6 – Katherine Sophie – Tales Of The Fairies

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

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

Sarah tells:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gauthier yarns:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Katherine recalls:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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