay a cheek on her shoulder. “Welcome to the boxwoods”, said her, making Julia laugh, then cunningly showing what that might mean, in their private smutty idiom; I had often begged, and again, Sarah to revive for me the debauchery that she, and her crew, had used to celebrate in all possible nooks of her own holy Switzerland. Julia had been all along one of the tutelary priestesses in their games.

Soon, we decided to show Annabelle our studio; once everyone duly dolled up, we unearthed enough shabby rags for every one to play in, the Scot fairy’s long legs out of distressed, but clean, pastel blue shorts that set her round butt. I scented an imminent visit by her father, to whom Hugo would have hinted where his offspring drank the morning dew.
Having tested Annabelle’s unsuspected ardours, noticing the way she looked at my heavenly tomboy, whose gracile neck begged for another kiss, I asked Sarah to wear that mystical cologne which, on her only, transcended into a gleam of jonquil, like a Scilly matinee. They instantly fell in love, but Sarah defended her buttons and led the troupe upstairs.
She was all the more enticed to brag upon her Swiss romance, and Julia wanted more details, I deciphered the intonations, the adjectives she said, I heard, despite her, the expense of love she had poured into the nomadic souls from her hinterland. Annabelle, who was bewitched since the magic scent, reached for her feet, as she had seen her father operate, and lost herself daydreaming.
Julia cried, she had fondly loved Ayla at school and felt stupid when she had vanished, leaving no chance for Harmony or anyone at Saint Loup to rescue who was then a mere kid. Yes, she had been overjoyed to see her brilliant and welded as a gun, and she would not let her own nefarious shards of moral education overwhelm her soul. She sniffed, blew her nose and went to the bathroom to spatter her face with cold water. Coming back with reddened eyes, she abruptly said she wanted to settle in Europe, for good. So, Ayla was a tramp, a lovely one at that, under the Swiss law, granting her freedom and protection; so be it, she was her friend, forever.

James called, asking permission to come up, wondering if his daughter was among us already, and he found her coddling Sarah’s feet, slippers and socks cast aside. The scene put him in a good mood, he settled in his armchair, he smelled of bay rum, Annabelle crawled to his knees, sat on his lap, and greeted him welcome; he accepted some tea.
He was stunned by our accomplishment, particularly the involvement of tall academics like Y. and M.E., he asked us how this had come about, Hugo had told him he did not know them. Sarah, rubbing her feet one on the other, smirked finely and said that it had costed more than arm and leg, altogether, but we had been rightfully served, for that matter.
James affected some doubt, but he did not garner more details, as yet. He noted that M.E. had, in one paper, slightly departed from his usual sectarian art scene stance, and bowed to Camille’s endeavours which we exemplified notably, said he. The old sly sycophant of the market sharks had even let out some knowledge of surrealism vicinities, and crafted some skilful metaphors on our artistic tribadism that would titillate at some troughs of the worldly chatter. The outstanding presence of apparent powerful players, in full-fledged armour, had certainly beguiled them, on top of whatever magic we had bound them in.
It would be the day; the dainty boys, from upstairs, knocked, in their distinctive manner. A whiff of extravagant resins tangled up with drops of bigarade, of which Florenz had blessed his live Patinir trove, against the back-scape of mountain hay, fresh cropped hemp and gentian, perfused by the golden knight’s mane, these olfactive events caused us to enkindle some licentiousness, Julia drew Gauthier on the settee, I kissed Theo as a girl, and Annabelle was back at licking Sarah’s feet.
The messages abounded, cheerful; my mother begged for another meeting in a smaller circle, her children and their significant others should be all.

Sarah says:

When Annabelle slid her hand in my shorts’ leg, I felt better to go with her on the studio floor, against the wall. She liked to demonstrate to her father how unrestrained-minded she was, all the more when I started to unbutton the shirt of mine she had borrowed. She did not object to Theo joining us, she had grasped his kind nature, she busied both her hands and he worshipped her puerile breasts.
I maundered mentally trying to guess if there were a tension between Annabelle undone with us, rummaging in her delicate freckles, and her father, who could have very well toyed with anyone in the room, not showing the slightest bit of unrest at her view. I reckoned my own shamelessness towards Far had eventually triggered his decision to offer me new surroundings, after a full week of understated farewell in London, and the infrangible promise of running for my tiny life, if ever; it had thrived through my nerves and veins up to now, without clipping the far-fetched roots of my soul, as would testify the gruff Pr Achenbach in his tower, and Far still twiddled my feet for dessert.
There was some telepathy, just as I became aware that it was time to go lead the so lovable Liseron to her fate, Annabelle slid up and walked to James’s knees, in the mess of her clothing, and turned her bosom to his face.
I stood up, embraced Kate and told her what I had promised to show Louis’s find; she answered she guessed I would unlikely squander my time if the lark held the promise of her eyes, she expected my account on her progress.

Katherine says:

Now James engaged in serious lustmaking with his purported daughter, and it flaunted a wildly transgressive display, as it happens. Julia affected to entertain conversation with the copper-headed cavalier, while holding on to his hardy cockshaft, wisely parsing his overall trade and unbinding his whole apparel. Theo did not dare meddle with the ongoing gallant duet, which was edging on the cheery, worldly fencing bout, with coded name dropping and tasty rendez-vous. Julia could suck a dingaling with the most achieved harlotry, she was owning the golden squire.
I called Theo to my side and kissed him silly; my seat was sturdy enough to swirl along with my contorted efforts to peel his linen while keeping his crafty tongue in mouth; it was swifter on me. He smelled a wealth of scents, his smooth body slid upon mine, in elation; we had to climb down, I fetched a quilt and feasted on his modest but stiff dicklet, so as he readily spurted some liquid with a taste of tears, thought I, as I drank it. He did not falter, rubbing his nipples on mine, he funnily begged permission for my lesser vent, and I thought that a little drool would do. It did; my legs high up, I noticed Annabelle’s stare on us, as she might have not foreseen a middle-gender glimpse in action, however, with James’ truncheon very near to penetrating her, she showed no dislike about our playing and was reamed by her own spawner, with a high-pitched moan.

Hugo wrote:

In the solitudes archipelago, cartography comes as paramount to maintain an ambit of floatable sanity, some measure of fathomable metaphor to wake upon, the delusional love streams under the starry void, the mere derisory token, availed in the tall order before the Omega.
Katherine Sophie and Sarah von Kettelaer happened into our trifle glass theatres, tiptoeing on dewdrops along gossamer lines, blindfolded across the present day’s deadly fairground, upon the shared ultimate orient in their chest.
Away from the cheats they shied in the corridors of mundane schooling, they had painstakingly revived their soul’s cravings for the timeless mental topoï, like those the self-centred child, in the lone room, ingrains forever in the fibres of the altogether unique sheet of life.
Many before us have, possibly faithfully, inventoried all the graces and all the concupiscences, in order to either absolve their eventual cowardice or claim the vanity of further endeavours. We do not condone the chess game metaphor, nowadays tossed around the wasted grounds of cultural institutes, to foster the hollow simulacrums of a duplicate stock market in the white cube.
Here, in a free-breathing gallery, we are presented the mirrored arcane of a never-ending game, and the charts for which the beacons might have eluded, showing routes to islands we may know, past the shores where lay our own flotsam, our prized treasures.

At L’Etoile Amusée
Hugo Decharny

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

14 – Katherine Sophie – Convolvulus in the thorns

 

©Sarah von Kettelær @katherine-sophie.eu

 

Sarah says: 

Understanding that I would keenly cicerone the young Liseron through the best nooks in Paris, on a dainty mission for Louis, and otherwise Simon was eloping with the recently subjugated Ansy-Fayelle to Sylt, Kate opportunely made up to go along them, bringing the all-willing Fanny, still under the spell of the fairy who gave her salvation, back then in Venice. Camille was mingling through the aftermaths of the show and revelled in all sorts of gossip with her rich network of æsthetes, she agreed her sylphic blonde pet would greatly benefit from a week running nude in the northern dunes, even if her new find was snatched away from her in the same move, that sad emo Ansy she had well foreseen before Kate undressed her at her dear brother’s want. 

 On the evening before the day Liseron was to come and join me, Hugo picked me up for a tête à tête of almond gazpacho, croutons and fruit, from Alizzaro’s, sprawled upon silks in the most openly immodest posture, so he could stroke me while talking. He wore a Matisse-worth robe of timeless lushness, opened on his thriving person, tanned from some days of lizardry on Melchior’s terraces at Cap Martin. He smelled of befogged Hesperides and the whole maquis on a storm’s morrow, his fingers were light and polished.

He already knew about Liseron, Louis had touted his catch,  she was craftily framed out of any misery she might have been spawned from, unbeknownst to her precious little head. Hector, Louis’s missus dominicus, had altogether bought her from the junky boyfriend whom he had supplied hard stuff beyond his means. She was too young to know or suspect any of all that, the almighty “Circle Of Liars” wanted her, and I wasn’t one to fear for her. 

First things first, I would love her unrestrained just like she would move in with us, if that taxi ride I had enjoyed in her enthralling smells had sustained Hector’s tastes for her, all the more so that I remembered how he had revelled in me.  Therefore I would lead her arm in arm to the clinic where we did all our check-ups and tests, vaccines, implants and whatever cleared our libertine manners of life.

I would then show her many playgrounds she might not even have any glimmer of, let her feel the rich harmonies between unleashed cravings at the apex of their resolution, all in the shelter of my forewarned wing, no risk taken.

After the long-lived hullabaloo caused around our show, Hugo finally came aware of my Far’s silent passion for me, somewhat summarised in the infrangible entitlement to my bare feet, whenever we chose to draw the impenetrable curtains of privacy upon our own immemorial bell jar. Hugo said he had been struck by the sudden aloofness in my gaze, as soon as my impenetrable father took hold of them, as I would have insinuated them anywhere at his reach. Champing on my edible toes, he conceded he would never be granted my Øresund stare, but I retorted he had been allowed to many smiles upon my silly person and to him, child Sarah was only a glint in the brook.  As a salute, he resolved to serve me as much rapture kisses as my eyes could cry, and then took a long dive into my shivering bung until I passed out.

In the morning, I was alone, wrapped in lilac percale, slack as a kitten, and I smelled like a shrub of honeysuckle. I went to pee and looked for the clothes I did not remember wearing when Hugo had lured me in. I met Lena and she did not resist cuddling me for a while, then I ran up to our forecastle; Kate had slept with Simon, and whomever they craved, in the new dovecote under the roof. I brewed a large pot of vivacious Puttabong tea, swashed two oranges, put my feet up on the table’s edge and fondle my tiny tits in tingles. 

Liseron was expected in the afternoon,  Hugo had said he would not see her before his peer Louis would gracefully send her along. I had time to varnish my nails in “arctic night”, after a thorough courtesan’s toilet, and I slipped in some fluid dark sapphire blue pyjamas with silver trimmings.

I kept on the honeysuckle note, with unequivocal wafts of seaside lust in the likes of broom flower, Scilly narcissus and carnation in a light berth of sandalwood, a well-proven spell custom designed on my skin by Hugo during a dreamy summer night. I had once unravelled Liseron in the back of a slow car, I wanted to bind her along in our pearly legends like I failed to pursue with Ayla.

Liseron called from the street, I gave her the number, the code, and I rushed down to meet her; she beamed of youth and joy like I was chasing doubts she might have fostered.  I led her through a few doors and we hugged furiously, her hands sliding on the silk. She smelled of subway hustle and frank cologne, her garçonne cut left her nape and neck fresh, she wore a fast runner outfit, striped marinière and navy blue hoodie, fitted jeans she had grown up in, high classic black and white Chuck sneakers.

Our stairs are carpeted in thick wool, the ancient steps are deep enough; she surrendered, half undone, her only underwear was a thin white cotton shorty, she was thoroughly waxed, her sweat enthralled me. In tatters, we ran to our bed and overspent our passion.  

It was obvious that we had groomed ourselves like avid brides, or rich whores, for that matter; she swam into the unmade bed with her pants halfway down, like a foxy porn actress, inviting an ultimate tongue tip into her bootyhole, so she would never be allowed to say she did not know me; I untied her shoes, new ones I guessed, pulled off jeans and socks to champ on pristine toes.

Liseron’s feet cavort, unscathed, spare from the running, manicured as marble idols, availed to my lips and tongue as the sheets’ froufrou hover in my elated mind. I mete all I learned as the transfixed patient of my own father, when it comes to feet; she sways her eyes in awe, then wakes in disbelief or fear, gazes at me through her deep brown agates pupils and reads the worth of my devotion to her I know so few.
“Nice catch!” goes Kate’s voice as she lurks from the open door frame, for I should have guessed she would not depart without a glance at the little runaway, and more, as she lays down at her side and ventures her cheek on hers; she expresses her legitimate libertinage by kissing me full mouth, then, grazing Liseron’s dainty flat chest, she tells her she would keenly have her, too, as my little sister.
Fanny smiles, mouth shut; she wears an off-white soft linen shirt over trippy light-blue leggings and raw tan ankle boots; she would not niggle ever but she’s on the go, she wants to see Holstein and run nude in the wild sands, breathlessly. I reach and make her sit and introduce the kids to each other, so they kiss and Liseron blushes a tad as I nose her belly and explain the departure; Kate succeeds at really kissing the new one before they run, wishing us all thrills.
Liseron doesn’t peel me off the satin she brushes onto my skin, like a schoolgirl in a hasty hideaway; she reminds me of my girl Ayla, eager eyes and thirsty lips, I would almost cry, I promise myself I will bring them together, later; her ankles and wrists are slender, I catch the beats of a wholesome heart, and as I begin nibbling at her tasty lips, I pull the small talk towards her true story.
She is the unfortunate daughter of a chartered accountant and one very young foolhardy intern. For religious and other superstitious motives, termination was never an option, a balanced upbringing for her neither. Her father, a married catholic, schemed along with his confessor a secret arrangement by which her mother was granted an allowance inasmuch as she remained parted. She doesn’t bear her father’s name, has never seen him nor wishes to.

After her birth, her mother spiralled into depression, helped in that by the will of her grandmother to get her grip on the baby. So she grew up between her mother’s bleak, eastern Parisian, three-room third-floor hutch with a view upon a wasted terrace-roof where she watched for rats at nightfall, and the two-storied brick pavilion between a cemented yard and the poor garden of her working grand parents. 

Depending on her mother bouts of despair, in which she unconsciously resented all the weight of guilt, the attempts by her grandmother to legally become her tutor, the indecisive choices of the irresolute and overloaded administration, she never rooted in safe ground, grabbing here and there a mosaic education up to state college, willy-nilly. 

In her soul, though, albeit she was becoming a true beauty, moral leprosy was straining her will. Many of her mother’s erratic words had scattered sand and ashes upon her little girl’s dreams, she heard them repeated in the subway’s din, so much so she developed a phobia for loud noise and constantly wore earphones.

Then, at an unthinkably early age, the grandfather, a retired security guard with a steep penchant for anise, started pinching and touching her legs, her thighs and all he could grab under the stupid dresses her grandmother insisted a young girl should wear. The old sod would bunk steady in front of the TV set, and watch whatever she chose, imbibing his liver with so many little goblets of yellow drink, offering her to join him. Because she had free rein to escape into whatever crappy shows the other kids, not smarter than her, talked about at intermissions, she figured it might be somewhat acceptable to let the bastard play while he masturbated slyly. She could not figure her grandmother did not condone the least her husband’s shenanigans, she sat in her dedicated armchair, covered in a nightmarish crochet cover, stepping up two or three times to go to the loo, where grasped later that she kept her bottle of vermouth.

As her mother was becoming unsafe for others and herself, Liseron was left at the old couple’s ward. Against promises of an iPhone and flashy shoes, she did not raise any complaint to the judge when it might still have been time. From what she could fathom around her, the other girls her age were not happier or safer; she reckoned there were unsaid practices in the education of girls. At the very least, her abuser did not take the risk of getting her pregnant. Came a time when it dawned in her mind that her own mother had endured the same life as she underwent, but it was too late to try to elaborate with the senseless wreck she rarely met, at some doctor’s demand. 

As, with time, the Grandma collapsed drunk earlier, the old bastard pushed his abuse further; as Liseron loathed to be groped with dirty hands, she forced him to cleanse them and to pay her to clip his nails, she established a derisory ritual according to which he smelled soap and paid her good pocket money. When he insisted to be given fellatio, she, therefore, could afford rather classy outfits, and since she had been more or less promiscuous among a few students and friends, she earned a subdued reputation of being an amateur prostitute.

When she was sixteen, her grandma died one night of cancer she had fostered for years; all she concluded was that her abuser became her puppet, she made him buy Habit Rouge, shave and lick her while she watched MTV, she rightfully sucked his pension away, but he smelled good.

She met Eric during her first year at college, all in black in an oversized parka and a grey knitted scarf, he struck her with his dry appeal and she fucked him the same day; under his sweater, he smelled Grey Flannel, he was clean.

They moved together in her mother’s apartment, she saw less of her destitute Grandpa and became more expensive for his senile needs, unbeknown to Eric, who found her delightfully easy and already hatched libertine schemes for her.

Eric started to deal in recreational drugs on-campus in small amounts to cool consumers until he let himself be caught in the hard stuff that comes along the same networks but wheras nothing is cool anymore. He dealt heavier, tried hard to put Liseron to prostitute in bars and eventually met Hector who singled her out and started a plot that would very much excite his boss Mr Louis. For a few months, Hector let Eric fool himself with a constant flux of the best possible opioids, becoming a smart pusher at Hector’s account, while the latter made sure Liseron did not hook herself. 

At a moment when Eric did not even realise how high he was flying, Hector gripped Eric’s throat with the tab he owed and matter-of-factly laid the offer that he would wipe clean the slate if Eric would sell Liseron to him. There was a premium of a few months’ stash but Eric would never see his girlfriend again, anywhere. It did not take until the end of the day for the deal to be struck, and Liseron found herself seated on the Connolly leather of a very silent berline, under the spell of Hector, who began to draw a potential future for her and did not attempt more than his fingertips through her hair. She had the hunch that she would never hear about both her tormentors, she had no idea where this grand vehicle led to. She had been sold.

Hector didn’t mince his words to let Liseron know right away that he was not her benefactor, not even so as to steal stealthily some time with her on the appealing back seat. He already knew plenty of her, let her know that he had scouted her out for a powerful overlord, made up the drug scheme designed for Eric, whom, in his opinion, was hopeless, past the choice he had just so easily made. He told her she was free and would remain so, come what may. 

After a voluptuous ride of the nightly inner boulevards, Hector brought her to the ground floor of Louis’ hotel in some luxurious suite opening on a well-trimmed garden and told her how to lock herself in or find her way out. He told her this was an indefinite temporary arrangement and she could have anything from her place brought there and later moved further. She had lived there since, served whatever food she asked, and attended to, like a character in a novel, by likeable, if reserved, persons in black dress. 

After a quiet week or so, Hector had brought her upstairs to meet Louis. She had found an older man in far better shape than her toad of a grandpa, who smelled an engaging woody-fruity and watched her from her toes up with unequivocal lust, but spoke in crystal clear words. He had requested, in the most urging manner, that she took her shoes off, although they had been minutely cleaned by some stealth genie, to walk on the otherworldly silk carpet, himself wearing monogrammed slippers. 

I fully knew what world she had been admitted to glimpse into, it felt so fresh to relive her wonderment in her words, cuddling her like a daydreaming child, stroking her smooth chest over the tranquil beat of her heart.  Invited to drown into overbearing down cushions covered in chiselled velvet, she had heard the ogre’s proposition in the most colourful terms, while he knelt before her and kissed her feet. She playfully grasped why, the day before, a courteous Asian woman had insisted on manicuring and pedicuring her. He had drawn some tempting agenda, beginning with the visit to our show, where I met her. Louis had described me as one of his preferred hétaïres, who lived inside some secret fellowship where both sexes indulged some unbinding, augmented manner of freedom, anyway she might see for herself, if the hunch he felt about us two happened to operate. We had to reckon that, once Louis had given me the go, our affair had fired off in no time, and there she laid, bare in our sheets, surrendering already.

The day was young for the few chores and flutters propitiatory to the invention of a new Lizon, a shorter name I suggested successfully, that could have been born as well by a courtesan or a Duchess, there we were. First, in order, I had been deemed responsible for the supervision of a full thorough bodily check-up, the soul aspect being left to mine and Kate’s testing. 

Before we ran to the clinic, we had our time to dress. The weather would be mild all night, I had my fantasies about that gracile frame of hers. Apart from the medical operators, it wasn’t yet time to denude my treasure for anyone’s eyes, only probably to tease some while she would attend anything remotely. 

After she came a few times at my expert tongue, we lathered each other under the shower, and, out of the mists, she confided she had never loved a girl before; she sought my eyes, I guessed it was not the shower’s tears, she mumbled she wanted a life, we kissed a soapy kiss.

Then I held her in the terry cloth-like she was a rescued cygnet, I resat our play wondering aloud what perfume we should wear, pushing her witty bum towards the toilet cabinet in the bedroom. She was stunned by the number of bottles and vials, so I explained that perfume was one of our main patron’s hobbies, and he offered us all the refined ideas on which to fly if we wished. Hugging her tight for a while, I tried to grasp in her neck the hue I had perceived from our first dance together, she was still too cleansed, yet, but nebulous ideas spawned that made me wish for some ancient Danish tobacco McBaren’s that my father might have smoked in the long ago, bewildered by chamomile, lavender, bergamot, Hugo’s unnamed transparent magic (did she know I will serve her up to his whim, someday?), now she smelled like her dark eyes tell, she will break all ties to her miseries, a tribe of us will help her, there is mist on the lawn in Saint Loup. I asked her if she liked on me a supposed blend of blackcurrant, cannabis and frankincense that turns Kate beastly upon me, and it worked, I wondered what would become of our taxi drivers?

Her ink-brown hair is uncommonly fine and thick altogether, like a puppy, all she does is toss the locks of her head crown around and fire her gaze, there she is. Nevertheless, I allowed myself some combing her shock of hair. The lucky devil did not need any other mean to matte her resplendent complexion, but she agreed to some touches of mascara. She had a gaze to die for.

I drew her into our vestry, where she played fainting in my arms out of astonishment. Kate and I are very proud of this room, it takes somebody’s half-time workday to maintain what it contains. I had to promise she would try all she wanted, as long as she loved me, to be able to fit her with a thin linen collarless boy’s shirt from my family collection, there even was a crowned K embroidered on her heart, sharp white silk jersey leggings she felt so good in she said she would wet them, and over that one of my antique marine student black tail-coat with silver buttons and trimmings; I found black varnished flat court shoes with a large band of taffeta, and I fell in love with whom I saw, another me. Before I wanked for good, I pulled a pair of black twill high-waisted bell-bottom fall-front trousers, showing Lizon how to sneak a hand in by the side, a white jersey tee-shirt and a close-fitted spencer jacket, also with silver buttons;  my slippers bore the pointed gauntlet to the star crest I have found in my family’s archives, embroidered with silver and blue threads, I donned silk knee-high stockings.

As we were managing our essentials in the many inside pockets, I suggested we share each other’s personals, sending photos of our faces and IDs to our email accounts in the cloud, that we did. so I learned that she is almost twenty, she noted that I am Danish and this is my real address. That tiny ritual to alleviate her mind apropos of what we might have been about to do around; I did not point that, for what I knew concerning her, no one, on earth, would eventually care. 

In the drawers of the apothecary cabinet, I fetched for her a sleek and smart Art Déco parure of platinum, onyx and diamonds, thin articulated plates, in a supple bracelet and a neat dog collar, that made her speechless, other than to muse she could be killed for these. She watched me pull my threads of sapphire, for my wrist and neck, and understood there were lots more in the trove. We could taste a fully clothed kiss before running down to the car.

Sarah vo Kettelær @Katherine SophieLe Bal Des Toupies  ©Sarah von Kettelær@katherine-sophie.eu

On the short ride to the Chaillot hill, we behaved like lovers (which I often do), the chauffeur was dumbfounded, to my greater pride.  I whispered her name in her gently protruding ear, she read my irises up close and asked if I were true.

A young blonde operator in a pale blue lab coat and no bra greeted us at the austere teak-and-leather reception office that made me feel like places I had seen my Far perform in. She knew her mission and led us to a rosy surgery with a reclined examination chair on which to draw blood samples. It smelled of some highly trustworthy disinfectant. I led by example, dropped my coat and offered my arm where it was easy to see my veins; with my right hand, I held Lizon who, in turn, had to slip off the coat and shirt; the operator joked that anyhow we would have next to strip entirely. In a small salon, turquoise robes awaited us.

Next, we had to open our thighs to a stylish middle-aged woman doctor, under a glaring lamp, on a heavily technical, richly padded, gynaecological chair, the kind of which my beauty child had never seen; Again I went first, still holding Lizon’s hand, well aware that nothing harsh would be inflicted to me, other than a few swift and benign insertions observation and rubbing of some swabs; then the doctor announced that she preferred to perform palpations, that were all over the body, standing, without gloves, for more efficiency; I better understood her practice when she then took hold of me and all of my provinces into the modulation of her expert fingers, in no time she brought me on the verge of orgasm without penetration. Inviting Lizon, I felt she took some time all over her and her lower waist, she sure liked her patients happy; she asked if we were related, grazing both our chests, not in a manner of examination, this time; she joked that the DNA might reveal some surprises, by chance; she earnestly complimented us on our appealing looks  We were offered fresh towels, in any case.

Back at the front office,I had given my card and my fingerprint, Lizon was new to the program and I asked her to let the computer read her ID, her health card, her face and fingerprint; I could not yet have explained why or when this all would be used but she trusted me fully; somebody had subscribed her name to a lifetime of health prevention.  She would receive reminder emails in due time. I thought that whatever her future, it would be beneficial to monitor her health for free in such an advanced laboratory. Tea and cookies were displayed for us, while her card was fabricated. It arrived in a small black wallet, it was sapphire blue and I wondered if the colour changed with years. All blank, It bore only a six digits number, I kissed her welcome to the club. I explained how, from any connected computer, she would create her digital id, just like a bank card, and access her medical file. I asked if she wanted to see mine but she laughed. For the while, I only showed her the tiny booklet of instructions inside the wallet.

It was time for an early bite at Philippe’s, the distinguished eatery at the Palais-Royal. The city’s hum shut off when we reach the shelter of the Galerie Montpensier. We are ushered through the hospitable café salon to a diverted, singular, tent-like round venue, dressed up in cream and maroon panels, draped to centre top, where a faux-coral branches bouquet ball hung, out of which protruded low-intensity lamps inside glass bulbs. Three curved booth settees of coral red leather isolated three round tables, dressed-up with sea-green table linen and celadon tableware.

The lightsome Maître d’ had grasped me, and us, at a glance, and came up with a rich smile. Reading my confusion, he knew how to mingle a plateau of meatless delicacies which satisfied Lizon too, she liked when I explained our mostly vegan diet with a few eggs and seafood, most of all ready-made; she was like already reckoning what life with me, would taste like. The caviar on cream and potato was a gentle attention of Sami’s, our devoted waiter. We drank Japanese iced tea out of high flutes. After an almond orgeat sherbet in crisp biscuit nests, I showed Lizon how to lay our mysterious cards in the small tray, along with a nice euro bill, and watched them respectfully come back. An uptight couple had taken place at a next table, I took Lison’s hand and led her to a shady recess, next to the tent-like room,  where I pushed a small door labelled “Privé”. The rest of the restaurant space being partitioned in fancy grottoes and tent-like alcoves, patrons cannot notice particular movements of two well-clad young women, except in appreciation of their elegance.

Sami waited for us in a small, grey panelled, corridor, which thick dark red carpeting muffled sounds; he wanted to kiss me right there, I agreed but warned him not to touch at my little cadet, he agreed and unfurled most of my brain already, while Lizon’s eyes widened. In single file, we weaved to a very dimly lit narrow staircase and climbed down a few rounds, me holding my apprentice’s hand. I knew where we swirled down to.

When, in 1780, Philippe d’Orléans, that same scoundrel whom, under another name, voted death for his cousin, the King of France, developed all the housing that stands magnificently around his garden, still today, he sold the plots of land to mainly his libertine entourage, so, given the lifestyle of these patrons, some of the hotels that were then built shelter more hollow walls than Venice’s palazzi, which became very useful in the subsequent troubled times. 

Thanks to these historic reasons, we reached a landing, climbed up a few meters further, down again, and became lost at Sami’s mercy, who stole me another kiss against the wall while I played with one finger in Lizon’s palm to quiet her. Eventually, we reached a small salon clad in black waxed wood mouldings and purple velvet, up to the ceiling, included, in which a spacious padded purple sofa took most of the space, before what seemed a black mirror. Sami invited us to sit down, and went out; I did not know this one, but I knew what it was.  

Unbuttoning her shirt one nacre after the other, I eluded Lison’s questions kissing her with my awakened lips. The deep sofa was homey and plush. the wide mirror showed us in our lascivious pose until the lights died off and the black pane inside the frame began to slide down silently, 

We were laying inside a voyeur room, and an optical trick showed another room slightly from above, where a large bed was circled by low marquise chairs and pouffes all in giltwood and vieux-rose velvet. On the thick Sienna carpeting ran a large pattern of gold yellow ribbons, entwined with lianas of blue ipomoea; on the walls, a dark blood-red moiré taffeta upholstery sprawled around large sculpted gilt-wood framed mirrors and paintings of lascivious and ungodly scenes. On the ceiling, which certainly stood to be observed quite often, a dull yellow sun-drape of silk satin stretched around a crystal basket chandelier, filled with tiny LEDs, echoed by all the lubricious cupids holding lamps on the walls. There were two doors in the corners we saw, and no sign of any window. Other peeping salons surely existed behind the other mirrors.

I had been seen inside these singular premises before, in all the plans of the looking glasses, in any costume. It had mainly been Hugo, of all Masters of debauchery, who showed Kate or any other of his protégées my own ways of stealthy lecherousness. I slid off Lizon’s frock and her caleçon, nosing in her scents, wedging her into my neck for the thrill of this muffled theatre.

The narrow door in the left corner was faintly pushed towards us, by the uptight couple who had sat near us for dinner. The woman, in a strictly tailored expensive gun-steel blue suit, fetched her tortoiseshell glasses in a black crocodile purse, to examine the details of the decor. Her face was long and narrow with a generous mouth and a pointed chin, her eyes were silver blue, her skin was spattered with freckles and she did not wear makeup, only blue eyeliner and black mascara. Her skirt did not cover her young knees, in silk veil stockings, she swayed nicely on her heels in the thick pile of the carpet. Her free, parted, half-long blond hair seemed natural, she excited us, she could have worn kid gloves in a Hitchcock film. The seeming husband donned a pinstripe, double-breasted, bespoke suit, matched to the woman’s colour; he could have been seen reading Punch magazine at Smith’s, he certainly was a tad more muscular than his tailor had let be seen. They sat on two marquise chairs on the left, breathed for a while, and then we heard in concealed speakers that he asked her for her knickers. Elegantly, sideways, without letting her thighs be seen, she obeyed, lowered the black lace wisp to her feet, and handed it to him, who held it lightly, and sniffed, like a liquor.

From behind the right corner door, a gracile red-haired girl, stark naked other than heavily padded leather restraining collar and bracelets, with locks and rings, on her even, rosy pale, young skin, snuck in as if she enjoyed the soft floor. The well-mannered man stood and took her hand to his lips, asking whom he was pleased to address, she did a funny curtsey and retorted “Clara, Sir”; he invited his lady friend to join and merely pushed them to kiss.

Sami had followed this Clara and stood at attention, in his all silk matte black outfit; on a hand sign, he seized the maiden hand and led her to the bed, showed her to lay down, took her wrists and ankles to tie them to sturdy karabiners that he had fetched out from under the bed case; the all-passive, half-smiling girl was stretched, her pink quim facing us, her feet gently fidgeting to find an easier strain, her arms extended and her head resting on a pillow, crowned with reddish curls, that Sami had cared to display around. In that position, the smidgen of her breasts was flattened and her nipples showed some arousal.

Lizon took my head aside and asked if the girl would suffer; I pressed her in my neck and said I knew it would not be that kind of show. But wasn’t it voluptuous to look at a defenceless beauty at mercy of some lavender-type geeks who privately traded undies? Of course, in real life, one should beware of Hitchcock blondes, but I had the word these two had not paid for a hard suffering patient. Then Lizon fully realised we were frolicking inside a clandestine whorehouse, she wriggled vaguely alongside me.

The blonde nosed all over the strewn body, poking her tongue into the sensitive folds and chinks at random, still clothed. Sami had withdrawn and shut the door, the man watched the scene, eyes squinted. Then the blonde started to operate more intently on the vulva and lips of the maiden who mulled softly in response, while the man started to lift the skirt and the pearl grey lace-trimmed satin underskirt. The jolly bottom thus revealed is exquisitely rounded, of pale vermeil colour, deliciously parted, responsive to the mannerist regards it accepted from the worshipper, widening its wink and oozing wet. The man, in his shirt and socks, bore upwards a strait and long penis and threaded straight through the offered greedy slit, undisturbing the blonde’s servicing of the moaning maiden. In a matter of minutes, he stopped his push and stilled, in shivers, his discharge overflowed down her thighs; undeterred, his weapon still tense, the swashbuckler aimed at the timid bunghole and thrusts in steady rhythm while the moanings raised. when he was in, she collapsed upon Clara’s body and devoured her mouth in a shared frenzy, her thighs wide opened, her inners ploughed in a few assaults, splashed again abundantly. She panted over the wet girl, he seized her long hair and forced her to his indefatigable rod, telling her to shit his cum in Clara’s mouth, fucking her mouth to silence her.

It was weirdly dirty for a few minutes, Clara swallowed without thinking, coughed more like a signal to be remembered, the blonde moved forward, pumping her best on the terrible shaft, a long harrowing time after two rough onslaughts; she gargles when he spurts deep down her throat. She tilts down, spent and silly, content. Soothed at last, he smirked and unlocked himself Clara’s harnesses and cuddled her head, lulling the young tart into sucking him more, only for the fun, said he.

He freed Clara who had been sucking on a soft stem, he held her aback to give her some folded bills and took a last kiss from her. They dressed up and Lizon noted that they better had macs to conceal all the stains they displayed. He acted considerate towards her, re-shuffling her hair gently. In the soft words they shared, he called her sister, which gave the turbulent scene we had witnessed a whole new tone, as we acknowledged the suddenly evident resemblance, the attunement of the voices.

Lizon was very aroused, we sucked each other’s toes, poked our tongues in our sides, where it is jumpy, drank lust from each other’s gazes. In the black, a door opened, Sami was pushing a butler’s tray on wheels, holding a carafe of iced tea, and a bowl of anise macarons, he asked if they would like to meet Carla, they just saw perform. He left and brought the fresh girl, without bonds this time, curious of two nude unknowns, at once smitten with Lizon, whom she kissed full-tongue, while I played with her bum.

Sami watches me, a tad frustrated with having looked on others unbound lechery, cups my chin and tilts his head as an invite, or at least I read it so, and thus I reach his groin, let him pick the puller of his zipper and release a suitable circumcised pecker I bend to, while the two brats roll across the couch. I suck with enthusiasm as I am not sure he wants anything else, so, in fact, he gushes like a teener and I struggle to gulp all, but soon smile, clean wiped. unlike other men, he revells into his own taste on my tongue and lips, makes his hands canter down on me, and deliver a masterful wanking to my vagina so as I squirt bravely upon the two nymphets in heat.

His flute still at half tide, he embraced my waist and offered to lead us to a quiet little lair to end the night. Clara had another trick scheduled that would make her a mite richer, and she would eventually find our address if needed; she ran, with one last touch at my girl’s wet quim, she ran, like a mouse in a familiar cottage. Having decreed that our clothes and belongings would be attended for us, Sami held us, by whatever he fancied, through pathways and cramped corridors, taking advantage on us and Lizon in particular, whom, thus, let fade of Clara’s carnal spell for a deftly male hold on her senses. Dizzy as I might have been, I kept watch, and he knew there were boundaries, but it was on my mission too, to let her frolic and test her spirits.

Along an all-padded gulley of ecclesiastical purple velvet, a row of black-framed much pornographic etchings could turn, on precision hinges, and allow a view on different promiscuous lodges. On the inside was a faceted one-way mirror set in a large frame to match the diverse decors without causing suspicion.

On the bed, a young beauty with long auburn strands was getting humped and bumped like a sack of wheat by a muscular black sprog with an exuberant smile. The accepting attendee beamed an ecstatic glare through the tremors of bliss. Behind them, in a coloured silk velvet robe, an older fogey handled his mid-soft peener, chanting gently rogue cheers for the breathless whore. He approached, stroked her forehead and slid his timid choad in her mouth, while the stallion pounded on. She soon exulted in unison with the glorious athlete, and it made the compadre spurt into her swerved mouth. As the lewd scrummage hurled on, the old bear laughed and held her nape, his old peter drooling.

Sami was trying to force himself in my butt, so I had to tell him that I had already served him free and that he should leave us to enjoy our tour. He smirked and said he would wait for us at the end of the corridor. In the next room, upon a canopy bed fitted with black sheets, a nude, lanky, pale, black-haired teen appeared sleeping at the hands of a stark naked middle-aged man. He manipulated kindly all of her fine features, fingered all her holes, she did not react, lost in the deepest of slumbers. He kissed her avidly, whispered naive compliments she would never hear, rested her body in the easiest of posture, she showed serenity. After the previous charivari, Lizon felt shudders as to lay alongside the sleeping jaykid: observing it was no comedy, she asked me if I thought it was dangerous, and I self-consciously said I had let myself get into that kind of game with people I trusted with my life.

That client had paid for the whole service, he crept against her back, seized he left leg and made her thighs open wide for us as if he had known he had voyeurs, like we had done once in Victor’s car with Kate, and he leant his weenie upon the closed vulva, slowly rubbing to obtain reflex lubrification, that would even fail less in the realm of limbo, and in fact, it looked easy, as we cuddled ourselves on our side of the mirror. He entered cautiously, unaffecting her expression of bliss, stretched her legs and shagged her properly and damp. Then he fetched a small transparent bottle of anal fluid, to bugger her too in there, and visibly concluded in great ecstasies. His woman puppet still absent to this world, he did to her a cat toilet with some black towels, massaged her feet and legs, laid himself along her back and pulled a duvet over themselves.

My Lizon was exalted, she climaxed at the lightest of my hand’s frolicking upon her lovely brooklet; nevertheless, she wanted to see the third tableau, we laughed at our inundated thighs and went on. In the new room, there wasn’t much décor other than torture tools upon raw stone walls, a dungeon, in a word. Sturdy contraptions, less sophisticated than those in Louis’ laboratory, of vertiginous memories, but obviously of more frequent use here. A the time we were about to call it quits, a bald sturdy man, bare-chested, wearing only black leather crotchless pants, displaying his shaved penis and balls in their best attitude, and impeccably shined knee-high black boots, walked in, pulling an apparently resigned, young, mid-fawn haired girl, on leash from a hide collar like the one we had seen on Clara, hands cuffed in her back; totally nude, well-drawn, her legs taken to perfection, the fine muscles of a modern dancer, the belly as flat as a guitar.

The man led her to a padded top sort of table, high to her hips, mounted on linked screw-jacks operated with a side crank; the table was ended by big wooden jaws in which three holes were intended to hold the head and two wrists of the patient, maintaining the low part of the body available for any use.  He forced her head and wrist onto the pillory and adjusted the height by a turn of the crank, so her mouth could easily gobble his johnson. He clenched her ankle bracelets to the table’s feet on each side so her legs stood opened and her bunghole well exposed while he made himself well, thoroughly sucked while caressing the curls of the subdued girl; he moved and came to bugger her, carefully, deeply, helping himself with lube when she asked, –thus making remember we weren’t looking at porn show, but at private service, the fucker being eventually some highly paid executive, perfectly on the clear with his therapist, eventually. Alternating both charming carnal paths, he fed her both ways and more, Lizon noticed some men did not stop at the first salvo. She would have liked to insert her fine hand into the girl’s quim, without asking.

One last peep hatch overlooked a clear cosy bedroom, hung with clear bouquets printed fabric, carpeted in pearl grey. A bed “en corbeille” invited to whisper privacies under a fluffy, rosebuds scattered quilt, three rosy cabriolet armchairs, and risqué boudoir scenes in willow green picture mounts, all these requisites smelled of feminine intimacy. Two gentlemen, as mellowed as life peers, awaited in dark terry robes and ornate slippers. Entered a young maiden, all dressed up as a Victorian country damsel, with ribbons and ringlets and a creamy skin she let the two fogeys taste on her wrist. She acted as an accomplished professional and sat on one’s lap with quick natural. She had to answer questions about her day, and mostly the naughty details she probably did not invent, while the hands of her hosts disappeared into her lingeries, grazed her white silk stockings, fondled her petite feet. Jumping from one to the other, she was as talkative as they were animated so as to rummage into her opened pants and practice themselves all that she had boasted in her faintly reserved tone of voice. The two partners, who might have ignored each other in some other sort of club, traded her cunt and her mouth in a whirl of linon and poplin and lace, while, unbeknownst to their Lordships, we slid our wet fingers into our exasperated holes.

At the end angle of the corridor was a rather small wood-panelled room with an alcove deep enough for two or three, and concealed amenities, a tub, a bidet and a loo, all of it in the subdued shade of rose and softness of a giant vulva. Sami appeared, out of the wall, no doubt, spry and winning, his hands unfettered over our heated rumps. He enlaced my half-dazed sidekick and licked her pouty mouth, and her tongue as a manner to feel her surrender to lust, along which she had wandered all night. As I disposed myself towards him so as to deviate his whim, he donned a wise smirk and made us kiss each other, asking us if we had noticed all the mirrors, apart from those through which we peeped? We had been quite a sensation among the regulars, highly approbative of our tomboy finesse, the bids were dizzying if we deigned. Stroking his crotch to appease him, I repeated that we already had a winner for the while, who only despatched me for probing any ticking of Lizon’s soul, heart, and rump on the free society arena, the libertine playground. Did Sami know which of his boarders would lose track of her own life? Of course, it was not his sacred duty, in a buzzing brothel, but it was, regarding young Lizon, somebody’s concern, and she might as well be sent quietly to some botherless homework. She sulked; Sami was riding his impulse and bent me back with my thighs open, she sucked my tong til he turned me over on the bed, freed his ramrod and buggered me with not much lubricant, forcing me to beg Lizon to help with her mouth, which she, and of course him, revelled doing, albeit my previous sermon. When he had collapsed upon me, and regained his breath and composure, as I hugged my godsend cousin, I asked him how many wankers had watched us right now, and he lowered his eyes. Lizon was only amused, we alleviated our souls into perfumed lather. Then we dived onto the down cushions, we embraced each other till extinction, except for somnambulic expeditions to the pot.

I had been beautifully lost in time, I danced on tightly mowed grass in Tycho Brahe’s cosmic garden of Uraniborg, circled with gentle fireflies. The scarlet crows fly in elaborate circles around the towers of Kronborg castle while the tall ships in the strait boast memories of none other than wind and human suffering, as Far said to the jumping little girl who ran off and pissed on the dandelions. I brought Lizon aboard “Hereby” and already she moans of Ivo’s and Eilbert’s humping into her appealing jewel box. We have lost Ven and drift towards sands when Debussy’s first arabesque pulls me out of the lilac smelling pillows and hold my phone from Clara’s hand who happened to be there between Lizon’s thighs.

Hector was amused of the few I had the morning nerve to narrate when he informed me we were late afternoon, and keenly awaited at dinner time in another folly, rue Judas in the medieval Latin quarter; he texted me the codes and let me guess that Sami had reported our happy arses with, at least, some jocundity.

Sami pushed a cart with a large silver bell cover and a teapot under a gallant toile-de-Jouy cosy. How could he know of my craving for french toast and apricot marmalade (not jam)? Were these shortbread hearts for Lizon? Would Clara steal from both, as she did of free kisses? Did he expect a carnal reward? He just showed us our clothes, folded on the chairs, wished a most welcome return for us in these byways, and, caressing her head, reminded Clara she had an appointment in two hours. He added that we could not miss the way out, with a surprise.

Lord Metropolis

Lord Metropolis  ©Sarah von Kettelær @katherine-sophie.eu

Pressed by Lizon, Clara did a quick summary of her way of life as a young clandestine prostitute, after she stressed that what she performed there, in the Grand Montpensier, was obviously not comparable with the “skin slavery” that the despicable hypocrisy, or worse, the moral imbecility of all flavours of French prohibition maintains in the sewers, because, like it or not, prostitution is unavoidable (same goes for the gentle cannabis), and so, she was a student in performing arts, she craved debauchery and being used beastly, and she had found in the Hellfire Fraternity the true spillway for both her natural naughtiness and her financial neediness. Thanks to Sami and the tutelary powers, she had emboldened her want under the cover of an almighty social fortress, and she could come out as a theatrical might, or not, free to her.  

She fled through the door we had come in and closed it. We took a mutual shower with a Neroli Dawn gel soap and fun. She repeated that she loved me, I hurried her. Once dressed, we followed the other way, climbed up and down a few and pulled a heavy portal on rue de Richelieu, rather far from where we had entered. A cab took us with a smile to our door.

Back in our cloakroom, nude and still aroused of our night, hands all over, we tried medieval of sorts, ethnic loose, forgetting of any silk barriers to Lizon’s quim, and mine. I loved her in my fine linen rich boy’s long shirts, they are a treat to sensitive skins, evasive nipples, smooth chests. I dared a precious Shimura kimono in a gradient of moonrise blue, she would not know how to wear it and, without a belt, be all the more awkwardly exciting; we found nude sandals with iridescent straps, she was yet again irresistible, she would astound Louis. I kept up with a long silk robe under an extravagantly patched up and mended boro long coat so worn out that it felt like ears of a doe on my skin; I wrapped Lizon against my womb. Then we perfumed our slut bodies, I wished something more childlike for her, bergamot and blackcurrant, rose in the marshmallow end, a most palatable girl with a thrill of incest, another present of Hugo’s. I proposed to wear some attempt at recreating wisteria on a Baltic island, with smuggled rose and incense guilt, one of my feverish traps when in heat. I like my feet in invisible sandals, it is a sinful bind, for me, to my Far.

The mint smelling car drove us, spot on the eroded doorstep of an immemorial private hotel, which vaulted door displayed a small grid with a camera behind, and a number pad; I had the numbers on a card, a buzz blared and the motored door recessed, to let us in a metal-clad sas with another set of controls. I had to hold Lizon’s shoulder for she was panicking; the second barrier slid aside and a swarthy giant in a vaudeville Turk costume with a gold-trimmed vest over impressive smooth muscles, and a likeable smile. He knew all about us and led us to a dark antechamber, floored with antique rugs, as scarcely lit as a New York joint, it seemed that the whole venue was blackish and subdued. After some visual adaptation, the multitude of LED devices concealed everywhere created a festive and intimate world, easy to navigate. Amir, as he said he was called, took our cards and let the machine read them before holding them back. He typed a line and hit “enter”, watching us, toes to head, approvingly.

A young maiden, all nude, and depilated, her long red hair unfurling over her frail shoulders, closed lips smiling, came to us and began to undress us; she did not speak our languages but kissed me on the mouth, lightly. She hung our costumes with care in a concealed closet of the dark oak panelling, smiled again and started caressing us in detail, grazing her modest breasts against us in an altogether welcome kind of dance. She demonstrated dexterity and we were soon both as wet as the Holy Source. Then she led us, at a lazy pace, still questing caresses along intricate passageways opening on all kinds of tortuous alcoves, all populated by nude people greeting the newcomers more with their hands and attributes than words. I was beginning to regret not to have made Lizon wear some kind of briefs, code for off-limits, so I held her as my own lover and protected her bum as kindly as I could.

Across heated gatherings of petting and mellow smelling, some of whom whispered they knew me, we reached quieter shores and silky ottomans; a middle-aged man with silver curls called me by my name and said he had been at our vernissage, he regretted everything had already been sold; cupping a hand under Lizon’s chin, he said low that he remembered her well, too, as the date of his friend Louis, and wondered how in hell she perambulated with a refined libertine in the midst of this goliards’ hive, bum naked? I let him draw me to the soft silk Kashmir rug and gently start wanking me, as I held Lizon’s waist at my side. Eventually, I told him to do me all, and watch my girl, as he liked, but not fuck her. I took pride that he desired me, he told Lizon to hold my legs high as he buggered me and I licked her plum; he stole many deep kisses that she did not avoid.

Gentle onlookers offered cheers, mainly to Lizon who wasn’t so busy, she distanced herself gracefully and stayed near us. One voice, and a hand in search of my clitoris with unmatched dexterity, put apart Kate’s, woke an alert as I recognised the lustful tone of the one and only Liselotte, very keen about my bellboy, busy to come in my mouth. By the time I could emerge, she was already enshrouding my protégée with all her nifty savoir-faire, astounding her with compliments, until I cut peremptorily, only to play lewdly with Liselotte to whom I introduced my magical cousin, letting her touch and kiss. My all recent partner, he was turgid and wet, knew Liselotte of always and reminded me of the orgy with Dr Y. and how my blond sister and me had shagged half of the crowd in a row! He might have been right, I had a boldly depraved recollection of that evening, laced with drugs, but, all in all, warm to my womb, as I let Liselotte feel about it. She grabbed, as a long time matchmaker, Lizon’s situation; she congratulated me and warned that she would lie in wait, but that, I had already guessed.

Everybody there knew Liselotte, by face , or else. She showed us around, embraced like her little girls, her hands all over Lizon, whom I should have made to wear leather shorts. She was in high spirits, the free-flying canoodles all over her, in the watchful shelter of now two mother geese that shooed off any unease, let her laugh heartily. Must be said the air was subtly breathable, the well-studied atmosphere in the labyrinth only hinted of some balmy moss, the breath of an immemorial well from where suffused a cloud of distinguished lust, and any inappropriate manifestation of unruly testosterone would have, as I felt, been very soon been banished. More tall dressed-up waiters patrolled the aisles with a debonair but impressive presence ( I bet my arse that they would not be left frustrated beyond some humane charity, at some point, I won.) Laced into the hourvari of bodily sounds, stifles, and bash, a crystalline ritornello chimed like moonlight over dark seaweeds, in lines of surreptitious pearls and winks of diamonds, connoting hints about which fairy had danced inside the drinks witchy Liselotte had served us. I had known that, with her, but none beyond my trust; in the whirl of the moment, there were no scarlet crows to fear; she later avowed spiking the drink, but since she had drunk as much as us, that made her somewhat innocent; I reckoned that she remained an expedient broker of sorts, was a great fuck, and there had been sophisticated music boxes under the ottomans.

Upon a Ghom silk couch, a rosy Brit sporting a straight long knob offered with an irresistible “Globe” diction to let him ride in my butt, it would let Lizon drink at my brook and Liselotte’s tongue all of hers, while she would, herself, offer her famous honey holes to the first bidder. Casually, Lizon’s mouth rambled from my blooming cunt down to the touchy gent’s balls, and he meowed melodiously into my neck, enticing the connoisseurs to come and cheer my lickerish angel with kind hands, and tongues of themselves. When Lord H. came, Lizon was not shied away and lapped up all she could, earning a few deep kisses in the audience, but Liselotte, as fondly helved as she was being, herself, kept her precious holes unspoiled.

Liselotte begged us to take her in our bed, she was utterly smitten with Lizon whose arse she had courted whole evening. She was thrilled that I told her the nymphet belonged to some mighty who had tasked me to look into her spirits, or leave her alone. The scheme computed well with Liselotte ways, and mine, and Lizon up to then. We played a honeysuckle shower together and collapsed into the fresh bedclothes.

In the subdued glimmer that poured through the curtains, I gazed up, and yawned, and my mind jolted, unknowing why; then it beamed that I was looking at silky blond hair and honey-tinged skin I did not go to bed with. It smelled youth, and amber, and sex like another creature of Hugo’s, so as I woke and grasped it was Natalia, sleeping in bliss with her forehead upon Lizon’s tummy. All I found to do was to wedge myself all along her and babble in her neck, low enough not to blow her dream up, just only to make her wave her butt. She was home, after all, in any bed. It had been time, streams of warmth flew into one another’s conscience like telepathy. Lizon smiled wondering, read my eyes and searched for Natalia’s kiss; Liselotte, who looked younger with no make-up, rolled her eyes in wonderment and queried reasons in mine. Cuddling her head, I whispered the names and went to pee and make breakfast. Nonetheless, Liselotte was flabbergasted and bestrode on my lap, and peed on me peeing, asking who was the blond apparition. I joked I would tell her, when we were dry.

If Liselotte needed nothing else than to see Natalia make out frankly with me, too, she raised an eyebrow and kept squashing the oranges for all. Lizon wondered if this was a girls’ house, I said yes, a chicken coop, and she did not really know what that was, but many a fox visited, and we fostered our special breed of roosters upstairs, Natalia had met one she did not know of, the day before; she asked Lizon if she was to stay in the house, betting she would not sleep much for a while, if so. While the fillies went to romp under the shower, Liselotte chatted me up and slid her hand between my thighs; she had sussed my manoeuvre about Lizon, and implied that the new fledgling showed rich potential, if ever. Responding to her sweet manners, what a desirable slut she pulled, I laid down my scope about Lizon. First, I had fallen in love with that godsend cousin, and I had persuaded myself it was reciprocal. unpredictably, she had been a long-abused orphan, a survivor of bleak territories far from our green paradise, ferreted out by some deft mercenary, at the bidding of what kind of might she could easily guess; revelling into Lizon’s gaze, I had brought her to witness and feel rum goings-on, testing her soul. She was not indeed the first rescapee whose beauty would ensnare one of us, would it? Liselotte practised looser wisdom, in the realm of unexpected fairies, not letting them nest in her chest, after suckling at their honey.

Natalia, rightfully posing as a daughter of the house, had dressed themselves in long shirts and leggings, and proposed a tour of our domains, probably in the hope to tempt Lizon into her bedroom. Liselotte wouldn’t let me adjust a short legging without her hand in it. Eventually, we climbed up to the studio where Lizon was stunned, for this was beyond her idea of personal luxury. She dreamt in a few whiffs in Kate’s chair while unwearying Liselotte already pawed Natalia on the red couch. I gave her a taste of our sound system and pulled Lizon upon my chest to dance, at once accompanied by Liselotte who robbed a long kiss to a dizzy Natalia. The day was warm and quiet, Lizon wondered in my ear if she went to Louis’ that night, I said it could not be other than exciting, and, on my word, safe; she could come back to me anytime, I would await for her, sleep on my phone. Next, we visited the new extra room, still smelling of the throws of Simon and one atoned Fayelle Chevasne, once Anisette Pullmann or Anzy from Emoland; I pushed Lizon upon the bed, stroked her belly and she played sniffing with me, undoubtedly wood, and patchouli, narcissus, pepper, wild rose, poplar, apples in the rain, little girl’s sweat, pavement violets, laundry shop, lilies in an empty church… she raved, at a time fingering my face like a blind child…  Yes, she could live there for a while, if she needed a new tribe to belong to.

We climbed down, then up again in the lift, to reach the paradise of lacy souls, Natalia’s perch, along with other rarities; she let us in her den, which smelled of a potpourri of amber apple, dried roses, and butterfly bush, we all needed to hug and kiss her. She brewed tea, silver needles in a great glass pot that her Australian neighbour had offered her. She called him, by any chance, but she knew her roommate Beryl would be in bed with Gauthier so she let them enjoy. Lizon was overwhelmed with the need to unload all her moral burden right here and sleep forever in my womb, I told her it had more or less happened to most of us, except Liselotte, who was a honey-trap for the Powers That Be, and all the more laughing; with a stroke on the cheek I sweetened my words, all in all, I never had to complain about her.

At a special knock, Natalia sang for someone to come in, and Theo walked in almost on tiptoes, as he would. He liked what he smelled, pecked at Natalia’s mouth and waited to be introduced to Lizon and Liselotte, liked obviously the first but looked at the latter straight in her eyes. I counted my words laying straight that Theo is Australian, gracefully non-binary but has chosen to dress as a boy, and did not mind being described as a he. Theo also is a writer, an art critic, and loves Paris. He sat casually on the second arm of our chair, where Lizon and I were seated, closely embraced. He smelled like a freshly baked English cake, with a Ylang-ylang flower on the top, and Lizon, who was getting versed in our sensual manners, followed her nose into his collar, causing him a shudder and more smiles. He dared not ask about her, enough was it to consider we were freely petting. Liselotte had ideas about Melbourne and was turned on by the ambiguous character, however not enough to desert Natalia’s bum.

Theo wore a timeless three-piece suit “à la Tom Wolfe”, of lichen-green Prince de Galles worsted fine wool, a celadon poplin shirt and a verdigris paisley silk tie, matching socks in double-buckle terracotta brown oxfords, a poster boy for “literary gay grand tour’s” squire; he was Cynthia’s envoy and I would coddle him; I unbuttoned one on Lizon’s shirt, and pulled his hand inside so as he faintly caressed her delicate skin, and he mutely cried in my neck, to Lizon’s awe, for long minutes, while Natalia was, on the other chair, enraptured by the mistress witch savoir-faire. When he caught back his broken breath, Theo soughed that Lizon could live alongside with him in the empty room, and himself would merely be as bothersome as a butterfly, and let her have whom she liked around. I beclouded his impetuous declarations and raved on our threesome parties, or even calling on Gauthier, the golden knight, to lend us a happy sword, for I knew Theo had some crush for him. As the celestial gold burnished over the ancient roofs, I ordered boxes of finger-food from my fellow countrywomen in rue Perronet, and it would soon be time to let the bride preen up, for Hector would come and drive her to the other side of crystal.

We had time to lay new scarab luster brown varnish on her nails, wax out details in he crotch, puff up her obsidian brown hair, brush on some blush on her cheeks shade her eyes and mascara her lashes, for she was to parade under Louis’ grand lights as I had, and I wished she brought down the house, or fled with panache. I picked a maddeningly fine-stitched white linon night shirt from some of my otherwise frigid ancestors, to which I had been inspired to attach a daring lace plastron, to be worn under a black light silk brocade, square shoulders caftan, trimmed with a vivid purple and pearls ribbon; out of the split at the wrists in the long fashioned sleeves, gushed lace cuffs, the ironing of which ought to have been dainty. I worshipped her toes in finely crafted pointed violet sandals; other than these, she was all nude. I tied a purple velvet dog collar to her neck, with a line of pearls sewed in its middle.

Capital Octopus – ©Sarah von Kettelaer @katherine-sophie.eu

Lizon tells:

Hector called from the door and awaited in the Silver Ghost, as I sat beside him he smiled with what felt like pride, not hiding that he watched most of me through that gown.he had always eyed me desirously, albeit never attempting anything beyond. He said he could read that my hours with Sarah had been rich, and however Mr Louis was already happy to have heard I came back to see him. At a red light, he cuped his hand under my chin and gave me frissons. In Mr Louis’ hotel particulier, I had never seen the curved marble stairs on which ran a thick red carpet. Once the ground floor doors shut by Hector, the city noises vanished entirely and I climbed alone, amidst the chorus of an armload of proud lilies displayed on a pedestal in the shadow of a life size marble dancer on the deported newel. The grand chandelier was dimmed, but a golden gleam flowed from a door left ajar, whereto I slid like a spy. Suddenly, Louis was in front of me, in a cobalt blue shaved velvet smoking jacket, contemplating my own dumbfounded gaze at the splendour of the place. He offered his hand, held and kissed and smelled mine, and kept it, playing with the lace cuff, leading me silently around to visit. Most impressive was a tall glass box sheltering a floating display of innumerable objects mounted together into a solid cloud, over which stood standing a life size nude lascivious woman, bearing troves of jewels and pearls; the whole pandemonium in a dull, whitish matte colour, like an antediluvian apparition. Louis said it was an assemblage by an artist named Kris Kuksi, and that it had been a wartime Hullabaloo to transport it to where it stood, through the window. I let Louis wedge on me, nose my nape, as we turned around other glass boxes with wooden corners in which rested rounded black shapes entirely formed with feathers, sleeping in their mysterious sheen, as if monstrous animals could, any time, spring up in a black furor –or was I only projecting what I could expect from my host, whose hand was currently running along my spine. Kate McGwire may only use legal remains of farm poultry, it’s enough though to let her to generate otherworldly chimeras of our convoluted libidos. On the walls, against the panelling, once more inside glass showcases, the maniacally devastated books by Georgia Russell, a first edition of Anaïs Nin’s “A Spy In The House Of Love” finely lacerated into a rich bloom, pages still blooming off from the back binding, as for an “Histoire d’O”, flickering metaphors of written texts into our mental galaxy. Louis was flattering my butt when I discovered the pictures by Sarah, intense and elusive like her, he asked me if I had liked her, and he seized my move to kiss me full-mouth.

In a sort of black uniform, Hector rolled in a butler’s tray bearing an ornamented golden samovar, with its little flame lit, and a few tea glasses in golden filigree glass holders. Sarah had finely warned me not to be afraid of Louis’ supreme tea, and reminded me know that tea is a diuretic, at a moment we were playing water games. We sat on elegant old rose velvet chairs facing a low oriental carpeted ottoman on which Hector deposited small golden trays with the tea glasses for each; it was exquisite, indeed. I did not care that my caftan had spread and almost exposed me whole, Louis neither; before my glass was empty Hector had swiftly filled it again, a few times, thus I soon should ask for the powder room, and Louis offered to show the way, and the caftan opportunely fell upon the chair, spreading its regal yellow lining. 

The waxed black corridor, filled with daguerreotypes too small for me to take time examining them, for I was in some hurry already, was a tad narrow so Louis embraced me closer and in no time my shirt had flown off. Before we attained a heavenly all-gold mosaic rotund with scattered blue birds and lotuses, Louis was nude too, hugged be strongly and asked me to let go of my pee on him. I did, with deliberate pleasure, like we had done with Sarah. Then warm water gushed from gold fixtures in the wall, he was anointing every inch of my body with sacred lotus oil, all the way to my crazed anus, and I believed I was as good a slut as my beloved Sarah. In my boring life, I had never heard of enema, so, Louis explained that he would be asking to use my rear to bugger me and it would be nicer, whatever DAF de Sade wrote, if it were unnaturally clean; he showed me a supple black canula he sucked to demonstrate its innocuousness, affixed to a flexible hose which hung from a glass tank, the size of a galon, supported in a golden tulip-shaped contraption, filled with a white liquid. Louis explained that the simple installation contained lukewarm, sweetened vanilla milk, as I could taste like he did, after turning the little tap on the side, I did too, following his play, totally inoffensive milkshake he would let inflow into my rectum, and I would soon expel into the gold bowl nearby. He seized me and laid me across his lap, sitting on a wooden stool, he pushed open my thighs and I felt the tiny stem enter my butthole, then warmth like he were pissing in me, no pain, nor discomfort, he was cuddling my head; after a minute or so, I felt my bowels jolt, so he brought me to the bowl and I let a large vanilla diarrhoea flow away in a whirl of waters. I accepted another flood, he did himself, swiftly, too, and we moved on with clean arseholes. I was thereby so slacked that he buggered me full before I could think of it; Eric had done that to me before, he liked it; the other old bag of muck only fiddled while he made me suck; but there, in light of the free tour my blue eyed mentor had dragged me into, I felt like a true little whore, and there was yet no shame nor restraint in my soul.

Louis, visibly enthralled with my face he kissed over and over, led me, through a curved padded pathway, to some spacious salon under a chaotic ceiling, disheveled of iridescent stained triangular mirrors, a mad Moorish antrum of disorder I gazed at, while he reveled in my neck. The walls were upholstered with azure and gold, asymmetric, futurist-patterned brocade, patched together in apparent random logic . The rug was as thick as a bed, with a toned-down motive of giant pastel blue pointillist eddies. Large Dado paintings sniggered in architectural frames, as to dare the onlooker to act on their beasty whims on the spot, as a set of furnishings in the center of the room, pearl-blue leather divans, ottomans, benches, stools of many heights made simply possible. A door was pulled, and Hector appeared as nude as we were, holding a gilded tray, with more tea, which could have hidden his considerable erection, until he laid it on an ottoman. Louis said plainly, still holding me near, that it was Hector who had singled me out, lured me away from a wrong deadbeat, entrusted to Sarah like the jeweller to the gemologist, and proved his intuition of me til here, and so it were only fair that he own a few petals of me, showing us to a bench at the edge of which heartbeats jolted Hector’s dignified shaft, where I let myself be impaled while a hint of vanilla gained my mouth.

The bustling duo went way beyond what I had dared fancy of what awaited me, save the beatings, which are not Louis’ taste, apparently, and for which i had no training. But I was strapped, in many different ways, positions, and attainments; blindfolded, stretched, pee over and in, I did like to be restrained, bound, trussed available like a wanton thing, wasted. Once, I was left in a soundproofed padded room, under subdued blue light, nude in a straitjacket, a small drinking fountain in a corner, a pissoir hole in the other, until I felt losing measure of time, then hooded, and raped, by what felt like a horde, and silently washed, and left to sleep. When I woke in clean satin sheets, on a tomb-deep mattress, in a Zuber fantasy room that smelled of orange buds, I searched my whole body to feel any damage, ran to find a mirror, and found my face appealing, peed lightly and hurried back to the elation in the four-posted bed with an embroidered phoenix as canopy. Sans doute alerted by my use of the loo, or any possible device, someone knocked at the door, and then it dawned in my mind that I could answer; Hector brought the tea I had adored at Sarah’s, and a saraband of macarons in a crystal bowl. He wore a creamy-white crepe long shirt, black trousers and black varnished court shoes with a gros grain vamp; he smelled the balmy sweat I had surrendered to inside the madhouse cell, whiffs of urine and straw next to a dash of gazoline, he looked at me and we smiled, he reached for my feet, Lizon…

“Are we friends?” said Hector after he deposited the tray over my lap and I let him ogle my miraculously fresh quim. Beside breakfast, laid a thick Florentine envelope I took at first for a book; as he busied himself displaying my newly ironed gown and my caftan, plus a gold yellow vest I did not know, bearing a stitched label “Don’t get Cold”; I glanced into the envelope and gulped at the sight of so many euro bills, he pretended he had not noticed. He asked if I would stay with the happy crew at rue de l’Université, but I had no clue about that, sure, I wanted to see Sarah today, but we had not really talked about my future. He asked if I would mind sharing an apartment with a very kind character in the upper floors? I realised he had been speaking with my magical cousin, I called her at once and begged to see her now, Hector smiled and I ran to the shower where he still watched me.Very soon, Sarah was downstairs in a rented car, he nonchalantly slid a finger along my slit before he let me run.

 

Hugo says:

Recently, the Château stood near ablaze at the news of a novel windfall marvel, in its walls. Natalia snuck in as far as my study, where she knows she wouldn’t unset me, anyhow, and raved about that new would be boarder Sarah would have in her bed, so tranquil, so decent, boyish, smooth, enviable, doe-eyed, pale, easy-going, pouty-lipped, ad libitum. Howbeit, before she barefoots upon my morning rugs, Louis was spinning for me his arch erotic voyage into Lizon, our new pillow-klatsch at the expertise of an all gourmet Sarah. Then a fully-dressed Theo reported how struck and moved he had stood speaking to Miss Lizon, in a deeply inset intuition, and the contemplation of her hands and feet, the magnetism of Sarah on her, some epiphany of wild candour, like a heady new perfume, so as even he had fallen in true sisterhood.

Therefore, I had ordered in an Imperial triumph of pastries, worthy of the great Carême himself, and stood ready with my Yixing teapots and Kombucha ewers, when I heard the soft call of Sarah’s velvety voice. Indeed, at the first glimpse of the May Queen, shy in a white martyr shirt, the torment was instant, if that were a sharp metaphor of the helpless surrender to an invincible, native charm, of the kind Sarah herself, or Kate, had struck forever in my stunned constellations, gravitated around by all the gentle avatars in this fathomable hemisphere.

Not overly prudish, she sat on her legs folded aside, clutched at Sarah’s neck, still disoriented by a whole new town of Paris which was opening door after door for her, in soft ceremony. I suppose I guessed I could allow my whim to hold her feet before she flew, that quip I let rip as I seized a foot or two in a kidding passion. Sarah helped me, in the know of Lizon’s tantras, so she could calmly retell her somewhat salacious debuts. I avow I was amply rewarded of my bells and whistles, and I did not let go of her slim feet. Of course, I had heard that she had been earning money in the back of strangers’ cars, dark alleys, and toilets, at the game of her life, for her addict lover turned procurer, before Hector supervened, just in time, to buy her skin out. And all the more, she had long lost any blinkers in regard of men’s lust, or women’s, for that matter. Then, it had been a breeze for Sarah, once Lizon had been proven sterling, to give her the first runaround of prime debauchery and listen if her precious metal had any fissure? All the way to Louis’ mental torments, Lizon’s soul had shown sound resilience, and though her ordeal had, and would never, besmirch her person beyond duly consented games, there she was, in my hands, with flying colours. Soon, I could ask Sarah to show me Lizon did not bear any trace of her hellish trip at Louis’ fantasy.

The summer light was dozing out, in my new antique Calais window lace, Lizon’s poplin had long been hiked upon her gracile province, Sarah was as draggletailed as I fancied of her, we were in love with the stray orphan. I was still wearing an exotic regal gown, of uneven lazuli blue, with a pair of embroidered runners inclined to the left side, trying to fetch a fleeing bird on the left shoulder, in silver crewel; as an assertion of the maker’s will of asymmetry, the right sleeve shows other birds overflying bent reeds; in my back is a large mystical sun disk, on the right side; the gown is ample enough to have, until now, dissimulated my considerable erection.

And so, it was Sarah who told me to drag us to my grand bed, embracing Lizon closer as her shirttail refused to cover her apple-shaped bum. I led them to my lay-room, currently clad in Kashmir silk rugs under an intricate cedar wood ceiling; at a corner of the large divan stood a tall feminine angel only just recently re-gilded in white gold, burnished and patinated over black, her wings spread one to the ceiling, the other to the wall, her hands raised like holding some invisible wreath, nude and slender like a Bayerischer Engel, one foot across the muzzle of an agonising beast, the other lightly offered to a sinful kiss. As always on these SpätBarock wanderings, the crotch had been left as smooth as the palm, but the chest was a tad more rounded than that of the two damned who joined their mouths in the dubious shadow of this errant glory.

With my stiff penis protruding through the aperture of my gown, I stood like the crèche idiot waiting for my opening treat, which did not miss happening, for Lizon asked to pee and I asked her what she had foreseen, and Sarah inserted the enema nozzle , too, while I shut her mouth hungrily. The shower was already steamy, Sarah pissed in her groin, too, we were all clean like lunatic worshipers, and we did. Her rosy cyclamen dripped of frangipane milk as I pushed into it as slowly as an assassin, she pulled her tongue for me to suck on. I discharge and it made her loose the liquid Sarah had injected, so she did an “O” face that made us laugh in the flows until total foam and rinse. We collected fleshy cushions and Lizon made herself available at my greedy want, while I questioned her, tactfully helped by Sarah who was obviously enamoured of the languorous orphan. Therefore I reckoned she was a forlorn castaway, the dedicated bait of all possible mishaps, mostly eligible for our interested investments, of the kind testified by our faithful visitors. Lizon would possibly quench all her thirst for truth, head to head along with Camille, Marie, Gauthier and others, eventually, she too might nest in the top floors, some new passages were still to be uncovered.

 

Sarah says:

Gauthier must have had a hunch about some interesting novelty at the noble floor, or some domestic genie gave him a heads-up, anyhow he rang his distinctive tune at Hugo’s door while we were reviving the dragon again. All innocently, he was bringing a bunker load of fresh petits fours, buzzing in my ear that whatever wind in his sails brought him had nothing impromptu. As he was hugging me nude, I stole his shirt and trousers, and tousled his beloved mane before paying my respects to his most reliable golden prick. Hugo let be seen they were casual lovers, and the whole congregation pillaged all delights about her in an almost cruel game of making her pass out. She shuddered most when we rashly kissed, while the two buggers took her both sides. Gauthier detailed her as a Cranach nymphet, made plans to have her body scanned and milled in wood or marble, so much so I became envious, mind him, was he casting me aside in sight of my own sweet crush? I fully demonstrated to him that I could still swallow his load in no time, and I had Lizon taste him.

 

Lizon says:

Time was fleeing me, Sarah had steadily opened realms of wonderments and endless spend, and in all, she remained lovingly attentive, unfazed, explaining all my futures in simple words, was it motherly? Kate would be back in a day or so, I was to stay in their grand bed, come who might. I was already painfully stricken when I discovered there had been a message, on my long silenced phone.It came from the police precinct of my real dwelling, asking to appear before them as soon as possible. Sarah’s face had transformed, she said she would come along, in any event. The staid officer I reached knew nothing, or did not want to tell. We announced our coming in an hour or so, we dressed blandly, with city boots, warned Hugo, ordered a car, and drove.

The offices smelled of floor cloth, chewing gum and faintly piss, the officers, trumped in thinking that we were family, only checked Alison’s identity, breathed absently, and went on; five days ago, they had been alerted by neighbours about a weird smell in my silent apartment. There, I understood brutally, and nested in Sarah’s bosom, mainly lost in horror, not overwhelmed, or crying, stunned. The officer grasped that I knew what had happened, he stopped his account and began questioning my whereabouts then, to all of what Sarah answered firmly. He declared that Eric had died of an overdose of diverse opioides, of which a consequent lot was found on a table near his body. I told him I knew Eric was an addict, and I wasn’t. He asked if we would comply to a test, and we did not oppose, only Sarah asked that it would be done at an hospital. After a short drive in a tobacco-peppermint tired metal banger, a biddable, almost blonde, nurse drew samples of our warm bloods, like in a last salute to a miserable evildoer, like it made us blood sisters, and I took refuge, like for ever, alongside of Sarah. The Police said we could not enter my apartment yet, I did not wish I did.

A driver had delivered my shoddy bag from the hideaway at Louis’; the sight of it made me cry, as if it were the real remains of my deplorable life; and Sarah treated the poor thing with simple respect, like anything of me. It took me two days to find out what Louis had deposited in it, one was a book, a beautiful edition Georgia Russell had spared of “Le Livre De Monelle” by Marcel Schwob, the other a marbled paper envelope full of euro bills. Sarah grabbed my butt cheeks and roared that I was rich.

 

Sarah says:

Had Hector known he was murdering Eric? He probably knew. Lizon was not his to keep, and the drug had already accomplished its deed, “Quantus Tremor Est Futurus”, grief to those who missed their word. Suddenly there was a sibylline message from Ayla, of all my wonder few, asking me to call with no delay. which I did, with the secret hope I’d be distracted from Lizon’s mullings. Far from that, Ayla was devastated because Esther had been badly beaten by a man in a hotel, and was taken to the hospital for surgeries on her face. I stammered childish consolations, already engineering a fastest transportation to Zurich, because she had called. I promised I would be with her on that day, ran to Hugo, mindlessly clutching Lizon’s hand, retelling him the tragedy, obtaining what I wanted, Melchior’s airplane. Three of us were set in minutes, Lizon was upset but I swore I would let her know all. We dressed as rich kids in jeans, Letterman inoffensive UN jackets and sneakers, as if it made us faster. My idea was that we could ever find more appropriate whatevers in Zurich, if needed. I couldn’t help looking up at Lizon’s distressed gaze and love it, and I saw Hugo under the same spell. Up to Le Bourget, the white jet was already whistling, the two young pilots affected worried looks, in regard of the hurried orders. We soon bathed in the preternatural light of heights.

We did our best to explain to Lizon that we were flying private to attend a prostitute who had been mauled by a john. She read my pain, Ayla was a sister to me, she understood when I told her the bracelet game, with old Saint Loup emotional words, but part of her was scared through the hustle and bustle, she felt beyond her depth, I embraced her and did not let go anymore of her, knowing it did little to quiet her.

In the black berline on the way to the University Hospital, Hugo sat with us and held us embraced, the driver must have thought somebody was dead. Ayla was called, she wore black, and shades, like a widow; she had been crying for long, Esther had been in the operating room for hours, and she had not wanted to look over; I remembered Esther’s beautiful face, now I held two girls on my chest. A nurse told us gently that we could sit in a nearby salon, Ayla gathered her spirits and told us what she knew.

Hugo felt stupid, he let Ayla lean on him, as she grasped at once what Lizon was to me, and smiled pitifully to her. Against Ayla’s advice, Esther had schemed an appointment in a grand hotel in town, for a hefty reward. The john was a Middle-East diplomat, in an expensive suite. Not so long after she had entered, the attending staff had seen a nude girl, with a bloody face, run blindedly the corridor, caught her into the service room and called for help. The hotel detective ran in, and, at the sight of her, called an ambulance and the Police. The perpetrator had fled. They found a leftover pyjama for Esther, not willing to enter the suite. At the emergency room, they observed the damages were beyond mere stitching, so they warned the high speciality network, and two surgeons stood ready for facial restoration, followed later by the top authority professor, called in by who knows whom, Esther apparently was their star. Ayla even provided Esther’s high quality portraits from her phone, just like a star’s.

Ayla could not have a room in the hospital, we begged her to stay with us in some hotel suite in town, the Schweizerhof was minutes away, she was about to pass out, I did not want to think about the surgeons’ alertness. We swore that we would come sit first thing in the morning, we agreed with the staff who promised to keep us posted, but convinced us that, if nothing would go wrong, they had better let us sleep, because Esther would, for a few days at least.

It all went so swift at the hotel, like some genie, probably in Melchior’s orb, had sent orders, even a full smorgasbord awaited us under silver bells. But first, I felt like we needed the Victoria Falls to cry under, I undressed the girls and we all worked away Ayla’s pain, whatever little success we garnered. She still was the thin animal who owned me, she swung her half-lemon breasts in my face, she turned to Lizon, pulled her muzzle to the water and told her to be wise, any manner that she would sell out her sparkle. Her hair was long and dense, she let me wash it as she made-out with Lizon, mumbling languages until she responded with her hands, when she was thoroughly rinsed I joined, it felt like some conjuration ritual.

When she jumped up tp fetch her phone, I felt that her witty arsehole was a lucky one. She was seated on the heels and listened attentively, she repeated thankful phrases endlessly; she rolled over me, rapid-firing that Esther was out of the OR and everything had gone right, surgically speaking, only her nose would be a tad straighter from now on. They could not let me with her before noon, and she would sleep for a few days, depending on her scarring. I groped her like I had always; Lizon slept like a child, Hugo was gone.

There was time, we had ordered tea and croissants, Ayla was listening to Lizon’s cruel story, straying her dainty hands on the girl’s satiny skin, as her mind was temporarily alleviated of her grief. She had always been a fiddler groper, for some success indeed; she repeated that Lizon had been caught into the right cobweb, if she would, and that she could rely on me, and all my tribe, did she know Kate? She said she had only met her shortly, just enough to be given the eye at, she laughed. Ayla did not give much thought to the Eric part, she told Lizon to leave it with the bygones, now she was in the jet-set, wasn’t she? A propos, Hugo was back, he was hungry because he had seen everyone in charge and hired a lawyer for their protégées, alluding to the fact that he knew Melchior had flown to Zurich, before.

The diplomat Z. had fled Switzerland already and was signaled through interpol; all forensic proofs against him having already been filed and put on record, there would be no profit for anyone to further pursue Esther or Ayla; but the scumbag would cloak under his diplomatic immunity, only would he be advertised by all means as the bastard he was. There was a chance he could have perpetrated before, even killed, that was one delicate matter, because Esther’s description could help, on that. Moreover, the hotel concierge, a senior “Clés d’Or” member, had ensured that this man would be secretly flagged in the whole world and could find anymore company or anything through the network. Eventually, Hugo offered his help for Esther convalescence, in his home or anywhere safe, I demonstrated my approval with lots of kisses.

I floated –so to speak– the possibility of the quietest and safest refuge I knew, that is my uncle’s house on the smallest island in the Baltic, the fortress of Christiansøe, which my father had restored. A month there, fed by a local, would seem a proper cure, wouldn’t it? Ayla knew about my remembrances of the island, but she preferred some highly medicalised bunker, and she knew of a few of them in Switzerland, as safe as money vaults. She could then possibly continue plastic surgery to perfection. She had not yet glanced at the horror, it would fortunately take weeks.

At noon, she ran up to the hospital and we found a terrace — schipfe16, on the water, where we were served vegetables, bread, Lizon had seen fries, and a very black chocolate cake; Hugo was dark, he had loved his visits to the fine harlots, Ayla had made an impression and Esther was a gem. In Paris, she would have been an unlawful embarrassment, not worthy of any protection, in trouble with justifying her money, or would she? I was only ranting, because I would have liked her nearer, trafficking her pretty arse with Liselotte or Camille, wouldn’t she? Hugo retorted that such atrocity could happen anywhere, perhaps not to me, but to Liseron in the street or else; Esther had been trapped by a psychopath, and he would send him back to the desert. We were impressed, Lizon stopped eating, he shook his head like someone who had a vision, kissed the girl’s hands and looked at her like he had, on his precious rugs.

In the evening, Ayla was all spent, we found a good captation of Arnold Schoenberg’s Gurre Lieder that surprised greatly Lizon, who eventually surrendered once she was nude in the middle of the sofa, she soon had visions of endless Hayao Miyazaki enchanted forests, which was certainly not absurd, ruled the learned trio who tamed her, like the cat of the house. Ayla dosed in her tears but would not let go of Lizon who dreamt already, so we threw a sheet upon their moving tableau, lowered the sound for whatever music would follow, and Hugo overturned me inside out, on the bedroom’s king size grand, we unknoted each other’s nerve arrays, and he solemnly unloaded into my keen twinkle. After a shower, we checked on the dreamers, switched the TV off, and went to curl up together in the bed.

 

Ayla says:

Esther had not been able to speak a word since her admission at the ER and her being put under, now, who was I legally to attend her, her spouse? None, and I knew she was shunned by whatever relatives there was. By happenstance, I had her wallet and I would not show it, the police did not pay attention. When she came up to conscience and morphine, the surgeon wanted me removed from her bedside. she had been all pasted up with tubes springing out here and there; three ribs were broken, too. But a wise nurse —one who might have seen such disaster before, gave the poor thing a notebook and a ballpoint tied to a string, and it wasn’t very long before she knew to write my name on the page, several times, and nein about family.

All I’m left with are Esther’s hands, one nurse lent me cotton wool and diluent to make her innocent hands. Once the surgeon had figured me out, he described on the x-ray films the extent of the damages; he commented that he had come across such ignominy in marital abuses, and eventually obtained the truth as to what Esther was doing in that hotel suite; he did not react, looked up at me, made a commentary on blind violence as a moral dead end in some men’s mind. He warned me that Esther would not fully recover her true face before at least six months, but he swore that in a year’s time, it would be undetectable, he scrutinised my straight glare, and read I was then only reckoning on her well-being; otherwise, no one in the hospital ever mentioned money, I did not ask.

I obtained to be able to help for Esther’s toilet, and it was so easier for me to slide the bedpan and then wipe her noonie and poon, as if we had one of our plays, the aides had better let me do, and I had remained modest and friendly with everyone .

I developed the same irresistible crush as the other two on mysterious Lizon, she was like a buoy in a sea of tears, she smells of fresh bread, of spring rain on white peonies, she puts me to sleep on her womb and Sarah lets me. They would leave, now, however, Kate was back home alone, they promised to return as I wished. Hugo brought up an article in the New York Times, about some diplomat Z. who had ransacked an apartment at the George V and officially been expelled from the country; it was said with many details that the man, protected by the Vienna Convention, had caused disturbing incidents in other capitals; his country of origin had let be thought that he would be stripped of his mandate and be recalled home. He is filthy rich, I will never be appeased as long as he lives. Esther will change her name, the Swiss have a way for that, or Melchior has.

 

Sarah says:

Ayla went home to Seefeld, she did not plan to make herself available, or then only to those special regulars who craved her ostensibly with considerable benefit. She would retell Esther, whom was a greedier whore than herself, said she. In the airplane, the idea dawned that Lizon would have made a striking model over the luxury beige leather of the seats, but all I did was to open her fly and nose her under-belt crease, in Hugo’s supervision, she smelled of fern and hawthorn, like in a remembrance of a rich man’s hotel soap, British as hell.

Kate was home, alone with Natalia, with not much upon themselves, radiant. Hugo had lured Lizon inside his home in such a play of gazes that I had understood he wanted to revel in her alone, and she showed me she agreed, like a wispy little slut she is. Kate had beautifully tanned, honeyed, flushed without any tan-lines, and she had just fucked the house fairy, it seemed. I was hastily disrobed and sniffled at every nook, berated for having hidden the one who smelled so enthrallingly sexual. I let go of my carcass upon the bed, took and give, benevolently, curbing their hurry until I could only start telling our trip, and before that, and more, with aquatic intermissions and rêveries into Natalia’s muscular butt; it was dusk when the black in black boy from Agnete & Sanne rang and brought up a carton of finger food, and tetrapaks of elderberry lemonade, took an eyeful of us, and a fat folded tip.

No way could I poach off the delivery boy, but the wink I took of his pants made me wish for cock, and I fancied it a funny whim to avow, at my partners’ giggles. Natalia mused I should know a respectable whorehouse, but I refrained telling about Philippe’s, if she might also take a tour or more, her time had not come yet. Suddenly, Kate jolted and muttered: “Fulgence”!  She had met him earlier, coming back from Camille’s where she left Fanny, and he had flirted, like he had not forgotten us, and he did not know what or whom…he had typed his number in her phone while she had left it on, at the show reception. Did I want to call him? They would be happy to watch. I thought she was more apt to call him, and she did, in the most shameful sneaky way, so as Fulgence would climb our stairs, fully turgid, in ten minutes. Like a good harlot, I went to wash myself, slid on a night blue Tana Lawn shirt-dress he could peel-off in a breeze, and set the table like a dedicated housewife, who knew, he might be hungry, before all? Kate was literally in heat, as I read in her gaze; Natalia had all intentions to participate, and confirmed with her hand that I wore no knickers, to what she earned a full-mouth kiss.

He was resplendent, a short sleeved white rag shirt in light jeans and K.Jacques Greek sandals; he smelled styrax, pepper and a hint of coal-tar like the antique British soap, no flower, raw sex between my eyes. Kate was enlaced with the magic babe, he came to me and slid his hand, unflinching, and gave me a killing smirk; from there, I let him play my buttons one by one, I was sure the other two were as juicy as peaches, I untied his jeans, the reward was as valiant as I remembered, it smelled of seashore and mushroom and soap, he had just washed, I teased Natalia before gulping the glans, fragile and daring; since I had seen him at Victor’s —which was a bastion of the Hell Fire Club—  I asked him if he had tested, he said yes, a week ago, Victor had thrown a power party and needed trouncers for a ballet troupe, heavenly drugs had been used to exhaustion. I led him to the bed next door and started to suck him duly, but he refused to come as yet, telling me he wanted to watch me while humping my depth; he liked my twisted tummy with my abdominal belt muscles responding, then he upturned me and made clear he wished to bugger me, so I asked Kate for Swiss Navy goo and let him slide in, all he wanted. Natalia had escaped Kate’s hands and, suddenly nude, cuddled my head while exhibiting herself to the throbbing steed who points a slipping forefinger into her own butthole.

Kate, drained by the heat, opened the windows, and pulled the shutters ajar; down under, into the foliages, Hugo was frisking about the maddening green eyes and slinky hips of the windfall orphan. She joined us before Natalia unravelled her soul too fast, it was true that the fairy child had used Kate as a conduit towards the whirl of debauchery she had long known, since she had possessed all the keys, always. Kate has this gaze that promises unconditional love to rightful souls, like these strays, like Fanny from her faraway planet, like Lizon from the rats prairie, Beryl from inside the world processor. She justly texted Beryl, asking her to join all of us, as if she prayed her to shield Natalia better than she could. I was too played havoc with, inside, to even think right; sure, we had overlooked this swindler, once. I was coming like a May Queen under the stars, breathtaken; then Kate took hold of his soaked truncheon, revived it like a trapped eel and stuffed it again deep into her hatch, with a saraband of tremors, while the beautiful ruffian embraced an all willing Natalia, and played her tongue like fire.

Just when the sylphic Natalia seemed vowed to the throes of Fulgence —a mannerist turn of saying she was in heat, the sounds of bustled glassware, and voices, came from our main room, then a call for Kate and Natalia, then laughters at the door when Beryl read the scene in action, like one to save the virgin character in an exotic melodrama, moreover recognising the hero of the bed, for having served him so many times. She stole Fulgence for her own profit, losing jeans and teeshirt on the doorstep, keeping Natalia at hand, then trumpeting she had not been alone and calling one Bjarne over, who made a small giggle at the sight of the orgy. He was a sun-bleached Swede of the sailor kind, thin and well built, Beryl ought to have had hard work to garner a windy kid like this one, matte tanned skin, dolphin blue gaze, straight little nose and innocent lips, she wanted us to rave at the whole animal, so she jumped to undress him, and throw Natalia in his arms, and incomprehensibly save whatever the situation was.

Fulgence was somewhat exhausted, but hardy and humorous, his plenty of sweats smelled beastly, hellish, heady, I drank it and showed him to the bathroom where Kate joined us under the shower; because he had remained straightforward boyish and used me unrestrained, I had flashbacks of the stables at Saint Loup, but Fulgence had no setback, once spent, nor however preternatural capabilities, just a friendly dong Kate went proud of, because it had been her idea. It was warm, the younger fauna was bare, we did not try to cover. As usual, I had ordered twice the need of food and stuff, that was then being merrily engulfed. Bjarne was plain erect, because of the two sweet derrieres that rubbed along him each side; I joked that the girls were a tad cruel and so, Natalia, whose mouth was being empty, bent down, and unflinchingly sucked the boy while Beryl hurried to make possible to kiss, her dainty mouth open; he slid hands into each crack and soon politely mooed his pleasure, although we saw nothing. Natalia then picked-up a gherkin, with a smile.

I checked my phone, there were messages among which I opened Ayla’s. It was fresh, it proposed some skype time to lift Esther’s spirits, please. they agreed, I ran upstairs and brought back a laptop and fired it up. Ayla giggled at the sight of all these nude beauties, she gave me an hunch that Fulgence and her had been no strangers. On our side, the picture was ravishing, in Zurich, Esther supported no more permanent tubes but looked like a ball of bandages with three holes, like a toddler’s drawing. She could whisper in Ayla’s ear, and said we were all too desirable and it made her proud to know we thought of her; I couldn’t help crying, Kate and the others touched me, Fulgence ran his fingers through my hair, Bjarne understood only to look down. Ayla said that Melchior was in town for her, and heartfully helped her nights, some of us knew what it meant. She explained that we could not talk long, but Esther showed one valid hand from the side of her sheets and we sent thoughts and wishes until next day, I barely saw anything; when it was over I ran to the bathroom to rain my eyes out, Kate hugged me under the water.             If Melchior was there for Ayla, it meant that a little prostitute would be attended to by half a dozen of world renowned big wigs, in the deepest silence and the most expensive collaborative efficiency. And nobody would ever know. 

Another text message was signed by an avatar of Hugo’s. Lizon and him had already fled to the Islands of Scilly, didn’t it mean something? There was a chance that this summer would renew its miracles for the green eyed orphan pixie. All the rest was to be guessed. He thanked me for my highly moral tutoring, of which he could reckon the imprints along Lizon’s reactions to life, and he thought I knew what he meant. There was a proposition to move her in the high floors, it was all for her to decide, she had sold her apartment and her grand parents’ shack. She loved it with me.

15 – Katherine Sophie – Free Swans Of Schleswig-Holstein

 

Hamburg Nacht – ©katherine-sophie.eu

Camille says:

Fanny fostered this wish to live along with Kate, for some sweet dedicated time, with whom she still regarded as some windfall saviour. Albeit the privy limitations, the Kate & Sarah exhibition and its aftermaths still stirred our daily existence like Jupiter clouds and threw us both in fits of sexual hunger. She heard that Kate conspired to flee north with her brother and the newly landed Anisette Pullman, whom he preferred to call by her real name Fayelle, born Chevasne. Another seasonal bird, like Lizon, from the Parisian sidewalks into my select showrooms, instantly sorted by my lustful watch-out, softly chatted out towards the hush plush of my office, uncovered, naked in my arms by a shining Fanny, who swept her all in a promising gaze while she untied her weary sneakers —all she had kept, as if per usual.

When she’s not in fugitive stray mode, hood down and hips swayed, Fayelle cast a lewd submissive under-gaze in her cliff-blue eyes. She smells of some forgotten Armenian tobacco aftershave she scavenged in her late grandfather’s room, a hint that she comes from such a family that may keep a room for the dead. Her half-long espresso-brown curls freely hang over her forehead and conceal some wild glances.

Like a savvy horse-trainer at a yearling sale, I had needed twenty seconds to stir up my senses at Fayelle’s standout features, under the shabby oversized rags of street culture. She seemed to have been rebuffed by the trite rants she heard about the mere person she had grown into, be it in mundane life or art school; nonetheless, her frame stood out balanced, her legs drawn curvingly up from the tight ankles her sneakers did not always hide.

At first, Fanny had ferreted out Fayelle’s feet, keeping her in the spell of her persistent glare, just as I had taught her to keep, from her strangest upbringing. Once pared, the delicately whitish urban feet had felt all that lickerish tongue meant to their toes; Fanny’s finely manicured fingers had ventured up to the fly’s buttons, and, next to me on the velvety couch, my new crush was being peeled off naked like a chrysalis.

In a move to demonstrate for Fayelle our easy-going polyamorous kind of family, I fetched for Fanny’s zipper and showed her thighs while she booted her slippers off, shook her pants down and knelt to seal a full kiss on Fayelle’s stunned lips. The willing victim still wore her vague sweatshirt, but her boyish cotton panties had just been stolen, it made her all the more desirable, but as the heat rose, all of our fineries flew off and it smelled like a brood of quails.

Katherine says:

Fanny is artful enough to know she owns me, ever since she followed me inside the cabin of her deserted shop in Venice, a few seasons ago, like the real Biennale sensation was to finally happen, there, in the perfect spot of the labyrinth, oh, it did. And she garnered my number.

Now that, another person altogether, with a new name and not much more past, officially, she’s free to roam as she may, after the whirls of our exhibition, she has devised me and her will go along to my homeland in Germany because Simon wants to show his giant crush Fayelle there, and Fanny likes my relation to my brother, she says we both radiate, and she saw us fuck. Camille thinks her protégée needs to see the world, away from the Mediterranean, for now, and Sylt makes the best contrast, in the safety of our own immemorial milestones.

On the night before next to our flight to Hamburg, Simon could not wait to drag away his passion fairy upstairs, we pecked in baskets of finger food, as Fanny never tired of hearing the minute events of my past life. It felt like she measured, now, what she had missed in a long sun blazed silence, at the sole dedication of one man’s want, and the mythification of out-worldly magazines, and literature. Her own multiverse she had parsed and again in Camille’s bosom and Dr Meant’s receptive mind. Whilst stroking her lively legs and feet, I hurled myself inside at giving selfless attention to her drifting, her voice and accents remain heartrending to me. We had left the mellow sunset light take possession of the living room, the only light coming from the sound system plugged in Soma FM, blue and green; impressively, the entrance door cast a bat-wing shaped shadow, as two familiar goblins’ heads showed, and readily nude nymphets joined us, laughing.

Beryl sat upon Fanny’s lap and introduced herself, at once grasping permission to kiss, as Fanny felt her smooth neck and down. Natalia had chosen me long ago, she licked macaron crumbs around my lips, she offered her opened thighs where my hands wouldn’t miss to touch. We tiptoed to the bed, we played in the bathroom, I rekindled Fanny’s recounting, some of what the pair would have heard before barging in, because I trusted deeply no soul there would betray Fanny, could it?

Natalia, who knew and guessed all of what had possibly unfurled in this house, was nonetheless captivated by Beryl’s forbidden adventures inside the high castle of Victor, whereat she had always saved her dainty skin; but both were awestricken by Fanny’s calm story, while she let her flows divided by our savvy caresses, and breathed her orgasms freely.

Notwithstanding the soothing song of her manners, like with the others, the PTBs, the Doctor, Camille, Hugo, she is paying upfront, dearly, for the damage she might cause, because her own soul knows no limit. Sarah and I may hear all and any of her dreams, like owls in the forest of perdition, we will always bring her alive on the shores of dawn, what I saw in our sheets in the enthralling smell of crushed petals, licked creases, happy sweats. Fanny owns the tiny ember for her own redemption.

Yes, it was holiday time, none of us had to run for school, only to frolic in the running water and even pee on one another’s feet. The geranium-orange shampoo drugged us like a breeze of Posillipo in a Victorian gay novel. At the breakfast table, where somebody –I supposed Lena, had brought fruit and croissants, Fanny was the toast of the village, she had slept happily and reckoned her wits in front of us, assuring the girls that her life was being rebuilt, and her past, all torments considered, was lighter to bear than Camille’s. The roof dwellers joined, famished and bright-eyed; they smelled both strangely of chamomile and lime tree, Fayelle was already wet. Simon hid his scars in a girl’s size robe he would have stolen in the studio; my temptation was insatiable to pull him aside and hear of his visibly profligate night; only to feel my gaze upon him made him hard already. I deflected my thoughts towards the relation between our two lovers, and Fanny took a lead part in quips and cajolery, however leaning her tone so as to let feel she was touched, firing up marvellous smiles of the nifty pair whom she had obviously won over; these ran soon to some house in Saint Cloud where a friend of Beryl’s had a pool. Then I noticed that the little butts were tanned already.

Naturally, Fayelle came on my lap, facing Fanny, who sipped her tea with played compunction, and strayed a foot on her calf, distinctly enough to draw a gaze, and some wink. When the pot of distinguished first flush was dried out, we decided to run shopping.I wore a flared William Morris “Blue Anemone” Tana Lawn dress, with no more than comfortable cotton knickers, and white Egyptian Birkenstock sandals; the two waif-likes their tee-shirts, jean shorts and sneakers; my athletic brother hid his martyr body in sun-bleached shapeless marinière and jeans, ankle-high sneakers.

My card was loaded, most of the shops were on sale, I took care of Simon, who lives in Germany  —what?  The younglings helped each other, soon carrying considerable tote bags full of new disposable niceties. We imagined that some of the stuff would be shared with Beryl and Natalia, who were mere students. Sitting at the terrace of “The Cottage”, we gathered some sneaky handfuls of tenderness and shameless kisses in the neck. The city strain was easing out, there would be a season of escapades.

Sarah didn’t need to shy-off Louis’ debutante, with whom she was on a mission, so when our bags of fresh-smelling lingerie were buckled up, we ordered poke bowls and kombucha to the top nest where the only male had a puzzle of who to shag first. he was smitten with Fayelle and she was sure of that; Fanny and I had not stood eye-locked together for so long, while the other two spent all their primal energy in each other at the far end of the bed. Over here we needed manicure and pedicure, otherwise, Fanny’s body had been so heavenly looked after by queen bee, her pubis was as smooth as Hornum sands under the moon, where Simon, Cynthia and I had known the pure ecstatic embraces of three genders. I promised I would tell the girls all.

 

Fayelle —also known as Ansy— says:

The car that drove us early to the airport might have been a spacious black berline, nevertheless, Simon was coerced by girl power to watch us three from the front seat, with an almost poor smile. Kate was titillated by showing she could sweetly tame me right under his nose, and the elfin blonde helped, too. The incestuous cloud they fly in is fascinating, it gives me bitter regrets, I could have interlocked, so to speak, like so with my own brother, but instead, he sold me to his schoolmates, fifty euros a stealthy handjob, snatched kisses, near rapes, elusive gazes. I would think I will never see my brother again, might he stay far away in America.

As for now, Simon is a Prince to me, might he shag his beautiful sister and the other graces of this uncommon realm. He says he wants to show me the places he belongs, where his accident brought him back, while Kate flew further away, horrified by what she thought she had done, shamed into nought, says he. Sarah had been her last-minute saviour, out of a shamble of piled misunderstandings; Sarah is a magician, I could be her slave if she liked; she speaks in accents of such distinction while she doesn’t even notice the gleam it casts; she must have been in courts and high-flung vicinities wearing up that delicate chin and steering those intense blue gazes.

From the Lufthansa satellite in Roissy, Simon wouldn’t let go of me and I felt all downy through my veins; the time longing by, he unshoed me and played with my toes, just like Sarah would; I nuzzled the skin into the neck of his shirt, as lightly as he would sleep, feeling the creases of the scars, he turned the exact same boundless grey eyes as his sister, I could cry.

It was an hour flight over flat land in a delirious sun. Simon had craftily cornered me and lifted the armrest so only the safety belts helped us not roll further. In the motors blare, he spoke in intimacy, briefly telling me of the self-consciousness he had woken into, considering his body after the accident, and the escape of Kate. He said I am his first open daylight bonding since he returned from the dead. I read more clearly some unsaid, on Kate’s part, and tiny slips of her gazes over Simon and me, scraps of mist flew away.

From the airport to the house on the lakeshore, Kate conceded to sit on the front seat, at the visible approval of the oriental driver, who ought to get some eyeful when she bent over to us. Simon ostensibly cuddled me, but on the other side, Fanny, whom I know he shagged, sometimes, had playfully slid her hand into his waistband and held his hard prick, she might have enjoyed making him stain his pants before we met his mother, Fanny excites me.

The house is huge, pale yellow with white trimmings, well maintained, rich. I haven’t encompassed yet how people may own chunks of landscape like this, but I suddenly grasped a whole geometry of the pair’s body language, let’s say a manner of bearing her neck, sometimes, or giving her gaze to you, really.

An impressive middle-aged man took hold of our bags and went straight to the house, as the mother was coming out to meet us with wet eyes. Simon still sported a hard-on, but Kate interposed and enjoyed the very special tears of her mom for some time, then she hugged her quieted son and turned to us, in French, delighted to read some awe in our looks. To make things regal, the swan family who owned most of the garden showed up, just like they would have singled Kate, their longtime admirer, in the group of us. Mrs H. warned us to leave them at their demonstration because they thought we would intrude, Swans are sacred, not only in Saint James’.

Roses And Swans – ©katherine-sophie.eu

 

Kate says:

The house still smelled of the interlaced volutes of my mother’s aspic turpentine, escaping her studio, and the reseda potpourris she collected, here and there; great care has been deployed not to be bothered by kitchen scents, anytime. Our rooms were kept as fresh as time allowed, with deep comforters in which Fanny dove before rebounding to strip and head to the shower, stretching and kissing; we revelled in 4711 foam and she peed between my legs. She donned the easiest jean shirt dress, I told her that my mother is an open-minded cool person, but she preferred to slip on white knickers: as the house was squeaky clean and the floors are polished, she might run barefoot and I liked that.

The cook, Saskia, had gotten the vegan motto, she offered zucchini flowers fritters with sweet and sour sauce, stuffed Parisian mushrooms, orange and carrot cake, I had said eggs were not avoided. Quantities of herbal teas were kept fresh. Maman was struck by what I let known of Fanny’s life, and she saw how she was relating to me, understood the dedication of Camille, even if she had long grasped the convolutions she preferred not to parse, for sake of my beautiful freedom. She had felt painful backfirings during my harrowing Berlin season. Moreover, she was moved to watch her once damaged son unmistakably in love with that endearing French damsel with tiny frights in her gazes.

At the end of the kind of informal, laid back meal, I had not lived, there, for years, Simon heralded that he had restored the family boat, one I remembered Uncle Achim piloted around the lake with us, tiny pirates in our bright orange safety vests; one more thing that had waited, forlorn, since Achim’s death. Simon was proud to invite us aboard, in the small boathouse under a weeping willow tree that had grown to Wagnerian proportions. The silky light was subdued, an uncompleted moon was rising above the water, Fanny had caught my hand, she had no shoes on, the air smelled a soft mix of peat, seashore and fuel, but in the neck of the found girl, I breathed the hayfields of heaven. Once inside, Simon took his pride smirk, went lift the rear bonnet and sang some fanfare motive, then shouted “we’re electric!”, while releasing a cable that coiled itself on a wall-mounted reel. It really felt like he had repossessed some quarter of our childhood realm, some we both knew was altogether uncommon, beaming and wild, so he wanted a supreme kiss, into which I brought my pretty firefly.

Our splendidly silent vessel slid towards the middle of the lake, letting the city’s rich quarters whittled off in the widening gleam of the moon. Fanny undressed, telling us she always danced nude for the moonlight among the olive groves and the stridulation of cicadae; she dared Fayelle, who sat on the fore bench with Simon. Before long, we all spared our rags and saluted the quiet celestial body which bears the name of one of my unforgettable lovers, Cynthia, and in German is of masculine gender. The benches had been upholstered anew and were wide enough for us four to make good love, and Simon, in top condition, honoured both of the damsels before he washed up on me, in a heady perfume of sperm and sweat, while both the does lick clean each other with laughter. My tongue ran the healing paths of his memory, I drank the sap of his prowess, the whole boat smelled of raw fornication, Fanny held Fayelle’s head in her bosom, Simon went to enlace them so, he grew hard, again, I sucked him the best I can.

Fanny dipped a foot overboard, but Simon firmly asked her to forget the obvious temptation in our circumstances, the Alster is poisoned, said he, enough not to take risk of soaking our pussies in it. He fetched two good terry towels that smelled lavender, held one to each of his present lays and gave a thorough kiss to my disappointed Fanny, whom I convinced smelled suave. Fayelle had found some abandon, and I wished to taste her lower belly, now, which Simon enticed me to do; with nice streams of cum, she was achieving some uncommon initiation, wasn’t she? On our glide back, Fayelle was stunningly singing “Creep”, by Radiohead, in Fanny’s arms, when the neighbour lit up his projector; “Schön dich zu sehen!” (nice to see you!), did he apologise.

At the breakfast table, in a nest of paper napkins, were a bunch of apple fritters, and next to it a bowl of blackcurrant marmalade, my all-time preferred treat, in this large, light-bathed, white and yellow room overlooking the garden where the father (?) swan was stretching his gigantic wings. Simon and Fayelle, who had dared ask for coffee, sided close together; Maman ought to have gotten up early and work in her studio, Fanny had disappeared, but I was guessing; they both showed up beaming, one in a long ash blue multilayered house gown, the other one nude as the dawn, which climbed on my lap and touted that Claire had drawn her –I knew my Mama was a skilled sketcher, I also saw that she had drifted her fingers in Fanny’s curls. We all agreed that the best insight of today’s Hamburg city’s personality would be gazed at from the Elbphilharmonie’s terraces. I did not recommend climbing up there unclothed.

Fanny sported a light grey sweatshirt widely stamped “unavailable” in red, front and back, over loose white cotton shorts; her ecru sneakers were immaculate. Fayelle feared wind and wore a red tee-shirt under her ash-grey hoodie bearing the green eye of Horus across the back, black jeans and high sneakers; but she felt comely, she let me caress her nape and garner a kiss on her lips the marmalade had purpled; she smelled cologne and her own animal angelica dew. Her look retained some of the moon’s excitement, Fanny enlaced her, she kept her hands in her pockets, smiling. Simon wore a free-floating long sleeve white shirt under a reclaimed black vest, sunbleached jeans and mismatched lilac and dandelion sneakers like he had seen Sarah and me do, he smelled cologne and his own musky sweat I crave. I myself had brought a travel flask of what Hugo calls “wisteria in a lime tree” extravagance, and with that, I wore a free flared dress, flesh-toned knickers and minimal K. Jacques sandals; I wished I were groped.

It was a half-hour ride along the lake, again, I sat on the front seat and let the driver ogle my thighs at our lives’ peril, while I contemplated my soul-twin enamoured by the view of the two pastourelles pecking each other. On the landing, a man in a bright blue gown sold baskets of black cherries we would not resist. The air felt vigorous, the sun was young, Fanny clenched my side, quivering with joy, holding the little white fruit box like a lamp, offering cherries to a wide-eyed kid who turned to mom for permission.

Asking Jacques Herzog and Pierre de Meuron to extravague upon a mundane remnant of the historic port had been a brilliantissime hunch, and somewhat I would love my distant father only for that, and furthermore to surpass all accounts in support of an outsized realisation. All the citizens of “der Freien und Hansestadt Hamburg” are vindicated in regard to the “Ode an die Freude”, as the hymn of the European Union, which was played in this staggering vessel for its inauguration. Sarah and I cried together, watching this on television, and she is mostly Danish blood. Naysayers will justly regret that, as the main purpose of the whole contraption would suppose, the acoustics of the venue is still wanting, and German best voices refuse to lose themselves into the white nought of that stage. I would nag my Papa, if only he could single me out, to lead his peers into spending another shipload of gold so as to make engineer some magic conch onstage able to thrust the sound of the voices onto the audience?

Thanks to Mama, we had tickets to the Plaza, the uber-elegant solution of continuity between the historic block of warehouses in red bricks, and the eerie glass sails above. Fanny loved to slide along the gracefully curved windscreens and was warned off touching them, so she complained to me, and I kissed her cherry-red lips as revenge on the guard. It took us some two hours to envision all sides of a more bustling universe than I would have had a feeling of, and Simon was much more knowledgeable about the whole of Germany than I would ever be; I was starting to perceive shades of angst into Fayelle’s looks, Fanny did not let go of my wings reach, she insisted that I went with her to the toilets. The café was ritzy but faultless, we sat for true lemon pie and cumin cookies, coffee, chocolate and tea. Simon was blushing with pride, but let bubbles of silence grow; he wondered aloud if, in fact, he wasn’t losing us, girls, through the all-phallic forest of his Frauenhoffer multiverse, same as he had felt, many times, at loss in our fantasy clad fairyland. I did not know what to parse out, in front of such a grandiose landscape of German reality, but I reckoned that Simon would not make the life he had foreseen along with Fayelle, were her as smitten over him as he thought she was. In this epiphany, I would have loved to ask Sarah’s wisdom, and I would sure do; all I could swear then was my faith in my brother and, on the other hand, my loyalty to Camille’s friend, by the way, my lover, too, in the polyamorous garden of ours.

We lazed in every nook we could until the moon would show, a tad rounder than before, in the blurred gradient at the darker side of the sky; it was golden, it enthused my Fanny, she could have danced nude for all to see, but she seized my head and kissed me, long enough for a middle-aged tourist to get a hard-on, for the amusement of his wife.

Back home, a table was set in the garden, waiting for us, under a dragon cloud of tiny led lamps, sheltered from the neighbours by bushes high enough. Fanny asked me to come with her in the shower, as some game, but I discerned some of her untold spells, triggered by any detail of a brilliant day, and I decided to deluge her with love, and listen, relentlessly. Yes, her tummy was unusually tight; In thick foam, I manipulated every bit of her body, masturbated her silly until she cried for tender mercy, wiped her on the bed and so she dozed out with a gentle face. Mama was calling, I left some lights and went down, to tell the others some more of Fanny’s story. I went back three times, she was beautifully peaceful, but she had told me what dreams could overwhelm her soul, unexpected, so vividly absurd that Dr Meant was caught off guard. I wasn’t acutely alarmed, the guard incident had not sent sparks into my standby consciousness, but I could fathom out, how, possibly, her sneaky little genius would have spent the day over-compensating some fatidic spot on her page. I would speak with her, I was her chosen help, and call Camille if I still felt entangled. At dinner, everyone felt shied, so I did not lay out the whole maze and went up to join Fanny in her moon orchard.

Alstermeer traum – ©katherine-sophie.eu

I didn’t expect to find her next to me that morning, and she ought to have drawn the shutters, so I woke up late —in the idea that we took the afternoon train to Sylt. She had scooted off to Mama’s workshop, so as to tell her sibylline tatters of her unrepeatable tale while exhibiting her heavenly rump, in a disarming random attempt to gather some elements of sense of her fate, but garnering wholesome tributes of unrestrained love and attention. Since she has fled the bedazzling dust of her prison, she has kept running inside her wheel anytime she encounters her own rootless free will. There, limpid, in the raw, at the fresh linen breakfast table, she acted out her gaze towards mine and dared me —still a tad sloppy-minded, parsing elusive signals of my own dream,  I walked to her, pulled a chair with noise, and cuddled her again, for all I knew.

Fayelle smelled fresh sex when she trotted in, wearing some ancient Simon’s boy trunks and a white shirt closed by only one button, she beamed, for once, read the situation fast and pulled a chair of her own, nosing Fanny’s neck while grabbing one of the palmiers on a porcelain plate. Saskia smiled wholeheartedly at our trio of girls when she brought a richly scented pot of coffee for Fayelle, and she ogled us frankly. Entered Simon, in only white shorts, daring the spectacular scars across his nonetheless healthy and muscular chest, a prelude to frisking into the dunes, he was beautifully tanned, already. Fanny was no accustomed to these signatures of hurt, she wanted to brush over them, she found the perfect smile for my little brother who found himself pressing both heads upon his shorts. On his back, a dark crease ran down from the base of his neck to the top of his bum. I joshed mildly before they got carried away, and told them the departure time from Altona station; time to pamper up and dress a little.

I chased her upstairs and onto the bed where she posed as the noyée, spread out, aloof, totally convinced of her power over me, and she was right. Amongst a wealth of kiss buds and cheek nuzzles, I was still mulling on a way to let her speak of what had caused her crisis, but I missed arguments, pretexts, and teasers; nothing came up; all I gathered in my chaotic soul had always rested on a substrate of quiet blocks of unconditional love, as I could find still here, in my birth home, after many grave misunderstandings that had sublimated away in a breeze. Looking elsewhere with her most frightening blank gaze, she avowed that the admonition of the guard, justly when she felt herself fly upon the glass waves, had like flushed her soul away, erasing her patiently constructed markers, mixing her languages with terrifying scrambles. Shaking her head free, she granted me back her first-day glaze and the invite she confessed she had crafted long before, but she swore vividly that I, only, had enabled the whole stratagem to work, and why did I give her my real number? She had inferred it had been pure magic. Struggling not to sob away, I repeated my oaths towards her, appending my promise that she would see my mother freely and I would plead with her that she called her when in Paris. I inquired about her work with Dr Méant, she stuttered she found him somewhat wanting, eventually, representing to her that, hearing her like so, he was out of his field, but asking her to use him, for any good, all she would; the good name of the Doctor was in itself heavy enough in Paris to value that proposition.

She wanted to smell like my mother’s cologne, so I gave her the bottle, in Mama’s name, and I would provide more at home. I sprayed Hugo’s Wisterlime all over my body, and thus an otherwise distinguished gentleman blocked me in the train corridor, sniffing my neckline with a wasted smile until I stomped upon his foot, spilling out fake excuses. The four of us in this plushy, mute, gliding salon through the flat, industrious Schleswig-Holstein Sarah von Kettelær would have said was hers, foremost, I soon dozed out into a greyish-blue epic of the girl from nowhere in the shabby maze of Venetian alleyways, subliminally arousing and soul-testing, her luminous grace chaffed at by Banksy rats holding dark lanterns atop crooked staffs, or else blithely violated by leather-clad soldiers upon bales of decayed magazines and soiled rags, her delicate feet jolting like a lily on a murder scene… and Simon soughed in my ear, my face was sunk between the cushions and I drooled like a beast at the pain. He wiped me, and I could see Fanny and Fayelle enlaced in one seat, sleeping head to head, their hands lost into their threads. I asked Simon for an eternal kiss.

I had stolen their shoes in their sleep, to fondle their young feet, at the great amusement of Simon, so when we had to wake them, they told me to hold them in my bag, while they ran bare. It was low tide and the air was still, the anticyclone had been steady for days. A ten minutes taxi ride brought us to the house, with Simon at the front. A retired couple, the Päske; they took my bigger bag and walked us in the flawlessly maintained traditional thatched house, that felt to have subsided in the hollow of the dunes, or to have grown a tight wealth of shrubs, hydrangeas and wild roses, that Fanny said smelled like Camille, some special days. Although four rooms had been opened, we dwelled in our usuals, with their faded memorabilia undisturbed, and a lot of moving instants to retell. Playing “The Pearl” on the boombox that surprisingly worked, I was pulling down, as we danced, our sweaty frippery, keeping the vice of licking her pits and nooks in the sunset gold. Hearing Simon’s voice downstairs, we shared a kitty shower and I chose our outfits. It would be enchantingly mild, so a vague chiffon waistless dress would fit Fanny, with a skin-tone Brasilian to spare the attendants, I donned my Missoni almond green zigzag silk long sleeves dress —my shoulders weren’t yet coloured enough, without undies; the golden nipper craved feeling my butt crack in the jersey.

There is charming wrought-iron furniture set in a round garden niche, and it had been painted anew in pristine white. We sat in the balmy breath of the vanishing day, Simon enlivened to see me there, the two nymphs at their hand games and dewy kisses. We walked to the kitchen to fetch the tableware and motherly plates of wholesome spice and veggies cooking, a large omelette and sugar bread that Fanny dipped in sauce like a genuine peasant girl; litres of aromatic lemonade stood in glass pitchers; pies: angelica and preserved pears, raspberries on custard, rhubarb and strawberries in quince jam, awaited under stiff white towels. My heart pounded like old times, I wished Simon fucked me under the hydrangea, softly, not to get caught. The proud cook Emma brought herself a green glass jar of brandied cherries, of which the two light-headed younglings indulged before I took alert and see them drunk with bright eyes. While they frolicked so sweetly, Simon and I cleared the table and wrapped every leftover in the large fridge, hiding the green jar away. Like in the tradition of country banquets, the damsels were defenceless, if they had ever been on guard with us, and we only had to watch them pee, and bring them to bed for mindless fun. It came to me to switch, nothing very new, but Fayelle cast well-capsized gazes, and huddled into my lap, laughing.

I woke out of one of those faded blue still views dream, Cynthia my lithesome mistress squinting at the horizon. Two entangled live marvels laid flanked alongside me, merely breathing, in heartrending candour. I could not start my day crying, I crept out and played Anja Garbarek’s “Balloon Mood”, before reaching the shower. Before very long, I felt one little soldier grabbing my shoulder, then two –they danced that it was beyond their control. They did not remember much, except they had been nicely fucked. We had to share a toothbrush, then through the walls percolated the mindy smells of breakfast. “Balloon Mood” had been a gift of Sarah’s, what was it doing there?

Instructions had been sung over the lines, Fayelle’s coffee was black, brioche slices were to be toasted, butter was soft in the boat-shaped butter dish, apricot jam hid bitter kernels, redcurrant jelly looked like an edible gem when the kettle whistled I counted twenty seconds and poured the tamed water upon my mama’s trusted Darjeeling. Fanny was very much in love with me and wanted to bite all my toasts. Fayelle’s ethereal eyes were rimmed with lilac shadow, like in an opera passion; I played footsie with her, she was awake. Simon showed up from the end of the garden, he had already run to the sea and he smelled animal, which interested Fanny who brushed his thigh, he sat next to her and stole her cup, as soon wincing because he is the only one around who likes sugar in his tea. He was still thrilled about their night and sought the girls’ gazes affectionately; they looked at each other and giggled affirmatively.

Pitter saluted the table around, enquired about what looked like a happy night, and bluntly said the bikes were ready for us; Simon thanked him in our name, with a sign towards the sky. The burly man floated the question of possible fish for dinner because he knew where to buy some, we agreed, meat and poultry were the only food we shunned, we had eggs and dairy as well. He looked reassured and smirked, concluding in his funny accent that he might even dredge up a turbot for us, which made Simon and me burst in enthusiasm. Our old bikes had been restored like precious relics, tuned and oiled, inflated. I could not resist, seeing Cynthia’s ride all shiny turquoise green, sending a video to her, with cheers from the troupe, and a radiant leggy Fanny on it. We wore all kinds of marinière stripes and unironed shorts that we had found in the old marine chests, we were ready for the widest textilfrei beaches in Germany. The answer from Australia rang in: “oh, my! You beauties! Who are these?” —”blonde, Fanny, hit on me in a fashion shop, Venice, stood at my doorstep a few months later! Fayelle, art student, big crush on beautiful Simon” . Then, Cynthia: “green with envy, I should catch a plane to you, big love!”. Fanny was all moved by the introduction I had made of her, without any indiscretion, we hugged very strong and then she avowed that she did not know how to cycle!

Fanny is a fast learner when her stars conjugate, but after the third capsizing into the wilderness, Simon offered to carry her on his shoulders, we only walked to the beach. In our found bleached out backpacks, we had stuff and towels and Thermos bottles of Emma’s lemonade she now prepared in a big “steinzeug topf” jar with a tap, in the basement; she had wrapped lemon cookies in a blue striped towel. We saw her leave in her camouflage coloured electric utility cart that, with the Dantysk wind turbines forty miles offshore, made her carbon-free. Simon had engineered the whole heating system, invisibly. On the beach, once folded every piece of clothing, we ran to the cold water in shouts, hearing strange words by Fanny exhilarated. Simon was already in a vigorous crawl, Fayelle and I were so hesitant that we ended enlaced, splashed at by Fanny, so solar in the crystal sheaves. We finally entered the streams and I recaptured the magic of groping under the salty, opaque waters, I enticed Simon to fuck me in breathless episodes, he really was all there. No one observed, yet, the nymphets plunged on each other like otters, until the cold was enough and we all ran ashore. We wiped, rubbed and massaged mutually with suntan lotion and began a party of ring-frisbee which neither Fayelle nor Fanny had ever played, but had all the spring to dance at. A tall, sunbleached-haired German man, my age, casually joined our set after having watched us, and mostly Fanny, inevitably. When we all needed a break, he introduced himself as Lauritz von Peck, whose name rang familiar, neither of our youths speaking real German, he went on in fluent French, which made him all the more elegant and smart, all nude might he be. He was slender —and well hung, smelled of leather, tobacco and patchouli, but not poisonous, something like my father’s vest, when he still loved me. Rapidly, we parsed out that we had crossed each other our whole young time, and he said that we had been some legend, Simon and me, for freedom and beauty. We blushed.

Although Fanny spent most of her time flashing her honey pot to the well-provided man, he kept phlegmatically flaccid for hours, all the while serving her with gentle compliments and catching her gazes. Simon was less restrained in the matter, and entertained a sound ardour against Fayelle’s bum, at her visible pride. The random encounter contained more and more sex to it, and Lauritz found a stylish manner to give it a spin, he proposed to take us to the northern tip of the island to enjoy the full moon; we could all squish up in his small car and be there in minutes. Fanny’s enthusiasm killed any reticent attempt, Lauritz ran up the pathway he had emerged from and waved bye. Now, as nobody loomed, Simon was having his way into Fayelle’s behind and she was resting her cheek upon her crossed hands, White-hot, Fanny demanded a full smooch and was served.

Pitter had found a big turbot. Emma concocted to cook it in a salt crust, and creamed braised chards that my mother knows I like. After the big red radishes and fresh butter on brown bread, the carving up of the large white crust in one piece drew raves, and the dark blue fish was peeled up and divided fast, I insisted peremptorily to set apart Emma and Pitter’s shares of the festal piece, but they showed me that once the fishbone would be lifted, their share would lay under. The girls had not yet seen such spectacular service, and the fish was tasting fresh and wild in a lemony beurre-blanc. Fanny sipped her lips and rolled her eyes. Simon had an appetite and I made a face to stop him from trying to make Fayelle eat more, there was no rationale in that; the girl read me and laughed while I felt her toes on my feet. Fanny wouldn’t want a big piece on her plate, but she wiped it clean, what well-bred kids do not. I nosed in her chest, mumbling silly things. Her angst had thawed away.

There was an old crackled earthenware cake mould in the kitchen, in which my mother had made clafoutis for centuries; Emma had mastered this very simple recipe, found black cherries, and had not pitted them, as one should; watch out for your teeth into the creamy bliss! Fayelle was a tad less squeamish with the clafoutis and it made Simon smile lovingly. Our comments were rolling when suddenly a jaunty little fanfare rang outside the house; it was Lauritz, in time in his sleek white Tesla convertible we couldn’t have heard coming. The day wasn’t done yet, only Venus shone impudently. Simon ought to part his legs to fit on the back seat, Fayelle embraced him and they fell aside; Fanny climbed on my lap and let Lauritz know she wore no undies in the oversized powder blue sweatshirt she had found and made her look delightfully appealing. The ride was unreally silent and soft. Lauritz was proud and groped Fanny’s knees with his free hand, Simon, who was all cuddled up by Fayelle, let it be known he was bluffed.

The moon rose up, all-round and golden above the flushing sands of the tideland; the seabirds would now go and the sea breeze rise, kindly. The two uplifted sylphs abandoned their vestures, to dance together in the solstice euphoria, Fayelle improvising in striking notes, and it was not the first time I heard that voice. Then, predictably, Fanny caught Lauritz’s hand to enswirl him around her and make him lay his hands on her, take her to the car, while I picked up her rags, and found myself alone; the other two hidden in some convenient recess to shelter their best meditation. As whiffs of breeze roamed like lost souls and the moonlight filled the sky, Fanny called me, and again, she wanted me with her, but she meant to play, magic tramp, and share the beautiful knight with her, he called me too, beau joueur.

I don’t know how the two kind puppies ended together on my chest, waking me off a suffocating dream where I drowned into a silo of green pills, dead donkeys tied to my ankles, under the luftschiff Ferdinand, ready to be sowed over the Noordzee… Fayelle’s hair smells arousing, sex and fern, she’s stranded like a body of seaweed, both naiads now breathe into the warm sheets. In my drawer, I glean up a CD someone made-up for me, once, I can’t remember, but it is enticing, all ultramarine blue with only my name in ribbon letters, I slip it in and it flows on my head, it starts with “Song Of Tears” by Adiemus and it was snuck into my bag by this genderqueer person who wanted to befriend us, Cynthia and me, and I feel guilty not to even remember the name, even though they were at the show and I gave my numbers. This music suddenly sounds so weird that four eyes ache at reading me as if I had turned on the Dyson; I hold firm because I am almost crying already, these silly choirs in languages unknown catch-up on me, like I let Cynthia do during these troubled years. I run to the shower to wash down the tears, but mindy Fayelle has grabbed it, she joins me and makes me talk, and we end, three of us fresh and wet upon the bed, the window wide open, with the tale of Cynthia.

 

On the breakfast table, under a cloud of clean linen, rested a tepid mound of French toast that looked like a period folly, and, because it was baked with sweet bread, tasted unmatched. My inner self, already rocked by the chants of Cynthia’s, and the recounts I had had to give my juddering fillies about, poured into a void I suffered vaguely, along with my heart, left by our parting with Sarah, each of us courting the pretty candour of another rosebush. I gathered that our Sylt lair would hollow without images of my willowy tomboy stretching in the morning sun, baited by a fresh toast in hoarfrost of sugar crystals.

Her mouth sprinkled with sugar, Fanny edged her face very close to mine, as if to read my irises. She showed an inner glare and rosy lid shadows from all she had given Laurits to play with. I did not fully recall in which order the moon spree had unfurled, and how he had corralled us back home, but I had found a calling card, engraved with LP and a mobile number handwritten on it, inside the kerchief pocket of my light, so light, dress. Fanny mused that I sounded like I had lived an endearing story with Cynthia, then elaborated that both were like nobodies, with forever fake ID papers, shrubs with their roots capsized, as she had read in some of Camille’s esoteric references. Camille would always tell her that our fleshly origins meant nought, she had taught Fanny to scrub off her brain works of unnecessary questions, that they had both grown spared enough to be able to cast bines through the human comedy, and mission Dr Méant to scope for unsound overhanging; otherwise, the less be told, the better. All the while, It was as if I could see her sweet pale wisteria tendril mingle in with all the others in my wealthy heart, I reckoned it had been there since I had erred into the sacred alcove she had bedecked just for me, inside the comely trap on the Rio terra della Mandorla. Once more, I surrendered, bag and baggage, and I renewed our collective vow to keep her safe, through thick and thin.

Bringing back the teapot from the kitchen, I switched on my telephone and, in beautiful synchronicity, two messages squeaked in, from Camille au Sarah. The first wished us fruity waves and signalled that the Melchior Wings would be available the day after next in the afternoon at Flughafen Sylt, the latter proposed a mellow reunion in Hugo’s quarters, she had loads to tell, happy or not, and she could not begin recounting them on the phone. Fayelle had looked over and soughed that she wanted to come with us, grazing my nude shoulder in a fond request. Not long later, Simon ran back from the shower after some exercise and I told him the course of events, fearing to see disappointment sour his appetite. He tilted his head, looked at Fayelle briefly, drank some tea and said he would remain in Kampen for a week or so, working and roaming, whatever; after that, he could join us in Paris, if it was fine with us. Fayelle had been clutched with Fanny, she climbed up on one of Simon’s knees and groped him to make him laugh.

Mama was a tad sorry that we did not enjoy more of Kampen, she reminded me of long wild summers of ours, and she did not know we were such high-roller jet setters! I asked her about the von Pecks, she answered that they had been on the island even longer than us, and owned numerous properties around the Wattenmeer, as far as she knew, they were correct people, but for them also, there was a blurry spot in the middle of last century. They probably lived in a preserved area of Hamburg, hence his being with us at school. She tiptoed about Simon’s projects, he had been quite passionate about Fayelle’s affection for him, but she knew he would live a life of a high-level engineer, and Mama knew first-hand that it is not a perspective nowadays women crave; if Fayelle had sensed our Boheme modus vivendi, she would give her soul to stay with us, I laughed that she would be allowed to keep her soul. Mama said that she would come to Kampen and speak to Simon, as she had, always, since the accident. After a second of pause, she reprised that it had been a mere accident, wasn’t I sure? I told her there would always be a room for him near us in the splendid hive where we buzzed and work, and more… we parted good friends.

The family kept beautiful antique long chairs, impeccably maintained by Pitter, and about which I had always heard repeated that we could not step on them, by fear of tearing the wickerwork. Foliages on yellow printed cushions were fit for the seat and back, with an enthralling smell of lavender sachets and pinewood of the coffers where they laid almost eternally; after rolling them out on the lawn, I admitted that Fanny could sneak along my side at no harm, or go to Fayelle when she called. We took as long as we deemed fit to rub suntan lotion in, and in my whim roll every little bone on Fanny’s feet in my fingertips, which she requested the same for Fayelle’s pinky toes. We would start the season in the proper colours.

We could not bake overtime when the zenith dried us beyond what could be quenched by tea or lemonade, we retreated to the cool shelter of thick thatch, on creased linens, and mouthed each other like a litter of foxes. At the sound of my own revived Robin Guthrie festoons, we improvised a long trio of sensual legerdemain, without so rushing for an orgasm, so when Simon finally ferreted us out, he found all the available lilies trumpeting for his glory and gushed two good salvos into the girls’ butt holes before I sucked him clean. It was a full bliss to watch the two pert arses drip along their thighs, the sheets were inundated, the scent of cum and sperm mingled with that of drying hay and kelp from the opened window, I reeled out loud of the summer fortune and nosed madly on Fayelle’s unaware tummy. It had been warm, in the shower, when we peed on each other the stench was laughable  —we had done that for ages, worst than animals.

Later, on the beach, in sunlight, subdued by a high atmospheric veil, Fayelle and I watched Simon teach Fanny how to swim, and I hazarded out some intuition I had tripped on, and again, that she loved the boy but feared becoming his pet wife. Simon was not free-wheeling like us, as she would have believed, envisioning our little society in life. She knew she could be spoiled by a rich partner, but she would long for some personal secluded place, where to parse her soul in four dimensions —or quietly masturbate out of the world. She knew I was on both sides of her dilemma, but she had not gathered the nerve to open to Simon, only to decide not to live in his marks. I took time to show her the different paths on which each of the women she had crossed from her landing in Camille’s bed had led to some brokered liberty on all levels. She went somewhat bare-assed in life, but worse had been frequently reported. I chose to be as blunt as the pavement stones, she was there because she was pretty desirable, and she would have to compose with that. And yes, she could obtain in earnest the lifestyle she sensed amongst our crew, and I would show her many enviable outposts to the realm, all she had to do is move on in her lust and build her faith in wholehearted human beings —yes, I would take her back alive to the castle.

It wasn’t uneasy to enlighten Simon’s high prized brain as to what clattered in his affair with Fayelle. He resented he had been out of phase with me since the otherworldly times when Cynthia had worshipped me. He confessed that he had then responded to our father’s overtures unbeknown to me, and thus, rewardingly thrived in another field; but he swore he had always wrested out promises that Papa would spare me always —that he had retold him on his hospital bed before Simon could even breathe properly. I remade myself as smooth as when I taught him caresses and demonstrated that he detained a privileged entry to a most sophisticated Parisian henhouse, for free, provided he let the cast emancipated.
It smelled hellishly good out of the oven, Emma had spent hours swaddling up some alchemical mixture into cabbage leaves, cram as many as she could in a terrine and elaborate a cheese crust over the whole clutch. Inside was an unctuous stuffing of chopped mushrooms, nuts and fruit, we commented vividly till Emma blushed. Impossible not to dip chunks of soda bread in the concentrated juice. For dessert, she had bought a bucket of blackberries from a neighbourhood kid and whipped enough cream for a Viennese operetta. Simon already acted towards Fayelle in the incestuous innuendo he had lived in, after all; I manifested that I was in the game, too, as Fayelle checked my gazes and Fanny played on her plate. It wasn’t time yet to group-improvise on free polyamorous life, but my brother had relaxed a notch.
Simon walked us to a house facing the wild, in neat moonlight shadows, humming of bass pulses; he said it was one of Sylt nights getaways and I had not known it. Beyond the double-door entry, the sound system took on the chest and the lower waist, it was brutish. Fanny and Fayelle, who wore fuzzy shirts and jeans with new white sneakers, made instantly their way to the barnyard frenzy and swayed their hips against the beat, garnering some stir and envy. Fanny could enter manic mode on a flip, and throw her arms up like flames with the freshest of smiles, Fayelle was restraining a kontrapunkt of inner jolts and acted borderline crisical as the cold light made her an eerie mask of trance. I would have wished Sarah to be with us, she had this power of tearing me to pieces, otherwise, I would trigger my bunker fits, and skid. Simon had revived his athletic frame up to a thoughtful Berliner choreography I had not yet admired —showing it off to Fayelle might have been a reason why we stood now in a steam room of privileged sweats and musky wants. Then, faster than a secret service predator, he was diving out of the tempo and caught by the hair a bulky villain who had been trying to rape Fanny in a dark nook beside the tall speakers. He had torn the shirt and the pants and held her down like a dove in a sewer. Simon was harsh, still grappling the man’s hair he pushed him with his foot in the kidneys towards the house bouncer who seized the culprit and took him outside. Fanny was scattered down, crying silently in the still running electro pulse, I carried her to a chill-out room where people were making love or else, someone gave a fresh black tee-shirt stamped with a condom brand, one emo-like character came up with a new tack-on belt button, inserted a black book in Fanny’s waist and punch the button with a star on it one centimetre east of the hole, it held. She asked Fanny’s name and wrote it in her black book, I took her shoulders like they were wings. Later, Simon came back with drinks of iced tea, the raven girl smiled at him, I knew her.

Wings Of Fanny – Katherine Sophie @katherinesophie.eu

 

In the morning, the three of us laid stroking each other but altogether defeated in the cries of seabirds which, as everyone knows, aren’t sweet. I knew there was a copy of the Fripp & Eno’s —then antinomic, album: “Evening Star”, we danced that. Fanny coughed sometimes because the beast had strangled her while he tore out her clothes. Eventually, we came down to breakfast, Simon had slept elsewhere, my phone had a sibylline message of good-bye, I took it that he had enjoyed the colour black; Otherwise, it was announced that the bright jet of Melchior Wings would be waiting, on time, five minutes from the house. Emma, who was a bit disappointed to see us leave, had cooked Danish pastries with my preferred “apricot masks”. The girls had no appetite, I could not tell if Emma knew, she would, sooner or later, and the perpetrator would be doomed. At the doorstep, I crammed a fat envelope into Emma’s hand, then gave her a fast kiss tchüss. The taxi arrived before Simon showed, we drove in a dark mood, but he had been waiting at the airport by the shiny aeroplane, along with that Zelda Van Nuys, the emo fairy, who kissed us and spoke into Fanny’s ear secrecy; even in daylight, she seemed likeable; she smelled tuberose and Lapsang Souchong tea, violet and blackcurrant, I remained in her neck longer than politeness and asked her if she wanted my name in her black book, I gave her my number, too. Simon winked.

Melchior had stayed inside this full-blown luxury cloud not long ago, his smell was jostling away the dark underwoods of that of Zelda’s, for the blooming of Havana and Armagnac in a Tuscan sunset through sun-baked cypresses; but when I moved, like a size 34 closer to the window, some lavish rose, which was neither Fanny nor Fayelle’s, fondled by the usual culprits Ylang and Jasmine on a bed of lewd niceties, I snitched and we three fantasised about whom had been undressed on these seats lately. The silence of the profound berline that picked us so fast at Le Bourget did not help to quiet us, Fayelle was in throes of pleasure, my hand was soaked. Once home, we would not part, the apartment had been cleaned and tidied up, a bunch of hundred deep red roses in one of Hugo’s large chiselled silver buckets that stunned Fayelle of whom I gently groped the butt. Fanny was all weary, I peeled off her stuff and pushed her to the shower with us, the first gush was cold, as it is, and she clung to my neck, followed by the other one. We remained in the raw, which was suited for the roses that reigned on the coffee table. I ordered a vegan smorgasbord and brewed some Oriental Beauty tea in the big Yixing pumpkin teapot. There were ugly marks on Fanny’s neck, I cautiously applied balsam, which did not smell so bad on her, so we kissed, always.

I did not know where Camille was, and I would not be so proud to retell what had occurred on my watch. She would be devastated, and as long as Fanny stayed with us, she, her tutor could enjoy whatever free time she had wished. However, in harmony with the girls, I called Dr Méant who offered to meet Fanny in the evening, when I offered to chaperone her fully to his home and back. And so we went, Fayelle was not angered to wait alone with me on the lounge couch. Fanny was somewhat comforted to reunite with her regular confidant; she would have asked, anyhow. In the comfy pavilion of that private alley where Dr Méant lived, Fayelle was more and more impressed, now she felt she had lived a boring life in a bleak suburb, unmotivated by a botched upbringing, with the only luck of her appearance, and she was beginning to reason how it would have turned, had she not owned that. She was convinced that she had had not a chance in hard knowledge like maths, physics or biology, only art, or rather what remained of it, had once in a while glimpsed at her, while she glimpsed at it; she had garnered enough vocabulary, and she had fucked her way through to the same funny nonsense as us, her two current hosts, came from, with a nagging obsession that she was walking along a cliff-edge.
I have no recollections at all of my own redemption at Dr Schubert’s care, and I will never try to, but, as Sarah does, I shelter the conviction that I may obtain some healing relationship with someone if I may touch whatever I feel, all the more with a lover. As soon as we nested in the golden green velvet couch, I deliberately untied Fayelle’s sneakers, stole her socks and started to please her slender feet while I read her misty eyes. Her aloofness doesn’t mean that she loses the good of an argument along, she might have been brilliant, had philosophy kept its value in the modern academic scales, at Aristotelian studies, but then she would have had to cut short on precisely what was steering her, Hic et Nunc, into my arms. She needed to hear a tale of our becoming whatever she craved, and not shun my shortcomings, in the picture.

When I whiffled out that there wasn’t much more I could unveil of intertwined biographies and the garden of junctures they grew in, Fayelle was almost undone, her shirt and jeans unfurled like a strayed lily, smelling the girl like a London boudoir. She dared not fight back and her passiveness was all a game which she saw aroused me, she had thrown her dainty hands overhead, and, damned, she was mine. By the time Fanny woke up in the doctor’s study, we had chastened our attitudes but slept closely together; she might have joined, but the couch was only a crippled antique, we fled surreptitiously, leaving only our scents in Dr Méant’s velvety lounge; at this wee hour, a taxi was too happy to collect a fluffy trio of seemingly party-goers. Once home, neither of us would talk much, Fayelle kept kissing Fanny’s neck, I unclothed them, they unclothed me and we returned to Slumberland.

Of course, Camille has keys to the castle; she brought butter-sweating gold croissants and timid raspberries. I brewed some Darjeeling, readied the percolator while she was enjoying herself with my bum, and I offered her all of my morning fuzziness. She snuck into the bedroom, breathed deeply the mists of wake and nosed into the sheets for more, like a thirsty animal. She said nothing, she viewed Fanny, who was afraid to see her hurt, too, and her knuckles whitened in spasms as she dared not meet my eyes. It was Fayelle, by some moving age solidarity, who shrunk her blue-toned voice to engage that “it” had been an accident, and that Simon’s reaction had been bullet-fast, to what Fanny embraced Camille and tried her best to wipe off the strain. Then I did my best to confirm what Fayelle had said but couldn’t find another rationale. Rubbing Camille’s shoulders, I lead us all around the table and poured some tea while Fayelle’s coffee goblin whistled and spat.

Was Fanny doomed to pull a security detail after her as she had for months? Stupid, there was no reason, except we would begin to expect her to be the one who stood under the next piano which fell from the window. The downy hair on her legs shone in a glint of the rising sun, from a higher pane through our veilings, I caressed her sleek feet, of the kind one would fancy it ran fast, like the purebred fillies, when danger loomed. Camille embodied her queen bee wisdom, and, while she pretended to discover the refinement of Fayelle’s hands, declared that Fanny had nothing to relate with the out-gush of a human hyena, whom, in her enigmatic words, had better find another island, at least for a few years. To leaden the conversation further, she told us why Sarah was still in Zürich, and it brought up questions from our hereby damsels, who learned first the unlucky, but the resilient fate of young Ayla, then the threads of her trade down to Esther’s skid to near death. Fayelle did not even know of Fanny’s life before Camille, she was more and more dancing on eggshells.

Liselotte called me, after having tried her preferred Sarah, to devise a crafty dinner in a new private place, which could not have existed without her, and she did not even have to blog to do this. But when she heard that I was followed by youth, she could not picture anything unsavoury, she begged to let her join us up in a while, Camille was amused. In the soundscapes of Harold Budd and friends, the petty grooming of worldly belles wiped away the hours until the flashy black and white presentation of runner Liselotte amazed us. She wore a short white shantung minidress, squarely flared under a sleeveless bust with mock-military black striped epaulettes and same pocket trimmings; White opaque tights in patent leather court escarpins, no undies but a slit that made Fayelle blush, already. She could have worn kid gloves for Horst P. Horst. She smelled of white intents gone weird as jasmine and datura entwined. She landed all lightly in one of our couches and marvelled at the roses bush, playing as to guess whom they were for? In her oversized, distressed tee-shirt, Fanny was more than nude and she literally bewitched Liselotte, who flimsily stippled around the girl’s neck, muttering that something very unacceptable had to be done, there. Fanny had her distant glare, Liselotte begged me to fetch some velvet ribbon in our hoarding store and some appropriate larimar cabochon to affix onto it. Fanny followed me, Liselotte was right, I did exactly what she had devised, with night-blue velvet and sparkling aquamarines. Fanny came back in the salon as undressed and glorified as Manet’s odalisque, but we wouldn’t wear mules, would we?

Somewhere snug and quiet in the Ile Saint Louis is a Mars violet lacquered little door between an easily overlooked perfume shop and an antique shop specialised in ancient toys where one could manipulate a roman jack set or rune-inscribed flat stones. Liselotte owned a purple blank plastic card that she inserted in a discreet slot above the reach of scallywags and the door opened like solemnly. Then was a long panelled corridor floored with thick mat, lit by a line of points towards a copper double door, a couple of bends further. Liselotte, who seemed to have existed mainly for Fanny since she saw her —then, in a silk jersey tee-dress above the knee, some of Sarah’s cobalt blue flat sandals, and a narrow vest in indigo black, beaten-glazed cotton strips, her eyes amused in the midst of her shimmering curls— nonetheless being our guide, asked us to bear with her. She pivoted and whiffed at Fanny’s hair, which suffused Ylang Ylang and honeysuckle along with the dryness of chamomile on a sun-beaten chalky road, she rolled her dark eyes like a stoned Marchesa, and the glimmering doors opened.

The place was built in large blocs of hard stone and vaulted low, the ground covered in rich caravan rugs and furnished with low black velvet divans, dark low tables and black lacquer screens; chandeliers and compositions by Lucio Bubacco, was I told, suspended all over the space, crowded with little lampwork glass characters, well-hung or gracile, in acrobatic figures, the lubricious revenge of Murano upon the Nevers style courtiers. Fanny was elated by the virtuoso work of the grand ribald master glass-blower, her delicate hands flew in admiration. All the personnel wore some sort of loose black bourette pyjamas, women and men, with an open fly held by one ribbon, and no underwear at all, barefoot. They could have only stood for some bad taste mock revival of the “red Khmers” genocide, but their manicured hands and feet, black varnished nails and fine jewels defused all comparison, they all seemed quite willingly serving –knowing Liselotte, I wondered soon how far. Among the arrangement of the pillars and black folding screens, other groups soared in their aloofness, somewhere in the dark, a tribe of Hang drums and gongs droned in peace, Fayelle needed me, she slid her hand inside my dress upon my heartbeat, Liselotte was kissing Fanny like a Royal Mistress.

Our low oblong table was spread with a thick plum velvet printed “à la Fortuny” in rich interlacings, seized by the house’s geist, Fanny rested her unshod feet, pale upon the rich fabric. A tall waiter brought vermilion plates with gold rims, when he bent, his almost rested dick showed out of his pants and he did not pay attention but Fayelle pinched me. In her circumstantial low tone of voice, Liselotte –who was now hitching up Fanny’s dress to the waist, without causing any reaction to the face of the waitress who was bringing a silver plate loaded with petits fours, and looked, politely, at what Liselotte showed– this was a very exclusive club of fetishists willing to serve and be used on an agreement or the inverse; large sums of real money were spent and earned there for the game of mere conventions, or disguised prostitution, but until now, all exchanges had been kept in the private sphere of consenting adults. There were caravansaries like this almost everywhere, outside of the territories of no human rights, the only limit would remain merely prophylactic, wouldn’t it?

Obviously, Fanny had been gently inflamed by our guide, and she had a want for the dick she had seen, so she very stealthily called the waiter and slid her hand in his fly, where the thingy was bigger than before; she was a skilled manipulator, she kept her gaze on it while Liselotte was denuding her completely, and she finished the happy gent in her mouth, leaving no trace behind.. Between them and us, Camille was aroused, she knew almost all of these Parisian stables for vice, but she was new to that one and watching her pupil emancipate on her own was some treat, after the recent despicable episode. She took away Fayelle from me and displayed her parted thighs for a new waiter whose willy soon showed out. Letting Camille please Fayelle with her tongue, I pitched on that straight long Johnny and sucked it first, then asked him to cover himself and chose his way in, turning my newly tanned backside on him, so as I could still kiss Fayelle while being humped, she finger-tipped down to my mingy, and the man’s balls. He muffed his pleasure, at the smile of the others, who came to peep our table for the while. He had been deep and valiant, I had gushed on my thighs, Fayelle was happy of that, a black stallion was in Camille’s bunghole wholeheartedly. When I wished my gentle fucker to show me the restrooms, he showed me to stay like I was, and I could see that all the other tables were nude. They had the pleasure to see us one by one, I could see men shagging the waitresses in a pair, and guessed more combinations.

Fanny was fierce as if to ascertain herself that one sicko had not yet hacked her apart and she was not only desirable but thirsty. She became the toast of the club, one waiter brought a yellow rose in a flute of crystal and was deliberately sucked and fucked, she did not act feverishly, but she went for cocks where she knew they were, after five of them, she smelled beastly but looked playful, I took her on my bosom and kissed her lids down, her heartbeat on mine, her arse was blithe, I shushed her for a while. Waitresses were bringing hot wet towels for our thrashed bodies, now we smelled pure jasmine. Liselotte was proud of herself, she had drawn an aces’ full with a pair of rare birds, she owned some respect, there. A man, whose pyjama showed some hierarchy, came and kissed her hand, she introduced him as LS, owner of the house, but not the souls in it, said he, showing a keen desire towards Fayelle, who had not shagged any but swayed her gazes into Camille’s neck, letting her butt available to the newcomer’s hands. LS asked her up, she gave her hand and let him pull her softly and dance slowly, he was talking in her ear, she was rolling her head, she waved and went with him, clenched to his side, he was fully erected. We had not many comments to give, Liselotte gave her word that nothing bad could happen our the girl. Five minutes later, a soft-spoken waitress with a flat chest to my taste, I touched her, came for Fayelle’s clothes, soon, she came again, for me.

Fanny had been the queen of the house, she already slept in the taxi, content. We dropped her and Camille at their home, Liselotte stayed, she wanted some pussy, she smelled like a runner in the underwood, head in the moss, I let her savage me and we crowned our follies under the running water, she’s a Royal bitch, enough to lull me out in the true nought. Many fluffy clouds later, I emerged from a blue lawn at the unknown scent of iris, violet and lily of the valley, some rich vintage perfume, methinks, still in the mists of some Avalon, until Fayelle, in person, pushed her tongue between my very lips. She stretched upon us and asked me to unclothe her, that’s what we do, don’t we? She bantered how LS had led her to his sleek black marble suite, made her four times differently and given her a hefty wad of bills on the promise that she called next week. Suddenly, I ignited, how was she here, she didn’t call and had no key? She nonchalantly said that my friend Sarah had made her in and would join us later, and she was hot.

 

Sarah says:

The lovelier dreamer I met downstairs smelled like she had been ransacked all night, and it did her well! Some week with Kate and she turns up whorish like a star, what gaze! I just abandoned my filly to an old mage and this one thrusts out of the woods. Was she not supposed to be like wedding, or so? I heard more than two lives in our bed, given the hour, I brewed Darjeeling Puttabong and peeled a kiwi. I could have had an idea that a nude Liselotte would enter onstage as deliberate as an admiral. She had thinned down and had taken whatever time to freshen up her face from the labour of sleep. She did not expect to meet me, but there were enough memories to grope me right out and taste my mouth. That laid out, she sketched up their night and the successful outcome for Fayelle, for it was, as she saw, our pale intern was a resplendent harlot, in the veins of the grand gold mine. I liked to see her play madam, as I knew her weak tropisms, and I caressed her thighs so as to make her denude me. Then the two sweet tattlers came up in no clothes either and Fayelle smiled wonderfully to me. She had been evoking how LS had prepared her bum for a thorough buggering, so she hesitated, at the breakfast table and we laughed like weathered courtesans, and Liselotte acted as she could not have enough of her. Through her course in our dirty Alma Mater, Fayelle had not shunned all of the ungrudging art, these wholehearted researches despised by the inauspicious following of Duchamp, for the sake of easy conundrums and loose gambits, so, she revelled being sabred through in front of some genuinely lewd Lempickas, the first real Bellmer she had ever seen, framed like the Vatican, unthought-of erotic drawings by Valentine Hugo, once owned by Anaïs Nin herself, and the original watercolours by James W. Manner for “Trois Filles De Leur Mère” by Pierre Louÿs.

The most enviable Fayelle was stepping on our very chessboard, now, we feasted of her, she smelled of licked skin and altogether vice, she was a treasure for keep, a sister. I wondered about any work she might have stored somewhere, she mocked she had nothing at all, every bit of artwork she had deposited on the sidewalk when her parents moved away. Academically, she was like AWOL, officially eligible for State charity. I knew Kate was thinking that was a heavy start and would possibly fall back on our feet, but she was young and eerie, she Ionged to bring her together with Lizon in Victor’s pandemonium, as a start, but she had already climbed the first step, last night, hadn’t she? Camille had such perfect taste, I asked for Fayelle’s gourmet feet, narrow, long strung, with well-drawn toes, she was madly ticklish and that told for erotic talent, while the other two babbled and amused her button tits or an arousingly flat navel, I counted the little bones that will run, upon my crotch. Liselotte was in no mood to leave, but she asserted that we missed some dicks. She instituted we chose one each and we partied, in our lair, with that, she fetched her organiser and finger-scanned for applicants. I asked for Fulgence, whose dexterity had amazed me, Kate concurred, Sergei Belitski had some smarts and was well tooled, we nodded, Yaguil Roustang was infinitely dedicated to pussy, and a selfless Indian, we nodded, at the name of Florent Sannezant, Fayelle woke and rolled her eyes, we nodded too. Liselotte craved for Beraud de Fourchez, why wouldn’t we nod? She added that a greater number of dicks would play for us, and named Nathan Vidal last, he has a tireless column of flesh.

 

Fayelle says:

This day is promising to be warm, over and above well debauched, I wouldn’t think of so much fucking in an elusive while, so as my new mentors seem to be willing to hop over. Agreed, they arrange the consumption of passions as an easy carousel and the spend is free willing, you reacquaint with yourself unscathed and only light-headed. Shutters drawn, like in the old whorehouses, all nude and aroused, we laid rich bath towels of chiselled velvet on the seats and couches where the officiants should make our pleasure gush out. In the wait, Sarah, whose gazes throw shudders down my spine, retells her fine days with the fresh debutante called Lizon, of whom I caught some glimpse, all the way until she would throw herself over the windmills, with a good friend of hers, who had precisely asked her to inquire about the readiness of the maiden involved, showing her a few of the debauchery stables at the heart of Paris and see her reactions. Sarah had craftily brought me to her side in an armchair and the others smirked seeing her do me, with her tapered fingers, fiddling along with the thin pleats across my tight belly. As she read my eyes a tad uneasy, she boasted that Lizon was currently sharing her lissome body with our own Hugo, who had known most of us, in the tiny fields of the most horticultural islands of Scilly.

I was wondering how the superlative pair of demi goddesses had overcome the mock ordeal of neo-art school without depression. Kate loved me for this and advised me to keep attuned with Camille, while Liselotte offered to float me in the back-waters of official culture, promising not to push as far as where it stinks hard. For that matter, as a layer of sociality, a few months of pleasuring myself among her address book would set a fit plateau, for a beauty like mine. Before I could trade any formalised idea from the top of my soul, I would craft my living from my bum, so to speak, and she could help me avoid the false notes and the wrong players, ask around? Sarah, grazing my flat chest, like it was silk, confirmed that Liselotte is the smartest procurer alive —Kate let her grab her between her thighs, like some naughty farmer girl, “but she will never talk of money, with you, anyhow”.

Isn’t that the kind of lucubrations I have produced in my solitudes to explain most of the self-called artistic lifestyles? Now, if it were all mock, faux-semblant, planetary abuse, doesn’t it feel cosy to join a conspiracy of pure players and bid my arse and pussy properly? That’s what I hear Liselotte and Sarah lull me with, and I’m going to sing along. One by one, the good Indians rang in, they smelled soap, some afforded sandalwood and grapefruit in the heath of their own hair, one gave me the thrill of rich amber as his sweat, so as I untied the simple tie of his creased canvas pants and gulped his ready prick as if he had justly come for that. It earned me sweet cheers and a second servant licking my quim; Sarah had been subducted by Fulgence in a tongue fight. In all likelihood, these roughnecks had not gotten their dicks wet for some time so they dipped their fancy here, there and again, till it was Yaguil who gushed in me soon after he might have felt me do.

And now it smelled acrid and primal, like piss on warm flintstone, and I needed to wash out my arse to pretend again it was a daisy; Sarah came to the bathroom and we rinsed each other’s virtues, in moments like these, she has irresistible gazes, you want to kiss her and die, but all we did was to drip and wipe and spread open wide. Few are the concerts that go tutti all the course, we had breathless halts, and a few tea breaks with nations of macarons, or cupcakes some of the fuckers had brought. Incidentally, Liselotte disclosed that since she had picked only Victor’s regulars, she had been able to check everyone on the network, but we had already ploughed in each other like demented, so it went to show that she was the smartest procuress in the loop, rave on! Fulgence had savagely capsized Ms Kate, like an Olympian swimmer, then he had regained his slow beat and he started me, with spoken compliments on everything me, and he won at making me blush. Bent back over an armrest, I swallowed him whole so he could not help spout far inside, growling like a boar, I was very proud, he said things that Sarah liked for me. I did not accept to swallow the next sword, but he found my arse so cooperative that he filled me up. After a friendly wash-up, we decided that the bed was only enough for four women enlaced, so the male troupers had to play top-to-tail, free for them to dribble their balls.

 

Kate says:

I had been tiptoeing in the high branches of a Babylon garden, my sensitive minge kissed in all acrobatic ways by ornate monkeys of biblical times, methinks, however searching for an appropriate crevice for me to pee in, until I could not avoid switching out of sleep and stumble to our bowl, let flow acid summer pee, and feel morning, brushed my teeth in case. High pitched giggle warned me of some extraneous presence within the menagerie next door, and full awakening dawned on my brain as I knew who was frolicking among the couch warriors. Of course, roof doves Natalia and Beryl had been up and kicking, under their privilege of entry at any moment, and they stumbled into a regal display of male nudities, such as ought to have been expected in the high-rooms of Fontainebleau, but are mostly missing yet. I foresaw the blissful smiles at the faces of our victors visited by the heavenly nymphets, I shrugged and walked to the scene. Nought that I saw would I deem inconvenant, the two pixies played their charms on the readily unsheathed weapons at their will, I walked in, kissed everyone and rolled Natalia’s nipples in my fingers, as I do.

Fulgence and Florent volunteered to run for brioche and fruit, they brought back a mouth-watering swish heap of colourful victuals, meanwhile tea and coffee had lured the other servants of Titania to the round table, and as we did not possess enough chairs, many had to sit on dicks, their appetites notwithstanding, or else. I plugged the Drone Zone sound, to mix life into a heady smoothie, just like Sarah did in the food processor. Eventually, I found myself impaled on Fulgence with a smile, and Liselotte helped Natalia engulf Beraud’s literal truncheon and revelled in the young dissolute disciple, licking her sweaty body with her strawberry tongue, watching her climax to self-oblivion. Undoubtedly, I was being a bad warden for the house kid, but I did not fetch them to participate and they were not really squandered away, judging upon their smiles –I self-disciplined my half giddied self to keep an eye or more on the fillies and the armed forces agreed to a softer consensus that moreover allowed to keep uninvaded the mellow efflorescences with other means than the cock.

Fanny rang around noontime, exhilarated, she called her hen mother to tell her the kind of animal farm she had found, while she was being undressed radically, and much admired; she still wore the deep blue dog collar, now with a filigree pansy stitched to it. Beyond her natural aloofness, she was a tad shied at first and looked for me, straddling over gentle figures; Liselotte remembered her nocturnal prowesses and kissed her foot lovingly. She nested in me, Fulgence was properly impressed by her eerie gaze and asked for her hand to cuddle and kiss. She leaned her head on my chest and told me she had had better leave Camille alone today because she told her that she was seeing and more one of her regulars and she wished not to have me participate, time would come, eventually. I joked, to remain in the good mood of our jaunt north, that now we missed only Hugo and Lizon if Robin Goodfellow were up to his nifty name. Florent caught her eye and pulled himself so as to nuzzle her thighs and let them open on my very lap, he was afternoon-slow, minute, dedicated, she offered him her unmatched candour and he believed it for the better good of both, and mine; Fanny was turned over to my mouth, but we offered both our honey conchs at his bon vouloir, it smelled of bergamot, clove, and Gyokuro tea as the coyote lapped at our shudders.

So then, unavoidably, some feminine hand knocked on our thick oak door, I thought of Lena, and I wouldn’t know what she would make of our use of her daughter, although I felt she was the one using us, all in all. Before we could have answered, Lizon had pushed the door and stepped in the capharnaüm of flesh, like Alice boarding on “Le Radeau De La Méduse”. Sarah jumped up and embraced her madly, reading her Channel green eyes, kissing her and almost crying. Fanny whispers that she told me it would be so, I revolt, in vain; as she is been shagged, Florent’s balls beat my nonnie in good rhythm, she chants high and comes together with him, no less. Lizon beams, in our subdued light, now that Sarah has untied her fluid British smock dress printed in pale William Morris olive branches, and she’s left with so palatable willow green knickers, I can tell that Hugo has been his best gallant poet, again. She came up in no shoes, she has languid feet, long and slender, Hugo would spend dear on these, too. He who wanted to acquaint with the newcomer had to take both, there too, like here where Fanny revived her player in her mouth for another shot in me. Yaguil and Serguei were up for sharing a pair of true reptiles they brought to the ground, Sarah rummaging in Lizon’s minute bunghole with her nifty tongue, being buggered herself while Lizon was face-fucked nicely by Serguei. After that, the two rascals, not yet extinguished, stole away the novice and fucked both her sides at one time.

Once she could eventually breathe again, she wanted to tell that the whole crew was welcome in Hugo’s salons for treats, savour and favours. She was still a tad jostled, Sarah took her to the restroom for a grand toilette. It was still early, we begged her to retell their Land’s end islands tête à tête. She took a softer tone of voice, and a balanced flow of words, to penetrate herself of the tranquil hours, listening to a possibly renewed future life, at my inclination, in safe propriety. And she heard the immense breathing of the open ocean, so soothing at these invisible boundaries that she wouldn’t know of her own soul. Certainly, Hugo had been endlessly hungry all over the riches of her simple plunder, but it had never become unbearable, he knows his powers so finely.

From a higher stand, I had flown through the same clouds, someday, attuning my course on Sarah’s, my natural accomplice, and we had since befriended all the regulars, each of them perfumed by the Castle Wizard. Decked out with the minimum, barefoot, we stealthily moved our sublime shantytown downstairs, where it smelled Zanzibar after the rain. Hugo had unearthed a thin long coat of gold-threaded silk, with a gossamer white shirt, a line of pearly buttons down to his feet, It felt like I kissed a nude Hugo, by the time he had hugged the whole crew, he had already stained the silk at the middle. He showed kindness to Lizon and shared her with Sarah, lightly groped Fanny whose piddly vesture fell off itself, stared pensively into Fayelle’s eyes on my chest and came between us two, to breathe that we were inspiring him, Liselotte had not redressed, she stood in a single tees-shirt and it fitted her, like Hugo told her as if he had known her long, and he creased the shirt so as to denude her and show her splendid arse to Fulgence, whose biceps he palpated. He obviously knew Beraud whom he groped casually, Nathan too, who obviously needed to shag anyone, out of pity or friendship —his febrile black gazes torched my innards, when I let him shoot daggers on me; it was then that I reckoned I might have overlooked the lascar, but had I not nodded, too? I simply touched his dick behind me, as an invite, for whenever.

The dining hall in the “new wing” had been changed by the addition of large panels, of white gold foil over black lacquer, by Jean Dupas, author of some of the most stunning features in the liner Normandie’s first class, some today scavenged at the MET in New York. This masterstroke find had hauled a series of inspirations in the intercontinental salerooms, bringing in furniture and art works through the newly conquered porch on the side street –Fanny smirked. We all now could sit on white gilt chauffeuses once made in Indochina for a Buenos Aires brothel (where some legendary Lady had once sold the prime of her charm to some promising officer), the low seats had been re-upholstered in the same chiselled black velvet from Lyons. The thick carpet in subdued blue silver tones figured phantasmagorical sea depth with half human lascivious deities. Against the silver-foil ceiling reigned a wide rock crystal chandelier in shapes of seaweeds, from the lobby of a ruined hotel on the German Baltic coast, rewired in low-heat leds. Behind all this, were hung stylised silver and black waves, whirls and frills motives in silk velvet, and some of the most troubling paintings by Stengl in Hugo’s collection, lit in their white gold frames. The high contrasted scenes with the trademark delirious nymphets and ferocious dogs shouted through the theatrical nightly decor, just as the floating interjections in Stockhausen’s “Gesang der Jünglinge” !

Two of us, narrow bones, could creep into the splayed wings of the chauffeuse, Fanny had rid me of my shirt and lolled along me as trophy; she was all baby play and gave me real tender gazes, not the eerie ones. Large Siberian lilies in silver vases dispersed their heady scent and made me giddy, when I rested my head back on the padded chair, I felt lavish and when Nathan’s schmekl dripped a tiny sticky pearl on my lips, I opened wide my mouth and pulled my tongue for him, the hands and lips of Fanny massaging my neck like a kitten’s tummy; for sure, he had waited, so he discharged after a few deep drillings, and i took in every smeary gush of it, then gave a taste of him to Fanny. She did not let the scepter scowl down, at Nathan’s wonder, she steadily suckled his glans till it heralded buggery again and found me legs up, conveniently lubricated by my own little goblin’s whole hand. His fiery black eyes reveled as he pervaded like my whole rump, and Fanny preened my pinky pearl to make me gush as I felt his flow somewhere deep, and he did not recess, he ploughed still into swampy hot tremors, and released a last deadly bash and fell upon the rug, as Fanny hurried with a towel to soak up the rough smelling goo out of my shuddering bum. The archer rested, cross-spread among the fantasy fish, content, with some vacant smile and a wet schlong. Fanny was proud of me, it only came to my battered mind the hope that they would not ravage me like that one by one, albeit…

 

Lizon says:

Since she first showed me around places that probably wouldn’t exist, Sarah has drawn me into her inwards-tauten grace, some sheer quant-à-soi, says Hugo, who is French, when he raved on his “double muse”, upstairs from his secretive study, here in the Castle Maze, where, seemingly, corridors run through deaf buildings towards stealth addresses. After my uncountable time in Louis’ operatic decors and mental overbalance, altogether beached upon the unknowable suavity of carnal afterglows, unending ardour, like, then, a child with falling socks, I fainted, watching the black thunderstruck dad, in the yellow triangle riveted upon the smelly dirty brown metal trunk on the sidewalk where my faceless grand dad always peed, and where disobedient sprogs would be stacked and forgotten; they had carried me to the pharmacy, eyes opened, vacant, made me inhale mint alcohol, and stared at me, appaled, when I stood up, frowning, with a runny nose. Like some finely engineered drug, Louis’ legerdemain had unclogged bends of synaesthesia in my soul, enpowering me to drop, on a wintry inner sidewalk, the dark grey plastic bag of my sad begetters, for the mauling truck, with the running fluorescent trolls around it, to chew away.

I had breathed a tad more lightheartedly, when Hector, who had sated himself of my feeble skin, had asked me to read the numbers in my bank’s app, he was laughing when he drove me back to Sarah’s, telling me to ask her back with me, whenever we felt. When Hugo took turn at my knees, so to speak, Sarah’s seductive contrivance had done its spell on my expended spirits, I was the whore she had nosed out and I smelled good, first to her. A private airplane, in which he dissolved any misgivings, and bustled upon me like a high-school lucky calf, a taxi to an understated property in a manicured garden, he had pilfered all of my attire on the doorstep, and watched me move, holding my fingers. I think, then, that he fucked me upon anything that would bear my weight, and it never became awkward, he attended to my whole body like it were a million euros artwork, I’m sure I will never know a better honeymoon. Now, he had offered me an apartment in this hive, large enough for the years to come, and let me to reckon if staying constantly at armslength of him and his fantasies constituted a major caveat. Before I could envision the deal, he had laid out that, if he would consider me as a free-will boarder, I should agree to the polyamorous modus vivendi I had been free to wander in already, until of course I would chose to perch elsewhere, for a reason all mine. I had not singled out the current tenants, apart from Kate and Sarah, and there were quite a lot of dandys who all momentarily fondled a piece of me, and we arrived in a sumptuous salon, like I had never seen before, even in magazines; in the regal settees and chairs, the chosen crew went wildly oral on one another, I understood that I was the last girl with some rags on because they had seen I was eagerly eyed upon by the Lord of the place.

Hugo waived to show me to sit next to him on the black velvet, he disrobed me soon, and soughed in my ear to ask if none of those dicks would shag me? He teased me that he would crave to look a me fuck one of the troopers, so, at the sight of Sarah pumping a straightened puppet, I felt assuredly whorish and gave the eye to Fulgence, who had obviously ogled me and crawled on all four to my quim and licked me skilfully. It must have been a manoeuvre of Hugo’s that another player seized my nape and made me swallow his knob, since I only had to let be done for a while, until Fulgence brandished his considerable manhood at my wet labia, and thrust in. This was one I could confide my life to, and a smoother, a long glider, a soft gazer in his moves. Hugo asked us to topple, me backwards on top, Fulgence carefully in my rosebud and Serguei at once in my quim in bloom; he leaned on me and threaded sparkling little compliments to my ears while niggling at my tits. When my two lust expenditors discharged in fury, I dozed out dripping, and my Hugo carried me to the silver-mosaic bathroom where we showered and scented ; I had just been shagged heads and tails before him and he told me to stay beautiful.

In this young life, I have encountered such rough waters and unsound shores, Eric had hurtled down to organise his deadly trade with showcasing my thin arse around, offering it for debts or money, and so on to his own loss. Thus I have been myself on the chopping block more than often, maybe not long enough to parse the ways and manners on this new play court. For days, Sarah has been sucking my apple and I never caught a wrong glance from her, deceitful words, like the Egyptians used to say, she is “rightfully voiced” —and she smells like the moon. Hugo was drooling at my crotch waiting for the get-go from my inventor Louis, he really had me to himself, in the blue, but, all in all, these shenanigans, which could have caused me repeated suffering, glided upon my hide, just like Sarah had forecast, and there she still was, fingering my butt.

 

Hugo says:

On all accounts, human beauty is the steepest ascent worthy, for a righteous soul —if you would agree on my acception that soul is the synergistic whole of my current life, mind, sentience, affects, determinations, and elaborations, whomever could read into the sum of anything the ordonnator secured under my name— and, from the tremours of heights, to worship entirely. Albeit, soon retorts my respected friend F. you may know of droves on the public stage whose awe-striking beauty shelters an unfathomable silliness, whose stunning presence bears only in happenstance and leaves one wanting. So then, the whim took me to skim the mental album of the real considerable personalities in twentieth century art, those who caught on my will to shape out my unbound fantasy, and at the summit the surrealists —albeit today the word has been defaced by the commercial media into a mere cliché meaning “utterly absurd”— and around, and find there the most wholesomely desirable personas of their time, higgledy-piggledy: André Breton, Max Ernst, Dali, etc, of course, but Lee Miller, Leonora Carrington, Meret Oppenheim, Anaïs Nin… only a few of the true stellar cohort well fashioned to comfort my aestheticising plea, isn’t it? Yes, one of the most influential geniuses of the time was not particularly… suffice to say that ne particularly regrettable surgeon damaged Peggy Guggenheim’s beauty irreversibly. Nevertheless, through a century of miseries, massacres and hideous genocides, someone like André Breton was all along morally impeccable, and lauded, courted and shagged only beautiful women as an ideal. My friend F. let me say that, for what it were worth.

Nonetheless inauspicious palavers about the season’s laureates, so as to regally relish one’s swayed gazes and soft dismay, at the tipping point of unravelling one’s harrowing angst, inside my own garden of torments. Lizon had let the yarn spin haywire in the mellow breath of the resting ocean, her diaphane kite had flown off as a whiff and she had rendered what she wouldn’t fathom as her own life, to my whims. And I do that, infatuated with Monelle’s orphans in fields of white narcissuses, and patching new plots to my realm, like the little rooms on the map of the Isles of Scilly.

 

Isles Of Scilly – ©Katherine Sophie

Back home in this Pré-aux-Clercs bastion —whenas her nigh sister Fayelle is still wet out of the backwaters of incurable neo-neo-academia, already lodged in the upper floors, Lizon had been snatched-up just in time from the dire alleys of an addiction-ridden dump, just like a Lalique elf were to be found in garbage, but it remained to be parsed out which fields she might want to gravitate into, or naught.
Upon the soft low tone of her spoken voice, her words when we roamed aimlessly in the pathways of Saint Mary’s island, let me wish there is one wholesome soul behind the unswerving eyes, not a mortal substance.
She had been, to say the least, scrutinised day and night by Sarah, who had been missioned for that, —and obviously loves her, since, so much as to pleading for her steady installation in our hive, a nostalgic token to her own lost green paradise of Saint Loup. Yet some old awareness would await, say one unfettered course at Victor’s, along with Kate, or a full fling with Camille, detailed journals appended , wouldn’t it?

It happened I had, yet, set foot into another adjoined building to mine, from basement to roofs, thus with another address in Paris. There was now a path at the end of Natalia and others’ corridor, leading on, three steps down to a crooked landing with a small window and three doors on small renewed apartments. One more week of my emergency star team’s work, and I could eventually cosy up someone in there. Lizon owned virtually nothing but was getting richer all the time, she would undoubtedly fill her closets, unless Sarah would like to go on and play doll with her. From what I saw, there was some kind of a swop market around the fairies’ store, it was arousing to recapture the feeling of a clothing on someone else’s skin, with the kinship of perfumes and smells, like Natalia would naturally conjure Kate’s, most intimately. So, Lizon would spend a few more nights in circumstance beds, like a dreamy little tramp among the manes of seaweeds.

Once I was convinced I had availed myself with like a new masterpiece by one of my heroes, with all due certificates and affidavits —namely the bewitching beauty of Lizon, Pr F. called and asked me what reasoning I could make of the photo gallery of Ted Bundy’s victims, all indeed young, witty and beautiful, massacred in no time by this self-centered mediocre slacker?  It would only give out that Bundy had a taste for something he could not even care for, and erased as fast as he grabbed the innocents. Pr F. reckoned I strive for my tribe of affiliates and promote liberally their stand in the spheres they wish —more than Picasso ever did for the exceptional women he kept. At any rate, Pr F. was telling me that my shuddering petition for human beauty was merely a vow of my own unfettered tastes, obviously shared by numerous well-heeled literati, many of them morally questionable. I took it as it was served, given the highest purity of my friend’s career, and promised myself to frame a portrait of Ted Bundy to hang somewhere in my study.

 

Sarah says:

Lizon needed to feel my clasp upon her wings, and hear my voice on her nape, it was neither angst nor boredom, she had been approached by everyone mildlier than she usually was by party people her age, and she reckoned that I had not lied to her, even when I demonstrated that Louis’ world would sweep her away further than she had ever fathomed, in life, and leave her, somewhat, asking for more, then, Hugo was offering a life like ours, no less. After thorough grandes eaux ablutions, we follow the lights to the bedroom Hugo wants us to visit, how keenly! on satiny, pearly grey primed walls were hung heavily rock-crystal framed mirrors in which our reflections seemed out of alignment, labyrinthine, untrue, so to speak. From the top cornice up, a shuddering flock of greyish Mister Finch moths had gathered over the whole ceiling, in a council of utterly frivolous urgency, under what we stood, nude and embraced, when Hugo toppled us onto the Mister Finch fluffy bed cover.

A crafty device had been concealed into the 50 to 70 cm models so that they shivered slightly at random, or else they might be alive, like moths, totally innocuous. Hugo gathered some savantly frayed velvety cushions to sit against, and let us cuddle ourselves in his lap, watching upwards. We had overspent our content all day, our maiden roses had blushed and panted, we were beaten happy and wished only to rave on life. All that Lizon hoped was to thread in through with me, and everyone I was threaded in through with. Hugo liked her way of declaration and started to coil our curls innocently together. Grazing her elusive tits with my fingertips, I whispered she had not yet seen and done all, pretty debutante, she retorted she trusted her life to me and begged for a real kiss.

Hugo was first to nod out, then Lizon reached a slow baby breath and I still had to creep out to go pee, in a round little silver, where I sat, loo led to with a snail path, silently ventilated, where I sat with my intimate affairs, watching myself in an oval mirror until my head brutally fell aside and I had to stumble back into the moth bed and the moth world.
Then, there was snow upon Saint Loup, random fluffy flakes whirling in the dark morning, and Ayla wore a red flannelette floating pyjama full of her tiny smells of toiletries, toffee, and carnation. Switzerland was a pretty snowflakes ball in which we stood groping each other in our fluffy old cottons. The birds, the rabbits, the squirrels had forgotten that day to come, some lost wild-eyed goblin would jump in and sneak its pretty feet under our covers, hoping for hot cocoa but unwilling to saddle up to the canteen. We played a Britpop compilation some suitor of mine had left on my bed with a love poem so poetic I had made no sense to it, Radiohead churned the hazy flakes and Jeff Buckley had snuck in some wine. I kept Ayla’s lithe honey-golden body enwrapped and wished I never grew old.
Lizon was desperate to wake me, for she said I had been crying; she was licking my eyes, I joshed that is what girls do; I asked her where she had been to school.

I had no memory of having gone down to the Mister Finch cosy nest, anyhow we met Lena in the grand kitchen and we realised we had no clothes, she laughed and offered us French toasts that French Lizon did not seem to know. She preferred coffee, so the frightening steam machine blew its long whistle, while I knew where Hugo’s best Darjeelings were stashed, and Lena patted my bum, she is a fine-looking woman; she said Hugo had gone early, with Theo, and had been joyous. Lizon was shied, I asked her to rather sit by my side, and told her Lena was Natalia’s mother, she smiled to her, probably rethinking of what Natalia and her had done last night, that visibly Lena did not ask to know.
It would be a day of Gianni’s, who would be thrilled to discover new silhouettes to undress and palpate so innocently, but Kate found that, given the weather, it would be good fun to welcome him in the nude. The dignified old gay tailor smirked and took to our game, inviting Lizon to tango first, then Fayelle, then me that he had a soft spot for; when Kate came back from the bathroom, she strongly smelled of galbanum, incense and iris, which made her look as the assenting odalisk of whom I craved the gazes from below, Princess style; Gianni ran to brush off any misgivings and skimmed the tall body like it were a length of the rarest silk, and waited for a smile, that bloomed with a furtive stretch.

A tad spooked by our “pinch of salt” kind of ceremonial with an older, most elegant, bespoke fitted, gay, unfazed character, our two nymphets enlaced each other at the waist, hips swayed Canova style, and Gianni loved that. He had brought light and vague see-through chiffon dresses, that we donned at once, surprising the youth, for whom we ran and fetched previous models of Gianni’s he thought of fitting on the girls right away. He was delighted, already in shirtsleeves, with his wrist black velvet pincushion, basting here and thereupon the girls, like fitness models. After a few hours of babbling, tea and biscuits with the hard-working tailor, our elfies knew what it felt to wear a fitted hand-sewn outfit, and became adorers of Gianni’s, who caressed their feet and agreed that we should go get the proper model of Smith & Wooton sneakers, what we did, after we signed the bill and Kate slipped an Italian envelope into his breast pocket; our doe-eyed brats were stunned, they slipped on their jeans and Chuck Taylors, oversized shirts and we walked to the shoe shop. They smelled summer hay and happy sweat.

Neither Lizon nor Fayelle fitted in our shoes, a half-size more or less; we had to reckon we had been lucky all along, swapping our wears and colours. In the shops, they both became fussy fashionwise, but we agreed on dolphin grey, round-tipped, velvet slippers embroidered with stray rag dolls for Lizon, whom the salesperson made to blush, and Colefax & Fowler designed azure, asymmetrical peonies on Fayelle’s lean toys-with-toes; together, they felt dizzy learning the price of our whims for them.
Then we took them to Brigitte’s emporium, for all the close-up tortures such as manicure, pedicure, total wax —neither had ever done laser, yet. We, ourselves, in addition to our nails and toes, found ways to use our time, along with them, in beauty masks and peelings.
On our way back, we stopped at Agnete & Sanne for our dinner in bed. a bucket of grapefruit, sweet peppers, mushrooms and grapes seemed fit, along with different seeded bread rolls and elderberry-blueberry soy yoghurt, we kept spot-on vegan.

 

Kate says:

Back home, nude and idle, Sarah played provocation with the two girls, making them taste the all-new feeling left by the expertise of Brigitte and her helps, from the tips of their tongues, they admitted that thorough depilation made them feel even more nude, available to desires, deliciously helpless but deeply responsive. There, I began to lay down my depraved plot for next night; I had called my long time accomplice Victor, of whom Sarah could testify too, to carry us four to anywhere of his realm to use us or have us used, unrestrained, short of spilling blood, tearing or breaking any bodily part; I, and then Sarah, had played quite a few times, Victor is part of the “Circle Of Liars”, anyone partying at his want would be fully safe and tested, and the reward was usually hefty, always had been. Sarah had been wanking Lizon and I could see by the gleam of her come that she had been as aroused by this swiftly said program, as Fayelle at my side.

These two wondering frippets felt like stray sparrows at our nonetheless cautious hands, and they needed to ask numerous questions. All stretched and bare as the truth, upon our undone grand bed, Sarah and I had to tell our stories, slidings and spirals, in a manner, if not fully comprehensive, at least openly wholehearted. We were plugged into SomaFM, and captivating visuals by G-force, on the wall screen and the sound surround,  in the darkened room; I might have been near-sobbing while trying to recount the stupidest of my fails, but on the flip side they both wished they had been sent to Sarah’s squirrel’s heaven by a feet wizard almighty father, and she demonstrated how to tame a damsel counting her toe bonelets. The mess of us smelled of the new arrival of geranium-orange Neal’s Yard Remedies’ shower gel, and exaltations of indefatigable freshly groomed quims, in fits and starts to reach animalistic climaxes, collapse, glide sweaty skin on sweaty skin, and doze out.

Both sister souls, in the sheltered lenity of our bed’s brooklet, as visions of Klimt’s, sensuously divagated at our whims, vowing perpetual allegiance with us, trusting their new lives to our most libertine faith. Befuddled by the easy train of carnal jolts, reading us like compelling guidances of life ways fit for their idea of themselves. Their career into the confederacy of lust, to which we professed to belong, would step up through the next swoon-over garden of Victor’s, from where we had fostered the most adorable free Beryl electron, upstairs with Natalia, our promise, inclined to creep into anyone’s sleep and thighs, anytime. Since she was virtually born in the house, she has all access, like Beryl, daughter of Victor’s most trusted all time cook, was always there wherever I woke, inside the pandemonium. A dew of anticipation beaded at their foreheads when they surrendered to sleep, Sarah’s eyes sprinkled sapphire specks when I told her to play my bitch.

 

Sarah says:

It ought to be morning, an enchanting scent perfused through the pulled shutters, moist and petrichor, from the overgrown garden under Hugo’s bays, when I saw Lizon’s eyes staring spell, and my lower belly started to stiffen and ache, until she blinked, by reflex. I dared cup her still face and I felt it was warm like life. She was truly fascinating, like some Victorian legend out of her frame, and then I saw, there, sentience emerge and the mist of a smile float towards my tears; I felt dumb. She later explained that she had always done that, and she did not know it, but then on, I could watch her be absent, and moreover do to her whatever I fancied. From the far side of the sheet, Kate and Fayelle almost fell off, was it from laughs?
In the living room, the roses cried lust; some generous soul had brought French toast —I owed a lot of Cheshire grins, downstairs— also nectarines and strawberries, and an exotic smoothie in the refrigerator. Natalia too, was there, nude as a Cranach with a sharp knife of a toy, and whispered she had not dared use the loo, yet; as of what I heard she met Kate there, in the mood for watersports. As we watched the tea brew, Lizon was cajoling me, as if to be sorry for inflicting me the sight of some untold flaw of her; I had to wholly wake and straighten my gaze in hers, to assure this frail fawn-like stray that watching her little self-resuscitation had been an emotional trip, which I tickled out of her ribs.

In his rare drawn glass manner, Victor had written that he would pick only the two younglings to his night tour, and us all in three days, if their returning tales were to arouse us. Owning the right to Victor of his want, we, nonetheless, felt a cold wind and therefore wrote to Liselotte, letting her feel our wide availability for the night. Meanwhile, Natalia, with all the grace of her hips swayings, was raving on Victor’s infinite inspirations, such as told to her by Beryl, who was the long time pet in the Master’s maze —her mother was the chef, there— and had seen and been with the most hair-raising parties, which she loved to retell to her lustful apprentice. She was bustling on their laps and took pride at making her elders salivate, and more.
When this teapot was empty, Kate led us out to visit the upstairs, firstly to Natalia’s whereabouts, letting her know of the new connection with the next building. Natalia, no sooner had she seen the planks at the far end of the corridor, that her crafty mind had known new boarders were to come, and who knew what arrangements Hugo might imagine; for her own sake, she contemplated another path to their scented den of girls.

After some furtive animal beats on Natalia’s bed, in their appealing student atmosphere, under the peaceful gaze of Lee Miller sitting nude across the bed she shared with Man Ray, a real print given by Hugo, as a token to femininity, in a sleek frame, all along nude as the midsummer night fairies, we climbed down to the studio, and Natalia went on kissing Fayelle full mouth in the lift. These damsels were stunned by our “Palacio Mentale”, including the modern amenities, and, because it was summer, we all gathered under the wide showerhead and I wanked Natalia, laughing in her smooth tones of voice. Switching on our spacy sound system to Saturnian layered music, I thought I read some envy in Fayelle’s larimar gaze, so I took her to the red sofa and told her she was welcome, I thought, in school days memory, if we would think of her becoming.

 

Kate says:

Natalia sat beautifully in my chair, and I nibbled at her perfect toes, imagining the two kittens upstairs, grooming each other, in their ethereal nymphaeum; Fayelle had kept wondering what to fear, since the announcement that they were to go by themselves, and indeed, she was far from seasoned, as a casual libertine, on this nightly planet of pleasures. I had no better to say than she would anyhow enjoy herself as she had at Louis’, only the amazement ought to be greater, given Victor’s reputation as the most flabbergasting contemporary art collector, in the wall-to-wall category, although relentlessly teasing himself with live beauty objects, such as near-candid nymphs, richly motivated. Now both eager damselflies, in colours, tickled me to spoil some features of their upcoming mystery ride; I wouldn’t. I retold them that Sarah and I were regulars at his stupendous kind of club, and for a goodly reward, mind us. In the meantime, we needed to go to a routine blood check and make a party pass for Fayelle, Natalia whined that she did not have one, I told her she did not need one to stay with us.

After she read my message bringing to Liselotte’s attention the presence with us of some unfledged nymphet, naggingly appealing, said I —and Liselotte knew our house pet and had picked a taste of her bum— sometimes, the aforementioned imp frowned and set her feet up on the studio table, waiting for us to return, listening to my old favourite by Alpha, “Come From Heaven”, a gift from Cynthia.
It was warm but dry and windy; we preened our fillies, knowing full well what awaited them. The dresses Gianni had fitted could have flown out of a Wedgwood blue jasperware Greek revival villanelle; attuned to their eyes colours, one was “midsummer haze upon the Wattenmeer”, strewed with printed intertwined ribbons, with no sleeves and a round collar, widely flared from the breast down to the knees; it could be lifted with one hand —Fayelle wore no undies. In the same azure tones as her peony slippers, she needed a childish vest for pockets. Lizon swayed her hips in the pleats of green sandbanks, three layers of flimsy chiffon stitched to a slim willow green trimming opening front on her pale and flat chest and edging the shoulders; the anime-inspired forlorn dolls embroidered at her feet made fun of her princess outfit, a tiny silver-grey piqué bolero shimmered at her neck; it wasn’t very difficult to see her shy pubis, either.

A slow, impervious, moonshine-grey limousine drove across the Carousel bridge and awaited before the galleries of the Quai Voltaire to catch away the two elfies like in a movie scene. We bought raspberries and returned to our mindy pet girl.
Natalia had her thick dark hair cut swimmer-short, showing irresistibly dainty ears, amber-tawny eyes under lucky long lashes, and, then, she offered purple lips. She was still very nude, I started to dress her with an amethyst dog collar necklace, and assorted anklet; in our closet, she picked one of Sarah’s jean rolled-hem shorts, naggingly baggy, which truly made her fawn legs, and an ivory silk lingerie top that highlighted her tiny nipples; flat strapped sandals let her worshipped toes do Punch and Judy.
Sarah was in a lewd mood, too, she pulled a feather-light Mali indigo-stained shirt dress and blue Egyptian sandals. She was still gardenia white and eager, she let Natalia wank her lazily. I slipped on an ancient collarless boy’s shirt, from Sarah’s collection, over tell-all black yoga shorts, and white laceless sneakers. I too, donned a necklace and anklet, of black onyx
Liselotte called from a car downstairs, and we were taken to the flowered suburbs.

On the leather back seat, we had a bustling monkey all over us, for the amused interest of Liselotte and the driver up front; it triggered Sarah’s comments about the young and restless Esther, who had recently been assaulted and injured by a demented pig diplomat she had wanted to score. The horror had rand alarms through the high courts that do not exist, and while Esther’s face was fully bandaged, the brainless criminal became no longer a diplomat, nor anything, in his shamed homeland; he had been formally expelled after a fit of rage in a palace hotel, because he could no more obtain extra-services from anyone, he had thrown furniture out of the windows.
Natalia had not lost the part when Esther would have “scored” the diplomat, and force was it to elaborate on Esther’s current occupations. She grasped swiftly, and went on saying at least three of her classmates did earn money in special online chatrooms, and not only tips; one of these girls even had dragged her onto her stage bed for a few hours of pandering to some eight hundred peeping Toms who had clicked-down their tokens fast to watch schoolgirls play with each other’s gashes and stuff. Now she said it had been a one-off, but I could feel an eager dew inside her shorts.

The whole trip, Liselotte had bent over towards us, gaining one or two of Sarah’s feet she had come to worship, too; I smiled thinking of what she let the driver ogle of her; she mostly devoured Natalia’s candid face, with occasional winks, at me.
We had parked in a deserted avenue lined with French-pruned lime trees and buhrstone walls; while the car glided away, Liselotte neared the smaller of two violet de mars lacquered doors of the imposing entrance to a deeply wooded estate, the concierge pad lit-up, and she slid in her own blank card; bigger lights meant that a camera scrutinised us, then a dry clap signaled the door opened.
The park smelled the arch-evocative blend of boxwoods, roses, and the kind of murky scents hinting of a nearby pond. Sarah was enthralled with swarms of reminiscences from paradise; low, shaded lights, were just only enough to see the path that meandered through well maintained high foliages, Liselotte was taking the most of Sarah’s boundless emotional puff, raving in her neck on the night to be. I was hand-carrying Natalia’s meager outfit; lit from below, she appeared like a girl fay, conjured by an Edmund Dulac.

Walking by a curve of the paved road, there was some eerie heavy breathing, shuffling from under the bushes; we regrouped and turned to Liselotte for a clue, she knew this place. She seemed to be as spooked as we were, and spluttered vaguely. So then, a pair of, as yet nonchalant, great mastiffs stopped and scented us up, two white doodles on the patch of mowed grass. Natalia was shaking, clung to my side. Then a very high pitched sounded from nowhere, making me realise it was night, for good, and the dogs leaped away silently. Natalia had peed on her feet. Liselotte mumbled apologies, but we moved on.
The one-storied manor was eleven bays long, in clear limestone, the most classical French way, overlooking an English designed park, with a curvaceous pond. There was no moon to be seen, but the stiil, starry night above the black silhouettes of the trees and in the water mirror. The festive interior cast glimmers of candle lights and crystals as we neared the perron, on the paved terrace.

A well-built young man, with a bushy tawny mane tied in a catogan, in a theatrical Grand Siècle outfit, the white stockings and black patent leather slippers, hurried down to us and kissed our hands rather informally, mostly those of my puzzled pet imp. In the muted rumour that suffused from inside, along with scents of marshmallow and violet, some string of notes hit a nerve in my chest, and I knew Malo was playing for the party, I cried out joyfully, almost forgetting my poor Natalia begging to find her a place to wash up her pissy legs.
Yes, Malo was there, with only one candle, nude on a precious rug with her gleaming instrument, only she had now affixed microphones clipped under the fingerboard, and she was improvising along with two lovable Hang gongs beaters, namely those who accompanied our night on the Saint Louis island.
Firstly, Natalia and I needed at least a shower, the tuft headed boy led us to a bathroom, and stayed; the spacious marble clad recess was lit from behind wavy surfaced glass panes, and a saturnine crystal vortex to the ceiling. Natalia wanted more than running water, and, obviously, the management of this house had displayed a hoard of all the miniature toiletries you may find in expensive venues, she chose a man’s classic “Habit Rouge”and I approved, and so the comedy valet, whose breeches really showed his enthusiasm, then; —and were conveniently closed by a fall front where my soapy hand did marvel— I was to tell him not to try to shag my cadette, when Liselotte found us and came in the flow, highly approbative of the scent choice, which earned Natalia a gluttonous kiss. She helped the servant lose his pants and told him that the young one was there to watch and be watched, not much more, but she took the availed dick in her bunghole, hardly standing to the humping by a young blood .

There again, things were going terrific, five minutes after we had entered this house, we were already shagging in the restroom, along with a nude nymphet we had brought. Liselotte received eagerly her due, the tepid water flowed and Natalia was teasing the undeterred cock into shape again.
Sarah ought to have been captured and not defend her pretty frame against greedy hands or more, Liselotte was asking me what I waited for, speaking of the windfall willie that Natalia presented me. The attendant had a curvy mouth, I pulled him to kiss me while I sat on a commodity console and he also penetrated my easy cooter, delightfully taking his time with his second round. Meanwhile Liselotte ensnared my pet sister out to the depth of the party.
When we had both reached our vapoury glows, and again washed our glory anew, I asked him his name, he was Josselin Le Fayel, whom I then singled out as one of Liselotte’s courtiers at our show, and she would know how to touch him, perchance; he knew things about me, and Sarah, we had patronised the same alma mater, in our salad days.

Sarah rested lewdly on a large oriental cushion, at Malo’s feet, accepting the heavy, sculpted, shelam and sucking the flame given by a coppery-skin, erected, fine-feeted groom, blocking her breath like old times, capsizing in a Bernini smile. I loved her terribly. My eyes crossed Malo’s gaze and she stitched an elusive ornament into her improvisation, showing me the tip of her tongue. Sarah was already swimming slow into foreplay with the flame genie; I had not inhaled any dragon’s tail since my Berlin collapse, but I knew what gold fishes she was coiling along with, I remembered our project of doing a full-blown psychedelic trip together, in the safety of our grand bed; after two more puffs, they shagged like godlike feather-snakes, I had been erased from Sarah’s sentience, he donned a beastly muscular back  —it was her fucking turn.

Natalia had been searching for me, she showed me the vibrant red plastic bracelet that Liselotte had sealed on her wrist, sign that she was only an undergraduate at the sciences here in motion; nonetheless she told me that she had been abundantly palpated before she saw me. We heard some eerie laments, and it weren’t Sarah. Liselotte signed for us to follow her to a further salon, where an all-blond creature was tied to a knee-high bench and thoroughly licked by one of the molossus met in the park; she wore a red leather jumpsuit wide opened at the crotch. All of a sudden, the animal climbed on its forelegs and presented its pointed weewee in the bum-crack of the not-so-unwilling patient, and humped frantically all over the offered butt without finding its way in, until it did and managed to slid in a monstrous flesh contraption, and gradually steadied itself, fixing down the overwhelmed maiden, letting itself drip overflow, tongue dangling. Clenching my little pet soul, I wouldn’t have known what to elaborate about the caligulesque orgy, but Natalia could feel my quim was again drenched —I made sure about hers—.  Bestiality, as often mentioned in good erotic literature, were a transgressive hunch beyond human eroticism, then and there rashly shown as feasible. The dogs belonged to the girl, told us a shrewd lad who would know the kick that kind of outrageous demonstration produces on an unaware libertine audience, he was already fiddling in my butthole; when the spent mastiff collapsed aside, he jumped with his stiff dick to bugger the red damsel. I would not have shunned the licking part of the game, but I mentally shied the veins-ridden monstrous truncheon I had seen insert itself into the pale kitty of the leather-clad blonde.

Liselotte dragged us into an all-black boudoir, rummaged through soft-lined drawers, then I felt heavy strap leather handcuffs that she locked together in my back, telling Natalia to affix another pair to my ankles; she said she would shun the bit, to let my mouth available, and buckled a sturdy collar around my neck, kissed me full-mouth, palpated me over and clipped on a leather leash, with which she whipped my butt; she then bedecked Natalia of the same accessories, making her giggle and wring by her unfettered abuses, and finally link her collar to mine, saying that the filly should remain with her mare, for the time being. By the leash, she pulled us, willy-nilly, Natalia jostling a bit, different metal rings, hooks and snap-links made brutal sounds —though the wearing of the harness was altogether comfortable. A side door led to black helical stairs up to a black corridor feebly lit by the inner gleam of crystal mirror frames, in which I relished to see us two bound together. A double door opened on a dark muffled and misty salon, haunted by respiration sounds, that smelled strongly of cannabis and opium, as I whispered in Natalia’s ear. After a while, being displayed by our nude procurer in the center of the rug, lit by four dark lanterns, and a round of pipe lamps —although it seemed the assembled immortals used more modern contraptions to free the drug dragon and inhale it swiftly. Skinny younglings ran around the pipes to attend, crouching in a way that showed their illegally young butts, except for Liselotte who caressed one, who raised a small scion, just like Cynthia’s; that one was shaved bald and offered blooming lips to Natalia, as I wanked in my back the undetermined peewee the way my lover had taught me, before kneeling, with all the rattling sounds, to suck it thoroughly.

Appreciative rumours hailed my amorous tribute to bygone seasons they would never know of, while I drank the liquor that spurted from somewhere at the birth of the valiant little stem, and made Natalia taste on my lips while our windfall semi-god stumbled, then granted us a fond black gaze.
A rough male voice ordered a bench be rolled in, and a few more nude kids bearing diverse leather accessories like straps and belts, all pretty and on-task like circus extras, both sexes, buckled me, my body, upon the black leather padding, my ankles lifted high by two chains from the ceiling, so as to offer my dripping sanctum to the crowd. Natalia was kept close to my head, the heavy smokes had turned us on, Liselotte held a lunge whip while wanking me masterfully, the young genderqueer imp played tongue upon my lips, I was reckoning that my old angst had not fired up, I was expecting the whip, and the cock.
Liselotte checked the strength of my ties, and, after another kiss to Natalia, whipped my chest, my belly, my thighs and between, deep in the crack, until I yelled out of accepted pain, at the chants of the stoned attendance, who had stood and circled up my torment. Natalia was sobbing, Liselotte stopped, my filly’s tears flowed in my eyes, I whispered low that this was all a game, and that they would now fuck and bugger me silly, for her to see, or not, it were always time to stop, if she would better. I knew someone was fondling her, over me, and her kiss was winding; her hands brushed over the whip marks, firing pain and delight; a taut manly jigger-mast possessed me like a gust through an open door, it was the first of so many more, I saw the relentless charge of the moon horses, the flights of swans over the dark forests, and the jewels lines inside Natalia’s brightened eyes. More of them pulled my hips up and reached into my butthole while others devoured the young body with their tongues and made way for those who discharged in my throat, that repulsive savour of filth, incomparable yet addictive as the lashes of the whip. Slow hands were creeping all over my sweats, mean coyotes lapped up my armpits, my feet, my neck, I was a river of bodily scents, I drifted in an tideway of humming oblivion.

When I regained my spirits, out of the waving tapestries of my own unfathomable pandemonium, I were lying on a vast sofa bed where the last comatose shagged ought to have occurred, a purplish blue gleam bathed the room, I ached in my bones and joints, but Natalia and Liselotte applied upon my valorous skin some legendary witch balm, along with my new genderqueer conquest of whom I remembered keenly; the name was Delfan Vigery, the eyes, swift and witty, aventurine green, by the colour of the eyebrows, only pilose remnant about the body, this beauty’s hair were acorn blond. I loved that otherly sweet skin, this bony square frame, not unlike my Sarah’s, one’s mouth was deliciously gallant, too. Then and there, I was spent, Natalia was wild-eyed and revelled in Delfan’s novelty; Liselotte –who had been eventually as much savaged as me, reclined her cheek on the thighs she had martyrised; still ornate in leather, steel and bronze, I decided I wanted to find Sarah, and took the two devil kids with me. The whole house was sleepened, now, eventually I unearthed my “Doppel-verträumt” inside a vortex of white linens, ensnared to Malo, both smiling in their sleep; I knew it was preferable to soothe her back from her towers of Rosenborg flights, I invited the party in the bed and uncovered the cloud gliding couple, Malo’s hand rested on Sarah’s pubis. Natalia an Delfan were enthralled and aroused, I foresaw the thrill at the discovering of one’s candid eyes and irreal body. One had, en passant, hinted of the latent shame one bore on oneself, why one craved being shagged silly endlessly, for lack of wholesome love, because of one’s exception, and I had tried to beam on one all the liveliness that night had left in my spine, kissed one whole and held one’s lovable eeriness in my fingers. And that is while in a such moment the mindy squirrel revived from her faraway shores and stared at Delfan, read her whole, grabbed the catch and smiled, in full trust of my mental whereabouts. I made a thorough presentation of one, whom she jumped and hugged, singing some gibberish alleluia, starting to grope whatever she could of one’s.

Delfan had slipped on baggy jeans, an oversized tee-shirt, and a light yellow, business-like, double-breasted jacket with rolled sleeves, shoed cute beaded white mocassins, for one had been invited at Natalia’s. Liselotte was proud of the whole sequence of unleashed debauchery, her clout among them, Panado affiliates, should raise to the scope of an imperium, even when an unforeseen windfall the likes of a Delfan grace would transfigure a mere tourist attraction –these whip marks stung like endless nettles, didn’t they? Malo was in a hurry, in a short black and white checkered dress over white tights and black patent leather slippers, fresh as a pre-dawn dew, smelling of wild rose, she was running to the taxi outside the park, promising to visit us, kissing bemused Delfan and pulling her cello case’s strap across her shoulder.
The red leather blonde and her two companions had zipped back her crotch and played her toes on one of the twins’ throat, who showed the same stale boredom.
Our train of angels wrested itself out of this informal bordello of sorts, increased of an intersex applicant that would not return to one’s hotbed and had become Natalia’s overnight’s pet, thus an in-law of mine, too.
Led with maintained bravura by Liselotte, myself arm in arm with a dreamy Sarah, we walked away along the still dark meanders, saluted by the earlier blackbird mocking us. The car was one of these German minibusses with all the road comfort, Natalia hurtled to the third bench with her catch, whenas three of us mingled in each other’s slumbers, softly jolted by the humming black whale.
We reached home in a glorious dawn, Delfan was stunned by what one called our grand stand, as much as our wholehearted kindness, one said one never would like to leave our nest, and Natalia served herself a heap of tender bits about one’s soft-hearted person; I knew she would reach Hugo any price, her own mother if need be, to obtain a pass for one to settle, and she only had a faint glimmering of the decisions involved. For then and there, she longed to lay nude in one’s arms and eventually doze out.
Liselotte mentioned that we wouldn’t mind her staying in our bed after crawling at Sarah’s feet in the shower —begging for being peed on, a last time.

 

Lizon says:

I had never ridden such luxury, by reflex, I took of my shoes and sat on my feet; the gliding cloud smelled of dark red wood and black orchid inside the tweed jacket of a beloved uncle, when you are not taller than where his heart pumps. An impressive man was sitting beside us, causing Fayelle to lean on me to face him. He wore some thin black double-breasted suit of matte silk and wool brocade, as it felt, with a silver gleam vest and an open immaculate shirt, he could have brought a glory days producer to bankruptcy, for what I knew. Right away profiting of the road bumps, he led his hand into Fayelle’s nude thighs and disposed her moody blue creases upon her belly. We had only met, he transfixed us both with squinted dark eyes and thick lashes, and he told us to make love to one another, as the car reached a shaded corner of some park and other heavy cars parked along ours to let voyeurs enjoy our tiny pantomime, as Victor cradled our obedient heads in his streamlined hands. Some of the johns took pride in spurting on the windows. As he told the turbaned chauffeur to roll on, he unbuttoned his fly and asked us to suck his dick, which loomed up from white silk satin. Fayelle went for it with abandon and I loved her for it, as I sought some blessing in Victor’s glare and reaped a mindful kiss. He wanted us to swap, and Fayelle to lick my butthole while I throated him as deep as our contorsions let, and I began to feel whorish and wet as I would never have known otherwise.

He gushed in deep and told me to swallow all, kindly, so I went on with my slutty persona, letting him guess I relished his whims. For years, I had been more or less sold by Eric to his junkie pals who used me as an offloader bag, and somehow, the vertigo of my own worthlessness, after the miserable enslavement to my own granddad, had kept me back from what Eric headed to, with his tremors shivers and convulsions. Since Hector had ferreted me out of the glue, surrendered me alive to his dragon master, I had been threading anew my elements of lust and lost gradually the mould of my poor soul, in harmony with the free birds of the invisible castle. After that speckle of gold in my chest, Lizon succeeded, almost in spite of me, to elate my eager womb and taste my holy flows. Victor patiently stole away our attires, the sun set over endless fields, where windmills waived any remorse.

Down from the bare industrial grain and beet fields, the car slowed down a greener and fresh valley that smelled of heady poplar leaves. An iron gate’s robust wings swivelled asides at the command of Victor’s telephone, a river led to a centuries old monastery, with moats and fish basins. Installed in a long prairie where placid horses paid no attention, stood a large copper sphere, greying against a curtain of tall trees, it was four or five times higher than the horses that grazed at its base.
At the coming of the car, another heavy portal started to open in what felt as a defence wall beyond the moat, there were creaky noises in the wood bridge, and we rolled through a paved courtyard to a stately door in a corner; The sunset had chilled the air and an ethereal mist hovered amongst the tall trunks, but the ground remained warm under our bare feet, we breathed carefree, we danced together before our host.
With all his sartorial splendour retightened, he embraced us on each sides and led us into a vast and high, round armoury, –although no arm were to be seen in the palace, where the main feature was a planet sized blown glass mirabilia hanging at the nexus of the stone vault, the fiery work of the Irish Master Chihuly, in all the deep, gemlike colours of transcended carnal passion. Under the prodigious halo spawned within the exploded efflorescence, a thick and soft carpet, woven in cloud shapes, already called for lust, under my toes.

Echoes of a fluid melody flew in all directions and he told us the water was playing it randomly through an ages-old revived contraption. As he was playing kindly with my arse, he led us to a small round marble clad chamber, lit by a rain of tiny prismatic crystals in the hollow of cupola; on the ground, a black and white optical pavement radiated around the pedestal of a “pietre dure” table, only furniture of this cosy kind of oratory. The top of the table was one round piece of clear Carrara marble, overran by a jumble of inlaid fauna and curiosæ, polished to a high luster, all figured running away from a central black sun.
Out of a secret niche I had not seen him operate, Victor fetched a small gold jewel box, engraved on its six faces with enraptured nymphs floating in the endless waves, with no groove to show where it might part opened. The thing was heavy, appealing to the hand, infinitely finished, like apparently everything Victor craved, and he brushed over my baby tits with the virtuoso ridges of the small masterpiece, while Fayelle pressed her flanks to mine and groped me like I were part of the art piece.
Victor spoke of what was inside the casket, it was his own recipe of an ultimate blend of psychedelic drugs, one he had been crafting along with the mind tweaking prophet whose ashes float in space today. From what he was then feeling of my intimacy, he knew I shied off, and he made me retell my fright, helped by my sister libertine. He did not insist, told us what, other than cocaine, was in the mix, and jokingly warned me they might, as well, snort the powder themselves, and dose me up with their kisses. Setting down the shiny box upon the black sun, he pressed a succession of precise details, a foot, a hand, a face, and then one of the larger sides lifted up along one edge, letting shown a stash of pale dawn blue powder in the mirror sleek gold inside. A tiny jewelled gold spoon was half-buried in the impalpable dust.

 

Fayelle says:

For what she had confessed of her previous damned life, I knew Lizon would baulk at a drug proposition, and I understood the panic fright it might spark off in her bones. yet, our elders had talked about the wondrous blue dust, even Beryl had advised not to miss a chance, and she had experienced since her petit rat days in Victor’s grand Parisian fortress.
Victor did not start a palaver about the anecdote, after inhaling a good spade load to himself, he matter-of-factly handed me the trinket spoon and pushed the open box in my direction, and, trusting Kate’s advice, I snorted the eerily smelling powder, and hugged the Prince Charming. Leaving Lizon in the oratory, he took me back onto the grand carpet under the colour corollas, and asked me to disrobe him.
I had soon perceived an alleviation all along my spine down to my womb and the close sight of his tanned skin and dry muscles made me feel drenched; were it a kick of the sneaky substance, I had never enjoyed keener attentions than his massages and tongue twirls. Amongst the disheveled choirs that suffused in my brainwaves, the voice of Sarah advising a thorough toilet before surrendering to the wolf fangs diverted me, a second, from revelling in his eager glare and let go on a boggling chaplet of climaxes.
Like sugar on some dainty pastry, Lizon showed traces of powder at her nostrils’ rims, and I licked them clean, with the echoing songs of some naughty kindergarten recesses; she was lain upon my blissful belly and Victor was buggering her calmly, his smile pouring into my eyes.

She wriggled her narrow hips like a sparrow in a dusty spot of sun, I could feel her dancing heartbeat, no nasty afterthought would cling to her elated soul, for the night being. He shouted off his pleasure deep into her, and then peacefully cuddled us in the contemplation of the refracted lights, as our dilated pupils shimmied ad infinitum, into the hovering carousel.
While ineffable shudders roamed the vessels of my transfixed material being, visions waved through my sight in successive tapestries of meticulous ornaments, howbeit allowing me to stand, unfettered, and move, clenched aside my amorous and slutty lass, to another door, and the mirror-clad powder room, where Victor, wild-eyed, gave us enemas of devilish neroli, and asked for the same treat to himself, at what we clumsily obliged.
He showed us to a new, large vaulted gallery, lit by an erratic array of clear, texture-pressed stained-glass clouds, sheltering swarms of cool-white leds. Otherwise, the room was meticulously empty, but of course, upon the marble floor, a palm-width deep carpet ran like an echo of the ceiling’s clouds ran the full length, foretelling the capacity of possible orgies. One length was opened with frosty bays of the same crystal as the chandelier, across, were hung twelve panes of a stupendous low-relief composition of copulating demigods and beasts, seemingly executed in ivory white lacquered wood, gold leaf, and inlaid random details in polished lapis lazuli scattered upon the upper fields of purely abstract decorative skies.
I stood, flabbergasted, if ever, so powerful was the piece; only on vintage photos of the ocean liners decor had I met ideas of this kind of magnitude, and achievement.

As we stumbled across the plushy mounds of wool, the infinite generated sounds raved on, reverberated like an invisible flock of bats through and around us; like tickles on our temples, rows of crystal harps unrolled flickering acrobatics, when we started to see the life size characters and beasts on the multifold panel begin to move and mingle, winking at us. Victor had gripped my rump and bent me forward to Lizon’s while he glided in me like the steel in the scabbard. The divinities in the shimmering curtain exuberantly spent their ardours, as we did, till exhaustion, till I howled like a distraught lioness nailed to a soil of bliss.
We ought to have dozed out, our tamer carried us unconscious to this tepid and scented pond in the midst of a dim alabaster refuge. Our heads had been ensconced on attentionate pads, he was still playing with our toes, his own tucked in my boundless acceptance.
The world had changed, the emotions that surged out of my ensavaging plexus seemed to form, at my will, colours, shapes, and sounds indifferently and backwards, striking waves of fourth dimension climaxes, and I could read the same ecstasy over Lizon’s transfigured face, as I literally swam to her.

When our fingertips started to funnily crease, Victor bore us back to our true weight and motherly wiped us; he opened a gold, round, powder box on which blue butterflies frolicked, against a dawn-orange, guilloché, enamelled sky. With the puff he had fetched inside the box, he blessed our bodies wholly in a smell of irises, violets, lilac, and we nuzzled each other in a frenzy, and his indefatigable intimacies, I repaid a favour to him, wanking his butthole with two stiff fingers. In a breather, he warned us that the dose we had swallowed was still in action, and would last till dawn, so we should spend ourselves freely and he would see to cradle us together, eventually.
Grabbing our butt cheeks lewdly, he pushed us through a door to a sombre, glass-floored, corridor, and shut the door behind. Under our playful feet, in a subdued purplish light, seemingly an arm length deep, laid a chaotic, shambolic mix of dust, pebbles, bones, unnatural debris, the complete entrails of a lost cemetery , and also teeth, jewellery, beads in their timeless rows… suddenly I flinched, at the hunch that there were no heads to be seen. As I looked up to Victor, he displayed a poor smirk and pushed our suddenly misplaced silhouettes towards the far end of the pathway, where we over went upon a heap of skulls of all sizes, some still half-buried; he said that the massacre had taken place at that very location, and the detailed examination had showed that a group of more than a hundred had been beheaded, probably during the heated religious wars that plagued France as a horrendous counterpoint to the Renaissance. Charnel grounds like these were not rare, this one had occurred inside religious confines and concealed under heavy slabs without any form of pardon. He lifted both of us, whose feet were almost freezing in the gaze of the mucky heads, and flew us to the next room, letting the door slap.

 

Lizon rants:

Some anteroom for amenities led to a large one-flight vault room, a multifaceted dome plated with haphazardly shaped red copper shields, like the geometry of aggregated bubbles in a cloud of froth, magnified to an awe-striking superhuman dimension. But I still belonged emotionally with the miserable swarm of decayed heads beyond the last door, awaiting pardon in the vain rubble, and clung feverishly to my soul twin, whose dear, stricken face, covered with fever dew. Immersed in the shimmering glow reflected by the rosy polished metal, a hummock of rounded, indolent-shaped, padded pods offered refuge to coil ourselves together and sob our marred dreams away. Victor crouched into the hideout, snuggled along my back and consoled our fright on his robust chest, as I felt his unabated desire against my bereft slit. Over my helpless plunders, he gripped Fayelle’s tide-wrack of a body and he humped in me as if to stab through both, slurring low vaguely shredded metaphors of death and vanity I comprehended unconscionably within my bedevilled womb.

Fayelle felt dancing against my devastated tummy, as I drifted throughout the crepuscular tatters of the rat-ridden wilderness, the self-pitied wounds of my wretched infancies like vivid coloured flaming shreds shattering upon the low terraces of solitude. My beauteous tormentor tangled up into my bejewelled innards, I swam like the rapturous medusa upon my drowned and forlorn lover lass, and she turned over for a pearly kiss and a hawthorn bliss laughter on my elated lips. Victor poured forth in my abandoned depths, like a vein of opal through the lava flow, and I ought to have turned loose all memory bounds in a blaze of mercy.

 

Sarah says:

It was laze-about afternoon in the studio, with our new gender-free pet beauty reading nude on the red couch, the unusual focus of anatomy looking pretty much like a girl’s vulva. The tribe of younglings barged in, Beryl had been missioned to release the debutantes from their expedition to Victorland. They carried chic carrier bags and wore new rags like expensive leggings and chiffon shirts, I fell in love instantly and groped their giggling bellies. They had woken somewhere in a sunny countryside, tall bays opened to a mellow breeze, and a table was dressed for three. Their driver, unimpressed by their nudity, brought the tea and coffee they asked, and sanguine oranges juice, toasts, fruit, and two fat envelopes to their names, in handwriting. Beryl had appeared, all smiles as ever, like she were another casual luxury of the realm, answering all necessary questions, forgetting others. When the usual pampering was done, she led them, through none of the rooms they had a recollection of, to a Gothic peristyle they admired, where the grand car purred, waiting.
Beryl had made no mystery she had known all about their night, she had been born in there, and she slid hands everywhere; The girls felt outrageously rich, The Sikh chauffeur had driven the heated trio to the Square Boucicaut.

However used to meeting suave humanity, so to speak, Beryl was stunned by a smiling Delfan, near whom she sat, eye in eye, listening to a smidgen of introduction by Kate, on the subdued tone of caution, at what one responded by opening one’s legs and hence giving a good glance at her, resting a knee on Beryl’s lap, inviting a caress, as it went. All the time when the two little courtesans bragged their debauchery in the stunning haunt neither Kate nor me ever knew of, Beryl was fondling and sucking Delfan and earned a wet face to herself. Later, Natalia emerged from her young sleepiness, we called for a rhubarb and plum tart from Punch An Judy, with the custard, and I brewed some rainy blissful oolong tea.
Lizon had reminiscences of the dead, pressed against the edge of the purple tunnel as if to escape their ordeal; she rationalised the vision without the supplementary dimensions the drugs had suffused in her mind, I called her on me, she smelled of a shy rose, and an idea of all the assaults she had let be done to her until dying at dawn, I was enthralled, her new pants felt peachy easy.
As Natalia had encaptured Fayelle upon James’ armchair —where Annabelle had she lured James away to? Kate joined Delfan and Beryl in their plays. She wanted to bring Delfan downstairs before dinner time. She invited one to see for some fittingly appealing outfit to visit the Lord of these swishy dovecotes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

16 – Katherine Sophie – One Last Flight Of The Tudor Angels (And A New Takeoff In A Paris Dusk)

Sarah says:

This intoxicating beehive where we breathed and pirouetted in was now as full as Marie’s womb, —as we had seen her lately— I supposed her will has not waned, to throw some defenceless new soul in the general skittles game, and become unremittingly accountable before it; as I may read a few lives around mine, the preservation of the species outpours into pataphonia at most assays. Were it an undetected form of resistentialism, among humanity, that an unchosen few aggregates with each other, by way of occult magnetic fields, unconscious attraction, or fatal seduction? Marie sported a horizontal Buddhist smile, even when she slept, I guessed, and made love with devotion to anyone who wished to cuddle her worshipped balloon and relish her pouting lotus.
It was my birthday season, some twilights felt golden and endless, and our cherubic recruits would sit on our red couch, and read aloud haunted tales by Marcel Schwob or Achim von Arnim, alleviating the long-haul emotional tremor of our exhibition, as rewarding as it might have been. Hugo’s mental herd was in high demand, Liselotte showed a beaming complexion, our stray kittens had nested safely.
Then, with his birthday wishes, my father dropped a chilling address in the alignment of my immemorial crystals, our Tudor City perch had been sold, Far was retiring to Lausanne, and he needed me to sort out with the moving, and say grace to the river, which, anyhow, would eventually become barred from our terraces’ view when the three new glassy towers would stand upon the power plant’s wasteland. Did he say bygones be bygones?

Whatever the squirrel hid inside my hat, I was thrilled to bring Kate on my playground, and Far promised he would invite us in Lausanne as soon as the paint dried. Walking up to me, Kate pressed me on her heart and swore she would stand along with me; I had been crying. Fayelle and Delffan begged us to leave them in the studio while we were away, as if I had imagined to go for more than a week, at most, they obtained some limited enjoyment rights, and overall we trusted their discretion, furthermore, they had access to many nooks to have fun in without troubling our poetic paraphernalia, they said they wanted our books and there was the best place to read them.
Hugo took the news in his equable way, began to play havoc with my indeed unkempt work outfit, made me feel amorous, and decreed he would fetch us a flight of our own, then they stripped me nude and went tea-time naughty, as I like.
After the most convincingly fast and loving answer to Far, I sounded all alarms in our latent private Newyorchese chatroom, which only took a few hours to start whirring like forty-second street. Unsurprisingly, most of my pals lived far away from the glass cliffs of our childhoods, but, at least Julia Grant whom I had known so well in Saint Loup, awaited keenly after the frustrating elusiveness of her passage in Paris for our show; and Elsie Chautemps, who had become a lawyer and worked mainly for the UN, my cinnamon dancer with a heart, craved to see one last time the birdhouse of our nascent debauchery, and smell me for in the flesh, also she would go fish for the best animals in our dancing class, but test them for expiration.

There were some signs of upheaval among our younglings, but we pleaded it wasn’t a case of unfair abandonment, but of forlorn childhood rescue inside of my only soul, so they rested their rancours, in light of what seemed like some gravity, we made some pancakes with fruit and honey and thus gave our silly muffs a sweet taste.
Two suitcases laid opened in our room —sometimes big enough to contain a girl— awaiting for the attires of two sputnik Parisians descending upon Nueva York. In travel occasions, Kate shows best in high-end sportswear, but it is exactly what Ralph Lauren does, and she would rather shop on Madison to load her camels for the way back. I devised that she sports jeans like Carly Simon in my Far’s fantasies, and she owns a whole trousseau of her great aunts’ fineries, just enough provincial to strike as otherworldly for today’s lust. She is tall, so all these wise blouses are a tad too short on my Queen Fairy, and so, she shows her intact navel to anyone’s concupiscence.
As for me, I felt like swinging around like I would have fancied for some kinky Liselotte appointment, in a mix of vintage Danish boys’ shirts, and the best of Gianni’s craftily scavenged tailored evening jackets; in case of mental bug, one of my Boro coats could serve as a safety blanket, my soul as a scarf; overall, naught we shouldn’t dare don at a “Café Des Artistes” dinner with my Far. Anyhow, we still possessed the utmost luxury worth boasting in the monstrous city, that is a narrow arse and long legs, —to what Far would add slender feet.

We blessed, in a long kiss, our premonitory care for keeping our passports valid, and complied right away with the online registration, one never sneaks in the US, and I no longer carry a UN pass. The news of our expedition had been heralded on Radio Stockholm, one of our private community gazettes, Liselotte was already prowling around our fillies, but Natalia was enough smitten with Delffan not to wish cruising around, only had I scented some nifty shenanigan downstairs, Hugo had pretty soon yielded to Natalia’s wish to lodge Delffan in the high dovecote.
Boys of many kinds, who smelled of ripened wheat fields and faraway pines next to their coveted doors, had met the swayed eyes rookies and the knight of a flaming mane craved all of them but needed some go-ahead from us, principally.
As we were standing at attention, ready to run at the drop of a hat, we let the company camp in our court and ordered vegan pizzas, mesclun salad with hard boiled eggs, and many bottles of Kombucha.
Gauthier was his most, he smelled of that straw like a lark, and camomille, resin, and an echo of dusk jasmine on his gold speckled skin; I brushed his fly when he kissed good evening, he was already hard. When he had been teased by many, he beguiled the princesses and fell for the new ones, he already had his ways with Beryl and Natalia. Theo was overwhelmed by Delffan, who let him take one‘s hands and lead to the far end of a couch, dumbfounded. They engaged subtly in a reckoning of their existences and thus hugged, often; Natalia, who felt she had a right, joined them and petted her heavenly lover like they had been doing from their encounter. Fair-play, Theo let a trio be and willfully responded to Natalia’s flirt, as he saw content in the candid face of the shave headed one. Upon the spurious pretext of casting a glance to the ongoing arrangements upstairs, they flee with light-hearted giggles.
While Kate and me kept mostly to our own busy selves, —current activities had rekindled our old habits—, Gauthier had had the finesse to let the pair of debutantes potter about together, and sweet-talk them into disrobing each other, which they did , and all he wanted, casually. He could not know what kind of entertainment the lily-white maidens had attended lately, but he would not have been a man to take offense of a lovely pair of backstage nymphets; he lay down and offered a valiant willy, while he fondled their modest slits and eyelets. Lizon was first to greet him into her, with a deep glare.

Knowing, from themselves, that they would still elope, unpredictably, into scapes of their late Victorian experiences, a stark enrichment which would wane in weeks, only to glaze out, thinly, back in some mindful situations, or emotional highs, we slid ourselves nude along their shapely backs, preening the angel wings of their lucid dreams; I breathed in Lizon’s neck and shushed any spawning angst with a magic I could never retell, as Kate, once reborn from the apocalyptic cavalcades, had taught me after I had dared the blue dust myself, under her watch. We then became wired like teens, without any other substance than our unrestrained longings, Lizon gushed beastly and Gauthier took advantage of her, keenly, upon my lower belly until I felt them drip over my slit. Fayelle, who had been kissing the golden gallant, head flung off, hurled to the soaked, relenting shaft, and revived it in her little mouth that would, gasping at all the gooey proofs of lust, only to crawl up her vivacious arse up to the pink willie, ready to bugger again.
Later, under the shower pardon, we smelled like a haystack under the rain, and then rubbed each other like lunacy with a whole bottle of Neal’s Yard concoction of geranium and orange that has long blessed our naughty skins. Gauthier avowed a compelling urge for cunt, albeit he revelled at being buggered by a solid cock himself, he made us laugh, Lizon became curious of his ways; I guessed she would soon be invited to participate in some perverted sharings in her own neighbourhood, but for then, the fillies slept with us.

 

Kate says:

Sarah was obviously tense, and proud to take me to the monsterland of her fertile juvenescence, the craggy way point of her inner legend, between the misty lights of the Øresund and the whirling stars of the Leman shores, even if that meant to close an eventful stage. The Panado Pegasus would take-off next morning at 11:00 and land at Teterboro at 14:00 local time.
Since we held the departure platform, we attracted the pyjama crowds at our bounteous table. Although they probably knew all the answers, the younglings had swarms of questions about a metropolis that remains, thanks to the painstaking efforts of the Milton Glaser/ Martin Scorsese generation, an appealing trap, albeit disfigured and suffocated by the disgrace of a new deadly urbanism, allowing idiocies like the 1500 feet needle buildings, killing what had been a prowess in the Art Deco ages. Not to mention the overturned fairy-tale reverie of the medieval revival, the brown-bricks and molded pinnacles club Sarah belongs to, next door to Garbo’s.
Fanny was earnestly intrigued by the windfall arrival of Delffan, a savoury phenomenon, so to speak. One was an orphan of sorts, too, disowned, sent astray, and yet, hereupon promptly rekindled by Theo’s wisdom, and Skype chats with Cynthia, juggling many time zones. I received myself, from Oz, a very complimenting text, on what we had opened for Delffan; she predicted it would not represent a burden of any kind, and the fairy baby would evolve beautifully; if ever one wanted to come to Sydney, Cynthia could then steer one‘s fate out of some treacherous ruts, of what she knew.
In any event, Fanny was subjugated by her new cousin, as we could say, and hit on one unabashedly, not without reward; Natalia, who scented one‘s trails, chose to enlace both elfin imps, and watch them fuck, up close.

Although my spirits were mainly forecast towards that misbehaving schoolgirl realm that anyone who loves Sarah knows more than Holden’s, I kept a zest of my longtime faith in Natalia, enough to see her lips cringe a tad, at the sight of the damsels’ clasp, like dragonflies in a sparkle. From her back, I kneaded kindly the upset serpent in her womb and she released her nerves on my chest, just like she would make love. While the two exalted imps rolled to the rug, I played all the tricks I had invented for her during her nightly sneak-ins; I drew her to the bedroom.
Later, Fanny wished, in her impeccable diction, and since one was virtually homeless, to take one within Camille’s house, which we soon all decided was an excellent idea, and after a petty theft of fresh socks and undies in our store, they fled, not before one poked a naughty tongue in Natalia’s pouty mouth.
Decided to sleep a good night’s worth, we ordered early what slightly unsettled Natalia wished, that is Sanne’s nonpareille salad with Danish soft-boiled eggs, seeded rolls and blackberry kombucha, plus buckets of fruit salad. Rubbing her belly on the seated youngster’s chest, Sarah claimed she had been remarkably assertive, as for dinner, given her young age, to what Natalia started to nose into the sleek abs while I picked a smiling kiss.
After his grand spends, Gauthier felt gently spaced-out, like he yielded his wits to his sandbox escort of vixens. As he stumbled towards the meal table, I danced him erratically upon the beatless sound canvas, inhaling his lush hormones and furrowing through his magic mane.
Unambiguous in her slutty charm, Lizon licked her fingers and craftily earned a bye night with Sarah, whenas Fayelle would not predicate that she had enough of the golden knight.

 

Sarah says:

Camille had texted to thank us for trusting Delffan with her and Fanny, she was smitten with our find. She gave the private number of Adlai Stern, “the only relative not to have disowned her”, in New York; a tad of a hustler, but frank, and truly rich. If we felt rake enough, worth a luncheon.
Inevitably, Liselotte had a plan in the upper east side, with a third-degree art pundit to whom she had already sent our material, and snuck pictures, enough said to smell fishy, but wasn’t she the kinkiest procurer in the academic empire? In any event, her Leo Shulz might deserve his pinch of salt.

The car called us, pünktlich, Lizon helped with the bags, and a slant of envy in her gaze when we kissed farewell. We had been up for hours, checking the checklists. Kate my faraway torment again, a remnant token of the Berlin hassle, whilst she probably were only trying not to lose any memory crumb of our escapade.                                              We had decided we wore lounge-easy, fast-running outfits, free tail white shirt, pearl-blue tee, and slim, 7/8, fern pattern, pants of silk and cashmere jersey to let see my ankles, blue poppies embroidered brand new sneakers, Kate nude in a willow green sweatshirt, fitted aquamarine shantung jeans and sage green Stan Smiths. We bore anklets, white gold and azurite for me and misty jade on her. Kate smelled of a pale English Rose and her court of white wisteria, daffodil and honeysuckle, she had spayed her groin, in case; I had indulged in a perfume Hugo had crafted from a box of Danish McBaren golden blend that had made me, as a child, roll over my Far in rapture, almost; as a perfume, I knew its androgynous, intoxicating appeal on others, of any gender.
The meet and greet services went as smooth and swift as suave-smelling persons like us would expect. We bought presents for Far, Guerlain, Hermès, candied violets from Toulouse, and candied redcurrants from Bar-Le-Duc.  A limousine brought us to the shiny plane’s stairs, and we discovered that we had flight companions, a bespoke clad fortyish fit fuck-bait and his much younger, pin-striped-suited, long-legged blonde secretary. I knew she felt awkward on her high heels, but I cast my most benevolent smile as if I was hitting on her, which might have been true, as a pinch from Kate alluded to. Judging on the deferential hand-touch they offered us, some PR had occurred from the high spheres, we relished that, and I foresaw that I would eyeball the working girl at will if I let her mate repay me the same change. For Kate’s amusement, I acted anew like the all-important, arrogant daughter of something, free to cut the crap any time, why security details had never failed me, and I kept my father’s trust.
A seemingly middle-eastern, mid-length straight black hair, the flight attendant brought up white paper boxes that she arranged in the side small galley’s lockers. Dressed in a strict black tunic over slim black pants, she wore flat black leather maryjanes, for the better of her legs.
The bureaucrat and his assistant sat side by side at the back of the cabin, and deployed reports and files around their computers; it wasn’t long before I scoped and found an angle along which I knew the perfect secretary wore veil stockings, suspender-belt, and black lingerie.

Trish, as was inscribed on the flight attendant’s formal black and gold tag, showed me how to change my seat into a lounger; I shoed my brains with noise-cancelling headphones and London Grammar who lulled me out. Then I was befuddled when I saw Kate seated, laid-back, opposite Miss Secretary, her unshoed feet laid upon her seat, next to her thigh; as I crawled up, Kate smiled, signing that I took off the headphones, and said that Bloom, here present, knew almost all about our families and us, anywise more than herself on her father and the firm. The girl was appealing, with a minimum make-up on a teen face, butterfly blue eyes under clever brows, kissy-curvy lips her boss had not yet made bitter; I pushed my opposite chair across and sat next to her, almost touching her right away, before reading in Kate’s glare that this was not the place to rollick, as of yet.
She knew much less about my own whereabouts, and only what is written in official notices about my family, I liked that, smirked and seized her hand as if it were a consolation, but I kept it, to the amazement of Kate, on whom I began to play footsie.
It had come to my mind that, knowing full well Melchior’s tastes, Bloom ought to have lit his lust, and whereas his powers were limitless, I dared fantasising her, doing all the slutty do, such as I had wallowed in, at the Master’s request. It teased me wildly, but I let it float, and lunch was about to be served, so we slid four chairs around the unfolding table and Trish threw a perfectly ironed tablecloth, under which Bloom could leave her feet and Kate caress them.
Branwell, as he was called, had removed his jacket and opened the vest, making himself more palatable. He knew where and how we lived, as casually as we were family, weren’t we? Flying in godsend millions, as desirable as the spring hayfields?
We, the “Beaux-Arts Germans”, were served an elaborate chartreuse with a running egg inside, and crafty little amusements around, them, the astute pair of golden assets, shared the two halves of a lobster’s tail in nests of cream-splashed tagliatelle; As expected, I soon felt his toes mingling kindly with mine, he had pulled off his socks; he read me with unflinching composure as he was demolishing me in the deep cushions. Affecting an opportune need, I stood up, staring in his windy-reed brown eyes and walked to the aft restroom, on the way to which were facing couches; I forgot to close the door.

I wasn’t mistaken, this part was the less muted of the vessel, the door opened stealthily, and he found me pants-lowered, seated on the bowl, smiling. As the rascal he was, he unbuttoned his fly and showed me his thingy, a sleek, straight, long dick, that smelled of neroli, he told me to suck and expertly held my nape to fuck my mouth and by luck soon ejaculated properly, making me gulp, fast. Indeed, I felt slutty as an alley cat; before I could wash my mouth, he grabbed me up and kissed me at full tongue, clutching me wholeheartedly. It lasted enough to let the other two understand, and hopefully find some discreet way to fondle each other. Branwell, whom I had merely known two hours, and I was ready to service like a bitch, looked at my eyes and whispered that he had been at Saint Loup two years before I came, but he had known of me, and my stellar reputation, said he, and he was proud he knew me in the way we just did, he swore he would never fail me.
Having pulled up my pants a little, he drew me to one of the couches, and went on petting like a college boy, until Kate and Bloom inquired, holding hands, Kate’s fly undone. Bloom had lost her undies and showed a princely rose Irish cunt before Kate licked her wildly.
Undressed, Branwell showed fine features, neck, wrists and ankles of a Thorwaldsen demigod, he fiddled with my flitberries until I moaned and he turned me over to ransack my arse with grand method, while Bloom rushed over to make me lick hers, calling Kate to open her thighs wide on the armrest so she could savour her.
If there actually were a camera, as I wished there was, Melchior would have been served in return for his generosity, although I knew it was far from enough, fortunately.

I wasn’t mistaken, this part was the less muted of the vessel, the door opened stealthily, and he found me pants-lowered, seated on the bowl, smiling. As the rascal he was, he unbuttoned his fly and showed me his thingy, a sleek, straight, long dick, that smelled of neroli, he told me to suck and expertly held my nape to fuck my mouth and by luck soon ejaculated properly, making me gulp, fast. Indeed, I felt slutty as an alley cat; before I could wash my mouth, he grabbed me up and kissed me at full tongue, clutching me wholeheartedly. It lasted enough to let the other two understand, and hopefully find some discreet way to fondle each other. Branwell, whom I had merely known two hours, and I was ready to service like a bitch, looked at my eyes and whispered that he had been at Saint Loup two years before I came, but he had known of me, and my stellar reputation —said he— and he was proud he knew me in the way we just did, he swore he would never fail me.
Having pulled up my pants a little, he brought me to one of the couches, and went on petting like a college boy, until Kate and Bloom inquired, holding hands, Kate’s fly undone. Bloom had lost her undies and showed a princely rose Irish cunt before Kate licked her wildly.
Undressed, Branwell showed fine features, neck, wrists and ankles of a Thorwaldsen demigod, he fiddled with my flitberries until I moaned and he turned me over to ransack my arse with grand method, while Bloom rushed over to make me lick hers, calling Kate to open her thighs wide on the armrest so she could savour her.
If there actually were a camera, as I wished there were, Melchior would have been served, in return for his generosity, although I knew it were far from enough, fortunately.

The layouts of utter luxury are such that no one needed to meddle in our shenanigan, the crew using their own toilets at the bow, and the attendant staying seated or lain, in her own nook, behind a curtain. So, when Branwell came in me for the second gush, there was no hurry and Kate wiped me with a tissue that would inevitably dissolve in the Atlantic. The boy was fond of me, he had been sold my arse to. Melchior had pretty much used me, to my pleasure, but he would never lie, so I would learn the ins and outs, eventually. In the meantime, the Saint Loup coincidence left me bewildered. I thought I would test Branwell in telling him we would meet another “star” of the school in New York, if he might join, for what it was worth, he seemed genuinely keen, if they could stay long enough.
As we had snuck back into casual, worldly, configuration of sitting and clothing, we drank tea and coffee; Bloom had slipped back her black veil stockings but not her undies, she showed us her crotch from time to time; Branwell, giving me an occasional eye, schemed his next move into Kate’s pants; for the school’s honor, he would be game to Julia if they met. We switched positions and I reached Bloom’s warm cooter as she gave me a first magnitude stare of a clever débauchée, well worth her draft in the Hell Fire Club, and slid a tapered hand with sapphire-lacquered nails –her toes had shown the same– under my belt; as a true professional, she had managed to freshen-up, she smelled like the Regent’s Park rose garden on a sunny June morning after a night of rain, her modest breasts shuddered free under the twill, she gave me news of my friends in Zürich, and wiped my eyes.I called my Far and gave him a tale of what utterly glamorous flight we had done and dissuaded him to come and pick us in Teterboro, he wished we were in time for a sunset relish, they would meet us at the tower door.

After a masterful legato landing in the slanting sun rays at Teterboro, we thanked the Indian-looking crew and collectively tipped Trish, for her stealth efficiency, in euros, under a jug on her counter, she thanked immediately. They were not disembarking, in two hours they would take off for Montreal and sleep there.
Then we just walked into a sleek office building with our gift bags, while the luggage were carried aside. I had some dazing epiphany inhaling the two girls’ different trails of roses, inside the crude redolence of kerosene, a déjà-vu jolt in my brains, thus Kate felt like kissing my forehead like one be done as a child.
The immigration officer batted no eyelid while reading on his screen what my passport told the universal machine, he stared at me dutifully, then wistfully, and he stamped a page, no questions asked. It went differently for Kate, her old Berlin cacophony might have left watermarks on her sheet, or whatever, but eventually she garnered a welcome, for her kind eyes. Our new complimentary playmates carried some kind of waiver on their pages and got a swift stamp with a wink.
They were headed to The Carlyle hotel on Madison avenue, so we shared a van limousine and Branwell could continue his siege of Kate, although I muttered I had been the first he fucked, so as he pulled me to his lap and reveled in my neck, sliding a hand over my shyberries, then throwing me back next to Bloom who knowingly smirked.
We were driven north up to the Christopher Columbus highway, then east to the George Washington bridge, then all the way down along the river, in the maddening traffic. Bloom let the road’s rocking moves make her hand wank me softly, Kate was unbuttoned, I caught her side-swayed eyes, with an idea that we weren’t finished with these two.
We assuredly exchanged contacts with them in our phones, I promised we would ask them to whatever party Julia would throw. They straightened up at their arrival, I was wondering if they would share one or two beds? As we headed to forty-first street, I called Far to announce our imminent coming.

 

Kate says:

I was terrified, Sarah wild-eyed proud to show me around in hell, I felt like a dumb swan lost in a war zone, but she was hollowing out my solar plexus with a sleight hand, grinding my lips and blowing her girly breath into my brains.
The car braked, full stop, in a somber gorge of a billion reddish bricks, where Mr Lars von Kettelær and a tall slender cinnamon-skinned woman, with yellow eyes, awaited, smiling wholeheartedly. Sarah grabbed my hand and pulled me to them, while the driver unloaded our bags, taking the tip from Sarah.
It was mellow warm, it smelled light petrol, not like Europe’s, she pulled me brusquely when a grey squirrel sniffed us, having read that we would give him nothing, and jumped away in a meager vegetation; then only did I realise what the mischievous animal had meant to her, and i desperately pulled a joke that he had forgotten its hat. We had only landed, she could not yet throw herself openly at me, as she would have done. There was a whole school of squirrels, but obviously we were none of their concern. Her father hugged her fondly, kissing all over her hair, unknowing we were there, for some minutes. Then he held me, whispered his appreciation for my roses scent, and introduced me to Dawn, his long time stylish governess.
Sarah gripped my sweatshirt and sought for my eyes the whole time the elevator took to reach twenty-three, just like a bustling teenager, she was overwhelmingly beautiful.

An only slightly awkward moment happened in the hall of this prestigious apartment, when Dawn wondered aloud where I was going to sleep; Sarah laughed boyishly that we had shared the same bed for years, her father laughed, too, and we rolled our bags to her room. Of course, she had kept coming every year or so, and no dust had gathered upon the nonetheless fading display of her personality I worshipped. It reminded me of Cynthia’s Rothenbaum lair: same portraits of Thom Yorke, Kurt Cobain, Jeff Buckley, Bjök, the stunning Sylvie Guillem, nude, operating a bulky camera, on herself into a wall-up mirror, a cigarette butt by Irving Penn, Gustav Klimt’s “Water Serpents”, Aubrey Beardsley’s “Mysterious Rose Garden”, and a big Beyeler poster for Mark Rothko, nothing I would not subscribe to, then and there.
The raking sunset light touched us as we disrobed for a soothing shower, out of which I became aware that I stood naked in front of Mr Kettelær, holding up a superb glacier blue shirt on a hanger, asking Sarah to do him an impersonation of Catherine Bisset in “Bullitt”, please. She retorted that it had been a pyjama top, but she liked the strict silk shirt to which she rolled up the sleeves an left it opened over deep cobalt bicycle shorts. I fished out a maroon tank dress and slid on flesh-tone knickers, and we trotted on precious rugs to the angle terrace where a massive cooler jug held fruit lemonade, and I was struck by the scenery. Sarah had brought the presents, her father kissed the tip of her fingers and enlaced me with a grace that made me regret, one second, that I wore undies, Dawn was touched by the rarest confections she knew not of, candied flowers of frosty deep purple, in gold paper, and also acidulous red berries, of which the astringent pips had been manually removed with a quill, probably by young Lorraine blue-eyed slaves, she was proud, we ordered her to keep these to herself.

Sarah then casually went right to her father’s lap, and turned to the sun a squint of her eyes, to check on the Chrysler Building. On the other side of the large river, a few new towers sparkled golden gleam, in the midst of a seemingly waste land. The clamour of traffic droned heartlessly, compared to the backwash of the sea, but the width of the sky above was awestriking. It was like one pane of Sarah’s persona swiveling out of the blue, they say, and watching her fidgeting upon her father woke my lust for her.
Lars von Kettelær said it was a wise move to have invited me, because he would have been gone in less than a month, and waiving his hand towards the taller cliff of the United Nations, he said it had taken a lifetime to come to know all the floors in there. The building might have once stood impressively, but would soon definitively be dwarfed by some platoon of white glass shards, and a fortiori this terrace where we sat would loose its air width.
He explained that he had bought this grand residence at a time when the existence of a monstrous power plant on the river bank made it worthless, but someone had let him know that the disgrace was doomed and the high chimneys would fall, clearing the landscape, hopefully forever, in respect for the UN. So Sarah had seen the plant being dismantled, erased, and the angels fly freely above the gloomy waters, it was time to go. He needed retirement, anyhow, and he had found a decent little house on the lakeshore in Lausanne, where he was persuaded Sarah would love to rest and show me the Mont Blanc afar. Indeed she was, and she clutched his face and kissed.

There was wrought iron dinner table and chairs, dressed for us, we sat in the magnificence of light. Lars said that Gustav Mahler had once written that one of the main overlooked beauties of new York was the sunshine, and indeed, for a Dane used to the Øresund mists , it had been a happy windfall. His wife, who lived in Santa Barbara, California, would have mocked this assumption.
Dawn brought a large revolving platter of exciting antipasti foru s to pick from. She did not restrain from rummaging kindly into Sarah’s hair, whom so she let her do. Lars announced that he was overjoyed that Dawn was retreating with him to Switzerland, and her friend had a new assignment in the Geneva offices, as if Sarah had all along known that Dawn was gay and happy so. She seized the hand from her head and pressed it upon her chest, grazing her cheek on the arm.
Sarah then retold that we had been on the plane with a Saint Loup alum, some Bramwell Cerebus two years prior to her boarding, and she had felt akin to him. I intervened to assert I had, too. We laughed, Lars got it.
In the relentless hum and the waning light, Lars , who had now magically Sarah’s feet in his hands, told her that there had been a time when he became scared of her becoming; New York is not a place for raising children, hence the trend to board them at large in private schools of all flavours. Alvin Cerebus had been one who spoke in favour of that special Swiss school in the wake of the Summerhill philosophy, for children you would not figure vowed to mainstream competitive education, but were prepared to support emotionally and materially whatever their calling. It was, and still is, a privileged answer to cumbersome parenting, but it became obvious to me through this escapade to London, if Sarah recalled, and a dinner at the Ritz.
Lars said it had occurred in a whiff, new assignments in Geneva, whatever the workload, but heavenly lunchtimes by the lake, and even Secret Service interventions into naughty girls’ rooms. Julia’s father had also been adamant towards Saint Loup and he had not recognised his daughter after one or two terms, even if he had scented out new homosexual tendencies in her life ways.

I was beginning to feel envious of Sarah’s all-important cocoon, she got a hunch of that, so she deprived her Far of her nifty feet and came sit upon me, I found her squirrelly light and grabbed her under the shirt.
Lars went on, reminding an enlightened relation with Harmony, a motherly genius who devoted her whole time to the children she was confided to. There, he warned Sarah he was about to reveal some intimate secrets, if she had better hear them alone. She was embracing me, she said that she had a hint where he went, and I was already fully aware of her life’s ins and outs, so he could pursue.
He had been haphazardly brought to support some other boarder whose parents had failed, this pupil had learned his gesture and fled to nowhere, beyond his appropriate reach. He kept mute, and Sarah cried on my shoulder, long sobs that told me she had connected a web of painful dots. The name was not called, she still cried, she went back to her Far and sat upon him, the airplanes drew luminous lines across the poisonous dusk.

In her spoiled girl’s bed, not as vast as our home’s lust island, she slept and cried like a child, till we somehow dissolved in oblivion.
Late morning, hugging her, puffed and spent, I knew I was bearing a new knot at my plexus that pulled back afloat some of my angst .

 

Sarah says:

I was all the least embarrassed towards Kate, I should have reckoned her own flailings and not let her soul entangle into the windings of a deplorable affair she had had better left afar; I intuited that we would need another trip to Switzerland, and since it was about to become a recurrent matter, it was a small confederation, wasn’t it?
Kate had a message by Bloom, offering lunch or whatever, whenever, you bet, we both were still under the pair’s spell, would a bite in the Bemelman’s bar of The Carlyle be close enough to their bed? I wouldn’t have been a fan of Madeline’s but I read his book fawning Elsie de Wolfe, —the über-socialite who coined the word Interior Designer and always demanded a special enclosed garden to hang her washed underclothes— plus, the place is a golden years landmark. Our handsome suitors had clout, the answer was swift, they awaited us in two hours.
We dressed like fashion warriors, Beaux-Arts style. Kate donned a simple long shirt of carmine and green Uzbek Ikat with a dark purple silk velvet vest richly embroidered in silver, lined with emerald brocade, a walkable but striking piece to wear; she had devised to walk in aniline purple flat Moroccan slippers, I pinched her tits and overturned her in a kiss, she fainted. She smelled her most feminine lilac incarnation, whom of the two was it for?
I fetched a black silk twill redingote with a high collar, fitted, off-white silk jersey trousers with an unbuttoned tab at the knee, black patent leather escarpins, white stockings and a black and white striped silk taffeta vest, opened upon my boyish chest, like a cheater Queen; I had sprayed my body with my idea of an afternoon orgy, blue gardenia, sinful incense and wisteria white.
Dawn caught us taking poses in the tall mirror, she insisted to shoot us, promising not to post us on Instagram or whatever, we were incognito. We found the cab waiting at our door.

Kate was snug to feel up on the sagging bench of the cab, she was unquiet amidst the rumbustious tremors of a casual day in town; unfortunately she would have stayed only long enough to hate it when we would fly back, my experience being that one needs at least three weeks to integrate its hustle and bustle, then look up to its true marvels. I deplored she would never want to come again, and there was no valid argument, other than my own childhood nostalgia, unless Julia cast a spell; I had invited her to join us for dinner at the Café Des Artistes, with my Far she knew well, indeed, from Geneva.
Across from the Carlyle, The Parke-Bernet building was bejewelled by the floating, bright aluminium, sculpture of Venus in flight over some reclining athlete, by Wheeler Williams in the true gusto of Art Deco, she could have adorned the Nations Palace in Geneva, in omen of love, but she only sheltered Gagosian, there. At least, Kate was moved.
They awaited us in the lobby, in much less formal sartorial gist, Bloom having traded her corporate armour for a floating, gathered fitted, and flared, knee-long, doubled silk chiffon, petals strewn pattern dress, forget-me-not blue, with rolled sleeves, she gained in irresistible appeal what she had lost in suit perversity; she also had upped the ante with periwinkle bue maryjanes and white ruffled socks, no joke. Bramwell was molded in perfect jeans, round-tipped boots, and a fitted silk white shirt, though we eagerly eyed each other, we kept a laid back tone, Bloom engaged with me and slid a hand in my armpit, whispering “precious” to my ear, so then I grasped that Bramwell had stirred up to shag Kate, letting Bloom fulfill my lust, awhile. I had had a round of him; I leered at her diminutive chest, I would not have believed she wore anything else, under that dress.

Switching gaze from lust to cognizant attendance, Bramwell advised us that the Bemelman’s might not be our best choice, neither any of the dining rooms, for that matter, but we could advantageously experiment room service, their suite being vast enough for a relaxed party with an open view. We followed him to the bar, visited the altogether aloof kitsch panels, smoked like fish, and, be it the thrill we both had felt for the aluminium Venus, we found the place overrated, to our tastes. Kate, who was almost slow dancing with my cute rapist, was pursuing her undermining work of my Gotham delusion, but she did it in good faith, and I was not myself so confident that I would sit for a clarinet set of Woody Allen, in the Bemelman Bar, anyhow.
Finely reading our gazes, he pulled us to the lift and Bloom slid a hand in my pants, if only to nail me in a corner. Their suite offered all the American palace comfort, and that would fit what we all had in mind, then and there; Bramwell negotiated on the telephone for a green salad with figs and feta, a pastry tray, and a basket of fruit; coffee, real tea and lemonade. We kept almost dressed waiting for the butler, whose eyes frilled at reading us, but rested on the bill Bramwell signed, and the note along with it. As I thanked, he only glanced and said “not me”. Bloom was now stealing away my rags piece by piece, muttering niceties and grazing my skin;she moaned at my wet quim. Kate had been nude faster, Bramwell made her sing, licking her. As he pulled his jeans by himself, on one leg, his shorts half-down, he claimed, for us two, that he had known our delectable arses since a night at the Manor, that night when Marcelline fucked publicly her dogs, and then a few more beasts at will; we had been too busy ourselves, in the dark fumes, to notice anyone, not even Melchior, who had then honoured a very young new pet girl, before departing with her and Malo. Bloom and him had known of our trip to New York from Liselotte, and promised Melchior some lovely passes to peep from his plane, and, by the way, he loved us both, the whole conspiracy does.

 

Kate says:

Bramwell agreed that the Wheeler Williams sculpture, on the old Parke-Bernet gallery, across the avenue, provided a better conversation piece than the Bemelman rabbits; it was part of why they used the Carlyle, It would not have been fair game to ask why they should use commonly a five stars hotel in Manhattan, but he chose to hold us in relative confidence by telling us they were flying back that night, in company with Melchior’s prospects, whatever biddings was the season, and they liked philandering on demand in such conditions, their client’s motivations remained off hand.
He deftly peeled off my wraps and laid them upon an armchair, then he asked me to strike the flying Venus pose I had liked. He made lecherous comments, and then asked me, en passant, who had been the young cousin alongside of me at the manor, under my high watch?
He licked better than a schoolgirl, perhaps to outline the question, but I fended off morally, telling that Natalia was not yet available at court, just one of our Sorbonne fillies, sheltered behind steel armourings and codes. Liselotte wouldn’t be first to spread those precious thighs.
Be it at the salacious thoughts on what he had glimpsed of my pet, his unflinching spear rambled ostinato from one hole to the other and my mouth in what he chose to gush, holding my nape firmly till he was done; he tasted grapefruit and soap, I sucked my mouth dry and I slipped off to the table for tea.

Sarah crept all over Bloom’s light skin, and revelled on her pouty mouth, her flourishing cunt and her obedient anus. The woman-child toy kept a disarming smile through the storm of raspberries, and my nosings in her ribs, then she begged for tea.
The wide bay embraced a most typical New York overview, from high north, undoubtedly someone in there was ogling our shameless immodesty through one of the ubiquitous telescopes in the city’s little cells, or even making grainy pictures they would pass as art; one could not do that on Sylt, could they? I pulled the sheer curtain on us, the city appeared like Cairo in a sand wind, as it had struck me, in some forgotten film.
Perched upon Bloom’s lap, pecking bits for her and herself, she had lit her phone and was reading messages; she asked when the pair would move back to the airport, and it was close enough not to roll over again in the satin sheets together, we headed for the shower, spent most of the luxury soap, and Bramwell took a quick pass in Sarah’s butt.

Picking up their corporate attires under wraps, on hangers, they would regain the first composure we had known them by, coaching them on how sexy they appeared. Bramwell slily asked when I would let him shag my little cousin, I made him stiff for nothing, he swiftly hitched up my dress and told me he kept my odor di femina in mind until next time in Paris, at Liselotte’s diligence. Firstly, they should now make a nightworth of sleep until four, to stand amenable aboard at six, they would use melatonin and curl up.
Julia waited for us on the other side of town, in an apartment of the Century Building on Central Park West; it was a swoop ride under the bridges in the Park, we stared at each other like mischievous brats, my hand in her bare groin.
The lobby smelled of cedar wood, an affable doorman called up for us, listened and showed us the opened lift with a waiting attendant. The whole decor looked like old millions, the lift was rolling smooth, Sarah smelled excitement like a kitten belly, I breathed in her nape.
Julia greeted us barefeet, in a creased linen cobalt blue plaid shirt-dress opened on her tits. She cried out her joy, hugging her all time buddy, then turned to me and played seductress until she knew I wore no undies. I resented this heartfelt sexual comradeship the Saint Loup alums shared at once, but also the overpowering charisma of Julia, of whom Sarah had told me over and over that she had been a true surrogate mother to her, well known to Sarah’s father; she was overjoyed at the prospect of dining with him, too, she nodded that he was right to flee the town.
The apartment did not have a direct park view, but it had an immense southern terrace overlooking the YMCA, under the lowered awnings. The surface would have been big enough for Fred Astaire and most of his partners. Scattered over the reception room walls hung spectacular American Indian pieces, like a deerskin covered in apparently random groups of stylised figures, that she explained as being a sacred chart of a long forlorn territory.

Julia’s thick wealth of sunny blond hair smelled of dried flowers and iris powder, she touched me like a coveted trophy she had not yet bent to her lust, and Sarah helped her, in short, I was soon bare naked on the grand couch, the matter of shared admiration by the two accomplices. As I let them rekindle my embers patiently, —I had already been set fire to once or twice since morning, I admired a stupendous collection of Kachina dolls, each on a rounded bracket bearing the name and attributes of the doll, across the whole wall. It felt like a ceremonial, in a childish sort of way, cosmic, like some we had staged with Cynthia in the moonlight on Amrum island, and my psychedelic inner streams kicked in, I begged for Sarah’s mouth. A layered continuum played low on a golden horizon, and a party of grey wolves swayed about me with human gazes; I had been forsaken, paralysed in the yellow dust, my clothes ripped off; they spoke to me but I did not comprehend. Purple eagles swirled closer and closer, wary of the wolves, now two she-wolves sat along me and licked my unnerved body like their cubs; aeroplanes flew upon the eagles’ flock, like they would be quick dark fires in a rock crystal; my soul felt like the inside of an untouched geode, also more replicas of myself spawned out of the sand, shooing the wolves away, but running after them. The atmosphere was sucked away, large wave-covered golden planets rose like overwhelming cinema panoramic shots —I had been so distraught the day Simon had lured me at a Star Wars projection, and the black syringe machine had crept towards Leia’s vein, so that, eventually, my little brother did not know what to do of me.

In the sort of mental reflux I was resurfacing from, and lagging shouldn’t have occurred, on a rotation that way, the gigantic motive had been deployed across the ceiling all along, and only the profusion of emotional and unfettered testimonies could have caused the distortion, or the opportunity for some stray neurons to discombobulate my grip of spacetime, while many of my senses were otherwise assaulted.
It was one of those jazz years’ extravaganza, fit for a fashion empress or a cruise line mogul —not my own father’s style— a radiance of metal and molten glass, a fixed explosion of graphic textures and crystallography, like a magnified snowflake into the roaring summer. Lain there at the whims of two eager handmaids, my visions traveled the décor masterpiece too wide for a single sight, when my common sense tripped again on the clear apparition of a double blond face I read upside down, visibly observing my exposed details; I flinched up and tried to twist backwards, so then Julia, audibly embarrassed, asked her twin cousins to leave us alone, which they reluctantly did; she apologised, swearing her heart they were not more intrusive than that, and she should have waited that we were in the bedroom. It was a “parents found us” situation, and we laughed. The Katzenjammer kids still stood around the corner, Percy and Clayton Grant were identical sons of one of a brother of Julia’s father, they were sixteen and currently attended a prep school in Virginia, they were cute and disturbingly indiscernible. She couldn’t have not lodged them for a short stay in town. I needed to pee, I knew I had a good chance to meet the twins somewhere along the corridor Julia had told me to follow, but I was a tad ruffled to chance upon them, unbuttoned, holding each other’s dick, with a comely smile I did not resist to. So they pushed me into some dark room, I protested of my need, they showed me to a blue bathroom and pressed themselves against my face as I sat on the bowl and made flowing noises; I had to suck them, which I applied myself at, as I knew how, to make them come quickly one after the other.

 

Sarah says:

In a series of identical frames were hung free-spirited drawings, many with running horses, that Julia explained had been done during the worst times of the Indian genocide when it became common wisdom that only the whites should own the land, speak the language and worship the God. Promises had been granted to the natives, some had wished to believe them, all were betrayed, and the justice was still at it in our days, for the great shame of America. One day, good-spirited white ladies had scavenged loads of obsolete ledgers and distributed them as drawing paper to detained Indian women who had with them this culture of “raw” visual art.
Julia said that we could not only see collections of Indian art nearby in the Museum of Natural History but also find many excellent books to send home. But, other than that, she craved my mouth and body, like old days, and she complimented my fitness and shape, muttering in my ear that Kate ought to have fallen in the evil cousins’ snares.
We had heard swishes from an open door to a sombre bedroom, holding each other like curious kids, we crept near and, our eyes accommodating, saw the trio executing the only configuration by which each participant would exult simultaneously. When it became clear that the slutty courtesan had been duly filled, we entered casually and congratulated the artists, furthermore keeping the youth at attention while Kate snuck out to the bidet.
The prodigy pair weren’t flagging, laughing as they exchanged us “for taste”, comparing us like brothel mounts and it felt like giddying arousal on our part. They skewered our entrails allegretto, ma non-troppo, so as when we were kept edging to the solution, then playfully broke a slip-sliding figure for a new one, exchanging high-fives like little rascals, and finally discharged again like tough sailors.
Kate and I, at the comments they made to Julia, understood that she had let them hunt us like does in a brush, telling them we were no virgins in any way; she was their long-time mentor, and she made us avow they were cunning as foxes, and indeed well hung, too.

After a crowded shower that smelled a sweet mix of ylang-ylang, sandalwood and September fallen apples, the willie brothers holding up their standards, Julia took pride leading us to another drawing room entirely clad in pine wood, peopled with north-western native art, mostly Inuit and Tlingit masks otherly known as “eskimos”, but she forbade us the improper term, with a smile. Not yet redressed, we dived into deep hide and velvet armchairs, the sedulous pair brought frosty jugs of a drink brewed with elderflowers, angelica and ginger, poured us high-balls and sat at our feet, nosing in our thighs, soothed. With a young, even skin, they showed the perfect blond strain of Scandinavian-Slavic type, with a pointed little nose and dawn-blue eyes, I couldn’t help touching myself. next to one’s curvy little mouth.
Julia explained that this unique collection, started into the nineteenth century, would sooner or later taken over by the Smithsonian, for the public good, but currently millions were fueled to lawyers by her family’s estate to find settlement for all of them. I joked that I could lease out my arse so long as they would let me inside the collection, she retorted I had given a good start to that, Kate was mad-kissing one of the elves, again; on my phone, her brother was texting around to be allowed to meet Fayelle a little more in the extra bedroom, it was a fun thing , back and forth from Central Park West querying consent from her, who said she would meet him, and probably with a third, if he dared. He said he felt ready for any lesson she would, for he coud not “scrap her out” off his brains.
The Hotel Des Artistes was only a few blocks away, we walked up along the Park to meet my Far, who unsurprisingly was already awaiting in the backseat of a double-parked pearly grey berline, on the phone. I waved a hand, so he readily came to us with his legendary —at least to me— smile. Since our long ago slapstick scene in a hotel bed and the cool my Far had shown, Julia totally loved him, she hugged him the European way and then beamed.

The “Café Des Artistes”, or whatever name they rechristened it for whatever reasons, is the very lay masterpiece by a very official artist who committed himself all the way up to the Capitol in Washington DC, this redeems that, for those who care.
Far finely chooses the place to exemplify the reasons why he once decided that I would not try to build my fate in this city, rather than repatriate me to a nonetheless moral heart of Europe. Julia, the all-American offspring, cast a wide net upon the metaphor with candidly erotic innuendo. Far drew a line between the 1917 generation which sowed this once utopia, where we’re having large plates of glazed vegetables tonight — after sixty years of pure merchandising management– and the scandal stirred by Mark Rothko withdrawing altogether from the Four Season commission, having had , on a soul-searching trip to Italy, the epiphany of what it would mean for him to supply a high-voltage backdrop for the restaurant’s contemplated clientèle, which he wholeheartedly despised. The move had earned anyone in London the soul-lifting ability to sit and trip inside the Tate’s “Rothko Room”, digressed Far, seizing my hand.
Kate was mulling upon the vanished capabilities that some form of teaching had suffused such aesthetic obviousness as we could enjoy there and then, but pondered out loud that she could also envision such impossible endeavours, by recent artists, only to stumble on the nowadays indomitable market rule of heavy-handed mercantile stench. As I played footsie with her under the table, I joshed about us two, and our own small-sized almost confessions, so she shrugged and declared that, from what she had seen of the available private places, home catering would suffice, as it did most of our life in Paris.
Far laughed, held Kate’s hands, while addressing Julia about the seemingly splendorous collections she happened to live amongst, with an intonation that begged for an invitation, she replied with an opening for any date he chose the week next, straightening up forward, her girl scout tits pointing under a loose American cotton shirt as she offered to do the honors herself, as well as consult Far, privately, as to the becoming of the collection, the mainstream scientific attitude of the Smithsonian having left her doubting, in the least.
Put aside the horribly serious matters in which the restaurant’s splendour had dipped our brains in, I suddenly fancied Far capsizing Julia on her grand sofa, and I felt in my feet that Kate heard that, too, so as it made me sneeze on the cocoa powder on the tiramisu. The nudes in the decor concurred.

It was decided that Julia would sleep at Tudor City, to her visible satisfaction. She thus texted her terrible twos. My Far felt lighthearted, the evening would have been appropriate for his month-long farewell to the city; he enlaced my shoulders and kept me clenched, during the car drive; Julia went to the front seat and watched back, my relation to my father puzzled her, who, for all I knew, had not known much of a Daddy. Kate still held my hand like a given right. I lit the fuzzy knot in my chest with the thought that soon Far would stay two hours train from me.
There was no moon, it was heavily warm on the terrace, we brewed frozen lemonade with sparkling water, the nearest thing to Kombucha we could think of. Far sat at the end of my lounger and caught my feet casually, resuming the conversation about Julia’s treasuries, asking if the items had been documented and certified, which could appraise them before any exploration. Julia asserted that from the historical beginnings of the gathering, scientific records had been kept in many copies which could easily be collated by a new owner. All in all her will was to institute some fiscal foundation that would allow her the means to fund some initiative like what we had benefited in Saint Loup, scholarships in progressive teaching, and so.
I knew Far would be furiously drawn to such an endeavour, but he knew how intricately judicial such an idea would prove to become in America, where lawyers feed upon any crumb of rhetorics, at the cost of the candid citizen. He promised he would fuel his thoughts with the glimpses of the hoard, then investigate anonymously on available precedents, and lay down all the choices for Julia, anyhow, he was not entitled to act as an attorney.
He kissed each of us and went to bed, we remained in the endless roar and unclothed each other, there would be no fresh breeze from the near ocean. Feeling dozy, I invited everyone in the larger bed of the guest room. We washed away the sweats in the shower and fled to the scape of mirages, Kate already slept on my heart.

When Elsie Chautemps rang in the morning, Dawn was overjoyed to recognise her in the comely dazzler in an indigo tank dress and assorted sneakers, after a breather, they hugged in sake of old times and Dawn told her wher to find our cluster. Elsie knew I would not have come alone, but she was thrilled to find me laying along two fully grown nymphs; she fondled all she could grab of me, before Julia read out there was some all dressed up maiden, messing up with our defenceless limbs. She mumbled hello, and Elsie playfully answered who she was, so Julia kept her hand, for she had heard my recalls of her, she kneeled up and ask the newcomer if she did not feel a bit overdressed, then? When I woke, she had already pulled down one strap, Elsie had always had more breasts than us tomboys, she was near swooning at her assaulter’s skills, I shouted her name and caught her mouth, while Julia sneered at me that this was the one I had left behind, wasn’t it?
We deambulated in the corridor to my room where our rags were, then to the kitchen in tee-shirts and shorts, retelling our goings-on, not yet the full spectrum of our shenanigans, in case she would have matured in a wiser standing. She laid in unfazed manner all her academic degrees up to NYU School Of Law Juris Doctor as if these were was only mundane. We had certainly no competence assessing what she had said, but we needed not be savvier to wish we undressed her, like the sensuous squirrel she had known me to be.
As I noticed that Dawn had prepared a Thermos jug of coffee, I told her I would bring it to Far. He was seated before big hand-written diagrams, his white shirt’s sleeves rolled, he granted me a heartfelt smile. I liked him to know that Elsie, whom he knew, was with us, I added what I had gotten of her prestigious titles, so he raised his eyebrows and mumbled that he would be with us, soon. I also floated that I needed to tell him some more intimate matters, whenever he found free time in this office.

Elsie was trying to learn about my life since I had almost abruptly deserted her and my old international school to revel in Harmony’s privileged breeding farm, as Julia could concur first hand. I had not been faithful to Elsie, she had worked at forgetting me under her mother’s guidance, and studies had become more demanding, she earned a scholarship and her mother could keep her in a stable home in Hell’s Kitchen, which I had known. Julia was like a different breed altogether, she had a degree in psychology from Columbia and she still sweated over a doctorate in cognitive aesthetics –or something, Kate had rectified her attitude and did not feel so sure she would enjoy the day, when I paced back from Far’s study, and nearly jumped on Elsie’s lap, instead only taking her hand and stared at her sunny eyes. Watching Kate’s mood, I sensed a drive and laid straight that I had not changed from the naughty tomboy she had known, and we might unsettle her lifestyle, but she had already responded by grabbing my hand, asserting she was no white goose, and kept fond memories of my teenage room, only that, after I had gone, she had finally found herself shunned by most of the class, because all the prestige had come from our friendship, and so she sobbed. I pulled her away to my room, to that same window she would never see again, and only danced with her on one of our CD compilations of the time, letting go with Faith Hill “Breathe” –the two other girlies danced too, outside the door.we could have gone on far with Xtina “demented” Agulera, to turn to each other, again, but then, what, time had turned and that river had flowed, she dared kiss me like long before, and it was good.

We did not have to explain why our eyes were red, they had seen it all, and heard the tune. As we ought to dress, somewhat, I stripped bare first and paraded just like I would have years back, daring Elsie, whose tears was of laughter, now, to touch. I fetched some indigo blue, Tana Lawn cotton, all-flared dress with large night blue trimmings at the scoop neck, the cap sleeves and the hemline above the knees, so I could swing my legs and free whatever else. Kate loved my kiddie dresses, she held my fitted high waist, from behind, only to show she was willing to share; I shoed tiny blue strap sandals, I had not painted my nails. Meanwhile, Kate also had displayed her honey-toned nudity, and Julia had not resisted groping that stretching belly, as my sister slag reclined against her; she chose a straight, long, block-printed almond-green shirt under a tourmaline pink and green striped T-shoulders kaftan, with Moroccan, emerald beaded leather, held between the toes, on the sides and at the ankles, pointed sandals; she looked like one of the Lehnert and Landrock desirables we had fantasised upon, sometimes. Far, who had candidly followed the sounds of laughters, showed up and growled in admiration, was it the feet in the sandals? He offered dinner at a still new joint in the Village, some kind of kosher vegan basement eatery with a shop upstairs, ran by two deserving women and called Ramdam, Elsie knew the place in a flattering manner, and so it would be it. Suited and shined up for the day, Far reached for Kate’s fingers and lead her for a twirl, complimenting us for being so Parisian, now, immediately turning to Elsie and Julia to granting them another dedicated smile. That had not been enough; if Julia was above any bad self-conscience, Elsie now felt mundane as a week day at a Sunday lunch. she had been my pal, I was reading her, I was already stripping her next to our opened bags, and we chose from my collection because blue mixes rang perfectly on her cinnamon tone, her so Nuevayorkese tutti frutti pride, a rich turquoise and cobalt calligraphed, officer-collared twill shirt-dress of which we rolled the sleeves up; she kept the black leather slippers. She had soft baby breasts that pointed up under my grazing; her little pointed nose puckered of coqueterie, she was mine, again.

We smelled sleep, it gave a warmer genêt hint to the honeysuckle on Kate’s lower belly —I was sure the other two watered at seeing me do— Julia asked me to wear again that juniper resin, ylang ylang and violet leaf whiff, she lowered my knicker herself, so that Elsie knew she was back at school, and as for her, the cologne she had used had faded, and her skin cried for some elaborate Guerlain alchemy, so I knew where to steal my mother’s Shalimar, although I had no remembrance of her wearing that magic, which turned Elsie into a plunder of lust who did not resist a real kiss of Julia’s.

Now, Julia was heading us downtown to the Hamilton building in which the Smithsonian had set the American Indian Museum, we had showed a sharp enthusiasm in first nations’art, so she would like to know our thoughts of the institution. I sat between Kate and Elsie on one of the two back benches and made my mind not to restrain my softness to any of them, under the witty eye of Julia; my rambling game was to make them kiss, if only for fun, because I knew that Elsie had had an unbridled thirst for lust, and I could wake it at no cost. It did not last long, but it happened.
Of couse, the building in itself is a cast-off pompous bunker of unrelated old time administrative show, in an incomparable situation at the tip of the most important island of the USA, ans that gives an enormous oval center hall with forcibly irrelevant paintings on the ceilings. Continuing our threesome flirt, we strolled along richly stacked windows that Julia found too ethnographic, in her view, her collection was composed of art pieces, not cooking pots.
The mezzo-voce conversation was gently unfurling between Kate and Elsie, and I could see and relish Kate’s flirtatious spend; Julia took advantage to take hold of me as if we were a couple, she had always won me at that, she refined her pleasure showing Elsie how easy I am.

Not that much persuaded that a first magnitude genocide such as the eradication of American Indians would be redeemed by piling the loot in a disused Beaux-Arts style palazzo, we were ready to walk-up to Bleeker street, the air had thinned, we felt pretty, there would be shopping.

Or not. After ten minutes of financial bore, we stood before the sleekest, shifted panes, black glass “in-your-face architectural gesture” I commonly despise, and Julia said we went in, Goldman Sachs, mind you. The uniform of the security was pure wool, chin up, she told him what we stood for, at his desk; he asked for our hard IDs and scanned them, while we felt like suspects. He eventually smiled when he held them back, along with neat clip-on visitors’ passes, of the kind one sees in TV shows, at Langley.
That had been altogether good fun, Julia had kept her cool all along, and then, now, we stood before a twenty-five meters long, eight meters high panel realized by Julie Mehretu —herself a beautiful planetary mixed breed of a kind, Elsie— at first, as rumbustious as one would figure the exchange trade at any given second.
Kate and me felt somewhat miserably squashed in our intimate, obsessive kinds of nutshells, but gradually Goldman Sachs settled back, and we began to mentally scan the dimensions at play on this wall. Kate recalled stochastic games that Victor had twiddled with, engraved into red copper plates by industrial size laser beams, fed by his supercomputers network. Here, behind acres of blast-proof glass right across the reborn Trade Center, we felt snubbed like the First Nations’ shamanic artists when the steam horses slashed the plains, all proportions kept. Had we ever envisioned using mega-printers to hold the wall? We only were two slutty harlots who might well fuck bankers as big as ground zero and then climb back up in our private hen coop, there was something troubling, artistically, at Mehretu panel’s edges.

Elsie suggested we took a cab to Washington square and have an ice cream at the Peacock, where her mates could see us. We sat mingled, Julia slid a hand in Kate’s pants, they kissed , I wanted Elsie to do the same to me, she still shied, I breathed her neck.
Once on friendlier grounds, Elsie took us to a white ice-cream parlour with a lounge upstairs, where we were looked up, and smiled, to. Visibly she was a regular, but probably not as gay as I made her seem, now. In a vanilla moment, she stuttered a little mite and started. She had reached a conclusion that she would not be fit there, in New York and even less in America. We could not see, her skin was as clear as many Europeans, her hair was just only curly, her nose was straight and pointed, but nevertheless, in some uptight moments like professional arguments, or even mere social exchanges, racism lurked through a thin veil of convention.
Through her studies, because her mother had known my father on and off at work, she had aimed the day when she would dare beg him for help at the UN, because that was the magic realm where the American racial bias did not function, even in American minds. But now he was going, and although she could easily land a job, she felt it would never grant her such a good career plan as inside the Great Glass House. She was near tears. I hugged her tight, first, my father was not quitting the UN, for years, since he sent me to Saint Loup, he had operated from Geneva, which was as big a UN station as New York, and I scented that he would continue, living in Lausanne; second, she might also come live in Paris, where, overall, racism is not so deeply rooted, except for some stupid urbanistic errors –and I admitted I wasn’t one to endure the tensions, given our lifestyle–. She was shuddering and I felt dew on her breasts; I told her she would visit us in our Wonderland, huff around for some while, test her French and probably fuck some; She let me unbutton one more, some passers-by had smirks to her, and did not stand up to my gaze.

Like a gang of procurers on a recruiting job, we cajoled the desirable attorney into wishing to visit our realm, nonetheless I did not avoid any facet of our easy going boheme, like those I would not even allude to in front of my father; having known me from childhood, she assented, and gently slipped a hand upon my thigh. Julia had bright eyes, it was Saint Loup all over again, on Washington Square. I let her see the cog in my easily unleashed mind, with the subtext of giving her all reasons not to follow me, while I kept deploying my best sluttiness, for the relish of the other two.She was stunned. She had thought of me at thirteen while reading Anaïs Nin, like it were literary tall tales to wank oneself over, but there we were, and she felt we could spin the yarn at will, for her.
We strolled arm in arm to Bleecker street, I told Elsie I would not miss what the city had became, all the more since I had earned my place into the keenest society imaginable, at least for as long as I could vamp a pretty girl with not much more than my eyes. Had I told her that, after my brother’s misdeed, I had planned to fly off our balcony?

Far —the others called him Lars— changed expression when he saw us seated with bottles of Kombucha, discoursing on our lives in Paris, our show, our trip in a private jet, shame on us.
He felt positive, all personal transactions about Tudor City and Lausanne were concluded as he wished, and he invited us by the lake next Spring. As an artful diplomat, he soon turned to Elsie, asking her if she had got wind of the UN operations in Geneva? He read my smile and kept the iron warm.
We agreed to every course the gentle lady with a thick white apron proposed, and Far asked for some hard boiled eggs, and butter. So we had artichoke hearts stuffed with mushrooms and nuts, fresh corn pancakes with asparagus tips, and candied chestnuts in little cradles of marshmallow sprayed with rum.
My compulsive little self had engineered to pull, unaware to anyone, an empty chair next to Far’s, but there would be angelic smiles when he started to untie the thin blue leather straps of my sandals and execute his magic on my feet, all the way up in the midst of my brain.
I felt a hint that Kate was again playing footsie with Elsie, who would let be un-shoed for her, and she asked my father what he had thought of the Goldman Sachs Mehretu frontispice. He finely picked an opportunity to salute Mehretu, whom had built an exemplary career on her own, but, retorted Elsie —and then I knew someone was stimulating her, unseen— wasn’t there a ghost of what one called the “pocket” Indian in her fame? Wouldn’t many such artists decline a commission from the most evil tricksters on the planet? Now Far still held my toes in his right hand, and he touched Elsie’s, wondering about the Rothko precedent at the Four Seasons, and the later endeavour with the Menil Foundation. Would we go to Houston, said he to the table? we might possibly conspire to some escapade of that sort, my whorish little soul told me.

Julia wanted to check on the terrible twos and Elsie had promised to feed her neighbour’s cat, so there were two cabs, one to the west and the other for us. As we passed Park avenue, I reminded Far of the
family brunches at the Waldorf, which was closed for a number of years, now, he asked Kate if they had Sunday brunches, she said they would always eat some very similar meals in front of the lake, and when sunny the swans would await for them in the garden.
Far let us drink tea on the terrace and withdrew himself, we pulled our screens and read the mail. Melchior wings would await us in Teterboro the evening after next, we would have excellent company. I half-bantered it was a n easy way to pay our fares, she called me a whore and bit my ticklish spot under the ribs.She showed me a video of Fayelle and Simon pleasing each other, a few hours ago, I told her he was as good a fucker as she was, and we went to the shower, washed our hair with some vintage shampoo that smelled like roses in the boxwoods, I told Kate and she peed on me, kissing. We went on the big bed and told each other episodes, like when I realised I loved her by happenstance sniffing at her crotch in corduroy on a café bench, pretending to be drunk.
Early in the morning, Elsie called asking if she was welcome; when it was clear she had slept with Julia, I gave Kate a heartfelt high-five and asked the newlyweds what we would be doing? They said there was a show of Sarah Sze at Gagosian’s and it felt right, around lunchtime.
I snuck to my Far’s quarters and found him reading his screen; he paused and hugged me, I smelled morning white, Kate had said, he kept me on his lap, and I could not help feeling dizzy in the same eternal Habit Rouge.
I told him that I thought I knew all about Ayla, and I found nothing wrong, at all, in what he could have been doing, because I had seen her not so long ago, when heinous things happened to Esther, and she had been so kind about him, and I was going to cry but he told me not to.He had known about Esther, but Ayla swore she needed no more help and I was there with her, then they had gone to the high mountains with all the medical attention, the haematomas had vanished for good and Esther’s nose was new, and straight.
He knew what the girls were at in Zurich, and he knew I knew too; he commented that on many individual rights the Swiss had often been long forward, and it was probably why he wished to retire there, albeit he had hesitated with Denmark, but finally cleared the place for Martin, under the family trust; a week or so, once on a sommernat, in Taarbæk, in the white house felt like enough. I enlaced him and asked him to take me next time he went, he asked me if I would bring Kate along.

 

Kate says:

“Walking The High Line” was a picture book by Joel Sternfeld, it had fascinated me, aeons ago, by the creative situation it testified to, a disused raised subway line in a then destitute part of New York, its long rusting decay, its appropriation by good willing citizen, probably because the otherwise wrong willing ones could have easily found themselves trapped on the elevated corridor. In a series of highly technical photographs, the book presented how the dilapidated railway had become a fairly exciting community garden, for memory’s sake, doing its part in the unavoidable conservation of the health promenade it became since. The Gagosian venue Julia was leading us to was in the meatpacking area, a stone throw from the high line.
Elsie had slept with Julia, at the Century, lured in by the unique collection, and lust for a truly inconsequential adventure, I could not scent if she had been fed to the naughty twins, too.
Now she smelled rich Central Park spices, just like my best boy, I dared sniff her in the armpit, as she passed a bread basket overhead, and sustained her response gaze with an inviting smile for later. She offered a thin, tight, muscular body and was in love with our ways, she would make an outstanding partner in our crew, in Paris.
There was an access up, on twenty-first street, we walked down to the Whitney Museum and back, the wind had freshened thus we did not sweat, but we swapped companions. I wore an aquamarine green linen long night shirt, over-stitched with thin black stripes, under another opened long-tailed indigo on emerald paisley shirt I kept open, my knicker was skin-tone and thin, I was not to walk alone in New York like this.
Julia had tucked a buttercup silk tee shirt in large corn yellow taffeta hemmed shorts with a large Navajo silver buckle belt, under the assorted, double-breasted, oversized jacket. The stiff silk felt like I were groping a dragonfly with golden mosaic eyes.
Elsie had found a half-thighs, ultramarine and ochre hotchpotch -printed twill shirt-dress, bound with a matching foulard, thus letting the view on her sleek legs down to the barefoot sandals.
Sarah wore one of her unique, fitted, high-waisted spencer jackets of black silk with moire lapels, on her bare chest, with her nifty butt moulded in wide Katherine Hepburn trousers, in off-white crepe. She walked in flat, round, black patent escarpins.

The gallery space was the epitome of the famous evanescent white cube, and it was indeed what the work of Sarah Sze would want. It smelled like a properly finished new apartment, solvents, detergents, and whatever magic they lace the chemicals with to trump your instinct. We never had any argument about what our work smelled, nor any bit of each other’s lives, our exhibition had been a cloud of roses, we were Parisian girls.
We had enthused at Sarah Sze’s “Three Points” in Venice, how she told she had been on set months in advance, roaming and gleaning amongst the forlorn nuggets of the Serenissima, then staging her loot into a mental analogy of a cosmic synchrotron. It had made us feel a tad petty inside our pocket-sized lady’s works. At the end of art school, it had been a reaction on our part against the ongoing dick contest, even with those who did not have a dick at their crotch. Thus, we promoted, at our own dimension, visionary mavericks of a more private scope, and found them many in the surrealist realm, before American big money spoiled the game; and, justly there, we were contemplating a truthful artist nailed in the middle of it.
All in all, it boiled down to the same diffidence as we had reckoned from Goldman Sachs, but it served us with a first-person conclusion, and Sarah’s dad were finer at his new lakeshore retreat.
Amused by our fabricated compunction when we walked out,, Julia suggested we tried to reboot our mindsets at the Studio Café on floor eight of the new Whitney, if ever there were a table for us. Elsie let her embrace her, she was enthralled, and wouldn’t know what to imply from our visit, the Gagosian sleight of hand worked. Sarah had made her face sharper, and played solidity —much like Lars— but I crashed her like an egg with my tongue in her neck, and she shut me off with a lewd kiss. We were elegant, in a suited place, and passersby smiled at us.
Needless to say they had a table on the terrasse, and neat, truthful smelling salads with fashionable dressings, nuts and figs in the vegan version, poached eggs and croûtons in the “let me mop up that yolk” version. The fresh blue oolong tea was up to its name.

Elsie was wearing a fine turquoise nugget on a Navajo silver ring, not one’s average tourist tat; I congratulated her, cupping her hand, and giving her the innocent gaze. Obviously, she had forgotten what one felt for having been enticing an it girl and thus being offered a true gift; luckily for her, the Princess had brains, too.
Sarah arranged with her father for a finger snap last dinner at his home, we would spend the afternoon at the Met. In the morning, I had promised Camille we would pay a visit to a good uncle of hers, Adlai Stern; if time was enough left, we could also meet a patron of Liselotte’s, the renowned Leo Schulz in his extravagant penthouse, she had said sometimes his imagination was worth the flight.
Now, Julia was laying plans to come along with Elsie to Paris and Europe, she was enough in love for a bed-in at the Gritti; Sarah liked that, but she knew Julia enough.
Rekindled by a faultless Hudson luncheon, complete with a short demonstration by the big Marine one fireboat of the FDNY, we packed a yellow cab to Fifth Avenue, Elsie blushing at Julia’s expert hands. Sarah whispered on the other side that her old schoolmate would be a bomb in our home, wouldn’t she?
Julia led us straight to the outstanding display of the Goran and Dagmar Blix collection of costumes, spanning from the Middle Ages to roughly WWII, all the pieces a labour of love and had been expertly cleaned, restored and reshaped on grey dummies. A great many items originated from the trail of the once thriving “Silk Road”, with some precious weavings incorporated into Mid-Asian and European prestige attires or religious adornments.
I was jolted at the thought of Hugo’s passion —he had occasionally vested me into such fineries for photos— I looked for restrooms where to call him from, it would be civilised morning over there. He was in Venice at the San Vio’s, along with Delffan, our indeterminate gem, found inside an hourvari of debauchery, dewy pure, and lost as an air stream; they had been meditating in our special church of Santi Maria E Donato in Murano, among the ruins and the reeds of Torcello, and of course, Hugo knew the renowned Blix collection, he had been a blessed purveyor to them.
I hurried to Sarah, and reported the news; she was overjoyed to reckon that Delffan would thus quite possibly nest upstairs in the Castle, to what our presently enlaced lovebirds grasped nought, and so we laughed, reminding them we lived into some genuine fairy tale.

Just like for some sadomasochism games, we should have had our hands cuffed back, so great was the appeal to touch the handiwork and feel the caress of the clothes; for aeons, no one had, without gloves, obviously —I had more than once been prettily jostled, nude in such stuff, once Gianni’s expensive sleight of the hands and eyes had deleted the wear of ages, and rendered the sublime vestures as soft and smelling as the Ritz’ bath robes—
Happily, the MET affords uncompromising attendance, keeping eager wasps like us at coughing distance, reminding me of my wish to find some kind of short-distance spectacles one sometimes saw expert-type visitors flaunt.
Julia knew a high ceiling café in the American wing, to rest the small of our young backs, with passable black tea and orange slices. I had a message of Panado wings confirming take-off at 11:00 pm, with two passengers other than us, at our… “convenience”? Sarah touched the tip of her nose. In her box, her father told her he had ordered light finger food with Erin Eberly, Adlai Stern managed an early lunch at his Hudson street suite, and Leo Shulz awaited us at three in his East 65th town house.
Julia said the two of them would visit us, in Paris, in about two weeks, if we wished. It was settled, either at one of Julia’s usual crash-pads, or in some free bed in the Castle, ours, for example.

On the following day, they would laze among the Century hoards and probably discuss future. Sarah, who did not get her bearings in the renewed layouts of the Art preservation fortress, needed to show me one fetish painting, a bouquet by Margareta Haverman, in the consecrated Flemish genre, which had haunted her since a sweet Art teacher had pointed a finger to it, during a class visit. It remained some intimate criterium, even when she had wandered in the conceptual wastelands with Dr Wolfsohn’s craniums, even though the old paedophile had been irreproachably delicate with her —who was a daredevil with irresistible eyes and a tight little belly—.

We held our temples together before the panel, big, considering the density of the workmanship, because there was that, too, along with the virtuosity of the lighting, the overall contenance of the composition. The ancient cursus in the Saint Luke guilds everywhere in Europe produced this supreme ability, albeit restraining women’s talent to minor subjects. A unique exception like Artemisia, —whose “Beheading Of Holophernes” haunts my visions for always— at the enormous cost of being enslaved to her rapist without recourse. When we devote to these overwhelming antiquities, can we keep in mind that those who commissioned them were unfettered perverts, too? After all, Margareta’s strategy might have been the map for a safe confederacy of womanhood, a couple of notches above the needlework on the masters’ trousers?
She had guessed me, Sarah pressed my arm, muttering that Margareta ought to have been quietly happy, as showed the drops scattered around the explicit analogy of the gaping white peony, all this long before Georgia O’Keefe ever saw one? We giggled like unruly brats, the attendant frowned, I smiled to her.

Margaretha Haverman – BouquetMargaretha Haverman – Bouquet -; Authorship disputed by her teacher who claimed it was one of his, thus barring her from the Académie Royale, in France. Courtesy The Metropolitan Museum, New York.

 

Sarah says:

I would presume this painting is “mine” because I was told by my father that its author was one of our Danish family, moved to Holland where her father imposed her, by means unknown, as the sole pupil of the most famous flowers painter of his time? This narrative must have hit me at one of my clock ticking times. She herself moved to Paris and became a member of the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture, only to be expelled the next year, on the protest by her teacher, Jan Hylsum, that she had appropriated one of his paintings to convince the Académie.
So then I steered offshore the sails of our amazement, dropping that, after other blighted pretenses in the branches of the family tree, this one had to clear the view of a nonetheless still wondrous Hylsum piece.
Julia was conjugating the unavoidable grace of a nonpareil fire of European acme with the feel of Elsie’s supple back, I had known this in full, personally, and Miss Grant had left me feeling proud to know her, since my early bread and creamed morels slices, in Saint Loup, bless her.
Kate wouldn’t stray from her fear, at ground level she said a vapor of dirt glazed the backdrop scenery worse than Paris and Berlin, she smelled disquiet, she heard through the city hum the heavy silence of a wreckage in the making, said her, as we had drifted towards a Saint Jerome by Patinir, one of our favorite old-timers. From her inner nexus, she could breathe the air of the faraway bluish land where all flying souls would return from. She sent me to the inner spheres I had fantasised from the towers of Elsinore all the way to Tycho Brahe, I had not let go of her hand, I needed a kiss.

Stepping out on Fifth Avenue, I recalled out loud having been brought to some bright social event in the building across, the 1000. I had been coerced to dress like a real girl, with a lace-trimmed, polka-dots cotton panty absurdly matched to my eye colour, as if both were to be contemplated together; some planetary hoopla that my father understood soon anguished me, but became some kind of fun when he took my hand and kept it; all sorts of goons —in my taste— in all sounds of language spoke to him without asking about me, except an eerie creature with otherworldly blue glasses whom I did not comprehend but mutedly agreed with; I had been a pet all evening and I loved my Far.
The dampness had waned off when we reached our family’s eyrie, Julia carrying an armful of heady lilies; she had felt like a candid gesture could not harm the request she had wished, from one of his daughter’s schoolmates he knew otherwise quite well; perhaps was it a dare, she had acted on a whim, seing a florist on Lexington.
Far fetched the biggest of our Danish Holmegaard blown glass vases to let Dawn arrange the lilies and bring a few carafes of water; the bouquet stood over a buffet of neat looking bites overridden with coloured lines of sauces, I thought the pollen from these majestic flowers could not be poisonous, could it? Far said it is, but only for cats.
While Julia, leading Elsie like a master dancer, maintained conversation with Far, Kate wanted to hear more about my angels and pulled me towards the terrace.

We entwined on one of the sturdy loungers, I released my strain on the city’s bygones, and vowed to spend at least a week with Kate in the ramparts of Christiansø, so cold that we would spend our days in comforters with our pets. I coyly recriminated on her keeping me offshore from Sylt and Amrum where she had torched her trip with the younglings.
Joking aside, I confessed I did not retain much of new York culture, in earnest, the spiritual drive felt drained after the horrendous suicide of Mark Rothko, the extinction of jazz music and Morton Feldman, the exile of Peggy Guggenheim. Skinny cokeheads like Marcel Duchamp and John Cage had fled into their own resounding gaz bubbles and left the yuppies dance at Castelli and Gagosian.
There had been a time when cohorts of my angels friends rallied atop the vacant ConEd chimneys, when the heavy New York snow tried to shut off the bustle, albeit the FDR drive had always rumbled underground; today, they called from the antique lead roofs on the Louvre, they hustled barefeet nymphets on the Senghor passerelle, automobiles were chased away from the river banks, we would expend ourselves in the stealth corridors of the Palais Royal, like Europeans.

The conversation between Julia and my Far was taking a delicious turn, so Elsie looked for us and sat on the footrest. She took my feet and begged me to make good on my promise to host her. She had already seduced Kate, who left my side and went holding her backwards. She had crossed a lonely vale since our farewells long ago, it had been lighthearted on my side, she had lost her mother and kept herself together on trail, she had not exulted daily like us but the recall of our unbridled parentheses had thrived like the Ténéré tree in the desert of soulless phrases she thirsted in.
There could well be an international lawyer among our glass vaudeville, where few avowed their circumstances, other than temporarily desirous. She had better fathom the mere looseness of our own, before, eventually, stumbling awkwardly.
She would now sort her mundane necessities, rethink the bewitchment we inevitably cast on her solitary persona, with all the delights she guessed in our evocated private garden, and follow, or not, Julia in an American tour of the Gai Paris.
Meanwhile, I gathered at a distance that Julia had become enthralled with my Far and would indeed meet him at the Century, new perspectives, was it not? But at present Elsie and her logically departed early, our final day was possibly busy all the way back to our home.

As he saw us clear away the table and wrap the remnants, Far told me he had thought once to sell off the whole lot and see for a decorator in Lausanne, but these elegant pieces had looked him back and he had started to inquire on their origin and make, and so became enthralled of what he learned on the Danish craftsmanship, coming to think his mother ought to have been the one to devote herself to style, his father being morally strung-up in his guilt and furthermore, blind to mere functional elegance. Had it not been for the calling to parse the ashes of the near Armageddon humanity had spawned, in which our name had been stained, my Far would have chosen architecture as a vocation, and in that aspect, he breathed lighter in Geneva than in New York —a manner of telling me that he did not intend to let be sidelined of his lifetime endeavour. I should reckon he had constantly steered me outwards from where, for instance, my schoolmate Elsie now stood, with no apparent damage. He said there would be living space for both of us, girls, and my gang, and he liked it that way, he would help to it.
Kate was back and so smelled cologne that I enlaced her; she had found some grey oversized jersey and not much else, Far was looking her legs but he parted, like he usually did, wishing us a pleasant flight, had he known.

 

Kate says:

We needed no more soap, but tepid water to rinse off the very idea of all that rubber and exhaust dust in our hair. I could not tell if she was crying her lost angels, she mumbled fugitive calls and pursued my mouth like a lorn child. The rich towels made us into blank sheets of eager drawing paper, I needed to conjure all the promises of happy returns, in the shape of kisses beaded all over her in her imaginary smells.
I promised her more Xmas in Central Park, and roundtrips of debauchery together and more. The peremptory horns of the city’s forge heaters bounce up the hard edges of the sinking chaos, as we stand nude at the window, lightheaded, contemplating the blue shafts of the searchlights from atop the flakturme all over town. No squadron in sight, only the same slow cohorts of aurora’s smiles we used to wait for, my brother Simon and me, in the dunes; Sarah sighs as if she had been crying, she clings to my arm each time panic stricken horses jump over our hidey-hole; A creeping cat with three kittens searches a path between us until we let them in, and Sarah follows them and I swirl into myself, like the funny eagle with a clock in its tummy on the high shelf at the old candy store. There’s a fire on the horizon beyond the woods, with standards and flags; I would not move, as I am full of swarming little blue-eyed babies frightened by the trumpets and horns that hurl in some German tongue I can’t remember. Black clad soldiers with one-lens goggles rummage around but seem not to see me, huddled around my bag of sleeping souls and Sarah who blinks, turning her gaze to the starry sky where a long trail of swan flights stretches as far as my eyes can see, while the racket in the depths is deadened and I’m left with the soft mane of Sarah rolling upon my chest.

The bathroom was shut, so I opened my telephone in the AA armchair in the corner —where she would have sat and watch her mates undress for her. Some funny mail, from one of my own hacked addresses, said our flight would be on time, we should have company again, and everything we would agree to let be would be accounted for, with due regards.
Sarah came out, pampered as an appointment, I slid in and told her to read her mail; yelling through the door, because I would better not open it, she told me she had a message from Hotmail and she was certain whom it came from. I asked her how it made her feel, she cupped her hands on the wood and said low that I was a real one.
Lars was engaging, drinking coffee as he saw me brew tea in one of his silver Jensen pots, he explain it had made his life simpler not to expect proper tea at hotels he would, perforce, patronise.
He was relieved, after all, that the time had come to call the movers and pack, the house in Lausanne was overall ready; he insisted that I should come along with Sarah, I might appreciate more than New York, for what he knew. I promised, I did not know how far Zürich is from Lausanne, but there was someone I craved to meet again, over there. Yes, they had known exciting years in this extravagant residence, but he had had to reckon that it weren’t the place to raise Sarah, nor her brother, for that matter, I certainly knew all the good Saint Loup had done to her. I concurred keenly at the second she walked in, holding her telephone, shutting it and asserting that Mr. Stern awaited us. She sat on her father’s lap, like a cat.

Lars did his farewell lightly and promised to see us before the housewarming. which he needed us to attend, more than any others. He gave Sarah a peck on the lips, to me on the forehead, and he ran. I found her feet under mine, and told her how gifted I thought she was to have kept a dad like him, she bantered she had always been a crisis in the making, albeit she thought not, once her brother’s crime erased with festive years in Saint Loup. I liked footsie with her.

Next to a cantilevered pile of terraces and showcases towering up in the winds, the scrupulous red brick old style office building with recessed levels —as was the rule in regulation days— on Hudson street, in which Adlaï Stern maintained his well-waxed offices, extolled steady heartbeats, and so did Camille’s silver-haired uncle who showed us in with great demonstrations once a black pinstripe power suited hostess had greeted us in silence. Lengthy corridors of the same forest green plush carpeting, on which middle-aged ladies tried their heeled ankles, ascertained a patinated capability to handle any figure of wealth smoothly, like the sales attendant at Harry Winston’s showing the umpteen carats stone; it felt we stood in a plexus of global power.
He sat upon an outer corner of his massive mahogany desk while we shared an almond green armchair, and I felt two presses of Sarah’s hand on my waist, asserting she also had read old Adlaï’s gazes in our legs. I donned a lichen green shantung shirt dress opened above the knees, a sage embroidered uzbek velvet floating vest, jade green velvet Stubbs and Wooton zebra slippers on my bare feet, absinth chiffon thong he might have already seen. Sarah showed her imperceptibly speckled shoulders in a zigzag myosotis Missoni fitted tank dress half-thigh, a night blue velvet afghan boy’s vest embroidered in silver whirls, thin straps sandals at her beloved feet with night blue nails, like her hands —she had been doing that, when I had dozed out in the clouds’ hordes.
So we showed ourselves, like available baits, and he enjoyed. Pinching up his trousers’ pleat, he made a truthful compliment of his once forlorn niece, her finding Hugo as a john , first, then thriving out as we knew well, thanks to him. She had reached for the last kinfolk she found through the Circle —his eyes inquired about our knowledge, Sarah simpered we had all the keys, till then—. He said pensively that he had been alone not to be embarked for Pitchipoï , Camille’s mother had been liberated too late, too mauled to raise the gift a cruel providence had trusted her for. Unbeknownst to him, in the muffled out slums of guilt-ridden Parisian communities, she had unravelled during twelve harsh years, at Camille’s dismay.
He made a brusque sniff, and wanted to know how we knew Camille, and so we told him, and let him guess we were all but white geese, nor street sparrows in need, and so, after having ordered tea into an intercom, he led us to a vast padded sofa, of the same green leather.

A comely thin asian woman in a fitted black sleeveless dress brought a tray with a mud blue teapot and glass mugs she did not fill. Adlaï turned slightly towards me, laid his hand on my knee and said he knew me —paused— from Victor’s, of hellish fond memories. I did not recollect, but there had been, indeed, chaotic spends in the labyrinths. He was deftly unbuttoning my dress down the front, telling Sarah we were undoubtedly among those his faithful partner longed for. He brushed my breast smoothly, worrying naught about the impassive waitress who was pouring golden green water in the mugs; no hint of underwear showed under the thin crepe of her vesture, cleaved high on the hip in the Old Shanghai fashion. Adlaï wondered if we were lovers, and asked us to kiss, as he dared a hand between Sarah’s thighs. We drank some heavenly cloud of a tea and our awe let him venture further on us both. As the waitress returned, he casually covered my nudity and ask us what we wished for lunch. Sarah, who was still half-showing her crotch, looked kindly at the girl, in a tone which might have meant that they would end in a bed together, that any kind of mixed vegan salad around fresh pineapple would befit, and I concurred, leaning back in the down cushions with Adlaï’s hand rested on my thigh.
I needed to pee, he jumped up like a youngling, asked our hands and led us behind a heavy mahogany door to a greenish marble shower room with a golden glazed bowl where he sat me, then he adroitly pulled out his erect dick and played with it on my lips, while he was pulling up Sarah’s skirt and told me to wank her, as I sucked him and he kissed her. His honourable shaft smelled Bond Street, he took out a hefty pair of balls; it was not too boringly lengthy, he soon discharged in my throat without warning, and waited, stuck in, that I swallowed the whole load, finally helped by my teammate’s sucking kiss. He acted as fully relished, saying, as he buttoned back his fly, that he wanted to keep that smell for later.

He pulled Sarah’s dress away, she was instantly homey in the dark wood and green leather setting of a posh corner office. Jiao, as Adlaï had confessed her name was, brought wooden bowls full of orange carrot ribbons, white strings of radish, pink peeled grapefruit sections, and grapefruit chunks intertwined with leaves of different herbs; pretty mounds of white rice, because one eats rice, and porcelain flasks of dressings, bamboo sticks and silverware. Adlaï complimented her, pulling her hip softly, she explained, in ladylike English, that the meal came from the swanky Leonard Street caterer they patronised commonly. He was kindly uncovering her bum next to Sarah who felt her all over, up to an inviting smile, but the silky maid escaped. Adlaï told us that she had become more evasive during her lucrative work hours, although she complied regularly sitting on the golden bowl, and not wearing undies. She might come with him for his next visit to Paris; he wished we could entertain, with a reward, in the hotel of his heart, he capsized Sarah upon the back of the sofa, licked her whole bum crack for a while, and we had lunch.

The sun was sharp, anew we felt bright and slutty, as we drove up to E65th Street to a coquet townhouse to meet our last appointment. Liselotte connections had never been spoilsports, to say the least, and our minimal undies were folded in our stealth armpit pockets, we had found time to water-up our slits and steal some of Adlaï’s Cologne down there, one never knows.
The black lacquered door looked as armoured as Number Ten’s, and the security procedure felt complicated, with a sas and lots of cameras, but once we walked in the deep-carpeted, chiseled velvet upholstered, dim lit foyer, opening towards similar nightly ambient salons and polished mahogany stairs, a long sustained whistling greeted us from a tousled-head, burly, showbiz type shouting his pal Liz had not failed him and we were gorgeous, and as dirty as he liked. He groped us at once, relished our nudity, and pulled us to the rear of the house where a splendid naked Black girl laid reclined on a leopard pattern silk velvet plaid. She flashed a wondrous smile when Leo introduced her as Beondra, and pulled his tongue in my mouth still aware of the cock surge it had withstood. He turned up an apalled black eye when he had to concede we were both unflinching teetotallers, and served us cherry punch and soda. He wore a long open silk caftan over a deep sapphire blue, soon to be opened, long silk shirt which already did not conceal a sturdy haft that I politely seized. Sarah was again disrobed and held Beondra’s head upon her muff.
Once he had denuded me, Leo regained some quiet while spreading my thighs wide and playing at savouring my quim and butthole. He told us Liselotte had announced the niftiest pair of sluts she knew of in Paris, now he regretted we wouldn’t have time to be overthrown by all of his power gang, but he would certainly remember to call for us in his next Parisian visit.
Cajoling Sarah’s face with one hand, he forced me to his jolting truncheon in order to get sucked, but I finely rebuffed him, telling him that it was Sarah’s uncontested savoir faire, so he straddled her face and fucked her mouth gently while she was being eagerly serviced to climax. Still suckling on my tongue, he grunted when he crammed Sarah’s head full of smelly cum, and immediately dived on her to lick her face clean, like an eager animal.
I had never tasted a Black pussy, I devoted myself to Beondra’s lava rose, she was responsively jumpy, Sarah’s fragrance had untied her senses, she burst and screamed and ejaculated her spices on my busy tongue for long minutes, then collapsed, spent. Now Leo was buggering me with two fingers, at least, and he knew what he did, he asked permission to use a condom, I granted him so and soon I felt his invasion, accompanying his thrusts with inner squeezes, making him yell his vibrancy out, the chords in the coiled spine, the thrilling drone in the loins; I missed the ultimate fetish of his live gush, that would beastly drool out of my retracted arse.
Once the throes appeased, our sweats wiped in perfumed coloured towels, I told him that we did not use condom in our realm, because we let monitor our bodies in a network, he retorted my arse, for one, could eventually make him wish to expatriate, but all the nerve of his wealth was on this island. However, because of all that happened in their lavish home, to which he remained mostly a vibrant voyeur, they had already projected, on Liselotte’s advice, to set up such a web in America, but had not yet met a lawyer to envision an endeavour like this for less than tens of millions, plus my arse, naturally.

 

Sarah says:

Although it would be unthinkable they would leave without us, it would soon be time to reach Teterboro. Our day had already unreeled frantically, Kate rested aslant on the taxi bench en route to Bergdorf Goodman because I had realised I could not depart without some present for Dawn, and money was not an option. Graciously helped by ladies who, at first, had looked down on us —did we smell sex, that much?— but to whom I gave my little girl’s gaze, whom I let feel my near-nude frame, knowing that Dawn would be one size bigger, they suggested a sumptuous Italian fawn and blue silk twill blouse with a New-York sized price tag I did not flinch to, Dawn had been my all-time unreserved ally. Kate, who simpered like a naughty schoolgirl, approved of the choice and it was swathed into layers of shimmering tissue paper, a powder blue solid cardboard box, a powder blue double box and a Bergdorf Goodman gift tote. My platinum card nobly swished through the wires.
Back in a cab, Kate wondered if I had fucked with Dawn, I let her know we had maybe showered together and I had tried to seduce her, but stopped at the tone of her prayer not to compromise her; she had been a faithful comrade since, and I liked her near my Far. We had the thrill of watching her breasts when she couldn’t wait and try on the Salvatore Ferragamo blouse. It was fugitive, but I put Kate’s hand upon the virginal globes the size of half-grapefruits, Dawn cried.
We opted for the versatile summertime travel outfits, whatever happened on that plane, we needed not show off. A light, vague, black ribbed jersey tank dress would be my best asset, eventually, in a black, white overstitched, sashiko jacket, a true luxury. I would kick in black, round toe, mary janes, and black open veil tights, if only to make Kate salivate. She herself chose a vague emerald and ruby on white ikat shirt, half-thigh long, gathered with a silver plates belt, under an oversized double breasted jacket, in sea-green, huge palms pattern ottoman lampas , lined in turquoise satin, off-white open tights —not to be outdone— turquoise slippers trimmed in silver grosgrain..
We really boasted be crafty harlots, in the whole; she had perfumed herself like a giant peony, I smelled like the blue haze of hyacinths in the blooming underwood, Dawn helped us till downstairs and made me promise to be in Lausanne, soon.
Visibly, the young driver liked to drive us, he had probably seen a flash of clear skin when I sat in. He babbled incomprehensibly at red lights, let his eyes wander down, but managed to carry us in time. In addition to a carful of fantasies, he pocketed a joyful tip.

Traveling out of the US is easy, one more stamp, yet, the white bird hissed already while we climbed aboard. This time, a svelte asian young man awaited us at attention, donning a Khmer smile, pretty as a girl. When he took my jacket, I sniffed a stream of something more than a cologne, nothing oriental, between grapefruit and blackcurrant, or maybe he had just gulped a gin and tonic; his hands were well educated. Kate rolled up her sleeves and unbuttoned her shirt down to the belt, tossed her slippers and sat on her feet, her smile said that she had noticed the attendant, too.
The pilots boarded, seemingly in good humour, recognised us and came to kiss our hands with some innuendo. On their heels, three bespoke clad Chinese executives walked in and spoke sharply to the attendant, who announced that the gentlemen did not speak English and he would translate for us. Like in tic-tac-toe, they filled the seats next to ours, and stared at us straight in our faces, with inexpressive masks, I sensed that they were fearing each other.
After the formal announces in technical English, we all buckled up and outside the window, Gotham World shrank into a web of blinking strings, while my neighbour’s hand was already on my bum, stealthily.
After a yaw above the ocean, we were following the ever populated coast, the quiet boy served drinks, we asked for kombucha because we knew there would be some, and the mandarins, now in expensive white silk shirts, asked for champagne, which came in two monogrammed silver coolers.
They let us know they were business partners of Panado Ventures Ltd, in Shanghai, traveling eastward around the planet to meet their contacts, and lovely occidental artists like us; I could not catch their names, but they did ours, and Kate had already two pairs of hands inside her shirt, about which one asked haughtily if it was Tibetan, to what she said it was Uzbek, but nevertheless her assailors did not approve of ethnic elegance and she was swiftly disrobed, less her tights that visibly excited them; she threw her hands overhead and spread her legs lankily while she was lapped upon, all over; the tights were peeled off and she moaned when one decorticated her feet with an all-oriental dedication.

On my side, the eminent passenger had watched out on his colleagues’ moves before lifting my simple dress, revel in my crotch for a while, burying sweet ideograms in my butthole, then ordering me drily to pull everything off and grazing slowly my abs and my chest, whispering “my little boy”, while he expertly wanked my quim to tears. He truly relished my figure, his manicured hands in every nook and tickle, his mouth stealing my air and suckling my tongue; he maddened my sleazeberries hard as I wriggled on the Connolly skin. When he heard the sound of unbuckling belts, he impatiently brought a rock-hard peen to my mouth, hurling some injonction to suck, he was already near spurting and he filled my educated throat for my pride to gulp it all and smile.
At a staccato formula he jokingly made, one of the opposite pair took his place and tasted my mouth, leaving me thoughtful as I gave him the flavour of his chum, with a sly grin. He stared at my Danish eyes and penetrated me straight on, humping like a mad boar and discharging, like fireworks into my womb.
Everyone was soon in the raw, these gents were all apparently fast-shooters, we might eventually take some sleep. Telling us to remain wide open, they asked for more champagne, then invited the quiet boy to join, and one of them fetched his dick out of his trousers, held it on fingertips and told Kate to kiss and suck, while the youngster was
carefully undressed, his clothes folded on a nearby stool.
While the three amigos had short, sturdy, hard cocks, this one sported a straight, long, supple one he had either shaved or epilated, and balls like small eggs in a satin pouch. They waved me to get near, and I craved already to lick these toy-like jewels. They guided him inside Kate’s dripping slit and showed me to point my tongue between his bum cheeks; soon I felt one of their rods enter my minge and my arse alternately until it slid easy, I parted my thighs as wide as I could to facilitate, and focused on some fine climax, a new flow of semen helped at that, and Kate, who heard my notes, joined me, making the no longer quiet youth gush happily.

My first assaillant of that night had a crush for his “little boy”, before we were offered dinner by the quiet boy —renewed in his prerogatives— he had already offered me millions to become his property; it was chilling, but I ducked, telling him that I belonged to the owners of Panado Ltd, and I was only on loan to him. After Kate had been accompanied to the bathroom and came back unfazed, my hasty suitor pushed me, since I needed it anyhow, and there he was standing, in his black socks, kissing me deep and feeling me pee, then acrobatically wiping my quim with his mouth, so I felt clean.
The one whose word would not be disrupted grabbed Kate’s arm and pulled her to one of the the resting settees, laid her before himself and showed her to sleep, firmly enlaced. So did my eager suitor with me, but not before he succeeded at buggering me slowly, not unpleasantly, since I dozed out upon it, he probably had used some shrewd lubricant.
Everybody woke up, under cashmere stoles, in Paris. Once we had slid into our togs, the quiet attendant showed us some most complete bathrooms in the reception building; we giggled to each other; a long sleek limousine awaited us; the tea was mediocre, but some grapefruit juice freshened our befuddled minds. Seeing the regards with what we were attended to, our fellow travelers, who had rightfully used us as mere trollops, were thrown in awe; they had, and my Romeo mostly, tried every manoeuvre to obtain our coordinates, but did not ferret out the stealthy armpit pockets where our documents would be, our phones were locked out; our only response had been that we belonged to Panado Ltd. A sleek shaved chauffeur, in a navy blue suit, grabbed our bags and laid them in the trunk, then waited at the car door, impassibly.

 

Kate says:

There was a suitable low, blank sky, and it was warm as in a dying summer. We still granted our fuckers some furtive indolent hand wave. Soon, I enlaced my rosebud tomboy and we dozed together through the bleak landscape of a modern suburb, tagged with the same graffiti as anywhere else, and an hour later, Natalia was waking us up on the backseat with her kind manners, as the chauffeur carried our bags to the elevator in the next building; she stared at us as if we had been gone for weeks, she felt like this all-Parisian wit in a pair of scattered blue volutes leggings, I did not understand who told her we were here. In our tidied home, an armload of dark crimson dahlias sprung in the big silver urn, the arcs of our old disparate Windsor chairs circled around a fresh provençale blue dotted yellow tablecloth on wich sailed a wire basket full of viennoiseries. My lighter than air imp wriggled her bum on my lap as soon as I sat while Sarah, still in some dream, put herself at brewing a pot of tea. Natalia made me a theatrical moaning kiss and I slid a hand to her modest tits, It was started for a party of jet-lagging after a transcontinental orgy. As it seemed, Natalia knew more about New York than we had had a chance to live, she had over-compensated the lack of reports from us with all the ressources she could gather online; Sarah joined us to thank her for breakfast in another heartfelt kiss.
Shutters closed, we traded pillows on the grand bed, Natalia in the middle ready to daydream in our sleepy midst. Later, Liseron found it a homey nest and embraced Sarah’s back.

We were indeed bad parents, we brought nothing back from our trip, no token that we had missed our home pixies, we let them order what they wished for dinner, and liters of fig kombucha, no pun intended, albeit… Camille was coming over with Fanny, Natalia ran upstairs for Delffan who was too shy, and Liseron caught Fayelle reading “The Manuscript Found In Sarragossa”. After all the dicks we had sucked and fucked, we would hold an all-pussy —and a half— party, the sunset already smelled like Kew Gardens. Only Liselotte was missing, and in gratitude for her improbable pirate cousin, I called her —that, she had been awaiting— and she ran at orders, greeted by Natalia, fittingly wearing just leggings and a torn tee shirt.
Camille wanted details of our visit to uncle Adlaï, showing us beforehand the effect of it in our accounts with the gallery; everyone marvelled at our depravity towards a gentleman we had not known when we rang his bell, but Camille concurred that he was so irresistibly obsessed that he had shagged her plenty the day they first met, and been an indefectibly faithful friend since, why she sent us to him, knowing what we would allow, like the two gifted alley cats we were. Liselotte relished the tale of her mock cousin Leo, and predicted he might as well spring up in Paris overnight, and desecrate all of the fine slits she sensed in the room, after what she pulled off Delffan’s pants and played the orchid with her tongue.
Natalia was sparkling with arousal and Lizon gave her the last blow of bliss upon me, as I kissed her backwards, and Sarah busied her tongue in her butt crack. As Fayelle had raptured her overjoyed mate Fanny, Camille cajoled Delffan’s bald head and gave her worldly honeypot to suck.
The telling of our well ordered flight fanned the flames to white heat, like the Asian invaders had been avatars of Sun Wukong, the immortal monkey god, in heat. Sarah was most amusing recounting the prowesses of her Romeo, and how he eventually buggered her to her “petite mort”, only to watch her vanish into a limousine. Camille regretted we had not, at least, kept with us the quiet boy, and wondered if she might get hold of him in some way. It was about time to fetch the dildos.

When Hugo joined the bacchanal, happily bedazzled by all the witty bums that crowded our den, Liselotte overtly fawned over him, helping out with his clothes and licking his balls, but he had spotted Delffan in bloom and craved that rare treasure; he offered the kindest compliments and nuzzled the cheeks and temples as one was climaxing at Camille’s expert hand, then asked permission to play, offering his proud weapon at the parted lips, a pointed tongue as soon licking a drop of clear cum. Delffan keenly spread wide open and Hugo, well taught by his aventure with Theo, asked what to do and where to shag —for he knew it might possibly not happen for the obvious— so Delffan seized his cock and presented it to the tiny pussy, asking for some mercy. The path was wetted, Hugo was utterly deft in such matters, and succeeded at nesting his glans into the mignonne slit —but after all, he had penetrated apparently smaller holes before— and progressed, one tiny jolt after the other, into one’s merry well, and fucked for good to the general amazement, the smaller goad begging for Camille’s lips, which wrapped the straight blade in eager succion. The gush came through a secretive orifice under the shaft and atop the pussy, Camille was splashed on with a smile as Hugo was triggered to fill the pouch that had expanded a tad. Delffan was elated and proud to have shown how to be considered, Hugo was smitten by this preternatural, lithesome body of pleasure that he embraced and kept tight, while Lizon and Sarah licked the toes on the narrow feet.

Delffan’s beautiful orgasm had been the cause of an intermission, and half of Agnete & Sanne’s shop on our table. But also, one after the other dared ask the middlesex newbie permission to kiss the unusual orchid, as one stood on Hugo’s lap, so much so that he erected anew and began his moves to bugger the angel, in what he was helped by Lizon’s opportune drooling, and some lube when Delffan asked; thankfully the chair was sturdy enough when they climaxed again, and this time they went to the shower, smiling.
Pulling a chair next to ours, Liselotte noticed Natalia on my knees and groped her, my eyes rolling being insufficient, I whispered in her ear that this one was not fair game for her, and unmistakably the all-alerted squirrel heard me, and playfully opened her thighs to a bedazzled Liselotte who gave a little lap there and asked if she could just kiss, but Natalia was eating. Her own legs parted wide, she embraced us as Sarah started the part in Julia’s live-in museum with the demon twins; clung to her, giving the eye to Hugo who wanted to take away Delffan, as he did, she played with the suckleberries as my best tomslut revived the indefatigable twos in all our holes. For that or for art’s sake, Natalia wished to go see Julia’s collections, and I did not doubt a second the latter would fondly appreciate, so I promised, and you had to beware with Natalia, that I would let her ask Julia the next time, soon, that she would visit; for now, she was more involved in seducing Sarah’s father before he left New York.
As predictably, Hugo invited Delffan alone to his lair, half dressed and fled. Camille and Fanny took Fayelle to their place. All of us left went in our bed to watch a Miyazaki tale, at Natalia’s request, and Liselotte crawled up in her legs at her pleasure.

 

Sarah says:

I could not fathom if Julia had succeeded at shagging Far over their highly connoisseur meetings; nevertheless, Elsie sounded definitely willing to respond to my invite, and should be with us, whatever Julia flew by, sooner than later. Kate was adrift through the time zones and it gave her the small eyes of a young girl with a flu, but Natalia and her melted together so much so that Beryl wondered, then shared Lizon with me, as it happened.
Natalia was turning eighteen, and would begin literature, art history, and English at the Sorbonne, at least she would trudge through the freshwoman year, skilfully mentored by Beryl. She rested assured on a safe seafaring, but the terrible other in her needed hustling and bustling, unleashed after all she was given to see and hear, she wanted to measure herself and dared Kate, whom she always loved, to let her alone in the “cage aux fauves”.
At one of my transatlantic Xmases, a comely copilot I had casually followed to the airline hotel on 57th street, had gently, among many delicacies, explained to me the use of melatonin, an overall inoffensive hormone, to induce sleep ahead of the clock after an eastbound flight. I had had to find some hazy excuse for the few hours lateness, but I kept in mind what he had so amorously explained, and used it on my way back to Europe. It were already times when my mother and brother had moved, and thus, as long as I looked physically fit and altogether clean, I was granted some kind of autonomy, or was I? —Wasn’t my blue suit fling one of those security watchdogs I had always seemed to see, except for at least once?—

The season was waning, the perfidious twilight breeze called for another layer of flimsy fabric, or the warm breathing of a lover upon the breast. We had migrated back to our high view observatory, but it had revealed itself unfeasible to lock out of it the new younger and slender astronome apprentices, as the metaphor went. It has soon trended to meet our neighbours, possibly in indecent attires, seated around our table, keenly listening, or reading, in their turn, the Journals of Anaïs Nin —with further comments— or the dreamy parables of Marcel Schwob. This clever arrangement had been spawned by our old Magus, I would say James W. Manner, whom got wind that we had repatriated our court in the Pré Aux Clercs.
He sent first an armful of white gladioli, all-dressed-up in ferns and lace-paper, asking if he could visit on the next afternoon, along with Annabelle, his golden sylph of a daughter. They appeared as a whiff of lavender, assailed by lashes of bergamotte and frills of juniper, she was as limpid as the highlands rains, we all craved to unravel her tweed spell. Fayelle and Lizon were here, barefeet, one in an oblique wrapping gown of thinly striped blue-black Japanese weave, the other in a granite blue giant sweater dress showing all of her legs; they emanated both a stubborn ribbon of jaunty freesia, we had been “spying in the house of love” by their dulcet tones of voice one would wish to hear Anaïs Nin, the epitome of cosmopolitan grace.
At once, James took Lizon by him, on the red settee he had offered that for. As Fayelle kept a thumb into the book she had been reading, Annabelle perched on my lap and her feather weight tipped over the seat of my chair so that we found ourselves kissing, unavoidably.

James’ polished nails were running up Lizon’s complacent thigh, I wouldn’t recall how she knew the old artist other than the reception at our show, but she appeared open as a windmill, and he was ready to romp in, feeling no barrier to his caress.
He claimed that Anaïs could lead us a long way, she had been a pioneer of polyamorous freedom, after cutting through all the available paths of well-off education, incest, marriage, and then all the free reeling we enjoyed ourselves, fifty years beyond her. She probably had been some case, to Miller and the others, but in her writings they looked good, better than many literary echoes of companionship in women’s writings.
Lizon sat nude in her overthrown gown, he stroked her whole body and kissed her eagerly, still dressed up in his Irish Tweed and golden green velvet vest. His trousers bulged at the crotch. Anabelle wore off-white textured open tights and responded nicely to my steady manipulations of her damp cunny, one of her legs rested on the table after I had sheltered a few accessories, she acted as shamelessly as a daisy in the prairie sunlight, or as I had in the warmth of the basement laundries at Saint Loup. I grasped something that had kept whistling in my head, that she had certainly not any shade of daughterly attitude towards James, who was now currently widely bedraggled so as to let Lizon pump him kindly; my hunch was that she had chosen him as a sponsor in Paris, then made-up the kinship to secure her position, and let anything happen, which, with a rascal like James, meant a refined modus vivendi.
Would I spare a couple of intimate minutes to discuss this arousing play with Kate? It seemed that nowadays we had boarded all the lovely tramps we had met and our main deck always was crowded, more girls than knights, my quim said.
Now Fayelle was on all fours licking Kate, wide opened, both feet on the table edge, pulling the chair ahead in her lover’s face, and meanwhile James reclined so as to slide his fingers in Fayelle’s slits. Annabelle and me had succeeded at peeling off and we uncoiled over the carpet in half-light.
James knew very well of our spacious modern shower at this level; when each of us was fulfilled, he achieved his nudity and called all of us in the tepid rain, but most of all, he needed us to piss on him and in his mouth, which Annabelle did firstly, with no further comment from us than this foolish warm liquid release, and frank laughters.

James and Annabelle had promised to come for another party soon, when all the books we had ordered to picture the tale of our trip would be delivered —no one needs anymore to carry heavy books and catalogues in their bags, they are all at Amazon’s—. Fayelle and Lizon seemed to have plotted something together next morning, so we remained together, awake like the moon, and shared our feeling that it was Annabelle’s right to live as the incestuous daughter of James’s; I would clear my head of any reluctant reserve, and let my Far play with my toes endlessly.
Then Kate retold me what Natalia had laid for us to think, and I reckoned she had been rightful; we could not keep on bantering about selling ourselves like whores for the meer pleasure of it, and keep our word to her mother not to let her take her seat on the merry-go-round.
Also, she plainly deserved to begin shagging all her fill with indefatigable stems of her age —we did, at any occasion—. What I feared was that, at once in college, she would be preyed by a cute Cro-Magnon specimen, whom, because he would stuff her with semen, would think he rightfully owns her soul and arse, climb up the roofs and make our lives miserable.
Before we dropped our melatonin pill, our deal were, once Natalia would have told us her cravings, and it could take a few days, and more jaunts into private places, we would ask Camille and Liselotte, our trusted procuress —so to speak— and Hugo, His Lordship, what to offer the talk of the town, as a free fate.

 

Kate says:

We grossly overslept, but who cared? Natalia laid tight alongside me, daydreaming in her keen animal way, Sarah’s hand on her waist. As a matter of fact, I had been dreaming with her, or probably she had just stepped into my conscience on tiptoes. She faintly smelled of something, unsure of my breath, I soughed in her jewel ear I felt she had fucked last night, she said nothing but a tongue zest in my own ear.
Sarah brewed the first Darjeeling, and a panful of French toast with her distinctive vanilla note. Natalia kept fiddling on her quim, her rapscallion missed of delicacy… she grasped that I had read her, kissed my shoulder, and wept. After a blank moment of cajolement, she spilled the meager beads of her chagrin, all but miserably obvious; it had not been a rape, upon a pile of clothes in a dim lit room of a bourgeois dwelling, while the heavy beat of a students party pushed, she had very soon resented derailed, misused, unfit, dry and sawed in, and now she was in fear the unaware boor would track her because he knew her classes.
Leaving her on Sarah’s bosom, I pulled a shirt on and ran downstairs for a balsam proper to quench pussy burn Hugo kept. I met the always nude Delffan who gave me her peaceful lips, told three words to Hugo in his sultan robe, then I grabbed the vial and climbed back. I knew —might I say first hand?— the properties of the heady violet smelling cream, and Natalia asked for my fingers to insist in her, as she kissed, and eventually came, in a great relief spend.

Although my appetite had thinned flat, I complimented my simply distraught von K. on her confection she would never miss, fed bites in Natalia saddened childish mouth, and claimed she would stay the day with us, upstairs. I summoned Liselotte in terms fit to make her aware of some flaw in our affairs, and Camille, both of whom attentive around Natalia’s well being.
Liselotte was first to sneak her way in, now that she had grabbed a lot of our codes, and pecked upon Sarah’s toasts elegantly, allowing herself to stroke our smooth looking forlorn maiden. She had a way to pull some confession with enough detachment so that it produced the same healing in the soul as the cream in the cunny, and she relished being asked to console our house fairy she had craved for.
Like a master scheduler of the waters in Babylon gardens, Liselotte had become expert for a stealth nation’s lovestreams, at higher risks than a therapist but far more rewarding returns. Sharing Natalia with me, she invented at once a safe life plan for an impish student too pretty for street life; she would commission Fulgence, this one Natalia could use at no cost, to escort her, him or his trustable chums, during her public necessities, until the lout in question understood she were off-limits. Liselotte gave her word that there were no compensation on her side, only our man Fulgence would be too glad to ingratiate himself with our gracious society; besides, he deserved a more dignified share of our affection, whatsoever.
Natalia saw Liselotte as a saviour, and allowed cat paws all over herself.

Camille appeared later, and grasped the matter fluently, deemed Liselotte’s idea brilliant, brought it up to conspiracy scope, all the time stroking Natalia’s thighs, it began to smell heavenly throes. She reckoned that Natalia had simmered in unfettered lewd effusions from us all, without much more than mere licks on the cakes, so she —and she patted the small belly saying that— might be let to visit some of the brightest pastry shops, like her comrades in the attic lairs. She wondered pensively about her own house fairy whom no one could tell her age and was still dependant on her therapist. Fanny had heard and seen life ways, learned at hopping pace the structures that had been alien to her too long, but she was not asking for more than what she found during a few get-together with us, and most of all Kate who had been her vision and her ultimate buoy. Natalia would be able to retell her what it felt to roam bare in Xanadu, without a telephone.
In the meantime, I was missioned to talk with Hugo, who was entirely after Delffan, who seemingly reveled in that. I had hastily pondered anyway that one could hear my query about Natalia, and Hugo ought to speak up with Lena, her mother, on her daughter’s coming of age in a nexus of life ways of sorts she could not ignore. Hugo approved all of our guidance, promised to speak with Lena in the evening and let me cuddle up with the sweet pixie.

Beryl had been seeking for her mate in many places before finding her with us; she smelled like she had ran, but it was overall palatable; she grasped easily what had gone awry and eventually cried, taking the blame on her because she had dragged Natalia in that unknown house. So, then, it bore on me to heal the wounds of two runners, and I told Beryl she would come with us to the clinic, for a first whole shebang on Natalia, who was overjoyed to hear that.
I held her hand for the blood drawing, more as a token of faithfulness than unneeded support, she is a big girl since she crept in our bed; Beryl, whom had found me sleeping in Victor’s house of lust, was on the other side, thoughtful; Natalia half-smirked when the operator scrutinised her vagina, saying someone had been badly ferocious lately and she should probably report it, to what I convinced her that the culprit would have to redeem his soul for what he had done, and I gave her my black card, in case, she read it in the machine and gave it back, offering me to pick the occasion to an update that we did, so I begged my little sister to hold my hand. Natalia found the need to explain to the benevolent woman that it had not been a rape in that matter, but a brutish butch who knew not she had not welcomed him and did not come anyway. We would make sure he learned his lesson before next time. Beryl concurred, frowning.
Natalia would retrieve her black card the next day, she saw it as a permit to “throw her bonnet over the mills”, as the French say, but only with those in the know, which might sound like a rehash of the gloomy times of prostitution, with an extension to men, equally. As a whole, an expensive and private network like existed for the pornographic industry in Hollywood, anyone with access could type your number and review your specific details. She knew Beryl had a black card, and a number.
Still holding hands, we went up to Agnete & Sanne and bought pies and salads, like they wished, they carried the tied pile of boxes, Natalia was revigorated, Beryl was unsettled.

Camille had known Beryl on and off, with us mainly, and while I preened my fallen dove and Liselotte rekindled her passion for Sarah, she took a fancy for the gracile and sullen doe, holding the ancient board of her chair; she unlocked the gaze of Irish linen blue and did not beg for any smile, yet. She pulled her easily to a couch and began unlacing the ankle boots, pressed the slightly wet socks that smelled kiddy. Beryl was a skilled slapper from long, with a lovely wisdom, I had never doubted her as to what concerned Natalia, I was fond of their nest, everybody wished to sleep there with them, Gauthier, Theo and the whole floor loved them unconditionally. I pulled Natalia to the other couch across and massaged again the inner walls of her vagina with Hugo’s miracle cure, she was sleepy and abandoned, but her clit responded like a lizard at noon.
Ever since Liselotte had once handed her over to this retentive pervert, Pr Y., There had existed a crisp game between her and Sarah; with time, they had both come to love it, it was some thrill to watch Sarah apparently lose her wits at the hands of a vicious dominant, it made me fantasise of tying her in strong leather straps.
Beryl, tousled up, in white socks, invited Camille upstairs, having guessed that Natalia would cling on to me; she was somewhat proud of hosting the queen bee in their own bed.

Someone had ought to call upon Fulgence in a mouthwatering manner, for he sat along with Sarah and Liselotte, both pretty casual in white jersey nightshirts, when Natalia and me emerged, late morning. Tea was lukewarm and bitter like Malaga raisins’ pips, he had brought pieces of flan from the back street boulangerie, because Sarah and him had shared their common relish of it some day, Natalia concurred swiftly and handed me a piece, it made a plain childish breakfast and smelled vanilla in my pet’s mouth.
Since our encounter in Victor’s hellish labyrinths, after years of snubbing him at school, thenceforth Fulgence had become one of our prized, friendly, untied shags, but that morning he was all eyes on Natalia, who purred.
He grasped the awkward circumstances and admitted it could level to unbearable if the brute was entangled in his own balls and worked it into an Elizabethan plot. We laughed a lot, he held Natalia’s fine hand, she was aroused like a rose bush, they decided to make an exploratory stroll on college grounds, we went for a shower, Fulgence matter-of-factly came to watch, he did not hide his hard-on to our sneaky show.
Much later in the day, Natalia and her squire came down beaming, Beryl had sensed to free the clearing as they had come back from operation intimidation, she had read us a few more days in the “manuscript”. As a mock demonstration of sensuous fealty, Fulgence brought his proud conquest near me, and flirted gently with both of us. They smelled of licked skin and broom flowers, in his jeans, he was all spent, for then.

And so, Natalia joined the merry-go-round and in the course of one term fucked most of Fulgence’s co-affiliates, lost three kilos and gained a few heartfelt tones in her spoken voice, not so much, however, to give us second thoughts, in regards to her past bratty girl sweetness. She still happened magically in the bed at her will. She was ready for expeditions into the confounding realms of our best patrons.
She had gone to see Marie, who was in the spectacular phase of her rounding, and aroused like a vixen; she peeled her naked without thinking, retelling her the finest ways to whore, at her best profit and amusement, warning her to stay inside Camille’s safe lines, and teach her johns to pleasure her, most of them would be grateful. If need be, she could let her exercise this twat in a German posh whorehouse, young as she was, she would be the talk of Berlin overnight. Thus, they had dampened the towel they had been sitting on.
Hugo was speaking of taking her, along with Delffan, to the Isles of Scilly in the springtime, he invited her in his bed, when Delffan nested by the new corridor, on one’s own, with marveling wide eyes. Lena winked frankly when we crossed paths, she trusted us to what the apple of her eye had told her, and she could reckon by herself the whereabouts of her fast running daughter. She did not wish to know where and how she traded her arse, she saw no damages and read the reports.
After a rooftop conference with Lizon, she asked Sarah, once she had her hand busy inside her pants, to take her to the Palais Royal, and Sarah would be set on fire to do so, she questioned Camille who told her that as long as she went together with her, Natalia would enjoy a great deal of learning in such places, just like Lizon had.

 

Sarah says:

Lizon had bragged about her visits in the Palais Royal concealed corridors at Philippe’s to keep Natalia aroused in her bed or anywhere she would like; she had disrobed and made love to her in a double mirror clad booth downstairs at a lesbian hustling place; she had pulled down her pants for an old wanker Natalia had not spotted at first; she was under her belt and they liked it.
Liselotte had recognised the polymorphous lustful drive in Natalia just like her own, she stood on the lookout for permission to deprave her fruitfully. She had revealed, quite conscientiously, to Kate –whom we all had deemed in charge of Natalia’s fate and soul– that she could make her meet Pr F., oil king in the Human Sciences department she would depend on. It was all too obvious but Liselotte would always surprise us with her incomparable clout, and clever perversity.
I suggested that since Beryl had mentored Natalia efficiently till then, she might chaperone her off the record as well, but Liselotte insisted Natalia should be alone and, besides her, defenseless at the whim of the generally trusted professor, who would revel in her fears.
It would be set on an evening, after dinner time, Liselotte, who had regained her pale complexion and was dressed in a matte black silk twill high collared evening belted trench over a fitted black scoop neck, at the knees long, dress. Black veil tights in patent leather flats. I checked that she was nude and crotchless under there. She smelled a heady torture of gardenia and neroli, with a ghost of violet.
Natalia liked that. Liselotte had trusted her to her hairdresser, Jean, to shorten the wings of the wealth of dirty blond curls, and reveal her nape. She, herself, wore a collarless, purple-blue bourette, high cut vest, with three fourths sleeves, upon an outremer jersey tank dress that set off her butt, on which Liselotte ordered her to lose the panties, any kind, and wear some opened tights like herself. She kicked dark violet velvet Stubbs an Wooton slippers embroidered of a witty contrasted splash contiguous pattern. I had personally sprayed her with a demented lily enlaced with angelica that Hugo had experimented on my pussy mound; Liselotte was drooling mentally, she would serve as only witness at trafficking such a gem, unwrapping it, eventually?

 

Natalia says:

Camille had already groomed me about ways and manners through tiers of academia, if I wished to benefit of particular lighting along the cursus, in a word become the pet student of an influent mandarin; she, herself, had played so, but truth was that she had been a whore long before, hadn’t she? Anyhow, now she could cabriole behind the shield of her doctorate —anyone?
She thought Beryl had been wisely oriented by her almighty protector among his own clientèle, and she had not yet geared in, for my benefit, not knowing if I would ever spend time and else in Victor’s mazes.
Sure, I had been telling Beryl that, from what I was told, and lately by Lizon, I craved to become part of that ring, but above all I needed to stay in the clear with Hugo and my mother, and Camille was Hugo’s acting main man, so to speak.
Liselotte had dearly craved a piece of my arse, indeed, in her devious manner, and thus, she would be served the same way Sarah had retold me she had done to her, by hustling my skin to one of her high-flying patrons  —at my will, of course.
Under the sheets, I grasped the slutty vertigo in these well-off brats, and realised I had devoted my soul at duplicating theirs, in their all around faithful trust, mind you.
As my elder, Sarah had played doll on me, she had ordered a full laser finish, we had shopped at the most savoury counters for she could feel silk upon my skin, I had almost fainted in the Stubbs and Wooton salon, and Liselotte had furrowed a dainty hand between my bum cheeks on the black leather of the back bench, in the long frame, silent berline.

After Liselotte said we’re here to the answering end of her call, the heavy wooden double portal buzzed open and we sneaked in a golden dim lit porch on which glass doors give, with yet another pad to type on, and so on with the lift to fifth. There, the Smyrna carpeting was thick, and the lamps, in the shape of frosted glass flames, dawned gold on our faces into the infinite parallel mirrors; amid the heavily muted air, Liselotte begged me for a surrender kiss, she tasted of pearl.
The doorbell rang afar, the whole house held its breath, the door rattled many bolts, and swivelled open, under a heavy tapestry curtain. A grave, awkwardly theatrical character, plated black hair, pale middle aged features, in a black shaved velvet smoking jacket with quilted satin lapels, a deep purple ordinance collar shirt, perfect fit black matte gabardine trousers, stood gallantly. As he listened to Liselotte’s presentation of me, he pressed me against the door drape and at once forced his tongue into my mouth, then moaning extravagant compliments. Soon, his hands were already anywhere on my body. He skilfully extricated my limbs out of my jacket, which he nevertheless laid orderly on a chair’s back.
The entry to this apartment was more of a reading salon, with bookcases filled with fine bound books, scattered small bronze figures, two symmetrical pedestal marble top tables and a few medallion armchairs of striped rose and green taffeta. Oriental rugs overstepped one another like archaeological tiers. Staring at my eyes as he asked if I feared anything, he enlaced me as to walk into a grand salon, filled with a dramatic array of dark wooden sculpted columns teeming with grimacing faces and excited animals. Matter-of -factly, he drew me to a deep sofa of burnt-umber brown suede, in which I couldn’t sit up, but lay back, as Liselotte reclined on my other side.
His hand soon ventured under my skirt and he groaned of bliss at what he could feel. Keeping his eyes in mine, he wondered “Who is this?”, and awaited for Liselotte’s revelation of me.

She had been thoroughly truthful, I think she reckoned I was soulful enough not to be fawned about in the eye of my would-be ogre, set aside my dutiful pedagogue. The black jersey had been gradually hitched up over my piddling breasts, his pat and brush there was achieving to overcome any modesty in the mere tramp I were, offering my blooms to the evil bishop, in the most perverted of bedtime stories.
Then he ordered me fully nude and obscenely openned, first marvelling at my toes, modeling at his fingertips up to my wet pouting quim, and all of a sudden commanding that I fetch his dick and suck it, in an imperious whiff.
I wouldn’t dare say that I possess the long trained talent of my invented big sisters in carnal rhetorics, but I intuited the right manner to pump this fitted, long, and straight willie that smelled of Imperial Cologne, and thus I soon had to gulp in an intransigent mouth load of warm semen, for he was pressing my head to his crotch, teaching me a lesson in throat fucking.
Seeing what, Liselotte, still in her crisp array of black silk, came to my rescue in a devoted full-mouth kiss which inspired the proud spurter to unwrap her lower belly. The scene we were playing amused him, he made me jolt by drilling his finger into my back hole.
Once he regained his composure, he found a small silver bell by the foot of the sofa and rang a tiny tinkle to no echo, but a girl, in a closed collar black outfit with a white apron just like “années folles” pornography, brought a tray of warm finger nibbles, laid it on a large leather ottoman she rolled towards us, and went for another tray bearing a coffee set and a bottle of champagne in a cooler.
I was still sucking on the bitter weird taste of his goo, it seemed that Liselotte relished it in my mouth she could at last abuse of, all her fill.

Once he shuffled her petals too, Liselotte had called him “Pierre”, his prick rested as a puppy, he made me lick it clean, again, of the remaining drops, I felt sleazy as a forlorn slave, he was crudely testing me.
With Liselotte soothing my tummy and cunny, he changed his voice as if he would address upper layers of my mind. He explained, in confidence, that I probably knew of my friend Miss Stern’s secure accomplishment, but he wondered if I had knowledge of her opportune sexual expenditures during her studies in his department.
I wanted to save on the ellipses and I took a kind tone to venture that, indeed, I knew Camille had been a whore since her infancy, and only her meeting with Hugo Decharny had drawn her to wake and achieve her social position.
He smirked, agreed that I knew more than he would have reckoned. He was still with his dick out, I was laid back and spread like a spent harlot in a Toulouse Lautrec scene, I was a thorough slag. He went on, unveiling that he had schemed a fruitful cooperation for us, and promised that, if I granted him one such unbeknownst night as this one every term, I would attain my reward with flying colours.
I was not trapped, per se, but hooked, as I felt it. Sarah had been right in warning that I would no longer parse my sentiments between the benefits of a sure path to a somewhat higher status —which my mother, for one, hoped for me— for price of this, so far, light-weight prostitution, and, on the other hand, the glistening delight of merely putting up my skin on stage and watch the manoeuvres of the greedy bidders, from inside the crystal of my soul. And that was what I had come fetch inside Kate and Sarah’s bed, and it smelled good, included the weird taste of male gush.

The overall absent looking maid replaced the warm bits tray with an array of fruits déguisés and pralines. She would not raise an eye on my lewd stance, I would not know if she even spoke French, she donned black eyes and marked black eyebrows in a pale oval face, a slit, tense, unexpressive mouth, rich black hair gathered in a loose bun. I wondered if she, too, was playing a part there, I would have been in the mood to slide a hand between her slim thighs, I only let my pussy wink at her insensibly.
Pierre wanted me to help undress him, he was more or less heavy and hairy, he ordered me once more to lick his balls, and Liselotte, half unkempt, joined. Then he claimed it was time to experiment with me. The maid was called to clear the large ottoman less the coffee that went on a side table. He told me to lay on my belly, legs apart, and handed me an opened book which he wanted me to read aloud, blandly, indefinitely. While I recited scrupulously, incited by his remarks, focussed on words and making no sense, I felt that he was licking my bum crack with great dedication, and Liselotte was busy at some pleasurable part, hence the muttered cries, and I grasped she would have taken hold of the maid in black. Nonetheless, he was hemming my southern lips so well that I pursued my reading stubbornly, even after I felt he was oiling my arse surreptitiously and stretched it with the four-fingers game deliciously, he was as dainty as Sarah in that, but he also could thread in his rekindled shaft and begin his full length thrust and back till I fitted him in and squeezed his moves accordingly, still reading as he ordered, well beyond his gush, when my retightened arse began to lose his liquids upon the leather I was on.

Liselotte had actually unravelled the maid, rid her of her black rags and made her lick her twat, which she did breathlessly, yes she was part of the cast. She was a lean but smooth-shaped animal with a chubby mound and labia, her butthole was shady mauve, and her feet were as clever looking as Sarah’s, I wished I would nibble them madly, but now I laid on my back, and Pierre had set up a projector behind my head, beaming on the ceiling the words I should read aloud, holding a remote to set the speed of scrolling, while he was shagging me, almost still. A footnote let me see that the text was his, and so the game took a sort of amusing literary turn, it was a tad more than just paid fuck —or was it?
The third load was predictably longer to happen, but he was more and more transfixed watching me, reading in the air in the glaucous light of the projected letters, while the other two sucked my tiny nipples to try and make me trip on words.
I was easing my hips over his dance, searching some exultation of my own, which I realised a proper whore wouldn’t, but he grasped my moves and strengthened his, deeper, faster, to my release and rapture. He summoned the two others, Elvire, that was her name, and she wasn’t deaf, to suckle his drooling penis, and Liselotte was allowed to clean my quim with kisses.

Pierre was now lazing in the depth of the downy cot, I craved Elvire’s tight butt and elongated loins, all three girls reveled in each other. He looked at us, amazed, and mumbled that Queen Victoria was a blind idiot, which I wished I would remember to ask Liselotte what it meant. He was indeed spent, but he grabbed me close and kissed me all over my face, thanking me. He wanted to now if I would fulfill our deal, I nodded like the little girl I had been, he said that I come see him in his ordinary office, where nothing was to occur, albeit he might enjoy that I forgot to wear undies, there, he would schedule my readings and writings to the best efficiency. Our next “performance” would be in two months time, with a new chapter of his book. He trusted me with his personal coordinates, while glancing at my eyes for a warning not to spread them, and showed us to a spacious bathroom where he asked me to piss on him as he hugged me.
We left around midnight, Liselotte had ordered another grand car, she asked me to invite her in my room, I still had enough stamina to take her in my bed. I asked her if I could meet Elvire again, she mused I had a crush on the lissom black cheetah, she answered that she would be there at all of my nights with Pierre, because she was his daughter, but, at my stupefaction, she added that she would set up a party of us three in the next day; as a headless alley-cat, I jumped for joy and opened my thighs to her, again.

Liselotte had only wanted to end the night nested in my armpit, resting bustled by my dreams, smelling me. When Beryl snuck back in, she wondered who was that woman, then recognised the chain she bore at her ankle and slid along her back, holding a small breast in her sleep.
Some battle of pigeons at our window woke us, I had not closed the shutters. My two sweet bedfellows greeted each other on my account, claiming me the freshest whore of chic Paris; they colluded at making me orgasm so intensely that my legs would fidget through my day.
Hugo invited me for an intimate dinner, and I would make sure it wouldn’t mean sitting at a table.
Indeed, he had manoeuvred so as to entrust Delffan to Theo, whom would introduce that one to a different niche in the Palais-Royal, and thus went shopping for a worthy genderfree outfit at Missoni’s. He would keep his ward for the night.
After what Liselotte had told me of Pierre and Elvire, I felt dizzy when Hugo, who was my real surrogate father, cupped his hands upon my neck and nape and kissed me like a made woman, soon sliding a hand in my pants I had kept on in the idea of losing them fast. He turned his most lustful eye on mine and whispered he needed to smell my sweaty crotch, pushed me over the center table, and unbuttoned my fly, to nose inside.
He teased me about still scenting Pierre’s semen on me, tossed the jeans and licked me, raving about the holy sweats of a busy student, leaving me glowing upon the table, legs apart. Whatever my mother could peep on from now on, the household would restrain naught about me and my person.

Yes, whereas Pierre had, so to speak, defiled my pelting on his doorstep, foreseeing the thrashing of one of Liselotte’s gullible white geese, Hugo was carefully letting his yearnings overcome the shudders, allowed me to keep prancing free. He would not sacrifice this spontaneous drive he had always furthered in a sneaky pet mouse, for a mere jolt of spaff most anyone around here could actuate for him.
He retold me a fruitful conversation Pierre and him had held when this one had grasped where I spawned from. He asked me if I had resented the rough welcoming and the cavalier ruffling of what he was currently toying with.
I protested I liked to be shagged manly, too, and Pierre had kept tight reins on his mad dogs; furthermore, I had had faith in Liselotte’s debauched flair, she probably had thrown herself to Pierre’s whims beforehand, and reckoned that it were overall enjoyable, if at all enriching.
Hugo, now laying me amidst the legendary cloths of his parade bed, marveled at the idea Pierre had had to, so to speak, bone his own literature through my obedient arse, and only rued that himself could no longer discover such a fine literary mean.
He was being the smooth enchanter that my two high-flying paragons had always described, who had made them desire to dwell amongst his branches and was granting me to stay, me too. I floated that I had been about to offer him such a reading I had done for Pierre, but he retorted that now on, he might listen to me voice Undine for Kate and Sarah bent upon their work, and fantasise my little arse being shagged by an old compadre of his.

17 – Katherine Sophie – One-Drop In The River Seine

 

Sarah says:

Hugo had been intrigued by my dedication in the cause of my childhood soul-sister Elsie, who arrived that day in Paris, with the fantasy of altogether moving her life over here. I had spilled three nights of my best whoredom, so his Lordship felt, in his balls, my request. Not that it were unusual from a minute-slut like me, I crave winning the mighty’s consent by power of my arse —simply because my life does not depend on it.
Elsie Chautemps would nest in the new wing of the high floors aviary, neighbour to Delffan, our middlesex proper angel; Theo the genderless dandy from Oz; Gauthier the golden mane knight; Beryl the brothel dragonfly, and Natalia, our house fairy who opens any door anytime, daughter of Lena, the hands-off governess of the Castle. She would join us by way of the elevator that opens backwards at our landing, and so, as a whole, she would have three different accesses to the street from the stairways of the adjoined buildings, complication that has proved useful in maiden’s life twists and turns, or even the secret services. Hugo has a passion for opening pathways through old walls and footings.
But until the fixtures and fittings, under the direction of Hugo and Gauthier, were dry, Elsie, splendid offspring of centuries of Caribbean’s unfettered mixed skin colour fray,, would dwell in our bed, anyhow, while undoubtedly the whole menagerie would wish to taste her caramel cream skin, at her whim.
She had meant it, she was standing downstairs with two suitcases and a half that the cab driver rolled to the elevator, and so we were stuck one to the other in the cabin for a bustled welcome kiss; she smelled of precious woods and dewy moss, and an exciting hint of travel sweat I wished she kept until I licked it. Kate knew her exactly well, since our jaunt to the Manhattan terraces, she helped her feel at home, i.e. undress mostly, and draw her to the shower for a trio of geranium-orange that rhymed airily with her scents.
She had had a short transcontinental night, soon after tea, and endless caresses now she was nude, she collapsed into our pillows, mumbling they whiffed of us.

The “Oh, so early!” —we had met in the effusive grades of primary school— companion of our lustful shenanigans had knowingly dived into my innocent entrapment, it would lean upon me to greet her ashore on dry feet. Then and there, she had rightfully dozed out in our bed, and would nest with us for weeks, albeit Gauthier had free rein to stimulate around the clock teams in Elsie’s apartment.
My Far —I said this would be my dad— had landed himself on freshwater shores of Lausanne with a full-sized container of Danish vintage cabinetry, and the help of Dawn, our long time governess to arrange them before the splendid view of the French coast. He consulted us via Skype, too, and I grasped that he was rebuilding his nostalgia of the Øresund, for the few white winter dawns. He had kept open the Taarbæk white villa for all of us, but I knew I would never make up with my evil brother, and moreover he was on course to slander my life ways —adversely, to the event of being shunned by the real Danes. My Far, thus, had just written to Elsie that, at the effect of the conversation they had had in Tudor City, he had forwarded her résumé to the UNESCO here in Paris, and she might be invited for an exploratory job interview; besides, she might contact a friend of his who was something at the Institut De Droit International in Geneva, if she liked train rides. Every dawn shone rosy for yet another Nation to sing amidst our scented aviary.

Kate agreed that we had no better time to spend than watch over Elsie for the few hours before dinner time. Snooping around in the castle nooks after Beryl had shirked him off Natalia and her study, Fulgence knocked at our door and flashed a radiant smile and a rumpled white shirt. He was kind of proud we asked him to chaperone our little mouse princess, although he did not fully believe she had been in mortal danger, and would rather meet her in Victor’s padded cabins, like he had with Beryl, of sweet memory; but he acknowledged letting the studies override his want, all the more so that he read lust in the girls’s gazes, matter of a rain check, thought he.
We had been wallowing in a couch shuffling magazines and drooling upon Cara Delevingne’s feet, in mismatched oversized sweatsuits, it was easy then for him to warm his artist’s hands along my ribs and make sure I wore no undies. Kate remained as aloof as she could fake, but I knew how she valued the Nibelung shaft that bulged in his jeans, she was warming up to perform a lewd score as a Rheinmaiden, again. Our available Siegfried wouldn’t shy away two maiden’s streams of passion on a lazy afternoon, moreover ask where the third hid. He grew a silky mesh of dark blond hair on his chest that tickled my spiff berries while our tongues knotted; Kate gulped down the brave pink dwarf that loomed up once she had wrestled off his fly buttons, and nodded steadily.
Woken from another opera, the Indian Queen showed her candid nudity at the bedroom door, to the amazement of our current hero, and so I called her in and she obeyed with a good-girl smirk. She ought to have been wanking at the sounds we made, she surrendered fastly her wet minge to the stud that Kate had hardened like horn, and who happily sheathed in her with arrogant thrusts, amidst her deep swigs of breath, unfailing till he gushed back at her own squirt, enraged of bliss.

Kate and me consoled one another while we heard laughs and splashes in the bathroom. Our stallion had been stolen anyhow. That we thought, because he came back with a taste for rematch and prowess. As the worthy “mirebalais”, wonted of Victor’s expenditures, he deemed himself liable for our quims’ proper exultation, hence he asked that we refurbished his cock at our slit’s need, pushing it into my face. He was a good artist, and he tautened his tool ready for Kate’s well of vanities, spilled open on the edge of the cushion where it wept of love. Fulgence then threaded his pride in the eye of her want, precise and implacable like a courser’s knife, in the dishevelled cries of my queen to whom he leaves not a respite upon his dagger, so gluey that it buggers entirely my stunned hatch and thumps in my womb while my neck is clenched in a manly vice.
Elsie applauds, he plays unrepentance like a street Hercules amidst the broken chains, he congratulates our heated slits with a dainty hand, and sips a holy tear at my eye.

 

Kate says:

As we soothed our carcases in the running flow of tepid water, I manipulated Fulgence’s manhood, the least he would tolerate for he had forced his flesh unrestrained. I fetched a sensitive balsam of Hugo’s making that we could ourselves spatter our insides with, and so I could assure him it would not burn his dick.
The four of us were naked and fresh having an afternoon oolong tea when Gauthier came down along with a visibly aroused Natalia –they ought to have been petting on the way down– she read easily what had gone on while she was memorising the terms on what her tutor Pr F. might interrogate her; I had come to know that Liselotte had brokered some interview, thereabout, and it could not have been innocent, if even altogether innocuous.
Natalia jumped on my lap, for I was hers, wasn’t I? She smelled of the golden amber Gauthier used, mixed with a lime tree scent Hugo had done for her, I was aroused by her, I unbuttoned her jeans, I needed to sniff her intimate sweat.
Sarah wished we strolled a while in our unmatched quarter, for Elsie’s pleasure, to let her fathom how much she had changed continent. It was the right timing to enter the pastry shop in its full scents, she fell in awe to the sweet golden buttery tidbits she would learn to keep beyond armlength, as I told her we did, while she relished a frangipane croissant.
We were long acquainted most of the arts and antiques dealers, we pushed some doors, so that she was delighted with the comely manners of the well dressed owners and attendants, whom otherwise killed boredom reading, seated on their expensive rarities. Sarah would wait some time to avow that these few streets were the exception in an otherwise harsher social reality of France as a country, although not commensurable with the ultra pitiless American standards.

And Elsie, who knew Sarah as a privileged diplomat’s kid with bodyguards and nannies, whereas she was the daughter of single mother who happened to have landed a situation within the UN by chance, but thus could sneak her in the elite international school where she had thrived, thank you, Elsie had not yet parsed our fringy situation towards a rich multitalented protector, who owned most of the block around our stylish nest, so then, whereas she had witnessed our polyamorous life ways, she might wonder upon our princely economic unawareness, that made us either crafty courtesans or discreet legendary artists, or both.

 

Sarah says:

We were awaited at Hugo’s —he likes to win new hearts, and more, if any. As Elsie was some kind of a meteor hovering on our weird bohemia, we sat around a table to share a grand vegan mezze from Agnete & Sanne, on a turning tray, because he had agreed that they were currently the best, and we would not, straight away, for once, wallow, Roman style, like for an orgy, but then…
Elsie had fetched out an easy wear knee-long night blue shantung shirt dress with inverted pleats in the back, trimmed with rainbow coloured piping at the edges, and a Navajo belt with a silver buckle inlaid with turquoises . She was striking, nude in the silk, I wished to unbutton one lower on her chest inviting the stroking , and since she carried no shoes light enough in my taste, she might as well run bare feet on our carpets. She likes to wear Eau d’ Issey, it fits her, the skin of her neck is bliss.
Kate chose some fluid sort of precious jersey night gown, slit up from the calf up to the hip, in a peachy cloud tone, and for Hugo’s relish, we had all decided to go without shoes. She smelled of a Millefiori Tuscan trail and wore white opals at her finger, her wrist, ankle, and neck.
Natalia would look excitingly candid in a short, burgundy, finely ribbed cotton jersey tank dress; I noticed with pleasure that Elsie too, craved to slide a hand between these sleek thighs of hers, and I knew she would, at no harm, before the night was dreamt off. Natalia smelled of a zesty cologne like it were her own dewy sweat; at once I verified she wore no undies, no one aware, and sniffed my guilty fingers, eyes closed. She donned a fine thread of sequence coloured gems, with as many charms attached as hearts she tipped, already, said she.
Our gold maned speckled herald let half opened a light mauve twill shirt with an ordinance collar, he smelled of a whirl of frankincense and greek mad herbs, sage, oregano, hemp, and a wink of neroli; he let me make his scepter bulge in the dark blue linen shorts.
I had hesitated, as ever mostly, between boy or girl looks, so as to arouse the crowds, and when I saw what the others meant, I thought Elsie would relish a little boy’s black twill court tail jacket over a long enough white jabot shirt, under which my perky arse went easy as a dove. I graced myself with drops of the unique “white rose, iris and black currant” made on me in a night of passion, when Hugo couldn’t stop shagging me more and more. Gauthier had his middle finger in my arse as he hummed that he loved me, and I believed him.

Delffan was here, all lit up between Hugo and Gauthier, serene as a blue lotus. Camille, slender under her wealth of Venetian blond curls, her always acute gazes already under Elsie’s skirts, Fanny next to her as an impish gal, ran up at the sight of Kate, dragging Fayelle along, to sit around her, wrestling into her rags as she weren’t hungry otherwise. The rest of the tribe had read the smoke signs, and made their way in, Lizon was making Theo stroke her and revel in the smoothest parts of her, as she murmured poetic tales in his little ears.
Leaving Delffan adrift in Gauthier’s charm, Hugo drew a stool between Elsie and me, and spun a perfect conversation with my protégée, giving her matter-of-factly the keys to these seemingly family bonds, whereof only lust pervaded in the souls. He succeeded at grazing her knees, first, without any flinching from her, who smiled at both of us, having noticed Fanny’s hand in my shirt’s crumples. Once his hand had reached her sanctum, undoubtedly awed by the lewd availability I had let her stage, and started his craft of diddling her nerves, he drove her to a shady divan and went on, surreptitious as the tide, hiking up her dress, unlocking her belt with a compliment –it had been a gift of Julia’s– catching her mouth against a Fortuny silk faille belly round cushion.
Our elegant trio selves had been properly fucked at tea time, Natalia guessed it, sensing the balsam in my bottom hole, she frowned and swore she would shag that lout before long. Fanny too, wanted to check in my naughty sheath, they reveled in their lewd manners, and I found myself bare arse with them, amidst the stitched ottoman cover on a curvy loveseat; once beyond the amenities, the full blown orgy had indeed been planned.

Except for one commodity. It had always been manageable to summon gracile fillies at the provider’s banquets, but proper penis happened scarce, and Fulgence had been spent. Gauthier, who was exactly being pumped by the indiscernible, evoked the live eventuality that two authentic British boys currently played together in his high apartment, and would rejoice at the leeway they would prospect through our gentle crowd. As all delicacies were abundant, the copper knight was prayed to call his minions by the way of false-bottom stairways, dress code optional.
Donovan had grown lush strands of weathered blond hair, his cobalt-rimmed irises gave me shivers, and Fanny stood dumbfounded; his rosy amber skin revealed the muscles of the tall highlands runner, when he dropped his sweat pants, we had already provoked a tense retort of his pride; he recognised me, we had shagged a grand slam some day, but Fanny was swift at diverting his attention towards her sparkling youth, inviting him at our feet.
Augustine was son of the haunted heathers, pale as paper, ink ringlets, obsidian eyes fluttering long black lashes like blackbirds against windy white sheets, some understated smile over a narrow wilful chin, a poster boy for a gay romance, he smelled of coumarin, burnt cinnamon, resin tar like some wayward kid who has played his day above a forbidden fire, and strong black tea with Carnation milk in it, his johnnie was brave and well fitted of dangling attributes, he knew to swoon in a kiss, to undergo the whims he unleashed in whom pleased him. Gauthier said Augustine had been the worst school tease he had met, and loved, together they had succeeded at shaming M. Renart, Gauthier’s deadly homophobic father, who had locked his son at the hands of Jesuitical evils, after he had discovered his games with Donovan, whose tender mother worked in Mrs Renart’s costume workshop.
I let Donovan spin metaphors up Fanny’s legs and nosed in Augustine’s slender neck, Fayelle was already devoutly sucking his dicklet. When she preferred to be shagged, he manoeuvred her to her fours and snuck into the dripping minge, then alternately in he butthole, I helped, poking my tongue in his.

Probably trying to impress Augustine by my capacity of dirtiness, I licked his come from Fayelle’s defiled anus, and it worked, he kissed me as I licked my lips, and asked who I was. I lied mostly, as a game. Fanny was moaning. Elsie reveled in Hugo’s conversation inasmuch as to stretch her thighs to his avid gazes; no signs of incomprehension, whatsoever.
Natalia joined us when she saw Augustine’s pecker unattended, I winked to her to signal she had bloody free rein. I introduced her as the house genie, she might have been Hugo’s daughter, for what it looked like. The boy was charmed by her forwardness when she seized his boyhood and balls like enviable toys, begging a kiss at the tip of her tongue. Fayelle licked her perky arse and I ensured he welcomed my peripheral petting, while he stroked the so gentle body of an eager little imp.
She might have preferred the more manly embrace she sensed in Fulgence —rightfully— but she showed her finesse in responding to the gay leprechaun attuned, like a mischievous virgin who knew. She slid along my side and opened her thighs, he might have speared both of us, I enjoyed my fingers in the curls on his nape, and breathed my awe to both.
He was young, she was beaming, Fayelle too, helped, so he effed Natalia, unfailing, like a Swiss lock, and wiggled in the depth of her womb as she jolted in cries and held his blushing face. He took his time, she came many times, each for what she felt she had missed, possibly, and she was not extinct once he had gushed again, bringing his febrile mouth next to mine, for a kiss.
Had Elsie provoked Hugo, who was buggering her, unfazed, her legs high up? They had rid of her dress, she was spectacular with her dancer hips —we had been together at dance classes, in cloakrooms and showers, teasing whomever peeped— doubtless she had continued the hard barre work, whenas I frolicked as a squirrel on the holy lakeshore! How good were my hip joints to look at? I massaged Natalia’s hinges on top of me, she giggled, she was ready for another round.

 

Elsie says:

As an only daughter of a single mother, I have scarcely been taught in emotional kinship, or close camaraderie, if I may, as I saw smoulder around Sarah, the mute passion of my adolescence, the picture kid of intimate mythology I kept through the social hardship, now descending upon my soul, bare feet, surrounded by a weightless Areopagus, in a timeless neighbourhood, under lenient skies.
I had stepped onto the magic rug of an ever-expanding polyamorous circle, not a simple question asked, chances loomed that I would never wish to return into the sulphuric furnace of my birthplace.
I had never been acquainted near genderqueer persons, these had been exotic news topics, at most. Here, they seemed to thrive upon their wants, easily. Theo, in sylphic manners, offered to cicerone me —in his own words, I had to google that, and laugh— through the stately museums, that he, a mere yokel from Oz, had been bedazzled to discover, before a special someone had sculled the gondola for him, and he held my hand softly to add that he had chosen himself to fly as a “he”. My hunch had been to let him row for me; having noted the attire he wore before he was stripped bare in action, I asked what would be the dress code, he smirked and said it should be anything fit around my gracious body, no flashy colours, though, that would bustle the dreamy harmonies of centuries, if that was what I wished to be allowed in.
After waking visions of flesh and smiles, yawning at caresses and lush scents, all new to my armour-clad bachelor stance, I expounded to my two bedfellows my acceptance of Theo’s offer, with an interrogative ting to it; they both unequivocally cheered at the prospect, and Kate laid out his happening onto them, her love of Cynthia, their quiet embrace of the gender-free lifeways, but then and there I would enjoy the talent of a dedicated scholar, on the matter of art as shown inside the two mastodons nearby, so long as I did not expect another wild boar shag; but for that, I could call Fulgence anytime, hadn’t I acknowledged that they fancied his ways, too?

Theo, outright wishful, I supposed, granted me a full-year pass to the Louvre, which I demanded to repay unsuccessfully, he only admitted it might cost me lunch at Café Marly. Of course, there would be no trace of hard-nosed Australian in his manners, but an astoundingly well-read companion to a visit in one of the genuine cradles of the most imitated style on earth. He offered to give me a first tour, with the most striking pieces on view, provided he would make himself available for a further approach, by epochs, if I wished and was not tired of his company.
He behaved as a distinguished suitor, although he knew that his detailed embodiment kept no mystery to me; he held my arm, my waist, whispered in my ears, and kissed my neck, altogether deliciously, by that, bolstering the emotional spell of standing in presence of legendary artworks, I could not help but tell him, but I almost regretted once that he cried, keeping his nose up. Then I unleashed all that I felt the likes of motherly love on his sweet head.
Over a quite successful salad at the Café, he played with my hands to explain how his life had been of angst and terror as to being a monster because his body would not bulk up, nor his willie lengthen, etc… until he had met Doctor Möhlitz, a young German specialist with an opinion on middlesex, and had been Kate’s lover before she moved to Australia, in the wake of her parents’ dissent with some German medical mightys. She had quietly examined him, drawn blood, led him into frightening machines by the hand, and gradually taught him that she knew there was nought natural to be modified, or that, anyway, she would recommend or participate in, his metabolism did not respond to male hormones, and he would remain indefinitely immature, with the skin and the hairiness of a child, which bore awkwardness and benefits, too, and she could teach him what to make of all this.
After a while, when he had come to like his visits at her town practice, and then in her home, she had avowed that she was herself of an atypical nature, hence her comprehension of his situation, and the nexus of her parents dissent with German colleagues, whose prognosis would have been to chop off that eerie clitoris of hers.
Cynthia and him had rambled on, emotionally, then erotically when the medical bond became useless, with Theo’s parents awareness, his school had been changed to an overtly progressive institution, with an emphasis more on the arts and literature than on physical sports, and Theo had thrived spectacularly, until Cynthia, who wished to let him, now, fly of his own wings, recalled the unfettered openness of her high school passion for Kate, and explored the opportunity to sent Theo near her.

He no longer cried, his eyes were bright, while he collected the unmelted sugar of his cappuccino; he finely explained that I should not be ashamed if I was curious about the Gioconda, which was, notwithstanding all the clichés, the unbreakable stone of an unfathomable enigma, the sort of which people had died for. He drifted on to François the First, the French King who lastly sheltered Leonard, and make me promise I would let him take me to Fontainebleau, where he had devised a highly poetic universe.
After a dozen of tense stations before the truly admirable Vermeer, Van Eyck, Patinir, and others, like some liturgic sequence bending for respect, my back felt more like laying on the floor, so Theo guessed that, and we walked back on the Senghor walkway, where we leaned above the river Seine while the sun slanted behind the giant cricket wings of some extravagant architecture afar. he showed me the massive grey citadel at the other end of the footbridge and said it were our next unavoidable commitment to art, in the throes of a more or less on and off century-long revolution, the advent of the individual soul, in its own right, the nineteenth.
My spine felt elated, stretched upon the parapet while he kissed me just like a girl would have, he was sealing the confidence he had trusted me for, and I thought I would keep faithful to this encounter, furthermore to what it resonated through my own strings. Behind the uneven glazings of the Legion Of Honour Palace, said he, the timeless lights streamed upon golds, in the quiet lust of the dead empires.

 

Kate says:

Theo was overjoyed that he met a complacent ear to his sound historic art expertise, and Elsie was duly flattered to see him give her so much of his time and care; she would become used to these unexpected manners among the tribe’s members, once they had shared your intimacy. She had gone to Switzerland with Sarah at the invite of Mr Lars von Kettelær, with high hopes to shunt her cursus towards international tiers.
Natalia craved to find me alone in the bed, she knew all of my buttons by heart, but then she pumped steadily to make me lure Fulgence in and let her make him, outside of his mission with her. And eventually, because I still felt his imprint when he shagged the three of us, I conceded to her whim, invited the lucky guardian angel for sushis and chilled white sherry, just enough not to put him asleep –I wouldn’t even taste it. I had been wearing some of my long and soft Uzbek colourful silk and they had been hitched up to my armpits in a rage of raspberries when our ancillary imp made one of her entries, unannouced and resplendent in the dimmed lights, so as he caught her ankle and she fell appropriately among us. He had prowled about her witty little arse ever since I had asked him to save it, not daring to fail me, but since I was part in the fun…
She, mostly, had worked her pretty head up about Fulgence’s valiant jimmy, and I couldn’t do much more than wank myself, while she duly serviced him three different ways in a row, with a smile, delighted to demonstrate how skilled a whore she had grown into. It remained for me to play second and lick the spills, she had tasted him firstly. When I woke up, all they had left was a ginger smell in the wet sheets.
I sensed it became as soon a habit, I wouldn’t see much of either of them for a while, and nor of Beryl’s. Hugo let out that Natalia was assiduous in her studies, foremost, said he —I remembered Pr F. methods and stopped wondering.

Wishing to let Natalia relish the handsome nihilist’s warm piston, I cast lines randomly towards Liselotte and Annabelle, and both bit my hook, without complaint. As ever, the first was rich in ideas, as it happened, the latter was available, and gave me an impression that she would have been awaiting such a move. We met at Liselotte’s, it was early, but she was already aroused, we played hands in her lush mushroom brown leather sofas, softened with black and gold zebra-patterned velvet plaids.
Annabelle wore a vague, sketchy willow green cashmere jumper in which her apple-sized breasts gambolled, and matching knitted pants easy to slide a hand in, and she knew of our bad manners —like those of her own father— by the way.
Annabelle was indeed something more than mere bait, or consuming tinder, like Camille had a knack to single out, for our thirsts, she was James’s daughter, as eerie as it sounded. Nonetheless, after we had unclothed her, and questioned her in the gleam of her dreamy eyes, she unburdened of the truth, as if, exchanging the intimacy of our efflorescences, lies became vain.
She had been born in Glasgow, in the thick of the underprivileged class, like a lily inside a blackberry bush, and her uncommon beauty had set her apart, making her think that she did not belong to the herd. Her parents did not like her strangeness, but soon, mild-mannered adults with a tiny power sheltered her in their ward and life of half-baked abuse floated her adrift through well-intended institutions and elusive fantasies.
She promised she would tell all, later; In short, her main effort, besides avoiding greater suffering, were to speak such language she heard from the BBC, accosting well-spoken predators rather than Scot thick chinwag types.
At twelve, she had fled her parent’s home where her mother was dying of bad pills and her father already devastated his own brain and tried to sell her at the pub. Still speaking diplomatic vernacular, she knew prostitution from then on, then days on different webcam, waiting for the tokens to rain —her invented manners and talk becoming a huge sale success because she began to look like a Norman fairy, making her audience from Atlanta to Singapore drool—.
Then James saw her somewhere in the Google sphere, and tracked her with one or two things that slipped her tongue while she was rolling her hips to the camera; he knew Glasgow by heart, he had been a regular at the Mackintosh School of Art, and kept a soft spot about the brown city, and he was particularly savvy in shady cybernetics. He found where she advertised for patrons, agreed to a steep fare for a whole night at the Kimpton hotel, fell in love, and kept her, making up the daughter thing, although he still spoke of adopting her, provided her father accepted to renounce paternity.

And Annabelle mimicked a sad face but pulled me to a hungry kiss, apologising for the unseemly excursion about what she called the low skies of Sighthill cemetery, for what eerie it meant. Now taking lead at rummaging my expensive clobbers, she said that they had, with James, spent aeons in cosy beds retelling mostly the legendary fates of the Beaux-Arts dilettantes and their polyamorous life ways she wished she could afford, in the way she could frig herself at the reading of parlor magazines.
James had been her ticket to redemption, now they had some social commonwealth so as she would not be considered as his provider and taxed on the money he gave her, making it easier to pretend being his daughter, as incestuous as it were; last but not least, she had willfully accepted that he had shagged all of us, twice rather than once, and he would.
Liselotte had kept round eyes at the confession of the unlikely martyrdom of whom smiled as a newborn sweetbriar; Annabelle reassured her that she had not suffered the worst, as one may read, in the sawdust of some shabby pub, at worst she would have been carried in the back of cars, to clean-smelling family men who offered baby wipes, she laughed wholeheartedly; under the benefit of the doubt, she was regaining liveliness as a pal in debauchery, a lucky and wholesome survivor at the hands of vaccinated pigs.
Liselotte had a plan; in Victor’s organisation, she knew of an emergency cell, in which young nerds took eight-hour shifts watching on the most valuable machines on earth, twiddling aside on their own, or wanking at porn; in the luxury of high finance, the teams were of three, she would try to offer them our company, and more. Annabelle and I agreed to young dicks, an arrangement was settled, personally, I had most certainly shagged all of them already in the nude anonymity of Victor’s pandemonium, I feared nought.

A smoked-glass car took them to the back street of the unmarked building of Victor’s businesses; no details other than security cameras would signal the importance of the activities therein; drive-in blind-locked accesses and three metal doors stood flush to the granite slabs facade, the tidiness of the small street too, smelled of paranoïa.
Liselotte acted like home, she took her phone, dialled and said our names like a sequence code, the left hand door pivoted in, showing a white lit corridor, with another door at the end, the walls were of seamless mirrors, she said we were being scanned; once the street side was closed again, the opposite slid open and a young thin redhead lad with large frame glasses stood, wearing an Alan Turing grey sweat, tan corduroy jeans, and black all-stars sneakers; He kissed Liselotte, then each of us, as she introduced us. The room was all steel and mirrors, visibly, he was expecting; I grasped the hesitation and fetched the black card I carried in my wallet, in the stealth pocket of my left armpit, he had a boyish smile while he slipped the sesames for a few seconds in one of the wall controls.
The lift was insensitive, he turned to Liselotte and explained that two employees of the previous shift had wished to stay along, she had already her hand on his crotch, moving. Annabelle enlaced me as a girlfriend, to put up some composure, whomever thought of us as mere harlots delivered like pizza would have to cope with that, we were lustful animals, ready to content ourselves, too.
There were four unkempt cranks not yet fully bare, although two showed half of their bums, as a style; a girl was with the troupe, dirty blonde fuzzy hair, thick glasses, and a lot of appeal, to my taste, she came to us and cuddled, laughing, saying that one never was disappointed at Victor’s. I concurred.

Their playroom was nothing less than any other venue in that outstanding realm of easy-going hyperpower. I had already seen elsewhere the Faraday walls and ceilings of stamped red copper; the three consoles floated at elbow height, a sophisticated orthopaedic seat rested on cantilever support from the wall behind the full-width array of screens, thus leaving the thick blue waves pattern carpeting free of obstacles for diverse sports, or sleep, as crumpled sheets seemed to indicate. Used socks and underwear laid here and there, but the scent was light and desirable, like lavender, wood fire and sea breeze, they all smelled the same, in their necks, and it was arousing.
They had health drinks and kombucha on a heavy black lacquered Japanese tea table around which we sat, having bared our feet; The girl was Canadian, she was called Michelle, she slid her hand in Annabelle’s pants casually, and told her she must have come from Scotland, they kissed, she added it had been because of a tiny chip of accent, sensing her prey was not overjoyed to have been read out. She shuffled words in the tiny ear and rekindled a smile with some kind magic, beginning to pull away the jersey from Annabelle’s bum.
Liselotte had been easily peeled by two of the super minds and was tongued in every nook. The one who had greeted us took his penis out and asked me to suck, like a spoiled kid would have, so I did, he tasted fruity, was taut as steel, I wrested his belt off and lowered his jeans to play along with some cute almost hairless testicles.
Although Annabelle was naked and wide spread for Michelle’s whims, she had to pump some opportunist which presented a jolting bent upwards manly rod, grazing her rosy cheeks; Liselotte was impaled in her anus, crouching opened on a deep-blue eyed lean operator with a black fringe who recalled me of Sarah, with a dick.
My current cavalier had capsized me, legs high, to penetrate me kneeling, watching my hips roll, now the room smelled of sperm and fornication, I had climaxed twice when he asked for my arse, which I granted with a smile.

There was a buoyancy like relived kindergarten, a teen mental regression like the first cannabis thrusts, soon it churned in a good-humoured orgy when a white silhouette appeared at a different door, and Victor was there in a linen kameez, barefoot, smiling, coming to me and my mouth. With his hand, he ordered quiet and going on with the music, that was the noises of pleasure throes. For me, I had been a regular toy girl to him for some years, and he could still upturn me all he wanted and make me squirt, like Hugo, but it seemed the others were delightfully impressed, put apart Liselotte, who never is. When he was hard enough, he turned to Michelle and began to bugger her without any particular preparation, at her distress, to what witnessing, and hearing her cries, I crawled to grab his balls and rein him back, blowing in his ear that one doesn’t do that. He calmed down, let me hold his mad spike, and endured my unfriendly finger in his butthole, without a word.
Michelle had run, she stood against a wall with Annabelle, who consoled her, they were dumbfounded. Victor sneezed in whatever was left in his nostrils, and walked away, straight-faced. Michelle broke down in heavy tears on Annabelle’s lap; no one fucked anymore, even Liselotte whom one would have thought she might be able to cope with such a dire faux-pas, was speechless.
Then, with a deep swoosh, the room went black, all the screens turned blank black with a flickering command line, punctuation to anguish, others started to cry, I wondered if I had committed some crime. Then, from far, far away, mounted the sound of a clunky music box, then awfully loud, the bass thumping and the implacable voice of Eminem doing “Music Box”, until, featherily light, all the screens combined showed a crisp image of Sissinghurst rose garden in the sun, while we heard the rain on a tin roof, and an apology to Michelle was typed across the screen and the announcement of a hefty premium to everyone.

All stamina was dripping flat like ice cream one refused to eat because there was something too bitter in it. I fetched my leggings, shirt, and high-waisted ikat jacket, helping Annabelle out of her dizziness and cocoon back into her wavy jumper, seeing what Liselotte dressed and Michelle claimed she was out with us, her shift being through anyhow. The move was mostly silent, the kids were back on their machines, the doors out opened at the presentation of my card.
In the car back, Liselotte was vexed, I had to retell her twice what Victor had done under my nose, which I would never had thought he would, non-consensual pain was out of the options, he had been demented, how could we trust his manners, henceforth?
Annabelle was weeping silently, Michelle looked younger without her spectacles, with the cute distress gaze of myopia, she seemed to be the wandering type of genius, with slender ankles and wrists, one in me rejoiced of the new acquaintance, I offered shelter to all, but I craved to hold her.
At home, I tried to manage the damages, and rekindle Liselotte’s spirits, she accepted to turn to me and started to pull my pants down, besides her unique talent to mingle in lustful situations, she is a talented amatory partner, why Sarah, after a chill debut, in which a regular of Liselotte’s had outright used her, sexually, she had eventually returned to her for kinky arrangements, thus bending to her procuress’ talents, selling me alongside in the lewd deals, for some double trigger perversity.
For Michelle, I fetched the balsam and anointed her indeed tight bumhole myself, my skills amazed her, Victor had not torn the flesh, but neared it; I only joked she was lucky to own some elastic arse, but that did not allow any dickhead to maim it, like a boar. Annabelle was inconsolable, Michelle drank her heavy tears, I begged her to tell what had resurged in her, and I absent-mindedly went on to cream her own butthole, as she went on telling such ordeal had been inflicted on her, leading to a nightmarish hospitalisation, and years of pain, despite further lubrication. She turned to me and thanked me for what I was doing, we laughed and I used both hands.

Of course, it was late, and there were two maidens in the bed, asleep, enlaced. I had heard Sarah and Elsie making tea, unwrapping croissants. I wondered about Liselotte, I only knew later that Gauthier had come down to find us fast asleep, but her, who persuaded him to take her upstairs, for anything he wanted.
I yawned, Sarah came, and marvelled at yet another bird in our nest, nude and gracile, easy to fondle in her dream. I waved her to follow me in the bathroom, whispering that I had something harsh to tell her. The bedroom door closed, I retold them, and Elsie’s eyes were widening, Sarah’s too, in retrospect of having pushed Lizon into the bounder’s lair. We rested our decision to snitch the whole matter to Hugo, our tutelary reference in these matters since Victor was one of his peers, and Melchior could not approve of an ugly rape.
Sarah had snuck at the least occasion into our bed, she relished seeing the surprise in Michelle’s blurry gaze, and let her feel her dexterity. She had undressed and breathed softly, it took delicious minutes before the new one counted six hands.
Natalia came back from college, with her enamoured bodyguard and someone new, a Black sturdy fellow named Issa, cheeky and fun, shoulders to lean on, obviously used to white sluts like me. She was overjoyed to have thrown some game-changer into our skittles, but when she grasped what the talk was around our teapot, she clutched at Fulgence’s neck in horror.
Now Michelle donned a periwinkle robe of Sarah’s and had regained her Elton-thick glasses, thus letting the impression that she scrutinised twice sharper than anyone. Presenting her, I embraced her frail body from behind and slid a hand into the sponge cloth, so as to brag our new intimacy, and let Fulgence peep at her sleek pubis for one tenth of a second. She rubbed her bottom upon me, as if she remembered where my help had healed; I advertised her as a computer scientist, which felt deliciously exotic; she turned back and kissed me deep.

Once he had parsed the events and micro-events, Fulgence showed embarrassment; he owed much to Victor’s patronage, but, as I knew of him, he firmly believed there is a partition between fair players and a cad. I could testify had not enticed Victor, or anyone, to hurt her; I was the one who pulled him away, he had fled in disarray. Michelle turned to Annabelle, who drew her to an armchair at the far end where they composed a touching tableau, I told her she might check her messages, she retorted knowingly that she would, later.
Sarah was drawn to Natalia’s new recruit, he was used to be given the eye by pretty bohemians, he answered her tease. Fulgence and me, like the elder couple, concluded that I would retell Hugo of the breach, and the stir it caused among all of us. I composed a message, in all the truthfulness I resented, he would read it in due time.
While I was bent over my screen, hands had crawled into my rags, casually; I made no move to shrug them away, I needed manly handling —as Fulgence had demonstrated before— not necessarily an immediate shagging, but also a test of Natalia’s reaction; I brushed his fly, she went with the sorry girls and cuddled Michelle’s feet.
That was that, Natalia invited her buddies upstairs, and Michelle, new to the double-fond corridors, followed, enamoured. Sarah was chanting at Issa’s rage in our already crumpled bed, and Fulgence would be shared between Elsie and me.
Inside, she kind of floated in a rosy cloud, her Swiss exploration had been a success, she had been granted green lights, where Lars had addressed her to, she applied herself hard at getting convinced that she was moving to Paris, and part of that was fucking Sarah’s pals there and then.

Hugo had responded, he was dumbfounded at my words, he wished he could speak with us, Michelle, Annabelle, and me, to parse the facts together. I had better impress our hearing at the diwan downstairs, pimp up my exemplary four-eyed victim, not that her drab over-washed casuals would not set out beautifully her lithe hands and feet —that I did no tire to caress— but I wished to strike a point there, with style.
From the far-end closets, wherein I stripped Michelle to her native grace, I ferreted among Sarah’s rag wares a black spencer with a moss green yoke and golden trimmings —from some popular Nordisk music band— in which I would gladly have left her bare; a white silk flat collarless marinière and high-waisted swan white flared trousers; a white silk twill thong would be her last petal, I forbade any shoes.
Annabelle, the key witness, if I might, snooped in my own quarters of hangers, she begged for a fluffy-layered chiffon, pleated, off the shoulders, dress, ebru dyed of psychedelic phosphenes in turquoise and rust, underpants in the same stuff, bare legs and feet;
Between my tiny-nosed geek and the evanescent vapours of Scotland valleys, I had to pull some understated trump card, like a vast Loro Piana alpaca sweater with a deep vee cleavage on my near-flat chest, and same thread leggings, a magnet for bratty idle hands.
At the scents keyboard, Michelle preferred a childish patchouli gingerbread with a neroli trail, a mighty lure in her fuzzy mane —after all, she knew her assets— whereas Annabelle, in long whirly streams of white rose, so evasive one wants to neck forever in her mizzle. My wools retained a whiff of incense and wisteria in the boxwoods that possibly Sarah had been revelled in there, and so I found her pretty blue glass phial and I touched my joints, neck, and pubis, as an erotic mask of her.
So preened, we ran lightly down to Hugo’s cloud mill, purposely desirable, étant donnée the matter to parse.

The gallant honorary Sachem of this aesthetes’ reservation drew us to the oriental salon, where low sofas ran all at the foot of the paneled walls under the coffered ceiling, all in scented cedar wood, lit by three high and tall multicoloured stained-glass windows. As much as I could read her eyes, Michelle was stunned, and had never been in such a cinematic décor, other than in computer games, her gentle lips were parted. Her lissome feet were feeling the layers of silk rugs and jubilated; Hugo was overjoyed not to have missed his sensitive aim, he begged for her hand, led her to sit near a wide silver tray loaded with simple treats, fruit, tea and juices.
I had not yet fully paid attention to Michelle’ voice, but when she answered to Hugo’s subtle wondering, she sounded altogether childish in tone and self-assured, with a strangely jolted pronunciation, and a blank before certain words. She explained calmly how Victor had hurt her so as to make her yell out until I came to her rescue and he fled without a word. She had not been part of Victor’s orgies, they stood in a professional department of the building, watching the networks; her three colleagues had seemed aroused by Liselotte, who had one of the boys’ number, and the perspective of a mild shenanigan, only did they forget that from his master control room, Victor saw and heard anything he wished in his walls, clear and simple. She had refused a few times before to join whatever went on upstairs, he had been crossed, but now that she had lastly tamed his systems, she had become utterly precious, —like her coworkers—and it had seemed he would let her alone, sexually.
Hugo had gathered cushions at her back, and he reclined at her side; he was wearing a long lilac shirt and black light trousers; he felt collected and benevolent; she leaned back and he inhaled the scent he had himself composed for anyone of us he liked as so; when she refolded up her legs, he casually seized her foot.

Victor had transgressed the very code he had strived upon, it was bad omen, even if Liselotte should not have cast an orgy, as candid as it were, inside the lion’s den. For example, Hugo would not feel empowered to hurl himself at anyone’s arse in his own lodgings of the blessed high floors, it never happened, even when some new four-eyed narcissus bloomed up from the quantum infinitus of another dimension.
After he eluded to his study during a cluster of minutes, he found Michelle leaning on me, her feet still available, so, he wondered if she would agree to a visit, along with me, and Melchior, if a car was coming pretty soon to fetch us? Her crystal eyes raised to mine, she answered that if it was the way to straighten up the affair, she would trust me, and the apparent chain of command, though she had not foreseen that her job entwined in Higher Intelligence.

A black suit awaited near a totally silent black high-bodied vehicle which I guessed ran on hydrogen because it had an exhaust pipe. Cuddled on the back seat, we were surrounded by opaque black glass and could see nought of our course, it felt like a rapture; a partition hid the driver and whomever; I revelled sheltering Michelle —to whose feet I had slipped on black patent leather flat escarpins—  under my arm, reassuring her that I had ridden that means of transportation before, to the secretive stations of Melchior’s realm. Prior to summoning the whole chapter of the Hell Fire instigators in some encrypted videoconference, it would help to meet the God Amon in this variety of cloudware, who would search, together with Victor, a peaceful appraisal of his deeds.

It all boiled down to an unwelcome physical transgression of Michelle’s integrity, with the inability to reasonably restrain when called to by the participants of a benign —until then— petting game. That the scene took place in his own work premises did not defer as to the gravity of the assault, and the plaintiff never before had allowed physical liberties to whom she knew only as her boss, although it had not been a secret among her fellow employees that Victor was a first magnitude philanderer, and most of them knew first hand.
Melchior, whom I had intimately met a few times, greeted us in the shady foyer of his grandiloquent mansion, we had been asked to unshoe because of the precious majolica pavements that tended to indicate the scarce number of his visitors, the feel of it was warm and playful, Michelle’s feet perfect amidst the convoluted décor of the tiles, devils and cherubs chasing nymphs through the flowery ponds; himself wearing slim slippers, he explained that the tiles had been salvaged from an old Italian brothel, that had remained closed for a century, in the centre of Milan, after a series of murders had occurred. The estate’s heritage had been unfathomable to parse, and a unique example of an architecture of the depravity, second only to the Païva Hotel, in Paris, had collapsed into rubbles, not before looters had harvested this marvel that ran the whole first floor.
I had danced, myself, upon these colours, as nude as a flame for Melchior’s relish, while Malo threaded together my strings and hers. I fantasised helping to disrobe a willowy Michelle, if just only to show her the delight of being sold to a gentleman, for a troubled while.
Into the fluffy silence, he drew us to a ballroom, more like the display salon of an otherworldly luxurious whorehouse, yet again, the sort of which had made me reckon that Melchior was the mightiest Alpha of the invisible forest.
The room was tall, more than three of us on each others’ shoulders, did I digress in my dissipated mind, while I kept Michelle tight at my side, under the pale blue gazes of the Wizard King. He went to one of the curved, high back, purple velvet sofas, with spiral armrests of chiseled gilt wood, in a rounded corner recess. He softly ordered us near him, Michelle between us, uneasy. He started that he was not a godfather of Paris’ shady traffics, money was made afar from his influence, although most of his faithful liegemen were rich and mighty, in irreproachable manners of trades, unlike most of the historic fortunes built on exploitation and slavery.
He raved about a safe guidance onward uncompromised beauty, potentially beyond the mere physical traits in humanity, the mirrored opposite to any idea of a “social Darwinism”, the moral counterfeit currency of the well-heeled imbeciles —and their lackeys.
I had heard his self-justification rant before, Michelle only kept polite and let his wiry hand wander on her silk-layered thighs, meeting my own lustful stroking. I needed her to speak, in her own crystalline vernacular, I reach for her plexus and breathed to her she should retell her scandal without fear, I swore.
Once she was done retelling her disarray and candid surprise, she cried for good, again; he picked his phone, gave orders in some arid language, and a slim girl in black outfit brought tissues, a whole box. He had stop attempting at petting her some way; he showed embarrassment. He then claimed that Michelle could very well be sick for a week or so, while he would meet Victor openly, and bring out a balanced agreement in which he, Melchior, would respond of her safety and return to status quo ante. Then he thanked us for our trust, regretted that other aspects of our meeting had been out of the question, and told us the car would drive us back in town.
She had kept the box of tissues, blue with paisley patterns, while she wiped her glasses, her eyes swayed, all the more astray; I kissed her tears and slid my hand under the blouse. We did not feel when the car had reached our door, the chauffeur had a cautious smile when we decided to climb out.
Upstairs, in our humble abode, Elsie, Annabelle and Sarah were in bed, watching “Ghost In The Shell”, the anime, with woofing sound. Sarah revelled in the middle of two immeasurably distant fates, though so evidently enharmonic, once tuned to their wants.
Michelle would not quail in the least as I held her backwards in my neck, untying her threads for the others to watch her, a full-fledged lesbian elven, in need of a tender flurry. During these few hours, she had been uprooted and thrown at all winds, now she stood, naked as a rose monkey, aloof and swayed, her arms cast back over my head.
It happened, not inconceivably, that she knew the film by heart, in Japanese, savant monkeys do things, even the queer ones. She enacted the words of Major Motoko, wired like a teenager, having simple fun, altogether. Sarah loved that and almost stole her to me, she was all a tremendous success on that bed, still synching with the action on the screen, released, in sweats.
Next morning, I felt numb, when a kid in a large sweatshirt and gym panties patted my elbow and begged me to listen. Michelle, it had been her, decked up in whatever she had found, needed to borrow a computer, not too old, promising she would not sneak too far inside it, she already knew that our connection was excellent, she was in a hurry. I licked her nose between the jam-jars and told her I was to pee in the bowl; she retorted a witty tongue slip.
I showed her to the studio, where she could use the youngest of our computers on her own, I even showed her the kettle and the percolator, if she knew how to pilot that, too, there were also new packs of cookies, for sugar. She said she loved me, and fiddled my clit a little before being engrossed again in her worry. Climbing down, I met Natalia, who noticed that I was nude in the stairs, and hugged me, she smelled of a white cloud in a golden dawn.

 

Sarah says:

The four-eyed Princess Windfall they had brought back from the messed-up mission engineered by Liselotte, into Victor’s own back-office, looked bewildered at first, but her performance in Japanese, with all the intonations, was hilarious and sexy, and once her heavy lenses had fallen, she fired like an eager wild dyke, and we all loved it. I can’t fathom what melted inside Victor’s vast mind, and apparently, nor does Kate, who knew him in rough seas, though.
However, Michelle possesses a Greek-worthy kind of slender bum and body that her boss might have overlooked, in her geek attire, until he happened to wonder who was the nymph, in the security camera, being entangled by strangers in his own network control room? In the impulse of the moment, he might have left his dick drive, and neglect the fact that this piece of arse belonged to a precious link inside his bunkered gallery-cum-safehouse. What then was she doing here, upstairs?
I had promised to Elsie a tour of Orsay, I proposed lunch at the restaurant in the old hotel part of the converted train station, a reminder of the days when railways were altogether flourishing and juicy, before someone had to pay the pensions for back-broken retirees. Enough said, the megatherium carcass of a monument had stood across the Louvre like a destitute, crinoline-decked ghost for decades before the powers that be reckoned that no architectural prospect would fit in the place and Paris would revamp the old corpse one may revisit in Orson Welles’ “The Trial”.

I don’t give a squirrel’s poop what one might retort at my feeble scribbles, when I profess my almost total anorexia towards what fills that post-modern bazaar we were to roam in, set apart a few geniuses the magnitude of Toulouse-Lautrec or Odilon Redon, outside the orb of the dominantly American who will stroll in Giverny the next day.
A matter of outlining whatever territory Elsie might have fostered of the French national culture, before letting her boot up with her own green guide —more than enough now, with the underlines we would provide.
A jouncy filly like her would love to leg it away to Gustave Moreau’s magic mansion, or what few of Surrealist art has been retained in the pompous Pompidou tripes-out ironmongery —at least she would follow my advice and relish André Breton’s “wall”, a gift from his daughter to the clunky institution.
The four of us bought all it took for Elsie to sneak along safely into the station, architecturally designed to hold in the hot clouds from the almighty steam monsters, as had been displayed, in butterfly brushstrokes, upstairs.
Before climbing, there was notorious eye candy to revel on, like the reputable “Woman bitten by a serpent” by Clesinger, immortal spasm in the face of the Boucicaut universe, and the wholehearted smiles of the Carpeaux dancers and children, among the cemetery porn of a gruesome empire.
Unavoidably, Rodin has balls, and smells of saucisson; he modelled up a decisive Balzac; he industrialised a pervasive brand.

I had better leave Annabelle flirt Elsie around by the waist, they readily looked like lovers, and her father had taught her the psycho-analytics of bourgeois art. Kate and I shared a romantic episode, early in our school years, contemplating Thomas Couture’s Roman Decadence, after what she let me draw her in my room at Camille’s and disrobe her. She had smelled of bitter almond; there had been macaron crumbs on the sheets; we had never needed to wake, thence. Reading our eager gazes, the flirtatious pair —like we would not have dared in the days, being openly called dykes at school would have greatly sullied our prestige— begged for a stake in our secret, we obliged and led Elsie to the enormous canvas, listen to Annabelle rave on imperial debauchery and the expensive talents of Virginia Castiglione.
We felt like time to sit and peck in Alain Ducasse’s delicacies in the restaurant; a table had been booked for us. I could not remember if and when I had been there before, but I resented a brutal chill. The once highly formal room exuded now the pathetic gloom of a soviet canteen in a confiscated palace, stackable plastic chairs daubed in garish colours made the stuccos and chandeliers sorry; I could surmise a war between curatorial services to reach such a degree of inconsistency. I promised to offer them dinner soon at the Train Bleu, in another station where trains still landed.

The food was irreproachable, top rate; vegetables just only dipped from the spring basin, fresh bread, the idea of lunchtime at Farley’s farm with Lee Miller, the whole table agreed, and we forgot the furniture. A Lebanese waiter gave me an unmissable eye, to what Kate grazed my foot as an encouragement. I wrote one of my Hotmail addresses in the margin of his tip bill, this was not the place to lure him in the toilets, or would I?
Over a witty chocolate dessert, Elsie took my hand while Annabelle enlaced her waist gently; it was a moment for her to unload her chest of a long pondered thought and she foretold we could help; since she had lived amidst us like almost family of many ages and interest drives, she had sheltered guilt of forgery. In none occasion had any ethnic matter been only faintly shivered up, and all the more she had elaborated on this with my Far, in front of the most respected institutions on the planet, whatever a fool headed, pompadour blond bully, bantered in Washington. With another inspired espresso, she lashed out that all her life, part of her soul had been stuck in this crack in the rock, that she was at least one quarter black and it did not show. In America, there had been crucial moments when it was mandatory to avow that, by law.
My father already had taught her the judicial nitty-gritty on a matter that simply and fundamentally did not exist; remained the life flows and manners, tripping on certain words, perhaps, to my knowledge not more offensive than sexual insults and as neatly forbidden.
The only hedge to skirt, if she ever was to have a baby, to foretell the father that genes could chance on, impredictably, and produce any shade of skin tone; some very “civilised” men had a block, at that eventuality.

But then again, although her mother had thoroughly filtered the racist poisons in American culture, as she grew up and as I knew her, even worse than with sexism, myriad analogies were constantly at work through mundane language, spawned from derisory, though not candid at all, hobbies like dog or horse breeding, heavily branded social markers —ignoring the fact that, washing down the statistics in the studbooks, their obtainments did not appraise a notch better than those in the lebensborn stables, all due respect paid to those who were born in there.
Did Elsie know and liked appaloosa horses? To some cavaliers, these far offsprings of the Conquistadores war machine were more precious companions than stiff-lipped purebreds from crass-minded monasteries.
In the sun-bathed gallery, I was becoming heated by my recollections of lucubrations I heard in Saint Loup’s stables, when there was some compulsive giddiness to take a straight shag from one of those plain yokels, into the straw bales —it had never meant that I would intellectually concede to their obscure conception of genetics, altogether denied by modern science, taught by the tall, blond, Arie Van Brecht.

Now Annabelle stared in awe, perceiving that my funny spiel reached some shores inside Elsie’s soul, as I grazed her knee under the tablecloth. On the other side, Kate rested her head on my shoulder. It belonged to me to rekindle the humour, after my charade, but it was Elsie who shook the sticks of the mikado game, gave me an intent mouth-kiss, and went on, smoother, that she envied the foolhardy upbringing my father was proud of. She was beginning to feel fit with our offbeat manners of life, even if, beyond her thoughts, she could hear her mother’s words of caution, not to succumb to the spell of privileged kids —but now she was fully clad with titles, wasn’t she? And she rejected any more of social conformity, she wanted me to bring her to the straw bales. We laughed.
So, we started this light-hearted game of strolling through the blue shadows of bygone suns with the made-up rule of my highbrow-ish stance, sexplaining impressionism by the obvious colonial bias, and the bourgeois code. Annabelle had a truculent exegesis around Gauguin and his thirteen years old mistresses. We behaved like mischievous aristocrats, Kate pushed me in a toilet booth that smelled of piss and lust.
By the time we scented genius in Toulouse Lautrec, Annabelle began telling her bedazzled fiancée what a whore she was if only to let her know it would be free for her.
And we all had enough, our boudoirs awaited at only a whiff away, but Elsie needed postcards, as we all do.

 

Kate says:

Sarah had been restless, acting her effort to alleviate Elsie’s soul, she smelled childish and I needed to unclothe her, all the more that the other twos were at it. There and then she exhaled of spicy narcissus and neroli, I licked her armpits as she became subdued, before denuding me too; yet, I recollected a tiny concern about Michelle upstairs, and it felt proper to barge in, like so, if she pleased.
In the waning gold of dusk, no one was to be seen, first, until Sarah showed me a fidgeting foot from behind the red sofa, on the floor.
She was transfixed on the screen of one of our laptops, which she had plugged short behind the router, and wore earphones; she did not budge when I preened her slender foot, so I went on, proud of my daintiness, while Sarah slid herself along the other side and reached for the minute breasts.
She had found chocolate and cookies, and made tight littles balls with the wrappings, she helped when I wrested her jeans away and nosed into her white cotton panties, she smelled of lavender soap; she ran her fingertips on the keys like squirrels in a trove of acorns, the screen showed convulsions of many plain coloured windows, then froze back to my Sylt shore backdrop.
She pushed the computer away, teared the earphones away and swiveled upon the carpets, bursting in laughters looking at us, before Sarah devoured her mouth.
Girls, girls, girls, said she.

There was a call from downstairs, about some large delivery we wouldn’t know about, I asked only for time to pull on rags, an ardent gazed tough built runner brought a long flat carton and asked me to sign; he gave me a keen eye while sliding his tip bill in his pocket, there wouldn’t be any mail address in the margin, Sarah is a slut.
From uncle James, it was a new chair for our studio, properly a classic JF Hardoy butterfly AA chair, in a heavy natural hide, like an all ready sex contraption, folded in grey tissue paper. I carried the pieces upstairs, where Sarah was dancing on Steely Dan’s Gaucho languorously against Michelle, supple as a reed. In no time, our new perch found its station by the bookshelves, as if it had always been there, with Michelle cross-legged in it. The leather smelled kinky, like webbings I had lent myself to in Victor’s dark recesses, and the girl’s pussy in bloom, stark against it, made me moist. She did not shave or wax, a slight golden fleece gleamed upon a bran shade faultless skin; there was some immarcescible baby quality to that windfall wunderkind.
As in a spirit of celebration for a chair, Sarah brew some tea and fetched a tin of almond shortcakes the kid had not yet found.
Hugo called, then, he wished to see Michelle en tête à tête, apropos the deplorable incident at the control room, he felt confident as to a resolution of the damages. She agreed, only time to primp herself a tad.
After we toileted together like virgin brides, —Annabelle sleepwalked in for a pee and dreamily approved of Michelle’s body— we dolled her up after a more than thorough shower, shampoo et al, but only to let her go in thin layers of silk jersey, flared trousers ready to drop at the faintest pull, no underwear, no shoes. She smelled of spring whiffs on a Brittany cliff. I wouldn’t be the least surprised if she came back with some evocative jewel, hadn’t we all?

Sarah’s childish stratagem had functioned, she was to meet Ismael, the Orsay waiter, at the Palais Royal, in the perverse mazes of Philippe’s, at Sami’s best attention. She told me she would only pull a flirt as far as she sensed, downstairs, ready to unfurl the full shebang for the busy voyeurs of the corridors or the indelicate room companions; she would warn Sami that Ismael was a debutant with no card.
It left the three of us, Annabelle posing in her dad’s new chair —he had bought us the three of them— and I envied Sarah’s foolhardiness, who would unfailingly end ragged, bagged, and shagged upon the costly velvet of the secret world. The new available preventive protocol against HIV, one pill a day, had triggered anew her “Swiss Paradise” attitude, she had launched the hunting for cocks.
Fulgence, I learned, had yielded Natalia back to Beryl, after only some casual hand play, for the night; he could invite some other cavalier to join, here, an unabashed trio of refined fillies; he chose to eat Danish, with us. Erik had jumped at the chance —he recalled the heartiness of our encounter, to say the least.
I craved Fulgence’s shoulders, his sleek pectorals, his ready spear and tight balls, now he paired with a satiny black beast of a stud, as sweetly smiling as impressively armed, who smelled of cinnamon honey when I tried to tame his shaft.
But, even if they relished to have found us in the slightest of attires —the delivery boy had fully read through my hastily thrown Indienne shirt— Natalia had to have quieted the hero a notch, to the level of innuendo badinage around the savouries. My two sister fairies shied aside at first, they had revelled their content in Sapphic sighs; they couldn’t have covered their modesty fast enough, and the lads overtly ogled their goods. First, Anabelle, who had had practice in handling men, while in the raw, understood , in my ways, that the deal was all safe and friendly, and so she gradually behaved like a frank little whore pleasuring her johns. Elsie, although she had been copiously shagged by the same champions not long ago, albeit in a state of whimsical exaltation, was nonetheless seized in self-consciousness, of which I strived to free her, bending over her from the back of her chair, fooling in her neck while I opened her thighs for the boys to see, uttering lecherous talk in her ears like an old ribald madam, calling Fulgence to crouch at her already swollen pussy and remind her of his savoir-faire.

With noble nonchalance and an unflagging erection, Fulgence had regained in my eyes a sound current of debauched camaraderie, even more so than it happened inside the gloomy dungeon of Victor’s, whatever the thrills he had driven through me, then, with a smile. We partnered efficiently, he was fair play to Natalia, who remained a frail reed in the city’s streams.
As Annabelle already gently moaned atop her deft man in charge, I pulled Elsie to the bed she had so well used, and spread her down in a kiss, while my hand rummaged into Fulgence’s mane, at her crotch. She was willing, climaxing at the boy’s smile, raising her legs higher so he grasped it was time to thread her through, that he obliged at once, as I straddled upon her blooming mouth.
The sheets became soaked in effluents and sperm, it smelled animal, and Elsie had no more shame in the middle of that, let Fulgence tease her rightful mind while poking his tongue in her bumhole. She told him she wasn’t seaworthy on that side, mezzo voce. I would have sworn that I witnessed her done both ways by a pair of twins in the Grant’s apartment at the Century, but she retorted in a pout that it had been painful. I decided to show her, at Fulgence’s discretion. As of then, a shower was at the least desirable, and fresh bedlinens.
There was this foam gel , scented with lotus, thick and balmy just like I needed to show her how to slide a few fingers in the hatch, and wank it there, in Fulgence’s embrace. She would not protest when she found herself duly spiked by the same spear that had filled her up before, and I did my skilled best over her jumpy cabochon so she would cry in the warm flows, buggered like an astray tramp with a pure face.
Reminding her of Michelle’s attempted rape, while Fulgence was massaging her stretched back path with the cream I had fetched for him, I claimed matter-of-factly that any gent who envied that tighter burrow to frolic in, ought to know a manner of lubricant because his penis wouldn’t avail any, simple and clear. I had heard of ladies who liked it in sufferings, but I would not condone it, at all, these were outdated treatments of the like the Marquess of Sade, whom, by me, was a psychopath that had suffered —like his King— of serious phimosis, and thus, because his erection hurt, consequently pathologically linked pleasure and pain, in a fantabulous grammar. —born into the more natural labouring classes, he would have just simply been saved by some crafty matron, or a complacent barber, and would have given us exalted tapestries of fauns and buttholes unmarred of all that useless blood.
Elsie could just order all brands of lube from Amazon, and enjoy a whole different religion of being shagged.

When the maidens started to doze out, Fulgence, who lives near the river, by the conspiracy’s largess, and Erik, who had properly extinguished Annabelle on the couch, moved on to the night for then. We carried the sleeping belle to the fresh bed and washed her in her dream. Her abandon was all the more tempting; she breathed like a baby.
Elsie enlaced me endlessly, she felt sort of defiled, demeaned to the level of whoredom, but she was enough educated to reckon there was delight in her intimate shame, and so in the silence, I narrated a chapter of our debaucheries, and the exceptionable bliss with my own brother, the merry-go-round of our high stakes freelance courtesanship.
Thus, we did not yet sleep when Sarah, smelling of a frozen rose in the dewy moss, the badly behaved tit back to her nest, I loved her, finding that she had sold her panties. I unwrapped her hastily to scent for hints of her depravity, but nowhere onto this all pale brothel mermaid remained a trail of what she retold us of her carnal spends.
She had been wearing white lacy cotton skirts and petticoats under a periwinkle blue floating déshabillé, trimmed with ultramarine ribbons; opaque white silk stockings and refined black patent mary janes, the true paraphernalia of a devoted fetishist whom had asked for her own outfit to take away.

 

Sarah chuchote:

After some cherries in syrup on little mounds of blancmange, his hands up my thighs under the tablecloth, inside a convenient recess of the hushed dining décor, Ismael had understood what trap I intended to draw him in, and the reward he would earn, plus the leeway to shag me in more ways than he had foreseen. Since it had become obvious that I would let him hump me in all manners, they broached the matter of a condom or not; I clued him about the checkup card I carried and he would also need if he wanted to be back therein; we reckoned it would be a latex night, Sami provided the best invisible brand, only he would not splash in me, and he ought to slip out as soon as he came.
He smelled of laurel and jasmine, he was a fast wit, and he came from the feverish Beyrouth, so he agreed, after a bit of gab in Arabic with Sami, we had slid through a concealed pathway behind a heavy curtain. These were not the visitors’ corridors, but the proper stage door, and Ismael was groping me in every corner.
Sami opened a tiny door to a low ceiling salon, stuccoed like a Royal boudoir, with beveled mirrors in gilt ornate frames on each wall, under which buttoned velvet love seats gathered around a large, oval, carpet covered ottoman, upon which he did not wait to stretch me.
Ismael owned a straight, upwards, sturdy circumcised cock he made me suck as he finished to peel off his black service suit. I kindly applied myself to give the mirrors a better view of — mainly— my arse. He twiddled his pointed glans a few times on my clit, to hear me moan, and began to penetrate me hard, but unhurried, attuned to the poser game. Once he had gushed bravely, we could hear a soft voice asking us to slip away to the bathroom.

It was certainly not a mere convenience annexe, but truly an illumination of the bodies, in a subaquatic fanfare of emerald green broken ceramic tiles, and mirrors, all-over to the ceiling, in “opus incertum”, with silver interstices in the manner of Japanese kintsugi. There we were asked to pee on each other, Ismael was so aroused that he could only spring upwards; he also administered a thorough enema into my rear end and I gushed my innards into the silver bowl. The last shower was scented with roses, I could feel the applauds by every pore of my skin.
The next play patch was black, gold and crystal, under a large round chandelier made of strands of faceted pampilles, radiating from a central ball three sofas and a rest bed were covered with heavy black terry cloth for the most propitious invite. Now Sami joined us, already naked and waxed to the balls, he smelled of incense and patchouli he had not worn minutes ago, he was tense as a double-bass, we had never fucked before. I had no doubt they would end both in me, but Sami directed our trio in Arabic and I just had to let the dicks and mouths use me easily. They took turns, I preferred the feel of Sami’s raw glans, Ismael was still frenzied but attentive altogether, although Sami reached deeper into my womb. After an opening tumult, I had to clean and revive their pride at the tip of my busy tongue, lick their arseholes and suckle their balls before I rode atop Ismael, with Sami into my butthole. I had been in unending spasms, we collapsed with eerie wet sounds.
After a heartfelt triple hug, my tormentors vanished, in Arabic; a small concealed panel opened in the black, feather-patterned lampas, onto a shady path to a gold-lacquered corridor and another bathroom, of gold with black mirrors where I readied again for a further number,
guessing it would unfold more adagietto. Clothes were displayed on a console, obviously for me to wear, those you just now stole from me.
In a small blue indienne bedroom with indigo velvet upholstered furniture, awaited a dignified old fogey with noticeable white curly sideburns, who grabbed my elbow and made me sit on his lap while starting to grope me, raving on what he had seen me do and be done, heating up to his own words, complimenting my vagina and arse for their suppleness, sniffing at his fingertips while staring through gold-rimmed spectacles.
There were no mirrors in there, only fine drawings of decadent aristocrats buggering little girls upon puffy quilts. He asked me to take poses for my butt on every angle of the furniture. He wondered if I would succeed at making him exult, albeit his damned age, guiding my hand to his fly. I had seen the routine before, and he smelled of old-time honeyed tobacco, tampered bourbon alcohol, open-air gasoline and, in the creases of his deep-tucked shirt, aged lavender. His willie was sorry and bald, his balls sagged, I had aching jaws yet, but I gave him kitten and butterflies, and cunty lips until it feebly stood, and pumped steadily for a long moment, until I could taste a bland mixture of soap and oyster, and keep him in my mouth as he rambled on, muttering names of gone girls.
When it became certain that he slept, snoring and choking, I gathered my strength and threw him across the bed, trousers open, slid off his shoes and wished him good night.

 

Kate says:

When I woke so late, I still fantasised about Sarah’s delightful mischiefs. It was only the two of us, and the living room had been tidied. I put myself at brewing tea and cracked open a pack of shortbreads I did not know who had left there. I felt elated, my solar plexus radiating through my wires. I lit up my phone and read my mails; each on their sides, Michelle and Hugo seemed overjoyed with their encounter, where was she? Fulgence was talented, I felt a sparkle in my womb, I would think of some new kinky shenanigan. Liselotte begged for news of Michelle. Natalia loved me.
On a hunch, I climbed up to the studio, and found Michelle, wrapped nude in a maroon plaid, on the rug before the blinking computer. I seized her feet to warm them into my robe, on my tummy, and watched her, she had dozed off with her glasses on, they had rolled aside.
She smiled first, finely, and eventually opened big azure eyes rimmed with thick golden lashes, I kept her feet, like kitties, but I asked if she would have breakfast with us downstairs; she nodded for yes, only that we let the computer crunch data a few more hours; she wrapped herself into my robe, she smelled of wild rose, she kissed me mindlessly, then clinched back her gold-rimmed “aviator” eyes back in place, and stared at my bewitched face with her sharp eyes.
Sarah, in a dark sapphire robe, was dipping cookies in her Darjeeling, watching not to lose the soaked morsel in her tea; she smiled up in her most devastating candour, before I snitched on her misbehaving, which made her all the most irresistible. Michelle was all bare, and we did not hurry to dress her up. Her ruffled mane edges beautifully her shoulder line, I want her back in my robe, I feel her timid fluff on my pubis.

Drinking out of my cup, she told us she had had a magical evening with Hugo, and she stretched out one leg, for us to see an elegant gold and lapis lazuli anklet that made both of us roar, I claimed that she wouldn’t be allowed to dress up, that day.
After begging her, from afar, to disrobe, he had cuddled her feet —which seemed to reveal a common charm together with with Sarah’s, who owns a few of Hugo’s precious anklets, too. Patiently, he had narrated the legend of us, so far as these venerable walls might be concerned, had he said, and in the limitation of beautifying us all the more, because we had nested together in his solar plexus and that his life had thrived since. She did tongue twirls in my neck, Sarah pulled her chair next to ours.
Now, Michelle owed us an explanation, first, she had only been a mere employee of Victor’s arch-nexus, recruited under an alias at a mind-shattering level because in the preliminary chats she had pit herself against him, and had successfully sold him a software solution to the glitch she had ferreted in his network.
Although it wouldn’t have been mandatory, or even profitable, he had insisted that the new big gun were materially present in his fortress at least six hours a day, laughed she. Thus, he fainted when she appeared before him, in earnest, with all the language codes they had traded online, and more. In his unveiled hubris manner, he wanted to test her, but she had already debunked the whole pornography of his success, online, before, and so she killed him with her claim to be a lesbian, which might not have been a lie.
She started as a strategic analyst in the triple secured, air-conditioned, unreal laboratory where we found her, she had only been there for a couple of months, and the team was functional and correct, mostly her age, she gained respect first by foiling two of them she had already confronted in chatrooms, she was the only girl yet, they all craved her madly, they teased her with Liselotte’s parties, in hope she would loosen her pretty arse for them.
On the matter, the rest was history in the making, I rocked her like a little sister, I could not believe she had overcome Victor’s mighty nerves, him who had furiously rooted all of us with honor, there was decidedly a glitch in the software. She breathed in my ear, did I want to lick her pussy? Both of us?

Hugo had been granted licence to lick her, too, and masturbate stealthily in her scents. She was a virgin, how come? But he had a major crush, like all of us. He had listened to Victor, whom, if not fully a pal, was one of his peers, and he had , until now, relished the tales by the little imps he had shagged to exhaustion, and, last but not least, his manners towards me. Now he stood in a moral and strategic quagmire, with a vixen in his dovecote, in possession of his codes —and his balls, too.
Michelle, in all candour, had not wished nor provoked the complication, she wanted the peace along with people like us. So Hugo had come up with a master plan; Michelle would remain inside Victor’s geometry, as many dimensions it comprised, but she would detain her own corporation, which Melchior might help fund, transparently —irrespectively of the factor he did not know Michelle, yet, and might fall for her— and would be linked by a contract to Victor’s empire.
Bien-entendu, Hugo had suggested that only Melchior’s social clout would offer a proper balance to a lonely angelic genius opposite Victor’s war machine, but, had he risked, was she totally adverse to let the Imperator himself fiddle with her material being, even knowing she would be a lesbian, once he would have seen her, which might very well be the case already?
Hugo had tamed her, nude amidst the finest silks, lulling her with the legends of the invaluable fabrics, grazing her skin in the sense of her golden fluff, aloof and benevolent, resting Michelle’s judgement on us, so to speak.

She had begged to keep the spot behind the red sofa, and she could swivel her hips as well as a maiden cat; I warned her that, were she our pet geek, she would unavoidably witness all kinds of carnal feasts, although never coerced into any. The studio carpets were clean and washed, except for the season’s effluents, might I say.
Michelle still stood in an oversize sweatshirt I had worn in my Amrum days as if Cynthia had projected a spell upon the cyber-virgin. She had typed a long text in her telephone and was obviously expecting some event, spoiling Sarah with cuddles, like all the squirrels in Saint Loup.
We ordered a Gugelhupf cake from “La Ville De Strasbourg”, Michelle was discovering vintage teas, and asked all particulars of tea brewing to Master Sarah, whose robe she had untied.
A call from downstairs warned us that a UPS man had left a big box, in the name of a Michelle Cerisy, at the care of us. I grabbed the recipient on the fly and asked her to pull on at least some shorts, she found one of mine in the bedroom and winked.
It was a stylish high-grade white cardboard box big enough to fold her inside, but light enough so she carried it safely. On its side was a very known blue window logo, she would not open it, because she wanted it upstairs.
Once we had migrated with the tea tray, she meticulously extracted smaller boxes from between cumbersome safety pads, and we had grasped it would form into her new Navi, as she called it. She muttered that we would understand that she needed a top machine, besides, she would provide also better ones to us, and we might play together into the Wired.
Whatever it meant, the new beast was impressive, huge screen hinged upon a sleek silver vanity case —so it seemed, a thin keyboard and a collection of small esoteric boxes she chain-plugged to the main unit. All I saw was her classy bum, as she stood on all fours, and I dropped down to embrace her and titillate her juvenile breasts.

More or less complacent with our random groping of her gracile body, she was accomplishing some mental checklist. Then, she asked for attention, pointing an index to the start button, then those of the peripherals. As she sat up with my hand in her pants, there was a pleasant sequence of beeps and buzzes, culminating in a jolly jingle as the screen came alive on a photo of her, as a kid, before a limitless panorama of blue mountains, and the words, handwritten, wishing her welcome back, Michelle.
Once she pressed <enter>, a cavalcade of successive blank frames that filled up with queries and answers, fast enough to make her recline in my neck, while Sarah kissed her toes. She told us that her chum Woodpecker had tuned this high octane prototype to her needs (so she had let him lick her crotch, like a girl, and he liked that).
Then she took a more serious tone to warn that she would sink into the Wired for a while, and we shouldn’t worry if she fell asleep at the ready; also, she found our shower room fantastic, by the way.
Sarah was aroused by the smell of genius, but I drew her downstairs to think of other distractions, possibly.
Liselotte was contorting upon cinders, she had been a devotee to Victor from a very young age —I had come to think she was the one who sold me to him, tipping him off to that barge event on the river Seine. He knew Michelle was with us, still swimming through the dark pools in different colours, unfazed towards all the signals and cyber-mines he had set up, the wunderkind played on par with a nail-biting Victor, who trembled; I could pull her kinky mind back at rest, reassuring her that the four-eyed pixie had sealed some sweet covenant with our hero, thus was not seeking revenge through the “Wired”.

James had barged in, like he does, with a light carton of cream-filled “jésuite” triangular cakes. Annabelle and Elsie, in bedroom outfits, had climbed down, with rosy cheeks, smelling of briar roses and nenuphar —sex, in short— the sight and feel of them overjoyed our whimsical uncle, who could no longer conceal his altogether good-hearted deceptiveness about his newfound daughter; he did not yet stray his well-groomed hands on Elsie’s knees.
There was a peremptory knock at our door, which, in the current course of events, sounded ominous, the standard etiquette inside the windmill’s corridors being more like calling through ajar doors, softly. There stood Lena, almighty and stealth caretaker —mother of Natalia— who had made an awestriking discovery while checking into our studio for petty tidying; she was breathless, she pulled me upstairs with a fierce clutch.
I could have foretold it, I hugged our beloved nursemaid who smelled of fear and fern, watching the cute pair of feet poking out of the red sofa’s side, in a dim glow. Michelle laid asleep upon her stretched arm, her spectacles reflecting the moves on the computer screen. Letting Lena standing like a mooring pole, I went to caress these unexpected pranksters, if only in case she would wake up.
I picked up the glasses safe and we laid a cashmere plaid, justly intended for the visitors, upon her legs. I could retell to a bewildered Lena who Michelle was, and what prerogatives we had granted her amongst us, swearing my soul that she was a wholehearted person, at least this side of the screen.

 

Sarah says:

Enchanted by the sight of Annabelle and Elsie cuddled into an armchair, James took a fancy of my abs and thighs, pulling me to sit upon his well-known lap; he smelled of his usual ginger cologne, and his forehead felt rich. He tried to make us spill the embers about our new recruit, if ever, and the fuss she seemed to have kicked, on her own.
We relied on Hugo’s wits, he is in the same superlative covenant as impetuous Victor, we knew what a Google search gave up, that is Michelle de Cerisy, twenty-seven, had made it to the Ecole Polytechnique in Paris, at seventeen, to the amazement of many, studied there in computer engineering, then she fell in love with mathematical modelling applied to finance, reverence to Ziv Katalan at the University of Pennsylvania, then eventually pursued a PhD in human-machine interaction, under Abiel Vidal at Princeton, before following an Ermeline Gorescu —photos were to be found— to Lausanne University, where both trails waned off,
Hugo had been bedazzled by her resume, but far less than Victor, who confided that he had been in a close-knit relation with her ghost in the most safeguarded chatrooms of global power, before affording this rare bird a platinum clad shelter.
Now she had become, overnight, the apple of Melchior’s eye —this one would not trip on any of her wires— and she could sleep upon our rugs.

Gauthier joined, just as we plotted to order vegan pizzas from “Vivi davvero” on rue de Seine. He had his lit-up eyes, he told us that, coming out of the elevator, he had heard loud music from upstairs, in the studio, knocking seeming vain, he had pushed the door, and then seen a nude unknown blonde dancing alone on an old Fleetwood Mac, “Dreams”, and he had dared not cough, who was she?
The pet of the house, so it would seem, with a maddening bum and aviator glasses. A meteoric mind for numbers and formulae nonpareil and free, windfall in the garden of the unbound master of the cosmic tables, whom, then, himself, botched his better strike.
As the cat which sensed that one spoke of its grace, Michelle appeared, in her minimum rags, swaying her hip at Gauthier and running to Kate’s lap.
It seemed the right time for her to unscramble, in all consideration, the links between each other of us before she suspected a cult. She had soon reckoned that everyone around had done everyone, and I had better warn the penis bearers that she would rather remain a virgin.
But, again, like the cat that chooses the person who did not profess any feline attraction to sit on, Michelle fetched a slice to open matters with Gauthier, who is such a charmer, altogether; she pretended to be an illiterate code-monkey and eventually liked what she heard; she was thrilled to learn that there were so many other birds in the colombier.
Later, Hugo came up, along with Delffan, whose cranium had grown velvety, sweetening the air of one’s gazes; Michelle had loved Hugo’s handling of her hassles, and she was stunned by the serene comity of this new beautiful preternatural person, though as unaffected as herself; an informal round gathered at one end of a sofa, Hugo slid a slow hand under Michelle’s sweatshirt, Gauthier fondled all he liked of Delffan, and Kate turned to me. Annabelle had been stripped down between James and Elsie. There would be another visit at Melchior’s, the next day.
Having read the time at Hugo’s wrist, Michelle slithered out of the tableau to rejoin her lookout, nothing else she needed, she had found new toothbrushes.
James, now openly petting with Annabelle and Elsie, mumbled that the newcomer was a worthy pearl in our crown, and he would certainly go grovel for a bite of her cherry, Michelle heard that —she had been in the door— she sniggered and ran. Soon, Gauthier fled along with Delffan whose eyes swayed. Hugo kneeled at Annabelle’s feet and called her his desirable niece to pull her to his side, leaving Elsie in James’ arms.
Kate and me, unsatisfied, dimmed the lights and switched on some slow music waves to dance on, then Natalia and Beryl snuck in and we took them to bed, they smelled of wild brush and male sweats, they had just been fucked and it was their gift.

In what might be morning, I blinked up, snuggled round in Elsie’s arms, and everyone had left, our living room miraculously neatened. I baked Gugelhupf slices dipped in beaten eggs and sprinkled with brown sugar, a Saint Loup reminder, of which the smell lured out my New Yorker bedfellow, recovered of any jet lagging.
By telepathy, Kate and Michelle, not wearing much, touchy-feely, yawning babes from behind-the-sofa clouded over the French toasts, and I reckoned I had better brew another pot. Stretching her elbows up so as to bare her faultless abs —her eerie carpet life punctuated in compulsive series of push-ups— our new impish geek feebly mumbled that we lived a weightless life, just like she yearned for, and Liselotte, who had caused our collision, should be praised for that; I agreed, I would bear nought against my usual procuress, even if she shouldn’t have devised a party spot in Victor’s pervasive eyes. She had texted again, I asked her in and she lost no time; she showed a bad sleep face with hollow eyes, but breathed widely, obviously elated to witness our quiet. She grasped what would be played before Melchior, whom she feared, and made a heartful atonement with Michelle, who accepted and retorted that the whole fiasco had at least debunked a tainted facet of Victor’s almighty realm. Liselotte blamed the wrong on the unleashed abuse of drugs, or an inauspicious mix in them, hadn’t most of us relish the blue dust, once or more? Moreover, she avowed to not knowing of Michelle’s lifeways, her main intention having been to provide the console kids a frank shagging, be it under the sight of their boss. She fawned a candid Michelle, who was chasing grains of sugar on her busy lips, into granting her pardon, with undeniable savoir-faire, like she had owned me before, and all the girls she appraised worthy.

 

Kate says:

Michelle and I had a teatime appointment and a few chores to hurry through, mainly a visit to the clinic to print her a black card, which puzzled her when I showed her mine, promising to let her play with it, provided she would not jeopardise my private data. After a thorough toilet, I dressed her, street code, jeans, sandals easy enough to her feet that were bigger than ours, white shirt and black man’s vest with pockets; she would smell of Blue Narcissus, clean and naïve, though witty enough to enthral the medical staff who would scan her soul bare. We ran a few blocks, climbed up to the sterile venues and I helped her undress to her glasses into the rude light. She let be done like a living doll as if nonetheless she were taking records of every detail happening about her gorgeous body. She searched my hand and looked away while they drew of her blood —I felt she had needle-phobia— and I let her squeeze my hand; then I massaged the inside of her arm. More eventful was the gynaecological exploration which she would have rather skipped, but, I explained, was mandatory and confidential, she might verify for herself, of all women who tested; she asked if I had submitted, too, in a manner of keeping her composure; the doctor knew me well, she liked my attitude towards my unquiet friend; no mention was told of virginity. When she was redressed and we allowed ourselves a gentle hug, the sleek machine bleeped and spat the new lacquered black card with a long number on it.

There was time enough left for an idea, we ordered a cab and went to Stubbs & Wootton, for her feet deserved that. She agreed when we found indigo, flat velvet slippers, randomly embroidered of mock multicoloured math formulae, and she also bought night blue ones with Horus eye in gold, and turquoise with frilled Betta fish, and it could go on, so enthused she was to make of her feet such brilliant toys. I am sure not stingy, but I must have done that embarrassed-auntie-look-in the-toy-shop face; she laughed, wholeheartedly, and slid out another kind of black card from her wallet, with another long number embossed on it, and her full name. I wished I had paid, I helped her carry one of the chic bags. The young stylish shop attendant was bedazzled.
In our closet, I fought my urge not to clothe her, but eventually, one of Sarah’s sleeveless, high-waisted, flared, zig-zag blue hues silk jersey dress fit her, like a columbine in a Van Der Weyden painting, but now she was lost as to which of her new shoes to wear; a heavily over-embroidered deep indigo kind of caraco nested her shy doves of breasts, I tied a night blue velvet dog collar with a micromosaic medallion of the planet Saturn in its midst, and she liked that so much that she groped me, as I was not dressed, yet. As I responded, I dared her not to wear undies, like I would, swearing my soul that I would rather die than let anyone, be it Melchior, rape her again; but the mighty one had his whims, and this was one… she hesitated; she slid on indigo black hold up silk stockings with a large lace border. She opted for the coloured numbers slippers, she was crushingly sexy, it would plead leniency for Victor, or would it?
Gianni had made me a halterneck dress in a turquoise and purple on white ikat, calf-long with side slits up to the hips on the sides, I put on purple open tights that aroused her because my pussy could happen to be seen in my moves, I donned a wide-oblique-striped turquoise and white long vest. I sprayed myself with some perverse tuberose, wondering what it would become if we went to bed together. I shoed fine strapped sandals, I know Melchior likes my feet, he told me.

This one limousine looked like a hearse in a mob movie, it smelled of oak-aged malt whisky, in my fancy; Michelle started to panic, she knew not any of this world, and it felt too voluptuous for her safety marks, it was the kind of sets you found in videogames, and, then, it was never a good omen. In the silent, smooth swaying of the monstrous machine, I played on her looser chords to tame her and come to like the deep velvet seat, unaware if anyone could watch her widely stretched pussy. She had flown through all this before, couldn’t she recall?
When the car stopped, it stood in the middle of a spacious tiled all-over garage grey and Nile green, with a polished black floor. Orderly lined were a dozen of mostly vintage luxury cars, of the kind which boasts architectonic radiator grids.
The driver held the door as we climbed out and walked to an opened elevator booth, clad with golden mirrors, and one single unidentified button by the doors, that I tried.
This was another venue than those I knew, the floor was a spectacular black and white mosaic of which the Renaissance pattern, larger than the rooms, was oriented at an angle in relation to the construction plan, giving the impression of an endless subjacent world. Awed, Michelle wouldn’t dare to walk frankly, I had to warn her it was only the start of another show, for her better good.
This foyer deployed like a cavern, baroque and asymmetrical, a crouched black giant draped in polished white marble looking stucco rested an enormous foot on the mosaic and bent his furious head against the star-studded nightly ceiling; Along the opposite wall, ran a cohort of nude nymphs amidst dark woodlands, the foliages, overran with paradise birds, melting up into orange dusk; the naturally coloured nymphs were higher than life-size and eerily elongated in the Fontainebleau manner, some grabbed their neighbours at the crotch.
The impressive ensemble might have been realised by those Asian temple decorators, under highly trained supervision, with precise references in Italian Barocco —the Longhena moors at the Church Dei Frari—; some cinema had missed a major endeavour, here.
After all, weren’t we acting the unrevealed cinematography of Melchior, with no lights and hidden cameras? As I enlaced my pet genius, a well-synchronised, adrift symphony flew around the scene from nowhere, and Michelle yielded entirely to my lead until we felt his presence.

He might have been there all along, mingled in the indiscernible, he waved us to keep on, his high frame at a tense watch. When I sensed that Michelle had whirled enough, he showed us to a high black door draped in purple velvet, chiseled of extravagant chases of subterranean creatures of both sexes copulating spiritedly.
The enchanting music —like unfurling echoes in the deep corridors of an opera house, when the audience has left— followed us in another dark salon where only a few crimson velvet seats, around what might have seemed a tall salon organ, were lit by a charivari of a chandelier, coloured birds into gold foliages and luminous jewel flowers, dimmed down to the shade of secrecy. On the table was displayed a treasure of goldsmithery, like stolen in the Green Vault of Dresden, here containing real edible treats like crystallised violets or candied berries, green lace of angelic, or stuffed cherries from Lago di Cuomo; none was too sugary, only the spike of a kiss, and the swoon of gossamer biscuits in puffs of icing dust.
Growingly disquieted, Michelle was seated in contact with my thigh, and wouldn’t taste the delicacies; she had a sense, this time around, that stakes would be sharper. The patient wizard fixed our gazes, then, and let her know that he had met with Victor, and therefore wished to undertake a truthful audit of their discord, beyond the unspeakable error Victor had conceded. Melchior waved towards the bizarre monument that stood before us, of which it was indefinite to tell if it was purposely elaborate or merely decorated, so many were the complicated features on all faces; when a coy faced Asian waiter in a black buttoned-up kameez rolled an Aeron chair to it, the sombre ensemble suddenly looked almost dangerous, like a weapon. Melchior insisted that she sit and push the start key, adding, in a smile, that it would be her privilege.

She moved lazily to the black orthopaedic chair, tried herself on it, adjusted it to her size and weight, stood somewhat like on watch, or composed like a pianist before the first note. She liked her back stretched upon the curved canvas, she made the seat swivel a few times, and hit the only possible key.
Like a woken hermit crab, contraptions began protruding out in different directions; a keyboard with extra rows of coloured keys, three large monitors, speakers, and other thingies with no name. She was moody, fidgety; on the central generic blue screen, text appeared, and a black invite box in which, after a moment holding her chin, she typed a long formula that disappeared as fast, and the screen went blue, again, with the sad bright yellow blinking invite.
I am a mouse operator, but I know real geeks type. Ensued an accelerating sequence of clatter clink fire which would not let me read the collection of screens that popped and faded, until it was her own, kid Michelle, against the blue mountains; she pivoted, beaming, and pulled off her dress which had impaired her speed.
Melchior stared, impassible, but he muttered in a language I did not know, then said calmly that she had not been supposed to reach that page, all the more not this fast. She retorted she could, now, show him Victor’s operation, and her deft hands flew through control screens, and cracked one by one the new passwords and procedures, till a black page with the invite, upper left corner. She asked if he wished to look at the ongoing trading, and a flurry of active windows filled the three monitors instantly.
Through the threads of the seat’s back, I relished the gracile butt, whereas Melchior showed more stupor than lust. So as to achieve her demonstration, she blanked all and typed again sequences and IDs to enter a platform named PANADO, from which she displayed an array of title pages, Melchior had gone stiff, he asked her to switch the machine off, that she did, engaging an intricate automatic procedure, until a fading light point blinked off.
Nude as a peri, she faced Melchior and told him this machine and the network it was hooked to would have kept no trace of her passage. She smirked.

Melchior asked if we wanted to drink something, we agreed to some tea and the Asian lady brought a big black pot, in the shape of a curled up dragon, and lacquer bowls gilded inside; Melchior started on a low tone, that Michelle was a dire menace on the loose, and he had never known of such capabilities as hers. She cleared her voice and retorted there had been, in her knowledge, three of them in the cybershere, until one took her own life. There, she fell silent, eyes lowered, and I cuddled her to cry.
After a long moment inhaling tea vapors, he went on, reckoning she had, then and there, in his face, blown to pieces every possible security scheme available, in and out, therefore she had become indispensable to him and his corporations, and she knew that, didn’t she?
She wondered if that might mean that she could stay at Hugo’s, with all of us, with me. Melchior concurred immediately, but added that she was, from now on, if not since long already, so well off that there wouldn’t be any impediment as to her dwelling wherever she pleased, with whom she chose. She was deftly sliding a hand on me.
However, Melchior demanded that a comprehensive contract bound them, globally, with not even a hair-thin crack, to let leak whatever out from.
Obviously, Victor had misjudged her talent and skills, he had had, beforehand, means to research about her short career, also an eloquent cursus in the absolute best surroundings available; by the way, why did Lausanne looked like a dead-end in her resume?

He asked permission to sit by us, next to her, and held her hand between his, it was peaceful; the music hovered again in my mind. The glimmer of the chandelier now encompassed the whole scenery of a large reception room without discernible wall as such, but dark hordes of raised, life size, nude figures, in the posture of withdrawing to a forest of monstrous roots; the women bearing the face of rapture, the men in full erection keeping the grin of lust.
Beyond her, he was helping me out of my clothes, reveling in the little bare mound in my tights, and he wondered how the herds of happenstance weaved the trust on what empires thrived; he stroked her wilful chin and mused “welcome to the supreme tier”. Then he let us make our love.
He retired through a far corner, two indifferent well-built lads came in, raised the monumental black contraption on its wheels and rolled it away. The Asian lady brought a vase of heady lotus flowers and asked if we needed anything, she showed us the way to the bathroom, yet another masterpiece of orgiastic sculpture, a relief rendition of the morphine-instilled dreams of Jean Delville, herein in seemingly bronze, to the ceiling in a large whirl, with basins to play with our waters in, bowls to keep company, gem like phials of heavenly scents. We played, knowing we were taped under many angles.

 

Michelle says:

I had known sleek, I had known bland, or even garish, expensive inter-human settings for power trading, but not, in real atoms, liveable pandemoniums such as only this circle of secretive conjurors may invite you in, and it would seem I fell in the velvety garden of their muses.
Melchior’s alliance with me is fair and square, I will refute none of its lines, my obligations bear the upside of making Victor only my peer, at most, but the biggest patron I could have dreamt of. As of now, I love my camp in the girls’ studio, scenes happen on the other side of the sofa, like it did in my home, at the times when my mom braided my hair in two, with tiny butterfly clips.
Up and down this maze of a house roam keen characters, all of whom available to my wants, and unconditionally faithful, as I can reckon. Nevertheless I haven’t yet dared spill my thorns upon anyone’s plate to ask for help, sort the pain, and ease my womb. They spoke of Camille I haven’t met, yet, and the ward she keeps of a redeemed victim, others returned from dire fates, one is a happy pet of Victor’s, of all brutes —I should know.
Having been excellently home-schooled, proudly ahead of my age when I joined the most renown Ecole Polytechnique, I was nonetheless the unaware laughing stock in the student’s corridor where the bullies would drink cheap beer, and so would it be, I could outsmart them all, anyhow.
That crashed upon me like the icicle from the roof ledge, as I headed to my room, Radiohead in my headphones, the bastard pulled me in a room that wasn’t his, and closed the door, and I measured what unleashed physical might is. It wasn’t long, but it was a full fledged rape, I had been wearing easy lounge sweat pants, and he tore them off in one pull, moreover, my spectacles had flown, hence I had not seen his face. I was left sobbing and bleeding, feeling around the floor for my sights.
I think I was altogether too young to actually care to make a complaint. I cried alone in my room for three days before my tutor warned he would have to open my door. I scarred, I depressed, I cursed my glasses and Radiohead, I shunned men and joined the school’s helpful lesbian association. I never found who had done this, they all smelled the same. I was dumb, but, out there, I was stellar.

 

Sarah says: 

Elsie’s Paris abode had been finished pronto, thanks to his gang of devoted specialisti, and she would never know the amount of the grand total; but when they delivered the queen size Hästens Appaloosa bed, she would not escape —nor would she try— a ride upon it with the laughing knight of the upper tier, who had already shagged, in good humour, anyone alive, there.
She was morphing into a more laid back persona, shedding one by one the scales of an invisible armour her conscious mother had made her wear, in the course of her education years. Now, she was an earnest international lawyer, with a universally regarded mentor, and she would revel in all what she had willfully shunned, these years.
My Far, after having appreciated her, during the last weeks of his life in New York City, had showed her the venues of the international institutions in Geneva, while suggesting a mind frame for a quiet living, whatever personal orientation she felt. Either in Geneva or in Paris, as high ranking her position be, the focus would never be on her if she did not willfully called for it. He knew full well the life ways of his daughter, but he cared only of her well-being, to herself.

 

Elsie says:

Lars von Kettelær had whistled of admiration when I told him Hugo had lent me an apartment rue de Lille, over Sarah’s testimony —I had not avowed what I had lent Hugo.
For then, I would stay two nights a week in the Niton Hotel in Geneva, at my office’s expense, and the rest in Paris, as a junior lawyer with an office in the Fontenoy “three pointed star” building, with a view under Henry Moore’s “Reclining Figure”. I was asked two mornings of presence, And I could see the lighter files at home, review matters from my bed.
I kept my apartment in New York, since they had asked me, as a single and a newbie, to effect some rotations in person with the UN headquarters in New York. I had become a diplomat, I did not wait in the airport lines. My mother could be proud.
That did not make me less of a libertine, one day I asked Sarah, who was in a kinky mood, to take me on a tour of Philippe’s recesses and nooks, she was overjoyed; I bought an oversized cobalt and flax blue knit coat, in which I could go in a mars ochre light bodysuit, in case things became druzy. And they did, after peeping at a few scenes of schoolgirls fiddled with in their most excitingly awkward candour, her friend Sami and two well-hung temps had pushed us, up narrow spiral stairs, to some low ceiling windowless attic, with original raw-plaster walls and ceiling engraved with names and esoteric signs, leading to think the venue had served as a prison. They lit candle sconces hung to the centre pillars, here and there, strange and sturdy dark wood furniture stood adrift, but the whole place was clean, like a bizarre display in a deserted museum.
They disrobed us, rashly, easy, was it not? laid us upon the heavy table and licked artfully every part, of us, asked that we kissed while they penetrated us front and rear, as I knew I could take , with the lube they used.
As they jauntily shouted, in some easterly dialect, at each other, we learned the use of the different stools and accessories, when they pulled the lid of a burly trunk full of bonding straps and hooks. Soon, I was entrapped head and hands in a pillory, my feet affixed wide apart, while Sarah hung down from the master beam, her hands attached to a large hook in her bottom, her mouth at the men’s disposal, alternately with my loosened holes.

 

Sarah says: 

Elsie had fled to her new duties, I lazed my same old rêverie in her pearl grey percale sheets on which she had had the pride to show sperm and else stains. The small bedroom oversaw thick gardens, without many birds, its walls were hung with a high quality reproduction of an 18th century grisaille wallpaper, soul-soothing views of Arcadia, I presumed, running all around. Astutely, like ancient times, two smaller doors on each side of the bedstead opened, one to a sizable walk-in closet, still more or less empty, the other one to a bathroom clad of soft-tone majolica tiles with yellow and blue cornices. She had wished a bathtub, as a marker of her new status, in her mother’s home there was only a titchy shower booth.
Gauthier dawdled in, in search of last touches he could mend, and he laughed at my face in the pillow. Inescapably, he threw his marroon tracksuit and slid along me, mumbling garlands of niceties. I wanted to believe he could be the early cock, I offered my back the lazy way, he would eventually succeed into my sleepy vagina, if not elsewhere, and he did, in a cautious —brotherly manner; I closed my eyes and swayed my hips to his moves.
Neither of us would take time for a bath, we showered together like monkeys, the soap smelled of magnolia —there used to be one in Saint Loup, his big white flowers consoled the slight hurt of estrangement, or was it still the helpless rage of the previous summer? when the brother I had, betrayed my naivety.
Gauthier read my eyes and wished me a good day, with our new pet.
Michelle had slept with Kate and Natalia, whom she entertained frankly, other than killing her with kisses. Kate could tell I had fucked Gauthier, she wondered where I had been. We dared not explain what I had done and where, Michelle was certainly not of strength, so she mused we had shagged like avid sluts, the way she did not like. I grazed her slender neck and breathed in her ear “live and let live, genius”.

 

James and Annabelle came to spend the day along, he had been struck by the sofa aviator, as he would say when she could not hear, which was trickier to know than he thought, but Michelle laughed at jokes on her traits, she had ample proofs of her success on that level. I thanked him for the perfect armchair to sit a beauty in, it earned me a third time to be groped since midnight, I brewed tea, and noticed the cookie stash was ending. Michelle remained on the sofa, not far from James, Kate was trying to sort a flurry of notes she had scribbled, and she had some confusion to remember what about.
Michelle liked Annabelle, who liked her too, so they ended embraced, and Michelle began asking about straight sex, was it some mere necessary evil? She did not acknowledge any natural obvious, her vagina did not demand a penis in it, even if she saw plenty of that on the web, and yes, it aroused her, but she did not fathom why.
What she tried to speak out was that , although she had never asked, hurtful gestures had been inflicted to her, whereas she had always been fulfilled with girls, unabashedly, and of that, too, she saw a lot on the internet.
Kate, who was now doodling with a weightless pencil, took her virginal tone to retell her rescued pixie how she, since the sandpit days, had always known the most graceful manners to any organ of her body, and so she could testify there is as much good to be taken and given on each slant of the vale, either shore of the stream and in the middle of it. But she was aware it had been chance, altogether, and therefore she would only try to help Michelle find peace and pleasure, in the only way that suit her, were it behind the sofa.

 

Elsie says:

They told me they would vet my housekeeper, because I might be carrying restricted informations, and I had to install a safe in my small study. I fawned over Michelle —as if I needed an excuse— so as she became my system manager, knowingly letting her own a key to who knew what international secrecy; now stands a big, sleek monitor on my desk and Lars has morally countersigned my choice, he says he has never heard of such a secure standard of procedure in the UN offices.
Meanwhile, my home ancillary is called Habiba Douri, and she does not ruin her heath trying to bleach her young skin, she wears slim jeans and white teeshirts, impeccable sneakers. She dwells in a small self contained room on the other side of the apartment, she works diligently for a third of my salary, of which most is tax-exempt, I am the happiest of the expatriate untouchables. Through coded locked doors, I reach the merry warren of Sarah’s friends, and Hugo’s Imaginarium, where I lightly expend my gratitude, if he wishes.
On one of those equinoctial, sensitive days, when one would expect a miracle at the point when dusk recedes after the city lights, we were all welcomed to Camille Stern’s, Kate and Sarah’s promoter in all kinds of ways, as I could make it out, an influent proxy to Hugo’s many trades, a beautiful influencer to a restricted, if not restrained, clientèle.
Sarah had enlightened my wits that such a gathering would unmistakably end in an orgy, at the free will of all guests, Camille, many a time sweet procuress, did not hold a bordello, but, nevertheless, singled out misguided talents who would have reached her doorstep, eventually.
Kate, herself a brilliant libertine, chaperoned her last found wayward soul Michelle with the ulterior motive of showing her the full array of harmless animal behaviours, while keeping her off limits, no one there would take offence of a pretty four-eyed voyeur, cheers to her!

 

Kate says:

It took more than one car to descend on Camille’s stately home, above the discreet “A l’Étoile Amusée” gallery, and its three windows currently showing Fulgence Rotor’s “Nada” panels. The party weren’t thrown to all azimuths, only the quintessence of those who clang to Hugo’s magnetic field, directly or not. There weren’t flowers on each step of the stairs, only a sugary balsam scent of benzoin, up to the grand salon, and the dim lit peripheral escape shelters.
She had hung new window drapes, of heavy black satin embroidered of constellations in silver and gold thread, in stark contrast against the mandarin shaved velvet of the walls. Three imposing pictures of her Heinz Stangl collection were on display, as a large, blistering hazy blue scrummage by Dado, and a pair of sharp angels by Michel Henricot.
I had lovingly helped dress Michelle with chintzy arsenic yellow jeans and matched black polka dots blouse, in a textured woven, Royal blue and iris purple accents, high-waisted fitted jacket. Her hair was loose-braided in a bun, her feet in richly embroidered sapphire blue party slippers; she smelled of pure mountain jasmine, she had in mind to enrapture Annabelle, but she had not yet met the whole bouquet of our redeemed stray beauties. She wore the lapis lazuli anklet Hugo had given to her.
I knew for myself that I would be gently body-searched before I ended salutations, and so Michelle was stunned to feel I wore nothing under my wide flared, sleeveless, hazed aquamarine silk jersey dress; I showed her how easy I am, I smelled of white peony and pepper, walked in silver flat thin strapped sandals. At my neck and wrists glowed aquamarines, nude in white gold.
Sarah and Elsie looked like sisters, and they kissed as I said that, Sarah had composed an all-white vaudeville uniform, high waisted tail coat with black and silver patterned trimmings, lined of imperial blue satin, thin crepe crew collar short sleeves shirt, flared twill bridge trousers and patent white flat escarpins; She smelled of a childish mix of almond and bergamotte, vanilla, laurel, that also inspired Michelle. She donned a rubies, diamonds and onyx Art Deco set. Elsie was pale and fresh, she wore a long purple shantung coat open on an oriental black taffeta sheath dress, slit to the hip, that gave out how slim she was, and wanton; she shoed patent leather black mules with strass accents, her ankles showed dreamily sleek. At her neck gleamed amethysts in spiral shaped battered silver plates; she smelled of a black iris, tuberose, violet, like a nightly opera box.

Camille had unboxed her most prized emeralds, framed at her neck in a long Nile green velvet gown, slid to her fingers, her toes, for she went barefoot upon her precious carpets. In the whirling cloud of ambient music, she beamed like an almond tree in bloom, eager to meet our new bed cousins, bewildered by my shy, ankle-twitchy, aviator angel, who nevertheless captivated her with her indefatigable candour, all the more when I softly evoked that Michelle longed for feminine shelter, she quietly drew her to a still remote corner.
Malo, nude and powdered, her cello in her legs, was pulling loose wreaths on the sostenuto streams thrummed out by the three Hang drums behind her, another nude girl was still pondering on her black lacquered electric guitar plugged to a glimmering array of black metal boxes, itself into Camille’s main system’s historical Paragon speaker, behind the musicians. Malo accepted my hand in her neck, it prompted the fringe styled guitarist to trigger a few slow loops and samples, blur the sound backdrop in which the cello contorted as a manta ray, then tentatively respond to Malo’s improvisations, as they probably would have rehearsed.
Simon, my sun-weathered brother and his Parisian gamine pecked on each other’s face like a first date, Fayelle appeared all the time younger, here, bare legs in a black, rosebuds strewn peasant skirt and a black loose-knit oversized jumper, under which I knew I would find shy nipples.
Lizon clenched Sarah’s neck, with a sharp gaze; she wore night blue slim shaved velvet jeans and a matched veil shirt, opened to the navel, she had thrived as a well-paid daughter for rent, her toe and fingernails lacquered black, she had lost her shoes; they kissed like sailors.
Fanny had met Michelle, Camille had introduced them so properly that they exchanged while holding each other’s hands, like kids, on some heated topic; she wore some black crepe dressy pyjama, with satin lapels, and black taffeta flat ballet pumps. Together, in striking colour contrast, they raised the voltage in their side of the room, the reason why kaleidoscopic Missoni tights and sweater dress Delffan jumped at them, with one unmistakable grin.

One had made a remark about the temperance as a constant rule for the gatherings of this rose-petals club, and in earnest, no one could have dated it, I had personally drifted away from it, at my own expense, I think I would never again drench my wits in alcohol, it is terrible for any soul, boring in sex, lousy for inspiration. other recreational drugs are far less damageable, put apart that they are mostly state-forbidden, under pressure from the brewer corporations.
The same goes with the diet, but it has become such a cultural marker that we couldn’t have avoided it, could we? We are perfumed zealots, except for God.
Apparently, Gauthier and Fulgence had concluded a wisdom peace, in honour of the beautiful crews of the peaceful clearings, they arrived together with Natalia, Beryl, and Liselotte in a big zigzag black and crimson, a giant collar on a fool cleavage tied with a strass belt, short shirt dress of stiff taffeta, doubtlessly an endeavour to alleviate the reproach of having missed of judgement apropos Michelle in the wolf’s den.
Erik, in a Royal blue shantung suit, made sure everyone feel his sway over Natalia’s arse and she kept her word on that, smiling at me like my bed buddy. Gauthier held arm in arm with Theo who donned one of his three pieces salmon square striped Dupioni suit, lined of Veronese green satin, where in Melbourne was a tailor so chic?
Fulgence, besides the pride of having hung his work in Camille’s windows for us all to see, grinned of lust at the sight of so many, but one, willing, rich-smelling younglings, he looked like he was sorting the ones he had not yet shagged.

Liselotte came up to me, in a whiff as fresh as a spring hawthorn in bloom, pulling with her a shy, acorn blond bob haired, green-eyed, twiggy long-legged in shaggy black jeans, worn sneakers, the whole picture of the would-be prey of lust I read as a redeem present. The name was Fæbyan Elsterwert, I almost had to take her in my neck to hear, she came from Switzerland, she smelled of lavender soap, Liselotte had picked her up on the Seine embankment where she had been panhandling, I had an emotional thump in the chest, and I looked at Liselotte who played candour and winked. I kept Fæbyan’s hand, it had been taken care of. I drew her to the buffet and sketched up who we were. I grazed her hips with my underbelly, like some prelude to a dance, I knew Liselotte had fucked with her.
She had not been starving, and she liked the fruit kombucha like I dared feel it on her lips. She was making herself easy, she gave me tender gazes, I pushed her like dancing towards the corridor that led to the bedrooms. She was lean, her clothes smelled like she had worn them for ever, but I was altogether smitten, her skin was faultless and thin, I came to wonder if she had not been up Liselotte’s sleeve for some time, which would not make her less desirable, and her fly was undrawn while I pushed her into the room, on the bed.
I became a tad cruel in words, as I pulled everything off her narrow frame —not unlike Sarah’s and my most relished slutty pals— and I ended learning that she had been kept, some three months, by Liselotte, in a small self-contained room, and, so to speak, pimped to a few naughty friends of hers, for money —nothing extravagant, judging by the expression on her face— and she wouldn’t be the first alley cat I fell for, would she? Liselotte had, all that time, been sweet to her, bringing her to like a lighter version of selling her skin, boarded for free in the best quarter of Paris.
I told her to unclothe me, to take lewd poses, pee on me in the bathroom, let me pee in her mouth, nothing she had not done already with her mistress, and moreover, she had an arousing manner of letting herself be done, and obey.

She had warmed up, she had come gently, given me the novelty shudders, Liselotte owned me more than I had fathomed, and it was sweet. As I uncovered her forehead, her eyes and brows, rested as a Botticelli, none alarm pinched any of my nerves, I had a crush on a young beautiful whore, that was it, and fast.
I could have foreseen, but it did not bother me, anyhow, someone was sneaking into that room, the music had raised, and been muffed. My manoeuvre had not escaped Fulgence’s watch, or had he been tipped by our procuress? I felt, more than I saw, his muscular and tense body behind mine, and Fæbyan smirked at him, like they might have planed, but I relished the idea that he would fuck me before her, along with her, so I opened my thighs, and she gave me a hunch that she had been all along more trained than I had guessed, by guiding his dick to my pussy, wet of all our licking, and shutting my mouth with hers.
Of course, he had been on the list of the most expected fuckers, and I liked his energic manners, but moreover he was shrewd enough to start in me, in order to tell her to straddle me, legs apart, so as to switch pussy at his fantasy, and eventually bugger the slim prey I held to his whim.
Then our special firebrand barked as he gushed into her, and dripped upon my labia, and we went to shower in good humour, Fulgence and me sharing compliments on Fæbyan’s body, she nodded, like a kid. We went searching for her rags, she puffed in laughters seeing me sniffing the fabric with mischievous eyes.

 

Sarah says:

As I was hugging Annabelle with mock small talk that made her rummage under my armpits and breathe warm on my chest, In the corner of my eye, I saw the manoeuvre by Liselotte, before she even kissed me good night, entrusting this new pretty tramp to Kate, who soon abducted her to more private shadows. I was naughty, I grassed on her, to Fulgence, who was in need of lust. They returned later, with stray eyes, it looked as if it had been a success, the new errant garconne seemed a lot worthier than lost luggage, I went up to sniff her, Annabelle was already trying to push Malo to clinkers, only by looking at her, and undressing as well as her.
Fæbyan, the unknown street runner, smelled like the shower after sex, and my showy attire deflected her, who was a poster-girl of desolate streetwear —had Liselotte schemed this on us? She did not try to evade my pouting lips, she obviously was here to play easy, I presumed a debutante whore, and I liked that. I ensnared her in my best petting, drifting towards the door of the stairs, with the idea to do her in my old room, up there, from the time when I had been a pet rat in this very house.
The spiral stairs were the perfect venue for preliminaries and confessions, she told me she knew I was with Kate, whom she had told everything; pulling down her worn out boy’s jeans, word by word, I insisted I had not heard the tale, and made her feel I liked that, so she briefly retold That Liselotte had picked her up on the quay, lodged her in a small apartment, spent many nights with her, and lent her out to wealthy johns, so as she had become a mere tart. There, I had seized her gracile neck, stared in her jade green eyes, and told her we were as much harlots as she were, and we had a bend to like that, as long as it would not make her ugly, but shagging doesn’t make you ugly, does it? Chilling out on my physical assault, I confided to her about my debut in Camille’s realm, herself a transmogriphied wonder of a forlorn alley cat, of tragic origin, poles apart with me, who is a spoiled itchy brat of the top tier, a dedicated slut from a special Swiss breeding school, an international concern for the secret services!
At least, Fæbyan laughed, and I began to relieve any churning angst in her tummy, I demonstrated I wasn’t smooth-talking her only to open her legs, I was pondering on Liselotte’s plans and what they carried for this girl’s well-being.

My old room had been tidied some, Fanny had not, apparently, dwelled here often, or in the lightest of manners. Then and there, against the fir green sheets —one of Fanny’s novelties— Fæbyan’s swayed silhouette personifies the odalisk in our times, if she doesn’t know, I will take time to show her Ingres’ fantasy.
Her feet had been literaly prettified, pumiced, buffed, the nails trimmed and lacquered in deep Mars violet, she said it was a fad of Liselotte, who cuddled them for hours on. And they were worth adoration, so the slender ankles and all the animal upwards.
She had not told of her childhood, her bony legs and apple bum times. I foresaw another difficult chronology of deceit and abuse, like it had been the case with others like Lizon, not to mention Fanny. But Fæbyan was a different tale, in the well-off spheres, her mother a career woman in the distribution trade, a father champion of the shady markets, addicted gambler, alcoholic, and incapable of restraining his wandering hands, be it on personnel or his daughters. With her older sister Jem, they had grown under the ward of apron-bearing nannys, silence being the major value, in a grand deserted apartment overseeing the Lake of Constance, with greying dust covers on the furniture, rarely did they see the giltwood and the silks in the open, the shutters remained ajar any season; they shared a tall ceiling bedroom, with a faded old “toile de Jouy” wallpaper, on which they read and lived faerie adventures, most of their depressing lives. Jem had been the most imaginative child; the laughters of Fæbyan was her starry sky, they slept enlaced in Jem’s bed, to the protest of bleach smelling caretakers.
They were sent to a girls only school with repressive principles, until Jem climbed on the roof and jumped to the pavement three floors lower, in her night gown. —she had spoken in a hurry, she wished not let out her sister’s motives— Fæbyan was twelve, she started running away and getting recaptured in the clockwork inferno of cold Switzerland, so stubbornly that she ended interned, and maddened, and abused sexually, by the complicit wardens, with, or without the use of medications.
At eighteen, she once was summoned to some hearing, with her mother, before magistrates, to be heard as an adult. It went ugly, she insulted her mother, a well-to-do botoxed bitch in a power suit and pearls, in the three and a half languages of the Confederation —thus proving she was no dunce— and, staring straight at the younger of the three judges, claimed that she wanted her freedom, accusing her mother of her sister’s death, and the institution she was kept in, of organised paedophilia. Two weeks later, whenas she had still been used every night by her doctor and others, she was placed under the trusteeship of a judge, a solicitor, and her mother —her father having been reported missing in Macao. She would be granted a meager allowance, provided she lived in some suburban, one bedroom apartment, and reported of her endeavours to follow a normal training, to her tutors. The starting money she had been granted sewn in her banal jeans, she had afforded her trip to Paris with her complacency to truck drivers. It had been almost three years.

As I kept fumbling her fine feet, it was becoming plain as moonlight why Liselotte had unleashed this appealing street nymph into our garden of delights. She had loved her for three months, preened her feathers like a lady swan, sold her to her most dedicated patrons, and had perpetually, I assumed, hit a same wall of hardened grief and self distance.
Now I was being ensnared myself, with the ghost of a sister in night gown floating over my attraction to her. I knew how to leave the house unseen, I would text some riddle to Kate, she would apologise to Camille for me. No need to say Liselotte would recognise her work.
Once dressed, I prayed Fæbyan to take us to her nest, and dared her to take my money, only to see her wistful glare turn fierce. In the cab, she relaxed, I fantasized bringing her into Hector’s epitome of a berline, and watch her be shagged in my arms.
Despite myself, as we climbed the antique rustic stairs, my face at her bums’ height, I was reckoning that I could easily keep her, if Liselotte would pass her on to me, like an actual whore, was she not?
It wasn’t much more than a walk-in closet, but it had windows —I saw the moon— and running water. It had a quality of teen bundling up, it smelled of chocolate and sweat, dead leaves and rain, I undressed her again, she needed to come, me too.

The morning was still young, but she was looking at me, slanted on her elbow, a smile in her eyes. I was hazy, she said I was funny and beautiful, and flat as a lad. I demanded a kiss. She made coffee in a true Neapolitan coffee maker, she said it was a gift from Liselotte. I thought it were a fine opportunity to talk about that one.
She had this sulky, mat tone of voice, like a vexed child, on a monochord register, but nevertheless I heard the sympathetic strings of her lost sisterhood, like an absurdly suffused colour into a void of sorrow, and it gripped my throat about to sob, though, just like her, I would let naught become.
Liselotte had crossed her a few times before the afternoon when she saw her beg money to German old folks, and come up a minute later to propose her a nice euro note, then a meal, a walk, and a visit upstairs. It had been a pass right away, because once in her comely den, Liselotte had held much more money for her to undress and go to bed. She had been on the streets for a week then, she felt she stank, but Liselotte ran a warm bath in her lofty tub and started to groom her top to toes; she had never known such treatment, neither had she enjoyed what ensued, that night and the following.
In time, and because she was more than eager to spill her sorrows, Liselotte knew better than herself which buttons to push, and she did. Fæbyan, because of years of abuse, had abandoned all sacrament of her own body, would offer wilfully a better leaning for a less hurtful assault, therefore made a profitably trained prostitute. She floated the representation of sizeable sums for a few nights of laying back and opening her legs, she did not revolt, quite the contrary.
It was not as simple, but altogether liveable and rewarding, because Liselotte was no pimp, and left her all of her fees.
Fæbyan had, in earnest, embodied the remorse of her mistress about the ill she caused to Michelle, and saw no better fate than this. I was already salivating on a tour of the Paris I knew. I asked her if she would follow me to a well paid orgy, she said yes.

 

Kate says:

Liselotte beat us, with her whim child beauty out of her sleeve, engulfed as fast as she had loomed up, currently on the run with our tomboy, whilst our pretty shindig were to shuffle our souls in grace of an aviator genie. But Michelle is, in earnest , shortsighted as to social encompassing, and as soon as she singled out the nowhere kid, —of whom we had presented the vaporous origin— she lost all peripheral awareness and bonded with Fanny like a bunch of needles to a magnet, and it wouldn’t be long before they ran to a hideout behind some sofa.
Fulgence had remained tender to me, losing his hands over my lust and now openly making me suck his pride in the dark, smaller bluish salon, intended for such swops, with a cassolette of smoldering incense on a chest, under a dizzying liturgy by Ljuba, and vast, rounded, mole grey mohair armchair with room to wallow and suck him. No wonder I felt a skilful tongue into my bared behind, offered upon the wide armrest, and I only tried to guess who was buggering me like a horse.
Across the dim room, before a black lacquered and gold screen of a Japanese orgy scene, Fayelle had impaled herself on my brother’s shaft, and twirled slowly, like he had already erupted in her but they needed another burst. He would doubtlessly ask for the minor inlet, as he did to me any of the times.
The cello voice had waned out, Annabelle had probably won, with all her spell of enchanted heathers, amidst what Lizon, too, acquainted with Malo’s furtive petals, and meticulously attended skin all over, and pizzicatoes, jewelled of black nails. James asserted his princely privilege over his Glaswegian find, only to welcome nigh his long worshipped shepherdess of the elegiac strings, as he would say while assailing her dewy slits, and his pupil pecked at the pair of shy buds and the eager lips.
Camille had lured the pair of Sorbonne sparrows, on her, in the lichen green loveseat, and reveled in their holy scents, as they divested each other of their cumbersome tatters. Since they had become Fulgence’s preferred toys, and probably Erik’s too, they radiated like a pair of swans with their butts in the air, so as the music stopped and the Hang thrummers answered the hand waving of Camille, to thrum the dainty cheeks unabashedly offered, and kiss into, and hastily do what they had been consumed to do since the heavenly cheptel had gathered before them, Malo had assured them they would grope some pussy before night.
The guitarist was a dedicated perfectionist, she still unfurled trembling volutes, while she was being duly shagged on her stool by the third melomaniac thief, and that made her resplendent, all until she wilfully faded off the loops and reefs, as she dripped of a successful climax.
So, Elsie had vanished too, and Erik, but James snitched that he had seen them scarper out, not too long after she had held his brave cock in hand, they had deprived us of a tasty tableau.

Amongst the lucky crew, pairs had understandably eluded towards more private underwood, Elsie, for one, might have not felt ready for a show-fuck with Erik —it would be a victory when she did— Sarah, taking over Liselotte’s street tramp after Fulgence and me, might have been upset by the forlornly gazes under the thick fringe of a destitute young floozie, a case for her special awareness, another Swiss wreck, on her shores.
But, about Michelle and Fanny, these were mollycoddled specimen for the whole tribe, under the fright some evil might bid to strike them out of this reality. Eventually, when Camille woke her phone back on, she reckoned that the two were still together, texting funny riddles no abductor would ever dream up.
It dawned in my morning-after brain that there was a place I could at least glance over, and my plexus exploded when I saw two pairs of chewable feet out of the sofa’s shadow, but they stood still. When I peeked, my heart melted —pardon the cliché— to the picture of bare babies, one fixed on her screen watching the innumerables, the other half-covered in a plaid, sleeping into Michelle’s armpit. Stealthily, I ran down to fetch my phone to take pictures of them for all to relish. I got caught at the third snap, which owed me a candid smirk of Michelle, then a muttered cry for not sending the shots and showing my phone. Bewildered, I handed the thing, and she said that she would only blur the numbers on her screen in the photos, otherwise she trusted me to show her butt to the right persons; Fanny had not moved, she gave me back my phone after she had erased the shots, took back the pose and told me I was free to capture a tender moment, without threatening the world markets; she had displayed new screens. Camille was thrilled, but we couldn’t fathom how they had, in our non-Trek universe, transported themselves to Michelle’s hidey hole.
All the boys had left, and Delffan had asked Theo to be tucked in his bed. Natalia and Beryl were aroused by the behind-the-sofa scene, mostly Michelle’s apple bum. Sarah barged in with the naughty kid we liked, and said she would doll her up for her appointment with Hugo, late afternoon.
There was a host of eager lasses in the bathroom, all amazed of what Fæbyan looked like without her homeless bum’s disguise, a slim, intact silhouette of a feline teenager, with Lady Di gazes under the bangs. In Hugo’s taste, from our own timeless private collection, a simple milleraies velvet burgundy mid-thigh shirt, lined of dull orange, with rolled up sleeves, would do, for I had intuited that Sarah had —so to speak— sold a harlot to her master, in all kinky deviousness I obligingly condoned. We should have the whole night to parse out Sarah’s scheme. We forced, with much vice, Fæbyan to go like so, no undies, no shoes, down the carpeted stairs to Hugo’s door, and she did, as a good girl.
Thinking of whores, Fayelle, whom my carbon-wasting brother had shagged and left —he was starting to like it that way— and Lizon, whom Liselotte had taken to one of her shady subterranean joints, was showing arousing lilac rings under her tired eyes.

Soon, at dinner time, in the midst of stuffed mushrooms and grilled eggplants with garlic and sautéed asparagus, came the words that Fæbyan would stay downstairs. We read that as a good point, fantasising for her what most of us had enjoyed inside the endless lair.
Natalia, who had abused, once more, of the beautifully ravaged Lizon, needed then more dick and called her own knight errant to brag there would be half-a-dozen willing pussies, for him and his entourage, if clean and polite.
Time enough to tidy up and brew some drinks, Fulgence’s train of scallywags, and Gauthier, who reveled in advantageous company with mostly open-spirited alumni. Our little house of whores, lights dimmed and space music thrown, already smelled like debauchery; Sarah wanted a recount of Lizon’s expedition.
It had begun with a slow trip on the right bank, in the limousine Liselotte had called, in which the chauffeur was merely allowed to masturbate watching the exposed pallor of Lizon’s underbelly; the man, an impeccably dressed Black lad, had pulled a white kerchief to wipe off his swift homage, smirked and put back into gear.
In a smaller street behind the Palais de Tokyo, Liselotte punched the number she had read on her phone at a polished, fir green, double door that jumped back with a buzz, they walked in a faux stone work vaulted passage, lit by feeble Venetian lanterns, leading to stained glass doors and the night. On the right, gleamed a bevelled crystal enclosed lodge, in which were spiral stairs, a shiny chain across the way up. Liselotte kept embracing and kissing her prey, holding back up the skirt to denude the butt while they climbed down to a warm antechamber, finely panelled in honey blond maple, carpeted of theatrical red, where awaited four men in diverse attires, all with the penis arisen in sight.
Lizon revived for us the events and scenes, while most everyone was petting their neighbours, as a Scheherazade moment, to let us dwell in endless preliminaries; although she showed on her face inspiring shadows of the debauchery she was retelling, one could feel the enchantement she had lived.
The avant-garde squadron, wearing what fitted the unequal disposition of their bodies, young or old, but indecent, like black, open, lambskin tights with red trimmings, cavalier boots; or silk satin knee-breeches, ruffled shirt, silk stockings and patent leather slippers; or elaborate fetishistic manners of orthopaedic bandaging, provided the dick and bum remained available. After they were fleeced of their clothes, they had been held at sword point as they had to invent so many lewd answers to fantasmatic questions, and endure extravagant requests and touchings.
Natalia enjoyed, teased Fulgence who called Beryl to rescue, and showed clearly how the trio functioned. As Lizon kept on her story, I began to serve her the daintiest tongue job this side of the moon.
She spun her yarn on, about a narrow corridor that led to a low ceiling room of the same hues, padded benches and stools, and many other team members standing at attention, only for them. Lizon had already known all the possible outrages to her modesty, be it at Philippe’s, in private palaces and gardens, but until then a more balanced confrontation than this looming crowd shag n’ rag which smelled of neroli herd, sandal wood and musky oil.
From the first ointments into their pleasurable accesses, devoted palpations of whatever was availed of their skin, they had been gushed at, in, over by each of the polite clubmen, without any mistake or bruising, as we could verify, which I did.
How had she woken in Liselotte’s frequented bed, still feverish and filled like a lump of sugar about to melt in a pool of coffee? She thought the hustlers had granted her some miraculous healing cream along with their crafty massages —and put her in an ambulance?  Liselotte had congratulated her of her style and bravery, whereas she only thought she had let herself be done, like seaweeds in the waves. She had asked were to download the app.

 

Sarah says:

Fanny appeared, fittingly undressed, and said she had become weary of watching a pretty blonde stuck on a screen, then she noticed the manners of conversations we indulged in, and laughed that these would feel better, and Gauthier stood towards her, so she seized his prick and offered her lips. Lizon’s report, in her lazing tone of voice, had aroused me in addition to my fling with Fæbyan —whom I feared I would not recover for days.
Michelle ambled in later, her fine feet feeling the rugs on their owwn will, she was beaming and wore nothing else than a slack grey-ish tank. She claimed she had just thrown a sneaky thunderbolt and won, and made Victor richer —bastard— then realised she had not been affrightened by our sensuous demeanours, she shrugged and showed us her derriere while filling a highball with pineapple squash. She being Kate’s castaway, it was this one who slipped against her and fondled her breasts, only to hear her mumble she would only be an embarrassment to us, and therefore, she might gather some food and run back upstairs
Denegations flew, tender appeals, names, and I dared her, in her neck, that even a burly lad as Fulgence could make a convincing lesbian to her, if terms were agreed on beforehand; we were not cokeheads in heat, only libertines; did she know what a dainty knight like Gauthier smelled? Nevertheless, it were only time to watch, from the shelter of my arms, and recover her cool, or go downstairs to the gym room and burn on the cardio machine listening to funky jazz! She rested her glass and gave me a pineapple kiss.
Camille too, came up and avowed she had been envious of what she guessed had branched on here, but denied she feared for Fanny. She asked for the new one, and was not surprise she was already downstairs, where Hugo’s door had been unanswered. She slid herself between Gauthier and Fayelle, whom she complimented on her after–fuck shaded eyes.

Lastly, Elsie and her blue clad Black prince had bought boxes of fresh pastries and macarons at Diglas’ and wanted to cook real hot cocoa and marshmallow, it electrified the bare-arsed aviator, who thought no more of her modesty, feeling some warm hands on her bum. Elsie had changed for shawl-patterned tights and a coarse-knit, off-white loose jumper baring a shoulder, with ecru Chuck Taylors. Crunching a banana macaron, Michelle caught her under her clothes to hug and feel, then volunteered to stir the pan of purplish delight.
Fulgence had been teased by the dare I had put on his name, and eventually approached Michelle from behind with his staff raised, casually; she saw the straight menace, but had it been the chocolate, was not afraid and stared at the boy’s eyes that would not flinch. She mused and touched it, at my sniggering approbation. Then she swayed and said she really did not know, but she was grateful for his effort. I wanted to defuse any strain, I gave her a demonstration of how to entice a gentleman to shag one, gently, upon a sofa wing, and came faster than him. Michelle pinched my doodleberries and licked my tongue with banana flavour.
Elsie came with me to the shower, and Michelle, too, so that we could wank her silly and lavishly. I lent her a russet gleam paisley silk twill shirt, but still no undies, darling!
Elsie confessed she had never shagged a black stud, since the times when we had a few of them in dance class, but no proper fuck. I told her she would meet a lot of mixed couples in Paris, but that was no longer a worry, was it?

Hugo took Fæbyan to the Gritti by train, in a sleeper cabin. He took her to the Accademia, trying to see her along with Carpaccio’s elegant ambassadors of Santa Ursula, but eventually regretted the Botticellis shone elsewhere.
They cruised the laguna, the reed beds and the forlorn basilica on Torcello, where she was stunned by the high mosaics.
He made her talk, and listened to her, like one does when carnally obsessed by some nonchalant sleepwalker. He took her to the shops of the Salita San Moise, she wasn’t thrilled with the jewelled skulls of Codognato, she wasn’t allowed to read the tags at Loro Piana or Missoni: they had a hard time finding shoes for her slender 42½ feet but Bottega Veneta unearthed a perfect pair of black suede Chelsea boots; she would need a bigger bag.
On Saint Marks Place, at the Boncompagni shop, he offered her an innocent looking Sant Agostino bracelet, composed with a jumble of tiny marvels, jade, moonstone, mother-of-peal, agate, and coral flowers, pearls, gems, set in gold and diamonds, in apparent mess, that would, in his whimsical, bedazzled view, respond to the gleam of freshness in her candid eyes, amidst the sartorial elegance she was now donning. She laughed it was the antidote for Codognato.
He organised the full fledged pampering with manicure and masseuse in her room —she apparently was merely his niece— but wouldn’t want a hairdresser to ruin her tousled fringe.
In the moments he was recovering from having unraveled, untied, disheveled her, he constantly promised to stand by her, whatever life she led, like he did for us —because that is what he does. He retold her the glorious lives of the Venetian “puttane” and the depravation of the many orphanages that fed four centuries of decadent carnival, but altogether he remained so gentlemanly with her, so skilled along the jewels of her crotch, too, that she began to believe him —that’s what they do.

Julia Grant made a surprise visit along with her evil twin nephews, to whom we surrendered our willing younglings in a posh apartment of the Avenue Foch, until they dropped, sweetly. She saluted Elsie’s move, reckoning the harshness of New York’s spiral, and the timely wisdom of my father; she reminded our Genevean follies and asked about Ayla, who was, then with recovering Esther in the mountains, at a rest home.
She taught me that Saint Loup was soon closing, and the beloved venues reconditioned for some realty development. It might have been earthly paradise for a random gathering of eager-eyed rascals, it would be bygone; she did not hear of any prospect of any new such school. I planed asking my Far to look into what had happened, made a reminder to call Tudor Weiss, our art teacher, who had visited us for our show —Julia recalled— and search out about Harmony, the wise mother of a colourful herd.
Julia was weary of society, her endeavours towards donating her collections fell in the trappings of the great wilful American amnesia, she was then exploring opportunities to fund a new museum on Indian land.
Once, while Fayelle and Lizon were buoyantly shagging in the next room of this mostly empty luxury apartment; she lamented, upon my bewildered belly, shamed by what she would not tell, but knew, of her caste’s. She could yet not join us, she would keep entertaining Elsie, to fathom her transformation into one of us, old world, during her stays in New York —besides, Elsie was in her views.
They were then en route to Stockholm, the twins did not have time to taste the whole gynaecium but they promised to be back for midterms.

 

Hugo says:

I would not have expected any kind of remediation from Liselotte, whom, in any case, had not been responsible for Victor’s misdeed upon one of his overlooked warhorses, so as so it would cost him an arm to keep his fleet sailing. But in the present matter, the envoy was soul-stirring, and the grooming had been thorough, the allure peerless. Fæbyan, slender Florentine page, came on most silently, half-naked already, like an escapee from some hushed bawdyhouse, rightfully at my doorstep. If that was the pledge for Liselotte’s absent-mindedness, I would condone all the more that it had cost me nil, and she was obedient like a born slave to lust.
In the days before Camille thrived out of her miseries to become my distant proxy, thence introducing an areopagus of fairies amongst my corporeal life, I patronised more of the available stray cats my friends approved, Fæbyan behaved like them, and the thin peel of German accent became all the twist, like the glaze on a Meissen figurine.
Firstly, she had sighed at my questioning, argued it wasn’t worth knowing the happenstance of the trappings she had fallen into. She came to say I wouldn’t relish her sad little skin if I knew all the scars it hid.
It was precisely what I intended her to tell me; overall, she showed an exquisite corpse of a victim, a complexion most propitious to let me vow she would morally rub shoulders with all of my friends, unscathed and inspired.
Her birth had been inauspicious, unwise of her mother who should have known better, and was a sad backslider. Who can tell what idiotic chance some otherwise well-off brides bid their womb in? At the tragic expense of an innocent being? Understandably, Fæbyan wouldn’t be able to piece together remains of her prime infancy, patterns in the rugs, broken dolls, fading whiffs of perfumes.
Jem, only eighteen-months her elder —in what had their mother misplaced her faith, already? was all in those purple-ringed black eyes, although her later days might have superimposed a grim face upon all the memories of her.

She had not deigned to taste the tartlets from Huguenot, but then she was pecking at pink pralines fron a crystal sweet box as a matter to keep her mouth from telling me harsh secrets. It gave her mouth a childish scent and crispy crumbs while she let the ancient tears wane. Of her father, remained a picture or black satin ribbon trimmed trousers, shiny patent pumps, kicking the girls further on the rug as he checked for his looks in the foot mirror, before the repeated fiascos in the gambling circles. Her mother, all the more unapproachable in her padded satin robe, with her little feet pointing in stupid heeled fluffy mules, reading heavy volumes with ornate titles.
There had been short seasons of tender attention, from this or another of the house cast, only to disappear incomprehensibly at the wind of events. Her sister Jem had started a vicious revolt against the course of adult logic surrounding them, she joined, and the more they sabotaged the household’s precepts, the more they reaped hatred and confinement in their locked room, fed of clear soup and apples.
They were eventually sent to the stupidest of catholic convents, granted utter powers by their exceeded mother, no coming home during term. Then had begun another manner of ordeal, at the hands of secret ghouls, in the shiny, waxed, shady antra of deviant sexuality, where Fæbyan’s beauty turned her into a valued catch, and garnered her the hatred of many other boarders.
Until Jem, her only unconditional companion, decided to withdraw definitely, climbed upstairs to the drying lofts, pulled a stool, pushed a dormer out, climbed out on the roof, and ran to her death in a splatter of blood.
Fæbyan had horrified the nuns and teachers in the aftermaths of her loss, she revealed the sharpness of her wits against the falsehoods of religion, so as so the funerals could not be held, and Jem was incinerated with her only attending, and her veiled mother to whom she did not speak, in the silent amazement of the operators, who eventually handed her a tepid urn of ashes she knew where to throw in the lake, and collapse on the pontoon boards, alone.

I had been warned, now she was crying her heart out upon my sorry chest, and I kissed her hair, like we all did when we had insisted to hear each of them. I let her evade in the sleep, then carried her to the green velvet room, where the bed is deeper, and embraced her, in the slow pace of her young breath.
The day shone colourful through the layers of lace, I did not know how long she had been awake, she contended to excuse herself about the trouble she had caused, for she remembered me crying, instead of shagging her.
I ruffled her fringe and said I had had a dream, to invite her to Venice and see what happen, in the most splendid of the luxury hotels. She remained bewildered, but I insisted it would be simple as that, upon a few calls, some shoes and a trench coat, the car was waiting.
We took a shower, in which she had no labour making me come to her hand, revealing her talent, and I left her sulk at my toasts while she drank tea.
That morning, everything worked flat out for my whim, and Sarah had brought her inspiration of a traveller’s outfit for Fæbyan, a white silk jersey tee-shirt; merino wool leggings; a slate blue zigzag jersey shirt, and a true mastic trench, lined in striped navy twill, with lots of pockets. She lent her navy and burgundy trek bottillons and multicoloured cashmere socks to roll at the ankles.
I wore black, Chelsea boots, cashmere trousers, vest , and parka, some change of underwear for Fæbyan and me in a small black leather bag. The car happened to be a monumental American smooth-rider, Fæbyan looked snappy, but all along moody, thus I wondered if she resented me intruding in her intimate wounds. On the oversized black leather seat, she let me hug her and recline against her head.

She had not foreseen such departing, she giggled when the car stopped before the plane’s stairs, she stared at me and wondered if this was mine. I held her from under her coat and said it was not, but I could use it for my pleasure, sometimes. Be it for one hour, I asked her to take off her shoes, she agreed and let me fondle her toes from over the armrest, while the flight attendant smirked and disposed a tray with tea. I had known Trish for as long as the plane itself, a slender ex-ballerina with an elegant head on a tall neck, a dirty blond chignon and Delft blue eyes. I had been under her skirt once or twice, she had not kept rancour.
Although she knew I had not invited her in order to shut her down on her painful tale, but she let me fiddle with her feet through the slightly wet wool. Only one hour and we rolled to the far end of the tracks, thanked everyone, tied her shoes and climbed in a car to the taxi landing stage, and sailed to the Crivelli hotel, by the Palazzo Ducale.
The air was mild, a light haze stood still, we entered through the Cannaregio canale, standing up through the pulled roof, and I let her embrace me and ask some of the many question one wishes to ask the first time one crosses Venice. An expedient bill slowed the course, in honour of the bewitched first-timer.
The famed cypress green and oxblood red livery, in taxonomical variation from the bell-boy to the Head Concierge, ushered us seamlessly to that third floor grand suite, pearl grey jewel case that smelled of cedar wood, padded like a coronation carriage, muffled like a torture chamber. She was standing, dumbfounded, before the view of San Giorgio in the declining sun, I could only rest against her back.
But she was still my luggageless stray bird, and I craved ransacking a few stores for her before night, I promised the view would be all the more striking at night, and led her to the Piazza.

As she was the perfect androgynous player in this décor, for whom it had been immemorially set up in an endless carnival, she took my hand, trusting whatever plan I might have. Firstly, the silks of La Perla, pyjamas, and robes, and shirts, which weighed like nothing in white boxes to deliver to our room. She was only beginning to feel dizzy, but then I twirled our way back again back to the salita San Moise, and the special counters for legitimate or illegitimate lovers, held there by the most advertised brands of valued rarities.
She had seen and felt, on the tranquil boarders of our house, not only the sublime perfumes, but the refinement of fabrics, the delight of linings when you slid a hand; so I made her chose, in colours attuned with her irises, among the heavenly wools of Loro Piana, limitless. I also had a hunch that Missoni would love her genre, and her, their colours. After our sprees, big boys ran with boxes, and fat tips. Then, she stood on non-Italian, delectable 42½ feet, but Bottega Veneta unearthed a pair of black suede Chelsea boots that fitted her like a fashion warrior.
She wouldn’t enter Saint Mark’s basilica, she was utterly conflicted with all things religious, as she would tell. I do not patronise the Piazza’s cafés, so I offered her a hot cocoa upstairs in that mistake of a building inflicted incoherently by Napoleon to the previously perfect Piazza —,in such brutish manner that the south west corner had remained unfinished, unthought for— the Palazzo Correr, which is some kind of formal dance hall for the self-imposed new padrino. Fæbyan liked the cremosa cioccolata, twice, under the high marmorino walls where Canova bas-reliefs hung, and it were as if one of the nymphs had stolen modern clothes and was sitting, fidgeted, before me. I spoke of the great neo-classical sculptor, his quest for an androgynous grace in the human figure, just like she showed when I would unwrap her genteel person.

The cioccolata, plus the cantuccini she dipped in it, had reinvigorated her legs after the blood rush of that spree, and I still had whims about her, besides scenting carnal poppies in her neck —she sported a sage green baby-cashmere scarf, now— and I wanted to show her the all available inconceivable treasures of Codognato, the golden grimace of which would, for sure, violently set off on her satiny skin; a necklace consisting of half a dozen little finger size crystal coffins, each holding a pure gold smirking skeleton, entangled in dark tangled creepers of ivy, that chiseled Baudelaire verse cried for a go upon Fæbyan’s Venus mons, or a fatal clutch at her gracile neck. But she wasn’t attracted —to say the least— by Codognato’s inspiration; she swayed, unfazed, as I was buying the jewel a hefty price, for my collection, with the vivid intention to lay it, sometime, upon the flower of her youth, and make a picture for my books.
Probably because I had not yet shagged her, I had this bee in my skull to round out the spree with a useless and precious token of my infatuation. I thought of the comely Boncompagni shop because they sold Santangelo mirabilia, the most unique, exuberant and wearable primavera, in the timeless techniques of enameled gold and profusions of gems and pearls. There, she was like the child she had never been allowed to be, glancing at me for truth, falling for a bracelet of blue thistles, with grasshoppers, butterflies and bees, all foraging in the diamonds, sapphires, and pearls of a faerie dew, that I insisted she kept on her left wrist where the shop-lady had clasped it, knowingly, and shown her how to untie it, with a little security chain. I had no idea what they thought of us, Fæbyan behaved remarkably cool and distant, I wouldn’t dare say professionally.

As we roved aimlessly on the Piazza, in the mellow gold of an Autumn laze, freed of the awkward herds of day trippers, she wished she could hide behind classy shades, that signal one as any sort of person of interest, but defuse the stares over a woman; in her own wish, it should make her look older, less of a mock niece holding arm with a john. We found the suitable Ray Bans 2810 at a shop in a back street, indeed she looked instantly as a magazine prey, but not in the least older; I fell for her whim.
Dawdling along the alleyways behind the basilica, I did my best to explicate my relish of eroticising the visual excesses of Catholicism, for one, the fantasy of carnal debauchery with somebody like her in a devoted venue, full of derisory tokens of faith and death. She sulked, then hardly let me hear that she would tell me more of her miseries.
At the hotel, the concierge told me our packets had been delivered to our apartment, and asked if we would like to enjoy our dinner on the roof terrace, the forecasts were ideal, so we agreed, we would enjoy fish from the laguna farms.
But first, upstairs, she undressed, keyed up like the operetta’s corsair in front of his loot, and she took a swaying pose in the satin pyjamas, to retell me how the attendant had dared a friendly hand in her crotch while judging of the legs’ length; and saying that, she was lowering the waist band, I retorted she might lure the culprit to our room, or in a shady sacrestie, for the damnation of it all.
The sight of wrigling thin toes, from under the sleek hem, aroused me and she knew it, and so, like she might have done innumerable times before, she casually unclasped my belt and buttons, let my pants fall down, and crouch for my dick she efficiently pumped, deeper and deeper as it went, so as to suck me dry and clean in a matter of minutes.
I wouldn’t tell if she had reckoned that it were about time to oblige, or service my patronage, or else, she knowing, overall, much more about sex dealing, than her candid little nose would inspire, she had known I was playing in her hand, hence gave me a breather, if only to test if I would repel her, once she had swallowed me. As I did not, but hugged her firmly as I did not fear tasting my own in her open mouth, she only shuddered and nosed into my neck for shivers.

It had been wisely advised, we sat at the end table of the front row under the sunset glory, at the magic balance from celestial to terrestrial lights, and Fæbyan faced the Bacino, her back to the other diners. As a Swiss national, as she were anyhow, she spoke fluent Italian, far more graceful than mine, and excited the Maître D’s impeccable affability around our meal without meat, complying unargued to our established food code, trendy as it were.
All courses arrived at the tip top of their confection, so to speak, each of the element having received the exact cooking, and the timing to reach our table inside a silver bell faultlessly executed, like a camera move in an Antonioni film. —it had been la Mostra season—.
Fæbyan had been wearing some of her new wears, a fitted, double-breasted, lichen, turquoise, and ink blue hi-pattern jacquard blazer she had fetched out of the men’s hangers at Missoni’s, a see-through black silk tulle her La Perla new friend chose for her and let me ogle her smooth chest, and a high-waisted flared zigzag-textured willow green trousers.
From across the table, in the still air of the laguna, I could feel the anachronic earthly exhalations of the perfume she had been given at Bottega Veneta, and I told myself it was an idea to concur with, the shop was only a stroll away. The sun punctuated her opaque black glasses, I perceived a fold in the moment, like she weren’t all attentive to what I would have named an acme of an instant, like there were some inner estrangement in her, and I could not steer our fine causerie towards what she had a few times evoked as the plundering of her lorn soul. I opened her way like she were royalty.

This tulle tee-shirt looked kinky enough on her bare body, I asked to let it there as I played with the tight creases on her belly. Now dusk let unfurl the chimaeras out of the ornamental debauchery in our private drawing room, as she spreads out her limbs amidst the depth of down cushions, calling me to put an end to my pussyfooting, and to sheathe her through, which I obliged, in good conscience, and elation, careless of whom I shagged, in earnest, because she had earned my soul, like all those in the nest boxes of my brain.
She had foreseen to let her blossomed slit trickle on the rug, not on the silk, it reawakened the know of her fate, but I ran fetch a towel. Far beyond the window drapes, the Babel crowds perpetuated the endless imbroglio, —just where it had happened in bygone centuries—. We drank pear cordial and sparkling water in faceted hi-balls.
Out of the blue, she said she had begun her menstrual periods as soon as she had boarded the convent, and it had seemed to deem her as a troublesome case, a misbehaved singleton in the hive. The nuns and their pets had affected to distance themselves and murmured that she smelled bad. Thus, a vicious struggle had ensued, into which all the essential motives of the two sisters consumed in vain, with few beacons available on a sea of hatred, until one of them stepped one last foot for ever.
She had set the school on fire before fleeing, she would certainly not kill herself, she even resented Jem’s demise as a token conceded to the cold hysteria of the nefarious phalanx of their mother’s realm —it was how she suffered them, anyway.
Even the few of those who had endeavoured to tame her, were it to slide a warm hand up in her night gown, or even gently pee on her feet while relishing her tongue in the hurried daily showers, even these who might have, in the least, shaped her to some lovestreams, betrayed and snitched, for good graces from the old witches, who were still modeling dumb spouses, like the good old times.
She had hurled her pain at all the wax dummies who pretended compassion, at her mother who remained in her car on the telephone while she waited in the convent yard, she had warned with such surprising eloquence that she would not let a religious service happen, that her mother —whom had been raised a protestant— ordered a civil cremation and invited no one, thus leaving Fæbyan alone with a bare coffin, in which she had seen what was, lowered through the granite foor towards nil, listenning to the last compilation Jem had made for her, crying her eyes out on the stones, until they had given her the small urn, because their mother had left.

She had stolen some money, enough to redress as a nondescript kid of the lakeshore, with whom she mingled easily, camping here and there for a few months without damage. Once, a more toughened young tramp girl had explained to her that she would live easier selling herself in the nearby Austria, where prostitution was tolerated with young girls, if no trouble ensued, and she could help her reach Bregenz, where she knew cool guys. Oksana hid her in the trunk of one of her buddies, who drove to some shack in the mountains, with a few rooms and reduced comfort, where he firstly forced her virginity during days, with the help of Oksana, whom he praised for the good catch. She was seriously locked up in a cell, with a shower in a corner and a squat toilet in the other, she was perpetually groomed by and old and deaf gypsy woman, hair, nails, and teeth, was administered enema when a john had asked for one; she never had clothes to wear, but her bed was deep and the comforter always cleaned. The food was excellent but scarce, Oksana had joked that the clients liked her slim.
From two or three passes each day in the beginning, it gradually became uncountable, with the ones who paid extra to take her in her sleep. Oksana kept an eye on her “cattle”, she barged in at any moment, could participate for a fee, she was gifted to make Fæbyan come, for real, while the john shagged her, she could propose a specialty, with her thin wrists, to hold the dick that was in her ass from inside her vagina, with no damage —that game was expensive.
Oksana liked her, but with her weird German dialect insulted her constantly, even to order her to lick her cunt or her arse. Nevertheless, after some six months of unfettered slaughtering, she woke her in the black of night and pulled her through a back hatch on an indefinite pathway, to a car that silently slid down to a road and then sped. Ten minutes later, the car stopped in a woodland, and the driver looked at them, Fæbyan nude on the back seat; he groped Oksana’s breasts and lifted the skirt she wore, then told her to go make out with Fæbyan, as he was pulling his pants down, then called her, to suck him clean.
There were new clothes for her, and her IDs and even a stash of money in an envelope. Oksana told her that she could run — as they were reaching Salzburg— and probably get caught and brought back to whatever it was she had fled, or, on the other hand, since she could ascertain Fæbyan was a prime fucker, start a new life in a well-off cathouse and no more than six johns a day.

It had been an unremarkable white six-floors cube with mirrored windows, and lots of room around it for the cars to manoeuvre, some industrial reservation of sorts, clean, bland, sanitised. On the road side, a double door stenciled with a close-up of a khmer Buddha face, smiling, eyes closed, and the number 164 on top over it.
Then and there in the Crivelli Hotel, in Venice, as Fæbyan laid amidst the grand bed, all available, in the dark, with me at her feet, she revived all this not so long ago life of hers with a delectation of details that my fervour enkindled, and again. I was beginning to grab what had Liselotte concocted, to unleash this all too real vagabond sublime upon us, whilst we blamed her for scaring off an angel with four eyes!
That night when she was abducted, the driver who had brought them was the owner of the club Serenity, and Fæbyan had let herself be in with him and Oksana, so once in his office, he wanted “to taste the merchandise”, and see Fæbyan in the light. She had been trained and she made no manners, but she needed to pee, at his best relish, and he had jumped out of his suit to show them to the bathroom —a true professional playroom— and asked that she peed on his face, in his mouth, and eventually fucked her in the wet.
Oksana had been overjoyed, she had sold the slender doe once more, and it was still in good shape. Once the deal was closed, Herr Phaludin had doubtlessly popped a strong pill, because he used both new cast members with creative ardour, until knock out, so then calling a stage manager to show them their rooms.

Fæbyan couldn’t help yawning, and go fetch a long tee-shirt she had bought at Loro Piana; she sided towards me, soon to sleep flat on the mattress, while I grabbed my pillows.
At wake, I had imprinted a not-so-Venetian composite picture of all my lately little harlots, lazing in a Victorian pool, with pale and perfect water lilies, all frolicking around a self-content donkey whose only talent lays hidden in the water. Seated on the mossy bank, my kid Fæbyan in a stiff-ironed night shirt listens to her earphones something that has her cry hopeless, although Lizon has swam near her to kiss her foot…
But I had expedited my morning rituals, half-mumbling some musical motif I was unable to name, though it bumbled around among my thoughts. The hotel’s cherry and fir striped robe smelled of its designed scent, in despite of my own oakmoss, myrrh, orris, all my erotic intent now whelmed into the orphan’s tears.
Tinkles and flushes afar make me sprawl in the cushions, in wait for my alluring tramp, already dressed up in her cashmere infused jeans and tee-shirt. She likes tea but wishes for cantucci, that fly in already, nested in a white napkin, in a silver wire basket. She allows me one foot while she dips two or three biscuits and I propose a trip to the far end of the laguna, wasteland of bygone might and plagues, Torcello, a venerable landfill of vestiges bleached in ancient moon shine. Would she? The weather forecast is insolent, the Missoni spacedye hoodie will fit, then.
The taxi boat has agreed to a whole day fare, with stops at “Il Cacciatori” on Mazzorbo, a stroll on Torcello, and a special pilgrimage to Santa Maria e Donato on Murano, if I succeed in my plea to my own non-repentant Maddalena to rest her dainty foot on the naive mosaics, hood up, if she will.
It is one of these endlessly polished speedboats that spend their lazy life bragging, at the hands of curly beaux, with long tapered benches of soft Italian skin. The mariner, white trousers and open shirt, metallic blue, wrap-around, sunglasses, dark suntan and black curly mane, gallantly held Fæbyan’s hand, not convinced of his passenger’s genre, then mine, like a sailor. He was a skilled professional, the choice of the Crivelli, and there was no need for speed.

First, we sailed across the maze and came out at the hospital, standing up in the open roof. Fæbyan was absorbed by San Michele, when I showed her the statue of Dante and Virgile on the barque to inferno, to mark the place where it is considered legit to cast the ashes of one’s dead in the water. She jolted with a “Oh!”, and grabbed my arm. The mariner again glanced at her, only with a compassionate grin.
The backyards of Murano are ugly, I tried a bout of history, if ever there was an appropriate place, and she liked that, it was nothing alike the Lake of Konstanz, that huge stain on her self conscience. She comprehended the reality that naught she could see around was natural, the laguna should have been filled up at least five centuries ago, were it not for the constant work of the Venetians, whose remains constituted, materially, many of the desolate islets, here and there, in the midst of altogether shallow waters, hence the lines of beacons along the dredged channels, that would be uprooted in times of war.
Yes, Venice had never afforded to properly care for the dead, aside from the cruel minority who bustled their bones on each other’s in the muddy underlayers of the monuments, hence the somber legend in what my late friend Gabrielle Wittkop sowed her black diamonds.
As if she had intuited some sigh of wind, Fæbyan turned against me and seized my dick, ordering me to stop invoking death, to what I obeyed, kissing her to oblivion.

We had been savouring grilled bits of fish with a side of polenta and vegetables, at least I did, because she typically sulked on it, why she luckily remained so dashingly slender. The sun was subdued by high mists, lone boats doodled the feston of their propellers over weary waters, one could selfishly evoke times before the engines.
She wakened somewhat, when I asked what had ensued in Salzburg, in that preceding life of hers, implying that, although I reckoned she needed not forget, naught, she now had washed aground new shores, in earnest.
So then, plentifully rested, at her feel, there were no real window to the air-conditioned box she was laying in, she emerged to the sensation someone was licking her crotch avidly, she yawned at that, when a middle aged man, not so unsightly, looked up, grinned and announced he were the doctor, tasting her wares, and congratulating the previous owners for their upkeeping. He would, then and there, if I minded not, draw a few phials of her blood for the full test, required for her position in the house, he had already checked for HIV. As he explained there were obvious possibilities that she would not exert her trade in the open air, thus he was prescribing all necessary vitamins in a green and red capsule per day, plus one of preventive HIV antiviral that anyone in the clubs he attended took, he fetched the two big brown bottles and rested them on the bedside table. Seizing her face and reading her eyes, he hammered softly: “no funky drugs, treasure, you hear? You can be a valuable whore without killing yourself, see? If one wants to shag you sleeping, one buys it from Phaludin who gives you Rohypnol, nothing else, right?”. As he fiddled her all over, he asked for the alms of a handjob, which she expedited craftily.
Before leaving her, astounded, he mentioned that her IUD was correctly operational —she had no idea, so, he explained she was covered— and asked her where she had come from, from all she knew, it had been Bregenz, the hills, the woods, he nodded, he had heard of some shady Gipsy venues , out there.
An older woman who wished to be called Mamo, kindly took, then, possession of her body, outside and inside, she quietly toileted her, waxed her pubis, clipped and painted her nails, massaged her vagina and arse with neroli cream, kissed her with a keen mouth when she was ready for work, Phaludin had excluded make-up for her, only the most expensive hydrating creams.

We had navigated through the painted waterways of Burano, and I had not helped myself snearing at the “tintamarre” it has become, due to the excess colourness of cheap modern paints —reason why, for example, the British National Trust publishes a palette— but rightfully, Fæbyan’s youth prevailed, and she had enthused to the primeval expression of long civilised fishermen’s families, and I caved like an old fogey, snubbed by the curves of her hips.
In Torcello, our helmsman would await us near the basilica, she was willing to tell of her days in Salzburg, she did not pay much attention to the religious nature of the scarce remains of the first byzantine city in the laguna.
After he had politely fucked her at her breakfast, Phaludin had explained that these first days could possibly seem hectic, although not as bustled as where he had saved her from. Salzburg, in his say, was but a pretentious little city which banked on being Mozart’s birthplace, and where Herbert von Karajan had settled the most expensive festival in the world, other than that, after all the Jews had disappeared, the resident society of blunt-minded shopkeepers, accountants, judges and cops had thrived in the shadow od the archbishopric castle where once lived the brilliant Stefan Zweig.
All that preparatory word-salad, that nevertheless she had memorised rightly, to warn her that he was to invite the elite of his clientele of pill-poppers to taste her, possibly in herds, as they did, mannerly; so, her adorable slits he was already handling, would be tested, for sure, and in this case, the guests would pay only if satisfied, From what he had relished himself, he had confidence.
She could not tell how long the merry-go-round had turned, but it had soon been worse, or better, than the Gipsy shack. It was recalling fits in her tummy, and she needed tight hugs, and sweet words in her neck, before continuing her tale. Sometimes there had been clubs, all wood-hard and so eager she had had to fight, while working at taming them out. Sometimes Oksana joined, but she was then another torment, because they all liked what she did fisting her over their dick.
Then, one morning, Phaludin showed her how rich she was already, and told her to open a bank account, and asked for a blow-job, as a favour.
Oksana took her out, she was all bewildered in the daylight, like seasons would have revolved, but the bank was near; she had the hunch that the teller had been one of her johns, but he was only kind and efficient, he did not raise any eyebrow when Oksana told the address of the club as her residence, he only mentioned that her ID would be outdated in a few months. she had the account numbers, she was to come back in three or four days, to pick up a card.
Phaludin, who needed to keep her alive and kicking, possibly lustful in her eyes, when warmed up with care, demonstrated to her how she could, when she would buy a smartphone thanks to her bank card, move herself money around from her account; before her, he transferred her club total, half of what had been paid for her skin, into the new account, and it looked brave enough.

All along captivated by the becoming of her harlotry, I was nevertheless proud to look at her, stunned in front of the high walls of mosaic, inside Santa Maria Assunta; she clung to my arm, but I had to confess that I could not decipher what all these people and angels were doing, except for lucubrating a yarn about a young courtesan who had played the Magic Flute to heavens. She quit her shades and her eyes were small peacock twirls, she raised her arms like children fly as the sun laid a slant scarf across the protested supreme legend. At the other end of the nave, a peaceful woman in a dark sapphire drape showed her infant, eyes wide open in a cloud of gold.
Fæbyan was crying, and she discovered she had been walking upon laces of coloured stones, and I let her follow her thoughts around the church, to the amazement of a few brooding tourists. She would then pensively ask if that made her a catholic.
The gallant mariner felt some strain in her gazes —he couldn’t help— when we boarded towards Murano, I surprised him with heartfelt comments on the overwhelming splendor of these walls the Signorina had marveled to for the first time, Venezia was really a most important place in the world, so, and so, any token for his pride. He might have relished the compliment, in Italian, mind him, but he was in love with Fæbyan, who had put her glasses back on.
I had told my rebel companion that I would show her the younger version of the lady in the night veil, in the shy little church that showed its back to the canal. There might have been held a ceremony before, because the breath of lilies was heady when we brushed the heavy red velvet curtain aside, and she still held my arm for safety. We were the only visitors, by the time our eyes got accustomed and she recognised the sweet young lady, so lively in the golden blare, she turned to me, mute with emotion.
Then the day, too, was gold. I had rested seated, in front of my long time venerated icon of unconditional benevolence, together with this mere windfall astray kitten, she tiptoeing in circles, her little soul here truly in the hands of an image. I had never failed any of these random angels.

Being on the home straight, our bow wave carved around the evening, slower, vaporetti and motoscafi; at this time of day, the cemetery wall beams like heated iron against an emerald sheet, hence a clamour from all the heaped memories across from the profane landing stages of the lesser society, not so far from the unavailing enclosure of the once formidable arsenale —Unesco or not, the legendary smitheries I had peeked on from the holes in the broken high windows have been lamentably destroyed—.
Insensitive towards the routines of the proud populations, we slowed pace, in spite of engine splutters, under the many low bridges, to reach the Grand Canal near the elegantissima Ca’ d’Oro, in time to witness the private windows light up, some with phantasmagorical chandeliers, against the glimmer of dusk. Fæbyan was snuck firmly under my wing, begging for any promises beyond the day,
We had a tray of finger-food in the tradition of antipasti refinement, in our apartment’s shade, suitably fringing the moods of her day. Having stripped bare behind the windows veilings, not in the least noticed that a waiter had been rolling in the trolley of our collation, and made vigorous efforts not to smile, she eventually donned a sienna pyjama that moulded her labia when she sat on the lichen-green velvet.
I was pining to hear the harlot truth on the Mozarteum life ways, in the opaque box of Club Serenity. Fæbyan too, was all agog to revive her garrison tales, once her breaking in had left her overturned but live. Once the squad of Phaludin stooges had tasted of her all she could allow their dicks, enkindled in all inventiveness by Oksana, had come the time of horizontal trade, as this one said, and Fæbyan had slipped in easily. Thenceforth, she had known she liked whoring, and at least shagging most of her lifetime, in the condition where she was upheld. There would be two or three matinee johns each day, the early ones and the busy ones, and Phaludin said that it was enough, to let Mamo regenerate Fæbyan’s beauty, said he.
Then, after a frugal, but fine, dinner, —she had never been hungry anyhow— began the actual Club magic roundabout, in a comely pine-paneled venue with a small red copper plates clad dance floor in the center. There was a curved bar, alcoves along the walls, and a number of solid round tables and chairs. The twenty some girls sat on the bar stools or stood, they usually wore light dresses, mules, and nothing else. Phaludin’s taste, and thus the Club’s style, did not impel his cast to wear flagrant make up, Mamo had the smart for the right touches of mascara, rose and gloss that made Fæbyan an ideal virginal slut.
Members of the Club financed this first tier of licentiousness with a hefty membership fee, and the bar consumptions made Phaludin happy, on top of draining his balls in any of us, girls, for free.

Started at eight, the proper skin market was paid by the hour, on the girl’s clock, in her bank account; there was a rebate if she was having her period, and a premium for anal. A lucky client could hire more than one girl, or one of the two gogo boys, to serve their whore while they watched, or touched them, at their whim. During the roughly six months she worked in there, Fæbyan had keen regulars, Mr Thursday, Mr Tuesday… and mostly always chose whom took her.
Oksana, who had a small cut in the business of the girls she had sold in, was proud of this Swiss stray she had lured, on a lie —it was never easier to sell one young girls’ arses in Austria than Switzerland— into the carousel, and relished participating in lewd shenanigans for a client’s account. One day, she brought in a barely legit gamine in Fæbyan’s bedroom, and ordered that one to undress the rookie. The name was Jovka, she had been trafficked in by Montenegrins and sold to Oksana, she had fake IDs and feared the police more than the men who had smuggled and used her shamelessly. She looked battered, or tried to inspire pity, but she had understood where and what she had been led to drift in. Fæbyan was to keep her with her like a pet for a while, like a filly with her mare, to teach her the trade in a somewhat more human manner than what she had endured in the Gypsy shack. Jovka was no virgin, indeed, but it might give her better response to what mere animals all johns would reveal themselves to be, eventually. The offer took the Club by storm, it was some hectic month; they all booked the pair for multiple hours, and the apprentice, who did not speak any known language when disembarking, caught up remarkably, with all the crudeness she could obviously not sort out. Mamo got round to share some of her languages, and told me she was a vagrant orphan like many are found in the Kosovo-Macedonia region, she did not know of a name, or where she had been born.
She became enthralled with Fæbyan, devoting herself to the pleasure she admired in her, maddening the clients with some carnal novelties her mistress inspired to her. It was all rolling dandy, but then the young one’s earning went on Fæbyan’s account, so she evidently needed some papers.
Phaludin, who was a man of the world, knew who , in the membership, were the judges and the police, and it happened that one of Fæbyan’s regulars, Mr Thursday, was one of the bigwigs. He wasn’t far from retirement, fat and rubicund, unfettered amateur of watching his favourite Fæbyan let herself undergo the available butcher’s boys’ fury, He had enthused paying double when he saw Jovka in the raw, even if only Fæbyan could touch her. One Thursday when His Honour had popped some miracle pill, and Jovka had performed the trick Oksanna had shown her, to insert her hand in Fæbyan’s vagina while the Judge was deep into her arse, then grabbing and wanking his old dick to completion, in situ, then sucking it while himself rimmed the gentle anus he had inundated, Fæbyan had been bold enough, while she ordered Jovka to let the Power That Be finger her, to ask for a major favor, causing some sort of stupor, and auspiciously the whim to bugger the young butthole, in retort to my request to violate the law of the land.

Week after week, Mr Thursday understood perfectly the prerogatives he had gained, while a bogus file was expedited through the Kakanien’s bowels — just like Fanny were born somewhere in the UN—and he developed a sweet tooth for Jovka’s delicacies, and keeping the two fragrant elves at his whim, heightening the demand about them, sometimes hopelessly for some.
And so, a new European citizen was generated, by the want of some distinguished dick, according to the universal conspiracy of beauty allied with carnal talents, as unjust as the undisclosed code might be.
Meanwhile, during the daily evening parade, when all members had leeway to kiss, grope, take out their tools and ask them sucked, only for a short minute, some character never had a chance with Fæbyan, even less with Jovka; he could eventually get laid, and none of the cast were ugly, but he had a major crush on lithesome Fæbyan that became unbearable with the overbid of a wild-eyed newbie in the same round.
This poor loser had become the insider joke among the better afforded, he was a dull notary clerk who showed a fervour for feet, and Fæbyan’s easiness of walking barefoot had triggered his sore passion. By the time Jovka had become available for most, in her own bedroom, the spurned suitor had burst in an atomic fit of anger, stood googly and foaming at the mouth in front of the pair, nude as often, and slit his own throat with a razor.
The scene had been apocalyptic, he had cut so deep that in seconds he had inundated the whole room with his blood, in successive gushes, before he dropped back, eyes wide open, on the metal glazed red. Fæbyan and Jovka were bloodied toes to hair, she had grabbed the young one and ran to her bathroom, washed with her and told her to be ready to flee, but it had been already too late, the police was there.

It had only been a year, retelling the atrocious outbreak was slaying her speechless, morally spent. Oksana and Jovka might still be entertaining simple men in a clean sporting house of Mitteleuropa, with their immense black eyes forever haunted. I pulled the cards I had again bought in Santi Maria e Donato, and she reconnected the déjà-vu; she cried because some tiny shrill voice was calling her a whore, in the rainy outskirts of blind cities, not one to let herself crave a holy image. I embraced her upon the small piece of shiny print, and told her I gave her the right to worship this face as wholeheartedly as myself, who had always fostered the liberty to fantasise the representation of a young, inviting, wanton doe.
The tears waned, some frank old blasphemy had rekindled her grievance towards the Church, and so her health. While unbuttoning her silks, I teased her, saying that thanks to her little time in the beaks and claws of the smelly nuns, she now spoke the languages of her freedom, whereas young Yovka only had her body language, which left her to Oksana’s mercy to sell her.
I went to hang the “non disturbare” sign and returned to my succubus, wearing only her trousers, lowered to the limit of her holy well of bliss.

 

Sarah says:

Fæbyan rushed up as soon as they landed back, dragging up a big poppy red Mandarina Duck duffle bag and the matched backpack, and she wore a flag blue saharienne, black slims and horizontal striped yellow and black tank, black suede Chelsea boots, all these brand new; she smirked she’d been shopping with Daddy, and it had never happened to her before. We rolled on a couch kissing like teens, and although I had not abstained in these last few days, I measured how I had missed this little one.
Her body, slightly in sweats after a voluptuous travel in Melchior’s heavenly chariot —my chest was still rustling with butterflies— smelled of some highly fused and burnished bouquet, like an aristocratic pot-pourri, and, at my reveling, thus, all over her; she candidly avowed it had been given to her, with the shoes, and then Hugo had ordered a bottle of it. Something about her had changed, she was finally almost deliberate in her attitudes, she no longer posed her feet inwards, she swayed her hips a tad more openly, she wooed me like the beautiful little slut who knows, I was keeled over.
After I had shown her some new tricks in the shower and we had peed on each other, I told her I wanted her to meet the kitten behind the red sofa, upstairs, no need to dress, only a puff more of her triggering fragrance, our pet were very much into girls. Indeed, after I had sent some lewd invite in her navi, she unfurled from her algorithms and discovered the gamine, by her feet up, pushed her glasses up her little nose, to ogle the face, and moaned in awe, creeping to the toes, half-jokingly idolising. I stole her sweatshirt and jeans, she wore knickers printed of multicoloured digits on royal blue that amused Fæbyan, my hunch was correct, they sniffed at each other like puppies, they were beautiful to watch.

Kate and Fayelle, intrigued by the obvious scent of women’s lustful behaving, perfumed, abandoned clothing, and red luggage, did not niggle and, already aroused by a day outside, roaming in galleries, with no more than holding hands, rather than diving in the ruffled sheets, took a soothing shower, merely adorned a whiff of yellow broom and roses, and crept upstairs. The scene was moving, and this new little butt, only a shade slenderer than Sarah’s, appealed to the unforeseen marauders so as it bended up to them and their wiggling tongues. Fæbyan, although looking as guileless as a lamb—it had been her trade long enough— did not shy in the least, but Michelle needed her spectacles to acquaint it was happening for good; all these fresh fruit, effortlessly gathered in her hideaway, she was beginning to condone Victor’s manners of living.
Past the overture blaze, there were more ablutions, gazing and unfettered kissing, Agnete & Sanne delivered pies and salads, bottles of kombucha. No one remained clothed, Fæbyan answered about the Venetian escapade. The new hot property answered questions about Hugo’s whims, her discoveries, other than luxury shops, and she found wiser to let us know where she had come from and how, which struck everyone in awe, and all the more Michelle, who would not have deemed it thinkable, and wondered about practices we were all ready to teach her. Meanwhile, she tried hard to retrieve her darling catch and kept her embraced.

Hugo texted me to come for tea with him, the next day. He described the promenade to Torcello we had all done with him, at some time in our friendship, he was proud to have let some buds in Fæbyan’s soul dawn for further seasons, she was a dainty little tramp worthy of redemption, unavoidably because of her alluring persona, and he had sent his lawyers parse her situation , for, actually, she had been astray for years without her high profile mother caring in the least.
I told the encounter with Michelle, to his great amusement, because except for games with the shop attendant at La Perla, he had lived with a full blown dick worshipper, dripping of her lady jizz. I could do that.
He said he would invite Liselotte en tête à tête, to alleviate any afterthoughts, and consider future lecherous contrivances, at what she had demonstrated some mastery.
Then, on a whim, he asked me to undress and let go of me on the black silk panne velvet shawl on his bed over there, as I knew. He had fetched a glossy black jewellery case, and he showed me the madly precious Codognato sculpture collar with the irregularly disposed, small crystal coffins and their gold skeletons. Once I had touched the piece, heavier than it looked, he asked permission to display it on me, diversely, like we had done long ago, when we had acquainted. It took some fondling to appease the goose-bumps, and he shot some pictures with the high resolution camera, then put the masterpiece back to sleep, and served me like a devoted lover.

 

 

 

18 – Katherine Sophie – A Unicorn In The Wires

 

Katherine says:

With the turn of seasons, the spacetime triangle behind our studio’s red sofa had become, under some kind of acquisitive prescription, a lesbian geek reservation, upon a messy but squared futon, totally unobtrusive to our studious routines, were it not the urges to go and nibble at the lithe bum, or pearly toes of our disarming guest.
And Michelle, from beyond her crystal aviator gazes, had subjugated each character in our faerie, and become a passion for such diverse souls as Delffan and Fæbyan, who could both daydream quietly along with her now invariable ash-white sweat-suits, in the scent of which she had ordered all the blue bottles after she found some in our showers, the arch Londoner Neal’s Yard Remedies’ Geranium Orange, that fitted her like a smile. For what it went with Fæbyan, Sarah’s special infatuation since Liselotte had thrown her like a puppy in our keels game, and Hugo had untangled the raggedy soul in a barroquissima suite at the Crivelli in Venice, she had reckoned to be a better whore than anything else, and, whenas Hugo’s team of lawyers tracked her forgone trusteeship, she willingly let herself be sold to well-mannered amateurs, be it along with Sarah, Liselotte, or anywhere lustful in Hector’s cushy limousine, for some gratuities in kind, as it went. During unpredictable downtimes upon Michelle’s cotton wool cloud, she would whisper answers about her debased runaway course, and the two unleashed their overwhelmed plexus, in front of the blinking numbers riddled screens. Michelle did not condone cameras in her work bubble.
Delffan had snuck in, once, holding Gauthier’s hand, brewed some tea, which one did with dedicated magic, and ended, like always, nude at one of us’ feet —Sarah craved that— while we still worked, before daring a caress to those she saw of the so mysterious newcomer. But it had not been long, thanks to mock stumblings, and all-too-polite offerings, before she acquired the right to massage the bent loins, slid insensibly the elastic bands of the very basic outfit, and spend her gossamer attention all over this transfixed nymph, who fiddled her touch-screens.

But Michelle would soon move from our dedicated corner; Melchior, overtaking Victor’s high-hand, had decided to lodge the slender blond prodigy, and her all defying intelligence, in a nondescript classical French mansion on rue de Verneuil, a pearl throw from us. The three-storied building had currently been planked off while some heavy remodelling went on, for technical and secure necessities.
In an unprecedented move, Melchior had reached our den, as if to convince himself enough of the phenomenon he was investing into so heavily. He sat in the more unadventurous of the armchairs —the AA can be trippy— and did not try to draw the aviator’s attention, but Sarah’s complacency, as if he had sensed she was in a lustful mood, and so he treated her as a shameless alley-cat, arousing me as well, for I could not miss the gleam of vice on her face when she played whore. And she had stripped at his whim, played with his tongue like a heedless teenager, lowered the luxurious silky smooth trousers and started to pump on a dignified penis at attention; nonetheless, Michelle had been watching, and stood at arm’s length; I feared she might freak out if ever the dishevelled patriarch dared a hand on her, so I went fast interpose, putting my bum at reach, possibly, and so it worked. The curly nymphet did not move, though, and helped pull down my leggings, not shy to let him hold her busy hands. When she had bared me and kissed me just like she had seen Sarah doing, there were no doubts that Melchior was groping us both and she did not pull back. We heard Sarah accomplishing her service, and gulp one of the most expensive semen in the free world, then climb backwards, thighs well spread, in case he had enough vigour left to sheathe in her. In a casual tone, he dared Michelle to lap up Sarah’s clit, as she used to, except then she would have to encounter a close-up dick, as she did not. Amidst the white satin linings of his undone vesture, Melchior’s privates smelled of some long-aged glove skin in a sacred wood casket, around the waft of sperm and saliva, and Michelle was then subjugated by the filled up vagina, unabashedly offered to the otherworldly whiffs and her own troubled soul as to the visible bliss of Sarah. She bent, and let her pointed tongue tootled leisurely along the labia, therefore, also a man’s shaft, gradually doing as lewdly as each of us, with my own tongue circling around her butthole, Sarah eventually moaning in rapture.
Then Sarah had slid down, spent; Melchior had gently seated Michelle in her place and asked me to serve her, which was not long before the jolts of orgasm, and she fell scattered as a torn-up courtesan, with a fine smile on her face.

 

Sarah says:

After Melchior’s notorious visit, Michelle wanted to keep with us and asked, in a message to Delffan, if she would find some friendly arms to behold them, while we had to chat; the answer came that they had invited themself at Natalia and Beryl’s, who had justly wondered if there was any chill air among them, and a strand of exotic emoticons. Otherwise, Michelle could only think of apricot pie, some ricotta, I added almonds and nuts, and Katherine some Greek honey, so we placed our order alla città di Bologna; and Michelle could not see the young Donatello, because she had remained nude, although she kept an eye on her vital numbers on a hand-sized pad.
Overall, she had been agreeably bustled by our laisser-faire, towards Melchior’s ruffling manners, but now she was worried that her main investor would be led to think that, morally, she was only a slut who had knowingly over-reacted to Victor’s grossness or absent-mindedness. Katherine swore she had lived the whole scene and would testify forever it had been a rape attempt, specifically on her, inconsistently to Victor’s customary libertinage that we both would allow, during our such entertained visits. But, at all times, whatever puffs of powder he would have snuffed, Victor had preserved respect for consent, and never forced himself on anyone, albeit only by game, with conversant guests —like us— he furthermore paid liberally for that purpose. That very evening, he could have to hurl his cock in any of the other girl’s arse, but he had barged in, uninvited, with the obsession of buggering that little imp he was ogling in the security circuit since she had been so unmistakably brilliant at his service.
Her eyes had sparkled at me while I had straightened the truth in the sad experience we had witnessed, and she wanted us to cuddle her in bed before dinner, and that was an easy whim to fulfil.

The next day, Michelle had predictably fled, but we felt elated still by our tell tales game, even if, eventually, we had dozed out before she would have to do her part in it, but we thought we took a rain check on it and lazed in love a sweet bite of the morning. As we dallied towards breakfast, we were greeted by a breathtaking profusion of immodest white orchids, in a skull-sized cobalt Murano vase dazzled of gold leaf flakes. as in a fleeting cobweb. The mere delivery of the thing surely had necessitated mighty arms, and we did not know of such resource around us, Fulgence was on some other trails, and would have profited of such a darling endeavour to visit our warm nest. There was some note, commercially letterheaded IXIA, reminding us, in elegant handwriting, to bathe the babies once a week in mineral water —or leave them with someone who would—, and, otherwise, a most exclusive calling card, round-edged in gold, with a simple majuscule “M” embossed in garnet. That left two possible suspects, one was already whimsical enough to muster one of the quarter’s luxurious florists —but, IXIA?— or, as it dawned more clearly, someone mighty enough to order a bouquet delivered expressly from San Francisco to our humble table, with the complicity of the whole household?
Justly, our crystal pixie barged back in with heavenly tepid, and butter sweaty, croissants from Kayser’s, in her new street, explained that she had, earlier, needed some harsh work-out in the gym room, and then, eventually stared, with awe, at the eerie floral effusion, while letting me seize her by her hips and venture a hand under the sweatsuits. She then rolled her eyes and muttered that it would be how one were, but satisfyingly smirked.
Delffan arrived, knowing it would be a morning with Gianni, who would listen to one’s sartorial needs, as Hugo had granted any expense. The excitement was delightful to watch, one had put on peacock printed leggings, and a thin jade cashmere jumper, with a wide round neck and long sleeves, one had found in Natalia’s drawers. One had not yet shaved one’s sleek skull anew, enticing to brush over the gleaming velvet with the cheek.

Gianni had brought a young slender assistant to help carry up the day’s wares, in long floppy black slipcovers. His hawk eyes already measured out the two candid debutantes Hugo had recommended at his talent, in probably evocative terms, while he played with our hands in his inimitable way. He laid the delivery across a sofa, as we sat around. Kate was first, ready nude, as we did with the wizard of our allures —most ephemeral Boldini—to pass on a bronze-green high-waisted tuxedo pantsuit with wide satin lapels where Hugo would love to clasp on some paraph in the matter of precious crystals. As usual, the trousers has a fly, in which the inspired craftsman let his fingers wander for a pinch of seconds, at the laughs of the complacent nymph. there were three more victories like this, and we all relished Kate, in the style she would thus yield herself, some night, at feverish hands. There were applauds, Delffan climbed on Michelle’s lap, not unnoticed by the magician, who grinned knowingly.
My turn, and Gianni took his boy as a witness of my body, holding me unfazed at the hips, groping me as it were his earning, and I liked his touch like a beguiled cat, so I let him undress me the way he liked. He made me try a Bahama blue, crisp shantung, mock military formal uniform with a turquoise twill crew collar sleeveless shirt he liked to, pat, over my moanberries. There was an all-slim, black silk jersey and moire, smoking suit, out of which my bare feet looked frankly risqué, to those who knew their past, most everyone. He had also brought me another vintage black Burberry trapeze cut gabardine overall, lined in ultramarine heavy satin, thence I did not baulk at showing off and posing swayed in it, all the more pale and nude.
Once the greenhorns saw their turn to stage, it was a treat to watch them disrobe each other, albeit nought had been required by the amazed maestro. Unsurprisingly, he had foreseen the little twitch at the sight of Delffan’s truth, as to what that one was long accustomed, hadn’t we found one in that very sort of beauty, amidst a crowd of febrile libertines? Gianni preferred to elaborate the matter to his apprentice in Neapolitan, to what we understood none, but grabbed some funky wordings; the youngling was in erection, as his boss felt out, with a touch and a smirk; he proceeded to his detailed measurements, unmistakably making both wet, he revelled doing that. He gently asked if he could see Michelle without the glasses, and she complied, with a disarming blurred smile.

Gianni asked me to show, from my own vast wardrobe, what was my feeling of Michelle’s manner of life, when not beautifully gleaming, by a wondrous cornucopia of rare flowers, without any rags on. I explained I had fallen for her style as soon as she had parted her gaze from the screens in the control pit where we had snuck for sex, Liselotte had said. Whatever led us to abduct her to our lair did not allay the pull we sensed towards her laid back offhandedness, when only her lean ankles showed out of her stolen jeans, from behind a sofa. She looked stung by her self conscience and came to wedge at my side. I took her to our back store and tried her in night-black silk velvet, round neck, long bell-ended sleeves, high waisted, flared, short dress, scattered with real seed pearls, and the effect, without her spectacles on, was instant, in three steps she was a royal debutante, as easy as she had been a devastating butchy nerd. Gianni had fired up, he fell for the shapeliness of the legs, now that they flew in one of his own designed nightly corollas. Kate fetched some black patent and taffeta flats, and we all agreed that it would be smart to wear black aviators. Inspiration had spawned in some recesses of the master’s mind.
Delffan shone one’s best like a loose misty opal, kept for finale. The perfect ovum of the cranium allowed daring frocks, one asserted a penchant for the boyish fitted suits I had kept from Saint Loup times; Gianni agreed, surrounding one as a living treasure. Indeed, one stunned, in the white redingote, tights and jabot shirt, and I regretted not having the white knee-high boots of a perfect Octavian, but silver-buckled court escarpins sufficed to the charm.
The chin in his hand, holding his elbow, young Gabriele was more embarrassed in his visible arousal, and Gianni relished the situation, not to the point of letting one of us ease the want somewhere next door. Before they left, his notebook almost all scribbled out, he wanted us to admire some recent acquisitions he had made at our ever running behest; a late collector had purchased entire pieces of much-praised silk road Ikats, crisp enough to build sharp shoulders to Katherine’s sleek jackets. To me, he asked that I palpate some arch-episcopal Andean drapery, to what I complied, feeling his deft hand on my bum, he still smelled of Amalfi coast in bloom and Florentine iris, ideally matured, he was an old canny devil, he could have had me as he did a boy.

 

Kate says:

Still in the nightly Queen dress, the aviators back in place and not caring that she showed her golden fleece, Michelle wondered to what event we might wear our new garbs; she had not yet fully fathomed the array of our vices, and it were out of the matter to force our views in her sapphire mind. No, there weren’t so many social events we cared to abide by, our standing in Camille salons sufficed to our exposure; the sole venues in which we minded out our styles might have been a tad beyond what Michelle wished to hear about, at least for the time being; we made up some tale of private sales, for what the buyers wanted to know us personally —only one pinch of a lie, all in all— and she would never inquire, anyhow. She then pulled her white one to our bed, as we slid on sweatsuits to climb back to our perch.
We bantered softly about some empty sofa syndrome, such had been the constant blessing of Michelle’s featherlight riffle ruffle, not unlike you feel cats in other people’s homes. It related to my days when I knew our elected swan family thrived in the hideout my brother and I provided for in our garden, and our candid adoration.
Sarah suddenly lamented about the horrendous mistake that had not been Liselotte’s fault and asked me if we should smooth out the linens with her, as she had always done after the outlandish plays the lustful agitator had thrown her into. I agreed we should ask our goodwill procuress, what had been on her débauchée’s mind these days.
Sarah texted, and received a call, in an apparent good mood; she plaited garlands of roses and lilies on Michelle’s head, asserting she recovered beautifully, albeit she still could not make sense of Victor’s misguidance. Sarah listened for a while, then followed up on Fæbyan, another windfall of Liselotte’s, and so let paeans pour upon the girl she craved, though it seemed Hugo had netted her soul in his desires like a rare butterfly, and nevertheless, she had returned from a Venetian escapade with him embellished and rekindled, as Liselotte would unfailingly enjoy for herself soon.
Sarah put the phone in conference mode, so as to decide if we would follow the Pied Piperess once more that evening, with the certitude of rolling in a lot of hay, so to speak? I too felt like some itches of hay fever, and Liselotte knew all the naughtier barns in the county, thus we agreed for a late hour to convene, dress code no undies.

When we climbed down to our customary dwellings, we found, in the scent of the majestic white bush of cattleyas, a generous buffet that left no doubt as to whom might have set it, so obvious was the touch of Agnete&Sanne; they had lent a pastel blue tablecloth, too. And now the digital Lily was asleep, alone, on our bed, with her glasses on.
She glanced and yawned, as I could almost hear a lightspeed fast checklist unwind in her synapses before she smiled kindly and holding my hand onto her quietly beating heart. Fetching her phone from the carnal smelling creases of the bedsheets, she reached the power cord she had already spotted, and stood, fiddling intensely the screen, while I could admire soft backlighting on her bum.
How did we like our dinner feast? Agnete had known right away what and how, and agreed to open Michelle’s account in their books when she told her she was about to settle close by. Stretching at our strokes —and Sarah had let her pants down— she bantered that she had lived a splendid afternoon at the whims of Delffan’s, whom had done to her things unforeseen, in all candour, as lovely as it were.
Now Sarah played with her toes, feet on her lap, and Michelle claimed that she wanted to buy out our furniture, she had a crush on our old Windsor yew chairs. We sniggered, taken aback; she was utterly desirable in the whimsical brat role. I declared these had been a gift from Hugo, so we should definitely keep them, all the more that she would now wish to seat her lovely butt upon them.
As always, the smorgasbord-antipasti was the best grist to the conversation mill, for we had to avow the mischievous plot of our coming night, and let her call us depraved sluts, even with a shade of envy, now that it seemed she had, somewhat, finally lost her virginity.
On Delffan’s side, one had explained that one had promised to escort Gauthier to a high stakes reception, where one could freely assume one’s double nature to one’s advantage. One had kept Sarah’s white outfit, and unearthed white patent leather Jodhpurs that killed; one was ready to repay the larceny with any length time of slavery to Sarah’s direst vices.

Liselotte awaited in a long silver-grey berline, already warming up teasing the chauffeur with the light patch of skin at the top of her silk stockings when she uncrossed her legs on the back seat; she had donned an all-black shantung ensemble, a jacket with wide lapels over a diagonally buttoned dress flared down from the chest, let opened on her bare breasts; she had cut a fringe in her dark chocolate straight mid-length hair, which gave her a smaller, easier face, albeit the fake lashes. She wore black taffeta flats.
We had obeyed the code like good little harlots, for it was undoubtedly what she was set to bend us to. Sarah was readily bare in some evening trench coat in black and blue changing taffeta lined of lewd crimson twill, a black velvet dog collar with a strass fox on it, gents court slippers in patent leather and grosgrain, and veil stockings, tied to a gossamer lace belt on which was embroidered “promiscuous” in scarlet slanted script.
I felt at ease, nude in the many layers of a light silk kaftan which held up its wavy colours to so few buttons, no stockings and thin flat Uzbek calf-high boots, embroidered of psychedelic spirals.
Liselotte’s mouth ran in awe and lust, but she wanted first to read our eyes closer, and seal our bond in a kiss; I felt her deft hand up my thigh, I was wet at once.
In no time, the car ride stopped in rue de Montpensier so we knew we were at another mouth of Marc’s maze, and my plexus twirled as a frantic gyroscope. Aside from being the most expensive place in town, this place and its many subterranean burrows, spared by two and three centuries of urbanism, for the better good of generations of libertine Orleans since the aquiline Cardinal de Richelieu gave them the first palace on these grounds.
Liselotte ushered us through a nondescript door to a cold and bare corridor that unsurprisingly led to a succession of secured double doors where we had to submit our black cards, as per usual.

After the second door, the floor was carpeted of thick pile burgundy wool, The vaulted walls of smooth, pointed stone towards stairs spiralling to a warm crypt, the dawn coloured light diffused from the rear side of the handrails, an ample breathing, slow-flying murmuration of crystalline sounds, the boundless heavens deployed by a Loren Nerell up from the ghostly sands of desire, wrapped us around as Liselotte led us calmly, like some guests of honour, the striking opposite of what we were in there for. As we tiptoed on, it smelled more of a pontifical incense subverted by Uzbek pepper.
A silent black lackey, in black dance tights, offered a stylish bow and swiftly undressed us, one by one, hanging our few rags on a hanger, showing Sarah not to keep her collar. He wasn’t so ceremonial as not to fondle a tad what he liked. With his grabs over one arm and our shoes in hand, he showed us to a wood-panelled room that felt a lot like a sacristy, a happenstance Venetian sanctum where Sarah had ripped my knickers. He opened a closet, hung our wares, and fetched from a drawer an assortment of richly crafted harnesses, belt, collars, wrists and ankle cuffs with a number on each, and he helped us tighten them, letting his fingers err into my cunt, just as I should know I was available, with tiny locks we couldn’t have been able to unclasp, even for each other. He held three leashes, the length of an arm span, that he clipped to the sturdy ring of our collars, and, not before having tasted our mouths and played in every nook of us, pulled us in the main venue.
It was a three-rows vaulted room the size of a dozen horses stable, albeit there never were horses down here, all in the same, sleek, adjusted stones. The floors were age polished slabs of fine russet stone, immaculate and lukewarm at the feet. The central span between the lusty round pillars that held up the four floors above, was enclosed, with black gleaming iron grids as tall as the vaults, terminated in pointed inwards curves, embedded in the stone columns. We began to see a flock of nude women, kitted out just like us, dancing together, making out. Our lad drew us to a narrow wicket in the grid and ushered us against the whispering crowd, then locked the grid behind us.

 

Sarah says:

Liselotte marvelled at our new jewellery and noticed that we couldn’t have torn them off, if ever; she reached for the saddle boy’s groin and he smiled and told her she was welcome, bitch. More like the dog-sitter, he pulled us, leashed, towards the big cage and, our straps threaded at his wrist, unlocked a small hatch in the railings, and jostled our arses in, one by one, unclasping our neck snap links each time. I recalled a kinky game I let myself in, at Saint Loup, in the stables, with the Cossack and his pals, strapped tight, in the locked-up saddlery not many words given or heard, but my thighs inundated with cum and shame, reveller shame —in these bygone days, I would never have confessed to devious penchants like these.
There was more dancing space than Pluto’s, and the girls, all strapped up like us, were young and wild. On the other side of the cage, in the dark aisle, stood men, in many sorts of robes, some wearing masks over their noses, nearly all mature, for a reason. There was another aperture on their side, soon, a new Renaissance blond dancer in blue tights walked in and jumped at Katherine’s collar with a leash, pulling her out to the dark. A lean beauty who was groping my abs and ventured in my crotch, asked me if I were new, and if I were a true whore, because she could tell I was a slut. She explained that she had already been fished out of the tank three times that day, and made me feel her butthole in bloom while playing with my rested one. She told me that these men, who had already paid a lot to ogle our arses dancing, would happily debit their account, for all we would let them expend of us, to their whims. She finely warned that, in the private dungeons, all combinations were feasible, except bruising and maiming, all the ladies had lives, in the daytime.
It did not take long, before I had contemplated all the preys available, a pretty lackey in burgundy tights seized my upper arm and needed none effort to lead me to a side door, through the scrubland of hands feeling up me, and robber kisses. The boy embraced me and showed us, along a dim-lit corridor, to a small oak-panelled room with a black leather bed in the middle, much like a hotel room. The masked client followed, in a scarlet and crimson brocade robe. Whereas the boy had smelled of a light English lavender cologne, the Commodore barged in with a whole clipper ship of rare woods and spices, and tears of the most precious resins. He kissed me like a lion and suckled my tongue with maestria while retaining the boy who had handed him my leash.

Aleksander, he would like us to call him, dropped his robe and laid all erected on the leather, then ordered me to be buckled on top, face-up, thoroughly buggered in deep, all limbs apart, his breath in my neck, then the boy sheathe the membrum he had unzipped alive into my flowering well, thus hustling the master’s rod in situ, taming his pace by way of tongue plays in both our mouths. Thrust in endless spasms, by the way of the quartering, on which I pulled, so as to fire up my expanded plexus, I could let stream long sobs of holy waters upon my assailants, even after they succumbed over me.
Through a concealed recess, we acceded a slate clad shower room with silver basin and bowl to wash in and out the silts and foams of our throes, and Aleksander laughed, calling me by my number twenty-eight. The pretty boy fled, his crumpled tights in hand, his expended shaft still enviable, if ever.
My patron was still enthralled with my bum plum as he led me back to the cage where I had not much to tell Kate and Liselotte more than my elated body did. We danced, Kate had been blindfolded and shagged neatly at least three full times, and the smell made her think it had been the same lean slayer; she loved my hand feeling her firebrands, she was still my appealing whore, and a black, deft-mannered boy, with a tense pair of King blue tights, was already clasping her ring.
I was in one of Liselotte’s dazing kisses when I was chained up myself, from behind, and the tall cypress green dancer held two leashes; he could not dissimulate a protruding menace at his crotch, and I chose to graze upon the tense fabric with a kind hand, while I looked for some smile in the dark eyes of my teammate, she was shuddering shy, I hustled over all her personal space, as one does in an orgy, so as to wake her up to the most sexual part of our daydreaming, she smirked as the catcher drew us both under the comments of those who dithered, still.
The two masters in viridian terry robes already showed their good humour, overtly palpating each other’s manhood. It was made clear that my paired youngling was in a way owned by one of the men, a new to the games I —for one— had been engaged in by climbing down in the vaults. She was a Seresine, with long dark strands of lush hair running on Carrara shoulders, and I felt free to hug and grope her in the heady white incest of tuberose and neroli —she might not have chosen for herself— and the men liked me doing just that. Her master encouraged her to respond and show some abandon, spread the rubbles of her drooping shame. They roamed their glans over our faces, forcing her untrained mouth by the example I gave, to her greater fright.

She had been a candid dove lured in a gilded trap, with not much of any knowledge, carnal or else, eventually; but she gave me the hunch that her soul had not mistaken in the spry swordsman who relished to see her choke on his friend’s dick, and gulp again under my kisses.
Swept along with my amused prowesses, she was subjected to most of the debauched figures of the bodies trade, and, with some preparatory care, ended her part with her arse filled with the two hustlers’ sperm, which, in a glut of vice, I made her taste and spit, from my depraved mouth that she yet still liked. The tall boy had to be mine, then, and Seresine watched close, her delicate head held close by when the mercenary lance threaded through my cunny and humped at her peachy cheek rested on my lower belly.
Recovering from an assault, I was fool headedly devising a scheme to party again with Seresine and her debauchers, as for the boys, it sufficed to ask at the door with a valid black card.
She could not make such a voluminous shampoo, in the Genova serpentine wet room, but there were ready charlottes in a drawer; While her knight fiddled my slits and berries, I showed her many ways to please herself with her hands, and she gave me shudders with her black gazes.
Back in the cage, Liselotte had returned from a crushing expenditure, too, but she rekindled her wants at the sight of whom was leaning on my chest, although she might have asked for some recess. I whispered all I knew about the debutante dove and asked our all au courant procuress to make me have her again, be it with the suitor, or not. Joining us two with clever hands working, she began a candid questioning of her prey, until she was leashed out again —she was certainly not to be ignored at all on her maiden-trip.
The only time to flirt with a flaming redhead who lisped gently, the first black lad stood in, leash in hand, to clasp my tow hook. Kate had been unseen, that while.
I enlaced my catcher like the slag I had woken up to be, in these few strokes of the dick, he led me to a portly gent with sideburns who already devoured my nether with a good-humoured appetite. He held a petite, short shady blond-haired, impish girl who stepped up to me and leaned in my armpit while sliding her hand in my bum crack; pulling our tethers, he took us along the corridor to a low vaulted wider square room in raw stone, at the centre of which I could barely stand up, he said had been a cistern once, if not a cesspool. The large bed, of sepia black leather, without a headboard, rested under a low end, but spectacularly, a glaring array of pipes and taps raised up from holes in the ground for a bathtub, a basin, a bidet and a towering showerhead, as wide as a service plate, fixated into the vault.

Schulz —is it?— Hands me a knot of bright steel chains from his pocket, then pats my bum, while telling me to affix the little whore tensely to the appropriate embedded hitches, legs apart and arms up. The girl looks up to me coyly and winks, which earns her a slap on the butt; not fully game, I dawdle about and tangle the chains, but Shulz now holds a nine-tails and hits my back, muttering I will obey, and I do, again on my balancing Cossack mood, only then did I know for sure that the bastard would eventually fuck me out of my breath. When the patient little whore is all hung, he starts to whip her, and I revulse to it, so, he smirks and says that it is up to my good soul, and the lash she won’t get I will, so he does, all over my body against the small pixie-like stooge, to the edging moment when I will call the farce. But he ceases as if he read me, and now he plays with the rounded handle of his whip in my quim, saying in my ear that I will not deny the lustful flows of down there, as I bend for offering my bum crack.
He slides an unexpected burly cock in my maddened minge, dripping of my shame, farting of its spasms and jolting me against the bound toy doll who searches for my mouth.

He had heartily discharged, and I was drenched to my feet while the blond devil asked me to service her with my lips and tongue, so I did and soon she was contorting in the chains like I had sussed out earlier, bounds helped the exultation to an edge. Shultz wanted me to suck him ready, which happened as soon as a young stag would, in order to bugger his victim at the perfect height, letting me think she was his regular, and me a funny fool.
Under the abundant shower, the foam smelled of holy lotus and Peruvian balsam, also whatever made the burns turn to feathered snakes under my shuddering skin. He fetched out poppy red terry bath towels so we pampered each other on the large bed, and Bienchen —or was it?— went enthralled with my mouth, just as I felt Shulz force his indefatigable truncheon of a dick into my all benevolent party anus.

 

Kate says:

As of predictably, according to my pretentious self-content, it was no time before an all-black propman came up to me and clipped a leash on my neck ring to make me feel and look like a bitch. He seemed to indulge some vice making me follow along the railings, for more amateurs to ogle my bare body, but it was the game, wasn’t it? Only all this raw want was still thick for me to breathe.
In the dark gallery where I had to stand all the stealth handling of my private nooks, he passed the loop of the leash to a tall stout man of authoritative stature, with rear-combed silver hair rippling on his nape, reminding me of my first impression of Victor, only fatter. He said his name was Bjørn, like an old bear, he jested, pulling the leather bind to graze my pubis with the back of his other hand. He spoke in a smooth tone, like another one who reigned by his appeal. He wore a long velours terry robe wide striped garnet and night that let show he was erect, he smelled of some expensive perfume evocative of Zanzibar’s brothels and a cursed temple where a lamp still burned, on a powder box, in the last drawer.
He seized my wrists and tied them together in my back, then pulled me through the licentious scrum, along a shady corridor, towards a heavy oak door that looked genuine and cancelled all rumour in closing back.
There was no tangible cause for me to be dazed as I was, but his spirited kiss in a tied hug, feeling his penis rubbing my moot, made my knees weak, I began to faint as he laid me upon a dark soft skin bed.
I woke later, strapped, face down wedged between two cushions, gagged, hearing more than one breath around me. The pain on my loin was searing, one used a strap or a belt to whip me as my legs were spread wide and fastened. My quim was inundated, and I sensed that my anus had been lubricated and stretched, the whippings, though not so murderous, spared no crease in their storm, and my mouth drooled on the gag as much as my cunt on some velvet cover thrown under me.
I had been ripe enough to the taste of a low talking crew of northern consonance, there was a first dick in my purse, and many, diligent, assiduous fucking, overflowing, eager discharges in both my quivering slits and careful wiping, by some hot towels, from time to time.
Then I was blindfolded with some elaborate leather accessory which covered my cranium down to the tip of my nose, strapped at my nape, making some sort of a ponytail, untied by many strong arms, and stretched back in place face up, my head upon a neck rest, so as I could be used in the mouth. The taws cracked anew on my all wetted skin, my breasts, my belly, thighs and crotch, in my breathless cries and growls, still with the laughter and the rough comments, before the first of them came to ejaculate in my mouth and forced me to swallow his beastly, soup, and the endless thrust to my innards, lasting all the more that they had already besmirched me once or more.
I would not know how many sailors spurted all they would in me in the episode, but I felt only sperm flew in me, in the heady effluvium of vice unfettered. I guess I passed out for good. I woke in a silver tub, encased in green marble, Bjørn carefully holding my head, washing my hair. I felt spent but elated to discover that nought of my deadly nightmares had seared my soul and made me flee from the game, wild horses had not trampled my lecherous mind, crystallised on my orgasms like as many threaded pearls, only the cohorts of cherubs in the rogue waves of my pleasure had caroused their babbling, through the rough grunt of sailors in heat.

Sarah’s gazes swayed, too, after I would know what she had been drawn to; she smelled of her own tender want, we had been out to risk our skins for tales to record, and retell, for one, in Hugo’s bed. But then, before she could hint of whatever she had been at, I felt the click at my ear and was pulled away by a lackey, to be given at the whims of a slim, tense young executive type, whom, after the gust of a whole frustrated crew, shied me with his strung manners, but was skilled enough at fondling anything he could grab, and he retained the lad, a gymnast model with very visible manhood.
I lag a tad in the obvious manner, he wakes up my bum burns with a sounding slap to make me trot to a near dark round pit with no bed, only a padded bench at crotch height on which they bind me to, both ends slightly protruding. The client drops his gold dotted black terry robe, he wears black tights opened front and rear, he is half erect when he orders me briefly to suck on him. He caresses my back and says matter-of-factly that I have been beaten well, and my inward accesses ought to be warm and moist for his proxy fucker, as I can feel fingers trying my holes with lubricant, then pushing calmly, in-depth, while the peen in my mouth bides half-baked. The boy is long and sturdy, at ease and pleasurable, methinks, proof that I may brag of being a serious whore, if one doesn’t die of pleasure, albeit a real-life one like Ayla has confessed to rarely come on a paid job, so, with a full-size dick in my pussy and a kind one in my mouth, I am thinking of telling Sarah to invite her beloved friend in the subterranean venues of Paris, and, in holding back a snigger, I tighten my inner muscles, and feel the coming of an orgasm, and thus, roll my hips to invite more of the dong, if he will, with some beautiful attainment for both, and the congratulations of the boss.
He seems to know the young one will not flail but asks him to let him the place, comes behind me, slides in easily, and casually asks to be buggered for the while, which seems to produce its aim as I feel it in me, soon en route for yet another weird trip. The centaur accelerates, and moreover ups the ante to my aptly groomed anus, in which the full-fledged attribute glides like the moonlight in the keyhole.
The miracle of youth happens as expected in my client’s arse with the less usual consequence of triggering him into mine, and the most welcome crisis of my dearest nerves, overall, the kinky stratagem does a faultless climax in a trio.

The buggered bugger was quaintly happily, now, skilfully massaging away the remains of strain in my racked tendons, before releasing my bodily ornaments from the bench of patience, and wholeheartedly loving my face. As a knowledgeable guest, he bore me to another adjoining circular hall where all lighting raised from a shallow basin that filled the space. a girl was already lying down with another user, her eyes slanted in contentment; she smiled at me and half-swam near to kiss me; her thick black hair was rolled in a bun, the scented waters had vivified her gardenia white complexion, dark eyes told of an odalisque tale in timeless abandon. The two men relished our affair, mine let the senior, finely moustachioed stranger know of my freshly used anus, while the other praised the mouth of his own catch. None showed sinewy enough to assail any of us, we floated by, sharing butterflies, her name was Seresine, she avowed that she had leered on us, Sarah and me, and wished to meet us again.
The cage was now emptying, the bodies had wearied away, the music was lower, some of the slaves laid down on the slabs, lazing together in their fantasies. Samy came about, on a sudden, tightly fitted in some glove skin tights, crotch bulging as if, till then, he had suffered a day of chores. Liselotte, who had been cruelly wanking my best vagina-boy, swiftly picked the zipper’s ring and freed the all-guilty dick we knew. He pulled us back to the sacristy-like dresser and unlocked our harnessing, attentive to any mark it might have left on us, nosing in all our nooks and eventually releasing his want in Sarah’s little hatch that could, with a few humps.
We kissed up to him so as he would give us Seresine’s coordinates, he laughed and retorted he would, only if we succeeded at making him come, there and then, but he knew how three skilled sluts might.

We did not have the heart to part ways, and we knew full well that Liselotte was the queen of bedfellows, and moreover, she was overwhelmed as Natalia snuck into my pillow, raving on how exciting we smelled, she snuggled between us, and slept like the spent kitty she was; she might have whored, too, reading out loud some inept professorial jumble with a dildo up her minute arse, thus earning her month of stylish deportment, as long as her mother did not sense any kinky spell about her.
Camille and Fanny were expected in the evening, both were intrigued and aroused by Michelle; we had found, on our late breakfast table, a bag of French-toasted panettone slices from a place Michelle could not have known; Liselotte was all over Natalia and chased her back to the sheets, making her sob of joy.
Upstairs, two pairs of mignon feet peeped out of the red sofa, the world finance was in order, Liselotte was deadly struck by the site of the two muzzles, candidly smiling, as Delffan had been sleeping along with her lover. she pulled a cushion near and began her sleight of massage, for moans.
Natalia had pulled a chair between us and decided to watch us work, if it was to happen, but we ended confessing our mutual misdeeds, and she kept her hand in my pants.

 

Natalia tells:

It had been a serene evening, chilled but limpid, as I walked to Professor F.’s imposing doorway, I had this song in my chest that something had got to give. It was my third invite to his vocabularium, he had paid cash on the nail for my first two visits, but now Beryl thought it was not enough, given that he also used me at will in his office at the university, she said it made me a cheap tart and I was wasting my wealth. Then, I had been shy to complain with Liselotte, whom, it seemed was nought of a greedy pimp, only might I tell her that I did not bear the Don anymore, which would hurt my scholar year. Also, I’d be ashamed to appear as a grumbling brat before my two high-flying demi goddesses, whose scented bed welcomed me anytime I chose.
Grinding my teeth, I intuited that it was a matter to spill out when I held the teacher’s privates in my hands, in a most lecherous sequence, after having groomed his ego, reading aloud his abstruse credo.
There was a fantasy of Elvire’s, too, I craved to watch Pierre fuck his own daughter, that he probably had done already, in secrecy; so they inspired me, beyond reason and superego. I wished I could relate more closely to Sarah’s little whore sister Ayla, but of what I had met her, I dared not, only in bed, if I attained it, would I ask for a lesson.
Somewhere, a blackbird was embezzling some intruder with its elegant rap, I would be catching a cold, but the clicks and clangs neared and the heavy door jolted back. The Professor sported an elegant lounge outfit, a striped thin wool pair of trousers, a Parma silk velvet buttoned vest, and an open powder blue poplin shirt, he had what it takes. He seized my fingertips, kissed my hand and made me spin to watch. I was wearing a dull blue cashmere scoop neck jumper such as one could relish on my pointed tits, grey on grey typographical printed cashmere leggings, heavy sole black ankle-high boots, and a reversible grey and white anorak with a hood rimmed in fake wolf fur. I wore no undies, but white socks, as he tripped for.

He took my anorak and sat me in a lobby chair, kneeled on the precious rug and asked for my foot, unshoed it, and the other, he was thrilled, he thanked me for having walked a bit, he nuzzled into my feet and nibbled my toes, when he stood up, he was erect.
Elvire stood at attention in her assigned black attire, but she gave me a keen unscripted gaze full of her ardour that instantly spawned the fantasy to lure her to my waters. Pierre was already pulling down my pants slowly, ordering me to give my tongue, making sure Elvire watched, he maddened my perky little breasts inside the heavenly wool, a gift of Sarah’s, and inhaled the scents I had sprayed in my neck, a masculine cologne that Hugo chose for me because he found my natural sweat twirled in it like the most mental of scents, like the whiffs of witch hazel in the winter pathways of Venice, when one discovers a new soul.
So, Pierre Minuetto with me —I was bare and pale as a narcissus— and he teased before Elvire all along, sucked my tongue softly, like a rose sherbet, said he, before bringing me to the lectern where he had displayed his printed pages. He reminded me of the rules, I must not try to fathom the text, nor link the words, only breathe the punctuation, the line breaks and the paragraphs. There was a small pulpit light, and a small microphone, behind a jersey screen, that he pulled next to my mouth when I started reading, as he caressed my nape, my shoulders and down to the crack he craves.
Seated opposite, Elvire had so slightly parted her legs, and concealed her hand under the apron’s belt, her eyes told me she was masturbating for me, it helped absent my mind from the reading, at the cost of some skiddings Pierre would sanction in my anus. He had fetched an array of finely crafted dildos, on a side table —I had obeyed the instruction to proceed, beforehand, to a thorough enema— he took time to anoint, and test, and stretch my hole, before beginning to insert, first, some ancient black wooden horn with gold flourishes —I saw it between words— and push gradually, constantly moving, back and forth, and sideways, inside me.

Next, he sank a heavy metal plug, in place on the rim of my cinnamon ring, and thrummed on its handle, providing frissons through my nether and slight trembles in my voice, he relished the concealed message it would imprint in the recording, had he conspired to infuse my bliss into his stone bleak verbiage? He was decidedly a funky bloke of a mastermind, the Sorbonne, indeed?
Since he demonstrated some enjoyable carnal acumen so as to raise my senses, and not only wank sadly into a pitiful incestuous itch, I committed myself a tad further in his play and genuinely pursued my own rapture behind the woof of his discourse. He sensed either my goodwill or a windfall of self-availed wonder, whatever; he treated me like a precious little slut and that was what I had aimed at.
He then seized a considerable stack of coloured crystal balls upon one another, gradually thicker, from the size of a grape to that of a tangerine, and, while he fondled my hardened tits with one hand, churned in my responsive rectum, so as to hear the vibrato on his words.
The pages I turned became blue, and it must have been a signal for he stopped his actually blissful manoeuvre, to bugger me straight, by himself, cautiously not to make me slip a line, but thoroughly, as I felt his hair at my anus. I stealthily came two or three times of my own, jostling the ride of the text here and there, but overall keeping in the saddle —so to speak— whenas he symmetrically retained his horse in view of the foreseen last word.
We did not, ensemble, botched the finale drama, as he gushed in deep and I clenched my knees, opening wider my sensitive hatch. He remained in me, clutched to my chest and holding from behind my wrists on my heart, and I thought he cried down my back, while Elvire rolled her eyes.

My bumhole drooled, Pierre lay spent, legs spread on a moss green sofa, I pretended not to remember where the bathroom was, only to let Elvire take my hand. She stood as I made funky noises in the bowl, my hands climbing inside her outdated long skirt, to find some antique open crotch knickers and a drenched vulva. As I nuzzled into the folksy black satin, she smelled of Violette sweets as I had been rewarded with, in the candy store of the dainty old lesbian lady, who hid me behind her counter. But Elvire was fresh as a Brittany garden, and I could not resist asking her, all her wears hitched up, to piss a brooklet on me, while I suckled her tongue. Pierre caught us, standing bare on the doorstep, but only hardened at the sight and came near, telling Elvire to suck his peen, while he asked me to undress her.
She was buttoned up like Victoria herself, in whiffs of ironed laundry around the Violette sugar, when she finally sat nude on my lap with her father’s dick in the mouth —I noticed that she knew her trade, too— there were black and white garments all over the old fashioned bathroom, accordingly black and white, too. He pulled us gently away to a dark bedroom with an unmade bed, and asked me to help him fuck Elvire properly.
Later, as we drank the coffee nude Elvire had made, with those tiny cookies they call cat’s tongues and melt so fast it becomes a game, Pierre suddenly claimed I was so talented that he would raise my pay, that he did, sensibly; he also asked that I come more often because his book would benefit of my work, and he kept fingering me.

 

Sarah says:

Everyone, included Michelle, had silenced to listen to the brilliant little whore’s tale. Natalia was beaming, she had been as good as one of us, and we were proud; her starling brown curls dangled free over the golden green fire of her unfettered gazes, her foolhardy lips promised the kisses forever hidden in F.’s bland lucubrations —or would James spin them for our jejune minds? In all likelihood, on that facet of his œuvre, he kept them all to his own revel.
She had more, for us to relish, along that way; when she climbed down lighthearted, from what had so magically sailed her route, she felt like the night was young, yet; she called her henceforth best chum Fulgence who happened to be wasting his time at a café, letting him encash a long credit line on her small arse if he hasted to come to pick her up near the old Roman arenas. The cab was as prompt as the passengers were horny, for Eric was also expecting a piece, and there were some.
Thence, the morning gift of Natalia’s in our bed, as spent as we, exhaling lust like a fresh apple.
I brewed an afternoon oolong tea in the biggest clay pumpkin pot we have, I saw Delffan had crept to Natalia’s feet and pulled her leggings, Kate was grazing the velvety head in the offered crotch. From her trench, Michelle had heard all, but dared not own up to being aroused; she pretended to need a shower while plunging both hands in my pants I let fall. She had rested her glasses and begged for a kiss until I showed I agreed to follow her under the water, and before it was warm enough, we peed on each other, like fool headed sluts.

Camille also holds all the keys and codes but never could cause awkward, as she lived through all, long before she cared for us. She alighted upon our jolly troupe, along with beaming Fanny, as weightlessly as if they had just woken somewhere in the room, and followed our streams,. no questions asked.
Fanny, who was most duly cossetted by our beloved queen bee, relished an all feminine conference like this, albeit she had known of Delffan’s ways and means before, and said one smelled like the spring rain on her olive grove. Camille paid attention to read our gazes, before risking a glance upon our ongoing affairs, matter-of-factly. As it became obvious we would all end on the carpet, we migrated, like a herd of does, to the underwood.
Camille offered dinner, in the shape of vegan pies and fruit salad, from a new young kitchen, “The Thurman Twins”, we applauded, and we ordered bottles of fruit kombucha from our shop nearby. Some of the would-be-soon Michelle’s chairs showed their strength holding shuddering twosomes.
As once a Hopi wise man said —those aphorisms had been collated by my good friend Julia Grant— there was a snake in the sand. From the sensitive lines of her own web, Camille had gathered enough intelligence on Michelle’s expertise to find a connection with her uncle Adlai, who happened, in earnest, to be living inside the major node of financial speculative streams, 60, Hudson street, New York City. Kate and Sarah had been fruitfully dispatched to the old wizard’s den — unprotected.
Thence, Camille had weaved some impossible contrivance between the lesbian Aviator prodigy and, on the other hand, the most powerful Sugar–daddy of the free world —a subsidiary of Melchior’s Empire, one might think. At the sound of 60Hudson, Michelle had scrutinised the tourmaline green eyes of her flirt, who had mannerly held her by the waist, and kindled the mute alarms of her cosmic brains, but beyond the heartfelt certainty that Camille was a bona fide comrade she would love to greet behind the red sofa, she read conjunction in the ascendancy, if Melchior acknowledged the treaty, of sorts.

Camille had chosen to spill the diamonds out in our open ethereal atmosphere, for we all owed our well being to rooting in the greater covenant, and her skilful guidance —Katherine’s skid, a few years ago, had been the only faux-pas, not the only one of Victor’s. All parties keen for Michelle’s endeavour, in the best of worlds, had reckoned that an in-person encounter between Adlaï Stern and Michelle should speed-up greatly the consonance of synapses, all provision given to our aviator as to her Parisian installation —and the extraterritoriality of “behind the sofa” spot. Melchior’s fire cloud was available two days on, Camille would consider it a sweet treat to attend Michelle, just like some fruity escapade —only this one wanted her pet imp Delffan to join, eventually. One miserably owned up to have no passport, and two days seemed inescapably too short to make an emergency one. Except for Camille and Fanny’s acquaintances, and possibly a nod from my Far, as a token of unfettered love to his spoiled daughter.
Upon a phone call, Camille had to spell the particulars of this special passport owner, but the compass stumbled over the tiniest of all: there wouldn’t be a French passport with an “X” for sex. Delffan stood stupefied between Camille and Michelle, who argued, through one’s tears, with many caresses, that she would make a more convincing girl as far as the passport was concerned, until the EU admitted, like other countries in the most developed tier, either the third non-binary mark —that to let the bigotry thrive on— or none, does a customs officer needs to know? (Yes, if a body search is required, ooh, poor Delffan!).

Lethal details rested to the diligence of the PTBs, then there was no more babble on the point, and Delffan remained bemused against Camille who did not regret this new travel companion, whom she grazed the exceptional nether with visible delight, over the sweat pants. Her bliss might have been total if Fanny could have joined, but it was not holidays time for her, and she prioritised her course of studies, according to her mentor’s best wisdom; she would happily camp in our bed for two or three nights, which unmistakably delighted Natalia.
I reheated the pies and Natalia fetched the tableware in the washer. Camille retold the gossip about the twin cooks, who happened to be happily incestuous, Honni Soit. One orange coloured pie, filed with saffron sweet potatoes and potimarron, met a hearty success; another, a mix of mushroom and asparagus in a chickpea omelette, too; on the sweet side, rhubarb and raspberries in rice cream, prunes in apricot marmalade, three colours chocolate fudge.
Natalia mocked my tiny appetite, I retold her that if I had kept my school days voracity, she wouldn’t sit there with me, a foreseeably depressed, flabby matron! She claimed she had totally imitated our ways, and not only as food went, and her mother liked it this way. So she climbed on me and kissed me fervently, wiping my thought of thanking her for these words, are we proud of her! She whispered a thank you, for not having smoked or drunk, neither worn hi-heels.
As the laughs rounded the table, some little silvery yelp made everyone look at Michelle, who ran out, with an alerted air. To Camille, left holding Delffan, I jested that some market slumps might have needed attention, she retorted that, accordingly, Melchior’s aircraft is connected by satellite.

 

Camille tells:

I still can’t fathom how Victor, a brilliant fucker, who always could manage his own libidinal wiring, came down to botching such a windfall nugget in his pan when it happened. Furthermore, she had already secured all his source code? I should feel a tad less safe flying in the same plane as her, were it not Melchior’s.
I picked them up in the morning, with their slight luggage, dressed like sisters in the über-kubistisch ethereal Milanese style. Delffan sported all off-white coordinates, sleek bottines, ridged cashmere leggings, a thick cashmere jumper under a mixed texture weave cashmere anorak, one’s perfect little head in an over-stitched shantung aviator helmet. Michelle carried a bold Naples yellow and pastel blue chevrons overcoat, on top of same pastel blue Chelsea boots and cashmere leggings, and a mellow yellow vast thick stitch sweater, her mane was fuzzy and smelled of her fetish geranium orange, just like “one’s” nape.
I, myself wore my best jeans and umber boots, a prairie green smooth sweater and a marsh camouflage saharienne with plenty of pockets. As in self-evidence, our trio blew some minds at Le Bourget, and the customs officer was intrigued by Delffan’s hardly dry passport bearing yesterday’s date, so he did a routine check and smiled when he gave it back, wishing us a serene flight.
Our attendant would be a Dutch Femke, with a shapely head and a sleek bun in a sexy black pinstriped suit and patent flat Albert slippers with taffeta bows I relished at once; The crew, all in worsted black, and gold stripes, was slightly more than courteous with our lightly train, and none of us rebuffed nought, leaving the two men thoughtful. Then, they announced that we would hop on an eight hours span, and no jumble stood above the ocean.
There was this tiny instinct-tingling elation whiff when we all loosened and aired our woolly feet, a scent of new leather and lustful trail, I seized one’s dainty paws, just like I had marvelled watching Sarah’s father, indulging his daughter’s, in the least incestuous relationship she would long for. The decidedly irresistible creature seeped oneself along with me, watching through the window as Paris shrunk in the morning haze, and slid her hands on my belly, pointing her tongue in the corner of my lips. The parenthesis had been opened, the Dassault chair was our luxury cot, I wanted to limber some more in one’s breath, I fetched my tablet with a double ear-set and tried to bring one into a rich, chimeric, neo-romantic, musical endeavour such as Mahler’s or Bruckner’s, one nodded in my neck, I soon resorted to my readily available array of inner peacock visions, while fiddling one’s pleasure stylus.

Unavoidably, Michelle had rid herself of her coat and boots, settled in an exclusive chair with a deployed table in front. all feline and mellifluous, she had crept up to the cockpit to ask for instructions as to the satellite communications and obtained a nice, flirty, get-go. Thus, she had displayed two telephones and a laptop, linked to other nondescript flat boxes and plugged the whole to the sockets on the armrest, and the Xmas spirit digits had begun to groove over on the screen. Femke had been puzzled to see such a juvenile wizard play with the unusual machines, but she had soon found herself bewitched, sitting on the aviator’s armrest, in her scent.
We had tea, and Danish rolls that reminded me of Sarah, crying her childhood savours, then jolting forward through aeons of pastry fumes she most always shunned, anyhow. Delffan looked up to her, always, and their conversation was mostly mute, cuddles and nuzzles, body angles and apparent mediumship, one had found her serene gaze and pace among my high vibes tribe from behind the red sofa to over the ocean.
They unleashed upon the rear couch, forgetting to pull the sliding partition, with my eyes, I tried to help Femke to see that casually, but I went to shut the compartment and asked for more tea I did not need, to keep her busy; she gave me a cool gaze, she didn’t need to go through there. But I soon did, the passenger’s restroom were at the other end of the laydown divan space, just where what I expected was happening, the two gracile pixies shagging for good, one’s magic spur threading the unsurprisingly tenuous innie of an all spread aviator. I mingled myself in, with catlike caution, lending a hand, here and there, and murmuring tender thoughts. One’s sleek body was ideally the best of both worlds, the skin that of a prepubescent faun with two or three goldilocks on the pubis, and even less breasts than Sarah. They went moderato, cantabile, and morendo, after Michelle received a spritz of very light mixture that smelled of privet flowers and summer rain —for what a city rat like me could remind of— but it could very well have been part feminine sperm if one would.

Delffan had found, in a cupboard, some brand new pistachio green, stretch-velvet sweatsuit, in what one’s maidenly kind of pecker flaunted, unabashed, like it would no longer spawn mystery, neither to me, supposedly that Femke peeped on it. Michelle had subordinated her conscience again into the bold coloured spreadsheets on her screen, listening to angels’ choirs in her earphones, I could imagine a Cheshire grin on her lips, as I could only see the top of her curly head.
Delffan sat cross-legs next to me, took slight notice that my eyes were drawn to one’s feet, and therefore insensibly pivoted so as I were so near to touching them, and awaited that I fell under one’s peridot green trap of her eyes, to which my perennial lust led me to, as I seized the fin-like toys. One kissed like a born courtesan.
The offspring of a well-off entrepreneur and his secretary mistress, one had been raised by different country childminders, seldom seen by one’s acknowledged father to whom one was a boy, until, at twelve, having eventually married his mistress, he witnessed by force one’s double nature and raged, beat one’s mother, and drank himself to death in one year. Thence, one’s mother, who inherited the firm and could have rested her life, still young, with another man, sent one at a special needs boarding school, on Belle Isle. It had never been, consciously, the will to let Delffan thrive the way one had oddly been created, but the stupid rollback on herself not having been able to carry a monster, paying away for not seeing it, whatever.
Delffan’s good fairy, nevertheless, had gifted them an inestimable quality, beauty, beyond the woes they stumbled through, the salvation cloak to the eye of the evil-minded, the imperious summon to which our most haphazard tribe had responded without ulterior motive. During three sore years, the lissom creature I was fondling with feather-light shudders had lived in restraints, moral and material, at the hands of unchecked brutes, just short of becoming deadly upon the valuable human stock they held on to; Delffan had lived in cages, in mere coffins, strapped and raped endlessly until the tormentors had been arrested, and one sent back to one’s mother’s, who received a useless judicial admonestation.
It had been the reason why one would shave one’s head, as a reminder of the kind of toilet one had been submitted to. In my course of kindness, I have listened to many a confession by lost girls, but then and there, mid-Atlantic, all I was able to do was cry.

Alleviated by my reaction, holding my hand for a kiss, Delffan tested the magnitude of my listening skill; I had to respond, somewhat, I hate to play “gleichschwebende Aufmerksamkeit”, like many mental crooks I have crossed, with the money they did not care to know where it came from, “suspended attention”, like in “she’s fuckable, what the…” .
I retold a tad of what I grew in, pruning most of the saddest branches, and one was stricken, resting one’s head upon my chest and my beating heart. One was that emotional child —over twenty, I reckoned, though— scavenging my soul like a stray cat at a bomb site, unfazed because I held one.
At sixteen, one had followed musicians, and become their awkward slut, but in the few hours they grabbed a bit of consciousness, they found it funky to shag an intersex groupie, they wouldn’t even know she liked anything they did at all. So, at a crossroad, one was again bound and leashed by a crackpot junkie who relished to scare one with drugs and thus nearly killed one along with himself, landing the skeletal wreck on the ER table. As one slowly recovered, one of the Doctors invited one at his house, and behaved towards one as an honest libertine, querying consent to his shenanigans, or merely granting a sulk. From there, one inhabited well to do homes, till the one where my girls found one, currently naked as the pet in this orgy venue, and took one away, in a graceful hunch.
One wanted, straight away, to know if there was a chance, for some freak like one, to thrive doing prostitution? so I wholeheartedly sniggered at that sound, after what I had told one of my misery, then I rocked one’s slender frame, and said I would show one when I would be sure it be out of sheer vice; meanwhile, I had better marry one with Michelle, who loved one truly.

Yes, I did love Delffan, too. As I had fetched my tablet, to watch whatever one might wish, I thoughtlessly slid a hand under the loosely stretch band of one’s pants, and casually groped the double feature of one’s life. As I had seen in action, it wasn’t any more than an overgrown clitoris on a tender vulva, and one proudly let me play. The high skies offered a judicious environment for some of Hayao Miyazaki’s, so we revelled in Porco Rosso, that delightfully disguised arch-romantic melodrama, Delffan wept for it, while fondling my breasts.
When Femke, who had remained invisible, became aware that Michelle had joined us, so I looked like the mother hen, with many thrills under my feathers, she proposed the array of bites that had been delivered for us, with more tea, if we would.
Like fine porcelain figurines, the two lovers, entwined, cherry-picked the kiss-sized treats, harmoniously. Personally, I would rather have nibbled. the toes I could see. Eventually, Michelle dropped that she had just been doing business with Adlaï Stern, firstly booking a suite at The Greenwich Hotel, a stone throw from the Western Union Building, and also, an evolutive hosting, for her soon to be fired up New York machines. She needed a name for her new business entity, and that was the challenge for the rest of the flight. Unexpectedly, Delffan revealed some unbridled vocabulary, drawn into the contest and willing to offer some token; but since one had grasped the gentle play on the “aviator” meme, one proposed “aviatrix”, supposing it could be registered. In the blaring light of fifty thousand feet, Michelle’s eyes, in their crystal lenses, shone of sapphire, as she was computing the echoes of a name, and there was some tingle in the sound of that “Trix” that she relished.
We landed at Teterboro like a rose petal on a satin sheet, were ushered like celebrities through the small arrival gate, and I gratified Femke, as duly as she had discreetly valued us, in the good name of Melchior’s. The real platoon chief had let her hotel sent a limousine for us, and it was a striking silver Maybach Pullman, who could have seen the aviatrix could be so lavish?
Dressed as royalty, aloof as kittens, my untethered children funnelled into yet that other luxury cocoon, while some attendant dropped our few bags in the trunk. The driver suggested we travelled all the way along the Hudson River down from the Georges Washington bridge, and we agreed, the sun still shone its old gold over New Jersey.

The hotel, an almost nondescript red brick, corner, seven floors building with an Italian restaurant at the ground floor, cried taste from the doorstep, unlike many palaces I have happened to cruise in, for all my array of businesses, and the personnel showed up themselves to level, in a smell of olde English leather, and briar. So on to our two-bedroom suite —was it for propriety? I was convinced that we would, all of us, sleep in the huge master bed— The attentiveness of service brought up a reminder that I would need a heap of dollar bills, but Michelle knew that and she slid the tips with impressive grace, I was decidedly not the inviting power aboard, but she was so weightless I applied myself thanking her, as a new kind of pleasure.
Delffan was already nude, in the bathroom, peeing, she called me for a bath, and the tub was considerable, fit for a baroness’ whims, and was indeed filled and foamy in no time, with three alleycats in it, preening each other in a smell of antique peonies.
Michelle washed her hair and a funny little elf wetted all the available lush towels grooming one’s bare eyed princess who smelled of camomile; I couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she was without her spectacles, were them crystal and gold. I restrained talking about eye surgery, but I allowed myself to stare at her seraphic face because she did not see me.
I would have suggested that we ordered some bites in the elegant corner salon, and remain barefoot-pyjama, but Delfan wanted to feel a beat of New York, so Michelle devised we could just walk to Dim Sum House, a reputed vegetarian Chinese eatery, beyond the Courts quarter, a few blocks east, and so she booked a table. The comely trattoria downstairs served grilled venison to carnivorous metropolitans, we would have felt detracted, trying to make the best of antipasti, as refined they be.
I was hankering for some untethered camaraderie in the wake of these two amazing phenomenons, playing the complacent minder role, until I would blow raspberries on their tummies.
Tribeca was clean and windy; Michelle behaved like a scout on an operation, but she obviously had lived in Metropolis before, whereas Velvet Skull, in one’s candour, would have drawn weird types after one, thus, I did not let one ramble and query eye-contact from passers-by, like one does in Europe, and kept one clenched at my side, pretending to flirt, or did I?

I had come to know the city first with Hugo, who had been smitten with me, as soon as I had sold him my feeble self, on a recommendation by Honoré, a high expert in curiosa who ceaselessly repeated he should have found me earlier. We had then spent a sunny spring week overlooking the Park, playing in bed once our museum visits had broken our backs. I did not care yet to now of an uncle of mine in Wall street, he found me later and it was not properly incestuous, beyond the tingles of his fly, Adlaï is a gentleman. So is Hugo.
It was well after hours, eerily deserted, Michelle kept on track with her phone, we passed at the foot of 56 Leonard, like a pile of display cases ready to collapse, awkwardly wedged with a sleek steel whale under the street corner, a stylish and overall neat tower, with huge windows onto almost unobstructed views —the pure antipodist to our privileged old Paris. The boxes were lighting up, it gave an impression of shocking transparency, of undue exposure, like I would, if ever, have dreamt of screens and paravents, some glazed tent. I could fantasise how Delffan would become the unaware star in all the city’s telescopes, the subject matter of a trendy photo exhibition, since the right to one’s image is flimsy over here, and furthermore, what about a lewd exhibition in people’s own private homes?
So, then, I had an uneasy feeling about overviewing life in this glass display, for what I knew of American mentality, whereas my wide-eyed companion was thrilled, as a ten-year-old before the house of Lego, overlooking the insane price tag on each of these windows, obviously. Pulling up the frames on her kindly nose, Michelle was musing if she had not better live here, in sight of the main Nexus, behind a sofa. My representation of intimacy matters, if she envisioned the lifeways she had entertained in the girls’ apartment, jostled the mirage she had surreptitiously set up, but, otherwise, not the hard reality of the infinite expense it meant to dwell in the smallest of these showcases.

I retold them how Hugo had relished fucking my then so thin arse to the high view of Central Park, and how I had caught a reflection glimpse of one bellboy watching, then giving him a tip with a wink, later. And so, I raved on the necessity of walls in the thriving of eroticism, even though I had once wanked myself picturing Kate and Simon in the dunes on Sylt, being watched at by elderly voyeurs.
The restaurant showed all the scars of a very frequented place, behind a shabby narrow façade, a faultless but soulless double row of tables, as if all endeavour was expended in the food only, which, given the wealth of savours and textures, might indeed be the case. I would have doubt so as to drag my rich uncle in there, but he had shown me to kosher joints none the brighter.
My puppies were tired, Whatever the inventive filling of the hundun, it had still been a long day. I had no clear expectation of what we had ordered, but the little bamboo baskets kept landing upon the swivel tray, and many kept untouched, so, out of shame, I guess, for wasting, I wrote a sturdy gratuity on the check, for I insisted playing, as it looked like, the cool big sister —and there were time enough to come to terms about that, too.
We had been discreet, overall, so, they let us depart with curtsey in a taxi that had been there, Delffan dozed out at the first road sway, one’s brows lifting, like in awe.

The next morning, a saffron gleam reflected on the Citi tower made Sarah’s voice ring in my mind, when she told me of the Manhattanhenge when Elsie and her celebrated on her high terraces. Indeed, Elsie had been one of those sister souls normal kids think they will never lose, only to part when the wind raises. Nevertheless, their long time reunion had been beautiful to look at, I had been actually mulling over some escapade with the fine Newyorkese, on my own.
The corner salon was bathed in gold, Delffan stood naked by the bay window, a cup in hands, offering her statuesque youth at will, probably meditating what I had said last night; They had ordered breakfast, juices, fruit, pastries. Michelle was already absorbed on a machine I had not seen, not enough, though, not to smile up disarmingly to me, so as my first move was to lie down on her nude back and try my chin in her spine, as I had learned long ago.
She explained that she had ordered the machine from Paris, it had been delivered in the morning, and it was nought of a common laptop, by the bye it looked more like a black, titanium and carbon attaché-case, in which a palm-thick metal mystery had been mounted, with lots of sockets to the right and a removable keyboard upfront. As she moaned under my beastly massage, she concluded that it was altogether lighter than it looked, and with it she could virtually set up shop as soon as my uncle would close the deal, and rolled over to tickle my loins. In her young voice, I heard the impervious will of a genius.
Delffan wrapped one’s unspoiled white suit in a platinum grey trench with a tall collar, one beamed of ambiguity, I foresaw Adlaï’s torments at this sight. Michelle contrasted in the perfect black Icebreaker, pinstriped, three-piece power suit —the cat’s pyjamas. My hair looked good, too, and I remembered my last encounter with the Master of our name, so, I had brought a teal scarf-print overlaid silk twill shirt dress with very small buttons, in a Tuareg blue coat, with turquoise tights and black patent, grosgrain, flat slippers: I doubted he would resist more than one cup of tea —Adlaï is a teetotaler, too— before he slid a heavenly manicured hand up my crotch.

After a short walk down to 60 Hudson, and indeed, Michelle carried her machine as she would have a portfolio, we were ushered up to a vast moss green-carpeted, oak-panelled suite cruised by pondering types who gave shifty hellos at the rim of their spectacles, and Michelle acted just like she knew them. In the corridor, Adlaï was hurrying towards us, and matter-of-factly kissed all the hands he seized, then remained thoughtful until he closed his office’s door after us. Still pressing my hand, the long-legged, slim grey-haired aristocrat asked me if and when Mr Michael Cerisy was to join? Saying that he was staring at Delffan like he would have a Botticelli. In Michelle’s laughter, I grasped she had played the old man, pretending to be a man, so as not to blur his vision of the envisioned deal —she had done that before, with Victor. We laughed, too, and Michelle went on, telling my uncle that her associate’s New York lawyer would join us later, with printed copies of the contract. As Adlaï remained bewitched, now transfixed by the blue gaze in the aviator glasses, she half mumbled something while opening her case upon the large Moroccan leather-clad desk and asking permission to plug into the sockets she already had noticed above the skirting.
The old man was utterly bewildered, on a tilt of my head, I called for Michelle’s awareness, and she smiled candidly, agreed to sit down for some while. She fetched her passport, and an envelope from an inside pocket, that she handed to Adlaï, back in his executive padded chair. The impressive case had been pushed aside when a graceful Asian woman had brought some tea and minute cookies that pleased Delffan. Reading Michelle resume, Adlaï softly wondered if she would take offence that he had all “this” checked out? Spread out casually in a cypress green leather chair, she allowed all verifications that, eventually, she deemed quite natural, after the innocent trickery she had plotted.
I revelled at the scene of my old incestuous uncle being under the spell of my two fairies, and he only knew part of the tale.

He had called some other strict-looking, lavender old boy and plainly asked him to certify all that was printed on the sheet of paper he gave him, after what he turned towards Michelle and assured her that he would have also done so if she had been a man, at what Delffan sniggered, asking what if one had been both? Adlaï dared not inquire, but I read, in his Wolfenc eyes, that he had grasped some light, as he flashed his million dollars teeth to my protégée.
I acted familiar with him, like he were family, after all, and moved to his side of the desk, eventually to graze his thigh with mine, and, inevitably, I smirked as I felt his hand feeling me up, as decidedly the wolfish libertine lurked, anytime.
As he made me wet my tights, we chattered about our flight in Melchior’s jet, and the most elegant hotel Michelle had dwelled us in, to what he taught us the place belonged to Robert De Niro, and was pretty much the tip of the trend, currently. We all agreed it made sense, then, but needed a vegan annexe, and he laughed because that also, he remembered, of me. Delffan was reading my eyes, she knew what was going on behind the desk, she winked.
The underling came back, with a ceremonious grin on his face, obviously, he had discovered much more than expected, and so he deposited two sheets on the desk and left respectfully. Adlaï needed his two hands to adjust another pair of tortoise rimmed glasses, but I saw him sniff at his fingers doing so, that part of him would not get old, would it?
Clearing his voice, he apologised to Michelle and marvelled at the overall focus of her course, and the undeniable quality of her teachers, he vowed some cult to Professor Ziv Katalan in Philadelphia and had just read something about Michelle’s graduation with him. He then made the gesture at her to operate her computer as she intended, she took her thoughtful expression, unrolled two cables, plugged them into the right sockets, rotated the sleek black box so Adlaï could read the screen in the lid, and fired up.
I have been using computers since college, the most expensive kind available to be used in a home, with possibly a fibre optic connection to the web, but then and there, while my perverted uncle was thoughtlessly back at my bum, I grasped no clue of what went on, so fast, at her command. Came a time when Adlaï asked her, stuttering, how she could have torpedoed that many security gates? There, pouting her lips like the adorable girl she was, she retorted that it had been average level hacking, but, of course, she could remedy to all the flaws she had crept through, albeit it had not been the main object of her visit.
Adlai looked like the patient who wakes up in the middle of a surgery operation and sees his heart, forlorn on the table before him. Michelle glanced at the bottom of my dress as if to make known that she, too, knew what was happening under there.

Michelle was still quietly absorbed in her complicated routines; at one point, she stared hard at the disgruntled boss of a service put to doubt, she spoke evenly, said that until then, nothing of his software had been changed, although there was a good chance that the whole operation was infected. She insisted she had not come at that particular rescue, but in search of high-performance servers. If Adlaï, and some peers of his choice, decided to trust her, she could “clean” the traffic and report her finds to the authorities, thus exonerating the firm.
Adlaï stuttered that he had presently no idea, but a lethal fear of what she had said. He had ceased fiddling with me when his telephone rang, and Melchior’s lawyer was announced.
He was a youngish, crew-cut, strung up type that smelled of expensive Cologne, he seriously announced his name, his firm, and frankly read each of our faces, unable not to smile at Delffan, who took that for a good mark. He carried a case and fetched three wads of paper, for Michelle, Adlaï, and himself. Accepting a cup of Japanese tea, he declared that the hereby contract of service had been drawn in Melchior’s international DORA offices, which had given delegation to Fuchs, Brauer, and Frankel, in the person of Mathew L Mulder, Attorney at Law, according to the conditions decreed by SEVEN STREAMS, here represented by its CEO, Mr Adlaï Stern, and in the presence of Ms Michelle de Cerisy, of French nationality, associate to Melchior International in the TRÆVIX company.
While the articulate young attorney read the contract out loud, I had drawn Delffan to a buttoned settee at the far end of the office, and I could tell, although her eyes were snug behind the lenses, six meters away, that Michelle went on multitasking. Adlaï knew that his legal watchdogs had combed the agreement through and through and it was sound and juicy, so to speak; therefore, apparently, a formidably costly voyage, across the ocean, all boiled down to a pre-negotiated signature, like so many in that yummy lawyer’s daily schedule.
Unless the whole point of sending the arch-expert four-eyed demi-goddess, in the flesh, had been to let her do what she was currently completing inside Seven Streams machines, and it was a hell of a bet, but Melchior had succeeded shagging her, like a periwinkle, hadn’t he?

Once the agreement acted, the lawyer flew back away with a smile, Adlaï had to reshape his permanence while keeping Michelle inside the mighty loop, hence, he devised an emergency set-up, at the other end of the executive corridor, in a vacant office he said presented the same kind of amenities as his own —perhaps was it a consequence of a bygone power struggle? Nonetheless, he ordered the room to be thoroughly cleaned and turned to Michelle for her requirements. According to what I had seen of her ways of living, it did not surprise me that she asked for a simple table, four chairs, and a futon; the room gave access to an ensuite, large enough to allow brewing tea. Teams could be on-scene in an hour, and no paintwork being needed, the room should be operational the next morning; all standards of connections were already available.
Michelle estimated her physical presence on-site towards seventy-two hours, aeroplane schedule permitting, beyond what she could manage, from Paris, one or two top-notch engineers of SEVEN STREAMS full time, for Adlaï’s best comfort. My uncle floated the suggestion that Michelle could become a valuable partner in his company, be she finely retorted that she would not be available, and considered the work she was currently accomplishing, there, as connected to her own endeavour; and nevertheless, the figures they exchanged, about her hourly rate and accomplishment premium, astounded me, so as I began to consider the girl behind the red sofa as a weird star. She appeased Adlaï by offering some arrangement between their companies, so she would use the new futon room every once needed for the safety of the networks.
She decided she should stay overnight, already, and Delffan claimed she would, too. So, Amazon should deliver in an emergency the proper bedding they liked, unbleached cotton sportswear, a provision of student’s mix of nuts and raisins, tea leaves and bottles of organic kombucha, same as it had been on the feverish campuses she missed, after all.

Then supervened an awkward episode, when three men, in approximate suits and neat Derby shoes, asked to see Adlaï in FBI capacity, and, for as much as he retold us, required inspection of SEVEN STREAMS operation, after red flags had been detected. Adlaï was fully aware of the will in services to plant surveillance routines in ultra-wideband superhighways like his, but he also knew that it responded in nought of his clients’ demand, who might flee in droves if it became patent that there were.
For one, the friendly visit occurred just as Michelle was being unscrambling unorthodox procedures inside the machine’s software, and second, the talk consisted mainly of half baked innuendos and spooky menaces, testing Adlaï’s capacity to stand. The whole shenanigan had been recorded and was being documented by lawyers. Michelle asserted she had scented the heavy-handed methods of the governmental drill, but she was too weightless and dispersed for them to thwart her. She was pruning their tentacles one by one and redirected their hacks against other agencies of theirs, good luck!
Adlaï did not think “they” would try to overstep sensitive fields, at this end, he had sent a warning to all the other sharers in the building, he feared they would all try to buy out his white knight if they came aware. By the bye, Michelle thought she would update Melchior personally if only to put his lawyers on standby, and probably warn stealthily a few people of influence, here and there. It was decided to organise minders near Michelle’s door and walks.
It was mid-afternoon, Amazon wouldn’t be there before next morning, but Adlaï, getting his cards together, dared the lady at Parachute, a nearby specialist shop, to put up some acceptable floor bedding, in his office, before night? She promised, should it be carried on foot, and they could also deliver robes —she learned it would be two thin ladies— and bedtime niceties.
All in all, Delffan was thrilled to stay with one’s lover in this unconventional setting, I would have, but my more than uncle decided he would go with me in our Greenwich Hotel suite, and he had always been imaginative, to say the least.

After having confided his private numbers to an over-excited Michelle, Adlaï drew me to a silver Mercedes for the short ride to Hudson’s Clear Waters, one mile north, he needed me to freshen his brains. The menu offered more than I could wish for, in the likes of revisited mushrooms, nuts, vegetables and fruit mixes, well up to their claim of new American cooking, I sent a video of their counter to Michelle’s phone, in case she was more hungry than usual and wished to order home delivery.
Stroking my hands bearing a Lalique ring with a white opal, he whispered that we had been followed and they were probably recording us; on a piece of paper, he sketched the room, with points for the customers, then, in red —a good boss needs a red pen—he circled three of them, which I managed to single out as tails, and were probably struggling to match their budgets to the mouth-watering items on the card. Adlaï refrained from too explicit demonstrations about me, avoiding letting them believe they had a scoop for blackmail. He was in a haste to unbutton this dress I had vowed to his lust, and the whole spy-cy situation had made me sluttily wet. After he had paid, he left the makeshift layout on the table, called for his car, and asked the driver to try and lose our tails —it sounded it wasn’t a first.
Back at the Greenwich, we ordered some apple tea, if only to reset the course of his expected relish of me, as in an epitome of an old libertine’s dream, with shame, guilt, want, unfettered availability, and nevertheless, the pride of my resilience and what he deemed my superb vice, he knew I owed to Hugo’s infallible affection.
Now, only a quiet flame in the fireplace lit my sleek legs on the purple velvet couch, and he was, button by button, hitching up my dress upon my belly, for I had lost my knickers in the bathroom where I had peed, and freshened up for him, he had never wished that I piss on him.
He had dropped his grey Camoshita tweed jacket, his timeless mahogany brown loafers, I had always known him in knee-high silk socks, I asked him if he wanted me in stockings, he said yes, I had what it took, fastly.
He wore powder blue trunks, with mother-of-pearl buttons, to reach for his cock, and I serviced him like an expensive whore, because I knew what he found around here. From time to time, he interrupted me to kiss, full mouth, like a stray kid in a back alley, not daring anything further, I had begun like so, long ago; I knew when he needed to come, and I let him, in deep, two or three brief spurts, but he tilted backwards and moaned gently, rummaging in my thick copper curls.

Some sort of atavism, or the ruts of an old subservience when I felt debased to the level of a toilet mop, in my own self-abandonment, I gathered our threads, which were anything but that, and led the only whatever a parent is, to the second bedroom, to shag me, with the perennial hurt that had made me, on the leash.
When Hugo had hired me, all lust for my weary eyes, my wan skin and my wild curls, he had played me, at once offered more money than I asked, by a heap, and talked with me tidbits of that trade of mine, forced me into complicity I had never thought of, used me, against the vow I had sealed not to shed any attention on the human beings that did.
I had been so scared, then, that Hugo had kept me for days, buttoned up, or suddenly nude, in a bath of perfumes, fool headed. He had taken a huge risk on my life, even before I started retelling him my pitiful life, and he paid me on because I was a whore.
Long after, when Adlaï Stern rang my number and ceremoniously asked to know me, I had a life, was a fully grown libertine in my own vice, and did not wish to know of any relatives whatsoever, on the verge of discarding my kind as an overblown cult, so to speak.
But he was earnest, too, and retorted to my insults by candid gifts, telling me that he could wait, or disappear altogether, but he brought me to solicit him, to, as he liked, insensibly, and showed me how to like it, too.
Now, he asked me to pose on the fine sheets, and I tried to pull more trickery through my body, to get him to spur into my whorish arse. Then he cuddled along me, reciting the specious philosophy to our —not so rare— lifeways. That night, he went on, and mezzo-voce pronounced that he wanted me as a daughter, eventually heir to his fortune, without changing nought of my hard-earned life. like the little girl I had never been, I sobbed, as he fled.

I received selfies of my Parisian cohort, but it would never be time for a video call with Fanny and Natalia, for whom life had probably run seamlessly flat. Adlaï words buzzed like a bumblebee into my somehow empty skull, as it felt, although my heart sang in tune with the morning clamour, and there had been a third of pineapple in the waking juice.
I washed away the night macerations in clear water, rethinking of the three spooks, that brought unbeknownst successful savours; I put on a touch of cypress green mascara, carmine blush, bit my lips before some matte gloss; another cup watching down on the crossroads, feeling how my invented father was a nifty fucker, and I donned silk lilac purple suit and tights, my Saharan night coat and my black patent flats. As often, by my lazy clock, I needed to pee before I left, but my trousers were not the kind with the annoying tiny zipper, when I thought of Adlaï, it would be buttons; my morning quim only slept of one eye, I pictured the two pixies on their futon, chasing luminous bugs in the cybersphere.
Adlaï himself greeted me downstairs but waited that we were in the lift to seize my nape from under my coat and point the tip of his tongue into my lips. The new control room was set up, with the required futon and constellation patterned sheet and comforter. The gay gremlins playfully showed their toes and navels out of thick off-white tracksuits, and cotton trunks, the full kit for mischievous playthings.
It smelled of gingerbread, bitter almond, vanilla fudge, I hung my coat, kicked my shoes and groped up Michelle’s legs and belly, though gently enough not to tilt her focus.
In another corner of the shady room, Delffan sat in lotus before a television set, a bulky headphone across her velvet skull, watching some gloomy street scene with lots of rain pouring, did one understand TV American?
Briskly, Michelle twisted back at me, beaming, and so her trunks were pulled a tad further down, giving me access in her thighs, as she said she had found the pathway, and a lot of malfeasants would be hurt, now. She let me abuse her friskiness, her intimacy smelled of honey until we heard Adlaï clear his throat nearby.

The spry clubman, in vest and shirt of blues, asserted to Michelle that she was most desirable in raw cotton, too, but —after a rhetorical pause— certainly irresistible through all the digital whirlwind she had been stirring, for the greater glory of SEVEN STREAMS, which was the talk of “Insider Babylon”, the private online network of the information trade. Nobody had any clue who it was, but some wizard had flushed out the soot balls —whatever it meant— from the high-speed servers, and signs were it originated from the firm. One of Adlaï’s contacts had told him there was rough weather in some Federal Agencies, with bizarre references to some clear waters.
He was absentmindedly contemplating the flat belly and the golden little fleece my fingers were still twirling gently, he wondered if I would accept what he had offered me, in the wee hours, he added he would be so proud of me. It had not seemed to raise any of my flirt’s concerns, but I gave the fatherly libertine a tender gaze he could not doubt.
Set aside, was a simple antique office table and four chairs of the same wood, upholstered in aged maroon leather, on it, was a display of clever nerd food, bags of nuts, fruit, bananas, etc… also motley ceramic cups and plates, and a funky silverware teapot. Adlaï sat down casually, upturned one of a pile of cups and poured some tepid dark tea which he happened to like, with a bit more water from a jug.
He said Michelle had properly earned her premium, and a steady contract if she deigned to fly over once in a while, he had been speaking with her mighty associate, who had acknowledged the positive binds in the synergy between TRÆVIX and SEVEN STREAMS
As far as she could scan, she saw no impediment, but she insisted TRÆVIX would operate mainly from Paris, except for emergencies that required direct access to the main core, for which facilities like this one here, sufficed for her interventions. Adlaï required her bank ID, and illico transferred enough to trigger a cute whistling from her, he added a thank you.
As the aeroplane would take us away next evening, and there were decisions to be made rue de Verneuil, Michelle determined it were preferable to stay one more night at the patient’s side as she ran tests, a bellboy could bring them the few things they had carried. As it gave Adlaï another night with me alone, I saw his pupil twinkle.

I had not paid attention to the men sitting at a table, next to the door where the girls stood, watching football on a laptop, and straightened position before us. It was mid-afternoon, Adlaï intended to shag me once before we went to a late appointment with his lawyer, about the adoption, and it made me gleeful. During the short walk, he bantered about the three Parisian beauties who did not find upper-class New York glamorous.
We ordered tea, they had true superior oolong. I sussed he wanted to play in my pee, there are things one dares, with a whore. Estranged from my howbeit affectionate routines, I felt enraged from the womb up at the eerie idea of welding a whoremaster —be it of my own name— into wearable incest; but Adlaï had represented that, so doing, he would remain my debtor beyond death, in the end.
After having witnessed his judicial volutes with Michelle, I could be certain he was not a fool about me, whom he could have kept as a paid regular, like his tailor and his barber. I tested him, warning that, aggregating me like family, he would also become the grandfather of a nowhere girl I would not let alone with him. He laughed that, if he wanted, even Michelle could eventually come to terms with him, carnally, he had seen her confusion when he leered her amiable navel —I had heard of Melchior’s assault on her leading to a peaceful conclusion— I retorted it would slap Victor a nice one if he did.
These were sweet and sour niceties he liked to induce because he said it gave pretty colours to my face. He took my jacket, and all the rest, carefully, mumbling Yiddish, smelling all my folds and ripples, and fucked me standing, in my drooling quim, then my raunchy arse, making my knees quiver before he gushed and moaned, and enwrapped me, breathing forcefully. Later, he pampered me in the seven streams of warm water.

In the car that brought us to Park Avenue, across from the Waldorf Astoria, where the law firm was established, he told me he relished the idea of becoming an instant grandpa and wanted to learn all about his granddaughter, most of all if I slept with her, he understood, by the way, I described and lauded her, albeit warning him about her entangled status, and mental uncertainties. He said he would finance any course of studies she would wish, I told him that in Europe, these were for free, and he could make sure she needed nought, up to now, was he visiting us in Paris, soon? If only to see TRÆVIX new installation?
Mathew Mulder displayed the weary eye of having spun the US tax code for hours, but he aimed at me kindly, as if he had not yet computed that he saw me in the room at SEVEN STREAMS. He opened the folder he had brought, and I was dumbfounded to see my own birth certificate in it, whenas I had thought I would have to collect some, myself, as well as the death certificates of my biological parents, —which I had never seen— asserting their renouncement would, thus, not be required.
Adlaï sported his finest grin, showing that he had premeditated his strike by a long length, and I only had to sign the paper, three times, in presence of one more lawyer —a sporty busty blonde that smelled of Estée Lauder— to whom I showed my passport, dumbfounded.
We were given a copy each, on high-quality paper, in a flap folder, in a stiff manila envelope to our name, stamped of the firm’s header. The clocks being expensively cruel in premises like these, Adlaï pushed his chair back, quietly, and gave his hand to the perfect professionals.
In the elevator, I felt removed, although, to make me sure nothing had actually changed, my father groped me, and kissed me in a corner, as he would have of a whore.
The young prisoners, in creased white cotton, all fresh in a whiff of tangerine, agreed to dress up and come along to celebrate my new filiation. Actually, my so-called father was instantly more interested by the girls’ thoughtless unclothing, and mostly the unusual nature of Delffan’s, whose bum was the epitome of both worlds, like in a Bernini. To remain in tune, I went for his dick and found it stiff, of course, and I wanked it some, as a menace to the giggling gamines.

He did not want to spend this way, over the kid’s bed, so he buttoned back up, and to show he wanted to make good with or trendy tribe, he offered a dinner at Gembo’s, a vegan place owned by a retired fashion model, on Madison Avenue.
Michelle set her machine, which kept crunching, in security mode, whatever that meant, and asked that the guards stay there, playing cards, until she returned, with a witty smile to the men who certainly did not blame their salary.
In the car, with the hustle of the news that however did not upend my lovely comrades, Adlaï managed to slide a hand in Delffan’s pants, I supposed one had done half the move, mouth gaped, bright eyes, expecting whatever would. Michelle made fun of the situation and rested her head on my lap, humming. Apparently, things wouldn’t go so far as to upset the dignified driver, but his hand remained on one’s prodigy.
En route, I asked that we take a peek at the sculpture Kate and Sarah had liked, Venus of Manhattan, by William Weeler of Venus, five meters wide, in bright aluminium —they said had been restored, It hangs across the Carlyle Hotel where they retold me they had literally exhausted out one of Melchior’s envoys and his British acolyte, a few days before they performed their famous duet in Adlai’s office. Yes, the high-relief sculpture, which pays rent for the space it overbears, is striking, although the Parke-Bernett building it adorns has lost some of its verve. New York is a considerable Art Deco conservatory, everybody salutes that, except Donald Trump, who destroyed the listed facade of Bonwitt Teller, in order to decree his gross carnival junk.
Gembo on Madison is an easy-going festive hall inspired by its owner’s background of glory —fashion is not always the only vanity— high-quality prints of McQueen’s, Chanel, and Dior spectaculars, in gloomy subaquatic lightings, vouch for this on the walls of this teal blue, satiné, muted, hall. Round tables in reclaimed oak, mended with white metal fillings, rested on roots moulded of the same metal, each one worthy of a centrepiece, and a crowd of black lacquered Hoffmann Thonet armchairs with white balls at the armpits, upon a geometric patterned, marsh green and black tile floor.
The lighting was traditionally subdued, but we could detail the food on our plate if no one really knew what went on in the skirts of the tablecloths. Between Adlaï and Michelle, Delffan shared oneself in a meant double availability, for fun, but my new daddy did not weigh further, beyond his welcome.
Gembo makes attractive chartreuses, with creamy herbs topping and crispy bittersweet fritters; turmeric algae flans, dishevelled gluten-free noodles in wild herbs broth; sautéed, broiled forest and caves mushrooms in thick brown sauce and a spoonful of coriander, not even a shrimp to gnaw at for Adlaï the carnivorous.

The fireflies of gazes between us had returned to harmony, Delffan eased out one’s moves now that the old satyr had visited one’s sacred mystery, Michelle unfurled candour smiles in the restored security of our travelling conjunction. We raised no more than drinks of pink melon kombucha in honour of my new identity, albeit I doubted I would carry another passport, but who knows, ever, for the Sterns? He liked that one and grazed my belly and my free small breasts.
He wanted to hear about our impious cenacle society, in unison with a most exciting picture, on the wall, of a black jet gown royally walked barefoot, on black marble, by Cara Delevingne. I spun the yarn of Hugo’s extravagant magic, his father worldwide wine trader, wise enough to capitalise in the then run down quarters of Paris. The only expense Hugo condones is for beauty, in beings or art, all the rest is peripheral and contingent, he despises gaming, hunting, all the sportsman’s pride. He doesn’t indulge in alcohol, out of shame of his father’s fortune, and he would rather smoke anything else than tobacco, were it not so complicated. But he will run to extremities, for a ripple he saw in the eyes of a forlorn prostitute, he is abiding of their derisory trade and hates the prohibitionists of all chapels.
But then, an exceptional visionary such as Michelle is nought of a carnal peddler, nor, apropos, dissolute fairies like Sarah and Kate you took a taste of, father. I held Michelle’s sinewy hands, and I wondered why, an alluring little imp-like her reaped only insult, battery and rape, whereas she was actually brainy enough to rule a singular share of the online world exchange? Even a peer of Hugo had fallen in the madness of violating her, while he had measured his mind to hers, and was heftily profiting of her unbounded vision?
I saw Michelle’s eyes lower, in their crystal sheds, so, I steered my babble aside to the ongoing endeavour of the new TRÆVIX siege, in a dignified eighteen-century hotel on rue de Verneuil, a rose throw from Hugo’s angel hive, so she could describe the redundant security barriers, to the new cove, where Delffan and her would thrive, nude as babies. The optical cable already in place was, she showed, as big as her arm.

Michelle pulled Delffan’s arm to her nape, and spoke in her calm, muffled tone, interspersed by little kisses she pecked on her lover’s pure cheeks, she announced that, in order to fulfil her watch on SEVEN STREAMS accurately, she was buying an array of boxes on the thirty-fourth floor of 56Leonard, and turning to me, asked if they would all take pictures of her arse? Delffan was like electrocuted, one could not hold her cutlery anymore, Michelle helped one gulp a tall glass of clear water and rubbed one’s tummy gently, there, there.
We were stricken, too, she had schemed all that online, like a Russian mobster, and was proud as a peacock; she wondered if she should hire Mathew Mulder in the deal, Adlaï, who was chuffed, agreed it was a good idea; I had yet no real idea of the numbers of millions what sounded like a mere whim represented, would she buy an aeroplane, too?
They needed one last night in SEVEN STREAMS, they revelled in the far side shelter, at one joke, Michelle retorted she had no idea if the minders peeped at them through the door’s glass pane —I would have—.
Delffan was sleepy, but Adlaï and I regained the Greenwich early enough to frolic like new family, indeed. I was nude in no time, sipping a lemon and quince tea, in the pose of a bad girl, when he came out of the bathroom in a plush plum robe, his venerable pecker out front. It were exciting days, I felt like sucking a cock dry, and I almost did, but he wanted to keep the image of me, spread at the bedside, fucked thoroughly in all the echoes of a lustful day. And, undoubtedly, had I deserved a double dose of that pill because after he had made me gush and himself crammed my holy full, he turned me over to watch my bum as he played in it, all his length, lentando, libero, as sostenuto as Hugo did, and I arched my loins to gobble him in full.

He had washed me, massaged my shoulders and spine, dried me softly, watched me pee, and tucked me under the lavender comforter, and now my lower belly felt like a clutch of doves and it was day, I had to check out. I brushed my hair, touched up my face, and sprayed some newly incestuous carnation sin of a scent, from a collection of little testers I carried in my bag. Looking up, I liked myself, like the proud little whore that could.
I collected all the girls’ and more’s stuff in their bags and went down for breakfast. The offered me frangipane toast, with butterscotch apple slices on top, and it tasted like going to shag, again. I paid, signed a gratuity as wide as I had opened my wings, in that unmatched elegance, and I drove with the bags two streets east.
On the futon, it smelled like the children’s playroom, bergamot and sugary sweat, I stole one of Michelle’s socks to get high sniffing it, she went straight to my crotch and licked my mouth, and she was a billionaire.
She had unplugged her black processor, closed the sleek box; she and Delffan had better keep dressed in their thick fleece sweats and thin underwear, new sneakers with graphic immaculate soles, she had made the last thing appointment in 56Leonard, we frolicked like puppies on the futon, waiting for Adlaï.
Mathew Mulder, square jaw, awaited near the Vantapoor steel pillow, in a slate blue Brooks Brothers suit, he sported an amused smile, like calling me a witness of the kids’ mellowness, but still, he had understood it wasn’t trifling matters, indeed. Hence, he had brought over a consistent colleague with burly shoulders, but clued-up in real estate. They had been devising with a sporty Navy blue Dona Karan blonde who did not yet acknowledge that the laid back coed, with aviators, was the client for a ten millions lot.
The elevator was one of those antigravitational prowesses that enrapture one to the thirty-fourth without tamping you down in your socks. Adlaï, who played the Missus Dominicus, tongue in cheek, in the haste of the moment when the otherwise faultless agent would come to realise her false assumption, appreciated in connoisseur the gamut of vital details that signal liveable architecture, and the firm Herzog & de Meuron had fine-tuned the score, from the door handles all the way to the toilet seat.
Michelle began to take lead and ask the questions about the nonetheless rather chaotic —huge round pillars obstructing the bays— space of roughly two hundred m², offering two sizeable terraces, at a still terrestrial altitude, same as Adlaï’s in the Western Union. The agent had been blushing, feeling that we all sniggered inside, but Adlaï, in his elder’s capacity, straightened out the course of the conversation, no offence intended, and Michelle had not perceived the blunder, anyhow.
Delffan was embracing the cyclopean columns, like a cat, testing she could hide behind; Michelle wondered if their footprint was included in the surface metrics, and did not wait for the answer. Personally, nought would have convinced me to move in, when I thought of my own house, but I let float a possibility that the unpredictable wunderkind only foresaw some kind of investment, for I knew all she, and Gauthier, had endeavoured in rue de Verneuil. The weather was clear and bright, far beyond New Jersey, and I recalled Sarah always vaunted the New York sun.

Adlaï had seized my waist, Michelle, taking us aside, begged that we stay with her to expedite the sale, as fast as that. The elegant troupe, one would have described as a family with grown children, landed down to a luxurious office complex, in a muted room with a round conference table. By diligence of Michelle’s, the real-estate guy had reviewed the sale contract and found it faultless, Adlaï asked to read certain points and nodded, the girl behind the red sofa was in for 6.9 million dollars, and signed where her lawyer told her, then, from her phone, ordered the transfer; she smirked and hugged Delffan, who was searching for tokens of reality; Michelle left the keys but received a set of hard plastic cards, after an assistant had punched her name into them, in the next room.
Still a bit puzzled, the two lawyers boarded a cab, and we walked down Worth street to 60 Hudson, to have tea and chat before leaving. Michelle explained that she had written a full encrypted log of her interventions at redundant addresses only her, Adlaï and Mathew knew of and could access. From Paris, her machines would monitor the fluxes daily as to the integrity of the connections, she would have no knowledge of the data themselves —Adlaï sighed.
He proposed his car to Teterboro, it would be more fit for a new daughter, but he mostly wanted one more hour groping me. All in all, the younglings were pleased to fly back, having seen where they would throw their futon next time; Michelle had already entrusted the decoration to Gauthier, it dawned on me the golden knight had skilfully cavorted with probably both of the red sofa fairies.
Adlaï, despite our heated night, was actually fatherly sweet, and let me go when the crew invited us onboard; I saw his upright silhouette shift in the glazings and switch out. Femke was ten minutes late but had brought boxes of delicacies from Aceline’s, as was written in Veronese green on maroon lacquer.

I had never imagined, I have no idea if I could have foreseen such a thing. I never saw Adlaï again, he died three days after we met in New York, he killed himself in fear of cancer he had been diagnosed with months before, incurable. The poison he used was fast, clean and painless, the coroner told me. He had left a short letter, asking me for cremation and no religious salute whatsoever, leaving it to my own to dispose of his ashes. In the crematorium, were all the fifty-some staff of SEVEN STREAMS, a dozen lawyers of Fuchs, Brauer & Associates, and Melchior, with whom I had flown in, under black glasses. After the coffin was rolled in a stealthy hatch into the grey granite-clad wall in front of us, We listened to “Der Abschied” by Gustav Mahler, sung by Kathleen Ferrier in 1952 — Adlaï had written he had not dared listen to her since 1972— on a relievingly fine sound system. He had added that Mahler had been as bad a Jew as himself, but he had loved New York, wholeheartedly. Eventually, I was given a still-warm metal box, and I cried many streams, like the little whore he mocked. Melchior had been seated next to me, he then said: “you’ll be safe, Camille”.

Long ago, it had not so much been having to watch the harrowing spectacle of my own mother hanging still in the staircase, but the sick stare of the sore survivors on me, the acid it stirred in my veins, leaving me deadlocked, having peed in my socks, and no one daring to reach out. I had remained days closed in the glaucous misery in which she had deserted me, piling every bit of her stuff in the far corner of the bedroom, and washing myself each time I smelled of her on me, outdoing her obscene manners, the same way she had tried with her own wreck of a mother. Apart from whoever had fathered me, all the men I had had to shun, fast, when she took them in her miserable bed, they had smelled of death, tobacco, wine and sweat.
After she escaped, it had been the inexorable landlord, who knocked relentlessly to check I had not followed her and eventually tamed the wild cat with derisory presents, food, perfume, and then lingerie and women’s shoes to his taste. He had a strong Hungarian accent, he could play the accordion, he made me an underage whore, until he died, drunk in my bed, and I became the toy doll of an opulent butcher who cried on me, and I learned my trade like leapfrog —I had the luck not to show bruises long— and some inspired debaucher sent me to his friend Hugo, as a present.
Now, some bespoke notary, who barely restrained himself playing footsie with me, in a mahogany-clad office with a view on the river,  was enumerating for me the riches of my estate, included a good many buildings around town. I was told Adlaï had entirely cleared his West street apartment before going to die in a hotel, after having tipped the personnel, all he wanted me to have was to be found in his office on Hudson street.

It was tingling cold when we landed at Le Bourget, and the sky was swept black. Regaled with fresh baked stuffed rolls and crisp little pies, we had binged on episodes of “Utopia”, a British TV mad conspiracy laced noir farce, with mock Grand Guignol skiddings, in search of Jessica Hyde, that Michelle had kept in her cloud for years, but one by one, we dozed out, more or less on the same armchair, under the covers, Femke laid upon us, before she went to sleep in her tiny cabin. Yawning at pre-dawn, Delffan noticed that the plane was silent, asked “where’s Jessica Hyde,” and went to the toilets, in trunks. The crew told us we had plenty of time to disembark, and actually, we were nicely dishevelled.
In the small customs halls, smelling of uncompromising disinfectant,
stood two officers in uniform, unusually pernickety about us and our luggage. I had not paid attention to the watch Michelle had offered to Delffan in Teterboro, they did, and there were taxes to be paid, I realised it was a gold Rolex. But mostly, their curiosity aimed at the black briefcase; they asked Michelle to open and switch it on. With a tad more aloofness than usual, she fetched a chair, sat in front of her machine between the officers, and gave them a demonstration of her routines, at a speed they might not have witnessed before, with also a special presentation of high definition porn, she was brazen enough to tell them that beyond these amusements, it was professional confidentiality and they would need a court order she would challenge, and meanwhile, all data would already have fled in the cloud. They could not body search us further, they could not read us out, they caved, with a mindful look, a chauffeur picked up our bags, and we left.
On the way, I caressed the bracelet at Delffan’s wrist and uselessly told one to beware of flaunting a fortune like that, but one retorted Michelle had sworn one was no longer a tramp, at the mercy of plunderers.
An early hour committee awaited, after only a few days, and I was nevertheless overwhelmed to see and smell Fanny, my Parisian secret agent, who visibly had a rich escapade with the smartest doe in our woods, not forgetting her cunning boyfriends and different admirers.
It would certainly provide fruit on my cake to make her avow the tricks in which Hugo’s house pet might have misled her.
Kate and Sarah had been still in bed and wore not much, but smelled like a dewy pathway filled with wilderness, my inquisitive vice told me they had had sex together not too long ago.

 

Sarah says:

There was something unwonted about this return at the crack of dawn, Kate and I had lent our blooms to a herd of Fulgence’s acquaintances, and I was still light-headed, so I brewed a family-sized teapot of strong Darjeeling, with crisp cookies. Hugo had climbed up, along with Fæbyan, radiant in a graphic, contrasted dull yellow and navy blue knit ensemble, enlightened by her mentor’s constant cheers, I craved her lithe ankles like a toddler his mom’s ears, it was morning, so, what?
Camille unwrapped at once that she had been adopted by her uncle, the same debauched tycoon we had sold our wares to not so long ago, but, during the flight entangled in a cohort of suave smelling angels —how did I figure!— an afterthought had gnawed her dreams’ backdrop, she could not bring it out. Nevertheless, she had been recaptured by her derelict lineage, and she still would be the little whore who could.
She turned to Hugo and said that, all incest consumed, he had remained her dedicated tutor, since the gutters of dereliction, a holder of the keys until she took her own, no shame drank. Although as sibylline as it rang, none other than them knew the meaning of these phrases, but Delffan clung to Michelle who hugged one strong and twirled a few rounds. Kate needed to defuse the static and hummed in Natalia’s neck while fondling her breasts from the back.
Michelle wanted to plug her black novelty back to life, so, there was a crowd upstairs, —only Fanny swiftly drew Delfan to our still warm bed— before she called Gauthier about the Verneuil site. Camille remained in her cup, diffident, for once, so Hugo pulled a chair and ruffled her nape. She smirked and asked: “who is Jessica Hyde?”, then laughed, and sniggered she was getting old. Fanny was having a grand shag, she walked to the doorway and peeped, I joined her and groped her like old times.

 

Kate says:

The hotel was a stern, ashlar walls building, in the neo-classical trend of the ending eighteenth century, encompassing a front yard and the remnants of a garden, on the far side, overflowing with permanent foliages. Only Melchior could have possibly purchased such a grand property, but it was, by all means, Michelle, who gave all orders, be it the layout, the impressive security, the extensive wiring, but also the décor and comfort.
I knew, by smell, that Gauthier and she had shagged in the empty palace, as a matter of reckoning the spaces and circulations. She had not been told what it had been built for, and by whom, Hugo might tell her someday. On the street, stood a one-floor pavilion on all the property width, with a unique central double portal in which opened the pedestrian smaller door. There would live a household of concierges and on the other side the security personnel. The entryway was long enough for a big car and was closed on the yard by another military-grade portal with bullet-retardant glazing. all the front windows were protected with forged steel grids.
They had read treatises about security, and all Michelle would need, from anywhere in her house, was a mere twenty minutes to annihilate all attempt on the network, knowing she couldn’t live inside a Wolfsschanze.
Symmetrical wings closed the side views of the paved yard, with shallow service lodgings, Michelle did not foresee numerous staff, but had left her options open. Atop three stately steps, the perron stood under a three-slopes coloured glass marquise, the only architectural fancy detail in that austere square space, with a festoon of alternate gold and blue, engraved, plates. It had been renounced to set jardinières because Delffan had made an impression of the martyr plants in poorly attended pots, one might only imagine some extrovert “Nana” by Nicky de Saint Phalle, on each side of the stairs.
For then, the foyer opened at left towards the vast kitchen and service quarters, on the right to a reception suite all the way to the garden, under greek-minded stucco mouldings, those in the two sun-facing salons, gilded. The terrace was paved with slabs, in checker in two tones of ochre, gold and rose. Two venerable large-leaf magnolias took their light from the house reflection, before a background of dark evergreens, with a few camellias at the foreground, amidst diverse cushion-shaped boxwoods.

Michelle looked to be the daughter of the house, whereas Gauthier was moving around like home, but savvy enough not to overstep the aviator’s turf, not drawing a conclusion from some easy piece of shag. She took my arm, letting Delffan daydream in the empty rooms, upon immense Persian carpets —one had lost one’s shoes— under extravagant Chihuly chandeliers. Gauthier had lobbied like a state secretary to hang real Zuber panoramics, starting with two-tones Grecian grisailles on the yard side, with silver and gold changing taffeta embroidered of a flight of bronze colour starlings, draped up like a Queen Mother, with all the bling of ropes and tiebacks, to the full symphony of woodblocks détrempe of the oriental pipe dreams, too far-flung decorative to make one feel like in a showroom. The windows on the garden were dressed up of ultramarine satin embroidered of randomly sized five points stars scattered with shooting stars, trimmed with all-around fringes of gold, and flowing down from an elaborate drapery of the same. The last, east salon, had been devoted to the sensitive void of oyster rose, waxed Venetian plaster, under a white and gold-laced Murano chandelier, and Ingres worthy, lush gradient dawn silks dressing up the windows behind white linen veilings. This room might have made a dining room, but remained as empty as a cloud, with a pearl grey carpeting, a mouse grey central futon, and a chrome sound system.
Delffan was overjoyed, after the balcony over New York, one would possibly gambol in the fairy tale ballroom, except it had not been intended for parties as that were I had found one, but one then said it had not been happy times, and one was relieved to have been chosen by a cosmic genius. I still wondered if one would thrive in the shadow of a genius, would I?
It is at that moment, as one had been doing somersaults across the sublime rugs, that the idea of retelling one’s story to Cynthia dawned on me, she might help me help one of hers.
The foyer and staircase had kept their apparently original faux-marble staff work, untouched, verdigris and rust with black and white veins, it had been waxed anew and gleamed. A tall Murano millefiori chandelier glittered, like the soul of a perverted Venetian magistrato, raising to the inferno. Over the top of the stairs reigned a nightly dome, with a black celestial body speckled with gazing eyes, and casting long ripply gold and silver rays. Delffan held me still on the blood-red carpeting of the stairs and whispered that the eyes on the black star impressed one when climbing.
Upstairs, on the left side were one large bedroom overlooking the garden, a smaller one on the yard, lavish marble bathrooms and a small staircase to the attic, all empty and newly painted white. The grand bedroom was panelled in pearl grey, with glazed showcases almost everywhere, empty, except for a hand-sized crystal of quartz, embedded through with a native gold nugget. Michelle explained she possessed diverse collections, here and there, and she wished to repatriate them. She had chosen the monumental Meissen porcelain chandelier, all preciously crowded of Saxon roses. There was no bed in the alcove, only a futon was thrown in there and a crumpled comforter, on the thick, pale, roses and swirls carpet.

On the right, west, side of the house was the future TRÆVIX power core, and three stages down, where the batteries and the memories, were hermetically enclosed in inert gas, and all the non-spectacular array of safety devices and cameras Michelle and her staff controlled, from their workplace, and her bedroom. She could not show me the machines, because the room was pressurised, but her own command desk was bold enough, with nine 8K screens in front of a console wide enough for six people, black ergonomic Aeron chairs and back cupboards for food and drinks. The whole room was clad in warm coloured wood, she said she had not found anything to hang, I though a real B32 propeller would be fun.
When she proceeded to start the monster, howbeit she had left the black case on watch behind our sofa, it was as fast as opening the window, and I saw her unfettered pride before the blinking termite mound, though she declared the high bandwidth still lagged a few hundred meters away from her power horse; then she seized my shirt and assailed me, with all her heart.
She, too, was easy to disrobe, and Delffan watched us with eager eyes, her hand in her pants, she said she liked looking and giggled, one foot upon the other, as Michelle devoured my tongue. We soon rolled the three of us on the thick wool carpeting of black opal pattern, which would look less of a disgrace, when scattered upon, in the course of any crisis. The infamous spectacles had tumbled away, I kissed the different Michelle, wild-eyed, dazzled, at my mercy, easy game to Delffan’s keen spur, as it happened. Gauthier surprised us, and was prompt to stand at order, crazed by the tapered waist of his dream came alive in the balanced double nature of Delffan; he craved to thread the shy vagina while one shagged a genius in flight, and he found the effort benign, sheathing his dick to the guard in perfect rhythm, soon to be gushed on, to what he retorted in good humour, while I asked Michelle to lick up my electric pearl.
The workspace bathroom was a single white marble box with a shower head in the ceiling and two knobs mid-height, a glass pane sheltered the toilet seat and a sink of pearly porcelain on a marble console. we mumbled together, she said she often had video calls with Melchior, in the nude, while he wore his ample night blue gowns, and shades.
We felt a tad peckish, then, we dressed up and ran barefoot downstairs to the kitchen, to process yoghourt with cereals and fruit in the big blender. A whole previous salon had been clad with the small bevelled tiles of the old Paris Metro, with Veronese green accents and an alternate frieze along the cornice.
As in the case of hi-tech, the most superlative hardware had been installed, as if anybody was going to cook, which would be the case with the computers, but Michelle wouldn’t know if she would hire a cook, that might have got depressed by inaction; in the meantime, she would mostly order, like us, from the Danish caterers, at the satisfaction of Gauthier —who was already on his eager way to New York— and Delffan, whom never ate more than a bird.

 

Michelle says:

Hugo came up that morning and taught me that Adlai had killed himself, by fear of cancer, and Camille was en route to attend the very restrained funerals, in New York. Not long after, I received notification through the company’s legal channels and a message from Melchior that said that my assignments to SEVEN STREAMS remained unchanged. I thought of Camille, who had had to overcome the tragedy of suicide, since her young age, and might have guessed what that Adlaï’s last move towards her, had meant. I had known a pert old faun, gentlemanly enthralled of our arses, rich as Nebuchadnezzar, I would sympathise with Camille’s mourning, although, deep inside, I knew nothing of that, I had never.
Fanny was entrusted with the holy tribe, for the while, she loves Delffan, but Kate had been her windfall saviour from traffickers, and she longed to relive her great intuition in her arms, in the girls’ grand bed, or with me and Delffan behind the studio’s sofa I’m ashamed I have been squatting for a long welcome, now, but it is only a matter of days to plug my custom broadband switcher to the most up-to-date backbone light snake ever. Melchior promised, meanwhile, I’m on watch in case the critters sought revenge on SEVEN STREAMS, I only await this to slaughter them.
Sarah comes by, she has a composed visage expression, and splendid assertive features, drawn brows, thick lashes, gem-blue eyes with a darker rim, a short Greek nose, a childish mouth in a pale narrow mask, but most of all, one feels she has known cohorts of other beings like her, unclouded —and that is not true, she has avowed—.
When she heard of my unfinished course, she came to tease me about her dad being now a teacher at Lausanne’s University, in that we could go together to his comfortable house on the lake, but I had to tell her that I quit Lausanne on a botched passion with another girl, and I felt terrible about her. She volunteered herself as goodwill comrade, in case, but then, she had already unclothed my whole belly, and she is awfully skilled at that game. We pretend to discover each other, marvel at limbs, long harmonious muscles, for the tenth time she says I should settle my circus in the gym room to rough up the cardio machine, and I laugh when she wonders how I make my thighs so lithe? Sarah is so clean…

 

Kate says:

It felt more graceful to forewarn Theo of my call to Australia, other than the gentle gossip we do once upon a season, I had decided to ask expert advice to Cynthia about one of her owns, I had come to feel more implicated than Delffan would imagine, oneself.
I let Cynthia choose the right time, so, it was around 12:00 when I saw her in her out of shower tee-shirt, sporting the same reassuring smile she left me when her family went into exile. Only now she was not only my recollections, but she was also a luminary, of all reasons, on the matter she bore so well, and I knew. She questioned me, mostly beyond my knowledge of Delffan’s truth, she inquired if one was safe with us, active, bustling, and concluded that she would crave talking to one head to head, if I let. My laptop had been on our bed, I ran up to the studio, grabbed Delffan and asked her, like in a game, to only speak to my friend from Australia —she had heard of Cynthia, unconcealed,— and she had the wits to handle a faraway conversation with someone, after all, not older than me. I let them natter and shut the door.
One hour or so later, our round head, who had been growing new tiny blond strands climbed up, sat on me and thanked me for all she had guessed I had not told Cynthia about her, in a hug, I retorted I was not one to tell what I did not know, and now on, only her would share whatever they chose to. Eventually, she dropped that Cynthia would love to come over for a few days if we invited her. We swore we would make it a celebration, and I slid along Michelle to retell her my long affair with Cynthia.

As planetary communications go today, Delffan had fast and deeply bonded with the providential savant in one’s own social uneasiness, someone whose introspection had never been poisoned by scaled neurons, like one’s parents. The two expected eagerly some physical encounter, and Michelle welcomed inquiries about her own natural draw to the gracile stray genie.
As to myself, I had grown mostly around anomalous sexual expanses, in the social void our bizarre parents’ abode, although in the easy spending tiers of the bourgeoisie. And my seasons with Cynthia and my brother, be it on the Alster meer shores in Hamburg, or the dazzled sands on Amrum island, or Sylt dunes, had tempered the metal of my soul beyond preconceptions —set aside my deadly pitfall in the bunkers of addiction, wherefrom my white knight Sarah had known to haul me, pitiful slag—. Now, the brilliant Doctor from Sydney, Australia, was piecing together, in a shambolic manner, the living theatre that her envoy Theo had dodged reporting, while he cruised the gilded salons of his mentor, in search of bygone eras.
So, Cynthia bravely prepared for a comprehensive survey of our evolutive eco-saga, at least the description of our adaptive sexual behaviours, anyhow I sensed she was altogether aroused. Little did she glimpse a planetary covenant, a smooth operating alliance of self-aware peers in modern days debauchery, but these consonances she would comprehend by herself, at her pace, I had no clue what level of scrutiny she practised under.
Within a week, Melchior had sent a special team to finalise the high calibre connexion needed by the TRÆVIX operation, they had tested all Michelle’s contraptions and sent a rave report, actually applying themselves to serve at her orders, possibly.
The small canyon behind the sofa reverted to its nondescript dust-trap visited by diverse housekeepers, but Delffan kept barging, deftly, at any hour. Cynthia was announced, she would temporarily dwell in Theo’s extra room.

Theo and I went to Charles de Gaulle, meet Cynthia, after her full twenty-four hours inside the 380, happily, her research fund had afforded her a business seat. It was early afternoon, but the crowds at airports always look out of sync. She was eventually let in, Theo ran before I singled her, very short black hair, parted on the high forehead, light tan from a summer season, eager stare like she had only thought of one thing, these last turns of the clock.
She rolled a big soft bag, the car had travelled around to come back pick us up, she smelled of a hasty towelette clean-up, she tasted airline coffee, she was back from another planet. Theo was no more untamed than usual, but he demonstrated far more respectful distance than me, obviously.
At home, Sarah was won over at a glance, she had heard a long tale of Cynthia’s, but she was not disappointed. Only then did I perceive the sisterhood I had let grow on me when Sarah had made her move

Like a cat, Theo sat at the far end of a couch. I offered the traveller to take a shower with me, and Sarah, as it happened; she needed massages, among many things, and groping a new slim tomboy. As we dried each other, cries told us that Delffan had felt her friend had disembarked, she offered to run and pick up lunch at Agnete’s, Sarah called out to organise just that and brewed some tea, and coffee.
She was overawed by our installation and the laid-back beauty of Sarah —who had swayed her hips in the shower— so I had to sketch the lines of my becoming since Hamburg, art school, the Beaux-Arts, meeting Sarah, Camille, Hugo, and the companionship. She would meet a few boarders of our own Thélème, all safe and willing. But if she needed to converse intimately with Delffan, she might wish to do that in the quasi-fortress she lived freely in, with her lover, in the next street, and was mostly luxuriously empty; and since there were no comings and goings, she might recover from jet-lag by napping anytime —Delffan was very tolerant to other people’s schedules—.and she would meet the prodigious Aviator, and fall in love. By the bye, she had been announced to our common clinic, where she could manage much of the medical investigation she might wish, or be dispatched to bigger units, no questions asked, no fees.
All her northern hemisphere planets aligned, she begged for a landing nap and was soon greeted by tiny purrs of a round-headed pixie.

When it sounded obvious that the reciprocal soul-searching had interlocked for good, through some idiosyncrasies in language, for neither actually spoke the other’s vernacular, but compensated the pitfalls with a tide of centripetal affects, at the risk of disqualifying the scientific rigour of Cynthia’s observations. But their encounter, after many Zoom preliminaries, had shunned foreseeing of the psycho-analytical kind, at the root, and there had been no neurosis to quench, as a start, Cynthia would soon appreciate the smooth arrangement between a four-eyed hyper-brain and a rare bustling orchid.
We had withdrawn to our still abundantly geranium-orange smelling studio, morally petting each other amidst polyamorist musical harmonies, streaming from Soma FM, brewing Oriental Beauty — Her Majesty’s— pecking at thin lemon cookies. A dusk reddish gleam waned behind the linen veilings, I could not assign my attention to no other than feel Sarah’s pulse in her slender neck, and so, without much words, we tidied our table sides and decided to propose a welcome bash in the TRÆVIX fortress, before Michelle forgot.
The two miraculous does breathed each other’s air, their eyes twinkled; they had been utterly grateful for our timely effacement. Theo had disappeared; at the relief of a loose dress code —Michelle would most casually see us in one of her white tracksuits— Cynthia fetched a saffron yellow texture knitted gown, buttercup tights and poppy red boots, to go with a black silk wide collar trench. Delffan borrowed a periwinkle ensemble of marinière and slim pants, mismatched Converses, pastel blue and marshmallow purple, and a navy blue pea coat then sat waiting upon one’s conquest’s lap. Sarah grabbed a vintage Kenzo faux-fur printed of an oversize blue fox, cashmere rib-knit silver ash leggings, and grey  Jodhpur boots. Aware of cold thrills that watching my old flame enthralled with the living epitome of candour, I slid in cloudy grey cashmere tights, a heavy marsh green silk bourette, army style easy shirt, almond green laced ankle boots, and a hooded parka, printed of foliage tapestry pattern, lined of cypress green wool. We all groped each other and climbed down for the expedition around the corner.

At the entering of the code, the pedestrian door buzzed open, Michelle asked that we bring up the boxes that rested on a side table; when the street door locked back, the heavy black steel and glass wicket sprung aside, causing Cynthia fright and our laughs: Welcome to TRÆVIX 101, This place is under constant scrutiny, its owner is a shy blonde who wears glasses and loves Delffan, too. She was standing at the house’s door, with one of her slanted smiles, in a thick fleece tracksuit, barefoot.
A dark-skinned Asian type boy took the delivery boxes from us and disappeared, the Chihuly chandeliers and hidden light sources bathed the empty salons like the inner of giant crystals, Cynthia imitated us, left her shoes, and dared a few steps of dance on the pristine old rugs, earning a friendly opening by Michelle, who was hugging her pet goblin.
As we moved through the scenic ballroom, she complained Gauthier had been otherwise busy than looking for dining furniture, he had ideas, and we should keep our Windsors. I took Cynthia’s hand to dance a little and make obvious the kind of relationship we had. Sarah stood alone looking outside, Delffan invited her in their embrace and forced Michelle to respond to a wild kiss. So then, Cynthia needed a tad more details, for she tended to think that not many houses in Paris, besides ageless estates, felt like this one. delaying my fierce want to undress her fully right there, I wondered if Michelle would let her see the upper floor as well, and we visited the impressive control room, the function of which the charivari on the screens left no doubt,
In the cloud room, Delffan sat on the scattered futon and told Cynthia this was the place where they could have their talks, among others.
In the middle of the oriental dream room, a large round, ornate, silver tray had been set upon a low round table, with all the nibbles on porcelain plates, in orderly spirals. We sat easy, Delffan had shown us a trove of generous cushions under the stairs.
Cynthia was disconcerted, the rigorous logic of the scientist was called upon, not that she would prejudge Michelle’s capacities, but here she was, her biological clock upended, and in the middle of a fairy tale décor, playing peck-a-bite with a club of ravishing lesbians who had just been pretending to remotely control the world. While Delffan frankly groped her, she began asking her questions to Michelle, in an order that sounded awkwardly like your standard test battery that Michelle burst in laughter, and did the whole argument by herself. She offered to show a reticent Cynthia the whole network of her hospital, in Sydney, inside out, and scan through it for malwares and bugs, that, exactly, would be her trade. My proud wayfarer shied back and only responded to Delffan’s cuddling, jesting she had been expecting the mad hatter.

 

Sarah says:

That smartly outspoken antipodean sister, with her catchy accent, had, of yet, been looking upon us as spoiled kids with naughty manners, whereas she had condoned Skype coquetry with Delffan on account of one’s nature —had there been cameranigans? Anyhow, Cynthia’s image did not come in sharp focus over that of Katherine’s nostalgic rêverie, running bare on virgin sands; she seemed no less of a Martian than Michelle on a keyboard, until I fucked her, too, or rather her, me.
I joined Kate flirting with our hostess, who likes my foot massages —it’s in the genes— while Delffan was actually funny, retelling her stray life to a thawing Cynthia. For myself, the siren’s moves flinched none, I still felt the novelty shudders about her, pulling her pants away, and her shorts. She moaned lazily, stretched up, and ordered us two upstairs, letting Cynthia ogle her blond nether.
Of course, she had been abstracted, over some of her multidimensional routines, but thence, we took it as part of her charm, and I could not fathom how such a facetted mind as Victor’s had missed a refined voluptuousness as this. In her own blinkering holy of holies, infrangible Faraday cage, she revelled in our expenses of cuddles, much like an unborn child in its mother’s palms, and moreover, she saw the humour of it all, for so long as nought would break the drawn glass effusions, in her earthly embodiment.
After she took a pose in her work chair, legs apart and feet on the counter’s edge, so as to let me nibble at her peachy pearl, and Kate infuriate her tits, she climbed down to gambol on all fours like a puppy, thirsty of our quims, wholeheartedly blooming.
She begged for us to stay and sleep, in a concealed cupboard was a folded futon, the silence was absolute.

When we woke, it would have been eluding of when and where, only that it was Kate I was cuddling, her hair over her face. In unspoken ritual, we needed to pee, so after a few blank seconds, I gathered the coordinates I recalled, the wall of glitter, the thin blonde on her perch, the recess in the far end wall. Sitting on the bowl and feeling that faintest feel amidst the twirly glimpses of a happy Michelle at our keen mercy, and Kate menacing of let go if I would not budge. We rinsed our mouths and drank some tap water, then went back to the collected wizard at her pitch, back in her white tracksuit, her lithe body all the more desirable and unavailable.
Our rags had remained downstairs, we found them tidied in a pile, we slid in a mere minimum, and headed to the kitchen, where all we needed awaited, tea, fruit, pastries in a basket. no sign of the nonpareil pair. The heavy kitchen table and chairs offered some testimony of some reality, the tea, from an unidentified black tin caddy, probably came from an ethereal climate in Darjeeling, the Danish rolls bore amber crystals of sugar. Our messages told us we would obtain reaps of news later in the day, we collected our shoes, met no hitches fleeing the silent redoubt, our own observatory had been neatened, it smelled of benzoin, as in attention of Lena’s.
Back in our marks, another warm cup at hand, we still marvelled at the gift our windfall aviator had granted our eager, lustful, nerve nets, even so, I would relish catching a dick, as a worthy epilogue, and Kate sighed.
Lizon called, she sounded giddy, but she said we might enjoy listening to what she had lent herself to, and I needed no more details, she would come to us. She arrived at once, in a slutty shirt dress of dark night bourette, bare legs. She had cut her hair shorter, wore no makeup, and the lilac shade rings under her eyes made her gazes lascivious, in the light of her youth.
Sami, of Marc’s, of whom she knew what to hear, had called sneakily the previous morning, offering her an easy and lucrative gig, said he, if she agreed that the fees would entail to let him play her in the car, like old times he kept craving. We both moaned at the thought, she burst into kiddie laughter. He had picked her up, much as we saw her, then, on the red couch, but in a poppy red duffle coat, crotchless night blue tights, black Chelsea boots. He had been struck, he had not seen her in months, he wanted her to touch him right away. There was this old gent, filthy rich and smelling good, just like him, said he, forcing her face to his dancing little soldier, who liked to be peed on his face, and so on, to real sodomy, but she knew the kind of tune. Sami drove to some disused warehouse in the outskirts of Paris, called a number from the portal that opened instantly, so he entered, still in her mouth, until he stopped in the middle of a huge empty room, and ordered her to make him spurt, and swallow, as she did.

A first fit thence released, Sami had taken a soft kerchief to her lips and kissed her lengthily, moderato cantabile, like the precious little whore she was, disrobing her carefully on the one-piece leather seat that looked like it had been warmed by so many bums like hers, explaining playfully that she should preserve a decent outfit for the next cavalier. She had opened her legs wide, aroused by the low hum of the engine idling, like old times, had he said. He had licked her nooks and creases, she smelled wild, she would have no means to shower clean, at what Sami retorted that it was her john’s taste, he wanted her as desacralised as a bitch in heat, dripping of all her holes, and he had laughed while threading her in deep. She was retelling joyously, how his words had unbound her wants down the brook, and she had spilt her female sap, amongst his furore.
They had wiped their lewd traces, this car smelled like a kennel, he told her he could have gone on, of all the trollops he feasted on at Marc’s, she was one to whom his mind returned, and he had already wanked at the thought of her, in her neck, he had whispered there were others.
She had used a ready towel to dry most of her skin, he watched her, standing on bare concrete, redressing her utilised body, chewing her lips in the courtesy mirror.
The house had been a proud old nineteenth-century hotel, in the midst of the right bank, as it seemed, Sami had walked her to the front steps if only to make sure there was no mistake and had fled respectfully. A podgy character bearing moustaches ending in sideburns, holding a gold-rimmed lorgnette, had invited her in the tall, dark panelled foyer,
haunted by religious kitsch paintings of the pornographic kind, with many Sebastians hustling the frustrated Christians and Magdalenas gazing from under. He told Lizon to undress, piece by piece, to unbutton the dress, slowly, he sniffed her, here and there, with little growls, and he started to scold her, in all the small names prostitutes are granted with. He relished the pale skin, the striking deep carmine painted nails. He was bedazzled when he saw her minutely epilated pussy lips in the white circle the tights let see.
He wore a theatrical crimson and black smocking jacket with large padded satin lapels, wide black crepe trousers and monogrammed slippers, he told her to quit her boots, and took advantage of that move to feel her butthole and moaned of compliments that he found her crotch wet all over, with that beastly perfume, wherein he dipped the heads of the ridiculous plastic religious tchotchkes, he took, aligned on the edges of shelves anywhere around, and softly wanked her with them. He promised Lizon he had thoroughly disinfected his toys with hydro-alcoholic gel, earnest.

She was amused, indeed, and we had long left our seats to join her on the couch; she smelled of yellow cliff bushes and wild roses, my vice purred into her armpits as she got animated. The three of us had undressed but we restrained our cuddles in order to let her tell further the lewd tastes of Dr Pickwick.
Still scenting the smear of sperm and effusions, overflowing of metaphors on her skin, making her tell-all she had been submitted to, he had pulled a prie-dieu between her parted legs, as she reclined on a burgundy buttoned silk settee, so he could lap at every drop that smelled
Once that she bathed in his own wretched saliva, he seized her firmly, but not in a manner that would bruise her admirable skin, and he tied her to a sturdy column trunk, that had obviously stood there for that purpose, feet on the sides, hands behind and the neck, thus she could not bend forward, he had used an antique oak stepladder, and he was still insulting her like a grave. She became concerned with the noose at her neck, but she couldn’t already speak or cry anymore, and then he began tickling, and watch her contortions, until he opened his jacket and rubbed his glans on her labia, not without effect, but she was fainting, he hurried to untie his plaything, laid her panting on a convenient daybed, lifted her legs apart, and shagged her silly, in both her holes, while she moaned.
I wanted to check her neck, as I had seen nothing weird when she had wooed us, the slick bastard had probably used a padded collar, and not pull as fiercely as she had felt, we scrutinised every bit of her pale skin, her quim, her back hatch, she was still as pristine as an expensive courtesan, that she was.
He had kept his pasty round belly concealed under his shirt, he trotted on scrawny short legs, but his gazes remained fierce, as he brought a silver tray holding a crystal pitcher and two high tea glasses, for what looked, and tasted like iced lemonade with mint and angelica, through the dewy tears. it eased her throat somehow, and she smirked when she sussed at what it was intended for, but he had honeyed his tone and preened her like a dove.

Pulling up his vast old fashioned shirt, he told her to wake Johnnie with her candid mouth, sitting beside him, so he could fondle her arse with some smooth medicinal balsam that let her open wide soon. He forced a few more glasses and also indulged himself, switching glasses to show the drink were not laced.
She had known a few of these refined bathrooms, these odd boys often cleaned her virtue in the process of soiling it most, it all ended in heady vapours and thick terry robes, her innards in bloom.
This one led her to a small Moorish hammam, all clad in bare cedarwood, the artesonado octagonal ceiling, luring the eye up to infinite layers of dark heavens, having most certainly been stolen from some Mudejar palace. The polished white marble floor was warm, he took away his shirt, hugged her as he reclined on his back on a bed of weaved straps, making her ride his shaft in her arse, teasing her to pee over him, as he was, actually, peeing in her, in a scented cascade of the infusion they had been drinking. She was madly exhilarated, he pinched her tiny buds as she gushed of all her effluvia, she sobbed of laughter and he went ecstatic, for as long as she repelled the flow out of her guts.
They had rested, spent, in the shifty vapours of their lewd game, he held her firm upon his peaceful heart, mumbling his rosary of insults as a way to lull her. Then he stood up, still holding her like his buoy, grabbed a gold chain with an ivory fish handle and pulled a large shower head upon them, and by mean of a jolt of the chain, triggered a whip of cold rain that all gradually warmed to perfection, rinsing the whole party ring and them, dancing, Lizon reclined upon the protruding paunch, as he soothed her in jasmine and neroli foam.
Here and then, convulsing in laughter, kissing and licking every bit of her, we all needed practical work, at what we would certainly not be called debutantes, and Lizon had foreseen that manner of conclusion all along, our shower shack certainly was a tad more pared-down, but it sufficed to the throes of three heated graces in passion.
She had been paid a Royal ransom, one that would have made my little Swiss fiancée envious.

 

Camille says:

It had been eerie, mournful bleak days, although the sun had spread its golden satin all over this cumbersome lot of a city, although my stay in the Greenwich consoled my dismayed soul, once the plague of inevitable paper works Adlaï had left for me to sign was dealt with, at his notary’s office, I was also given a red cardboard box containing his Rolex watch and a rather cumbersome class ring I did not remember him wearing. The watch was still going, I slipped it on my wrist, it was heavy and loose, I liked the untidiness it cast; I thought it was a quartz model, I did not feel a balance wheel in it. I dropped the ring in my inside pocket. The all but ceremonial cremation he had organised himself on Bleeker street, was actually boxed, as a warm silver cylinder, in a well-fitted black crocodile case, I had shrewdly enough cornered Mathew L. Mulder, attorney at law, in my suite with a Martini and, firstly, stolen his tie.
I hope it had made no doubt to him I was a slag, of the rich kind, as he just witnessed in a few days. but I pulled my best core tricks to hijack his attention on my bare feet, and higher up, where my knickers had gone astray. On top of brilliant professional capacities, he revealed some snappy wits, but let me do all the walk to his fly, which nonetheless was already stiff under the posh blend of his Brooks Brothers.
He revealed a good kisser, too, and I found myself all bare in no time, wet as a dream. Holding me firm on the bed, he could not help his dich straight inside for a good row of thumps, but he reconsidered, kissed my eyes and whispered that I deserved anything other than a hussar shag if I would. He wore cufflinks, and golden toes socks, he smelled of an enthralling manly Cologne and his glans dripped of clear lube. I climbed upon ten years of working up, worthy of a wrestling scholarship at Yale, and impaled myself on his unfazed prick, for an off-chart ride to the heated salute for a father that never was. I made it last all night, after all, he was the only one that could have asked for me, in the whole Gotham brownfield. He dared not flee in the morning, I ordered breakfast, he liked toasts and marmalade, he looked at me, in my transparent jersey gown, as if, like he most certainly had experienced before, I was about to sack him. I just dropped, matter-of-factly, that i could personally very well work with a person I had fucked, even a very good and skilled time, and moreover, I would never become conflicted with him or his firm, would I? He breathed, smirked, looked in my eye and asked if this was the French way?

Mathew groped me some, but I told him not to bustle his schedule, I would meet him at their offices for the ten o’clock meeting, before the opening of Adlaï’s safe, at SEVEN STREAMS. They had a sealed envelope with the code in it, for me. My champion and I played cool, even more than he might have expected, as my wealth and social surface and expanded, under their eyes.
The security of the safe was a multi-tiers combination, with permanent records in the cloud, this wasn’t Hollywood. It contained the kind of property titles of which Fuchs, Brauer and As already detained certified copies, but there was one white cardboard box sealed with red ribbons and wax imprints, to my name, that I brought back to my room.
I was returning the next day, I offered dinner, and else, to Mathew, who could still taste me on his lips, he agreed wholeheartedly and went on to his day.
At the Greenwich, I ordered a fruit salad, almond crisps and a pot of oolong. They had lent me a New Yorker tote to carry my box, and now I wanted to know what was inside, disarmed, I asked for some kind of sharp steak knife, and no, my husband was already dead.
Inside the white box, was another, older, cardboard box, with, in it, a black textured leather casket shielding a precious book, for all I knew printed or written in Hebrew, of which pages stuck out a thin band of paper bearing ” To be read in France”, in Adlaï’s handwriting, thus I repacked cautiously the mysterious gift from beyond and tucked it in the midst of my bag.
This young all American bachelor had rekindled my guts, and, beyond that night’s expected expenses, I devised to lay a trap to take him in my plane to Paris, where he might even make friends with some of my entourage. Melchior agreed, he would charge SEVEN STREAMS, and he added that he could watch whatever we did on the plane, to what I saluted a joyous “Gesundheit, Melchior”! And it would be my pleasure to let him peep at my lusty lawyer in practice!

Opening my dress in the cab, he dared not question the lifeways I gave him glimpses of, he would see to that as it would surface, and meanwhile, he had liked the song I sang. In my suite, I offered him a glass of old Armagnac, while I drank my brew of angelica and cardamom with honey like a spinster had he thought, and what did he know? How would he like to learn that all the little alley cats in my backstreet parlour were peachy fresh teetotallers?
After a trip to the toilet bowl, I had forgotten my knickers, puffed up my curls and quit my boots, he enjoyed it when I came back and sat opposite to him, not crossing my legs. College had not ruined his manners, he was sipping the out of price liquor at a sensible pace, contemplating his prey beyond the thin crystal where the suave waves rolled, but he wished not to let my want to wane, so he tilted the sniffer two and a half times, and sliding forward on the sofa’s edge, he grabbed the tip of my toes, and thence grazed my stocking up to my smiling sanctum. Finishing touches make all the price, the buttons of my dress yielded the way at a left-hand pinch, as I stole his tie and groped his muscular neck, while I stretched my legs upon the armrests. He nuzzled in my armpits and said I smelled awfully sexy, and a flurry of dirty adjectives that let me think he had been thinking of our first night, so I told myself I had better share this champion with some of the squad before he turned up obsessed with me.
Him too had shirts of the good make, I swiftly despoiled his glorious anatomy, with the funny fantasy that I owned it, which might have resulted in the apparent counting, whenas I only afforded the dizziness of being his, only never more the nauseating manner of my wretched seasons, when I let be done whatever earned me a bath in a hotel bathroom, so as to, later, properly woo another faceless monger, a notch further on the money scale. This tik-tock never needs winding up, where it lives, deep into the blue stone of my skull, all the more greater arousal to reach for this one, toll-call educated cock, at my unabated vice.
Mathew earnestly executed what he ought to, shag me straight and bold; he was a steadfast wrestler, with damn filled balls, and all the nerve to follow his catches. When we had all dampened our crotches, he asked permission to bugger me on, and thence I let a loving tirade flow upon his glaring face, while he sheathed his spurring weapon in the shuddering warmth of my unfading cunny.
We played under the shower, he softly opined I had been declaiming my wants in the French language, and it had felt glorious to him.

The flight was at 13:00, I took breakfast downstairs, Mathew showed at 9:00 and I let him time to taste his pot of coffee before I called for the cloud nine limousine I were, now on, entitled in, it had been Adlaï’s, and it rekindled the refined manners he had always demonstrated having me, that unrivalled spell he bestowed our incestuous romance with, whereas he had always known I were a boundless courtesan. I might have relished retelling my Hamilton fate to the Greco-Roman, lavender-scented bachelor, seated upon the very same leather a dignified Jewish cardsharper of my forebears had made me suck his elegant prick, might I not?
As the weak sun of winter chased us, up to the George Washington Bridge, as I had seen Adlaï do, I pushed the button to blind out the partition pane, and played with Mathew’s unending stiffness —only Fulgence, lately, had propped up to my nose such a playful tool— but I kept my resources for the long smooth hours above the Atlantic skies.
Mathew was not such a novice that he would not have flown private number of times, on assignment, better yet in gallant company, but he was genuinely discreet, and otherwise, I did not feel he feigned the excitement to fly alone with the well-dressed slut that he still shagged a few hours ago.
In the hushed ambience of the boarding salon, many gloomy faces awaited us, two customs officers in black uniform and otherly three cheap suits. They checked our papers and announced they would search our luggage, our electronic devices, and ourselves. Mathew spoke up and claimed he was a lawyer and wanted to see a warrant, although he knew the customs had absolute power, and the three FBI agents remained impassible. I declared they could search all they wanted, under the security cameras I bravely pointed at. My bags were scanned, they scrutinised Adlaï’s old book, I told them where it came from, they scanned it, too, along with our clothes, belts, shoes, and they inquired about the silver cylinder container with a screw-on top: they retched when I casually told them whose it was, and the ring still in my inner pocket.
For the funky part, I enjoyed two fingers of a not too ugly ponytailed customs officer deep in my anus. They asked for our NIPs, we refused, but they took out the SIM cards and cloned them in a big telephone looking device, they scrutinised our watches and our key rings, after a while, I was teasing them, because, to me, for all I knew, this whole operation was a prank, and I would sue for harassment. Anyhow, Mathew fumed too, and required that everything be tidied back in place, the three dull Caballeros had fled, We had lost one hour, been violently molested, for nothing. Dumbfounded, we boarded, earnestly not knowing what had been going on, Mathew demanded that the security videos be uploaded to his office; he cursed there was no more fourth amendment protection in American airports.

Our attendant happened to be Bengali, young and dedicated, the kind you might have tipped at the Ritz. Lunch was in order as soon as we reached flight altitude. As we ate the Caesar salads and cheese plates that had been kept cool in the car trunk since the driver had collected them at Hudson Clearwater, Mathew began to stare at me, again. I had been wearing a plain lichen grey cashmere Garbo smart streamlined outfit, with high-waisted, cuffed flared trousers, a thin jersey marinière and wide lapels one-button jacket grey socks and loafers.
Given green light from the cockpit, we both called our bases in New York to forward our complaints as to the unexpected search by customs and FBI, at SEVEN STREAMS, the feds had asked for me a few hours back. Then I had a hunch to call the TRÆVIX number and recorded the essential of the events, in case Michelle would want to look into it; twenty minutes later, the copilot asked me, and Mathew, on a piece of paper, to take off the sim cards of our telephones, and keep them wrapped in our diaries, somewhere. Once it was done, he said that Mr Melchior had called the plane’s secure line at the demand of TRÆVIX Paris. After that, I asked in aparté to Mathew if he would check my bumhole for a bug?
With a cup of the finest mocha made in a Bialetti, came a box of chocolates from, Royce, I pulled my socks away. and told Mathew to sit next to me, to compare chocolates. And we caught up where and what we had left, in the car.

That, he had never been doing in a jet in flight. There was the idea of a remote thrill, like played Victor when he exposed you to the voyeurs and the passers-by, and his clutch was such that you came despite the awe, and shame would have been so smooth to act out. Mathew was completing his appropriation of what I offered and began to grasp it would remain a game, possibly endless, but eventually, I belonged to no league, Between fits of febrile rage, I began to set up the theatre he was about to know, in a way that he knew the characters shared each and every other, that meant me, in that free will polyamorist utopia, to what he was under none coercion to abide. After all, he was only, there, fucking a client, as it happened, a cute, rich and with a lot of clout, he would reckon.
As I lay, in lulls, among Mathew’s bone-wrecking embraces, overtly lewd to the worse, I dreamt up the outcome in the almighty’s pants, I already devised enticing Hugo to ask for an upload of the video, while I would serve him in flesh. As for then, my clean wrestler shone of all the flair of his unerring upbringing, and I knew my criteria, having had to cope with crowds of paying customers of my enduring bloom. Now that he had been let free rein on my romps, how this sharp gazed American born-vanquisher would he gulp he served his best shot to a well-versed prostitute? A long time gutter frog? Had he not sussed all along?

It was a bleak winter rain on Le Bourget, no delegation of sad square types on mission, but a shiny silver sedan with a smiling driver holding a same brand umbrella. A long, nightly landscape, all things considered, better than day, like skimming over a book of Saul Leiter’s, still in Mathew’s hands.
At home, Fanny and Natalia had prepared a formidable Tuscan ribollita, and bought a big loaf of nut bread that smelled of the ever-consoling smell of sourdough. I introduced Mathew as my American lawyer, in the subtle manner that let them, the cunning squirrels, guess what he was worthy of, howsoever.
From the landline, I called Michelle, and retold the twists and turns of our departure, she complimented the wisdom of the whole reaction to the inquiry, whatever the reason; she asked me not to put our SIMs back in place, before she could read and expurgate them of any weird stuff, she would later provide smarter phones of her own manner. It was late, but she invited us —what did she know of my boy? the next day. Hugo was overly amused in all this, but said he was proud of me, as he had always, said he; yes, he would beg for the video of my romps in the stars and we would comment together.
Evidently, Mathew, who took a proud disembarkation shower, in a little more time I could have swallowed of him some more, fell enthralled by the two nymphets at ease in silk jersey pyjamas that let be seen all details of their youth —particularly Fanny’s chubby pubis— and who simpered at him like whorehouse kittens. I could not help sharing my Fanny’s chair and hold her in the most explicit manner, which made Natalia feel the athlete in a terry robe was hers, and I would not deny it, but , Fanny still on my bosom, I grabbed the big round loaf and asked the swordsman to slice it for us, he admired the damascened German knife I was pinching by the blade, he smiled at me as if he woke from a reverie, rolling his eyes on the girls. To alleviate the tension I conveyed Sarah and Kate, possibly another of our gang, there were enough soup.

The rhubarb pie had been as subtle as a Bellmer caress, and I snickered softly when I discovered my lawyer’s hand in Natalia’s underpants —he had been warned— she had not run a risk that her cunning elders waltz off with Mr Quarterback, and my wink availed her permission to lead the subjugated knight to one of the guests’ room, Fanny would make my night, but first, I had to keep my team updated.
I had thrown down comforters on the divans, the four of us were fast to disrobe in the keenest no-pyjama party, and Fanny craved her saviour Kate, who smelled of almond and jasmine, as if she had been straight out of Hugo’s sheets on a Tuesday. Sarah sniffed me and told me, in the eye, that I had been naughty, she’s a gifted kisser, I dived back into my most feminine wants, she smelled of Egypt, at the jasmine harvest time, with a hunch of burned sugarcane, afar. After a day of having been threaded through and through, I mouthed her genteel quim until she cried mercy.
A tad vexed about not seeing yet my prideful catch, they acknowledged, on Fanny’s testimony, that Natalia might have taken rightfully what was hers as first found, they listened to what I could let float of my adventure, mostly the details of Adlaï’s end, of whom they kept a joyous memory, that he would have undoubtedly cheered. When I went to pee, along with Sarah, Natalia was still moaning, over there.

I had not yet visited Michelle’s bastion, and I was impressed from the sidewalk up. It wasn’t the grand scale of 60 Hudson, but the sounds of locks were scary, too, amidst a successful décor magnificently undertaken by Gauthier and his connections of wizards. Besides the visibly armoured doors and windows, the whole house was elegantly streamlined like a Fred Astaire set, with the priceless dare of a total Zuber panoramic, lit up by one of the largest Chihuly clouds I knew in a private place! I had no idea how fast Gaultier could make things spawn, I only guessed how much it might have cost.
The Mistress of the Realm greeted me warmly, she wore one off-white tracksuit I could have easily pulled down and held my arm all the time we climbed up to her full-fledged screen room. Swiftly, she asked for my phone and the SIM card that she inserted in a device much like the one the FBI goon had fetched. She was mumbling some Beatles song, and though I did not remember fully how things had spun between us, I groped her bum and she called me naughty, so I did not stop. She smelled her perfect geranium-orange Covent Garden mix, I nuzzled in her nape. She explained, in her jargon, all they had done inside the chip, so fast; she said they had not been FBI, but more probably NSA, and it appeared to concern her, although she allowed willfully my hand inside the cotton trunks.
We had sat down on the thick carpeting, she was about to get entirely disrobed, and she went on, they had attempted to write some tracker into my phone’s software, so, she would, for now, embed a new SIM, until she offered me a new phone, worthy of my responsibilities.
While she pulled my leggings in return, she asked if I had been entrusted with anything other —she had that smooth, fine grain skin with a subtle blond fluff, her discreet labia gleamed rosy like tangerine. I explained about the book, thence she became nervous, she needed to see it at once. I had left Mathew at home, not knowing what would Michelle say about my SEVEN STREAMS lawyer, so, on her telephone, I called Natalia, who was still woozy but grasped what I asked: Mathew —and her, if she would— were to come at once, with the box he would find in my bag, for that purpose, he would find a load of totes in the kitchen cupboard. Meanwhile, I gratified the smooth side of an otherworldly genius with a flock of raspberries on her belly.

Mathew had renounced the tie, a few more days with Natalia, and he would wear his shirt out of his jeans. She had rummaged through my wardrobe and borrowed tight-knit cashmere willow and pine green leggings, an almond green, scoop neckline, roving wool big knit oversize jumper, in what I did not resist feeling her slender bust as she giggled, easy child, she had nevertheless avoided the cold drafts in a stylish ash grey wool parka she might have stolen elsewhere. She smelled of a boyish fresh cologne, she deserved anyone’s attention, as always in our world, Mathew looked like an English Lord after a tough polo game, he smiled ecstatically, not knowing what kind of stare to grant me, as he handed me the packet. I moved up very close to him, and taunted to his face how lovely my young friend was, of universal approve, some would fly from overseas only to lick her toes, he agreed to thank me, irregardless.
The leather box had been made recently, and bore no writings. The book, bound in chased gold foil inlaid with pearls and gems, presenting the seven-lamps Menorah, with two lions sejant, in a temple-like frame, was rested on blue silk velvet. Michelle, behind her indecipherable eyes, had not told whatever she knew about this “beyond the death” envoy. I was struck by the fineness of her fingers, too, as she took out the treasure in hand, and began to manipulate it ever slowly, pondering. She invited us to follow her to what she called a workshop, down recent metallic stairs, behind a revolving panel next to the bathroom, a blind white room with a centre table and enough space around for us all, lit a-giorno from the whole ceiling surface. Michelle fetched a magnifier in the stealth cupboards around and a folded fleece mat. She no longer was in the least with us, she was in trance. The pages of parchment turned easily, the binding had been restored. She then installed a tiny camera on a flexible stand, while its pictures appeared on the wall we moved from. She explored the edges of every face, until she exclaimed “there”! And on the screen, we saw the thin alternate white and blue brim line along the inner hinge, behind the flyleaf. She found tweezers and pinched the normally invisible line, and tried to pull, it slid rather easily, and showed three flashcards beside one another, most possibly, what the sad goons had been after.

Michelle bore the smile of a kid who has found an Easter egg, she returned her stuff in her chock-full closets —where had all this come from?— rested the treasured book in its case delicately, and handed it back to me, saying it was a beautiful piece, and asking if I read Hebrew? I said Hugo might help some, Sarah said she knew a philologist, and I knew how well she knew him.
Our host joked there were chances she would switch to autistic mode for a good while, but we were all welcome to stay, there were two more guests currently upstairs, and Cynthia was sharing with Delffan somewhere on a futon. Gauthier popped up all smiles, flashing his royal mane at Mathew’s amazement; he cuddled Natalia who let him do, as per usual, and introduced him to her new American friend, my lawyer in New York: he presented himself as Michelle’s interior decorator, currently working on her two residences, 56Leonard still at the hands of the wiring team, a squad of highspeed Indians who kept talking to Michelle while they laid her traps; he guessed she was in the control room upstairs.
In the pearly grey dining room was a Tulip Saarinen table and a dozen chairs, the top of the table was in unusual bleached maple, said Gauthier, Michelle did not condone cold marble, this one came from the warehouse of one of his friend, who had stored it for aeons and had been too happy to sell.
I let my staple angels order some kind of collation, they knew where to brew tea , and coffee for Mathew, whom was lured to the kitchen by Sarah, in order to see for his taste, and was more or less raped, then , once the tea tray had been brought in place, abducted for his second time in France, at the nose of his last night’s fling, who was back at kissing Kate, anyhow.
Delffan thanked our inspiration, for she had been starving, she introduced Katherine’s Australian friend, Dr Cynthia Möhlitz, whom she had known since Highschool in Hamburg. I knew their story, I was happy to meet that splendid character, and , a second later, grasped what she had shared with the round-headed pixie whose lithe waist I groped, gently.

Michelle faded in, from the far side of her mind, barefoot and unkempt, she nodded her head sideways to see me alone; I embraced her, she had been in sweats in an arousing way, I had no other idea than to lay her. Back in her laboratory, she let me do her all, physically, but she was saying terrible things. We had the Blue Meanies on our backs, and she was going to wriggle back, in a manner they wouldn’t enjoy. I should not travel to America in the near future, the match could last a few months. She then alluded to the people we had befriended apropos of Fanny’s escape, and Sarah’s father’s intervention —how had she figured all that? She never seemed to pay attention— all of whom she would appreciate to spill the chips for.
So, she succinctly sketched a mental layout according to which Adlaï had forsaken levels of procedure as to the virtual core of his SEVEN STREAMS operation, thus letting free course through the commutations for illegal nasty software, operated by the grey fringes of the PTBs. I was already too scared to parse, but she went on. She opened Google view on a screen, hovering upon Tribeca, and, once I had situated 60 Hudson and 56 Leonard, she zoomed on an eerie all blind tower, at a stone throw aside, and told me this had been a giant switchboard for AT&T in the times they milked long distance communications for the whole world trade plexus. Just as 60 Hudson, it had been refitted, step by step, for the digital age, but whereas that one was optically playing fair to his client, 33 Thomas remained totally opaque, earning the rumoured nickname of NSA building. And now, there were fat chances that her, an overlooked four-eyed French minette, had trampled and again in the marigot, so much as to shy the big game away.
For sure, I felt an urge to pass on the grenade to trustworthy adults, and in the meantime, Sarah was busy shagging my lawyer on the sly, but there was one I could, of my own move, call, it was the pretty cop who had an obvious crush on Fanny, and never overstepped the line. I was being summoned to the lonely top, and I spewed some ugly swearwords at my dear uncle’s expense, him, whose ultimate ashes still slept in my bag, at home. My soul and bones refused to play this deadly imbroglio by myself, as soon as my lawyer were done making Sarah howl.

Out of the grey, this world had reshaped in its paranoid configuration, I were to cloister myself inhouse, but what about Fanny? I could afford her a permanent minder, that wouldn’t cost half of my lawyer’s fee to shag my friends, would it? Mathew did not want to know of the shady side of Michelle’s investigations, it was too blaring hot; there would be a grand meeting at TRÆVIX, with Melchior, Lars von Kettelaær, Hugo, Michelle and me, to hear and try to unscramble the leads our prodigy had debunked in the wires, and ,eventually, whose nerves had been tripped. During one of their prized lunches, Sarah had sketched out what I had attempted to explain when she ended in my bed, raddled but awake, while Mathew had vanished under the influence of Kate, Fanny and Natalia deep in the womb of Lethe.
Melchior had brought two of his executives, he liked Michelle’s den, he groped her like a war buddy, and she did not flinch. I had the best of connection to Lars, only a steel superego had prevented him to move in on me, but he was a world class litigator, a living god in his daughter’s eye, he behaved in utter elegance with everyone around the table. Hugo would be the genius of contingencies on the Paris grounds.
Katherine and Sarah had volunteered to play house girls —mainly watch for everyone’s drinks. Michelle laid out, drawing from a tablet to a large screen behind her the mysterious interactions she had ferreted out, from TRÆVIX, through SEVEN STREAMS and beyond. Lars understood that her operation knew no frontiers, she retorted that there weren’t actually any, only the botched intervention of apparent customs officers in Teterboro showed that the US government was after someone they labelled a trespasser, whenas one might only be a mere watchdog. In the aware silence of the others, Lars inquired of the legal scope of the two entities, which, to him, looked entirely like two sides of Michelle’s ability to juggle with code, didn’t they? He had pronounced his guess in a way that had the curly wizard blush behind her thick glasses. He turned to me, and noted every bit I could recall of the airport intervention, what, if any, sort of documents they had produced, anything. I usually extol my visual capacities and memorising skills, but then, I had not seen much, thinking of it, these goons might have been KGB, save the smell. Lars laughed and asked me about their scent, I told him they had smelled of frank lavender, to me , Russians always carry a hint of cabbage — as if I knew.

Melchior’s experts entered stage and exchanged rapid fire with Michelle who became more and more radiant, because she unleashed a prodigious amount of jargon and left them stargazing for crucial seconds, she sure had enthralled a few audiences during her academia seasons —what happened in Lausanne? Was Lars aware? He begged for a parenthesis to recommend, whatsoever the technical dimension, to morally and physically crouch down for a while, time for him to cast microphonic lines, just like a submarine in hunting, Michelle would provide safe channels for further appointments. He turned to me and asked if he could cast a glance on the book, and that’s how we all climbed up to the miracle room, there were a pair of white socks on the carpet, I swiftly picked and pocketed them up and, as an erotic token.
There were a few Aeron side chairs for us, after she fetched the book for Lars, she candidly showed us around the bunker, through the scattered cameras, and unexpectedly, too, a tender scene between Cynthia and Delffan, upon a colourful futon, oops!
Lars confirmed the book was some antique Jewish comment of the scriptures, probably brought to Amsterdam from Portugal, highly valued by one of his owners. I figured that Adlaï had thought it were the best hidey-hole for his great beyond secrets, mostly because of the gold shield.
Melchior took me aside to congratulate me on our onboard expenses, he wished we had some board meeting of that sort soon, I had no reproof against that, although he sure isn’t a bull, like my newly appointed lawyer, he has always found manners to make me forget I have ever been his whore, he is a master fucker, too. He called on his team, who were still drooling before the Madona Aviator’s visible navel, and offered a lift to Lars, who was indulging a dancing hug with his nimble daughter, letting me wonder about these two, but what do I know about fathers? Hugo expected a night of confessions between Fæbian and Lizon, in some new set of his shadow play, upon scented eiderdowns; he did not shirk away before greeting me with a sleight of hand in my thighs, foreseeing that our aviator would unleash her senses, that night. I kissed him a thank you, prophesying a royal parterre of little sluttish confidences, I really love those two damsels, too!

Then, I was on the brink of leaving, concerned about a new round of paranoia, but Michelle was enthused of her presentation, and would certainly let me unwrap her, when suddenly she froze, and asked me if there were other things I had received directly from Adlaï? I thought not, but I was already holding her narrow hips, in a move to pull down her pants, anticipating the heat her excitement had caused under there; yet, all at once, I recalled of the watch and the ring.
We ran downstairs to the workshop, she set her tools and scrutinised the watch, but I could not help groping her butt cheeks, so as she mumbled gentle reproaches, under the amused gazes of Sarah and Katherine who had heard our moves. The half-obscene Michelle claimed victory, extracting a new microSD card from a concealed slot in the watch’s side. Then, her butt was altogether nude when she explored the ring with the microscope, pressed a tiny tappet with a needle, thus springing the bezel open, on a fifth memory card, I embraced her from the back and reached for her moist quim.

She felt rich, guessing all the data engrams on the precious chips of silicon, but nevertheless, I had succeeded at my lustful undermining, because I had known she liked carnality, once sheltered, and I denuded her in the heat of her findings, lifted up on the workbench and made her gush on my tongue, as Sarah took her mouth.
But she was still nude, with her little tits alert when she plugged the card in one transitory laptop. The four of us together smelled like a rich salon in a parlour house after the action, I thought in profanity that if no one would recite Kadish for Adlaï, at least I knew he relished our manner of salute.
Dusk was early, Cynthia and Delffan descended from their cloud, Mathew, Natalia and Fanny rang at the portal, fresh as Scilly daffodils, I had no more reason to flee, all the more that Michelle was so emotional and seemed to have encompassed the cuddles in her moral well-being. Now that she felt she had all the tiles of a puzzle, and an array of machines worthy of a state, she returned to her safe position, lying against a wall, behind the door of her control room, scanning the new pieces for eventual booby traps.
While we sat on the ground, too, on cushions and comforters, listening to Cynthia’s edifying quest amongst the not-so rational medical spheres, having been joined by Theo and Gauthier, Delffan disappeared, but Sarah knew right away where to look, and found one, fast asleep, half-upon one’s star Michelle, who smiled of it.
I offered to transport ourselves to a place with plenty of large sofas and beds, all the more that Mathew was returning to the harsh realm of hard work next evening —and he had not yet shagged Katherine, nor Fanny— Cynthia would stay for the night, and recover her stuff at the girls’ in the morning if her main concern preferred to rest on Michelle’s feet. Gauthier promised that a fully furnished bedroom would be ready for her in less than two days, there were bathrooms already, not new but refitted; Theo was a tad chagrined, but Cynthia agreed to let him take her to the Louvre; he wooed Gauthier to finish the night with him, and that’s what happened. Mathew was somewhat confused but followed the attitude he read around him, and Katherine owned him, yet.
Things did not go exactly as foreseen, in my salon, I dozed off in a matter of minutes, and I suppose Mathew could not subtract the one he craved now from the group, so it remained a group, of which he would have served everyone but Fanny, for what I saw, but my pearl was far from innocent, was she?

I supposed they dared not disturb me, many hours later; I woke up nude, entangled in comforters and pillows, alone in the dark, with a need to pee. I felt light-headed, but perked up, like elated, to roam nude in my own home. I snooped around the bedrooms and was not disappointed. Here, my splendid lawyer revelled between two slim beached up naiads, breathing each other’s dreams; there, the dark satiny skinned Erik still coddled my own blond nymphet in a flight to the never-never; and last, in my own ravaged bed, a momentarily satiate Natalia rested her thigh upon the sinewy loin of Fulgence, that was where I lay, pulling on the duvet, sliding a naughty hand between her bum cheeks, to smell of their beastly deeds; she moaned and meandered her back against me, I closed my eyes.
When the whole apartment smelled of the scented vapours of everyone’s shower, and myself a longer one with a devilish Natalia, not so assured they had not in the least operated some sort of break-in, for Fanny’s whim about Erik’s muscular embrace, but I kissed all doubts away and made her pee on me. Mathew was back around me, awkward about returning home, I had to assess he had not met France per se, but a living fantasy instigated by a tradition of discreet —if powerful— heartfelt libertines: it might confer a useful backdrop to the work he would, on the clock, accomplish now on, for us.
Lizon and Fæbian, aroused by morning nymphets news, barged in, groomed up, and finished to despair the square-chinned solicitor, who must have then thought wonders of the new SEVEN STREAMS – TRÆVIX alliance. The car signalled it was downstairs, his suit had recovered its pleats, and there would be something of me, in the smell of his lavender Cologne.
Another set of pairs recomposed, except I took Natalia and Erik back to where I had found them, and he speared me through and through, so well Natalia had tamed her minders. They left in time to fetch her things at the castle and attend some privileged moments in her main teacher’s office, she had relished retelling me her manners to make pocket money.

Agent Marc L. called later, it took a while for me to single him out, Fanny’s bashful escort, she jumped up hearing he was coming to our home. She slid in hazy blue cashmere leggings, scattered with embroidered stars, and a silver-grey, chunky knit jumper that let one shoulder nude; she walked barefoot, I think she had come to know what would push the agent’s buttons.

Our beloved spook was overjoyed to see Fanny so alluring, it had been an angst-ridden operation when she had more or less been used as bait to wipe off some of the most heinous traffickers in the Mediterranean, now they knew the succession had taken over, and the new generation was fiercer, but they ignored old affairs of which they had nothing to fear. I avoided mentioning the endless aftermath, in Fanny’s life, so untraceable on a day like this one, but we were still the ones who would wait in Dr Méant’s green sofas.
Marc explained that the “services” had planted beacons around us and our allies, but had already noticed that our overall communications were already monitored with a technology overly powerful, unknown to them. Unbeknownst to him, he was absorbed in the contemplation of Fanny’s foot she had folded up on her chair, next to her pubis, well-delineated under the stretched knitwear. I offered to go along with him pay a visit to Ms de Cerisy, as he said, and I kindly warned him she was a bona fide prodigy, with bumpy social abilities, but a truly glinting soul. He visibly greeted my bid with relief, so I texted the request to Michelle, using the urgent flag. She approved of a visit that same afternoon, mentioning that Gauthier was taking delivery of some furniture in the reception rooms.
I was altogether proud of my pet pupil’s attitude towards a man she liked, although it fringed frankly on seducement, awfully arousing to watch; it might constitute a sensitive test of the services straightforwardness, so to speak.
A large truck had made it to the centre of the yard in Michelle’s lair, we had to wait sometime to pass the thresholds. We found Michelle with a headlamp, in front of many upturned sofas and ottomans, scrutinising every nook and cranny, a team of people in black overalls auscultating the wadding with black contraptions bearing lit dials. Gauthier, too, nosed the upended pieces, he explained that he was proud he found a formidable ensemble of three Poltrona Frau’s “Chester One” five seaters, in virtually pristine rosy sand full-grain leather; Michelle had cringed at the idea of second-hand furniture, but when she was told that it might take a year to build new ones, she bought these, and they had been scanning for stealth devices —times were tricky.

We sat in the control room, the screens were in idle mode, showing wall to wall slow-moving calligraphies, at the pace of a muted music. She scrambled her spectacles with the headlamp, letting us admire her true eyes for a few seconds, then smiled. Marc unflexed as if we waited for someone; he had not yet grabbed that he faced the whole of TRÆVIX, there and then. It dawned stealthily.
As we sat a few steps away from each other, I had to resume briefly my own process into SEVEN STREAMS, which, unrelated to my loose family ties, provided a necessary conduit for TRÆVIX’s endeavours on the planetary trade market, and, how, by my uncle’s choice, I had become the sole owner of the high-performance commutating company, that would not render transatlantic connections faster for TRÆVIX, but would execute on-site its remote high-frequency routines.
In the course of the preliminary explorations in anticipation of service, Ms de Cerisy, attending —there he came aware— put to light a whole array of dire irregularities in the commutators’ software, which she ferreted down and killed, earning herself a hefty bounty at the expense of the still-unidentified hackers she had deemed to have used governmental grade might. The intervention at Teterboro, against me and my lawyer, might only be casual, put apart it had gone well beyond routine search, reaching cold war times doggedness.
Marc mentally parsed the thorny brushwood he had just been dragged into and wondered aloud what Mr von Kettelær was pulling out of this, so I had to wake him to the fact that Lars, being related to members of the extended family, he constituted nonetheless a providential referee above whatever the spook vs spook game might provoke for abiding citizens like us, besides, we had kept a faultless record in Fanny’s case. However, he concluded that there was cause upstream to investigate, for the service’s cybersecurity personnel. Michelle smirked, and floated she might know them already, for she had been driven to cross their firewalls a few times, overall candidly, undetected; she would soon beckon them in a quiet online chatroom —that said in case it rang back to Mark’s ears, somehow.

As it was thoroughly acted that one was in one’s rightful home, Delffan barged in, unannounced, barefoot, wearing the same sort of tracksuit as Michelle, bringing us a tray of afternoon niceties with tea and coffee —had one known the straight, suited man drank coffee? asked that someone pull a side table and rested one’s nonetheless cute effort on it. Mark was troubled, moreover once told the newcomer, who lived with Michelle, bore no distinctive gender. I could tell the conversations with Cynthia had already emboldened one’s attitudes, and Michelle enlaced one’s hips while one stood a foot upon the other. I gave one a most approbative gaze, now Mark avoided fiercely to detail the gracile anatomy of our protégé. He asked permission to use his telephone, but the room was a Faraday cage, so he had to go to the next room, beside a window, give a succinct report of his whereabouts, while Cynthia, who mistook him for one of the crew, gave him the eye.
Back home, I found Fanny and Natalia in the buff, pampering each other like idle harlots, painting each other’s nails, and I sat there, in wonderment. I tried to call Mathew on his flight but was told he slept. Delffan had succeeded in arousing me, too, so I waited until the varnish dried, it was dark maroon on Natalia’s dainty toes, to climb up her unquenchable lithe body. Later, I invited Sarah and Katherine with whomever, to share one of those veggie smorgasbords, they ought to know my twists and turns, and Fanny liked when everybody ended nude in our home, and I let her fuck anyone she wanted, even Fulgence, or Eric, who arrived later, at Sarah’s invite.

 

Sarah says:

Erik had heard my invite a mite more personally than I would have implied, I had seen him bonk Elsie inside out and I did not reckon myself as good a shag, or that sort of border racist self-consciousness. We girls had been fiddling each other all the time of our little supper, so when he openly seized my thighs, I gave him an unfettered stare, while opening the way some more. I ripped his jeans and boxers, he smelled of allspice, honey, and grapefruit, Lebanese haschisch, incense, sweat, I rendered his prick as stiff as a loaded gun, and held it to my sulky labia wherein he drove his want in small bounces, so nicely adjusted that my plexus almost visibly sparkled. As in a festival encore, he remained taut in my flooded quim, and vindictive as a kid, thus I weaved and crawled to catch him in my bumhole, where he drew long bow strokes on my maddened nerves.
That had been a relish, we cajoled our spent bodies under the shower with only the invisible soap of our hands, I fear the excess of detergents, and if you rub long enough, you won’t smell bad, he agreed, stirring bubbles in my arse. Camille had reasoned with Fanny to come to sleep. Katherine and Natalia had exhausted Fulgence for a while, although he would still lurk near Fanny’s booty.
Howbeit, Cynthia had flown a whole twenty-four hours to see Katherine, too, and though she knew how shameless she was, she had not yet had a good thorough fuck with her. The two boys were still manful, enough for me, anyway, as long as Erik searched for my tongue and then looked at me. In the cab, Natalia rolled her loins like a beast against Fulgence, while Katherine devoured her face.
Rue de Verneuil, Delffan greeted us, the top of her bum uncovered, at hand’s reach, and she was wired as an eight-year-old brat. Cynthia made excuses for staying near her new baby and kissed Kate like old times, then came to me, as daring as a musketeer, soughing praises in my neck and a hand in my pants. She smelled, like all the bees in this hive, geranium orange of Covent Garden’s, on her, a shade more on the grapefruit bend side than the sweeter mandarine in Delffan’s collar.
Cynthia had agreed to stay upstairs, under the roofs, and Gauthier’s talent, at Michelle’s willful expense, had begun to enchant the attics with Swedish beds and beddings —no, Hästens beds— because it might be true that Swedes live longer, in their beds.

Gauthier was currently crazed, because Michelle had discovered that all, around her New York 56Leonard whim, there were suicide windows, at floor level, right over the void, that one could operate by hand, and so she had recalled reading of Eric Clapton’s tragedy, and now she had missioned her lawyer to break the sale, she would return to the Greenwich, and use the emergency room at the far side, in SEVEN STREAMS’ offices —because they would need her to— for the great relish of Delffan, who had never considered not returning to New York with her, in all the festal pump they had deployed; that was not truly the same bell tone  I had grasped from Camille, except regarding Mathew, as we all knew. This Leonard street mood swing was about to cost Michelle a million. There would eventually be another perch, in the meantime, I, myself, had begun mulling over some escapade in downtown New York.
These orgiastic sofas felt like they had always been where they were, a great U shape towards the windows, two grand spacious ottomans, with a lower level for books, currently providing a pedestal for Delffan’s poses, eager to watch how I would behave girl enough towards one’s new coach, so as one would slide one’s kittenish meanderings into ours, as one did. Kate undressed and crept to us with her best glow, Cynthia was spearing my easy arse as I offered my narrow haunches to Delffan, who queried one’s accomplice’s glance, too busy at my mouth while shagging me Heads side. It remained only one source for Kate, between Delffan’s butt cheeks.
Wholemeal boys in our party did not play each other’s fiddles, but the sofa was deep enough to let Fulgence crawl up Cynthia’s back and push in the hope to find a slippery hole, while his mate went straight in Kate’s. On the sided one of these decidedly ample rests, Natalia, laying on her back, stretched, impaled on Gauthier’s flagpole, waved sideways and diddled on her little nought.

The doors to the nerve centre were closed, but not locked, Michelle might have been sleeping, now that Natalia had repatriated her lucky pair of rascals, and Katherine was experimenting the attic’s new bed with her preternatural friends, I fancied an intermezzo with a prodigy. She wasn’t sleeping, amongst a ravaged futon, her midriff exposed, transfixed upon her special order black prototype unit, while the wall of screens repeated her commands. She did not flinch but asked me to massage her because a war was on, thus I was too tempted not to oblige, starting with her feet and some handiwork I master, I knew I would make her gracile anatomy howl, and she cried “yes”, so I pulled the pants. It was some kind of mystery that she had not turned into a potato, spending her days and nights mostly flat on her belly, the twist must have been she ate nothing and drank water, or tea, her preference leant on Gyokuro, the Japanese tea that pales under veils before being cropped, and brews into a light, but explosive inside, beverage —Delffan had tamed the very soul of these flattened leaves, for her mistress relished none other thirst quenchers than a Thermos flask of Gyokuro, by Delffan.
Nevertheless, I was at the ticklish handles of her hips, and it is a hyperversal pleasure to graze this temptation and not indulge, on the way to her pointy nerd nipples. She was still resting on her elbows, straining her shoulders under the weight of such a loaded skull! then, at a last, heartfelt keystroke, she turned over and begged for a kiss, acknowledging with her hands that I had been nude.
Her apogee in pleasure was foremost cute to watch, she made no sound, she rolled the pretty eyes in the crystal bubbles, and she fainted out like a wet rag, there was sweat at her temples.

In return, she was not so good at igniting my fuses more than I had that evening, but her mere skin aroused me, and I had known that already, in the times when I allowed myself upon a whole boarding school, some do you, some don’t, but you revel in what’s there.
Out of her vivarium, like a defenceless specimen of an unseen species, she was taking a piteous grin, as if I were to hold her in contempt for not being such a great slut as I.
Befuddled, she stuttered that I did wonders with her feet, and I seized the diversion of telling her how my dad had raised me up with foot massages, and we never asked ourselves if it were incestuous or what. That had been funny to her, she pulled closer and asked me for a hug, and keep recounting my childhood, at least the happy moments, so I warned her she would think of me as an even greater slag, and she seemed to have no ideas of our pack’s walks of life.
She had been bewitched by the mostly imaginary, self-serving chapter until my sixth year in Taarbæk, she loved the white-painted house on the Øresund, blond children running safely on the beach, the casual pride of the small country which did not think there was anything rotten in their state.
She shifted her gaze when I recalled the Kettelærs moving to New York, in the towers of angels, assailed by the high chimneys of the Con-Ed monster, the high terraces in the rusty heat or the vertiginous snow, and she asked about the parapets, in French the garde-fous, how high they were, and she held my neck as I told her I had grown fast, in a city of giants. After an absent-minded pause, grazing my blueberries, she bluntly laid she had renounced her whim in Tribeca   —but she would invite me at the Greenwich. It had been a fool headed whim, she had fancied themselves, nude in the high sun, flat on the uncompromised floor, until she understood that it would be easy to pull open these inconceivable doors on the void. She grabbed my hair at my temples, spoke fast and told me they had been two of them, in Lausanne, and her lover had jumped into nought, leaving her choking. Not a word.
She had been crying like a statue, I was left to freeze on my terrace with imaginary angels. I asked her if she wanted to tell me about her love, she answered they had been together since Princeton, eager to challenge the dickheads online, defying the codes and the rimes in the deadly straits of power altogether, but then she had gallantly erased her share of their endeavour and debugged Michelle’s own garden of routines, like one would have weeded around the cropped boxwoods, and the roses.
I had been taken aback, my chest wetted by her tears, that her untimely metaphors snaked into my own like she would have pervaded my soul, bringing to my conscience the warnings of Professor Achenbach, my unfailing confidant in Saint Loup, not to let any other lead my horse —and I had already let Kate do that.

Having drawn me to the verge of unwrapping the tragedy in my intimate tale, she shrugged the hunch off, and wriggled back on her tummy, faced her keyboard, tense and distant, although I forced my hand to her apricot, and she opened her thighs. She had allowed me to manhandle this much of her earthly presence, hovering up in a blond hiatus, mumbling a marmalade of nursery rhymes, all brisk and tangy, interspersed with dire deadly threats to virtual animals, whenas on her screen scrolled unending lines of coloured symbols.
There, there, she arose back, like raddled, although in the while I had handled that warm, dewy smile. I decided it were a gift, like a feather of the morning swan. She fetched a verdigris kerchief, folded beyond her keyboard, and pulled her spectacles, giving me the impression she knew what she looked like, unmasked, as she polished the glass in the silk; I begged for a kiss, she rested in my arms.
She neared so as our quims kissed, too, and she spoke behind my ear. I would not grasp what she had been up to, so she used parables, like the lone fisher on shallow waters, sounding the moving banks, and goading the sightless tentacles of lurking giants. She had used methods and tricks in the secret service’s books to debunk their own illegal practices, and now, with the files she had been trusted with —by Camille, I understood— she was trimming all operations at SEVEN STREAMS of the unwanted squealers and leeches, causing a commotion in the subterranean shell of power transfers. Now she, and Melchior’s Praetorian Guard, stood watching the ramifications of a parasite network burn-in self-destruction, of her own single feat. And so, chances were that the notorious NSA tower actually hosted major calibre felonies against the free market, as loaded as those of the PRC. Hence the harassment against the new owner of the company, through whose computers seemed to emanate unfriendly scrutiny, and ultimately the wealth of security around us, and a couple of nonbinary beauties.
She ran her thin tapered fingers upon her scientific keyboard, stared at the multi-window screen for a suspended half-minute, and smirked. She meandered to my knees, and casually asked why I had left New York while in Junior High? A tad mystified, I stammered at first, and warned her it would be a complicated tale, mostly for myself to tell. She was keeping her faraway blue peepers into mine and grazed my cheek, waiting.
I gathered cushions, and let her cuddle into me, then gave her the buffed version I had elaborated in years of word plays with Professor Achenbach. She wasn’t buying my tale and came again about my brother, whom she saw had been wiped off, whereas he could most likely have been sent along with me in Saint Loup. Unlike all those I had harboured in affection through years, she steadily dissected my soul on a plate, for lies and fantasies.
She had me pissed off, I belched out the raw truth of my shattered soul, under the seal of sacred silence, and then told her how I had brought my near incestuous dad in the know, under the sumptuous chandeliers of the Ritz, and how he had continued, regularly, to manipulate my toes and foster my whims.
Overwhelmed in her quantum 101 emotional shuffles, she had been crying, she had laid her glasses on the keyboard and pushed it away; as she covered me with wet kisses, and I dared not ask her about her lonely growing up.

All predictably, I woke alone, tucked into precious wools, totally mollified. Although a subaquatic random faerie would still run across the screen wall, I did not perceive a sound, until my covers swished softly when I stretched and walked to the bathroom. In the shower corner, there only were the cobalt blue Neal’s Yard bottles, but hadn’t we been first to indulge geranium-orange?
I needed tea, then, I found fresh terry robes, folded in a closet, and borrowed one with wide stripes of deep sapphire and emerald, then steered towards the kitchen. The carpets felt rich at my toes, I was proud of our new friend. There were singular voices coming from the drawing room, mostly one, a low tone, imperative, masculine speech that bustled a gang of scorpions inside my underbelly; as it had ceased, I moved on, like I would have been home, and then wisened up, in a lash, from the threshold, that it had been Victor, seated in a sofa, with Katherine next to him, his hand upon her thigh. I kissed Michelle and said I was about to brew tea, and everybody approved. Victor was snuggly fit in black silk blend, officer collared, slim trousers and patent black Chelseas. He smelled of a virile burned sandalwood and jasmine, he slid a hand into my robe as I bent over him, unbeknownst to Michelle, I asked him if he had made his move for morning fun, Katherine’s gaze swayed.
When I came back from the kitchen with two of the biggest pots I had found, Michelle spoke with a narrow straight voice about the now-on necessity to comply with Melchior’s layout, and for Victor to cave in for his fault. He wouldn’t retort, and beyond all the pleasures we had shared with him, and at his whim, Katherine and I concurred wholeheartedly.
Delffan barged in, wearing visibly nothing more than a marshmallow green sweatsuit, ready to fall. One enlaced Michelle, like a shy animal, trying to read out the black visitor who, in turn, was stunned by one’s elfin beauty. Michelle told him right away that Delffan was a non-genre person, or both, and lived with her, constantly; after pouring tea in the cups, I went to sit with the apparent fragile ones, despite some warm memories of long, feisty shags; but I felt I could always be granted that from Victor, whatever went.
Kate was casual, sneakers, cashmere jersey leggings and an oversize, beige, wide knit, unspun wool jumper, I could have bet she wore no panties, as she was posing as one of Victor’s willing whores, his hand in her crotch. It dawned in my mind that Melchior must have been watching, recording us; Victor as a consenting ally.

These carnelian sofas are wide enough for Tiepolo style somersaults, I was worshipping Delffan’s feet in my own crave, while one was nuzzling on Michelle’s bared abs while she had grabbed her telephone and typed for some time before Victor’s —who had then peeled Kate off her rags— rang discreetly, and, without ceasing to wank our precious, read his screen, kindly buckled back up, kissed Kate’s hand, and ran. Michelle made no comment, and from her telephone opened the doors on his way out.
Then she held Delffan’s head and we proceeded to grant our trio a more timeless fashion, joined by a fourth member for a quartet. It was only morning, we did not summon all our wants, except for Delffan steady spur that I suckled to completion, feeling the childish spurt on my neck, at once wiped by Kate’s tongue.
Michelle asked us if Victor was such a master bow on our strings, it made us laugh as we told her it definitely looked like she might never know, she waved her gleaming eyes and retorted nonchalantly that she owned him.
We ordered a big fruit salad and cookies from Bolitar’s so a maid could all display them on the round table. I had spent the night with someone I needed to understand a bit more. She agreed to spit out she had, after his misdeed on her, unravelled Victor’s routines, and she had just given him proof; now on, she would have an eye on his trade, and Melchior all the more.
I pointed out that Melchior, too, had shagged her, she answered that it had been clear enough he wouldn’t have if she had said no; in the least, she knew what a vagina was used for, too. Delffan was gleaning the seedless grapes one by one, eyes closed, smiling. Michelle went on, like pulling drapes one by one, on a stage. Originally, it had been total happenstance that an Adlaï Stern ran a high capacity internet provider company, of the sort an innovative broker would like to operate, from a true fifty milliseconds away, inasmuch as the active algorithm was on the spot, inside a massive array of processors, properly cooled down. Licking her fingers in a way that made me want to lend her mine, she said she had proof that she had offered collaboration to Victor, and not only did he refuse a day later, but he had already pulled all his tricks to bar her in her plans, hence her aggressive castle move.
He had not let her an opening, such as she could have warned him of direr threats whose crosshairs they had both stood in, Melchior would eventually windproof Victor’s operations, at a price, however, she just had, conveniently, washed her hands of that misgiving.

Cynthia loomed up, Volubilis blue tee shirt and vague nightly print sarouel pants, as barefoot as anyone. Delffan wanted her beside Michelle, who had rid herself of her huntsman stare to greet someone who was giving the dearest companion a cosmogony to live accordingly, otherwise than like a carnival curiosa.
Kate switched chairs, I managed anyhow to play footsie with my night’s host, who responded gracefully. Arrangements had been made at our nearest clinic, to gently explore the babe’s insides, and draw some vials of one’s blood for tests. Michelle was welcome, but warned that the radiologist’s lair was totally lead clad, thus shielded from airwaves; otherwise, Cynthia saw no harm letting Michelle back and forth while Delffan stood in the scanner’s jaws. She promised the whole session could not last longer than two hours, and all the documents would be sent to her cloud directly. She pointed a finger up, so as to spin our attention, and claimed that notwithstanding our doubtless affection for Delffan, the further matter comprised immarcescible —did she say— medical confidentiality and anonymity, Delffan and her had already agreed to a code name Rainbow27 because she had already twenty-six case studies in her books.
It had been hellish, for Cynthia’s parents before her, to protect the inviolability of the patients against the despicable indecency of the medical authorities, and especially in Germany where some Julius Hallervorden and consorts left heinous trails in the minds. Whatsoever, she would remain sole depository of the codes, and none of her cases had ever been betrayed.
Hearing this, Michelle had hugged Delffan tight, pulling one up on her knees. She only said pleasantly that in the matter of codes, she was on board to help Cynthia, and together they also could establish some fund around her researches, if she would. Kate insisted she should believe what Michelle had said, way beyond her cute aviator face, she was a true wizard. We all laughed, and Michelle showed a smile I thought I was beginning to get accustomed to.

 

Katherine says:

Unlike our idle selves, longing for the call of artistic praxis, Cynthia trusted her own schedule, and she had been granted a neatly framed window of two hours —paid by whom? she was only assured it had been— of an up-to-date IRM tunnel, and a dedicated operator. Delffan still possessed nought other than the shared collection of natural cotton tracksuits and sporty underwear Michelle and one had been wearing since 60 Hudson, but it was suited, if only to disrobe inside the impressive machine. Michelle entrusted her lively butterfly to the science from Oz, along with the loan of one of her banker’s cards to go shopping afterwards, and that rekindled Cynthia’s crave of playing doll with her case study. Michelle wished we threw one of our naughty dinners, that night, she missed the corner behind the sofa, already.
The skies were low, the studio lamps nullified the outer world and Sarah was brewing our best oolong, it wouldn’t be more than doodling hours, but it felt so much like home, moreover when Natalia, as surreptitiously as always, fancied to pamper our feet and paint our nails, after some lascivious shower; she remained nude, too, and sat before one after the other like a harem slave, because she needed to brag about her latest debauchery.
The previous afternoon, Liselotte had conveniently picked her up after class —so she knew her schedule— and lured her with sweet talk to her apartment, to indulge some real Lebanese style haschisch laced with opium. Her imposing blue crystal and silver two stemmed hukkah was easy to breathe from, while she slowly stole Natalia’s clothes, and dabbed her whole languid body with rose water, in the eager want of her pinhole pupils. Everybody knows how Liselotte uses her tongue, but overall, Natalia, under the flurry of carnal spells, never yet had known such a whirl, while in the expanded hinterland of her sight, she mingled at her will in the follies of floating nymphs, the perfect sacrilege to Jesuitical bliss.
In the comforting smaller salon, with low windows on three sides over sleepy gardens, the beam-framed hipped ceiling clad with random fragments of broken mirrors and scrapped paintings in a network of gilded mouldings, our presently submissive odalisk had cast all of her fervour in the realm of the reborn Parisian Margravine.
Now, she was smoothly quieted, laying plum lacquer on our toenails, upon the satiny rest of her thigh, with a smirk of naughty anticipation. There had been a faraway tinkling Liselotte had been obviously expecting, so she slid in a heavy Chinese silk robe, richly embroidered of many dragoons, ran to her door to let in two smooth-talking middle-aged men she brought back to where I stood naked, too stoned to even think of covering myself.
In the trance she was in, two gentlemen in black thin striped silky wool was —Liselotte must have counted on that— a libertine windfall, they had left their shoes and wore silk socks, she embraced both as they took off their jackets on her invite, and as they marvelled at the reclined slave, she had told her to open her legs in a comely way, while she seated her guests on pouffes, and prepared another round of drug, having inserted two more clean hoses.
Natalia was still thrilled by the two men’s allure, and details cried for high flyers, the rare wristwatches, the flawless monogrammed shirts, the fine gold, non-branded, belt buckles, no ties. Keeping her lewdly spread attitude, and swaying her gazes under their obvious want, she had let the heavy scented smoke suffuse her innocent lungs, letting her feet be seized by the johns she had not even heard the name, while her goodwill pimp was helping them come undone, she could relish in the expensive scents they had aspersed around their dicks.
And, nude on our carpet, refining our toes, she played the courtesan so well that we both jumped upon her, just as she had wanted.
She begged for some mercy from us, because the posh brothers had made no prisoners on her sweet battlefield, even for such a trained slut as she be. Once the cavaliers eluded, Liselotte had told her she was proud of her, slowly massaging her anus and quim with a peony scented balsam, and showing her, on a side table, two white bulgy envelopes. But she had warned the precious little damsel —who was of Hugo’s entourage, for all it meant— that she would not smoke the Hukkah more than once a month— otherwise, there would flag a warning at her check-ups to the lucrative Ring of Rakes, or whatever it was called, and anyhow Madam procuress wouldn’t let a promising beauty fall into addiction, free for the wanderer mind to eat space cookies from Fulgence’s mouth, that was legit.
Now she wanted us to tell what we knew about the great moves toward New York, she would fancy house-sitting Michelle’s apartment while attending some college or art school there; she was disappointed to learn that, as for the foreseeable future, Michelle did not buy a suicide perch near SEVEN STREAMS, and had organised a most efficient urchin base, just next door.

Listening to the perversely detailed expenses of her leggy physique, Sarah and I reviewed opportunities to compete in that, and ask Hugo or Camille to spin their Rolodexes, and Natalia quivered already at the fantasy of another debauchery along with us. She also relished call-backs of her toxic trip, and succeeded at triggering our own, without shuffling the plague in my synapses, at the swift relief of Sarah, who remains my azurite rock, in a sea of melted lead.
On the carpet, in a skull to skull triangle, we shared, until dusk had waned for good, a multiverse of carnal avatars mostly from Natalia’s wilderness, her tinkling laughs meandering into the dark foliages of night.

 

Sarah says:

Fanny wore an easy, waistless, frosty morning blue, shaved velvet, tank dress, and pearly grey cashmere tights, under a trapeze-cut horizon-blue rich wool overcoat lined in quicksilver satin, and she beamed like a Doge’s mistress, as she let me preen her white silk sheathed feet; except for one of my seriously patinated indigo Boro peasant’s robe —so smooth to the skin— I was still as naked as Natalia had made us, not that much more than she hid anything, herself, in a black jersey short tank dress. And now, she was infatuated with Camille, since she had known they would run some blue-chip moneymaker company, partly in New York City, hence she wooed her for a seat, or more, in that aeroplane.
Camille wore a sage green duvet-soft wool one button pantsuit and a heathland bloom Liberty shirt she let open on her breasts; she relished the frankly lustful manners of Natalia, and never wasted an invite to grope her minnie, and thus she promised she would play pet on the next flight with her, along with Gauthier and possibly very naughty passengers. Camille did not crave best than to watch our house girl get laid with a lusty lad; she whispered in her ear to call on her minders if available, they rarely shunned an occasion to wallow amongst our brood of half trulls, joshing.
Michelle arrived, along with her party, and sartorial transformations had occurred. Delffan held one’s apologist’s hand, in a turquoise and carmine striped, silk, three-piece high waisted pantsuit that let guessed one’s erections, a white twill Russian collar shirt and laced white ankle boots, with one’s velvety sleek golden skull, playfully intense beryl blue stare, one, proudly returning from the dire magnetic fields, stole anyone’s desire, and Fanny’s, foremost.
Cynthia offered a pleasant recount of their scientific venture, although she had had to expel the machine operator who could not contain himself about what he resented as a monstrous condition, and made a string of indelicate remarks; the assistant had then been more kindly efficient. Quieting back Delffan had been otherly dainty, but Cynthia claimed that she had eventually admired one’s internal clockwork with tears like the Harrison masterpieces changed into a live princely prodigy.
Theo had been wandering all over Germany in the lush berline of his lover Lorenz Mark, whom, from Dresden, where princes and Electors of the Holy Empire have gathered the most sumptuous collection of all shapes of art on earth, albeit the showcase for it had been trampled flat in 1945, all the way down to München, had shown him the limitless fantasia of true rich baroque —France merely gave rococo— his young awe only hampered by the knowledge Cynthia was in Paris.
Standing, rosy-faced before his lifesaver, he could not yet train his shy self to address others than her, with the same frankness, although we played unfazed, and let him lead the tango anywhere he wished.

Rather than letting the elephant stroll among us all, Cynthia sat where she was invited, between Delffan and Theo, on a sofa, and described, most poetically, how one could, in earnest, proudly show, on photograms, both worlds in one, show no sign of inconvenient, and that, with a smirk, she had seen before. The fun part would rest in the biochemical reckoning and needed weeks of analysis. Delffan recounted one’s distress when the primary operator of the machine had skidded on terms and lashed disgracious epithets at one’s person, so I assured them they would never have to suffer the boor again because Hugo would take the matter at heart.
Fanny perched herself on the armrest, enthralled she was still by the djinn that could fuck her in all daintiness.
Camille asked permission to show some website to Michelle, and they went into our bedroom to look it up on our sizeable screen; it was an advertisement for a newly refurbished building on Hudson street, at walking distance from number sixty. She asked Gauthier to join, and not long after our landmark bed was as crowded as a Kristen Stewart première.
It was one of that industrial-grade architecture, concrete frame structures enabling spacious living lofts, in the yuppie Newyorkese tradition, those who could afford mammoth mortgages or pocketed immoral bonuses. No suicide windows here, large square-patterned bays at safe height, and four meters ceilings; three or four bedrooms, five complete bathrooms and many walk-in closets. The whole operation was hers by inheritance, they could choose one of the last floors lots and share it between their companies, Michelle could let the boat sail on its own, it wasn’t even her decision to bear responsibility for. Camille would only owe the promoter his fee.
Hearing that Gauthier would then be on the verge of an exploratory visit, Natalia wooed him overtly, and did not garner any refute, I craved her madly, when she hustled her arse for so little, she probably hoped to meet Mathew again. She had been irresistible, to both Gauthier and Fulgence, I admired her artfulness, but it had set me on a grill and I needed a shag. Erik already throated Kate like an alley trull.
I had Sami’s number, he cottoned on my not so allusive quest, and because he was being so blasé, he offered me a rich deal in which he would first use me in his car, then bring me to a hotel, where a new partner would like to find me already a tad befouled, to serve him, as I did.

I fetched my wallet and slid out for the studio upstairs, where I found enough wares to look like a doable stray. There was a thick enough navy-blue jersey shirt dress, silver-grey opaque tights, alpaca natural leg warmers, and flat indigo swede Mary Janes. A large man’s double-breasted pinstriped expensive jacket had been waiting on a coat hanger, I only had to roll up the sleeves. From the staircase, I texted Kate and Camille exactly what I was en route to, at least, one of them wouldn’t read it before some while.
Sami flashed the lights of a long white silent berline and greeted me with a long, heartfelt, kiss, he was already flatteringly hard, his ears smelled of jasmine and bitter almond, like a loukhoum. As I unzipped his bird, he drove calmly and asked me to suck, which I did in pace with the softened joggles of the car. Sami flaunts a dignified sceptre of his trade, which he keeps meticulously hairless and smooth, whereas his patrons come by as scruffy as bramble bushes.
He parked on some deserted road behind the Russian embassy and told me to undress in the dim light, while he did himself, pouring musky flows into my Muguet du jour. I pride myself he relishes my slender frame, he likes to rub my abs and palm my butt cheeks like toys. He commanded my seat to recline, set me up on all fours and sheathed his flesh to the hilt, striking me breathless, beyond the hopes I had called him upon, like he had not yet found, in today’s nightly care, the proper filly to mount. I fancied some vindication of my want when all the valid males had been in hand, so to speak; I was dripping when he decided to force the merry hatch and succeeded, for only a few fledged blows before gushing in, at all his lewd patron’s future cheers.
That luxurious punctured leather of my seat did not stick with my sweat, and Sami was not moody after his expense, he spoke in my eyes, licked most of what I overflowed, then kissed me so as I tasted the lust I lay in.
I must have looked like the last party slut when we entered the hotel, swiftly, for he knew the night porter, who ostensibly detailed me, with a keen eye —who knew, he might also have his turn, possibly. Upstairs, the client in question predictably greeted us in one of the hotel’s dark green and burgundy terry robes, his telephone on his ear, and I refused that he showed my face to his interlocutor he then said was his wife, before hanging up and seizing my hands to smell them. He was a burly, bald stalwart, firm on large feet; bluish-green Slavic eyes, thick-lipped, he must have been, in time, a comely athlete, but he was, now, the epitome of a mobster. He spoke with a chalky accent, but he made himself understood easily. He led us inside the excellency suite, where a bottle of champagne chilled in a silver bucket, and I vamped a second refusal, making him call for a Ferrarelle —and I knew this one would like to see me pee.
Slowly, at the sound of some camp lounge music that must have been a B movie score, after he had ordered Sami to disrobe and sit with his glass of wine, he took away my jacket, and while reciting a smooth litany of appreciative insults —what whores get— unbuttoned my dres’s one by one down, palpating and inhaling every new patch of skin, coming back into my eyes every so often. My tights were crotchless, and as he told me to undo my shoes, he began foraging in my crack, licking the fingers he wanked me with.

Soon did a sturdy rod snuck out of the robe, rosy pale, circumcised and frighteningly long, teasing my lower belly while he tongued my mouth like a bear in a hive. Having pulled my tights, he knelt me on an ottoman and sucked my toes, licked my soles and gnawed my heels and ankles, like a refined connoisseur. As he reached my butt-crack with his dishevelled mumblings and his eager lips, he told Sami to fuck my mouth.
The robe was crumpled out on the carpet, my thighs spread wide like a watering trough, he was already in a shamanic trance. He seized my waist and brought me to the bathtub, ordered me laying down, as he began pissing over me, inviting Sami to water my flowers, too; I had better revel in my own depravity, Sami was a cunning matchmaker. then the Russian told me, in his kind of billingsgate, to crouch up as he wallowed down in the pool of his own urine, and that I peed on his face and mouth, which I obliged, while Sami was still watering my back and butt.
When I went dry, the drenched ruffian persisted at my source like a bona fide tribade, not resting before he could taste my modest discharge upon his freaked out papillae. Then he seized the showerhead and the foamy gel to wash every pore of me, fingering me till he could ease his dick into my butthole and make me dance as he stood knelt; I felt him gush inside as he shouted in his weird sabir, holding my neck in a long slippery hug, warning in my ear that the little slender Parisian slut was not yet finished with him.
Dried and scented all with the same princely honeysuckle, he drew us back in the salon, sat me across his lap and kissed me endlessly; the insults had ceased, he asked me my name, and if I liked whoring, I said matter-of-factly yes, and that he had given me real pleasure.
The small talk, in my face, made him stiff again and so he commanded that I turned my back on him, and sit upon his willie in my lubricated arse, then, all predictably, told Sami to thread in my quim, hey were fierce but loyal, it lasted dreamily and I came a few times, biting his earlobes backwards, recalling my first wandering in my new school’s laundry rooms, my fateful outbid to another deadly gangrape in the summer dunes, my own brother letting me be trashed, and probably shooting his wad, too.
Then and there, eventually, Sami reckoned I had had my fill, rinsed me again and dressed me up and saw that Kyrill —that was the name— give me the amount agreed on, and much more. The Russian couldn’t let my arse go, but he dozed off and we left. In the car, my legs again parted open for Sami, I felt serene, my whiff of bygone throes had waned, I longed to see my little whore Ayla again.

At the traffic light, Sami looked at me and told me to re-open my dress and caress myself, I obeyed. He stared at my eyes for a while and said I had a few more clients, if I was up to it, as he saw the slut in me wasn’t washed out yet. Taken aback, I could not answer, so he reached for my neck and kissed me fondly, then he explained he had a demand from a rich old man who wanted to watch a young nymphet my type be defiled on his lap by his valet, a valiant black Zulu man with a goodly penis in his pants. For him, she would only have to help him conclude in her mouth.
Mentally, I begged for Ayla’s help, had she not casually mentioned that three or four sessions a night was fine? And anyhow, Sami had seen me shagged by hordes of hard hung brutes and relish that. My eyes spoke for me, so he steered towards the Champs Elysées and drove up past the Arc de Triomphe towards the well-off avenues of Neuilly, tasting my undeniable wetness from time to time, repeating lauds of my whorishness, raving on our lucky fairies posse.
He stopped the car before the black lacquered portal of a light stone villa and called on his phone to announce us, the double door slowly gave way to the car and closed behind it. Two lanterns sided a double black heavy-looking door on the right side of a paved alley along a high wall on the left. A tall black waiter wearing a black jacket and vest ushered us in, and instantly our gazes met, inoffensive.
Atop three steps, an older man, in a Burgundy indoor jacket, stood with a cane but upright, he clutched my hand, stared at my face, my open dress on my flat chest, and repeated my name as he drew me to a grand salon where a wood fire crackled in a high stone chimney. He turned to Sami and said he was not disappointed, and the girl was just as candidly perverse as he had hoped. On the way to his winged chair, he addressed the waiter, he called Edwin, to undress me —I was a whore. The black boy, superbly dressed and wearing patent slippers, slid his long hands up my shoulders to make my jacket fall on his arm; he had visibly licence to grope me and I made him feel I liked it. He crouched to unbridle my shoes and let his hands slid up to my crotch to pull my tights down. He pushed me towards his boss, not ceasing to fondle my butt. the old gent waved at me until my knees touched him, and he made me sit on his lap, legs apart, making me pull my tongue backwards on the side in his eager mouth that smelled of violet. He commanded his boy to play me like his wife, and first, show me his true pecker, if I would not pee on his legs.
The organ was indeed staggering, but I was savvy enough to fetch some lube in my jacket if needed, I smirked at my sluttiness, and Edwin might have read despise, so I frankly rolled my eyes at him and asked if he would let me alive, yet. That amused Monsieur who asked me to let him suckle my toyberries.
Having hung his clothes on a chair, Edwin was back and chose to drill with his tongue my holy holes which he did so craftily as to sip some of my joy, sniggering. Now I embraced the frail man who craved my mouth, pawed my loins conscientiously, and made me stretch my arse for his considerable proxy, whose shaft happened at my quim’s edge, with a stubborn push that made me forgive all those I might have deemed outrageous, once. I felt some jelly had been dispensed generously, so as to allow that dizzying spell of feeling the dibber sliding in as my flesh rendered. The master kept on raving about my wrestle snaking, and I was growling into his violet mouth.
Edwin’s truncheon jostled around my cervix, expanding further my mean innards, causing flows of acceptance and accelerating the run of all its length. When he spurted, the electric shock in my womb left me numb and sluggish, for the better relish of whom had designed the delicious torture, and lapped my lips for another tiny bit of my tongue.
Though dripping in his own doing of my elated vagina, the winner was still as unbending as a mooring pole and pumping into my sensitive squirms, and so, to his boss’ arousal, he decided to let me endure even worse and rested his drenched glans against my bunghole to ease it wider. And so much wider, I imagined in my back, as he played alternately in the dripping vagina and the still sullen anus. I had long learned to enjoy the pain of being buggered through, but this must have been some ultimate tier of this perverted game, I kept moaning and crying upon the silk lapels of him, whom I had allowed to let me be done this, and who was blissful to drink my tears.
Edwin had called him Sir Alcott, he had fetched from an inner pocket a fine linen kerchief trimmed with lace, and he wiped all of my body fragrances, to keep. He had untied his vesture and told me to ride him backwards, in order to fuck my eased bunghole with a much more modest spear, however noble it be. As Edwin preferred to rest awhile, but His Knightship required a teammate, Sami was enrolled to warm his friendly prick in my pouting cunt, after I sucked it alive, again. The old rascal recited bawdy verses in my ears, I let myself float, my knees rested upon the chair’s arms, moaning my pleasure.
Sami was longer to culminate once more, and I could have endured his drilling at no end, gushing and again on his rabid flesh, I was almost passed out when he blessed me a last once.
Before fleeing to his bed at Edwin’s arm, the unkempt nobleman addressed Sami about me he still held by my arse, and said I had been such a wholehearted fucker and I did not fake it —otherwise Edwin’s number would have been intolerable— and gave him the envelope he had just filled in a side drawer.
We were shown a dim-lit white marble bathroom with a walk-in shower. His Excellency indulged in fine toiletries, I found a men’s cypress musk to my mood, and Sami approved, casually floating that my next trick would, too. We returned to an empty house but rested on my folded jacket was a dull rose box tied with a thin silver ribbon under which a card was slid, bearing the letter A, with a period. A telephone number was scrawled across.
In the car, Sami gave me the unmarked envelope and I offered, first thing, to split the bounty, but he refused and told me he was not my pimp and would be amply rewarded otherwise, besides having shagged me the whole evening. He reminded me that he was one of the members of the Circle, not a skin trafficker. the box contained a trove of macarons, we had been starving.

I had said nought, he was driving fast to the northern heights of the city, I was thirsty and he said it wouldn’t be long. He still kissed me at traffic lights. As we went up, the streets narrowed and twirled, through remnants of country-like randomness, but he knew his way like a regular and entered straight in a garage way, which led in a far bigger space than I would have expected. He explained that Montmartre was a hollow hill, having been a huge stone quarry for centuries, like other parts of Paris. Most excavations had since been filled with rubbles, like those which once had piled in the Saint Roch mound, next to where Philippe’s stands.
In the headlights, the rough limestone cavern looked phantasmagoric and my lower belly felt like a weird appeal, like the laundry basements with the ghosts in the drying sheets; he lopsided me and took my mouth, my slit was unwittingly wet. Low floor lamps gave some operatic lighting, the sounds were muted, it smelled of mushroom and saltpetre, as in an old abandoned cellar at the far end of Saint Loup’s garden, where, like many of us, slutty brats of all ages, we went to get a shag from the half-wit darlings that lived there —we had to help them wash, at great fun.
We reached an impressive metal door that wasn’t locked and opened on a sleek cut-stone corridor, much like Philippe’s labyrinths, leading to a spiralling staircase downwards to a circular anteroom with red carpeting and black waxed furniture in the Neo-Gothic taste. A man greeted us with a circular motion of his arm; he was costumed in the Regence extravagance. He wore a bespoke mask of delicate Maroquin, deep purple with thin red trimmings, covering from the forehead down to the crest of the nose, large round sieve bubbles made for eyes of a giant insect. Some fitted doublet, of black and red, weaved ribbons work, with padded shoulders and tapered sleeves left the sexual organs uncovered, out of black thin leather tights; he walked in cavalier boots. After he checked our black cards, he invited us to undress, ceremoniously carried our wares inside a vestiary, and brought back a key on a wrist band he tied to Sami’s.
That manner of a concierge, with a dangling dong in the furry black triangle of his weird pants, walked up to me and his eerie physiognomy seemed to scrutinise my face, then he shoved his fingers in my mouth, and then kissed my tongue with even more energy than sir Alcott, and went down in my already trained avenues with a contented groan.
Holding my arm, or whatever he liked of me, he wondered if I knew where I was and what game was played; I did not answer but Sami said that I knew nothing else than I was there to be used as a mop by the rich members of the Circle, with the limitations he had just read on my card. He seized my shoulders, and, sitting at the edge of the table, told me to show him a sample of my talent, forcing my mouth down to his prick and asking me to make him hard for the fifteenth time that night. That was in my range, I did him the long rifle gulp and he could not help dropping half a spoon of jizz in my mouth I did not even let him see. This ant-man wasn’t even so sure, he wanted to taste my mouth of his deed. Then on, he trotted alongside me to the salons whose doors opened around us.

Holding my arm, or whatever he liked of me, he wondered if I knew where I was and what game was to be played there; I did not answer but Sami said that I knew nothing else than I was there to be used as a mop by the rich members of the Circle, with the limitations he had just read on my card. He seized my shoulders, and, sitting at the edge of the table, told me to show him a sample of my talent, forcing me down to his prick and asking me to make him hard for the fifteenth time that night. That was in my range, I did him the long rifle number and he could not help dropping half a spoon of jizz in my mouth I did not even let him see. This ant-man wasn’t even so sure, he wanted to taste my mouth of his deed. Thereafter, he trotted alongside me towards the arched black doors around the room. It smelled like the immemorial pots-pourris in the house of our ancestors on Kongens Have in Copenhagen, it made me feel even sluttier, my grandfather had no face.
That all-out concierge led us to the room closest to the stairs socle, I noticed on top of the newel a fine reproduction, in green tones and white jade, of that famously immodest sculpture of Winter, by Houdon. He pulled the door to the warm penumbra of a vaulted hall under a sculpted ceiling of interlaced vines, olive branches and climbing roses, in high relief, painted and gilded. I clung to Sami as I was struck by the beauty, unaware of the bacchanalia that occurred on the low divans around the room.
Another masked man, birdlike with feathers flowing down to his shoulders, silvery chest ornaments concealing a protruding belly, but not a ready stiff prick, came grazing my side, and fondle my cooch so as to check my state of readiness, another one helped me bend back to taste my mouth, moaning that I had already swallowed some of a man’s gush, and waking back up, I retorted I wished I could drink tea or something, now.
Yes, of course, it would make me flow warmly later, so the two compadres —Sami had found some other trail to sniff— pushed me with their quivering hands to a low table, inlaid of abalone chips, that held silver and gold trays, bearing many ewers of clear colours. Having let be certain they would shag me, I asked them which drinks were not laced with anything weird, they laughed, poured a delicious light mauve half-sweet beverage in a blown-crystal goblet, and, as I had crouched down to drink, I felt creamy fingers testing my butthole. I knew why they encouraged me to amply quench my thirst, my smile must have been all the kinkier.
As a third one, bearing a lion head with a mane of curled stuffed satin strands, a thickly embroidered bodysuit mimicking the animal fur, and clawed feet, was keeping aside, his upright virility said enough of his intentions.
The man-bird had teamed with a slender jackal whose Horus mask would render munching my minge uneasy, the two pointing ears in shaved velvet and fake glossy eyes overhung a one-piece black sieve, as the Egyptian banded head-cover reached his shoulders. He gently pushed aside some replete couple, a pretty young lascivious redhead with tempting lean feet, set me on all fours and fucked my mouth, his groin smelled flowery, ylang-ylang and iris, his dick was long and thin, it played painlessly in my throat, soft and slow. His team-mate was sturdier, but I felt his penis convince my so prepared anus, and soon the funny beat of balls upon my quim. I must have rolled my eyes in contentment, and Horus was caressing my tummy and pinching my whoreberries, they attained the pace of my plexus pulse —or did I make them? so as I shivered out in yet another trance of my debauchery night.
One gushed beyond the threshold of my throat, the other endlessly through my entrails and I greeted that with repeated beastly squeezes he thanked me for, lauding how skilled a slut I was.

Horus tightened me back and ploughed me in the muddy furrow while he forced to lay me upon him, and he kneaded me with attentive hands, retting my elated fibres in skeins of bliss. I felt like the ultimately available tramp on a bed of warm tongues, and it was making me popular amongst the insect-eyes fauna. Soon, an all-over yellow and black striped wasp with glittering eyes and jiggling antennas stood up in the span of my thighs and humped me like an unleashed bull, while my feet were licked thoroughly, or used many ways in someone’s vagina or arse, I sailed a slow hurricane of anonymous wants, endless.

 

Katherine says:

This Sarah reappeared sometime in the wee hours, to cuddle along my back, as I slept with Fanny, because on her part Camille was about to fly to New York again, with Michelle, Gauthier, and Natalia who had earned her seat by all the naughtiest manners she could pull —she had literally given Fulgence to Gauthier, mingling herself in the middle.
Sarah was extremely overspent, out of nerves, but she smelled heavenly fresh, the breath of a baby, the nails of a pornstar, the crotch of a top tier courtesan, my girl.
At whatever tea-time, she wasn’t exactly bright, but when she started recounting me her witch night, I felt amazed that she could sit-up, we laughed at the idea and she wondered, too; she had seriously shagged a whole battalion, both ways. She fetched her jacket and began to parse the pockets’ contents. There were four plump envelopes that revealed in all an awful amount of money that made her die laughing. She explained that she had offered Sami a share, but he would never accept any other than carnal favours, he was no pimp, although he would sell us to an army of dicks, and coochies.
She felt the need to retell her night to Hugo if ever he wished. On the telephone, he said he was already aroused at Sarah’s tone of voice, and thrilled to revive a slutty tomboy’s chauffeured jaunt; Sami had reported already.
Meanwhile, we would keep up with the ongoing exchanges between the two antipodist unicorns, for all they would like me and Fanny to know, and by-the-way, my savant mistress might well be flabbergasted when asking for Fanny’s résumé.
It had been freezing outside, Michelle was actually contemplating a tunnel between her own basement and Hugo’s, remained to buy a strategic square on the chessboard, and Hugo had undertaken the manoeuvres, since not only would it link TRÆVIX, a magnificent fortress, to us, but it also would permit to eventually interconnect other buildings, where to lodge new talents. Rumour —Delffan— had it that Michelle had visited Hugo’s apartments, and smelled jolly good, when back.

Although a tad chilled through, the two of them sounded faultlessly enharmonic, Delffan, still one’s own pristine candour, posted to drink all words from one’s newfound prophet’s mouth, when not merely kissing. One’s cotton tracksuits were far from enough, I took them to our vestiary and tried them in winter leggings of wool and silk, which unfailingly led to frank petting, and Cynthia renewing her memories of my quim, while one enjoyed my mouth as casual. Fanny had peeped all from the doorway, which seeing, Delffan asked her to show her slit, as she had already grabbed that Fanny relished being given orders in sexual plays, and so there were two of us being buggered in the piles of rags.
Fanny, afterwards, proposed to order bites from Al-Andalus, and we let her do, they had been long appointees to Camille’s household, among others. Treating me like she had always done since our scandalous high school romance —although none of them had knowledge of the real would-be scandal, merely upset by what they read as a lesbian affair— she craved my skin, any crease she could slide into, she had always been an ardent fondle maniac, and now Delffan busied one’s hands on Fanny, who took some rightful feminine pride to it.
We brewed up some tea, Fanny dipped her cakes in the glass cup and Delffan mocked at the bits that broke down. We, elders, enthused to watching one of our heydays cult movies, on the bedroom’s home theatre, there had been a time when we had been so enthralled with Faye Wong that, in Amrum, we had seen Chung King Express almost every day of a fool headed summer, along with my so Potamus brother!
The younger ones did not know this gem, but once we started to shout out all the songs, amidst savagely sexual episodes of our own, we saw the film three times, before literally passing out, close on one another like a brood of Hamburg swans.

 

Sarah says:

It was afternoon, Hugo had let me survive in the tall silver and black lacquer bedroom, amidst eiderdowns from the nest of a bygone cocotte who had then, built a hospital with the sale of her pearls. We had talked endlessly, that is he had questioned me like a war catch, recording me, torturing me with love. I had relished what he made me say, revived all the lustful vicissitudes of the abandon at Sami’s will, the old games I had learned in the Cossack stables, in symmetry to those I inflicted in the boxwoods, my privileged education.
Here in our protective jumble, the bedroom smelled of carnal expense, like the forbidden dormitories, the little girls’ cloakroom. There must have existed a curious aspect in the moon’s course, and I was feeling a sensibility in my groin. They had bought plentiful of perishable Moroccan confectionery, I brewed some tea, I did not know about Cynthia, but she sat close to me, pulling her chair so as to graze my thigh, her breath was clear as dew. She did not waste much time before she knew I was a full-fledged girl, she was the kind with a magic sleight, we would have been mates at the lakeshore.
I heard babbles and splashes over there, I rested my feet upon hers and poured her a cup.
Delffan had found the geranium-orange, and one liked it on Fanny. Cynthia skyped tomorrow, or yesterday, in Oz, about menial technicalities at her hospital. Eventually, she proposed to Delffan moving on their talks in the attic at TRÆVIX, and it sounded attractive to her patient.
Once they ran, Fanny needed to tell me her impressions of being fucked by an off-catalogue spur, and moreover two of them, she had been a tad spooked at first and had let be done in the dark a few times before, but now all had been quieted by Cynthia’s mastery, and her beautiful dagger when aroused, and the manner she taught Fanny to manipulate Delffan’s joujou at her whim.
Kate liked to put up her feet on the table, within my reach; she retold her coming to know Cynthia in high school, on a matter of sexual attitude towards a clever teacher, and how she sneaked into the incestuous relation of her brother and herself, for almost two years. She thought it had constituted a major trump in Cynthia’s hand, even if she incarnated more or less the core of the dispute between her parents and the German medical might.
We moved up to the studio and inflicted on Fanny to read aloud, with diction, a novella by Cortazar. We agreed to ask Fulgence and associates for dinner.

Fayelle tiptoed in and sat next to her playmate of recent memories, she looked like she must have had words and feelings with Simon, who could definitely not consider her as he did his sister, but Fanny and her clutched souls, after the Sylt fiasco, when it had occurred that she would not agree to his envision for life. Henceforth, they would meet stealthily in the extra room upstairs, unwind their throes of raw sex, and moodily ascertain their opposite wills. Fayelle had shaped her attitude, so as to relish Simon’s unmatched fuck, while keeping her soul in her own orbit. At the grand outpouring of his wants, Fanny had been just near, at Kate’s neck like a pearl, but her overcoming of a sinister fate, in the smooth guidance of Camille’s, was blooming only not as Simon understood. There and then, she listened.
We could not reach the conclusion of Cortazar’s text, Fanny’s reading had been faultless, our warm-hearted compliments made her brows heave in a closed-lips smile; Fayelle could nuzzle unleashed into her friend’s kitty parts.
We had warned our unicorns of the presence of male univocal specimens that did not deter them. Agnete and Sanne had surpassed their talents, it gave three large trays of nibbles and bites. Cynthia and Delffan showed early, they had done some shopping, the big sister felt snug in a terracotta ample turtle neck, slant mounted, knitted wool sweater dress, over fox grey leggings; her darling sister had superimposed three jack’s shirts upon a too small teeshirt and a tight black slim, one walked in black untied Docs, one had an idea of the boys —nevertheless one wore a sparkling gold Rolex watch— and those actually came en masse, assured of a classy shag, smelling of marijuana already, and mostly lavender and clean sweat —what they meant to me. The four of them wore heavily used jeans, and I suggested they drop shoes and socks. Fulgence, who had always kept some art school spirit, took everything off, I couldn’t help noticing he had been wearing a clean white brief, I granted him a kinky eye.
Fanny and Fayelle had entrapped Delffan in their midst as if they fenced off unkind manners, whereas one shied nought and engaged in a subtle flirt with Sergei who wanted to bare her feet.
Edwin had left a branding in my innards, I made it readable to Erik that I would let him play me beyond my innate aloofness, if he liked, then and there. He wisely started with my toes —he had known of my weak spots.
Cynthia swanked, in her neat bob helmet of lush dark hair; she did not beat around any bush as to her double nature, and we all cheered at her innuendos, they all had been Liselotte’s willing game, in the least. Florent, a lean hazel-eyed blond who looked like he had only just schussed down from Gstadt, caught her want as she managed to make him blush through his privileged tan. The thing with Cynthia was her voice, which she had worked out to sound a smooth head and chest alto, never gave out a virile afterthought; in her untraceable German Australian educated accent, she mystified the singled out preys of her double-dealing, none whinged. Leaning on her elbow, having thrown her leggings and else, she hollowed her slender loins under the waves of knitwear, daring whom she already slyly wanked into his opened fly to snoop under, and ride a multisexual round.
The round-headed pupil had opportunely lived a lesser agenda and was wholeheartedly vindicated since we had snatched one’s soul from the pit one had been in like a mere animal of curiosa. And one was of all beauty, the despair of Canova’s, the transcendence of immaturity, in the sleekest of living flesh, now secured in the mighty heart of the planetary aviator, as a pure gold timepiece asserted at one’s arm. Nathan began grazing the imperceptible peach-fuzz on the fore-arm, wondering in a whisper if one liked to be loved in either mind, to what one laughed that it couldn’t be synchronous, but one let him shoot first. Nathan sported an advantageous flat chest, square shoulders and well-worked abs; rich black curls rimmed an enviable carnal apparatus that was currently tense in one’s hand. Moving to a fourth corner of the couches, one wedged one’s back and, legs-up, guided the spear into one’s modest minge, which nonetheless engulfed the whole of the partner’s desire. And so one was the first fucked of the party.

The casually magisterial voice of the willowy Cynthia character —it became obvious once she untied her dress— rendered our cavalcade more lustfully conscious, like one would bring reverb to a bland recording of some ribald song. I had known, by Elsie’s confidences, that Erik was a sharpshooter, given the calibre of his gun. He did not belittle Edwin’s surprise, but he deserved many flying colours and dedicated cheers of the tongue and the fever sheaths. He never recessed, urging my baffled mouth to rekindle his might, and, like his still perceived predecessor, mostly relished the lesser path. He breathed in my neck that I was a worthy slut.
Inevitably, as goodwill minders of Fanny’s balance, we stood ready to cancel the play at the mere sign of anguish, but she kept granting Sergei the time of his debauché’s career, as he found the appropriate touch of the bow on the nowhere girl’s soul and womb.
There had been merriment in the bathroom, Kate and Fulgence must have been enjoying tepid gold, Fulgence showed a unique capacity to piss up with his dick tense, hence give his teammate a most human enema. They had landed on our bed and she was now sounding like rock n’ roll and low throat gasps I read as fairly deep jolts in her womb. Later, Fulgence would call Erik for what I understood as a second course in a trio. As for myself, I still vibrated from the other night’s recital.

At the end of another Cortazar novella, we all climbed down for dressing time in our closet that smelled like a hothouse, but first, there was a sort of game of musical chairs about who would pee, in the adjoining bathroom, I broke the round pretending I needed more, and the poultry scattered.
Delffan was disquiet, not with the return of one’s rock-solid guide in the palace, but hints that Cynthia would soon be flying back to her home concerns, and not affording to see her other than through video call. I hugged her tight and swore my heart she was now on a sister of our bunch, and Hugo had evoked it might become even easier to sneak from her place to ours. That did not help one from crying, and the others had sharp ears, they gathered close, like children, and we all sang “Over the Rainbow”, because, at least, Sarah knew the words, from school — the others lalaed— I felt one’s hand grip mine fiercely, she had unlocked her soul, once, and she feared the cold.
Sarah had seen be done, among her estranged little youngsters, that acting out all the sorrows of one, in a bit of a playlet, unclench the vice of unspoken answers, her mock scenes with Ayla must have warded a young betrayed soul from the last of abjurations —albeit to a further cruel reckoning.
Delffan would regain her strings of reassurance as soon as she would touch Michelle, who had steadily revealed more trustworthy than her filtered gazes implied.
In the far corner of the wall-long wardrobe, hanged slipcovers with my thinner outfits I wished to adorn the reddened-eyed imp who stood there, naked. The idea dawned of some true boyish three-piece alpaca suit I had worn only once for some marriage gathering in my Danish family, and where everyone had thought I was a boy, but whom? It fitted, one would not stand upright long, anyhow. The expensive night-blue drapery was still fresh, and the purple satin lining would show like a sin in a holy book. A thin white linon collarless blouse, patent leather and grosgrain slippers and silk veil stockings, hinted enough of ambiguous soir luxury to set off one of a kind. Cynthia was altogether smitten but saw the crying eyes and drew one to a corner of a sofa, holding one’s hands, wiping one’s begging yes with a tissue. I did not try to listen to what was said.

Melchior had come, black wool velour blazer, Parma shirt and silk violet scarf, he had been discussing the limpid sound that flew out of the new Klipschorn speakers in the main salon, fed in by a tower of sleek black boxes with large blue meter dials and a multicolour monitor, with Gauthier who had supervised the set-up. The music was polyphonic ambient with savant streams of harmonies but was muted low when we all gathered. The arch-arbitrator smirked when he saw Natalia, in one of my black spencers trimmed of powder-blue piping, over silk black leotard and tights, and flat black Mary Janes, and called her at his side to sough a few words in her ear, scrutinizing her gaze between phrases, making her blush and smile. He held her hand and she remained by him.
He said he would not stay for dinner, but what he had to announce was short. At Camille’s, Michelle’s and Hugo’s, it had been contemplated to create a foundation according to the works of Ms Möhlitz and her parents, preferably in Europe, where a great many intersexed or Middlesex persons still suffered daily.
There was a silent whoop, Cynthia grabbed Delffan and they cried warmly, soon embraced by Kate and me, and Michelle, who flooded her glasses.
Having dropped his bomb, Melchior left, still clutching Natalia’s wrist, everyone winking at her, as in you get what you’ve been hunting for, and it was for the finest.
Linen had been ironed upon the dinner table, and we helped ourselves in cloudy blue porcelain individual salad bowls, fishing here and there in disparate dishes. I was beginning to wonder who attended at the kitchen, but eventually considered anything would happen with the girl behind the sofa.
Cynthia, holding Delffan who had dropped the jacket, needed Kate for parsing the actual implication of big money at her service; she would have to bring in her parents, who had fought their whole life for her cause, and their lawyers.
Michelle, predictably, had vanished, and Delffan looked for her, then grasped the obvious and ran upstairs, Cynthia knew why.
Hugo had been in Switzerland, precisely in Zürich, with Ayla and Esther; that overwhelmed me, moreover when he announced they would be with us in a week; he groped my quim and asked me to sleep with him that night.

 

Katherine says:

Cynthia’s morals were jostled. Deep in the white sands of her inner moon beach, she avowed having kept the very fantasy of what had been simply worded tonight. As her beloved pet case seemed to have reunited with one’s soulmate and self-proposed liberal sponsor, and otherwise Sarah relished some pillow-talk with Hugo, I lead her to our bed, for past time’s sake, and to make clear the motives of a black swan funding. First, she should figure the magnitude of the powers she had met through us, but leave out our libertine posse, because she would never have to own up to our life walks —of which she had scarcely viewed— except for the discreet presence in Camille’s gallery. She would merely need to register, in any fiscal order and domiciliation, into the Panado foundation nebulae, a tough stone to investigate into.
If true that Australia, a small giant of a country, had been first, along with New Zealand, to admit a third — X — solution for the “sex” line in passports, more work of ardent urgency remained to be undertaken over here, in Roman Catholic-flawed cultures, with morally dubious medical structures. Cynthia had been schooled partly in French, she might soon operate seamlessly, furthermore, her own admission to being one of her own interest group matter would naturally fend-off the media hyenas, for whom would remain solely tricky sexual topics, not the kind the readers crave, anyhow.
Professionally parsing long hours of Delffan’s kind elaborations, and also simply googling about, Cynthia had come to figure out Michelle’s character, given that probably no one on earth understood the funky part of her genius; that share of the hoard was clear. But she found eerily nothing about Melchior or Panado Inc. She learned in obituaries of Adlaï Stern about Camille’s recent inheritance of SEVEN STREAMS, but, apart from the ongoing project of a common apartment in New York that got Natalia and Delffan overjoyed, she fathomed no meaning to this news. On Hugo, she could find a favourable array of biographical gossip as a polygraphic talent, but nothing that would make one richer, yet, he seemingly owned a hefty chunk of real-estate in one of the most praised neighbourhoods of Paris, with which he had gained a flock of complacent mistresses such as I.
Rekindling our school days antics, I retold her how I had become a bonafide polyamorist libertine, how Sarah had bravely saved my hide, after the fateful accident in which I had believed I killed my brother, the joint rescue by Camille and Hugo, too, till Simon resurfaced from the inferno, covered with scars, and still a lover to me.

I knew how sterling Cynthia’s soul shone, hence the pretzel logic of my tales to win her to our lifeways, even if she allowed herself to fuck me in the middle of my seeming rationalisation of an occult conjuration, to what I had entrusted my skin.
From the time Sarah and I had been devoid of any worthy faith in what had made us reach one of the richest Art School in the free world, and follow the advice of a young dealer who had already slept with both of us, and under whose roof Sarah dwelt, we saw Hugo as a possible sponsor, and he lent a place to me, in exchange for innocent nude pose sessions, a fair deal to me, who received my father’s checks. Then, one evening, a real libertine took hold of my soul and dragged me through solid debauchery, till I drifted to the deadly depths of some Berlin bunkers, and drove my brother to his death in my mother’s car, and that was when Sarah, Hugo, and Camille refound me in a bleak German Nervenklinik and revived me back to where we stood, Cynthia and I, right then.
I knew how sterling Cynthia’s soul shone, hence the pretzel logic of my tales to win her to our lifeways, even if she allowed herself to fuck me in the middle of my seeming rationalisation of an occult conjuration, to what I had entrusted my skin.
From the time Sarah and I had been devoid of any worthy faith in what had made us reach one of the richest Art School in the free world, and follow the advice of a young dealer who had already slept with both of us, and under whose roof Sarah dwelt, we saw Hugo as a possible sponsor, and he lent a place to me, in exchange for innocent nude pose sessions, a fair deal to me, who received my father’s checks. Then, one evening, a real libertine took hold of my soul and dragged me through solid debauchery, till I drifted to the deadly depths of some Berlin bunkers, and drove my brother to his death in my mother’s car, and that was when Sarah, Hugo, and Camille refound me in a bleak German Nervenklinik and revived me back to where we stood, Cynthia and I, right then.
With time, we had seen girls and boys sell their youth to our protector, but we had, ourselves, traded favours for riches, and found a taste for it, as Cynthia had guessed, albeit centring her mind on Delffan’s fate; and one had not entered the naughty round although we had found one, naked, in the middle of a posh orgy —we did that, too— provided we did a weekly test of our blood, like any serious pornstar in the Valley. I let her guess the rest of our turpitudes and bragged that she had not yet seen a third of our such cousins, full-blooded available trulls.
In short, Cynthia grasped that some immoral masonry offered to build her a desirable bastion in Europe. She decided she would first sleep with all and any member of the troupe, and collect the testimonies, would it mean fuck everyone aboard, stealthily, she trusted the taste of Kate for fuckable guests.

As a splendid prologue, Cynthia was confronted by the sneaky, though not uncommon, apparition of nude Natalia into our bed, back from Melchior’s untraceable realm, altogether fresh as the pointing dawn and languid as reeds in the whirls. She boasted she had satisfied six full-fledged bastards for the relish of the Great Manitou, whom she had pretty much aroused with her exploits in the aeroplane cockpit during the flight back from New York. Now she knew that Melchior could watch and record any event onboard.
Sensing that Cynthia, whom she had eyed at least the legs, was a tad disconcerted, she swayed her hips at her, rubbing her apple bum on my lower belly, and told, in a jaded, lower tone, her voyage in wealth and debauchery.
At once, in the stately long Phaeton, he had beclouded the partition screen and asked her to undress, in the blue light of the nightlights; he had let her flaunt her animal skin on the lush velvet. The car was infinitely more silent than an aeroplane and nullified magically all bustle. They had been travelling through the nightly scapes of the posh west when she had invented some natural need, he had ordered the chauffeur to park whenever possible, so she could gracefully crouch and pee in the grass in front of him, wiping her quim with the kerchief he handed her.
The phlegmatic vehicle had reached a commanded portal and followed a tree-lined alley before riding down a lit slope to a subterranean parking garage hosting already a collection of automobiles of all epochs; it was clean as a nursery, with a floor of polished pink sandstone, walls of metro-like white bevelled tiles, and an aluminium-clad ceiling ran with sprinkler-pipes. She did no-fuss strolling in her absent apparel before the chauffeur, who kept all his composure.
They entered a stylised jungle pattern pressed-glass mirrors clad elevator, of the kind you do not feel if it goes up or down, and walked out in a high-ceiling round foyer opening with arched doorways in three directions, an all-over mural painting of an exotic forest reaching high a whirl of stormy skies; between the overtures, and on each side of the elevator’s repoussé gilt metal, stood towering pressed crystal light-fountains shedding a smooth light on Natalia’s body, as an inscrutable valet took Melchior’s coat.

Natalia was giving herself a courtly pleasure in retelling thoroughly her voyage, thus showing me her scholarly headway, mostly earned through her rouée talents; I kept in mind to let Cynthia hear of the kind of relationship our pet maiden entertained with one of the literary mandarins of the Sorbonne.
Melchior smelled of some Tuscan timeless cypress breeze, laced with moonshine ambergris and masculine flowers, that Hugo had tried before with her, he had said it would be the most expensive scent in the known world, anywise it had already spun her head and released the fireflies of her womb.
Steering her by any of her gracile limbs and her elfish bends, he drove her to a withered-rose and giltwood rounded sofa where he made her take lewd poses for his attentive valet, of whom she saw the bulging crotch, and guessed the prologue of the play. The old man confided that he dared not measure his wants to her bouncing stamina, but nonetheless, he wished to witness live some of the forbidden games she had had the cheek to perform with his pilots, in their seats, ten kilometres high in the sky, risking their jobs for her cute little hips. Hence, she would have to grant her favours to some of the house’s well-hung stallions, wouldn’t she?
She had sulked for a second, sighed like Liselotte had groomed her to perform —and I had not known that detail and Cynthia asked who Liselotte was, and concluded the socialite was some goodwill procuress— and smiled candidly, while grazing the boy’s trousers, and picked the zipper’s slider to pull it down, playfully slow. The dick conformed to the all-over impression of the square-jaw squire, direr than the airmen, but lesser than her own beloved minders’, she busied her tongue and mouth while he was getting rid of his outfit, except for the socks he wouldn’t reach because she did so well.
The drawing-room was an illusion of the années folles speakeasies, all upholstered in handiwork exclusives, an outcry of social deviancy, said her, in which lost girls sang their only song. Except the room would remain deserted, save for her who had been laid on a grand round ottoman, and then there were two other well-built chaps waiting to take her server’s place, quietly, at her wish, since it was obvious she was the queen of sluts in this ghosts’ arena. Henceforth, she had been used crescendo by half-a-dozen unhurried mercenaries of Melchior who was wanking a nevertheless presentable prick.
Our little harlot, since the times when she had assailed me in the dim-lit kitchen at Hugo’s, had fine-tuned her lustful routines so as she knew perfectly Cynthia would now lay her hands on her, we had fostered a mistress gamer, and she thought New York was her size, now.

I needed Cynthia to apply, beyond whatever crush she might enjoy with our nymphets, her straightforward analysis of our little utopia because I thought it was a good idea to fund her fight, like it had been, once, all things proportionate, the funding of the Family Planning, in times when women with botched clandestine abortions weren’t being granted anaesthesia by hospitals chief doctors, except, already, in Switzerland. But there and then, in our bed of turpitudes, she was openly learning that we were fostering prostitutes —to speak frankly.
Of old times’ sake, and the excitement to watch her fuck that foolhardy marvel, I kept my joy for the time when she would encounter, head to head, lost angels of the likes of Fæbian, Lizon, and the whole brood.
While she caressed Natalia’s bounteous hair, she admitted that she had known more about our life manners than it had seemed, through online chats with Theo, whom, as a chosen gay outrider, had a light-hearted vision of our polyamorous tribe.
Natalia had been first among us to properly shag with Delffan, so there was not the slightest cringe, when, after a threesome canoodling she let herself be done and sucked the proudly pointed spur that was teasing her pouty lips, then, sideways, buggered her easily and splashed over her butt.

 

Sarah says:

It had been a multiversal night in Hugo’s bed and arms. He proposed cannabinoid suppositories with a tamed down THC formula, which his friend Doctor Jeremy Arbuthnot had engineered. As both had known unpredictable angst episodes with some varieties of cannabinoids blends, we kept out X pills ready. It was not one of his stoned patient fantasies, in which he had put me under, only to play with my inert body, he held similar gold-leaf wrapped little rockets when he asked me to slide one into his arse and tell him which one I wanted in myself.
We rested on a plump grand mattress amongst padded silk covers and over-zealous pillows of eiderdown, in the middle of a tall room, hung with the finest weaved Lyon’s shawls, the kind that gives me instant acid whiffs, under an intricate Moorish ceiling, reclaimed from a French romantic folly, and beyond, some colonial pillage; Hugo explained that a Morrocan craftsman had spent a full happy year in this room to sort out and rebuild the scented maze, smoking haschisch like a Rolling Stone, his meals delivered to his taste by a Lebanese caterer, whose delivery boy he liked very much. Some of the walls had to be doubled to fit the ceiling’s measurements. A large gilt chiselled chandelier hung to chains from the angles, casting overlapping shards of light. In all four corners stood some column-shaped speakers, driven by a blue-eyed McKintosh amp; while I welcomed him like a melodrama bride, he started an ad libitum field of harmonies heart-felt by his friend Deosphax and recorded at an all-sex gathering in a disused theatre.
Hugo told me about the chessboard game being played on the cadastre around our small principality, the few patches that remained between us and Michelle’s garden; now that he had thrown his might in the idea of a foundation for the defence of intersex children and people, Melchior must have unleashed his Palermitan lawyers onto the bidding, whatever it meant. There would be an unassailable stronghold in the midst of the unadulterated —listed, anyhow— block. The main transformation would happen underground, uncountable metric tons being excavated and carried away through one narrow alleyway.
Then, the smooth lucubration about all that earth signalled the takeover of our pervaded anuses, and we laughed our hearts off on each other’s chest. We started maniac chiropractic on each other’s joints, meddling one another’s. He clasped my wrists in my back, anointed my bum crack with orange blossom glycerin he said he had tested in Lizon’s little hatch. A host of multicoloured damselflies whirled out of my jewelled entrails as soon as his glans began searching his way through me, and all of the music’s modulations ran in slow whiplashes under my skin, like the drowned strands of weeds at the shores of the Salute’s stairs, in Venice. My soul was tossed about, gathering gossamer veils in the silky black vortex at the centre of the circling shawls. The gloomy city lights moaned through the cabochons and disparate faceted crystal slivers of the narrow stained glass window. My orgasm lasted till I fainted a first once.

There I stood, wearing the most appropriate sapphire blue, turquoise piping trimmed, satin pyjama I had borrowed from Hugo’s and creased around my feet. In the morning, he had vanished, as he does, and my mind had not yet fully landed, so I found some large bathtub, stirred Hugo’s own recipe’s druggy in a head-soothing foam and dreamt on in it, almost drowned myself once, and eventually squared back my dimensions, enough to wish for a cup of tea, which I presently held, watching three desirable lesbians mentally fighting not to wake up.
As I started making love to her feet, reflected that Natalia had transmogrified into an awfully seductive creature, and she spent herself like the summer breeze; she moaned of ease and knelt up to grab and grope me in the silk, she said that her, too, had already worn these pyjamas, once she played the cat. Her breath was carnal, she had swallowed some cum.
As I gave her the subsister snippets of what I had learned before my wits skid into a peacock parade, she kept her hand inside the ample disguise; she was enthralled with any prospect of the new entity between Camille and Michelle, for she had a design to bind herself with it.
Kate wore an oversized sand grey jumper that did not bar from her nether countries as she sat on my lap, her thighs ajar for the relish of Natalia. Cynthia had ferreted out two pieces of tracksuit, dull yellow pants and a flag-blue hoodie I let my hand in, casually. She said she had overheard about the real-estate manoeuvres and it frightened her to have triggered all this, all the more with Delffan’s welfare at stake. Soon, she would fly back to her life and mull over all the tempting offers we, as an overall party of privileged bohemians, had floated to her, revealing uncountable might.
The scheme should be limpid, we would procure her our set of redeemed angels to let them talk their lives confidentially, Natalia agreed to lend her apartment upstairs, Beryl and herself camping around in some hospitable beds, for all she knew they all were.
Of their own will, the damsels could propose to bring her to shady venues, for thrills, but I thought that a week of novel encounters might grind her loins well enough, of all I knew of them. In the course of another future expedition, I promised we would go play Liselotte’s games, if she still wished.
Now that Melchior had thrown his weight in the scale, there existed a probable chance that the property takeover would happen, firstly for the good of many of his protégés, and there would be plentiful safe and snazzy space to move in for a cause. On top of any deal, in case she had not grasped, the clinic, where she had used the scanner and have all Delffan’s tests performed, belonged to Melchior, earnest.

 

19 – Katherine-Sophie – Vermilion

Sarah says:

That morning, on the day Hector had warned that he would take me out, late afternoon, for some surprise date he had concocted to my wilder tastes, Kate away to Sylt island, with her brother and Fayelle; I had, alone in our grand bed, one of these long woken dreams one doesn’t wish to end, and thus one remains stone still.
It was the vivid reminiscence of a full moon winter night, at my halcyon school on the Swiss lakeshore, where my omniscient father had spared me the world —my secretive UN officer of a dad I call Far in Danish— when something eerie had triggered my eyes wide open like a jolted automat.
Misshapen remnants of my deeper dream drifted like a melting ice cream cake on the deserted feast table, as dumb seconds pounded, in the feverish scent of my own nightly body dew.
It was a tiny edge of silence, the sensitive absence of the night’s breath, at my window, I sensed like the first snow in the season in a glance of the full moon.
But then, as I was balancing the worth of leaving out of the warmth I had gathered inside the duvet, to muse at a chance of winter magic in our park, the emotion built up that something other was happening for my own concern, outside of the frosted panes.
I had wrapped the whole comforter over me and felt cold on my feet as I feasted my eyes in the immense dome of bluish glare upon our nude plane trees. I received that dazzle as an assumption and wished I went wake someone, to share the bedcover along with me.
Then, at the edge of my sight, a slight trembling caught my attention and I fathomed a silhouette standing, face to the white glazed lawn, in a mere ghostly nightgown. It was real, one of the younglings had snuck out of their dormitories and stood, motionless on the snow.
I knew her, Ayla had said she was troubled but sweet, her name was Kirsten. I slid on a tracksuit and sneakers and ran down to the lost child whom I had no idea how long she had remained in the cold.
Hearing my steps cracking towards her, she wouldn’t move, but at last, she turned crying eyes to mine, and let me catch hold of her lean figure and run back inside swiftly to my room.
Her clothes were wet, I disrobed her and fetched a bath towel to rub her, not losing her fixed glare, mumbling grouchy comments about her death wish dare, kissing her tears altogether.
As I tucked her in the duvet, she moved, holding out her hands to ask me in with her, and feebly tried to rip away my clothes, which only led me to think I would be warmer on her without them. She did not feel feverish, she huddled every patch of skin on mine, she faintly smelled of German Cologne, and I started to realise I was in trouble.
Her forehead against my neck, she began to sough imperceptibly in German, through her sobs, in a soft tone, only not like she was addressing me, about someone she loved and wouldn’t respond.
Her eyes were pale silver-blue, with heart-wrenching mauve rings under them, her tousled hair was flaxen blond, I only thought she needed a kiss, an endless embrace that brought her to sleep.
Much later in the morning, I had woken in the ecstatic light of the first snow, enlaced with a slender child I had obviously no right to keep in my bed. But she breathed like a baby, smelled like fresh linen and clung to me if I moved; I thought someone would find us, someone who wouldn’t tell.
It was Baldur, all pampered, looking for some naughty trick, on either side of his penchants, who found us first and marvelled at the tableau we made. I shushed him in a stare and whispered that he go find Ayla —my little soul-sister— before anyone might worry about Kirsten missing. She ran in like a hotel rat, was predictably aroused by what she could see of us, and moreover, Baldur took a handful of her woollen leggings, as he knew them.
Kirsten had woken, but we remained enlaced; I explained that she shouldn’t be here, nude in the bed of a big girl like me, as sweet as it might feel. I wouldn’t know if the situation aroused her, but she agreed to follow Ayla’s lead, who went and fetch daytime clothes for my involuntary catch and brought her to the canteen, where I could casually join them.
Ayla, who also lived in the youth dormitory, then on had kept the troubled bunny under her wing, taught her a crash course of libertine practice, probably slept with both Kirsten and her crush, I met her at the swimming pool, and later in the nooks of the rewilded box-woods, behind the pool —and she understood how un-exclusive affections might be.
Under the therapy franchise of Pr Achenbach, I had retold him the whole events and their current aftermaths; he had asked all the questions, nodded me his silence, and wondered if Kirsten might wish to meet him, in the high tower. I had agreed that our darling headmaster, Harmony, might arrange that deftly, to the girl’s best profit. Last I saw of Kirsten, she was a tall and gracile blonde en route to some expensive finishing school, at her father’s will; we had a last duet as dainty as the snow upon a lawn.

I wouldn’t have deemed such a miniature recall a good or a bad omen of the announced day of Hector’s fancies, but I sat sipping my Darjeeling, relishing the parenthesis of solitude, as in an emotional sostenuto, playing a music CD Ayla had done for me, in the Saint Loup days. Each time I played it, it enraged me so as to board a plane to Zürich and whore along with her and Esther; of all, Radiohead had kept their grip in my plexus, so then I switched to the real thing, and slid in the plain vanilla nostalgic OK computer disc, before showering with Kirsten’s 4711, knowing that it wouldn’t live till night.
I donned a long, vague, multi-sails running gown to be able to denude myself at my health check-up —it was even time for the vagina smear— and a 25 carats makeover in Merlina’s salon, where she found time for some laser finish of my prized skin, and dainty little nails of ultramarine lacquer. She played jealousy for my thick and wavy dark ebony mane, she liked massaging my nape with an absent gaze in her black motherly eyes.
Kate would have mocked the slight overplay of my readying for what would, at best, consist in extravagant spending of my mere carnal plunder amidst Louis’ astounding liturgies and ornaments, leaving me then distraught, for a length of time, in some unknown palatial room, or the Connolly hide of some legendary backseat, knowing that Hugo already awaited for my detailed retelling into the creases of his satin bed.

End afternoon came, on Thom Yorke’s beat. I had chosen a long, flared, shirt-dress of supple silk jersey salt-painted of deep sapphire blue whirls, with rolled-up sleeves, lined in night blue pongee, closed with five sapphire buttons, not lower than my crotch. On top of that an easy scarf vest, in a zigzag patchwork of indigo blue and crimson red satin ribbons, with concealed pockets; I looked like your magazine slut. Except for a line of mascara in my pride lashes, I never wear make-up, lucky me; I chew on my lips. I slipped on thin Egyptian sandals with turquoise beads on the black straps. I knew I had all it took to kick in Hector’s fit of passion, and I was so ready.

Hector waited at the main street door, the big silver whale of a car stood silent, and this time there was a chauffeur, a smart black man in a sleek black suit. He ushered me to the back seat and followed, not without grazing the silk on my bum. In the other corner sat an amazing sight; a tall and lean blond human being stood sideways upon the rich leather, smiling modestly, casting the kingfisher-blue light of her candid eyes; she was stark-naked, except for a padded dog collar matched to her eyes. She rested one of her spectacular legs upon the seat, letting me crave for a timid bald peachy quim, already.
She spoke German, not your plain beer-and-pretzel tongue, but some bizarre foreign accent with outdated turns, for all someone like me could judge, and moreover, all I could fathom was her sunny blond skin, her long limbs, hands, and her bare foot I dared hold.
Meanwhile, as he was explaining about Dagmar, who was twenty, an orphan raised into prostitution by nuns, no less, near Cologne, who he had recently bought from a Russian pimp, and with whom I could entertain because I spoke her language and she spoke none other. Saying these few terrible things, he was after my buttons, and Dagmar was encouraged seeing me almost as nude as herself, caressed my foolberries, and asked me if I was, too, a whore? I stroked her moving childish chin and said yes, I was, by pleasure, like she would, in the world I knew she had now been brought in.

The grand car slid out of the civilisation, Dagmar’s chest smelled of an idea of Venetian jasmine in a morning rain, such as it bloomed upon her amber-hazed skin, as we discovered each other without paying attention to Hector who was already buggering me someway, right there, with style, and she helped me tilt over in a crisis, of her hand, so then he discharged faster than he had expected. She seemed proud of herself, she tasted of angelica. He was such a phenomenon he remained stiff inside of me, letting the road sways exert the moves, while I lapped at newfound labia with ardour.
We reached some industrial wastelands, planted with high steel mesh fences and not much else, gigantic contraptions under tarpaulin sheets, lit from high masts with red beacons on top, lined up like war equipment. by the roar that shook the heavy car, we knew we were near an airport.
At a booth near an isolated portal, the chauffeur, who had smiled at our shameless trio when he looked back, showed a card to a blank plate, and the large frame rolled aside, letting us roll in, with a thought for whoever might have peeked into the car. The space was nondescript concrete ground with few astray plants in the joints, otherwise impressively clean.
Hector had let go of me, and both had taken good care at wiping clean my beloved arse with their tongues; all my belongings were neatly folded on a tablet. We approached a white flat-roofed kind of bunker and the only one manner of a door in one of the facades, that actually lifted open, giving sight of a totally bare white corridor lit from the ceiling. Still feeling of my lately carnal blaze, I clung to Dagmar —who was actually fun to play with— so big was my amazement. I had known Louis’ extravagances, I would have expected innumerable ways to attend the feasting of my own —and others’— debauchery, but there again I was enthralled, and Hector’s expecting smile gave me fits of tremor that my sister whore frankly relished.

With some played compunction, the chauffeur turned the switch to extinguish the engines of the car, into what had become a spacious metal box, when a panel had slid to close behind us the tunnel we had been driving in. Cuddled up like doves, we felt the minute jolts that meant we were in some sort of a lift. Now that he had insured of my carnal complacency after —I guessed— many days of unravelling Dagmar’s clear soul, the insatiable male had thrown his sinewy arms around our embrace.
Like a giant easter egg, the car had emerged in the centre of a vast and luminous empty hall, and the chauffeur, whose trousers obviously bulged forward, stood at the car door. My squirrel-like mind mused on the absence of any chemiconical sort of scent, the kind old cars would have born after an hour-long ride. We unwound our pretty selves in the state we had come to be, under the appreciative eye of the chauffeur, whom, I guessed, had not, yet, had the last bit of us.
It was warm like a cot, Hector, who had zipped back closed his bespoke silky outfit, handled our bums towards an opening that had swivelled in the lacquered wall, giving way to Louis, wearing one of his customary, operatic, brocatelle robes, of rich madder red, under which the black silk tight would be opened at the crotch, and, between the padded satin lapels, an ebullient jabot of fine-ironed lacy linen would hide most of his antique person while he would gallantly slit us open.

With a gracious en-dehors of his patent leather and grosgrain court slippers, he embraced us as a couple, then, granting me the complicit eye, he seized his most recent acquisition —he had apparently not yet acquainted with, entrusting Hector with the breaking in of an expensive angel. He showed his overwhelmed bliss caressing the long figure of the all-confiding orphan, for whom the last rapture had shed no lie and no pain —would I trust first-hand.
A soft-looking Khmer-faced young man brought the expected silver tray with a considerable tea-pot and paper-thin cloudy blue porcelain cups, so we gathered around a large, convoluted, pearl-inlaid black lacquered low table, circled by mismatched tapestry colourful foliages chairs and sofas; Louis kept Dagmar closest, holding the ring of her collar when he devoured her mouth. He taught her to drink more of the sublime beverage he kept pouring, like to an obedient child; her eyes swayed for my constant wonder, and Louis saw that and nodded; Hector chased the bumps on my arm and tilted me backwards for an embrace.
Wherever the vast room stood standing, and its dimensions made up for the absence of any windows, the decor was a new tall order as to all I had happened to cruise in, at the pinnacle circle of connoisseurs, though none would let me forget the nooks in the boxwoods of Saint Loup that smelled of piss and roses —tell me, Ayla. The heated floor was a polished pavement of coloured marbles and stones arranged in a grand rosa of alternate stone samples, like a giant Florentine table; the walls were hung in willow green moire, and a collection of clouded baroque mirrors, much higher than our images, stood between exuberant Venetian boat lanterns. Three majestic doors were framed of the same black polished marble as the skirting that ran around the room; on top of each door, lifesize satiny-white angels of all genders flew in lewd attitudes, as if Giulio Aristide Sartorio had lost the rest of his apparent religion.
As per usual, Louis waited that his girl lightly swung her belly, in need of peeing, to lead us two through one of the doors, to a sort of Roman dream of a bathroom, all clad in Carrara slabs, with on the floor laid down sculpted Medusa faces opening wild mouths to swallow whatever flows might run: it was a thrill to watch Dagmar’s long feet stomp the angry eyes of the thirsty demigod, and then, on Louis’ whim, to let pour out of our vulvas, and make her pee in my open mouth, and receive a shower of his half-erected peen, out of the open tights. She was no rookie at watersports, she had graduated with many high prelates, we had warm fun and spends; after a rosewater shower, he helped us with the enemas, above the avid mouth of a contorted sea monster devised as a phantasmatic toilet seat, then he couldn’t wait to visit Dagmar’s minor alleyway and made her stand, her thin legs parted.

His phallus now straight up, he helped wipe us in the thickest white velvet towels, and a thinly clothed and shoed hairdresser greeted us in an adjoined boudoir, all-around upholstered in tufted pearly grey satin, under a decor of grand style baroque clouds. Louis had lost the robe, we sat on wide round pouffes, Klios, the cinnamon-skin artist, twirled around, inspired and aroused, as he could not deny. I had been paid to know that everyone in the place would have a piece of us, and my readied little arse did not clench. Louis sat with us and grazed Klios’ nob, inviting us to feel free; as our hair looked lovely, and the operator stood hands up, dithering, we both agreed to grope his pants, he wore no undies. It was Dagmar that pulled them down, revealing a bald brown cock in its glory she soon pumped like a good girl, I thought of sliding a tongue between his bum cheeks, it smelled of Vanilla and Tonka, and the boy began to moan in Louis’ kiss, I felt he would shoot his load in Dagmar’s throat, and she would gulp it all as casual because she had always done so. I was right, and Louis squeezed the gracile neck as he felt he came, then he rested our victim and asked me for the same, while Dagmar serviced his bumhole; only he asked Klios to revive inside his mouth. Louis’ outpour in mine was only meagre but salty, like a taste of raw mushrooms, with the wrong herbs that naughty girls might thoughtlessly nibble.

The further salon was a blast of marigold yellow over a star-spangled black and gold marble floor with seemingly torture contraptions here and there, but I had known Louis’ kind of toys before, and I could reassure my blonde companion as to what these barbaric mechanisms were for, mainly maintain our available slits opened wide at the right height and inclination to allow as many deliberate penises to play in and out, beyond our will, until they dried out —or we called for a stop.
Three beautiful brothers with black complexions awaited, boasting eager smiles, in oversized street-pride outfits, mindlessly fingering their dicks and prancing before two nude, unfazed bitches. Louis told them to seize me first and lay me on some antique examination chair in what my loin would be rested, but my thighs parted and bound in such a high position that my butthole protruded. The brothers had free rein already and tried my strapped body one by one with great appreciative shouts. Louis then showed how to tilt the headrest backwards so as easily fuck my throat —I could learn that their young tools of pride were demanding on my jaw joints, but nonetheless, they reached far enough to make me drool like a gutter; then Louis showed them a rolling bench, under the seat, on which some vigorous punk might be lifted, so as to bugger me fine while his brother fucked me standing up.
This was no current gym practice, I had a lot of contortions to make to let them ease their pistons, but they were good dancers, and soon I could entrust my whole body to their game and they did not expect more. After a good many spurts from both parts, they laid flat on their backs, as lustrous as the stone they were on, of cum and sweat, while Dagmar, who feared for her turn, unfastened my straps and licked my face; I took her head, ponded, and told her, breathless, that it had been good.

Then I certainly had fainted, now Klios was sheathing his fine hands in my carnal pathways, and it felt like shivering moths, but I feigned sleeping, releasing only shreds of sounds as if my spent carcass would approve. Nearby, Dagmar had been suspended by means of ropes and shackles clasped onto some tightened corset, and thick leather bracelets at her elbows, wrists, knees and ankles. Her gangling body brought to rest solely upon Louis’ shaft pitched up in her anus to the hilt, not moving, while Hector, perched on a table, calmly serviced her dangling head, thus causing some slight swaying. Appeared our black chauffeur —I had known he would, I might have a turn— in splendid nudity, and my reptilian naughtiness mumbled he was oiled up, or something, but anyway he afforded a formidable pecker and some unavoidable intention as he climbed a few steps into Dagmar’ outspread thighs. As he slowly slid his swelled manhood at the rosy threshold of her blooming source, he seized her upheld feet, in some outstretched pose, and let himself in, until his testicles grazed those of Louis’, who was overflowed, already. She was singing, rather than moaning, she was like floating by means of dicks, and the balance operated itself in the play of pulleys. I escaped Klios’ healing hands, fetched a stool and reached for Dagmar’s nipples, indiscernible baby buds under the thin red trimming of her containment girdle. She reacted so vividly that there were puddles of mixed fluids at both ends, and Louis commanded to haul down, although the chauffeur seemed to want more.
She was dandy, wearing the black leather harness, her waist so reduced; and she smelled of bodily sap mixed with the jasmine. She offered me luminous gazes; I was, once more, granted the unabashed lordship of a stranded soul, and it made Hector happy.
While the chauffeur was letting a hand on my thigh —for him, it was the keenly expected parenthesis when he would become solely a wholesome athlete, with an impressive dick— Louis tried to steal some of the look Dagmar had unleashed in mine, but he was only granted the immemorial slutty invite he had paid for, and I thought that perhaps time and moral bounty would earn him more.

Into the leather-clad embrace of Dagmar, who let Louis preen her with kisses, I allowed myself to be used grandly by —Driss was the name— as Klios ‘ unguents had rejuvenated my faithful quim, and anus. Then, insensibly, mounted a slow, heavy rumour, evoking the throes of an earthquake, hurling through the heavy structure, and only Louis kept his cool, predicting it all would stop soon, and it did. With the kindest look, he asked me, who was just recovering from a masterful assault, to help unbind my new fling, Dagmar, of her fetish attire, except her collar, and massage her whole body to erase the traces, with the same flowery oil Klios had used on and in me.
Having fetched his robe, Louis drew us both through stairs and corridors and an all copper-clad elevator, to a door on the rooftop, where stood a massive helicopter, the side hatch open. Two pilots stood in glazed helmets, at attention, I guessed. Hector had followed, time to slide on a sleek black leotard and slippers. We remained stark naked.
Our party climbed in the monster, the night was crystal clear, as if Louis had dared order it. The grounds we had arrived by were lit “a-giorno”, red flashing lights topped each pylon it was evident the whole compound was a private heliport, what did we do here? I drank half a bottle of water before acknowledging Dagmar was thirsty, too. There were nasty films in my jolted mind and the craft did not fly, yet. I reckoned I could not assign such horrible intentions as mere abduction to my patron friend Louis, to whom I owed memorable orgies, sweet girlfriends, and hefty sums of money!
Nevertheless, as I clung to Dagmar, who, young and detached, seemed to have enjoyed trips of that manner before, a sharp hiss announced the rekindling of the engines, and I could see the blades begin to whirl, then soon disappear as the noise raised to unbearable, but caused Dagmar to play butterfly in my neck, she liked the whole pother.
Louis, whatever his dick is aimed at, has a sharp eye; he took my hand gently, looked me in the eye and, in the mounting din, mimicked a candid interrogation, wasn’t he proud of his new extravagance? The beast lifted up and veered towards the nearby river, its allowed route. The moon appeared, full, as the glitter of the city seemed to evade, like the cloak of some magician; the windows, larger than those of a car, showed the blue realm of still, in the thin web of twinkling light pins. In the cabin, the masked twin robots didn’t pay attention; I cuddled Dagmar, Louis shouted that in a half-hour we would land by the sea, there were jackets for us onboard.

It must have had been quite a sight, two slinky lasses merely butt-naked in oversized flight jackets, out of a spanking new helicopter, at dawn, on a sandy beach somewhere in France. The big bird had given us fifteen minutes, it could not remain but would pick us back up.
The moon was lowering, I dedicated the marvel of its pale gold to that of Dagmar’s pure forehead, her tiny straight nose, and her delicious fruity mouth; our men revelled in my craving for their find, I was burning to let her be known to the other fairies of the hive. With my footprints, I wrote her name on the sand. Louis and his retainer sipped from a flask of Armagnac, but neither of us, girls, tasted any of it elsewhere than their lips.
On the return flight, we found a thermos of coffee and croissants, complimentary of the bird, or the big one in a red outlandish robe, seated next to me and asking for a hand on his dick.
We could scarcely speak, but I was already scheming around keeping Dagmar around us, and showing her the schoolyard and the buddies; it had more or less worked that way with the others, except for the four-eyed queen-bee of the global network, who might shed a glance upon her new neighbour
Eventually, before I dressed and depart, Louis took us both in a deep vermilion brocade satin sofa and solicited one last pumping do of both of us, that we played softly, so he could offer me to keep Dagmar with us, as we had beautifully done with others, and she would remain in his books, as per usual. I was so pleased that I properly sucked him dry, deep into my throat and heart.

Hector had unearthed the soft misty blue jumper dress Dagmar had been wearing before he had disrobed her in the car and the sandals, but he kept the rest as a token. I swore that he was doing us a moving present, and I would repay him all he wanted. I pulled the blonde, who walked like a thoroughbred and showed her to run up the stairs two at a time.
She marvelled at our friendly bric-a-brac, someone had brought an armful of red roses and arranged them in the big silver bucket, I thought of Natalia. I pulled Dagmar’s dress, she untied mine, we hugged, and I felt I was sleeping already, so I drew her to bed and we dived unconscious.
I knew, before I woke, that a little bird was chirping inside my ribcage, right on my solar plexus, as I still danced with her on a moonlight beach, reminding me of blue jasmine, right here, in our bed. Only a tad itching in my inner blooms as I mindlessly peed with some tissue in hand, I avoided recalling anything of our night, other than her.
I was hungry, I brewed tea, if she prefered coffee it would be fast. I prepared french toast with all the stale pastry of the three last days, sugar, cinnamon, and stuff.
I had an idea of asking Fæbian to help detangle the tale of her near-compatriot and peer —would I say? But it would happen in time, for now, we could put our lovely feet on the table and babble. She was a personal gift from Louis.

She said she didn’t know Frazözicher toast, she liked my expensive Darjeeling, she played footsie with me. She needed to offload her fate to trusted eyes like mine. She said she liked me right away, I felt lucky.
She was born in Köln to a teenage country girl who killed herself after they took her baby away. She was sent to a Christian orphanage where all traces of her provenance were destroyed. In Germany, churches are rich and powerful, and corrupt.
She had surely been the nunnery’s pet, as far as she remembered, she was treated like some sort of royalty, with all the excess it meant, and the constraining rules not to spoil the perfect clothes she was deemed to wear. Other children in the house, there were two dozens her age, hated and feared her, because she supposedly had grown to know how to manipulate the sick minds of the nuns.
She was already tall for her age, around five or six, nuns would start to take her to town, visit hypocritical priests of the hierarchy and earn their favours by letting her alone at their disposal while they pretended to pray in the next room. At best she had been petted, exposed, kissed. At worse, she soon became a real baby whore. At age eleven, she became to perform oral sex, in the nude, on powerful prelates she had caught sight of on solemn occasions in the grand churches when the nuns displayed their best models for their evil patrons. For she had not been the only one, all the girls on the first row were for sale, in that immaterial currency God dealt in, there had been another manner of conventicles under the dormitory sheets, and sweeter shenanigans, too.

Of the two ways one gets to know another soul, we had taken that of cutting in the raw, at once, before we would play life by the mundane end of the days. Say, suffice was it of all the exploits we had shared during that previous night, as far as the moon. We had been settling here, in the middle floors of an inexpugnable safe house, crowded with gentle souls whom all would fall for her in a blink, all the necessary wares to a life of ease, like this baby-wool jumper which did not need to conceal her bum, as she laid her legs up on the ottoman, from the opposite sofa. We had migrated the tea wares to cushion land, we showed whatever snuck out of our easy covers.
I had not seen reason to lay how I stood capacity to greet her into our home, and why. I was guessing Hector had painted the best portrait of us in the most flattering manner, I had all the time to set some truth to it.
At twelve, under another name she preferred not to pronounce, she was properly groomed, pampered and sold as an obedient prostitute to a secretive elite who shared the word just like the rest of their trade confidences. She usually was quickly stripped of the finest quality hosiery she was attired in, hushed into lavender beds, harrowed by cigar-scented moustaches, and roughly buggered because the canon was to preserve hypothetical virginity, then, as quickly, to wipe her arse, flush the toilet, slid on her white stockings, and let the nun matron button up her dress in the back.
As ignoble as it sounds, one youngling may live such a deranged walk of life, even if, moreover, although she bent to the same harsh discipline of early masses, constant prayers she still would not understand, the rigid standards of scholar teaching, she had to endure the carnal whims of some high-ranking nuns, as well, lapping at old cunts and giving ardour of her fist at deranged old dykes. Only one of them relished in watching her cum like the little trollop they had made of her, sucking her toes —as I would— and pointing the tongue in her arse.

About the horticulture of deviant liberalities, she was savvy enough to acknowledge that her present tale was avidly arousing me, but she needed me to stay on the other bank of our causerie, she granted me the mingling of our feet and glimpses of her free quim.
The course of her mild slavery, she said, changed when she was uncovered by a concurrent procuress who had the couple of them followed and her hushed in a car while her chaperon was left for dead, as the police never knew. Though she looked like a grown kid, she was only thirteen, but who knew, besides the nuns, who probably made up some transfer to the deep marshes of religious destinies to explain her absence in their books no lay authorities ever consulted, anyway.
She was granted some fake identity as a sixteen years old runaway whose purported mother would be some Berlin crackhead who could barely talk and conveniently died of an overdose, leaving a track for a child called Dagmar Kren. Who would try to devise a DNA search?
In the greatly populated realm of the German prostitution market, she was hot property, broken in early, the iconic figure of the slanky blonde toy, she was offered in the most exclusive internet chatrooms, with a pink vibrator in her vagina, watching the tokens pile up. It lasted only six hours a day because patrons paid for high-resolution images and tiredness would show.
Although she was a captive, she lived a life of ease, manicured, depilated, styled, and pampered by lesser lucrative girls, she remained nude all of her time, ate healthily and slept long. She did not wonder much else.
Her pimps used her carnally, there wasn’t much more to it, minding there would be no means to conceal any bruising or scrape onscreen, not even opaque foundation that would make her look like a stale hooker.
Eventually, the nifty geek who pulled the website strings became aware of a stealth market for high-end, underage escorts, and the money was staggering, so she was moved to clandestine quarters of brothels in Austria, where she could continue to milk the voyeur clientele while making passes with wealthy patrons, by-the-way under the keen eyes of other wealthy voyeurs, so as no risk was taken with her physical well-being.

At fifteen, it happened that one of her powerful regulars fell in love with her and bought her out, and so she was funnelled back to Germany, to a prideful castle in the Bavarian mountains. She was literally caged in a sealed tower for six months, with only a duenna, an ugly deformed woman straight from Velasquez, otherwise infinitely patient and kind, to attend to all her needs and care.
Her then-owner did not provide her with clothes, but she lived in a realm of silk and furs, enslaved to the old, if gallant, man’s consumption of pills. He had managed an industrial empire beyond the post-war mockery of purges, he died on her, she felt his flesh go numb, his eyes rolled back, a thread of saliva across his open lips, the distress of his poor dick out of her, she crept away, stunned, distraught, and after some while, she howled, only to be heard by the duenna, who called the sons of the dead man. The two uptight junkers understood clearly Dagmar’s explanations, although they did not want to know how she had come to exist in this place. They offered a free apartment for her and the duenna, in Munich, and a sum of money. Then they called a car for them, and once the detail of clothing Dagmar for the travel was settled, sent them off, promising that a clerk would bring the money tomorrow, along with the free lease for the house.
She was in shock —although she never had a chance to actually bond with the old pill-popper— the duenna represented that her situation might be enviable, and a new free life would begin for a young, even younger than it seemed, damsel as trendy as she happened to be.
These expectations were all too soon cut short when her old pimps, who had in mind the identity of their uncommon buyer, read in the press about his death and eventually traced Dagmar’s whereabouts. The two Serb thugs estimated that her new base, in a well-to-do area and a bourgeois building, was ideal to pimp her charms to demanding patrons. They roamed the city’s milieu and traded with the local mob, so she was overnight the property of a sombre Montenegrin, related to the Pugliese, who wanted a taste of the game illico, before shaking hands. She had had to suffer the three men in a row as if she had never believed her ordeal was over.

Only by the look of these men, she had known she had fallen one stage lower, threading passes most of her day for no reward of any kind —if the word bore any sense to her. Office types began ringing the given tune around eleven in the morning and ceased late at night; some days she had to satisfy twelve of them before resting. She stole the sleeping pills of the old freak, who had become the Montenegrin’s flunky, and she tried to kill herself, leading her to be dumped at the hospital door. The doctors, without further examination, plugged her into the stomach pump and let her sleep under watch. Some young intern, probably drawn to her after seeing her nude, stretched on the bed, was intrigued that a very young girl like her be offloaded like a wreck nearby the ICU, and found nought sort of identification in her clothes. He called the police and started a full medical investigation, to conclude that she was no more than sixteen, although the bruises at her crotch left no doubt as to her occupation, furthermore, she showed signs of a few MSTs other than HIV.
Her pimp collected information from the hospital and did not like what it meant, he had the apartment cleaned entirely and the duenna disappeared. He preferred to forget Dagmar, who was, anew, unknown. When she had finished her check-up, she was brought to some hostel for displaced youth of her sort and she tried to make up some logic of her life, although she could not fully see what it might be. The police understood that she had been forced into underage prostitution, but did not fathom when it might have started, because she said it had always been. Between amazement and disbelief, her files followed course, because the mental experts certified that she was not lying. She was granted a new identity under the name Dagmar Craven because she liked the cat on the officer’s pack of cigarettes (although he did not smoke indoors); the date and place of birth were false, but in a way that would redirect the potential control towards the central database. She was sent to an institution where she could learn some office computing, and live among other damaged souls —she could esteem herself not so badly mauled, after all— and even find one soul-sister and lover.
Now she was near Freiburg, far from any turpitude of her short past. She had a reputation of haughtiness and solitary tastes; in the activities room, she would not play cards or draughts, seldom watched television; she would turn her invariable periwinkle stare at most questions the other girls —many of them the already vicious kind— would ask, to trigger a conversation. All she wished for was to join Alice in the shower room or in the laundry room under the roof, where other couples, too, went to make out.
She remained there the year it took to attain the fictional majority according to her officially fake papers. Alice and herself had plans, she had a cousin in Berlin who could help them, rents were still low in many quarters, the city was full of youth, at worst, they could wait at wurst counters. Inexplicably, three days before they should collect the little farewell sum the state was to grant them and take a reduced rate ticket to Berlin, Alice disappeared, with all of her things in her corner of the four-bed dormitory. She felt frozen to the bones and heard the ugly taunts in her back. The building only had two storeys and a four-pitch roof, merely enough to break a leg; she did not jump. At said time, she went to the office and checked out with some overworked educator, took her money, a bunch of papers and cried her way out, all the way to Berlin. She could keep the pearly-white laptop she had been granted on state funds.

We went to pee together, I told her I loved her, but like I loved a whole tribe —and my father. I strengthened my pull on her, who stood seated in reverse upon my wet crotch, asking her to only give it a try.
I wasn’t finished listening, I wanted to hear the tale up to now; I brewed a new pot and asked if she was hungry; I called for a box of finger food anyhow, I guessed that she would like that manner of collation. Her tummy was as firm as wood, she slid back into the big jumper dress; seizing her feet from across the table, I told her that it would be a huge present if we let her have that dress; she pulled the collar up to her nose, she could round her eyes like an owl.
Once in Berlin, she had boarded at a state-run hostel, as indicated in the documents she had been given on her departure. The building had been designed by the DDR, with an indisputable functional attitude. The moustachioed man at the reception office told her she might wish to change her lock but then she was to leave one key with him, in the safe. He did not refrain from ogling her down to her jeans, but that, she had long learned to make with.
She got accustomed to her niche on the seventh floor, the neighbours as elusive as she was. She had been hired as a waitress in a no-fuss, non-stop eatery near Potsdamer Platz, the outfit a healthy pair of black jeans, any brand of black sneakers, and an illimited change of white tee-shirts printed with the house logo. Tourists tipped generously. The one hitch had been the manager’s sneaky harassment, she had had to reckon there was no other way to keep that easily lucrative job than to give the not-so-old, not-so-fat, bald-top Greek-Albanese bastard what he wanted fiercely, to start with as blow-job under his desk while he answered the telephone, and then, another day, pull her jeans down so he could shag her fast.
One of the colleagues liked her genuinely and knew what happened in the crammed back office, she confided she, too, had been the manager’s sex release for a month or so, she had estimated the job was worth it, plus, the boss wore condoms. That girl asked her out, she had some tips for her.

Saskia had been the unexpected daughter of a half-Russian leftover at the Czech border, and her otherwise kind mother had not cared to sort out who her father might be, she currently lived with an American occupier who never went back home, for he had none. So, Saskia was in charge of the two, as long as they did not booze. The step-dad retrieved past newspapers at hotels and read them, the mother watched German television with big headphones on her head, from the bliss of the articulated armchair her daughter had bought her.
So, she explained to Dagmar that, after her regular six hours of trampling, all smiles, among her twenty-six tables, she went, every day, to Club Colibri, to legally sell her skin by the €100 half-hour, under the protection of the club’s minders.
All in all, Dagmar had no proof that the whole society wasn’t a proper prostitution carousel, of all she knew. She went along, made a striking impression with the club’s managers, who were however not allowed in the sex side of the operation, and the police ensured that the girls —there were only girls— were independent and kept their IDs. Actually, she could appreciate that it worked, and she befriended Saskia, who took her for a day at Sansouci and kissed her. She was a tad more built than Dagmar but had kept some shapes of her years of the school dance, besides, she boasted some breasts, however modest they might be. Her face was softly triangular, with witty green slit-eyes, she said she must have been a Tatar princess in a previous life. She never failed Dagmar, but life can sure be a bitch.
In and around Colibri, Dagmar —as I saw her, half exposed in the quiet of our living room— had caused quite a stir and she could have been overbooked all day. She soon had her regulars, just as Saskia had warned, like the handsome Willy, who wanted a full night but obtained three hours on Tuesdays, bringing cute but expensive brand jewellery. He had cried passion for months but Saskia had decreed that he should never know Dagmar’s whereabouts outside the club —and all too rightfully.
One night, after they had entertained their lot of frustrated males, Dagmar ordered a cab to drive her home; the day had been fluent, the restaurant manager had left her alone for a new complacent Czech cutie, she had obliged three johns, one of them paying double for buggering her, no big deal.
After ten minutes of driving, the taxi curbed in some wooded area and let someone in, it was Willy, all smiles and a knife in hand, telling her she was his, now on, and ordering her to suck him as a start. He brought her to some shabby house in a deserted neighbourhood, cuffed and distraught, locked her in a bare concrete cube with a shit hole in a corner; the only light came from a glazed spyhole in the steel door; he had slashed her jeans and shirt; she passed out.

Dagmar woke up nude in the flow of tepid water from a hose a man in wellingtons held above her, from behind, she heard Willy laugh, calling her trash names, yelling at her there would be no more half-hours, and he would be holding the clock when she would take who he would tell her in her little butt.
Prostitution being legalised and regulated in Germany, there would be no market for a more lucrative clandestine skin trade, like Willy, who happened to be a Semyon Byshkov, the associate of Kostya Lenkovich, heads of a feared Bratva gang, operated on the French Riviera.
Holding her dripping hair and forcing his dick in her mouth, he explained how lucky she would be to live in the Mediterranean sun, then spurted his load in her throat, telling her to wipe him clean, before she dropped on the hard floor, dazed.
The Russians did not know about her past, they had foreseen more rebellion and anger; but then she had abated once more, just like the evil nuns had tamed her, trained her to smile when imposed strangers did unlikely things to her. So after the two dregs of mankind had revelled of her obedience for a few weeks inside their safe house, she had been smuggled to the hills between Nice and Monte Carlo, where she took place, always nude and available, when not in bed with a john, among the menagerie displayed in a splashy villa.
Meanwhile, in Berlin, Saskia had warned the police, they had soon traced Semyon and cast an international mandate against him, on top of which came the FBI. He was arrested but did not cave in as for Dagmar’s abduction, there were enough charges to send him back to his natural biotope, inside a high-security prison.
The sunny villa had been seized, but the other sod had retreated to their Parisian quarters, bringing a few slaves along, and Dagmar in the luggage hold of —moreover— a bus of Christian pilgrims.
That was how Hector’s informers, always keen to retell him of extraordinary sightings they had done, signalled that new model the Russians showed around in after-parties and who made the wolfpack drool. Hector managed to see for himself and felt electrocuted. He paid for one and two nights, talking in mumbo-jumbo, and next provoked the goons to have a word with the boss, who scented he was no little fish. Kostia had his associate in jail, embroiled in that blonde’s case; so, other than cook her or throw her in the grinder, he dealt her, for a hefty sum, and Hector brought her to the vaulted cachette in Louis’ hotel.
As I told Dagmar, holding her teasing feet as she had agreed to taste Agnete&Sanne vegan nibbles, Louis called me, when he invested in the fate of some lost girl, and I would introduce her to many others of them, actually. By then, it was only time I flew over to her side and lose my hands under the wool.

 

Liselotte says:

Kind of mourning my passed mother —not that we missed much of each other, by the way— I had dozed upon Anaïs Nin’s Journal when von K. called me. She had in some way inherited a blonde wonder from beyond all hells who had made her recall of my own sweet Fæbian, mainly because they had both been forced into prostitution and both spoke German, as for hers, exclusively.
She sounded enamoured, which wouldn’t be the rarest of her qualities, and keen to sell her to me for free, in a sleazy kind of way, I mean good sleazy, as things had always run between von K. and me. It was then to be a girls’ night, always time to call some of the lusty bohemians, if I would relish seeing her wunder-girl get sabred.
Coming from von K., the news pleased Fæbian, who was currently into the harsh magic of Unica Zürn; only some half-hour of brush-up and we would meet at “Cerebral”, a new geek caterer in rue de Beaune, so as we would bring dinner. My invention girl was indeed all that had struck me at first when she wandered, astray, on the Seine quays, but freshened up, reborn as a blooming mädchen, her sleek jumpy ankles on turquoise flipflops not even touching earth.
To see Sarah, she had donned a sleeveless, high-gathered, calf-long, Tana Lawn bleached verdigris girly gown, over what her newly short dirty-blond nape spun, to my renewed awe; there was a lot to bet she wore none other under the floating myriad of thinly printed twigs, and the young waitress at the counter probably saw… and blushed.
We bought pale-coloured aumonières with surrealistic names, like “dawn at the wash house”, “The Kensington Fox”, and especially for von K., ” Roses in the Boxwoods”, and so on, we piled up three mint and dove-pink pinstriped on white boxes like two Ronald Searle Ladies en route to von K.’s love nest

Like the scratchy Coleoptera on its board, I was nailed stupid at the first glance this Dagmar fairy cast upon me; Sarah saw that, and pinched me awake to mark her victory, then she embraced Fæbian ever so warmly. Both only wore jumpers, I hesitated not to seize Dagmar’s butt right away. The dialogue between the two mädchen clunked in instantly, tender and German, like two good pupils of the nasty sisters, Dagmar even nodding in assent, she might have curtseyed, little priceless whore with a chubby pussy.
Von K. treated me sweet, she vaunted my midnight blue milleraies velvet flared dress with a low bare back, in which she slid a hand to find my butt, too.
They both smelled of angelica, or something like acacia flower, almond, frangipane, how-dare-you, von K.? These are scent’s in my mother’s garden, on the Côte d’Azur. Our younglings were groping each other, babbling constantly, Dagmar has unbelievable legs and feet, Sarah must have been utterly enthralled on the spot.
My German has been revived somewhat since I live most of my time with Fæbian, but they ran fast, and Dagmar spoke quite different to her Swiss dialect, so, with a danish Princess in the middle, we lost thread more than often, which had little or nothing to do in what was actually happening.
I was totally stunned jealous about their trip to the seashore, chasing the moon. How did von K. pay Louis’ loyalty to her? —I knew that—Furthermore, I understood that Dagmar was sent by him to von K.? Is she a bigger slut than I am? At school, already, these two German princesses, Kate and her, annoyed everyone, and I had been dumb enough not to hobnob with them rather than the vin rouge crew; I remember, I only twigged the clue when I led von K. to be sexually humiliated by Pr Y., and again, only she does that with generations of disdain in her inscrutable sapphire eyes. Notwithstanding, she called me today to share the new semi-goddess of the hidden castle, it showed at least I have not been wrong all along, have I?

 

Sarah says:

Whatever they had been into, the black & white Fulgence and his pal Eric turned up in a blink as soon as Liselotte messaged their phones, I would have bet they had been on standby. They did not refrain from expressing their awe, Fulgence guessing he was welcome at Dagmar’s feet, Erik renewing sensuous bonds with free-spread Fæbian, all while the two twinkling harlots kept the butterfly-talking. Aroused even more than predictably, Liselotte undertook me over the facing sofa and wanked me to a good end, out of some rage, marvelling at my perfect grooming, to what I lazed at responding, so caught-up was I by the beastly arabesque our divas were staging, over there. Unmistakably, years of abuse had not exhausted the wells of desire, when the prelude was justly tuned. Fulgence, who had found a manner to tan his skin colours in the nude, let wave a glorious strand of blond hair as he devoured the effusive corolla at the apogee of an angelic pair of limb stollen from the astounding sins of a Bavarian baroque, as I near-convulsed in the assumption of a diamond-pure beauty, and I cried to the sudden thought that Kate was not seeing it.
And now Dagmar revelled in acting as a pure overcome female, I crawled to her dripping quim to sip the bitter mystery of their unforeseen stroke of passion, like in a lewd liturgy to the holy whore, a wincing farce into the laundered sheets of inexpiable religion, my heartfelt tribute to Dagmar’s redemption.

Although we are on the path of gaining more space to our holy reservation inside the Decharny castle, as attested the planked-out length of wall between our vestiary and the kitchen, beyond what, works have gone on for a few months, to eventually free us two more ensuite bedrooms, other beds to frolic in, Fulgence and Erik couldn’t possibly overcrowd our grand bed that night, so they crashed on the two sofas, while women entangled their fine legs in dreams, at the starry blue forest.
Effectively, in the wake of the coming to power of who had been nested for some time behind our red sofa, in the studio, and who went by the tender moniker of “the aviator” —due to the unexpected shape of the eyeglasses she needed badly— now owner, for the security of her high-flying expertise trade, along with almighty Melchior, her associate, of most of the patches of land between Hugo’s and the rue de Verneuil, at the centre of what would be established the foundation for the defence of the sexually undetermined children, we, nested above Hugo’s apartment, would expand into the next buildings, and also some spaces above, all of it intertwined with the existing dovecots of Gauthier, Natalia, Beryl, and a few other lucky birds.
For most of the following hours to our awe-stricken spends, I felt I had swum along with each of the fish in the aquarium of our bed, thus bringing to life the most sensuous picture of Klimt’s in the Belvedere, The Water Serpents.
I heard Liselotte probably making out with the boys, and marvelled at my two debauched damsels hugging in their sleep, then peed, brushed up, and yawned at the rakes in immodest pauses who asked for the bathroom, and guests’ toiletries they knew we kept. Our lair would probably soon become a full-fledged whorehouse.
I brewed my tea in the biggest pumpkin-like Yixing pot we owned, and opened a vacuum pouch of Hawaï Kona coffee to start the biggest Italian pressure coffee pot we owned, the boys would need at least two of this. As a dedicated tea person, I must confess that the scent of coffee in the morning is yet an unsurpassed turn-on; in Saint Loup, it was reason enough to frequent the canteen in the morning, whenas I could have brewed tea in my room —besides, I relished to ogle the crumpled night clothes on all these young butts, those who affected to laze untidied. I felt I needed to rekindle my stance towards Liselotte, who, come what may, had always played my side of the many turpitudes we had engaged together in, whatever the unpleasantness of the night we fled from Victor’s with Michelle he had attempted to rape, triggering thus a true revolution, of what, we, mere artists, only saw the debauchery consequences and therewith our common first mentor, Camille, now stood as a top magnitude Queen-Bee.
I sat beside Liselotte, I whispered in her small ear that I could scent she had already had had sex that morning, and tickled her neck with my tongue tip, in good humour; she was acute enough to grasp that I wished to bury whatever hatchet had stood between us, and the conversation went about the year’s crop of Darjeeling teas.
The two love warriors smiled peacefully, Erik had used my body oil, concocted by Hugo, he smelled of Ylang-ylang and gleamed satiny, I wondered aloud who had done his back, and he answered he had been waiting for me, that was how it started further again.

Later, after the youths had entered, arm in arm and resplendent — how proud their mother-pimps— I checked my telephone and read a love letter from Kate, from over the dunes of Sylt; I felt that once more, Fayelle had flinched, or Simon had tried his luck with her too far, in the exultation of the full moon. She had seized an opportunity to hop in Lauritz von Peck’s convertible and fled. In the morning, she had apologised but nonetheless renewed her stance that she would not marry anyone as of yet, and Simon was asking too much, even for a skilled lover as he proved to be. Sadly vexed, Simon had packed up and left, leaving Kate in disarray, even if I knew she would shag Fayelle before long.
Our studs gone to their lives, Liselotte and the saved ones back in bed to hear more of the harrowing tales, I remained with my phone in hand, not knowing what kind of comments Kate needed to read. After the ordeal that he had suffered, he stood like a victor, all the more in his sister’s eyes, it did not play that way for Fayelle, the still savage alley cat in her heart, too happy among us, so far from the life plan of raising a family, and she had let two tries, it was over.
Perplexed, I began to put up a digest of our lunar flight with the new wünder mädchen who speaks German and returned from childhood enslavement. I stealthily wished it would make the vacationers run home, I joined a photo of Dagmar in Fæbian’s arms, nude and beaming. It shouldn’t be long before Camille asked for the big bird to pick up the pair in Sylt, Lauritz promised that he would visit them, in Paris.

I received a late call from Michelle, in her detached tone of voice, which always led me to think she was at the same time crashing some corporate fund somewhere I had no idea of. This time, she had come to the decision that she needed to go in person to the University of Lausanne, in order to address a seldom round-up of her peers, and sort whatever she had left untied in her curriculum there; she would appreciate that I tried to shelter Delf and herself at my Far’s home if ever it was that kind of household, she would, of course, provide for all the expenses —I knew what that meant. Nonetheless, I taught her about my new intern of sorts, the little alley cat in my ward I would not desert as of yet, but she could very well travel along with me. Remained to ask Far his feeling, though I doubted he might not be overjoyed to see four lovely lasses descend upon his house, among which were a world-class computer science genius and his own beloved daughter? I promised to talk in the morning, incidentally, she inquired about Dagmar, as she would about any novelty in her near vicinity, so I had to retell her roughly why this adorable young harlot had washed up on my lap, and why Michelle and Delf —as she had just pronounced— would instantly have a major crush on her. And no, there was no chance she might have frequented Victor, near or far, poor kid. So then, Michelle awaited keenly my call mid-afternoon, the train fares had been booked for two days later, in case —and that was her way of pushing things around.
I knew pretty well that my Far would be overjoyed, and with his long habit of so direr crisis than us, the only thing I had not seen happening and he laid it straight in his first texted answer, was that he had been seeing Elsie, and she would be with him, then. I had to sit up and swallow that. How come I had never foreseen the outcome when all her career connexions fell so nicely in place and timely? It was laughs from the bedroom that rewinded my clock as to Elsie’s freedom to shag my father all she liked, I had been that near to do it myself, what a fine man!
I told him all that, frankly, and also that he could ogle all the beautiful beings I would come with, and I let flow in my sort of Danish all my daughterly love. I warned him pleasantly that Michelle had sounded on the brink to hire some security detail. He answered almost seriously that the house was under watch, anyway, and from what I had known in my paradise days, it could as well be true.
I jumped amidst the merry trio —Liselotte was so enthralled for the new brat— and broke them the news. Dagmar cried she knew not what a father was. I swore she would cling on to me and fall in love with my Far, who was nowhere near what PTBs she had been sold to, I swore on my life. Besides, we would travel along with extraordinary beings, had she ever known a middlesex imp? I vaunted the all-around daintiness of Delffan and betted she would want to shag them. As for The Aviator, I let her discover one of the most powerful people in the world, albeit in the likes of a smallish curly golden blonde, who talked geek fluently. She went to Lausanne to meet the twenty-one savviest scientists there are, there wouldn’t be a microphone in the room.

Early next morning, Kate and Fayelle barged in and woke us with a warm puff brioche, they looked colourful and bright. though still a tad surly after she peed and splashed her face, Dagmar in her flush-the-bliss jumper made her effect, such that Kate stood up and kissed her on the cheeks. As she did, Dagmar drilled a stare into her eyes and bloomed; Kate only had one day to win her, and Fayelle was transfixed.
I explained first Michelle’s awkward summon, nothing to anger about, yet, we could not turn up six at Far’s house, it would make no sense. Then I helped Dagmar speak out, one more time, about her unbelievable fate, Kate asking the right questions to figure out all the extent of the crime. On the chair’s wooden seat, facing her, the quiet little peach rested at hand’s reach but Kate rather caught the fine hands, so tense was the unravelling of the ordeal.
When Natalia said hello, she read our emotions and Fayelle took her to a corner of a sofa to brief her, in French, and it made that our house fairy, going to fetch a cup and a slice of cake, grabbed Dagmar’s head and rocked her on her chest, moaning. Dagmar embraced her and begged for a real kiss, enough spoken. Fayelle caressed her feet now, Kate regained composure taking her stuff to the cloakroom.
My jumper was a thread longer than that of the wûnder brat, but nevertheless, my quim was in sight for Kate, who gave me morning devotions there and wondered low if the new marvel was ours to play with. By the manner I rolled my eyes she understood that it was another of Louis’ redemptions, and our boarders all got along, more or less, in that bunch, didn’t they?
Natalia had dared a swift hand under the wool, but she had to go; since she had grasped Camille’s plans for a gallery in New York, she had increased her curriculum with some serious English —and Liselotte had introduced her to Prof. Martail, a slender young teacher who took care of her in her diminishing free time, at the same conditions as her other coaches of sorts, only that one was fuckable, and he knew it.
Fayelle, in good camaraderie, had already lost her jeans and was feverishly making out with Dagmar, her hips in plain sight. Remained to show her to our hailed landlord. I spoke first to my Far, who had most welcomed my small declaration to him and waited for us. Michelle was not available to speak but she would read the good news in time.
Hugo invited all of us that evening and spared me the talking about Dagmar, because his friend Louis had done it, in rich detail.

All I had seen, yet, of Dagmar was her with a bare arse, Kate laughed at the mere idea and if we could, no doubt, dress her for dinner, we could not do for shoes, she supersized us, with long, playful toes. To the chagrin of Fayelle, we decided to fit Dagmar’s feet with worthy pumps of sorts, and we were minutes from the best shops.
Against the promise that she, too, was in for the spree, Fayelle recovered her cheery mood.
Only to walk out of the house, I unearthed a pair of Egyptian sandals long enough, and some vague, long, raw linen desert gown that hid Dagmar’s silhouette but hinted at her slenderness; since it wouldn’t be about teasing the shop attendants too far, I gave her wise sand-white cotton knickers.
It wasn’t hard to collect a few colours of Chuck Taylors and a lot of cotton socks, and she could run on the rue du Bac with one foot yellow and the other light blue. Then three models of K.Jacques, two pairs of rounded flats, one night blue, the other flesh tone, I bid on splendid burnt wood Chelseas, Kate on dark umber Jodhpur strap boots, and we called the session over with a rhubarb pie at Berenice’s.
Fayelle, who had not been a necessitous as for her own feet, earned, anyway, a pair of navy blue Chelseas for the season ahead; she continued her overt flirting with Dagmar, who, seeing that I condoned it, enjoyed.
On the matter of a quadriga of roused fillies, remained to harness them in a worthy manner, the host was a connoisseur, but as most of the times he hurried to disrobe the cast, the motto was to devise easiness. And it was, at most, matter to climb down a few stairs. Like the frolicking Wedgwood nymphs, we composed a bouquet of high-waisted gowns of Tana Lawn gauze, of four faint colours, trimmed with antique lace.
Fayelle had been all lips on the newbie, but I retook possession because I wanted to sing the paean to the glory of our libertine master, in Dagmar’s only vernacular —so as she would be spared useless apprehensiveness or the recoil upon her ingrained submissiveness— and while spinning my verse, under Kate’s watch, I kept massaging her muscular tummy and the two diminutive buds of her chest, relishing in her slow breath.

Upon our arrival, Hugo took time to grope and scent each of us, I had opted for a reminiscence of an untraceable Lilac Misty Dawn, Kate had chosen a hint of tuberose drowned away with lotus and neroli, like her Ophelia moments at the spell of some gifted fiddler, heaven witness Fayelle is one, who made glitter our Zanzibar like the gold tesserae around a Murano Virgin. Blue Jasmine was making Dagmar sway like the immemorial liana, whom Hugo danced with so lightly, mesmerised in her gaze, like all of us.
Hearing about our gang of pussies, he had conveyed Gauthier, who had Donovan, staying for a few days. knowing the party would flow as mellow as a May prairie. By then, he was demonstrating his soft German, keeping his cool beside the Queen of dusk. Fayelle had crept down on the precious rug to the feet of her current fancy, Hugo fumbled in her curls to make her feel free to steal the sandals and lick the toes.
When the two friends showed up, we were still all merely covered, Hugo was, as predictably, impressed; he fetched his legendary ewers, filled with fruity kombucha, all covered in dew, mismatched enamelled goblets awaited; Dagmar did not know anything else than tonic, where she had been kept in, having tried alcohol one time; she liked the bubbly freshness and all the unfolding tastes on her buds.
Hugo had some difficulties believing all she had been through, Gauthier jumped in the dialogue because he had read about the scandal of the orphanage and as he was a sensitive knight with the golden hair, he frankly knelt before her and took her hands, not bothering Fayelle in her fetish routine, to tell Dagmar how miraculous she looked.
Donovan did not speak German but was obviously thrilled to meet me again, I could feel that. I discreetly parted my thighs, in case he might like, he knew soon that I wore nothing. Fayelle followed back Gauthier to the couch when he let Hugo back near his guest of honour, these two had clicked by chance in the upper corridors, she had even enjoyed them both together; like the bad girl she is, she slid a hand in his trousers. Hugo waved at Kate to join him on the other side of Dagmar, and she helped lift away the rags off her. As the Scot was licking me all over, causing the niftiest of smells to overthrow my wits, I watched Dagmar’s tall back in Kate’s embrace.

Then, there were porcelain plates bearing fruit, nuts, cakes, and confectionery, Dagmar had a fit for a rice pudding full of candied fruit, she practically ate just that and we loved her for that, too. There was music, unfurling digital draperies of ear-pleasing chords and harmony, through the laser-sharp sound system.
There wasn’t much to be retold of this girl’s terribly wrong upbringing, only let her behave, just like I had enjoyed the night before, and eventually, she kindly used the three men available, and us girls. Hugo knew we went to Switzerland the next day, so he chased us out early, our togs on the arm, and all the kindest promises to Dagmar.
Fayelle followed the two boys to her perch, she had only begun her night. We faded out to the tree of oblivion in the quiet little crystal pond of our bed.

I did not fathom how Delf had snuck up to our room, so early. One might have called on Natalia. Kindly self-assured, one contemplated our poses with some longing, wore a silver-blue shantung boyish suit, with a silver chain across the vest. One was very desirable when watching me pee, then scrutinising the new angel, letting a hand run on her thigh, so Dagmar kissed one’s forehead and asked who it was while brushing her teeth. the answer was “one in the middle”, Delffan, who does and be done, Your two friends found me in a furnace, now I live with Michelle, who keeps the clocks ticking —if you will!
It was a tender start, we drank our tea and slid on verdigris-paisley and blue-streamers-on-dawn-yellow leggings, grey hoodies with multicoloured-polka-dots or the other star-sprinkled blue on yellow, we shoed our mismatched Converses. I threw numerous such streetwear along with underwear and socks in the duffle bag we would carry, anyway, it was like going home, plus, there were shops in Lausanne. Dagmar had watched me pack up and said she loved me, she was still disquieted to meet a real father.
Kate was watching us in a daze, Delf was stroking her tits, I had a pang of sudden guilt, like a big sturdy nail in my chest, and I burst, ordering her to stand up and dress as she had seen us do and come along, we could always sleep three in a bed, even in my father’s house, he had seen worse, speed up! I decanted her tea on a plate to make it drinkable tepid before I poured it into her cup and she drank it. She would wear more of the same as us, that was speed!
Michelle looked small, on the big black car’s seat, in a wide-knit cardigan, her bare feet refolded up, a sleek tablet in hand. She wanted to know why Kate was in tears? I licked Her Highness’ eyes and said calmly that we were not crying. Michelle’s paused for a split second, her gaze fired up, and she furrowed in her screen, and ran her dainty fingers through the screen while muttering we would be five on the train. Then she turned towards Dagmar, took her hands and grazed her forearms, telling her how beautiful she was. Delf slid weightlessly a small hand in the gracile neck and whispered she was another survivor.

From behind her two crystal shields, Michelle’s conveyed her impervious will, she had transformed into the TRÆVIX eagle, from the looking backwards seats, I ogled her feet, would I have had time, I would have bared mine too. She hit on Dagmar, who would not?
At the station, we climbed up in the weird-smelling metal and plastic carriage, roomy, at least; Michelle had bought the six facing chairs with a transformable table in their midst. We owned our space, she pulled Dagmar at her side, she joked she needed to work her German skills. under the cardigan, she wore a dead leaves shantung no-collar shirt, and thin, matched, corduroy jeans. Dagmar quit her shoes and socks, they soon cuddled up together, talking slowly about all things but the past. Seeing that Delf wanted to almost grope under Kate’s oversized sweat, I put myself to sleep in the last corner.
Kate, who smelled of Delffan, having not perfumed herself in the morning rush, gently sat against me to help me shoe again, four hours later, because we would leave the train. I felt all sorry I had missed my beloved Cantons, Kate rolled my toes between her fingers. Delf, who had changed her clothes for a more girly smoke-beige tee dress —I suspected what it meant— the customs had not checked on us, they did at the station; Dagmar was looked up, then showed some blank respect.
Michelle had ordered a minibus that picked us up and orderly drove to the Lake, near Pelikan park, my new fatherly home, a quietly statutory house with tall trees around and access to the water, there was a boathouse.
Far was resplendent, white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, sand-grey pleated twill trousers, silver temples and bushy brows, the smile only me would trigger. Elsie stood in the hall, she did not play house for us, I pushed her with my kindly fists on her tummy to a recess and called her a sly vixen, she retorted with a full mouth kiss, just as I remembered, and I laughed, light-hearted.
There were rooms in abundance, the house must have been for a large family, but Far warned that many were still packed with his moving boxes, he left to me to manage the accommodations. Michelle, my main concern, had, whatever the view, had he heart set on Dagmar and I would not dispute that, only that it led Delf with Kate and me, that she was enthused by.
Far, most stealthily, pulled me apart in his study while the others loosened their joints in the laid-back garden. He asked me whom it was I had invited, he had already been seriously advised that the house would be monitored for the time Ms Cerisy would stay, and so he had to warn his own monitoring to avoid “friendly fire”. He had sat me on his lap, in his Wegener “peacock” chair, like I was his baby girl and I almost cried. I told him all of Michelle, Delffan, and Dagmar’s main traits, he was impressed by our society, and said he would try his best to entertain us, could he, as the hosting power, treat us that night at the Beau Rivage? Scratching my nose at his neglected beard, I said I would go straight away to help Michelle from making any other reservations.
The bedroom door was open, so I walked in, as we would do, to find Dagmar and Michelle on the bed, mostly dressed, the usually remote Aviatrix visibly moved by what the stranded kitten tried to explain of her decidedly scrutinized life, Casually, I offered to translate, both ways, and to mingle my feet with theirs; I wasn’t rebuffed, even felt like some kind of go-ahead. I did not weigh on the tale Dagmar wanted to let out, I thought I could warn Michelle, in confidence, of any matter she should be in the know, as for Dagmar’s good.

My Far has the adapted sportswear it takes to mingle seamlessly with our party of fools, given the style of the grand eatery he led us to, but our distinguished manners and tones, our discretion, made up for the fears we had raised. All in all, it earned us a quiet round table on the side, just as we wished for. The menu was immense, so we found all to suit our necessities, without any embarrassment, and it went as smooth as the ironed tablecloth. It was a visual treat to watch Dagmar nibble a Plombière ice cream, Far said, she blushed wonderfully.
I led Elsie to explain as much as she would of her journey from Hell’s Kitchen to Lausanne and she was proud of that, I concurred frankly, bringing our schooldays and dance lessons together. But I dried up, mentally, realising That I had lost her at that critical moment which had brought me to Switzerland. I decided to pay a visit to Saint Loup, but Far took my hand, then, looked me in the eyes and said that the place no longer existed, the land had been developed and the buildings weren’t notable enough to be protected. However, the school still ran somewhere nearby in Malagny, under Harmony and most of her team, for the greater good of younglings like me —I understood what he meant, but I said nothing— Saint Loup was truly a closed parenthesis, only did Ayla Naveen and Julia Grant still spoke to me, the rest was a vast list of names on yellowing paper; at least I had shagged a good many of them. Should I meet Ayla along with Dagmar?
Far, who is a competent sailor, luffed the conversation to another cape, and tried to bring Michelle to retell her hold-up in New York; she retorted that it could have amounted to the undisputed suicide of a suffering man and she had helped the niece and sole heir shaping up the business she newly owned, although she confessed the most exciting part would remain secret. Delf then gave us an idea of the fun they had had in the far end office, sleeping on the floor, Michelle’s face collapsed in exhaustion upon her monitor, company clerks finding them both in the staff showers, in short, the total inadequacy of their maverick walkways, inside one of the citadels of the world online trading. The little imp was irresistible, no way did Michelle treat them as a pet, she must have possessed some superior logic, there too, that made her connect to the apparent strangeness of Delffan, with her bald head, that we had found once, naked in the midst of a fierce orgy, and who had followed us with hopeful eyes.
It had started raining frogs and mice when we left the place in a long berline, the same car followed ours with no discretion at all. In German, Far tried to let Dagmar say what she intended to be doing of her life, but obtained only the gleam of her eyes; I felt it was mine to say she would remain with us, in the new extensions of our dwellings, and so I could feed the conversation with the development of the workings we were all more or less part of. I felt Dagmar’s relief into my chest, Far grasped the nexus of angst, he had probably not yet fully fathomed the dire void the angel had been brought up in.

In the morning, the mist suffused of fruity petrichor scent lit up my plexus where Delf’s head rested, all lightly. Kate still held my pubis, like she did when she was serene, and she had been, of all tender intents, fucked by Delf and their pointed arrow, forever in my arms, in the clamour of the falling rain on the verandah.
Michelle would have made a quick getaway to her meeting, nearby, at the Federal Polytechnic School. Elsie was alone in the living room, contemplating the still waters afar. She said that Far was in his study, working.
We wore night tees, we flirted like ever, Dagmar suddenly was there with both of us, without a word, in a blow of Cologne, offering her mouth to Elsie who ended by surrendering. Delf stood naked across the table, she liked to expose her diminutive body to the wondering of strangers, Kate pretended to scold them and hugged them from the back, exposing the gracile body even more.
We chatted, in the cupboard, I had found oolong tea that suited my idea of a wet summer garden. I sat so I could lay my feet on Dagmar’s, she stared at me while lifting her shirt, I had not seen Far coming behind me, she wouldn’t flinch, he passed, kissing everyone on the forehead, whispering something in Dagmar’s neck. He agreed to my choice of tea, and proposed a cruise to Geneva and back on one of the paddle boats, we had no better thing to do, we disbanded to ready ourselves in twenty minutes.
As Far had foreseen, the weather cleared out soon. The ship, named “La Suisse”, really felt like an altogether machine with old-time ponderation and décor. As soon as we boarded, Far pulled me apart while the others followed some guide. He had run his eyes on Dagmar’s case and his hackles had raised; most of the network in Germany was in jail —except the worse, of course— now she was anew under watch and somebody had known I had brought her to Switzerland, did I realise that? So, I broke the whole tale to him, not avoiding the shortcut methods used by Hector and Louis sometimes. As he wondered if I fathomed the depth of responsibilities I took, I had the nerve to respond we could afford it, even if Dagmar was to become nothing other than a whore, there had been others like her. Saying that I was thinking of Ayla because I felt he knew more than I about her. Now on, Dagmar would live beside us, like with big sisters, and first, probably learn French and English, like Fanny, Fæbian, and others. At the mention of Fanny, he recalled the help he had given, I kissed him. I promised I would make an appointment with Dr Méant to ask him if he would accept another redeemed stray animal as a patient, on the same protocol as he had for Fanny, I would pay for that; he had known our ways altogether, he knew they worked.

Dagmar had known other pleasure boats, mostly in the muted luxury of their cabins, with a client’s posse or worse. That day she played with Delf like the kid she had never been, and she guessed I was speaking about her with everyone, but her gazes told me she still trusted me, probably because we had been to the moon and back.
Together with Far and the big girls, I mused aloud on the coat of social distancing my special years on this very shore had granted me. Far floated the notion that it had been, mostly, a philosophy of free rein and self, altogether with sexual liberalism, assumed by adventurous parents, through the talented guidance of Harmony, that brought me this soul-warming assurance.
Kate avowed that since she had drifted in my wake, she had envied my practical intuition —of what I had no knowledge, my Queen— see, how I had followed the current from Camille’s attic to Hugo’s metaphoric towers, whenas she whirled out to the harsh chemistry of Berlin’s bunkers and shock corridors, leading me to motivate the trio’s descent upon a conspiracy devised to muff out her brains —at times, these goons had lobotomised or killed fairies like her.
Elsie discovered, with awe, that I had not been the girl she had kept fantasising about from afar, but she bore no regret, she had continued wanking at the thought of me, through her hard-earned, hard-wired studies and, eventually, found me unscathed, for all she knew.
We sailed off the pretty village of Versoix, but it cast no whisper to my soul, that I wrote to Ayla, wherever she was sleeping.
We had one hour in Geneva, and I pulled a whim about creamed girolle mushrooms on a slice of country bread, a “croûte”. Sincerely amused, after the westerly route of confessions, Far knew where to get some, in a warm inn of the nearby Eaux-Vives and it was a rewarding success, Kate and Elsie shared a glass of white wine with him, he said it might have been grown in Saint Loup.

Sailing back, on that scarcely crowded boat, wine might have unlocked the prudence in my peers, Elsie was falling prey to Dagmar’s natural appeal, in a judicious nook of the well-furbished vessel, counting on the otherwise solicited attention of the passengers, not caring about some more aroused voyeurs. Delf maintained her seduction on Kate, keeping a hand warm unabashedly but stealthily.
Far held my hand as I evoked the week he had offered me in London, once his decision to let me go away from home was made. I swore I had not a shred of grudge to conceal, it was pure nostalgia running with the flow, he could easily tell I lived a happy life. So, reminding me of the striking exhibition we had seen at the old Tate, he timidly wondered how we gave a following to our own show, if we, Kate and I, pursued our apparent couple or else? I represented the topography of our current arrangement, in the manner of a metaphor of our polyamorous venture. Always with the unfettered support of Hugo’s, we collected unforeseen affections, little whores in disarray, a borderline sociopathic genius who needed a patch of rug behind our red sofa, our art went thus and now, our infinitely savvy dealer —he would never fathom how deeply— was an utterly powerful and rich woman.
Far kindly smirked and soughed in my neck, so near I almost shivered, that hew new about the new wealth of Camille Stern and her difficult past, also the advent of the tornado Michelle de Cerisy, who laced TRÆVIX into the information networks, for the better, as he had seen, and who was currently in this informal conference, repaying what she thought she owed to a handful of master brains. Had he not been satisfied with what I was bringing around, he would have found a manner to warn me.

Later, a lesser moon rose above the eternal snows of the Alps, Far and I weren’t done with effusions, would we ever? Michelle had texted that she would dine out, and thus we shouldn’t care for her, she would wait in the car, if needed —no answering available, an Aviator trick.
Far took us to a simpler terrace Italian cuisine restaurant overlooking the Lake. There we could order all kinds of antipasti with fresh pasta, I couldn’t remember when Far had turned veggie, he ordered soft-boiled eggs with a grilled vegetables salad.
Randomly, Elsie entertained us with the jolty life of a young girl in her neighbourhood, how fast one needs to be, and ready to make long detours not to meet trouble, and how happy she had been to take a bus to reach our school on the other side. I admitted that, as overjoyed as I had been, always, to have her home, in my grand room overlooking the ruins of the decaying powerplant, in my well-stuffed bed, I had no notion of the lesser parts of the city life, mind you, the only times I descended upon Elsie’s tidy place, it had been with a secret service officer. She met Far’s gaze and smiled openly, she said she had never waisted time, with me, the three others remained silent, mingling their legs.
The moonlight bathed Far’s house when Michelle rang, she said she was feeling washed out, but happy, and fled to bed, because there would be another mind-squash in the morning, she noticed the glow of excitement on Delf’s face and kissed them on the forehead, thus showing she was not totally phased out.
Far pressed gently my shoulder when Elsie and he stole away, I had a clear vision of them fucking, her ballerina’s hips and tangerine breasts, her delights I could grab hold of again when I wished. We ended four in the bed, it was a double bed tied together. I could not choose who to serve, but Delf had their want set on fucking Dagmar, which Kate and I were keen to watch and participate in. At one delicious moment, she enlaced me to kiss me a big full mouth while the devilish kid played in any of our holes. Sliding into sleep, I felt some recalls of the boat’s moves.

In the morning, the crowded bed smelled like kittens, we soon packed into the bathroom with shreds of our lewd night. There happened to be a Cologne soap in a drawer, so it slid all over the four of us in a frenzy, I let my curiosity let me wash Delph’s privates and they fastly stood at attention, if I would. I promised, with a kiss, to let them bugger me that evening.
The sun was young, we took the pastries we found, outside on the terrace, Far, dressed up in faded blue Irish flax, passed by to say he would be back for dinner, leaving to me to order what I liked. He knew we were visiting the Art Brut collection at the Chateau Beaulieu, he recommended we book a table for lunch at the auberge next door to the museum.
Elsie was serene, I groped her casually to make her sit on my lap, she smelled of peachy rose, I said that Delf had turned me into a heated bitch. On this sunny day, I had chosen to wear a two-layered trapeze raw flax gown in which I felt like an indecent flagpole, so widely it spun, still, I wore flesh tone knickers. Dagmar would be maddening the crowds with her yet correct, bleached-white, casual shorts, and a stretch velvet, deep blue, tank top, her fetish feet in discreet K.Jacques sandals. It was her legs, said Kate, grazing the gold fluff on her thighs. Delf had decided to play it girly, their perfect silhouette in a no-waist, calf-long, fuzzy printed, lichen grey Tana Lawn dress they let so open as to show a chest as flat as a kid, they shoed in ecru low sneakers. As for Kate, a short sleeves, knee-long, subdued mauve and grey, zigzag stripes, jersey shirt-dress, let no one ignore the shape of any of her muscles, nor her tiny tits, so she had to wear a stealthy thong. She shoed white Egyptians.
In the cab, Delf slid a slim hand into Dagmar’s shorts, bragging, then we dived into the collections, what a fine idea Lausanne had had to shelter the first-ever ensemble of uncompromisingly free art in all states and shapes, whenas Paris or any big city had shunned such a wealth. Switzerland remains a pioneer in art therapy and many institutions show their patient’s work, as Tudor Weiss, our art teacher, had shown us, in a tour when he was ever so often in my pants and in my bed —no damage done, regardless— he was so properly dainty, I was happy, we remained friends.
A few drawings of Wölfli were on show and they did wonder with our own two savages, who even forgot to fondle each other. I was happy to witness that Dagmar could read, we bought her a catalogue, it really seemed the thing to do, and soon another one, for a round head. We did not pay attention to the scientific argument of that peculiar exhibition, which tried to pull advantage of the art shown. Thanks, but no thanks, leeches.
Neither had Kate been visiting there before, despite promises I did not keep, she’s always in such high demand, and besides, Victor despises Art Brut —too bad, he fucks so well. I reminded them that there are plenty of related books and catalogues in our studio. I hugged Dagmar firmly telling her we would have a buying spree on the matter, through Amazon, to shelve in her own future room.

Cold soup with croutons and sweet onion rings seemed a refreshing idea, then the chocolate cake with orange and tonka bean, and more cocoa, In the museum’s neighbouring restaurant. Then our rookie amateurs, somewhat apprised in the morning, asked to return

I felt twitchy, I had seen shows of artists with an overlooked mental condition, like, say, Unica Zürn, without a word conceded to their psychiatrist —if there was one— and it had been proper. The adverse pitfall to shun was, in all self-conscious conventionalism, to collect these fulgurant messages like mere artefacts of abnormality. Of course, I was fearing for my own cause, as Kate pointed, in sympathy. Nevertheless, the pixies kept the visual treasure hunt, shoulder to shoulder. As they craned their necks to decipher the small print on the cartels, I wondered when had Dagmar lost her collar?

Once our backs began to ache from too much trampling, we wouldn’t have time for the Musée de l’Elysée, but then on, we would have the further facility to visit Lausanne.
The weather inviting, we strolled down to the waterfront and back to Pelican Park. I liked this address for Far. Back to my comments about the mind of the Collection, Elsie pointed out that I would most often draw rapid-fire at institutional efforts, just like I had done, in New York, about American Indian Art; wasn’t I a tad remote from society? In other words —I resented that— impossible to content? Had I, by any chance, heard of the Charles and Valerie Diker Collection at the Met? She surfed to the page and showed me, the only comment I could invent was that it was time we went back, to Camille and Michelle’s new apartment. Kate, who had been dreamy, added that she claimed the first date with Mathew Mulder — of fond memories, a lawyer for TRÆVIX and SEVEN STREAMS, powerhouses of Michelle’s daily trade.
I recounted to Elsie, whom I held by the arm, the show I had seen in the Jeu De Paume Gallery in Paris, of an extensive part of Bispo Da Rosario’s work, when it had turned over Europe, I remembered the sense of respect with which the somewhat clumsy-obsessive objects had been displayed in the huge off-white rooms, along with unobtrusive notices, and the imperishable imprint it had left in my soul and mind. More recently, there had been one edition of the Venice Biennale, titled “Palazzo Mentale”, which had thus convinced us, in times when Kate was recovering from her “Nervenklinik” drift. Saying this, I had quit Elsie’s arm to hug my pensive soul-sister.

We piled into a cab, Delf managing to be groped by all. Lausanne doesn’t feel like a town you will stroll about. Nobody was home. Elsie had said there was a Pizza joint within walking distance, which was vegetarian tolerant. We followed her and carried back our boxes for a lawn party.
A strange episode happened on the way, with a blue-eyed black cat that jumped out of a garden and came straight to Dagmar’s legs and purred, grazing her ankles in rounds, miaowing insistently at her face; so she crouched, and the little devil seemed happy to cuddle between her thighs for a minute, then, after she preened its head, ran back where it had jumped from and disappeared. She explained she had some weird connection to cats, and events like this happened once in a while, we all found that at least cute, she was kind of proud, rightly.
The skies were pure, the Mont Blanc became gold before the silver decreasing moon raised.
We heard Debussy on the piano, which was a way of Far to announce he was back if ever some of us weren’t supposed to be caught upon. I had listened to this along with him in the bygone hours, so I knew it meant he was in a good mood. He hugged my old buddy, as Kate had almost ripped Dagmar’s shorts and Delf’s hand was deep into my underskirt. Time for us to adjust, if we wished, he took a pizza to the grill and they sat amidst us.
Michelle rang in, stone-tired and loaded with bags of literature plus her laptop. Delf ran to help her and pulled her upon a sunbed for some back massage —which meant, soon, that they disrobed her, took off the aviators, oiled her and put her to sleep. They were proud of their work, and kept on, softly.
I was quietly getting accustomed to sharing Dagmar at all times with Kate, because it would be our life for a while, the golden orphan needed someone to hold on to, always, unless we gave her a cat, Which I would not see happening.
With a notch of teasing, Far offered to carry Michelle, fast asleep, to her bed. It made a pretty picture to see my still burly father bearing a nude blonde —she looked so much younger without her heavy spectacles.
As we would leave the next morning, I began clearing, still in the wake of piano calligraphies. Dagmar jumped to help, she was overjoyed to go to bed with both of us.

At breakfast, Michelle’s hair was clinging wet —she had a hairdryer phobia. She seemed all pepped up, we were still both in our night-tees, she giggled when she felt I wore no knickers. Elsie, who congratulated us, was at the ready for her ride to Geneva, she said that she rented a casual bedsitter there, she came over for weekends, or on occasions like these two days. She also kept her Parisian pied-à-terre, she had commitments on many fronts, and she was fully happy my Far would help her so wisely. I told her openly that I approved of their relationship and I wished them only bliss. She did not answer, she kissed the air between us two, and ran, a heavy case in hand.
Kate and Dagmar already wore their travel outfits. They smelled of rich Cologne, they complimented my immodest pose as to Michelle’s morning whims, but I had just only time to pull my shirt down when Far cleared his throat, from the stairs. Around the table, Michelle reckoned that she might give us a draft of what she had been doing these two days. She was confirmed in most of her options, she had accepted to give a series of seminars after she achieved the research she had initiated herself, here in Lausanne, a few years back, also she had seduced a pair of big brains to come work for TRÆVIX. Far hastened to offer his hospitality for her next visits, and actually, she was inclined to accept, instead of an unsafe guest apartment. She timidly demanded that all expenses be charged to TRÆVIX, and went on embarrassing Far with her admiration, all she had deducted of my consideration of him, and so on.
Delf had borrowed a razor to zero her bonce sleek and gave sensuous headbutts in the chest. Michelle announced that we had less than two hours to pack up.
I had a moment with Far, by the water, he asked if my work went well, I told him that despite the spectacular modifications to our environment, since the installation of Michelle in our studio, and the powerful “Monopoly” game in our neighbourhood, also the future installation of Camille’s in New York, Kate and I stayed on course on our own winds maps. I was also proud to announce that Michelle was sponsoring Cynthia’s centre for the study and support of intersexual condition, in the midst of our new buildings block. Far said he had been in the know that, with the sponsoring of Melchior’s, Michelle’s undertaking was actually much more powerful than it might seem. He clutched me to his side, in the small lapping of the ripples, he avowed he had been wary of my reaction to his going out with Elsie, but she had assured him I would understand that, too.

The car left us at Michelle’s door, she had warned the whole security detail; she asked us to come in, she had something to show Dagmar. We sat in the grand salon, where tall baroque mirrors, framed in patinated giltwood, asymmetrical and dishevelled in Chippedale’s grace, had been hung over the colourful panoramic, at places chosen by Gauthier’s fearless taste. A new floor-standing chandelier, in the taste of Herrenchiemsee, all gilt bronze, with consenting nymphs, stood in one corner and diffused a warm glow. as a lesser satellite of the Chihuly centrepiece. Dagmar, who had the look of wonderment of a child told there would be a surprise, said she had been in ballrooms filled with such lights, along with many girls like her, and she did not keep a fond memory of that.
Soon, Michelle had fetched a little box that she handed Dagmar, saying that she had no telephone; this one was anonymous but would connect to any available network in the world, under the name Craven D, like the cat. She did not care about cost, only about charging the battery, like anyone. Delf would teach her all the tricks. The object was a non-branded black unappealing sleek slab. In case of loss or theft, Michelle could kill it, and the data was not stored in it. Dagmar felt like a spy. Michelle went on that we should all have one of these, she could do that.
Kate, Dagmar, and I walked up to our lair; Dagmar marvelled that it had been tidied up entirely. I stripped her, rummaged into the faint sweats of travel, and fetched her beloved oversized jumper, at once approved by Kate who cuddled her, who contemplated her virgin telephone like a doe would a camera.
We ordered what Dagmar felt like, she wanted sweet potato fries and Sanne’s relish, with grilled pepperoni, eggplant, zucchini, artichokes, and poached eggs, with chiselled coriander. A rhubarb in rice cream pie for dessert. I brewed white tea. Before the boxes arrived, we made her come like a daisy; on top of his tip, the delivery boy had a sneak peek at her feet, legs, and more. The kitchen had been up to our want.
After dinner, Hector called me, asking if he could come up, so I let him in. He showed a greyish face. He looked at Dagmar, but with angst. Eventually, he spilt his worries for us. The associate pimp of Dagmar’s was out of jail and reneged on the deal, he was hunting for her. There was a chance he might know she was with us, one of his informants had told him, so she should either go back to Louis’ or any other safe house.
We were shaking, and she was still butt naked. then a solution dawned on me, I knew no safer place than the one across the block, and it would soon communicate with our cellar. Hector did not know of Michelle, I said very few did. As I supposed, rightly, she was in the cyberspace, so I wrote, with an emergency flag, a sketch of the quagmire we were in; the answer took no more than five minutes, of course, they could safeguard Dagmar even better than themselves, she should come right away.

Out of some luck, it was raining; Dagmar and I, in a Mac and a yellow oilskin, under brollies, wearing a black beanie, would look like nobodies, and five minutes later, Hector and Kate would behave like lovers, which could even happen. The girls would play dolls online for Dagmar, behind armoured doors. Michelle saw no better means than telling Melchior, who would certainly ask to meet Dagmar if she was ready for that, but I told her we had all been with Melchior, without complaints —even herself, to her surprise.
It became obvious that Michelle and Delf were overjoyed to have Dagmar aboard, so I finely suggested that we leave. On his side, Hector did not wish better than our friendly company, and so, he climbed back with us, reassured, his trousers bulging already.
Under our raincoats, we wore not much, and Hector knew us; he told us to bare out, and come to the bathroom to clean the little hatches. Hector is a deft preparator, his valiant stem, depilated, was appealing like polished amber, as he needed to be sucked while I flushed my bowels, and then Kate, in turn. Ready to engulf the galliard, I grab a towel, dry myself, lube my path, and run to the bed, followed by Kate, as glibly ready as me, so we offer him all he craved at standing height. I defy him to do us both, but he is some damn animal, he finished Kate before giving me a dedicated long ride I greet more than twice.
He attempted to snore, we forced him on his tummy and then he soothed down. In the morning he was again stiff as a maypole and Kate had already run, so he presented himself at my unfazed little carnal drapes and insisted until he had drooled enough clear drips to pass through them in thrills. His thoughtfulness earned him French toast with raspberry jelly, he kept his hand into my thighs.
On telegram, he learned that Michelle had called for Melchior means, he knew what that meant, he had better keep out of harm’s way. He could not let Louis worry alone, he would first reassure him about Dagmar, then comb the dark web and lie in wait.
End afternoon, Melchior and four of his janissaries invested Michelle’s fortress on her invite, bringing loads of delicacies. Predictably, the upper salon was the scene of refined debauchery, so much so that the great unfailing promised Dagmar an apartment less than a stone’s throw from ours. Michelle did not sulk and Delf behaved like a lovely little soldier. Melchior said he would sort things with Hector, all would be cleared in two days, but Dagmar should not ramble out alone for a few months, then he and his elite squad disappeared.

Not another round of our then angst about Fanny’s escape —this time the police wasn’t invited —some edges of its realm might get a feeling of the hunt, but no mandate would hamper Melchior’s moves. Three days after a summon had been fired at Hector’s, the whole facade of the Russians’ watering hole was blown in the wee hours, after the employees had been warned, in Russian, to evacuate. Kostya Lenkov was shot dead by Russian police trying to flee his apartment in Sochi, otherwise, Semyon Bychkof was found floating in Fontvieille’s harbour. That was an altogether horrifying story, each angle one saw it. No explanation resurfaced, many shady characters deserted their hunting grounds, only to be replaced by different hordes just as nefarious, for whom Hector was just another sucker.
Meanwhile, that morning after Dagmar had boarded in Michelle’s vaults —and subsequently would accept quite a few homages from Melchior’s part— Natalia barged in for breakfast, well in her customs, to boast about the night she had sailed through with another of Liselotte’s distinguished mandarins.

 

Natalia retells:

As per usual, Liselotte had more or less invited me for a fine bite to eat, only to make me reward the service I had asked, in advance and in kind, on the low couches, and I was not one to dislike this prelude to her shameful commerce, Liselotte expended at her own profit some dainty savoir-faire over my skin and nookies, before shipping me to what was undoubtedly a patron of my better young charms.
Professor Martail lived apparently alone in one of the uncommon little snuggly streets of the Butte Bergeyre, among the much-prised remnants of these ancient borderlands of Paris. The pavilion was a typical elegant thirties’ townhouse, with graceful accents of ceramics, overall well-maintained and enlivened by a wisteria as old as it was.
The man was the perfect middle-aged beau, so much so that there was to be wondered why he would patronise a worldly procuress like Liselotte or wasn’t it vice as such, and a means to avoid any litigious recoil of conscience as to the reeling consent of a candid young prey? With a self-aware slut such as I, and a fair deal, he did not even have to rein back his DNA, furthermore, he would soon grasp how far from him rested my ambition.
At first, he stood in a sober white entrance, marble-clad to the ceiling where light beamed from an array of stylised wrought-iron clouds around a dull yellow sun. A full-length mirror showed him from the back. He wore an utterly elegant black silk outfit, double-breasted lounge jacket, collarless shirt open on a smooth chest, silver-monogrammed velvet slippers, faultless.
I wore a wallet dress of Sarah’s, midnight blue in silk panne velvet, elbow-long sleeves, and a matched, fluid scarf vest if only to have pockets, my models had passed me on the phobia of handbags. I wore crotchless tights, to be honest, and black patent Maryjanes like the ones I had seen on a photo of Marianne Faithfull. A watch, white gold replica of a Cartier Tank, because whores always wear a watch.

He was the kind to fast kiss on the cheek, he held my shoulder as the second door clicked open. He smelled of brandy barrel and rich car leather, I had sometimes crashed my nose in such a heady smell while being done with from behind.
Thence I was in for novelty. The money displayed was a notch upper than that of a teacher, be it a bigwig, and by the way, he handed me an unmarked thick white envelope right away. In a typical bachelor way, the whole house showed off in the representation mode, same futurist black and grey motive upholstery all over, with quite a few good geometric paintings set off.
As the envelope disappeared in a concealed pocket, he was drawing me to a surprisingly large room, that would have been remodelled from the original layout, and was obviously a private auditorium, where two enormous exotic wood boxes stood fit in opposite corners, at one end. Black leather sofas had been pushed aside on the black lacquered parquet. On the matched wood, low cupboard between what would be the speakers warmed an impressive array of low-glowing electronic tubes and many rectangular blue-lit dials. The ceiling had been gilt white with a myriad of burnished squares, another bigger wrought iron sculpture of zenith clouds cast a diffuse light that waned at a touch of his hand on a sleek plate in the wall.
He had ordered me to take off my shoes. There was the faint rumour of a wide orchestra tuning, then resolving into an unending bourdon, with a sense of indefinitely detailed textures and tremolos, such was the quality of the system, thus he seized my waist as the horn spew its initial call in my diaphragm. The music was not amplified, it was reified into our couple irresistibly gyrating at its pace, while we deftly untied the only bind of my dress which flew as the best silk does. In our slow moves, he gazed at my pale skin highlighted in the opening of the tights. He gathered my threads in one hand, threw them on an armrest and, like the flow of strings swayed his head astray, kissed my timid breasts, my neck, and my mouth; he tasted of marshmallow, of violet, I was my whorish best, I sent a moral kiss to my fairies.
Yes, Hugo had done that music to me before, in his stupefying beds, it ought to be an adult kind of kick, but it was sweet to suffer it, and I was elated wet. He said to unzip his fly, the slider was clever and went all the way down to his bumhole, no hair, sleek! The dick wasn’t too thick, but long and I began to muse where up it would bang. He must have been on the trip of using it as a bow on my strings, he did not spare compliments on my person and my grooming, as he fumbled deeper into my holes, and I knew he was another sodomite, why not?

During a quieter phase, he pulled a large buttoned leather ottoman on legs, upon which he capsized me open, and he revelled all along my crack, like a freshly landed sailor. I was loosening my self-wake, he was a gifted galliard and he could soon abuse all he fancied of me, but by then, he was only orderly pulling the tights away so he could lick my toes— he is an Intellectual.
I sucked him with dedication, to a noisy completion that I swallowed whole, with the fear he would reprimand an early spend, but he had kept his drive, and would not quiet before I, myself, climaxed at his mouth which I did like a big girl, having trained since the time I could lurk anywhere around the libertines in my home, and learn.
He joked frankly that we were even, slid off his pants, and upturned me on all fours, to sheathe an unfailing johnny to the hilt in my inners. He fit beautifully and took his time, no more aware of what Brückner had to say. Opening wide and bending my loins, I gave myself around his want, twirling in accordance with his frenzy. He ordered me to cum again, fully, and I could, so deep his thrust felt, I did, with a splash that triggered his own, as he went laughing of bliss, trembling on his knees before he grasped me down at the tip of our breath.
I think we slept, or we maundered, in some manner. The music had changed, now it was a shimmery multilayered beyond jazz, infinitely inspired furling improvisations, in a moment when he needed to recover, keeping his head on my sweaty underbelly, he told me the genius we heard was Jon Hassell.
He offered some drinks, I refused alcohol, he took that lightly and drew me to a kitchen of jade green ceramic tiles, where he fetched two lemons that he peeled, roughly, white grapes, and fresh mint from a pot on the window sill, threw all in a blender and poured the filtered result on ice cubes, I was interested but then I needed to pee and wash my quim. He grabbed my wrist and told me I would not waste any piss without him, at his expense. He was ordering me, I wasn’t used to that but I silently admitted I was liking to play tart for money. He followed me to a squeaky neat bathroom, where he told me to pee in his mouth over the toilet bowl, when I was over, he licked my coochie thoroughly and told me not to use soap. With our highball glasses in hand —he added a copious dose of white rum to his— we went back to the focus bench and put them on the floor. He lay on his back and told me to lick his balls and bumhole so as to revive the main character of the play. Wallowing in docility, I did my utmost to make him growl of ease, daring a pointed tongue in his male hole, as I might have learned with my beloved landlord.
Foaming at the mouth like a maddened stud, he now stood up darting his dick like some erring bayonet, lifted my feet up high and began a wild push on my restive rosette. I shouted of pain, supplicating for some lubricant, eventually yelling clearly that he wasn’t going to like it like that anyhow. Amidst his rage, some wit prevailed and he ran to the side of a couch to fetch some Swiss Navy, so I could thread him all in and do the lewdest Bellydance he would know. As a second wave, my arse —kept unspoiled by Liselotte’s care— cranked up with my sensitive other minnie, so I melted time and again upon his prancing rod until I felt it reach the nexus of my entrails and vibrate until it hurt him, too.

He confessed to a painful glans and apologised, so I found it a proper time to ask for a shower, even knowing it might rekindle the beast. We played in the water, he kept his fingers in my arse as he made me retell my student life. After what he had performed, I brought up some eventuality it might happen again from time to time if he would tutor me in serious English, besides my current curriculum under Prof F. —whom he did not seem to befriend much.
He took a professorial face, then there was like an opening in the skies of his mind like he had just grasped that he could have me more for less money —however, I knew he would have to pay some. He agreed, for a year, with results and work on my part, he meant study work, for the rest he knew, and I agreed to come by once every two weeks and listen to music with him. He watched me dress up like the little whore I was.
My way to get a degree in less than two years, as Liselotte said, and she would watch on Martail —he fucked really great, and I didn’t even know his first name.

 

Sarah says:

Our vixen Natalia had aroused us for good but fell asleep, rounded amidst our bed she would rightly consider hers. Thence, we could merely cuddle her and follow her to the land of never-never, or some lyrical version of Manhattan in the clouds.
When I switched back my telephone after a welcomed long night, there had been a message from Craven D every ten minutes, she was relieved we could talk. She boasted about their lascivious conversation with The Undisputed and the mellow future he had made her have a glimmer on. She described him as an attentional mighty bear of the kind she had endured before in her career, Melchior had prised her savoir-faire. I told her we still waited for more updates from Hector before we planned to get together. Camille, too, and Fanny, were eager to meet Dagmar and so, too, all our little quails of the upper floors nestings.
Meanwhile, the workings had followed the course, underground, some vestiges had shown under the foundations of our dwellings, Hugo had been thrilled with that and scrutinised all the old maps and plans he could gather, but none seemed to show any hard construction on what was reputed wasteland where mainly students of the time would fight their duels. So, possibly, the vaulted masonry belonged to the Gallo-roman period, who knew, there was no time to tell the archaeological instances, mind you. A wall between the original house of Hugo’s and the new property had been carefully dismantled, as well as that of the next, opening way to the neighbouring cellars, and was replaced by a heavy inoxidizable steel frame sealed in place; the same operation had been realised under Michelle’s garden wall towards her own security vaults, et voilà, the three lots communicated secretly, plus the newly discovered level which was not inscribed into the later layout. Armoured double doors with facial recognition should secure Michelle’s operation.
Not long before Dagmar had been dedicated upon me, in a gesture of peaceful munificence, Victor had a princely gift delivered to his previously employee’s palace. The red-lacquered wooden box was as big as a man and heavy enough to justify the use of a forklift from the street to the inner yard. Michelle, not out of candour, let the movers install the magnificent gilt-bronze orange tree in a Medici vase, bearing mother of pearl flowers and orange jasper fruit, the whole in acute realism. It was a dignified companion for the Niki de Saint Phalle Nana who had, until then, felt punished in her corner. But the farce was not played, yet. Michelle, more secretive than ever, once the golden tree rested in its corner, had called Gauthier who had an also golden cage made for the sculpture. Then, she summoned her team of her faithful geeks, who brought extravagant contraptions around Gaïa’s marvel, to ferret out the soul of the object, as Michelle guessed there was another one than its undeniable beauty —contrary to Victor’s professed doctrine that beauty was a mere gimmick. A plank shack was built over the thing, They eventually lifted the tree from the base, and were exhilarated by what they found, and reverse-engineered. Like in some space satellites, an RTG nuclear battery powered a miniaturized spy station which the team of manic geniuses scanned about for days before Michelle wrote the appropriate software to pervert its mission. There was a celebration at TRÆVIX, once the Hesperides tree was allowed again in its glimmering nudity, caged. Michelle knew how to find palatable boys under the dreadlocks and baggy togs, so did Delf, both ways. They were still camping on the second floor when Dagmar came around.

 

Kate says:

It had been another chance for Simon to settle his life together with Fayelle —of whom I can tell the pleasurable character— and the weather had lent a lenient hand. Mama had overseen the tidying up of the house and the garden for us, and then she had left, with grace. Our trio spun like crystal until Simon wished I left them as a couple and so I walked to the nearest water hole and showed my availability, like a true-born islander, at least since the Prussian invasion. It wouldn’t take long before Lauritz be alerted, one of the doable age Porsche owners, I could tell the growl of his engine as I was sipping a harmless red drink on the terrace, decidedly gazing at stars. True to my repute, I sat in his car ten minutes later and showed him my knickers, a provocative black veil see-through.
Before we reached the sands of List, the northern-most land of Germany, where he had suggested we watched the rising moon, I was naked, which is what one does on Sylt.
He was hard as a sword, but I relished the sweet manners he thought he owed to one who lived the high life of Paris, I sucked him with my best diligence on the bonnet, he came like a frustrated boy, in quantity, and I made myself unforgettable by pumping him really dry, slowing on till the end of his lament.
He showed me a well-trained body as we revelled in the pale gold moonlight, he kept on the verge to tell me things he would regret the next day, I did him the grace not to let him, talking like my libertine self, complimenting his prick and his butt. Back into the lusty black coupé, he fetched a condom and turned me around like he was daring, and buggered me like a Lady, long and deep, unflinching, making me blast twice before he stilled, and tore the filled condom away, for more of my gentle mouth.
Back in the seats, my legs parted, I read the time on the dashboard and asked him to drive me home, he couldn’t help but mumble we should do that more, I did not answer but I smiled at the moon’s face. I ran, all my things in hand; the engine roared, to let me think there was might available under his bare feet.

I slept like a woodpile, thinking I might have overlooked Lauritz, in times. Now I ranked him along with frank fuckers like Fulgence and his posse, no-fuss camaraderie, for the while. Then Sarah would have reminded me that my twisted soul wouldn’t endure a week of this plain vanilla mundane fornication that would die off with the moon; Lauritz, worthy offspring of the Free Hanseatic City Of Hamburg, most certainly bore in mind that my All-Hanseatic arse would do perfectly among the schickeria, with Porsche children, my own mother’s nightmare.
When Fayelle, delightfully tanned, let me guess that Simon by himself had been somewhat underwhelming, and furthermore possessive, intolerant in the name of the passion he vowed to her, I secretly wished we kicked into touch, a good once, come what may. That evening, after a lazy sunbathing ice tea sipping day, we both scooted off to the same waterhole where the same daddy’s son, whose sunbleached strand of hair flew over the black 911, could be expected again; I had lectured my Fayelle to whore him kindly, and not wear undies, given he was a good shot, was good looking, and smelled good, anyhow, that I could tell.
Good sport, eventually, Laurits succumbed to her other Parisian flavour of moonlight and shadows. I overtly cruised for a while on my own until a sailor named Mats proposed an idyl on his boat, a five-meter skiff, on the wattenmeer. There wasn’t a puff of wind, but he started a small outboard engine to bring us far enough from the shore —in case I wasn’t cool enough? We made out on folded sails, he kissed like a boy, would I have misjudged his age? So far, so good, he smelled of tarry wood and rosemary, his sweat aroused me; I untied the piece of string that held his jeans, his shorts were clean, I found a stiff boom ready, a tad thinner than Lauritz’, fit for my jolly mouth as he barked like a seal and soon discharged a load of kelp-smelling sperm I did not allow him to spill outside. In a spell, he tasted avidly every crease of me, I did not have to suggest he might tongue my arse before sailing my entrails, after what he was still solid in the sweet slobber of my winnie.
He was all spent, we fell asleep, longer than the tide allowed, I laughed it out and walked back if only to untie my aches.

Under the illusion that the morning breeze would have humanised my togs and hair, I smiled in the pastry shop and bought fresh Danish rolls, winked at the pretty attendant and pranced on my way. At home, Emma smiled at my scruffy genre, smelling all my common sins. By the time I had showered and slid in a white cotton granddad shirt, the crisis had blown out and Simon was gone. Fayelle did not feel a chip guilty, she had spent a glorious night but she would not marry a Hamburger. I recounted my nautical prowess and we laughed like featherbrained nippers.
Nevertheless, what Sarah had texted about the new fairy in our court made us wish to go back to town. Besides, we reckoned that playing with potentially all the available guys on Sylt might become less funny when we would be taken for granted, like streetwalkers. We inquired about the complicated trains or aeroplanes to Paris and eventually rented a car —not a Porsche— to Antwerp for a stopover. two nights in a small comfy hotel, like a couple wishing to visit the old town and the Royal Museum of Fine Arts, for starters. Fayelle had a limited taste for museums and moreover fine arts, thus, I promised there wouldn’t be more than an hour at a time between tea stops, and besides, museums are great places to make out in silence, under the concupiscent stare of a uniformed guard.
We took the exotic train to Hamburg and then drove down through the Netherlands, with stops in Groningen, Utrecht, and other places we felt like kissing each other in. We left the car at the agency in the central train station, the rest of the journey would be cooler and faster by speed train in the Thalys.
Firstly, a bit of mutual grooming in the shower, then, on her, a whiff of lemons and roses from Amalfi terraces, a high-waisted, gathered, multilayered needlework chest-yoke old linon gown, white kidskin open flats, while, on me, the pensive Japanese Wisterias under a long, flared, misty mauve, wavy patterned, glazed jersey silk gown and silver barefoot sandals. In a word, we looked like willing brides. She carried stuff in a disarming macramé Neaples yellow shoulder bag, while my purplish needlepoint stole had been liturgical once and I concealed pockets in it.
In a Lonely Planet chat, a non-genre traveller had given a witty invite about a casual eatery, near our stay, where we could mingle French fries, grilled peppers, mashed celery, nuts, and boiled eggs — brilliant— and for dessert a crisp fruit salad, with blackberries.
Our bed offered that Flemish feel one would fancy of the hard-pressed flax linen smelling of lavender and wood ashes —all in my mind, said Fayelle, pulling my shirt over— all these modest women smelled of woodsmoke, like her grandmother contemplating her cooking stove. I retorted that twice a year they boiled for hours all the solid white linen, sheets, shirts and whatever, together with wrapped wood ashes, and then, once rinsed, tied them to the long ropes where the wind genie pervaded into the fibres, and later in the cunnies of impenitent girls.

The old bed frame was high-walled like one would rest curtains over, it gave us the feeling of a boat, or the closed carriages one sees in illustrations, or a hobbit burrow. Fayelle told of holidays when she had been sent to some distant cousins’ farm and been assigned to such an antique bed like this, except there was a goose-feather mattress and she had at once stretched out like a kitten, and dreamt she was nude in the forest, not more. There were three other younglings, a girl and two boys, the girl, Enise, hated her because she spoke in the same accent as the TV; Fernand, a six years rusty brat always on the breach for a fight and Axel, a pale dark-haired, black-eyed, slim, troubled character a year older than her.
She came from a typically mixed near-suburb of Paris, and went to an ugly prefab school with contrasting painted metalwork and prison-like fences —built not for keeping them in. She considered herself lucky because she was tall and fast enough to avoid the crass push and abuse of daily school life. Although she must have been mostly what she looked like now, her ordinary bland countenance earned her the peace on the walk to the bleak, four-storied — one of many— nondescript buildings they lived in.
They had been a family of four, her brother Saul was older, joined the army and was killed in an operation in an African desert, she heard no comment of that. Her father was a scary, bony apparition who had lived a long orphan disease he said was caused by solvents they used in the factory he worked for— the union lawyer never won on that— and left her mother with half a meagre pension to live by.
Later in her life, by extraordinary, she had been looked after by a couple of teachers who had no child of their own, but she still felt the burden of her depressed mother and her family of degenerate yokels.
So then, at this farm, around midnight, she was being inebriated by the perfect weather of a young summer, a realm of heady new smells, the heavy swing of animals she had never come to touch before, and a few brandied cherries, burrowed deep into the ancient bedding, a blue forest in whirls inside her lightened head, she swooned out. Long later, from the tinkling depth of a well —like the one there was under the thorny blackberry bush, on the decaying side of the farmyard— she felt some long, warm caress along her back, as her mouth was muffled out. Half-awake, the sensation had begun far before in the crystal waters of the well, she was stilled in stupefaction. She heard the smooth whisper of Axel, the space bandit with the fluffy mane of black hair, tell her that he held his blade on her loins, and he would stab her if she did not obey. As a reflex, she hurled forward and threw up on the floorboards, coughing. She felt the pointed knife but he did not push on it, only did he sit astride wider upon her, caught her wrists and tied them with some kerchief.
Now she was horribly awake, with bile in her mouth, and she felt what she knew was at a man’s crotch, only then it was stiff and stubborn. He upturned her, she saw his pale frame and his scraggly head, as he continued to speak low and smooth, telling her she was too new to properly fuck, yet, but she had to take his dick in her mouth, as the human female does, don’t they?
For the next two weeks, she learned what it meant to live under the might of an arrogant little village rooster, who taught her forced debauchery —nevertheless savvy enough not to get her pregnant, she had witnessed her own periods as another disgusting omen— and soon sold her for tricks to his mates, on the bushy old path to the fishing pond, they would call her the Parisian gigot, because they used butter in my back-slit while Axel held her, butt-naked. It settled him as a dominant evil, eventually earning him a violent death, a stroke of hatchet to the head, on the same path to the pond, when, she gone, he tried to force one of the village girls, who had a bigger brother. The gendarmes did not investigate, Fayelle’s relatives buried the village’s Space Pirate.

She had grown up all the more secluded, trying her best to deny any damage to her anyhow downcast soul, thence aware of a beastly menace inside most being she met.
The Merevine couple, Suzanne and Joseph, were her unfailing safeguard, albeit they took pity on her lonely mother and did not dare squarely adopt her, into their wax, soup, and books smelling realm, and so asked her to keep dwelling with the depressed woman. Only did they weave for her a frame of righteous words and ideals, giving her the invisible key to immaterial attainment, to poetry, and also the moral compass not to let it compromise with the universal runction of contingent journalism. Their beacon had been Gaston Bachelard, a miraculously self-taught philosopher who had proposed to collate all ideas according to the metaphoric elements of the universe, while he also was a renowned epistemologist.
Their ambition for Fayelle had been to raise her to some academic level, in short make her a teacher, out of reach of human servitudes other than intellectual. Had Joseph not been hit by a car, and Suzanne died of her grief, Fayelle might have reached the Olympus, she could not.
Her mother, long malnourished in consequence of her neurosis, faded away in her sleep and laid unbeknownst to Fayelle for two days, such was her aversion for the sorry little fantom. She was altogether distraught in her inability to manage any kind of material life, so, when they mandated her eviction, she ran away blindly, slept here and there, made little money as an academic model, did some photos in all genres of commissions, and furthermore prostituted herself in the bohemian milieu until she beguiled Camille, without knowing that gallery was hers.
Other than her pose, her charm and the lean silhouette that starvation had left her, she had never, in earnest, been an art school student, but what difference did it make?
Amidst the generous Flemish beddings, be them spin-dried rather than wind-flown in the sun, she had unloaded quite a singular tale, compared to the realm she had drifted onto, but that would explain why Camille had bonded so fast —not that she would shun instant affairs on occasion— also why she could not accept Simon’s demand. None of what we had casually deployed over there had felt liveable for a sidewalk blossom like her, she had thought she would shame people like us. In Paris near Hugo, Camille, and us, she was as good as any, we all levelled up with her as libertines and debauchers; she was actually getting rich, at no expense. I would certainly not argue that.
In the mellow tumult of her confessions, we had simply forgone wrapping our shoulders and we emerged tight-knit like animals, but in need to pee. We did together a rinsing shower, she smelled of straw and bitter almond, though we had only used the same shampoo. The bellboy who brought some lame tea and gingerbread hardly believed all he saw out of the short hotel robes, I was enthralled with Fayelle’s legs, too.
Her new appeal, for me, gathered the hopes of a forlorn little girl who had been ticking at my windowpane, not even smiling. Of course, now, she was only the soft-spoken, slim-bellied, swayed-hips adventuress, hiding her slate-blue eyes under childish dark-blond curly bangs, but then I understood what Camille had sensed in her, the yet fragile survivor that it would be time to care for, beyond cuddling her bones.
A taxi brought us to the pompous monument at the sight of which Fayelle frowned. I held her hand, her waist, like some possessive lover, to what she played candour like a flower babe, a stance under the ridiculously ornate vaults, only there weren’t any. The tentatively majestic temple was still under complete reinstalment and so a slanky blond Frisian-looking attendant advised us to rather visit the Collection Mayer van den Bergh and say hello to Dulle Griet —?
The air was light, between the rows of low and comfy facades, the walk was a pleasure and I was still in with Fayelle’s tale. Had she dared unload the memory of that little path to the fishing pond with anyone before? She said her beloved mentors had had a blind spot on anything carnal, like blank spaces in the language, only vague recommendations on cleanliness, which, in her case, had always felt like a bit of a moral lie, since she was so convinced she was forever soiled. She scrubbed her meagre sad body with the cold water they had in her mother’s house —the boiler had long been dead— with all kinds of soap she could steal anywhere, then in the old couple’s home she would wear some outdated black school smock that should have belonged to some other boy before, she could tell by the side buttons were sewn on; there was a peg to hold the smock when she left; from time to time, it was cleaned. she had felt so spared in that black smock.

I had been listening to that subdued tone of voice of hers, matte sounding like a muted cello, and I could not hear the scars of thorns, the fissures in her throat; she owned a righteous tone, the sound that had altogether seduced and fooled me about the true colour of her soul. Hence I withheld my bow on her strings but asserted our unforeseen bond along the kindly sidewalks.
The Mayer van den Bergh museum is indeed a successful pastiche of a Gothic patrician mansion, built around the private collection of a renowned nineteenth-century dealer for the Gothic and Renaissance periods. My peppy bride of the day showed reservations as to the gleamy waxed dark oak woods, cracking under our steps like mischievous goblins. We had never seen high walls of painted leather, which gave an afterthought of frightening wealth, some Hispanic arrogance —all of what the Flanders had suffered under.
Peter Brueghel’s Griet, valiantly hurrying through the brave and ribald bric-à-brac responding to the Emperor’s might, though not as mind-twisting as Bosch’s, is totally well set out in the womb-like vessel, to fill the mind with a muddle of laments, grief, and anger.

Dulle Griet – Pieter Brueghel 1563.

Fayelle, anachronical in herself, if ever possible, in her high-waisted, wheat-gold and flax-blue printed cotton jaunty dress with elbow-length sleeves, weightless on her new white Egyptian sandals, had naturally singled out the Magdalena by Jan Mabuse and was imperceptibly swaying her loins for the Queen of courtesans at her utmost, coveting the gold of the Pharisees. The overtly sinful portrait could not have been painted to hang in a religious venue, rather more fittingly in the cabinet of a licentious prelate, for deliciously transgressive turpitudes; it is somewhat miraculous that, although it had been painted in the midst of horrendous religious wars —for reasons as to which its subject pertains— the pannel is still so miraculously fresh.
My shy little conquest of the moments on course knew nought of the great reformation, nor the counter-reform, enough was it of the breathtaking craftsmanship of an artist had beaten once more the natural senses at their own attraction because the model’s seduction had beforehand —if one might say— simmered into the painter’s humors —as would a doctor of the times have said— before it was reflected in our eyes and soul. Like I whispered in Fayelle’s conchigliette of an ear, this marvel had been painted with live sperm

Maria Magdalena – Jean Gossaert aka Mabuse 1530

Had remained only scarce bubbles of attention, they clung to a Saint Anthony amidst the throes of his fantasies like an old bear in a scrapyard of chimaeras, and an unmissable nymph in the nude, so as to confederate together all the metaphorical pornography around. Sad Anthony, clinging to a devoid little piece of silverware.
Once outside, I gave Fayelle an idea, on her phone’s screen, of the same subject as seen by Max Ernst in 1945, in Hollywood. I promised we would trip together in his universe, when back in Paris.

After another stroll along quiet streets, we reached the Cathedral’s forecourt and found “De Blauwe Vos”, The Blue Fox, a grand social meeting lounge with a large street-level terrace under some cool awnings. She sat across me and overtly played footsie, it had been my time to tell my life, she was naturally curious about the relationship with my brother. There wasn’t much more to tell than what she witnessed a few days before, on the island. We had been privileged children at a time when the dunes were not yet too narrow, and our mother had been left alone at her easel, Simon and I had loved these easy times. Cynthia, the preterhuman seductress who had found me in our classroom, and whom Fayelle would inevitably be confronted to when she would open her research centre in the midst of our walls, Cynthia then had wooed both of us all the more because of the uncommon nature of our bond and invited us on her quieter, neighbouring island of Amrum, where it had been spacier to dance in the moonlight.
Fayelle had been firstly enthralled with Sarah, who had singled her out at Camille’s and taken her to bed, although she had not that much personally played in that team, then she had grasped our polyamorist roundabout and Sarah had welcomed the fling with Simon, so Fayelle had felt easier.
A couple of Belgian lesbians had been frowning at us over their ice creams, instinctively I switched to English and Fayelle did her best, albeit she sported a good accent. On a whim, I told her I would hook her up with an adorable Scottish prostitute of our friends who would certainly not charge her lessons.
She was captivated by the instant understanding that seemed to operate between Sarah, me, and Hugo. I joked it had always been consensual, the way Camille and he had entrapped us, at first so obviously thanks to the apartment he let us have —yet each of us could have afforded something comparable— but it had become rooted in our souls after Sarah had searched heaven and earth to find me, numb in my own stupidity, behind the walls of a Berlin Nervenklinik, utterly convinced I had killed my brother in the car I had been driving, while stoned —Simon had explained to her the scars across his body.
Before all this mess, Sarah and I had been school buddies because they said we had a German accent and acted special, which was indeed true. She liked to let Camille pimp her skin to some of her own longtime wealthy patrons, like Hugo; on my own, I dated a filthy rich art collector who relished sharing me with the members of his select posse, also letting me damage my wits with bad drugs and alcohol — hence what she could now witness of my being a teetotaler.
I thought I had been bending Fayelle’s ears, so I told her she should try and wring more out of Sarah’s and decided the afternoon was still young enough to take her to bed before dinner, and she approved so.

It would no longer be the same planets’ conjunction in Fayelle’s mind. Until our hearts-opening trip, she had been my brother’s fling, and also Sarah’s whimsical crush; now that she had been entrusted with, say, insider’s gossip, the least of our lives mysteries, however, she would wait for bits and crumbs of advice from —us? Sarah would relish the tale of the 911 manner to move on, I also had a hunch some Hamburger aristocrat might want to taste a season in Paris.

Back in Homeland, Sarah hinted that I had garnered for my sake all of my brother’s expectations and she liked the smell on me. She felt on the lookout, walls were moving in our daily topology, starting in our own game patch, the corridor between our kitchen and the bedroom now leading to a three-room extension and another staircase. An assistant to Gauthier was already at orders and had been commanded to ask for our wishes as for the two bathrooms, where Sarah had already asked for the same seamless walk-in showers as we already had, a sink, bidet and bowl at the most obvious places. We had choices of tiles, marbles, or stones. Philip, the architect, who enjoyed three girls lightly dressed groping each other while discussing decoration, had tastes to float by, too; he saw purplish slate, silver ceiling and appliances, for one, and all-white pure Carrara and silver for the other. He was gay as the spring hawthorn, had lightened his blond curls so as to set off his coffee-brown cutely squinted eyes, we did not rape him yet, but we agreed to his choices so he purred. A new laundry room, with all appliances of large family countenance and an up-to-date dryer, had been added to the layout.
Fayelle let me pilfer her rags one by one on the couch, as I snitched on her past of what Sarah still ignored; and she revelled in the double attention she received. She could tell, by the number of names we thought for her to meet, that she had not gravitated among us for no reason. Sarah proposed to let Sami drive for a tour of rewarding debauchery if that were what Fayelle inclined to —like us all— but for now, I craved a homey reunion with Gauthier and his new minion, who had been cutely obvious, while sharp enough on the point of our bathrooms.
They had warned they wouldn’t be early, so they found us all in the raw, powdered up and quims wet, a full-fledged assortment of our prefered caterers’ talent on the table, plus filled servers to warm. I savoured the manner with which the copper-maned Knight, from the first kiss of her hands, to closer embrace, to lap dancing, conquered Fayelle’s easy mouth. He had been sporting a subdued-rose shirt in cream chinos, with only one hand she had all unbuttoned wide and held a well-known trophy, still clung to his furious mouth.
While I ogled last night’s little slut licking at a new master, Sarah, as always a mean vice girl, had gently pushed the newbie to the couch where she undulated at his hands, for he had noted her heavenly round butt cheeks; it wouldn’t take long before she rode his also notable johnson in the middle of them, we’d all do the talking later.

After some starving intermission when Gauthier approved of our views on Antwerp and also the utmost daring Maria Madalena he should entertain his neighbour Theo about, I found some vindication that both boys would ask me to let them use my holes together, the younger rummaging in, as the third tiers, in whatever way in I was brought to offer, and they lasted, and thankfully our couches rest on many legs because Fayelle took fancy to lick Phillip’s arse and Sarah climbed up to offer her crotch to His Grandeur.
After a shower, all-spent, on our bed, we congratulated our own art school slut on her talents, like Natalia, she liked to be held when sleeping. Had I been concocting that thought in my waking dream? All I knew was that she was here, shaking us up and groping our Fayelle kid. She was on her way to college, we were expected that evening at Michelle’s with Camille, who wished to somewhat recap through the rowdy times.
Once she had fled, Fayelle, who stretched under our hands, let out that she was excited by Natalia; we concurred, adding that she was the house-fairy, almost born, and raised in these walls, who had debauched herself at my expense from a tender age, and, Fayelle should be told, could slip into anyone’s bed anytime.
Now that she was in college, she was tracing her way, with her two keen minders, well-hung artists she would soon have a taste of, no doubt, whoring for the attention of her teachers —of that also, Fayelle would probably like a taste of.
Craven D called, she longed for Sarah, who went, after breakfast with us. Fayelle needed to get along with girls of her kind, I tried some to no avail, and I eventually fished out Annabelle who gladly closed her book and would be there in twenty minutes, her tuft of ringlets richer than ever.
I wanted Fayelle to woo the speckled rose and glean some of the silent passwords her mentor James had let her. With her thistle-green eyes, she had a heart-wrenching tale to lay, of despair to redemption at the well of oblivion, heathers, granite, and soot.
I dressed her as a vice girl in a rich Hollywood brothel, with a mere pyjama of night-blue mulberry silk satin, trimmed with silver-grey piping, which let be seen the crease of her kitty. I told her this one had earned Sarah some of her most relished slaves —and probably myself.

At first, I was flabbergasted to leer at Sarah’s own lewd silks on Fayelle’s shivers and when I had said it would be a trap for binding Annabelle to her, she moaned of admiration, together on my cunningness and what I was letting my hands slide upon.
The whole gift smelled of Zanzibar and Saïgon, Coromandel, Maddalena, what a trip; she would wet her inseam at the first word the British shepherdess would purr in her strange accent. On a whim of lesser servitude, I decided to paint her nails, and tant mieux if Annabelle supervened at our scene of me kneeling on the rug at her feet. The poisonous whiff of thinner erased the fanciful spell for a while, but the false candour of her gaze as she watched me paint her tips was bringing back the secretive dizziness of all the “Odalisque at the toilette” I had ever played since childhood.
We had the perfect night-blue, in Sarah’s collection, to top off the ultimate skin toy that breathed, plus I adorned her with a seven opal beads anklet, as a token of our vacations together.
Annabelle climbed up, with a big bouquet of sweet peas and other garden glories. She’s a true heath witch, she had guessed I wanted to marry her, she wore a dawn flax blurry dress over only white stockings and white deerskin Mary Janes. She brushed onto me so as to show me she was excited, then she bowed, blushing, before Fayelle who had regained some of her lanky sulk, and her trousers slid some —I could not have made that up.
As the savvy trull I knew, Annabelle took on the game and made Fayelle sit close to her, nostrils on the lookout. She was one to value my efforts to enthral her. I could not fancy another place to be than sitting at their feet as they sketched up their stories, which Annabelle guessed most of.
As I was stealing her shoes, she grazed the precious silk all over, musing aloud that Fayelle, too, revelled in surrendering her body, and she would all the more for money, wouldn’t she? Her thighs parted, she had to reveal the trace of her early release, so Annabelle could drink out of her mouth any drop of shame.
I could not help slide a hand up Annabelle’s legs and note that her own lips dripped freely, too. I pulled up her frills and offered to Fayelle’s eyes the milky dawn of petals, while I pulled gently her pants, like the perfect procuress closing a sweet deal. I was impatient to watch Liselotte do her.

With my most obedient help, they had a grand course over our shuffled bed, and we did all the figures, the solos, the choruses and the recitatives; indeed, we were ready for a rambling charivari at Michelle’s. Howbeit, we three tribades had spent ourselves to the point when we would dearly welcome some opinionated dicks in our maddened wombs. I had asked Fayelle to fuck me with her pretty foot, but that was tricky, she had never denied that my brother’s shaft was some high attainment of a shag.
I called Sarah in the heart of the über-sanctum, she had been in bed with Dagmar and Delf most of the day, too, they agreed that a gentle cast of safe brutes would bring accomplishment to the whole crew, albeit they could not sort out a groom for Michelle.
At home, we drank a lot of tea with Annabelle’s ginger cookies; and thus had a lot of naughty fun in the shower. Annabelle was already dressed right for the ball, attended she was going almost butt-naked; she sprayed over her more of that heavenly pale English Rose she carried in a handy vial. In the same spirit, Fayelle looked daffodil-fresh in a white cambric trapeze-cut antique night-shirt trimmed with royal-blue piping at the collar, the wrists and the tempting hem half-thigh; over that, a cream, loose-weave, cashmere stole; her feet in white Egyptian Birkenstocks —I had eagerly despoiled Sarah before in that bedtime outfit. She put on more of the scent she had found in our cupboard and that she transmuted so nicely that I gave it to her, warning that soon, Hugo would have a great time on her skin, with perfumes, too.
As for me, I felt like really showing my legs this time so I pulled out this sort of double-breasted blazer, long to the upper third of the thigh, in black shantung lined in liturgic violet with satin lapels and chiselled jet buttons. Wearing that, with stand-up black stockings —I’m proud of my tapered thighs— and patent court slippers with a grosgrain knot would make me easily Fatale, wouldn’t it? My two amoureuses were jealous of my perversity. they helped to gather up my hair in some loose chignon so as to show my nape, too. I could wear a choker of eleven misty-dawn welo opals daintily set in gold, along with the bracelet. I would smell of that lime-tree, gentian and hay Hugo has once elaborated for me as a close-combat deadly weapon, you could pass without noticing much more than your average jasmine, but if you bent upon my cleavage you would totally fall at my mercy.

Delffan was managing the entrance, once one had punched in the code, there would be some facial recognition software to open the armoured doors. A searchlight had been set upon the Victor orange tree in the cage; it had gained a few more rows of pearls. Delf had publicised its picture on her disguised Instagram account, in hope of learning the name of the author. I thought there was a good chance that Victor’s manoeuvre had backfired.
In the salons, black-suited lackeys attended a long buffet table untouched yet, in the light of rose bouquets entwined with LED garlands, in silver vases; the proper lighting had been subdued, no one should sport a drab face. In the grand panoramic, more gilded accents, like the highly burnished frame of a carnal Pompeian scene in the manner of Gustave Moreau, the nude hetaera at the feast turning her splendid back on us, all in some heavenly settings that did not contradict those on the wall.
Only Liselotte held court yet, with silky-clad boys, smiling, as I had already shagged them once before, and I sat with my two nymphs as in a swarm of waspy stares, so they could not ignore what my jacket did not hide. Fulgence was one of them, he sat after Annabelle with rolling eyes.
All the hosts were still following a tour of the subterranean workings and the foundation’s venues, of which Theo streamed a video to Cynthia in Sydney; I fantasised about her reaction, watching me grope Fayelle in her shirt. In the meantime, Fulgence let be seen the agreeableness Annabelle caused him, spreading his legs like a hussar on the sofa, I sensed that Fayelle might have fondly joined them, I gave my naughty comrade an eye to let him figure that, too, while I slid a hand under the allegedly virginal cotton.
On the third sofa, Sarah was visibly kept prisoner by two Neverland genies, Delffan wore one of their adjusted pearly suits, with a profuse lace jabot, knee-breeches, white stockings, and black patent slippers. A high-waisted, colour-changing dawn taffeta spencer let be admired their angelic buttocks.
Sarah had probably been shopping online, she wore a prodigious Missoni oversize all-the-blues cardigan opened to her navel, next to Dagmar, frantically exciting in a same-make silky long light coat of Vorticist patterns in a toned-down rainbow; a graphic striped band of the same colours ran in her gracile neck, her hair had been tousled as if she had just landed in from a rough sea. Sarah was all besotted. Neither was wearing any shoes.
Delffan laughed watching her telephone screen, and soon a trio of our old schoolmates strolled in with a dress code of their own, white. Probably at Delf’s dare, they sported impeccably white chorus boys’ suits, with the assorted derby shoes. Liselotte, in one of her signature black and white, suprematist bat dresses, pranced at the edge of the seat, one could see nothing above the rim of her black veil stockings, thin suspenders hung from somewhere yet above.
Grazing her tense belly, I was whispering in Fayelle’s bosom that, for once, there would be male want available that night, when some faint draft came from afar, followed by muted rumours, as the main cast approached.

Melchior, in double-breasted, black silk velvet evening jacket, slightly bent, held Camille’s arm, who enlaced the almost childish looking Aviator of ours, in a loose old gold velvet panne shirt, over shorts of the same, under a hollow lace and embroidery batwings blazer of sorts, with that, spectacular matched sneakers —bare slim pretty legs. Annabelle was instantly a fan of hers, I promised to let her have a dance with the genie.
The presence of Melchior drew like a thrill of royalty, with our own Gauthier as a Master of Ceremony, in a dark, floral pattern printed velvet fitted jacket with narrow satin lapels. Of all lustful memories, Mathew Mulder, TRÆVIX attorney, had flown in from New York, along with some curly black hair, thick-rimmed glasses, burly, too, colleague, in Barney’s suit.
An informal group now moved on, at the Overlord’s pace, who wanted a marked stand to kiss the hand of all those he had had the grace to shag once. Seeing his drilling eye approving of my sort of buttoning, I stood for him and succeeded at presenting Fayelle, even whispering her name in the perfumed ear. Haphazardly, the white cambric’s creases had gathered a tad higher —I am a skilled whore.
Speaking of whom, most unexpected, Sarah’s heartbreak Ayla was there, along with Esther, bedazzling with her newly redesigned nose and details, a whole new personality. Melchior, watching Sarah cry, boasted of his sure memory, also in amorist details. Natalia, in a crisp primavera yellow and white striped silk twill oversized shirt, bare legs in immaculate new white sneakers, wooed Esther, visibly nude in her deconstructed black laces, stand-up stockings and flat strassed pumps. Decidedly, hi-heels were outdated.
Farther, Florenz and Hugo, one in a thin adjusted black moire party jacket that voluntarily made him look like some Roman diplomat, the other in a Jodhpur jacket of ultramarine daze, with a collection of antique Jaïpur buttons, probably exchanging about some ruinous prospects —or the constantly renewed crushes in their lives on the lookout.
Philippe, who had pitilessly buggered me not so long ago, missed his professional chores in coming up to our trio. He smelled like a Liberty pomander, his cheeks only blessed with fluff, but I remembered a fiery cock, indeed. It clicked with Annabelle, she was all the fresh misty a sissy boy could dream of, and she would let him do any old way he wished. Her more than father made it late, arrived in thin purple velvet and rosy cheeks; he was overjoyed to see her with the young squire’s hand up to her precious.

 

Sarah says:

The Oberherr almost came straight to us, his smile enfolding Dagmar’s own, he asked if our jump in the noisy whirl had been fun, when he said he would relish to take her to Mustique the week after, in a much cooler glide, she could not say no —she had no idea what Mustique was.
The attendees were brilliant and suave, many honoured Michelle’s resplendent carpets with utterly groomed bare feet. The pair Delf and Natalia had tuned up a sans-faute, gathering the most appealing pieces of our chosen humanity available to play with. Fæbian, in a very short, dark, gleaming Missoni tank dress, wore nothing else at the hands of Hugo, Lizon had thinned, nude in a short, shoulderless changing taffeta corset dress night-and-purple, she smelled of edgy tuberose, ever so impressive, she would madden the crowds with her diamond anklet.
My breath went shut at the sight of the Zürich fairies, and that had been Melchior’s pearl on the cake. Since Esther’s ordeal at the fists of a despicable coke-head, who had met his consequence since, Melchior had grown a tender habit with Ayla and her faithful imp, when in Zürich; I would think he had financed the masterful handiwork on Esther’s face, who gained a godlike new nose, in her sufferings.
These two smelled of otherworldly countries of endless dawns, the crystal houses of rarest orchids, the bygone whiffs on sunk islands — and the underage fevers in the laundry rooms.
Ayla had brought a present for me, we moved to the grey dining room, followed by Natalia, who had stolen Esther’s shoes. There were silvery Regence loveseats in the corners, the room had recently been graced with eerie poetic paintings by Lee Jinju, a Korean woman of unmatched magic, whose thin drawings on linen took unrulily frame shapes, like the projection on the wall of glass cages’ shadows. The centre table, dressed of grey Damas, was crowded with silverware and crystal, with a tall Imperial Samovar and four candelabras all lit, but in the corners reigned the proper dusk of our passions, as if I had drawn my girl into the shades of the boxwoods after hour.
She passed me a luxury boxlet with a roaring name embossed, in it slept a fine bracelet of sapphires, not much thicker than the one she had first captured my soul with, the one she had braided herself, with all the coloured threads, on the first morning in Saint Loup.
On the big chair and its armrests, it became a feast of warm skins, proud of my lewd attitude and the smile of my long-time pixie, I asked Mathew, who happened to pass by and watched in awe, to pour some tea, but as he was impressed by the stately contraption, a white-gloved young attendant who might have been Russian ran to help and did the mix in the silver-corsetted glasses he did not flinch to offer at obviously butt-naked nymphs —I could not even catch a glimpse to thank him with a smile. In these manners of life, Ayla had, nowadays, grown much ahead of me; she did not bother the waiter, who could later very well overstay his service, she gave Mathew the eye so as he understood he owned a token, all the same making my kitty bloom.
I had to break her the news, and she cried for Saint Loup, even knowing that the institution would survive —for then, they dwelled in old unused barracks, and the pupils liked it— but she wiped her eyes, which never needed makeup, when she learned my Far had moved to Lausanne; I was so convinced she, too, had shagged him, more than once; I told her I loved her and I licked her eyes, holding the boiling tea out of my way.
In an opposite corner, came nest Kate and her preciouses. I had to babble low on who Dagmar had been, I felt the pang of the crush in Ayla’s plexus and told her the tall kid would live with us, now on. Esther had succumbed in Natalia’s niceties, like a chrysalis, she had slid out of her lace and brandished arrogant little tits. Images of her in the hospital bed were waning in the nought, it overtook me to search for traces on her perfect skin, so much so that Ayla grabbed my angst and breathed in my ear that there weren’t any.

In the nude, only me wearing such a feel-good bracelet on my wrist, we went on a stroll, Melchior had disappeared, and Michelle. Most of the crew lay in disarray, pants down, or up. It already smelled of elderberry in the sun, angelica, mushrooms, heavens of fornication.
Fæbian was climbing down the stairs, splendid, and we followed her to the nearby bathroom. She had just shagged Aaron, Mathew’s colleague, and as a proper die-cast ivy-league American, he had treated her like a whore —she knew what she meant, and Ayla kissed her— and he had shut her off, once his condom was filled up. As we found a shower to rinse away the insult, I told her I had fucked that boor’s colleague, more than once, and others of us, too, had, and the crew-cut quarterback had been what we call a gentleman, for which reason he probably had, at present, half the house after him.
Ayla liked Fæbian’s emotive gazes, I sketched right away the forlorn story, the enslavement, and the redemption thanks to the good heart of our Liselotte, part-time procuress we cherished in the soft-spoken demi-monde.
Fæbian, who now lived a life of ease and pleasure, bore a pretty bum, Ayla had noticed, and firm at the hand. After we played pissing on each other’s quim — Ayla remembered I taught her that— we cruised back for dick, as they say. Eric and Fulgence answered my wink, bringing a well-tooled Cossack, to take a turn.
I knew the house, there were two more salons with thick rugs upstairs and bedrooms in the attic. We found the provisional gay males cluster, also Liselotte, Lizon, and Beryl —whom I could not recall what she had been wearing, but smelled of sinful lily— grappling with five young scamps like puppies at feeding time.
Michelle’s quarters were closed and silent, we climbed up, offering our arses doing so. In one open room, Delffan was effing Fanny doggy style in her arse, Ayla had not known our genderless pet, we approached and encouraged the two baroque angels by all means except speech and, eventually, they revelled being the aim of so much attention. It was a futon on the rug, we could all roll around. Ayla devoured Delf’s crotch, not letting the spear-toy wane. It had been a while I had not watched Fanny get bonked; the Cossack was carnally gifted, his meat pestle as thick as Fanny’s arm, and that’s what she needed, I loved her face all over while I felt I was being buggered by someone who relished being thorough. I needed one in my maddened womb, too, and Erik, who is endless, obliged me; since we club together at the same church, he did it bare and was able to inundate me some, I moaned in tune with Fanny whose head was against mine. For Ayla, schooldays were back, she was overjoyed and Delf frolicked all over her garden, they feel so funny in your arse!
I did the presentations, Ayla said of her own will that she was a full-time escort in Switzerland; she was pleased to know she had been in bed with artists, be them starving. There was a bathroom on the same floor, with a fashionable Italian shower, room enough to rekindle our wants and reshape the spearheads, Fanny grabbed my chest around and spread her legs open in the running water, offering her butt-crack; there was an alternate game she reacted to so vividly she cried for good. On the towel stand, Ayla could not bore licking her new discovery, she asked them to piss in her mouth and looked.
When we paraded back downstairs, for thirst, among others, all seats were elegantly ornate of lascivious nudities, even Michelle, whom I had always craved, her tiny waist and rounded bum-cheeks; I introduced her to Ayla, whom she unexpectedly seized by her midriff, sniffing her neck, and saying she might call her, once in Lausanne. I loved it when Michelle thought of sex, and I knew she played often with Delf, making that a tranquil asset of their life. That evening, I grasped that she had shagged a real lumberjack, and she had loved it—Delf too, liked lumberjacks.

Music, all that time there had been music, out of nowhere discernible, low, slow, seemingly random like some rich, fuzzy aeolian harp, and now, some satiated desires left laid back bodies listen, rested against the backs of the sofas.
Insensibly, the plates had been cleared, the nibbles had been sorted on fewer trays, only the grand Samovar remained and Ayla, the younglings and me still watched the unfazed waiter measure the mix. When Natalia was asked by a group of men, Hugo, Gauthier, and Philippe, Esther prefered to return to us, only with the thought of debauching the poor boy who had seen all the pretty nymph consent all to satyrs of all tastes, and he did not protest when, like the true professional she was, she pressed herself against his back and slid her hand upon his fly, soon feeling an echo of her want. He responded, too, when she danced against his butt, and she followed him close when he walked to the service door. They vanished, I was amused, another waiter came up to the table, unruffled. I like fucking in kitchens, too.

I wondered who Dagmar was humped by, Ayla and me went around to discover her in one of the attic rooms, between Yaguil Roustang, your sinewy karate-ka on top and Pol Fannon, the sculptor, underneath her, deep in her arse. We could not simply watch, and some histrionic tendency made her revel in our participation. She had probably been ridden a few times, her sweat smelled of the overlicked foal, some scent I found overwhelming, and Ayla shared that, as the two players unleashed their spurt. The boys fell apart, Ayla and me devoured her, swallowing any dripping out of her.
As an athlete, Yaguil recovered his breath and watched us like bitches toileting the puppy which triggered some of his own whims, so he joined, relishing Dagmar’s armpits like candy. Pol also began with one foot, toes, sole, and heel. Our victim kept moaning on the sweet mode, all the more when Ayla gnawed her tits until she passed out.
And Delf aptly joined our complicated pillow affair, wiped the eyelids of the cherished one, amidst the ending throes of our carnal sprees. Who is Rory? Delf asked, hugging the dreamer’s head.

Still haunted by the unputdownable ricercare flowing out of the walls, the battlefield had mostly been deserted; and it would have been dainty to sort the dead from the blissful. Certainly, Liselotte consoled the last of the white-gloved extras, James cuddled Fæbian, sleeping tucked in a long coat of rainbow giant knit he had stolen in the vestiary, knelt beside a whisky carafe; his daughter had fled with the gay squires of the higher grounds. Beryl and Natalia had lured the domino minders to their hovering nest, Theo had crossed the Pont Royal inside the low roar of a Phantom Three with possessive Florenz, his mission accomplished, Mathew and Aaron were back in their hotel room, reporting, lag it or not, to the Firm; and Camille had repatriated her most precious Fanny, gorged on all the cum she had been beautiful enough to arouse.
On the smooth futon spread upon the floor of TRÆVIX inner Sanctum, my soul-sister Kate had won that Michelle rest her gold-rimmed Aviators upon her keyboard only to taste a febrile kiss of Fayelle’s; and it had been minutes of transfiguration, one crystal tear in the planet buzz, I saw them sleep as the system breathed like a big baby. I crept back up to the roof cache, to find who Rory was?

From the sturdy-gridded dormers on the attic’s corridor hung the omen of a summer storm. In a closet, I found the stash of cobalt-blue toiletries from Covent Garden I needed for morning fun in the shower with my zombified lovely from the Bratva front.
As I tickled her somnambulic blond frame, I was, nevertheless, expecting to discern, in some way or another, Hector’s periscope. But Dagmar loved the Geranium-orange, she mentally regressed to utter cuteness at my hands, not without the blessing of a wink.
It was warm, we had no time to waste finding rags, the whole palace had been tidied, James snored on the sofa and Annabelle was as deprived of mere textiles as us, our hair still wet, we sprinkled her dainty skin as we hugged her; my only concern was to let someone cook French bread for Dagmar. Anyone?
The butler and the cook were utterly amused by our non-attires, with marked signs of approval but swore on their best enemy’s fates that they could confect proper tea, coffee, cocoa and French Toast if need be. Otherwise, all our vestures had been carefully collected in the hall’s vestiary, except what could not have been found —a kinky allusion to our utter lack of underwear.
The world we live in was back on track; In the pearly room, at the round table, the light was of a playful mood, and the Klismos Greek revival chairs gilt in white gold were substantially comfy. Tea and pastries were as fine as the cook had witnessed me do the previous morning, the butler was happy to see us in tee shirts and shorts. The music had vanished with our dreams, but it felt like we could hear birds chirping, out of the Jinju Lee paintings.
Delf trotted in, living gradient from the golden chest to the turquoise slippers, one flew baci around but went straight to hug Dagmar tight and peck the crumbs at her lips before sitting on her lap, complicating the way to hold a cup. Like a butterfly of words, one gloated the feast had been all worthy of the decor, like a divine scene of the bygone eras as one saw in the revamped monumental train terminal next door.

By the time we all switched back on our telephones that had rested hidden all over the house, Hector said to look at news stations and indeed we saw that a bar near the Champs Elysées, known for its fishy Russian clientèle, had been the scene of a gunfight, leaving seven deaths. In another message to me, Hector said that he might take us out tonight to a forest supper with Louis, Kate was welcome. He added he knew about our trip to Mustique and that he envied us.
How did he know Kate’s whereabouts? I answered Kate came along with Fayelle, and we went shopping —Gianni was away for two more weeks, in Italy.
There were a few places, not shops, where we could buy —at no discount— top-quality jerseys and twills ideal for tropical shadows, others for handmade sandals, exceptional nudewear. Dagmar possessed the pictorially perfect bearing that earned her, in three hours, two offers for modelling, about what I had played the mother hen —she would not be interested, as of yet. Kate and Fayelle needed fresh attires, too, this latter terribly daunted, seeing herself in some outposts of the sanctum sanctorum of the Parisian fashion intrigue, casually disrobed and re-dressed, like us, by half-jaded celebrants who ought to bear with the fact that we had been deemed, somewhere high-up in the commandment line, worthy of that exceptional privilege we, anyhow, showed respect for —knowing full well that most of our villeggiatura would happen clothesless.
Even if the invitation to Mustique had been whispered in my ear, it left no doubt that I should select which party of us, hence, I embraced Kate and her crush within the invite. I had a hunch of Hector’s direct fealty towards Melchior when, later in the afternoon, I had one of those subtle texts asking me to bring my lovely friends along.
Back at TRÆVIX palace bearing big anonymous kraft carrying bags, feelings were thawing between the two pretty fillies, there were fits of giggles, frank gazes, the premises of confidences. Fayelle began to crave holding Dagmar’s hands, with delectation, I betted, then, she would soon her feet, too; there was not only one episode ahead in which they would relish in one another.

It would be an electric whale of a deep blue monospace, secretive and silent. Hector sat upfront but reclined towards us, he had been awestruck at the sight of Fayelle, who wore a flecked, night blue, sleeveless, fluid short dress under a fitted short jacket of the same fabric lined with a brighter royal blue. The manly stare meant he had not yet shagged that one and it would soon happen, be sure. She had all her wits, too, Kate slid her hand on her quiet heart and embraced her backwards so he could ogle her pale crotch, are we not sluts? We had been summoned for that, and Hector was an elegant shag, in all respect — and so was his driver, too, the same white smile black hunk as before the helicopter night, eyes riveted to the road.
There were three rows of seats, Fayelle and I had jumped on the second, while Kate and Dagmar were making out on the third; on my right, Fayelle sat just behind eager Hector, so when she gave him her foot, she leaned back on my shoulder and parted her legs, et voilà. So he knew it would go smooth and easy. He winked at me.
We drove through the nightly forest, the headlights pouring phosphenes into our idle souls. Then, I recognised the high walls running to the grand portal with the two lanterns that lit up at our approach. It was the estate where we had found Delffan at this bedevilled party, so it presumably belonged to Louis, too.
The car went walking slow, we crossed red-eyed animals. The massive house was dark, except for a few faint glimmers; but the car went by, following the alley to some draped gazebo, unfailingly overlooking a pond, in a Japanese landscape, like the Queen’s music pavilion. Two torchbearers waited, in Venetian oriental phantasmal outfits, to usher us to the steps leading up to the seemingly deserted folly. Well-known music to our ears, then, whirled up through the forest rumour, I touched Kate’s arm, it would be none other than Malo’s, here, together again with us. She had gone digital, had perverted her instrument’s voice with loops, filters, and echoes, she had summoned a wider sphere; she stood on a sideways little stage, still pale, slender and nude, in a golden brown cocoon of light, had she seen us with our girls?
Louis and Hugo were reclining upon rich brocade divans, in all appearance that they had ingested or smoked some eye-brightening substances, they wore open striped kaftans, loose black silk shirts and wide pants gathered at the ankle, like carnival nabobs. Going to kiss them, I reacted our best hetaera costumes should be none at all, beyond Carnival, and as I dropped mine, so did the others. I knew Kate would regret letting me hand my dedicated pupil, but then Dagmar and I crouched near Louis’ side, while she cuddled her dainty little trull for Hugo’s. It was the game that all of us would be handled and shagged at random, anyhow.
At this moment, our hosts were laid back in a contemplative attitude, as often they wouldn’t inaugurate the dance themselves. Four sun-baked complexion extras, bearing plates of finger food, climbed up from sunken stairs behind the set of three divans and rested them on low side tables, then stood at order, hands crossed in their backs, bare-chested, deliberately ogling each of us; like repertoire staples, it was a matter of punctuation and their ample trousers, held up by a scarf, let none of the arguments concealed.
Any of them black-eyed would fit. From unaffectedly spun, mostly on one string only, the musical motive took flesh and an asymmetrical pace, affretando, faster. It had the effect of pushing one by one our dancers barefoot upon the red background rug, gracefully swirling out the coloured scarf that held their pants, and boast their peen in large strides before running after the one they wished. My inner lust bet was on Dagmar first, and I won. Her cavalier was savvy enough to make her move at his grip like a trained partner and capsized her on one of his knees, her head released back down. Close by, the next dancer had leapt up and shown us his noticeable pride shaft, his want went for Kate, and I felt the pinch, I would be last.
But on both sides of the already going lewd commerce, as they must have been directed to let the girls stir with one another, first, sprung the remaining two wingmen truly not wanting in size and animus, the one who picked my fingers and smiled in my eyes was a sinewy athlete with a straight long stem upon a tight pair of balls; he smelled of lotus and loukoum, Alexandria, Tangiers and Saïgon, the carnal wanderings of bygone colonisations; his feet were so imperious; in a blink, he was in me, deep.

As it occurred, the four were part of a dance troupe, from Amsterdam, more or less sponsored by our own protectors, to what extent I did not care to know. For our first ever encounter, at that minute, Shiye was wringing my spine with one hand around my neck, for a long gluttony kiss, while he ensconced his sturdy prick in my arse to the hilt, and I moaned like an animal; and none of my sisters went the quieter. I hurled my climax at the stars a few times, he wasn’t coming, even, he slid out and squarely passed me on to his pal, letting me know, in broken French, that I was a good slut.
Armudin had been at Dagmar’s blossoming vales, as beastly as the torments went in my own, and she was panting. Louis, with a serene smile, sat up as a casual Buddah and embraced her while the new Shiva danced in her booty hole.
Casual courtesy of the technology, Malo was with us now, simply holding, then resting, a coloured-touches pad, and the music flowed on seamlessly. She came on to me, hugging, complimenting my being buggered with grace, she smelled of vanilla, clove and gold, I asked her to offer me her quim to quench my want. Her complexion was not the pallid-waxy bleak result of night-living, not only, anyway; she wouldn’t weather nicely, so she avoided it —and took her vitamin D as a supplement. out of a small black velvet purse, she fetched a shiny grey metal ball, the size of a plum, that looked like a Ben Wa but she lifted a finger to mean wait. Actually, the ball went into her arse, there was a thin silvery thread attached; then she seized her launchpad to hit one key. The music whirled a bit and seemed to harmonise another trail, unruffled. Malo, in a warm black stare, explained that from now on, she was actually making music with her vagina and arse, only it wouldn’t come out so demonstrative, thus she reserved the secret for her privy audiences. And now that she participated with us in a Tandavan dance, of lascivious sorts, other loudspeakers woke around the Mughalian-style tent, at the signal of her electronics, and thus, her twinkle. We could feel such a long whisper from the crescent moon when a lusty avatar of the Monkey King sheathed in her all-so musical slit, from affettuoso to con fuocco of his modulating bow.
Like a most complacent teddy bear stolen by a pair of playful otters, Fayelle had been unfurled into oblivion by her dancing knights, Kate was in aparté smiling with Hugo. A bald fair-skinned youngling brought a tray of pearly treats and little golden cups of multicoloured opium pills, the recipe of John Bell’s pharmacy, 1847 —none of the frostily potent modern alkaloids, which perform like ethanol dragsters compared to a country ride aboard a Silver-Wraith.
Dagmar had crept back against my happy belly and Malo relished her candour. She punched her pad, slid off her harmonic Ben Wa, washed it off in honey and proposed the play to my long languorous nymph, whom I knew, given the mood of the party, could not refuse to welcome the iridescent ball into her wet cooch. At the next hit on the pad, there was a meandering reshuffle of —I supposed— the chords and harmonic modes the blond bearer said she felt through her womb, so much so that she waved at good Hector, nearby, for another turbulent round.
As well as Kate, I had long been accustomed to these opium pills we usually popped in Hugo’s grand ceremonial beds, but never to the tilt of a hard addiction, we all had better use of our nerves. These were sorts of voluptuous narcotics that could mix with other mind-expanding specialities, once we had made sure, my Fairy Queen and I, that no one would —except for Natalia, always, it is sin to lock the house cat outside, says who?— dare bother us at our door.
Ultimate refinement, the subaquatic illuminations of the basin before the folly intensified insensibly, to the point when Dagmar pulled her bugger to swim after her, and the team dancers called us in. The music had phased weirdly, like the dream of a whale song, with sudden shifts. Malo laughed a high-perched giggle, she was pointing at the bottom of the pool, a colourful dark metal ball rested on the shimmering mosaic.

 

Kate says:

I recalled our naiad offering, weightless Bubacco style grand shag in the shimmering lights, Malo in random mode, Fayelle and Dagmar maddened of sensations, and then everyone dozing out under the singing stars. We had been carefully transferred to our safe abode, four lightheaded nymphs ready for a long flight aboard the Seven Streams Dragon on the next day.
I had half-seen Natalia not seeking any consent to abuse the lust-smelling body of Dagmar, ever so kindly, I needed to pee, and drink all the brooks in the Darjeeling gardens, I felt too dizzy to eat anything, I woke up Sarah, she was only trying not to.
The message had said to bring lighter bags, mostly intimate toiletries, strong UV protection —Mustique rests on 13° North, the sun there is voracious— and the lightest of our wardrobes, if ever we intended to conceal any patch of skin, or engage in society minglings, after bedazzling the mighties on Macaroni beach.
Later, I went down alone to Hugo’s and found him in bed with Malo, who gave me her bright eyes. I wanted to thank him and ask for skincare on tropical sands, he told me all the most not to use our perfumes and began to think. Malo had terrible remembrances of her stay in Saint Lucie that had turned into a binge of Biafine in less than an hour, she advised to live at night. Hugo gave me some all-in-one cream that smelled of honeysuckle and a go-to-bed one with a scent of incensed Neroli he played to show I could use it anywhere I wished to smell good, it was even edible, Malo tried it on me.
When I brought the goods upstairs, Dagmar still slept after Natalia’s confidences, Sarah and Fayelle were in the studio upstairs, said a post-it on my cup. I was lacking Dagmar, she had been Sarah’s pet, there was some amber sheen on her skin that maddened me, carnally. I lifted the sheet, the night-tee, and I began to roam upon.
It wouldn’t have been like so if we had had to board a regular flight; there would be a car and all connections ensuing, I could almost ignore the time, although it was early morning. Meanwhile, Sarah, who had been talking at length with my failed sister-in-law, came down and was earnestly pleased to find Dagmar and me nude on the couch, watching a photography book of Jock Sturges’.
The two young kittens tried on the enchanter’s remedies, most laughingly in their bootyholes, while I ordered diverse custard pies, salted and sweet. I let Fayelle risk her toes to my pussy lips, bare on the chair’s wood, the treat was all in the gesture’s indecency, while Dagmar, still outspent, reclined from her chair upon Sarah’s pubis, and purred.
Then, mixed up amongst our pillows, we surfed Youtube for documentaries about Mustique, and there were. I thought I might have fancied Lord Glenconner, but most of the Queen’s sister’s courtiers, her husband aside, looked like puffed boozers.

Another long berline was, with utter arrogance, double-parked, but we hurried, visibly, and there was no extra luggage. The sidewalks were still fenced out for the extension workings, and the planks were regularly re-painted white.
Streets were packed as a weekday, but we all smelled like a swarm of bees in a honeysuckle bush, so much the better for the men in black on the front seats, the kind that did not look back, but were utterly efficient while we reached the door of the departure lounge.
Dagmar and Fayelle’s passports were new, that of Dagmar’s caught an officer’s attention with whatever detail we had been warned for, he scanned it like the others, but he typed on his keyboard a few times, handing it back with a smile, soon. Our flight was headed to Saint-Vincent, far away from the Schengen zone, but the plane flew under its owner’s name, nothing shady. They wished us a happy vacation.
Unsurprisingly, there were three other passengers, hunky, casual invites of Melchiors, and Sarah laughed on my shoulder, remembering our flight to New York with a slick couple of agents who had furthermore taken us to the Carlyle. Would I tell The maidens they were going to be recorded?
The cabin smelled as good as us, and plus, I have a taste for kerosene. As it fell, the Captain was Danish, young, and square-jawed. I saw Kettelær woo him and I really wondered if she would dare, and where? Fayelle was wired like an eight-year-old; all the more after the other night under the stars, she needed me to confirm the reality of what she was living. She was wearing a short, wavy-knit, misty-rainbow, jersey shirt dress that I remembered having unbuttoned on Sarah, as I told her, opening it one button lower. She has perfectly round breasts, the kind you may see on old photos of Linda Ronstadt —Cynthia and her father adored the singer, in the days on Amrum.
The attendant too was Danish —I loved to hear my girl speak thus, albeit I couldn’t even catch a separate word in her sound— dark blond, with a wealth of freckles and a candid smile; again, I wondered if Sarah would dare, the attendant had some sort of separate alcove, it might be fun.

The three stooges kept wide eyes beyond politeness, they sure had been briefed some about us, now they acted like college kids before the cast of Pretty Little Liars. Reading my stare, one undid his tie and rolled it in his pocket, the other two followed; there was a leader.
Sarah, who had been speaking weird, reached out and asked which language they preferred, they were French, agents for one of Melchior’s online security enterprises I did not encode the name of. Only one of them spoke German when he heard Dagmar speak, and that earned him a token smile. We had, at first, to remain seated and the game of musical chairs —we were seated by four around the unfolded table, they sat in separate armchairs; and there was a proper bed, at the rear— would be played during the cruise course, unavoidably.
Sarah wore a 1970 minidress in stiff piquet cotton, sapphire blue with white grosgrain trimmings, white tights of which they did not yet know had no crotch, and white patent flat ballerines, as if, altogether, she were Françoise Hardy’s hidden daughter.
Dagmar was floating in a vintage, ironed, white poplin shirt with pleats on the unbuttoned dickey, so she showed randomly her brown nipples; her cuffed white shorts let be seen her perfect long thighs, as she had soon kicked off her sneakers and was seated on one of her feet, legs opened.
As in a car, our armrest would pull up and let Fayelle lay upon me. After we were served the right vintage of tea, we dozed out, somewhat. When the captain spoke out to give us news of the winds, he went on, oddly, in his vernacular, and it took me five seconds to see that he was talking to Sarah, who let a while pass before she went forward to the cockpit, and remained in there for more than an hour. Fayelle slept, for good, uncovered to the bum, her nose in my crotch.
Believing to his advantage, the German-speaking agent, after some brief small-talk, slid up next to Dagmar who did not shut the angle of her so tempting thighs —and she knew that. He had dropped his jacket and tie, and he soon casually stroked the foot that rested near him. As a savvy courtesan, she responded, as if nothing went, with slight twists of her toes that brought her foot upon the man’s fly. I was all aroused, I relished watching her be done, I steered the light conversation towards what they had been missioned for, and if they knew of a couple named Bloom and Bramwell? He caved gently, not saying a thing but reached out and told us his name was Jonas, then his hand slid up to Dagmar’s shorts cuff and she tipped insensibly forward. I mumbled it would be a smooth flight, and gave her my kindest smile.

 

Sarah says:

Captain Sünd and copilot Tardin spoke with a slight Western Danish accent, from what they said themselves, hearing my Copenhagen-New-York melt. They made me rest on the third seat behind the copilot and the Captain started to leer at me like someone had given him permission, but they were both slick and gallant, they smelled expensive cologne and did not shun my eyes.
As I was impressed by the high finish of all the technology they seemed to master full well, I allowed myself to play my little game, at the risk of killing us all, I let my already short dress hike up and show the Captain my bare pussy, casually, checking in his eyes that it was what he had wished for.
He certainly knew full well that nothing of what I was making him long for could happen in the cockpit, except maybe fellatio if he would stand up before where I was seated; then I was thoroughly quieted that he was another wise great Dane I knew.
He asked if we were heading to Mustique? He had never been, that jet was too big for the toy island’s strip, and we would have to switch planes on Saint Vincent, for a lesser propeller machine. He added there would be a lounge at the stopover where we could meet if I wished, that was in six hours’ time.
Back in the cabin, there was a relaxed gent in my seat, readily handling Dagmar’s legs and feet as she retold him our nightly pool party. I joined the other two in a single chair, making conversation in a way that made them quit their ties, too, and roll up their sleeves. Vilma had retired to her bunk.
As before, Melchior had not granted a pass to decoy birds, thus, after thin introductions, I behaved like a soft-spoken, brazen slapper, showing ever more of my goods, legs over armrests. One of them was a well-built, witty, angel-faced thirty-something named Finn. I asked him if he had any nordic connection, he said his mother was a Swede, but he did not speak the language. As I playfully unrolled my genealogies, he affected to stand up near my chair, so then it was game to make him feel there was space for him to sit between my parted legs, and kiss me a coffee-tasting one.
We made out in the searing light, my hand slid in his briefs, he sported one of these straight long shafts I crave. I told him to repack and I pulled him to the bed where everyone would ogle us on the way to the toilets, but where at least we could shag. My simple dress was designed to be lifted fast, I kept my open tights, he stripped of everything, he had wonderfully groomed feet; in a whim upwards, I sucked him to completion and kept pumping till it hurt.
He was enthralled with my eyes, he plucked at my raspberry tits to make me whine high. I knew Kate would need to pee, anyhow, and on the way back, she sat with us matter-of-factly, all nude, and held my catch’s pride with respect.
She pushed me down and kissed me deep as Finn was sheathing his long blade to the hilt in an inexorable move that made me quiver. As things went that morning, through the cascade of collapses I revelled in, I had glimmerings that Kate was also being fucked from behind by the third squire in need.
The continuous blare of the engines felt like the open wide acclaim of my soul. Finn hurled his gold at my blessed entrails and, like most men, crashed without flames in my neck for a blank fallout. As he was a well-bred partner, he did not weigh upon me, and, once our breaths regained, while the other two reached the acme of their crisis, he bore me to the small shower booth we couldn’t share.

When I walked out, Kate was spread in bliss, her suitor still brandishing a stout shaft glazed with cum, I wondered if there would be a twofold spend, and ran into happy Dagmar to whom I showed the toilet.
Fayelle still slept, showing us her bum and I understood someone had pulled her knickers away in her sleep, I did not resist sliding a hand. The lucky travellers served me compliments on our team that I accepted, retorting they were beautifully impatient and I wished we tried again later. At their wish, I pulled off my tights, Finn had a foot fetish, and I welcomed him.
I had no worries about being toyed around by Melchior, but since I was one who had, so to speak, nursed one of his new assets in the code realm, I needed to be framed our game a little sharper. All of our luminaries knew all about our nifty trades, but it would fit me more to know squarer about.
The three were part of a team of crack auditors, loaded with diplomas and more, they had been recruited from college on those chats where Michelle was, stealthily, the undisputed Queen, to work as the Boss’ janissaries about the businesses that related to his own, close or afar. Thus, although still greenhorns, they had the impeccable mental categories that allowed them to give me the gossip I wanted, even knowing their boss was peeping at us all in all our current carousings. They had been given guarantees, in their judicial terms, that they could allow themselves all we, girls, would care to let happen, during the length of the flight, and the stay at Mustique. They had effectively understood we wished for full-fledged carnal expense, like free high-flyers sluts, under their stealthy Boss’ eyes.
I had brewed more tea and coffee, the flight attendant was nowhere to be seen, for all I knew she might have been somewhere in Denmark, good for her —did the crew see what we behaved like? Fayelle was in shy mode, she might recover her attitude if I undressed her. The silk flowed down her shoulders and it wasn’t three lustful men ogling her that would unsettle her —that, she knew full well— but the whole outlandish journey, after the pussy concert in the wild, of the likes she had never known of before, a reality beyond the exceptional; and there we sat, smelling of sex like a garden in the rain, nude as gods smiling at her. I played cuddle for a delicious while, then, when she let her thighs part, Finn, on his side, slid a hand to her noonie and necked for a kiss, all gently.
Dagmar had nested herself on my bosom, in reach of the third playboy, trying to tame us as a four-legged chimaera, with some sweet avail. Luke Sonchain was a lean, rangy doe-eyed boy with Renaissance appeal, he could have sat in some primrose garden for Nicholas Hilliard and nevertheless crave our slender legs and our slinky muffs he babbled with, in turns.
While licking in Dagmar’s ears, I held her knees back, so as the not-so-spindly tenderfoot would bugger her, with grace and resolve. I felt her reel and sway upon me as he gained pace towards pleasure, and so I wanked like a good comrade. She moans smoothly, she comes easy, she’s a gem of a pleasure Lady.

Once the flesh was elapsed, spent, devoid, remained the tenderness in the companionship of the suave-smelling elite, the prospect of some exceptional parenthesis that I knew was entirely begotten by the look of Dagmar, who had, be that as it may, lived all her eerie life between the fangs of dragons.
Like all of us, I felt the pang of the heat immediately on the gangway down to the tarmac of Argyle International Airport. Captain Sünd had not forgotten me. I heard witty comments on our flight that led me to think there had been some visuals in the cockpit, too, and why Vilma did not come back, gesundheit, then!
But Sünd went on explaining we would soon fly on a twin-engine turbo-propeller aircraft to Mustique, himself had to mark a two-hour stop on his way to Miami. There were a homey VIP lounge and private rooms for crews in transit, and then the invite was all clear, in Danish, to follow him for a while. That made me feel like a sailor’s whore, and I felt a tickle in my lower spine, I had shagged all along the trip and I felt willing for another go, I told Kate to wait for me.
There were a dozen of doors in the all varnished wood first-floor corridor, Sünd tried a few before one opened on a small room with a one-person bed. After he had stowed his black leather gravitas on a shelf, he was suddenly all over me, pulling my dress overhead, I had not put the tights back in place. He licked all he could, I asked him if he had seen us do, he said they had watched some of what went on in the first salon, which explained his tense erection. His dick curved upwards, he did not give me time to suck it, in the small space, it was easier to push me on all fours on the bed and stump on the bottom of my vagina like a maddened piston, for what little minutes it took to bring him to gush in me, in a one-sided frenzy.
It had not been only enough to make me wish for more, with my better wise smile, I went to the shower, rinsed his spittle and slid on my dress and shoes, I had been less than a whore, in Danish.
Kate smelled me, looked me in the eye and half-joked that had been a quickie, I had to agree I was vexed and I had not even had time to come, I seized her by her waist and kissed her a long desperate one; until a white-uniformed steward came to tell us the plane we waited was landing.
The Falcon was still being refilled as we took off in what, now, felt like an amusement contraption, it took only the time to be cuddled by Kate and Dagmar, our three squires felt suddenly all gallant to me.
After a skilled crosswind landing, the world quieted and two electric buggies conveyed us to a villa in a shady park. Luke had embraced my shoulders and I cuddled my head into his neck; It felt I might have better tell everyone I had been botch-bonked by a boor after such a cat’s pyjamas party.

Mi-plisi (Me-Pleesy) —My pleasure, in French creole— is a typical pastiche two-story planter’s house with a running colonnade on its four sides, providing the much necessary shadow. The huge roof is clad with elegant solar tiles you need a double look to tell. The rear facade oversees an infinity pool as wide as it, and the ocean, beyond a strip of the jungle. Two wings side the entrance yard.
Indian-looking young men, impeccably dressed in white cotton kameez, greeted us and began to carry our bags inside a hall panelled of precious woods surrounded by another row of polished wood columns. Many mismatched colonial mahogany armchairs and sofas offered fresh cushions printed Indienne style, in a variety of patterns against a vermilion background.
An alignment of slow ceiling fans pulsed more air through the devised drafts, making one wish to undress into the flows, which we dared not as of yet.
To the laughter of everybody, I had not heard Melchior sneaking from behind me when he gently grazed my bare bum, and he kept me at his side, even when he addressed Dagmar in Heidelberg German, to join, under his other wing. He said there were six worthy guest rooms in the outhouses, but he figured we would navigate between them, as we pleased. He was sporting some Egyptian dull-blue gown, he went barefoot and recommended we do as well. Dagmar and I were soon both in the raw, he pressed us together in a welcome embrace.
Not long after, most of us had undressed haphazardly in the elegant bedrooms, the wolfpack knowing they would again get a bite of every lamb in the herd.
As Melchior would guess, we leered at the glimmering water of the pool, he did some tst! tst! noise and showed us a Chinese side table crowded with skincare bottles and tubes, insisting that on our Parisian hides, the sun would burn through in minutes, even our hands; so we pleasured each other while Melchior had chosen all-pale Fayelle as an excuse to grope her thoroughly, not at her dislike. He concluded that all our good work would have to be redone after the bath. He concluded by saying he did not wish to see us baked and sore, unfit for pleasure.
The violence of the transition was indeed dire, and we did not simmer long in the fresh, untainted with chlorine, water. We continued massaging our glorious bodies with the unknown arousing scents, possibly laced with mind-expanding chemicals, at the rich man’s request. As the daylight faded fast, we shared seriously spicy fried pouches stuffed with some fruit gombo, along with fresh pineapple juice, our bachelors had some browned-off little sausages and curried chicken, and some had beer or wine.
Probably because of the smells, three grand white macaws flew in with a great racket, prancing towards the plates. In some funny patois, Melchior asked one of the waiters to set a plate for the birds at the far end of the table, and they obviously considered it an accrued right.
By then, Melchior had laid a princely hand on both Dagmar and Fayelle and invited them both upstairs. I fantasised he would mostly watch them scissoring together, and gently fall asleep, perhaps with a revived dick in one of them’s arse.
I eagerly needed some righteous shag, to alleviate the shame another one of my natives had thrust on me, so many years later —Is there some wrong with the Danes? Finn had kept flurry-print shorts, but now it roundly bulged, I slid in my hand I had rinsed in the rosewater in small silver cups and held up a fully awake rod —which arose some interest in the taller of the macaws.
Eventually, we all decided to go play in one of the grand poster beds with generous white netting. To start with, I took Finn’s prick into my still vexed honeypot and I soon felt the gentle flows greet the righteous cavalier, who looked at me like Humphrey Lauren and that made me climax like the Southern Cross.

Later, Kate and I lazed in an ample chaise longue, in a whimsical draft that rendered this whole fantasyland liveable. After all that our bachelors —even— had spent upon our bodies until exhaustion, there was a sense of exhilaration at letting them swarm at our feet. And, in the misty veilings of the poster bed, we had witnessed some unleashed behaviour with one another, just as we had constantly given them a sight of, ourselves. now they felt all the more entitled to carnal liberties with us, like companions in the close circle. In that regard, it had been borne out that everyone carried a black card in Melchior’s realm.
Our special nymphets dawdled by, arm in arm, not fully willing to retell their own night, but they came to sit at our feet.
They both sported new jewellery, Dagmar a choker with nail-sized aquamarines, for Fayelle, bean-sized topazes, no joke. Jolly price of depravity, as it were. Dipping fresh rolls in her tea, Dagmar began retelling, matter-of-factly, attested by Fayelle’s nodding, their submissive debauchery.
At first, the Master had groped and explored a lot, giving enemas in their bumholes himself, rubbing some forgetful unguent from their toes to their ears, as they cuddled each other. Then he called three of his Indian lackeys and, in their language, ordered them to play with them, right there on his bed, while he would caress their faces. Fayelle had been first, legs high-up to let the way for a dark, manly, depilated rod into her obedient arse. The other two, whose yellow silk sarongs had flown off, presented themselves close-up so as the boss gulped one, momentarily, while the other reached the cosiness of Dagmar’s behind as she grabbed up one of her legs, and bent down to kiss Fayelle’s curvy mouth.
In a whirlwind of silk and smooth stuffings, they had felt all alleviated while disposed to the slow-mannered shag, for the relish of half-seated Melchior, who eventually told them to suck his raising dick and lap away all of his semen. He had then weirdly asked to taste their mouths, the humping still churning in their wombs, and then on long after the master dozed out.
They had woken amidst the soiled silks, appeased, wearing the necklaces and half-holding their prestigious boxes. Other Indians looked out for their waking and brought them to a scented bath nearby; they massaged them in the water, their willies now rested, as they sat on the marble ledge, and they virginally fondled all the two girl’s creases and joints upon the massage table, and they knew they could use them for whatever more.
The noble macaws seemed to have been trained not to shit randomly, but they demanded the plate of pastries before our girls had finished with them, one of the servants ran up with a large fan and shooed them off. He wore his daytime fitted kameez, but now I fancied what narrow, rounded bum he could offer. I promised myself to have a taste before the end of our stay.
Jonas had taken a liking for topaz and while holding Fayelle by her nape, showed already a serious erection; they moved to the other side of the gallery where stood a larger daybed, so we could watch them carouse before the urge seize ourselves, having reckoned that we had no modesty to keep towards the Indians.

Albeit we would use a coefficient fifty waterproof sunblock, we had been strongly advised —they spoke English, too— not to dip in the pool between nine and five, on pain of spending the rest of our time in bandages, and cry.
The macaws —I wouldn’t know how many they were— had understood we weren’t game and the pastries had been hidden, so they kept to themselves, with a lot of cackles.
Now the sun blazed violently, but in our cosy path of drafts, Dagmar asleep upon my shoulder, there grew a fantasy of being mere animals in the frank appraisal of the white-clad minders. Available expensive beasts of desire. Not wearing shades, I stared at the nearest Indian and made my smile unmistakable while stretching. Affecting imperviousness, he made a small gesture of the hand, down, that meant, along with his responding stare, to follow him inside, and I nodded.
Kate was in the grand hall, eagerly grappling with Luke and Jonas, on a red deep sofa. It was easy to sneak around, behind the rows of polished wood columns, to the door where I saw my mate waiting.
A tall cry meant that Kate had just been rammed in at the core of her want, it hurried me tiptoeing like a Beardsley virgin.
The room smelled of the rich woods it was made of, my chosen one smelled of bay rum and sweet spices, Like in the whole house —which was not air-conditioned— the divided panes of the windows let the air flow through and puff up the mosquito nettings over the bed poles. We seized each other, I disrobed him without quitting his lips and pushed him onto the bed. His dark, hairless piece of pride was all jolty for attention, I let my mouth meander down to engulf it to the throat. It was a sleek, straight, conveniently sized, uncircumcised pecker that I made maliciously attain its acme in long spittles that  I gulped whole.
He was endlessly caring, fetching a glass of fresh water so I could clear my throat, then wrestling with my tongue like one of my new box trees elves. He had known where to find some KY, perhaps because using it was his preferred manner, I showed him I granted him all kindly access when he began to slide fingers into my paths, mostly the sneaky one.
I eagle-spread like a savvy slut so I could wire my brains into his amber gaze while he buggered me like a Princess, and I could constrict and ease alternately my arse like a medusa, at his pace.
My initial move having been fruitful, now he was taking time to give me rounds of exaltation on top of one another until he would frantically release another grand salvo. He fell sobbing upon my breast, overjoyed and breathless, and soon he bustled on my snaffleberries so skilfully he made me arch in bliss.
He led me to the bathroom of polished hardwood and, as he turned away to pee in the copper toilet bowl, I showed him to pee on me in the shower as I peed on his feet; his laugh was all candour, he washed me with large sponges, then he showed me the cannula affixed to a rubber tube for giving me an enema, and so he filled my bowels with hot water and let me lose all, with great gargles.
We had been told not to use perfumes on our skin because of the sun, but all the luxury toiletries made generously available smelled beautiful. Vivaan, for I had come to ask for the name, massaged me all with a heavenly moisturiser, I came again when he played with my toe joints, which made him proudly laugh.

Thenceforth I had let bloom the flower of my soul in the tepid waters of my brains —like these little balls of Chinese tea that release a crimson chrysanthemum in your cup— so as I lured the flock of white macaws amidst the green steeples of Rosenborg, at the great rancour of the scarlet crows which now cuddled together under the sundry cornices, spying on my eyes.
As the gentle whips of white feathers sent me twirling up in the Copenhagen clouds, I became aware of a warm angel leaning against my back, humming that weird ancient German song she had never been able to tell how she learned it, nor what it meant, otherwise that it was related to sexual bliss.
Dagmar whispered that she wished I went with her in Melchior’s bed that night because he had understood that in all innocence I owned her, to the best of her fortune, as an outcome of Louis’ ordering Hector to free her, and he had such intentions to entrust me with.
Still flying around my inner heartland towers until I would only move a little finger, I soughed I would go with her, and rubbed my bum cheeks upon her belly.

 

Kate says:

Fayelle was having so much fun with all her heart. I had observed where the handsome servants came in from, and I felt wanderlust. Limestone stairs led calmly down to some fresher quarters, vaulted rooms that could have given the impression of being older than the current Cecil Beatonesque colonisation of the island.
Nobody was in the grand kitchen, yet I found large pitchers of fruity lemonade, just as I needed. Then I heard the sound of male voices from afar. Enjoying the cooler air upon my raw skin, I pursued along a bare stone corridor to the thread of light that sprung from the gape of an ajar door and I peeped.
Four hunky men in black outfits, tee-shirts, silky trousers and shiny town shoes, sat around a large table and played cards. A minute later, the door burst wide open and a fifth cohort seized my throat, almost lifting me, drew me in and kicked the door shut. They all moaned of contentment, laying me down in the midst of the card play mat.
They grasped I was not defending myself; in broken English, they inquired if I would be one of the Boss’ darling sluts, so I nodded; they had hands all over me, and one who sounded like the alpha ordered them not to overpass my letting, slowly, just as he was fingering my cunt, to find it wet.
My slutty decision was made, my legs were wide open, more so when I recognised some tattoos on their bared chests, everything was in good order, I could recall each of them in many orgies we had stranded ourselves into, which was in no manner surprising, we were game.
It would be more of the carnal dizziness I had vowed myself in, during my friendship years with Victor —that splendid alpha who, some certain regrettable once, had afforded himself the ugly stain of a true rape attempt, hence losing our trust, probably forever. Beryl, once that irresistible and forbidden young treat who slid in my morning sheets at Victor’s realm, was ashamed, now, and dared seldom sleep in Natalia’s bed any longer, her so-beloved soul-sister that she had, in her small apartment atop of ours, nurtured into the classiest whorishness —Beryl is the devilish daughter of Victor’s all-time caretaker, Natalia the house-genie daughter of Hugo’s caretaker Lena, who may open all the doors in the house, and in particular ours.
The poker lamp, as typically centred on the game’s blue baize, was on me, then, and the players’ shadows danced on the vault as they took hold of my indolent head to fuck my mouth in turns, and then shag my holy slit deeper and deeper, and my bumhole. Melchior’s main man, who spurred the other four hunks, insisted that they churn my flesh for my own pleasure because I would then grant it onto their boss, who relished the knowledge of his mistresses’ pleasures.
Accordingly, they offered me a couple of hours of elation, each of them reaching a thorough bliss of my body more than once, manly gazing at the stoutest of them all drill slowly to the hilt in my lesser hole, ease me wide and blurt off his load inside.
They must have had some training, as a team of artists, and I outdid their prowesses with the help of my hand, giving them each time the jolts of my climaxes. At the pride of their chief, they exclaimed crude comments and manly insults I took as tokens of admiration. At the edge of their breath, seeing that I could have ridden another team of their kind, they carried me to a nearby shower room, the same bare stone with a cascade in its midst, and we all shared attentive foamy fingers and more kisses. I even was availed a spurting nozzle in my arse, wondering what it was doing in a men’s room.
When they had donned their black outfits again, I still stood entirely nude and their captain held my hand up to his imperious mouth but in a soft tone asked if they had succeeded in pleasing me, at what I agreed to flatter their pride by asking if they had enjoyed me enough as an easy slut. I added there might be more congresses of the sort, in the venues they knew even better than us.

The narrow deep sapphire band at the end of the sea was turning black, Fayelle swam like a nymph chased by the tritons trio, I dived, unannounced, all my joints still springy, and I needed to grope some girl’s body. Holding her like a lifesaver, I boasted of what I had just done, and it aroused everyone, as I felt fins and whatnots rummage in my candid crack.
Half a dozen macaws seemed to find our shenanigans funny and did funny aerobatics over the pool, returning to a railing on the second floor.
Then, It happened everyone was hungry, and spicy scents had been laid under some fan. As we gathered Roman-style around an array of mismatched antique silver plates loaded with warm bites, I revealed the existence of the foreseeable subterranean world of our safety minders. Fayelle was at once aroused, I could predict she would very soon risk herself in the dark corridor. She was lean and dainty, her pussy bulged at her lower belly, she had been shagging all day with the Musketeers.
They said that Sarah and Dagmar had been invited upstairs and had run at attention. I proposed a stroll in what looked like a park. One of the Indians said he would turn on the lights, and discreet mushroom lamps to let us know what we walked upon.
An army of gardeners, certainly not the kind that had made my bum feel so itchy then, had chiselled all kinds of plants and trees, well beyond my knowledge. We passed a Gardenia in bloom and that gave Luke an instant desire such as I had to hold his stiff toy and promise he would be first, back to the house. Mumbling in my nape, he retorted that au contraire, the lush flowery scent, the long echoes of a distorted guitar somewhere afar, under the pulsing vault of stars, all made for the grandest of shags, and, holding me backwards, he was already forcing his way down my butt and vanquished my drooly cunt. My thighs parted, I had to concede at the sort of cosmic upheaval, my moans responded to by those of Fayelle, whom I grasped was being overthrown on the tight grass, nearby.
To make amend to Luke, I cleaned his bending penis with my mouth, as if I had not tasted enough of that earlier in the day, and so had he for my still smiling slit. The others had walked to a vine-covered gazebo, purple flowers as wide as a girl’s hand smelled of powdery sweet, the three others wallowing across the faded cotton cushions of a wicker sofa, doing what we had just done, and I snuck to Fayelles’ quim for a taste of her, only to feel there had been a frustrated someone who spat into my not so shy back hatch and succeeded in, with the help of some clear sperm and the gains of my afternoon training. Fayelle also went for my arse, like the adorable bitch she was.
There were two other sofas. In the scent of our own debauchery, we rested widespread to the stars; carried in the slow breeze, the riffs of the plaintive guitar hovered on the hills, lulling me out.

Had they been caring enough to lay Fayelle and me, intermixed, into the creases of the feather-light sheets? Her mouth tasted as pure as a first snow, there was a hint in the air, from the wide-opened door, of sweet crusty roast, like French toast that was, and it tickled our stomach. Indeed, Sarah most likely had converted the cook —by means of some sleazy trick— to confect her preferred morning starter. And nevertheless, the malicious cook had sent a platter in his own manner, with thin slices of pineapple, banana, carambola, and whatnot plus a dash of rum that made Sarah frown.
Dagmar had crystals of sugar stuck on her lips she let me lap. She smelled of fresh lust with a soupçon of angostura; I sat behind her, grazing her bum with my quim, sliding my legs under hers, crossed.
Seeing what, Fayelle plainly asked Sarah to grope her kindly, too, because she had insensibly felt deserted.
From the evening on, upon the grand cushions of the Great Khan, they had travelled in and out of consciousness, used in any possible way by shapely types with eager spindles at willing and avid mouths. Was it a new squad of multiple-security specialists, or had they rekindled their nerves since my visit to their locker room? In the high chamber, they had served them, one at a time, except Dagmar, who withstood a final three-parts assault without passing out; and enjoyed a complete toilet by Melchior’s own tongue.
I would be last to see the tropical upper sanctum, so they kept the surprise alive. I felt overjoyed the über-host wished to have Sarah with me, and I could imagine our two sirens heading down to the manly barracks as soon as we would have climbed up.

Our olympian potentate smelled of ambergris, pepper and iris —in any order— and I surmised that this unique scent had been devised by Hugo for him, no parfumier sells ambergris, today. Unlike what the girls had told, he reclined, in the opium dreamer pose, not on millefiori silks of labyrinthine patterns, but upon a vortex of silvery stripes in panic-stricken triangles, upon which he directed us in lewd allures. He kept his cool, but there were traits of mania in the way I saw him handle Sarah’s feet, legs, and loins, as he spoke.
He wished to entrust us with the future of our two little lost kittens, he would dislike having been using destitute victims. He approved of Louis’ decision to bind Dagmar to Sarah’s goodwill, and Fayelle to my own after my brother had given up. There would be material affluence about our Parisian lair to entwine two more souls, at our great relish.
We both concurred all the more that the move had already been engaged. Enticing us to let him watch our best moves, he reminded Sarah of his faithful friendship with Ayla and Esther, whom he would soon entertain somewhere on his maps.
Two Indians in saffron yellow sherwani brought footed trays of our preferred bites under little gilded domes, then went fetch two tall silver tea sets, one for each side of the grand pompous nave we were carousing upon. Then the two waiters stood still, arms on their backs. All the while, sexed-up by Melchior’s compliments, we had put on the most depraved show, expecting the silk of the boys’ vestment to raise, and so it did. Melchior feigned some compassion for the boys and implored that we went help, we did, candid as new does, uncover their already quivering dicks, a tad drooly, under the vestment, out of their trousers; it was time to sip the clear drops they were dripping at our avail.
The one I started sucking showed a very dark complexion and jet black eyes. He was young, I drained his gonads fast, letting him deep in my throat and pumping like a true alley girl, but I did not allow him to go limp, niggling the tip of his glans with my tongue. As I reclined facing Melchior one leg up, the boy slid himself along my back and found the proper wet slit to hump in. He had been somewhat tamed already, and he played andantino ostinato, very much in my chords, and again, up to my mumbling collapse, where Melchior seized my dishevelled head and licked my face, ordering the boy to go on.
Then it had been Sarah, whom her tall officiant pulled away to the bathroom and came back running only to get properly buggered, with long ascending moans until Melchior enjoyed his ready spear into her mouth at no mercy, and she managed to come a good once out of her entrails before he gushed into her so beloved porcelain mouth.
She and I kept our boy-toys along well beyond the crisis pause, it seemed to suit our alpha plus who was still twiddling with Sarah’s toes.

 

Sarah says:

As it had become my wont, I was washed up on the impalpable sands of dawn in a bed with Dagmar who was smiling at angels. I stood still, feeling the wavelets of the shore, like in holy times I had played drown at the Lake, to ensnare some naive mate to touching my body. Then the gossamer theatre in my eyelids would dissolve as fast as the vapour on a mirror, and I would nose into Dagmar’s neck to hear her baby breath.
As my whole puppet self purred of all its joints, cuddling avidly around my devoted prey of lust, it dawned on me that our door was closed, and it had not been before. Then a hollow of silence warned my awakening brain.
I dawdled, yawning, to the door, only to find quiet; in the hall, only one Indian answered as they had always done, eyeing down on me. The Master was gone, and so were most of the goons. An aeroplane would wait for us Ladies in the afternoon, all orderly. He went to fetch breakfast, I was too weary already to think of following him.
I roamed the rooms, found some unmade beds that smelled of manly sweat and soap, and lastly, Kate cuddled round on Fayelle.
Actually, nothing out of line, His Fucking Grace —in all due respect— acted in these stealthy manners, and what should we complain about? There probably was already a sybilline paragraph in our encrypted chat thread.
The four of us revelled in the aroma of roasted slices of soaked bread and fruit the cook had just made —and the dash of Angostura— the younglings not sorry to rejoin the merry plot. As we had been exchanging on our night’s affairs, we were still au naturel when two hunky black suits walked in at attention. Their eyes did not wander. In a matter of minutes, our bags were made, but had they even been unmade ever?
Two electric garden carts kept us in the shade of the high sun, we jumped in the aeroplane without our suitors, there might probably be more along the line.
At Argyle, we had to wait an hour or so for the Big White Hawk to fill up. The heat was solid on the chest, Fayelle agreed it was enough, already, Dagmar wouldn’t lose her heavenly stare, Kate clung to my shoulder. When Captain Sünd came up to salute, I did not respond in Danish, pinching Kate’s bum as she sneered under her hand. I did not give a macaw’s dropping if he grasped or not.
It would be the four of us to Paris; Vilma, in her impeccable white shirt and black high-waist dupion trousers, having had to watch us misbehave on the outbound flight breathed easier, reckoning lesser chances of sliding awry, now. Did she know? After our intense training course, I felt like gleaning astray. I was in a navy, knees-long, flared cotton ribbed jersey tank dress; I slid off my knickers. Kate had read my move. I was once more the devilish brat on the sex hunt. I knew Dagmar would doze quietly next to me, it was a game to give the lady —whom, by the way, could not be older than me— well-lit flashes of the dull green Laura Ashley gown, wanted more tales of our night.

Vilma remained in the galley, wiping the black lacquered counter for the third time, eyes down. I took my chances to chit-chat with her, as she would never shun me. As if such a fine aeroplane would sway in the least, I stood my pretty bare feet apart and felt almost nude as I asked her where they had been as if she could tell me —I had learned enough of her boss’ ways to figure she wouldn’t— but she did not drop the ball, then I knew I had the tip of a score.
I craved her, she smelled of pale jasmine, she did not wear a bra, her hands were slender and artless, she pushed me into the crew toilet, kissed me and, in Danish, asked me not to do her harm. She said she knew I had shagged the captain, who pretended to be her boyfriend; he could watch all that went on in the cabin, like Mr Melchior, she could lose a very rewarding job. Sobering up from my whim, I dived in her forthright pale Danish gaze and, grabbing her hands, promised to ask big daddy to shield her, in earnest.
Then I pranced around stupidly before the cupboards, asking her whatever about some biscuits and so she answered dumbly, like we played house, asking if we prefered English or French make?

Dagmar slept, now, and showed a yummy white cotton shorty from under a shirt of night-black bourrette, her legs ever so spectacular across the seats. Vilma came up with a baby-cashmere plaid and white socks to comfort my heavenly orphan girl. I was sitting at Kate’s and Fayelle’s knees, Kate looked me in the eye and asked me if I had “eaten a rake” with my cute compatriot; I bent to her ear and retold my merciful deed, given I had her coordinates. All of us treated her as a dear friend for the rest of the flight.
It was golden dawn when we landed, Dagmar was overjoyed with her socks and went to give Vilma a maidenly kiss she knew how to. Vilma told her she could keep them, she winked at me. She fetched black Chuck Taylors to wear them with the white socks on and so she looked like the it-girl. We baci baci a lot with my new flying protégée, but I shunned her brute who should have tested the wind, sluts can be vengeful.
Dagmar adored luxury cars, who won’t? This was the two-row carriage that sounded like a low organ pipe, not flinching the least, I whispered in Kate’s ear that we had also shagged the driver and the minder before, so she giggled, and then I embraced my pet’s legs in her new woolly socks.
Home was a big event; the extension was clean and dry, Gauthier had kept his word, and our lair had doubled. Kate called Hugo, who begged to see us readily; when she tried to excuse us on the lagging, he retorted he would cradle us himself, in brief, we could not avoid his invite, be it at ten in the morning. Eventually, in want of sound reason why he would not let us reacquaint ourselves in our own walls, he asked if he could walk up, and that was warmly greeted.
I brewed a family large pot of Darjeeling and set fire to the moka bomb for Fayelle —I fear these pressure-operated contraptions— though I concede they produce the finest Italian coffee.

Hugo was over-thrilled with Dagmar’s socks but finally slid them off to cherish her moist feet. He was intrigued to revisit our bodies, which smelled of some heavenly pastry, as pale as a week before. Hugging one and the next, he asked to see the new rooms with us, as if the two filles present were ours. He let us know that, of the same morning, TRÆVIX had acquired more squares on the checkerboard, on both sides of Michelle’s palace, thus adjoined to our game rooms. Gauthier was turning into a full-time architect, a hardy system engineer had been recruited at the top of the scale to follow Michelle’s instructions. On the other side of the Atlantic, SEVEN STREAMS was now renting two floors in the Western Electric, Camille owned the two top penthouses of the Morton street building, and a discreet scout was on the lookout for a new head office. At Natalia’s dismay, she had renounced her wishes for a gallery in New York —though not diverting the house fairy from her English studies— for the time being, the schedule of L’Etoile Amusée remained, and Natalia would soon be wise enough to act in it, she already owned the seductiveness.
Resting on a couch fondling Dagmar in abandon, trying to figure out what luxuries she needed in her room, he had to admit she was fast asleep, and we longed to do the same, our schedules would run in tatters, for a few days.
Hugo secured the promise of a full night with Dagmar, in his own lair, with heavenly fruit and all the Moroccan delights. Movingly, she queried permission from me, who hid a disarming tear in her baby neck. But still, our holy landlord showed an obvious sign of a frustrated want I felt was mine to alleviate. At a glance, I offered him the smile of my allegiance and bent towards his familiar dick I pumped like the superlative slut I was. He tasted my mouth till our kiss was one, and went to kindly finish his night.

As we had been waking up at the most catastrophic hour, just past midnight, all in our bed, Natalia lay between the two younger backs, and Dagmar had slipped her socks back on. I guessed Natalia had been whoring to some older patron of Liselotte’s, so she had time to tell it had been to the audiophile tune of Debussy’s and more; before she took her turn to dive, clutched to Dagmar’s back, with her irresistible smile.
At such an hour, remained only the arch-expensive delivery service of The Continental, but after all that we had been given for free —paid for in unlimited thrills— we should afford a few boxes of their nightly treats. We set the code vegan, with eggs and cheese, otherwise, they would only propose a fruit basket.
At one in the morning, they also delivered fresh seeded bread; and a harlequin of French toasts adorned with the confetti of candied fruit, cress nests sheltering eggs mayonnaise, creamed vegetable salads, olives and real kosher Gherkins. The tip in itself could have bought breakfast for a whole classroom.
I risked a text message to Fulgence, it was a win. Erik and he had only given up their day working on the decoration in the new building in the centre next door, where Cynthia’s foundation would settle.
Like old days, they both reeked of turpentine and black soap but they felt tough and fresh, I pulled Erik on the couch as he was, but he whined he was too hungry, now that he had seen our delicacies. He found it funny to be unclothed while eating, and his accomplice demanded the same treatment on Kate’s part.
Having heard the merrymaking while she would no longer dream alongside Natalia, Dagmar received admirative whistles when she came out in her white socks. She had known the pair of artists memorably before, she granted them a win-all smile, but I held Erick’s black rod. As she looked into the boxes, I could see her tendre little bum, and could only think she was beyond concurrence; but Erik, his mouth full of crunchy candied fruit, pushed me back sitting on the couch, his mean stiffness into my mouth, seizing my nape with both hands. I moaned, and that maddened him; as I tilted backwards, I felt hands on both my thighs, then the tip work of a tongue I recognised, I discharged like no mercy.
On the other bank of our lounge, some symmetrical play went, Fayelle was tonguing between the lusty cheeks of Fulgence’s bum, fiddling on Kate’s widely offered kitty. It was the sneaky licker who received the artist’s sceptre in her narrow arse, mooing on Kate’s bosom as she held her tight.
This side, I did not feel if he had tried elsewhere, but it was my butthole Erik drooled on to have his way in, Dagmar, legs parted over me, asked for a kindly munching.
The two overtime extras barked at their elapsing together, I felt the spits of his burning hose in my entrails and else the gentle flow of my tender pupil in my mouth at the same time. When she collapsed beside me, we robbed her socks, to lick her toes, again.

Under the mastery of Gauthier, the workings in deep of the new centrepiece of what remained our game stage and come to a first completion; Delffan’s spirits boiled in the wait to greet us at the multi-secure underground portal.
Since it had been decided that a complete slab of reinforced concrete be poured wall to wall in the caves, some excavation uncovered ancient foundations, offset on the nowadays map, of a thick, if not gigantic, tower, not mentioned in any document; as it was apparently a solid base for the upper constructions, otherwise resting on river alluvium in what wood piles had remained aligned, it had been deemed wiser to keep the tower and clean the emerging base; a side hatch gave sole access to a round-vaulted cellar where seven small-sized skeletons had lain; a sturdy corten grid had been sealed upon the mystery.
Now then, a granite-clad, including the ceiling, corridor, led from a room under our gym room to the garden of Michelle’s palace, functioning as a security airlock; at both ends, one’s face scan and grip of a sensor handle were registered. Delf, Annabelle, and Philippe had tried to fool the software by wearing wigs, hoods, glasses black or clear, holding the grip for each other, but nothing went, the machine seemed infallible. Only Michelle from her control room could register someone into the lock, and she asked us to undress —one of her childish foibles— before a replica of the doors, in her basement dungeon; whereby, we could then circulate at will through the two, and soon three, buildings.
Dagmar had been overjoyed to somewhat belong in a savant machine, and Delf had abused the situation when she had been scanned, playfully. Michelle livened up when she saw her, and asked a flurry of pertinent questions on our trip, first, and about her future as she knew about it.
A profuse buffet from A&S was offered in antique Russian silverware and English flowery abundance painted bone china; in the landscape lounge now stood up a ridiculously ornate all-gilded floor clock that felt like it had always reigned there. The spell of the candid colourful block-printed world operated magically, revealing —he had the whip hand on Michelle’s décor—Gauthier’s motherly penchant for theatrical camp.
All the time we had caroused amidst the husky-voiced macaws, Annabelle had shared a few welcoming beds around here, and there, even gay ones. James knew she would not remain with him in the outlying garden he had preserved for so long, good enough already if she landed in his linens once in a while. She had enjoyed a full operatic night with Hugo, to whom she had confessed all of her pathetic biographies, as to what he had firstly vowed total friendship for James, and then offered a commitment to her, just like she could see he had done with us, and our foundlings. She conceded that she had grown hopes that she would bid fair worth to dwell amongst us, the gentle way Natalia had retold her, or ask Liselotte to govern her soul, like the others’. It became time for me to rest my head somewhere smooth, the whim took me to enrapt Annabelle somewhere calm; on tiptoes, I drew her through the new underground pathway and up to the studio, where I unrolled the futon, still there, behind the red sofa, still smelling of Michelle’s Geranium-Orange, and I robbed her of all of her heather-pale rags.

Our apartment had become princely, other than two more comfy glades, to share some elation in the smooth percale bedding and the haphazard trails of bodily scents. Besides the grand bedrooms, we had gained a fully operative laundry overstuffed with elegant oversized machines and a heavy ironing table and innumerable closets. Two inviting smaller rooms with many shelves Gauthier saw as studies, a hallway opening on yet another staircase and a lift, all in all, enough more closet space to keep Gianni busy till the end of times.
Elsewhere, Fayelle prefered to stay in the bedsit at the top of our usual stairway; she could communicate with the other apartments, without walking through ours, by taking the lift across our landing and going out on the other side upstairs, then through the maze of dim-lit corridors and narrow stairs. The only, and not least, lovely damsel she would have to suffer the rain for would be Fæbian, whom Liselotte had lodged atop a remnant of clerical construction near Furstenberg square overlooking a pair of chestnut trees; and she, too, had more than one pathways up to her doors.
Our extension had been decorated with subdued earthly tones of satin stucco, in counterpoint with the washed down indigo and the pale mauve in the bedrooms, where the old-sized windows opened on a garden with one prosperous Chinese privet. The distressed wood floors still needed a decision, Dagmar chose thick wool, textured, sand-coloured, fitted carpeting, without ever caring for the price of it, but Gauthier obtained the promise she would let him christen it with her for a whole week, if he wished.

Hugo approved of the colour scheme as a challenge to his decorating vista, but he needed a deeper feel —so to speak— of the first boarders and thus invited Annabelle and Dagmar together downstairs, and further through his collections. The girls reemerged late in the morning, somewhat adrift of all he had led them through, but all the more fond of each other. They smelled of hawthorn dew, I subtly pushed my nose in Dagmar’s creased dress before she grasped I was nosing her. She tried to piece together the kaleidoscope he had mesmerised them by, besides shagging them silly on every other bed in his endless mental palace.
Gauthier had access to insider’s suppliers for hotels and official residences, so there would be no delay delivering a pair of grand beds monumentally thick, with more percale bedding than there had been sails on the Jolly Roger. But first, the carpet layer would stretch a dreamscape of mellow wool.
Meanwhile, there would be some catching up in the studio, Fayelle could explore further our library to find so many double entendre biblical representations; Delffan came, through the amusing new pathway, to steal away Dagmar for some non-captioned romance; Annabelle offered to read aloud some novella of Cortazar’s on the red sofa, that was a brilliant idea, but I had to cover her feet not to begin watching them; she laughed.

 

Hugo says:

Ushering these two young harlots in my haunt made me prance like a rooster on its manure pile, and since they had just only flown down from a higher branch, they did not wear much I could ask them to strip off. What a rich idea has my friend Louis’ scout had to buy out such a heartwrenching little slave. In hindsight, it feels that since I became besotted by Sarah, Kate and the chain of their polyamorous roundelays —all intuitions of Camille’s— I let myself be ensnared at a profit.
There had been a hunter’s relish savouring the here and now of some happenstance runaway beauty I would never know of better, like my father netted birds for the fine pleasure of releasing them, once carefully ringed. Now I slept all the more lightly that I imagined those I had greeted in —and how!— in the canopy of my secret province.
Like for most of my French peers, my German is miserable, only good enough to decipher sales catalogues, which anyhow tend to be translated to English nowadays. This strikingly tall, thin beauty with an all candid azure gaze and an even golden-amber complexion made me stutter and smiled frankly as if it were self-evident.
Next to her was the pale Fayelle, a tad more willing than she had been when I had happily shagged her in the drizzle of her blond speckles. They visibly craved each other, I had all my time to revel in that little rhyme. As if I dared not lunge at Dagmar’s quiet, I seized the dainty feet of Fayelle and sent impulse from my plexus to my fingertips, at what she responded with a small jolt, and so began a pleasant experiment, though Dagmar did not respond to my will strain attempt.
At my asking, Fayelle retold the best and sultrier parts of their tropical escapade, letting think it had been an unending shag in mellow winds, but she asserted, seizing Dagmar’s midriff, that it had gone with no damages or pain, then they both laughed at the evocation of the white macaws, Fayelle mimicking their squawks and wings flaps.
Though I craved jostling them upon my precious prayer rugs, I let them cuddle each other in their baby language, foreboding their life together in the Faerie of my invention. Some hunch led me to think that Fanny —who had been smuggled fundamental keys to by means of nondescript magazines in plain sight of her abuser— would fruitfully socialise with these two, if what I was tirelessly gazing as, then, fitted her tastes. Her intimate mentor, Camille, would faultlessly judge an opportunity such as this.
They had tasted enough of my Taiwan Highgrown Treasure tea to let me foresee some warm flows’ amusements later, as of now, I needed to see them walk side by side from behind, groping their faultless wazoos, Fayelle’s a tad more apple-shaped, on top of curvy legs; Dagmar’s is elongated like all of her silhouette. They made out, ignoring me like they did not need to be told twice. I wear still my long, variegated Uzbek silk gown and Kaftan against their backs, as I grope their finely educated bums.
In the rotunda with the cloudy mirrors, polished black panelling and layers of dark silk rugs scattered with vivid wildflowers stylisations, I switched on the sound system that already glowed low of its glass bulbs. It played longing breaths from Robert Fripp’s guitar’s many filters; and brought us upon the smooth padded burgundy velvet bed where Fayelle spread her lover’s so tapered legs to play her tongue in her sleek brooklet.
Dagmar had thrown her arms upwards in lovely surrender, and she was gazing at some sweet cohorts, Fayelle was offering her wrinkled rosebud, arching her loins for me to take, slide or tear. The mindy vixen had since long calculated me and knew I hid bottles of Swiss Navy anywhere near a bed. She would not interrupt her devotion to her heavenly bride while I thronged further into her entrails.
I had led them to my nightly blue ablution tower, entirely clad of dark mirror mosaics and golden stars and random symbols. They urged me to lay down so they could pee all over me and my face. One of them tasted spicier. I took loathly revenge peeing inside Dagmar’s unaware tight ringer all my content, so she gushed in the black marble basin while I forced her mouth down to my spear’s guard and discharged more while she rounded her jewel eyes at mine, in the shadow.
They fell asleep, enlaced, in the far end of my inextricable maze, some gentle ancillary would, much later, toilet and vest them like privileged choir girls, feed them sweet almond pastries and high-gardens tea, so as they would crave to tread upon my legendary rugs and play weird games with me.

Gauthier says:

I could obviously not have foreseen all the scope of undertaking the mere rescue of a candid-looking tight-butt blonde smaller maiden might mean as to that little square patch of that cosy part of Paris. Now, not only did we —I say “we” because I became luckily incumbent in my mastery to hold high-hand of this ever complicating prospect, Melchior having negotiated volumes on both sides of the Aviator’s Palace— secure the undergrounds almost to the high level of the Seine’s waters, stealthily unearthing some unknown well containing human remains, children’s bones of the middle ages, pour reinforced concrete with high-grade inox steel, just like the vaults of the Banque de France, next to the steamy brothel lairs of Philippe’s.
This undetected quantum shift has made me richer and mightier, faster than I would have ever dreamt. I can remember meeting long-known Kate and Sarah, rollicking at the Venice Biennale, along with Camille and Hugo, whom, after a night of shagging the girls —I had not yet figured were somewhat recovering from a dire breakdown— had casually groped and sucked my willie in the breakfast kitchen.
It had been like entering Neverland through the little garden door, and learning that Captain Hook had fled, leaving the keys with two very carnal Tinker Bells, and a host of not-So-Lost-Children.
This side of the Serpentine, the Faerie of the libertines still grew, unbeknown to the kind of well-to-do neighbours one rarely heard of.
Hugo had let out once the history of his realm. His own father had acquired the building before the war, in times when only such character as Natalie Barney deflowered white geese in the secluded temple at the far end of her park, an apple throw from here. Like himself later, father Decharny practised no definite trade but was getting richer in his son’s eyes.
Much like me later, Hugo was sent to an exclusive boarding school near Etampes, ran by the same crass caste as me, only worse at his time, and perfectionated all devious skills he found would hurt the souls of the so-called fathers. It had been all the more nonsensical, in his case, that his father had never believed in any god, nor did his own forebears.
I can tell Hugo had been a desirable prey, we have often partied upon the lovely Gitons we both were, and deep down mischievous, liars through our teeth in confession, that fowler’s net with what the priests made their way to the boys’ pants.
Like most of the boarders, Hugo had been a dedicated predator of pubescent victims, but unlike me, he did not blackmail the wax-faced adults —I can be downright evil, I always told the ones I love— only did he teach those he played with how to preserve their true souls, and shun the bad-breathed abusers. He was definitely expelled after he testified to a judge about the real reasons for a boy’s suicide, with desperate written letters naming names among the school’s supervisors.
After a stormy confrontation with his father, who had been menacing to lock him away on some Scottish island, he had eventually won his case and furthermore impressed his old man with his rhetorical talents —nonetheless, he had refused to consider law school.
After meandering through secondary studies and gleaned not much more than an array of literary degrees of the Sorbonne, nothing to brag about, he began using the family home as a sweet trap for the stray game before they ended at street level. But when he met Camille, who was less than sixteen, then, and had sold herself since like forever, firstly to her landlord, whom Hugo and some guys maimed badly when they moved Camille to Hugo’s, he confronted himself and decided she should, at least, own the same education as he did, while being or not his mistress, now their paths had crossed. Before her, three of his recurrent shags had died before they were twenty, by overdose or suicide, it took Camille much skill to help alleviate his half-accepted grief.
When Camille moved out of what felt like a mock household, she began sending other souls in pain to him, and hence, to the network of same-minded patrons.
Even before she graduated in her chosen art history curriculum, Camille was installed in her inviting rue de Tournon venue, modestly showing pieces of Hugo’s collections. She began hitting on art students who in turn liked her, and Hugo incited her to lodge Sarah in her attic, knowing that many other art school cuties would flock.
Kate was one of them, and Hugo saw her but she was, no more than Sarah, an available prey; unless she might wish to be living spot in the centre of the art district, as it happened.
And so, roughly told, this house became a growing hive of artists, prostitutes and the like, me included. Ever since Hugo sucked my morning shaft, with a smile, and I lost my romantic position at the French delegation in Valparaiso, Chile, dwelling under the apex of our three roofs, my life has been an endless succession of all manners of commissions, until TRÆVIX poured Michelle’s wealth on these uncustomary buildings for a worldwide operation.
Thanks to my address book, I could call the fast-shooters among the artisans, and play house, firstly, with the most fascinating mind I ever fucked with —yes, I shagged Michelle on a simple futon and we liked it— in an empty room under a cloud of Chihuly’s corollas.
Today, we wait for two large corbeille beds previously intended for the apartments of a head-of-state, since then disappeared, complete with rococo side chests, to assist the cabrioles of a refugee from the back-alleys and another stolen soul of stunning beauty, entirely for us to revive.