I met Victor at a butt-pinching event in a barge on the Seine where Eleminora, nude and pallid, stabbed her own palms and feet with long steel needles at the rear end of which were clinched gold roses in front of a cosmopolitan crowd in black suits and studied chiffon; I wore a slant-built slate grey knit dress with not much more than stockings under it. Elaborate exclamations roared softly while I felt an expert hand readily delving in my bum crack and so gently paw to-and-fro that I let it go on.
The frozen vodka had been generous and I had popped a V to cope slyly with the wolves, so much so that this one Alpha was tucking me in his dark coupé and disrobed me a tad more at each traffic light. He asked me to open wide my thighs and he groaned with excitement; the car was so luxurious that I was transfixed and aroused as an ember nest.
He was fascinating, his black hair flattened, his dark brown eyes gleaming in a richly tanned flawless face with a square jaw; his imposing bearing reined me in at once because I would usually be taller than my suitors. And albeit whatever the magazine subjectives required, he appeared to pull his shots as stealthily as a winner horseman.
He drove up to the Etoile and down to the Bois, turned towards smaller avenues and eventually parked, letting the engine run. He switched on the ceiling light and asked me to undress completely and masturbate; he started lascivious music on the laser-sharp speakers; I flew off. Not so as I did not see what was happening around the car, men wanking in circle as Victor churned his tongue in my crazed mouth. He told me to lift my feet higher so as to expose my arsehole, made me wet his fingers and stuck them in round moves inside the frowned pathway deftly enough to trigger me off and again with jiggles in the limbs and a shamble of tremors inside my womb. I had no idea it ever had struck me so entirely before. Semen from the voyeurs was dripping outside on the windows as he pulled his pants and ordered me to suck; he came in no time deep and took my head, telling me to swallow all of it clean; as soon as he felt licked up, he buttoned back and gave a few pats on the accelerators to warn the pack that we would move. I felt wasted on the stained leather, which had certainly known many other sluts like me; he smiled and said I was beautiful; I did not hurry to cover myself; drips ran backwards on the glass, he pushed the windshield washer button, laughing. To my surprise, at the first stop he kissed me full in his own taste, and we smelled the same beastly scent afterwards.
He drove quietly, the car was almost silent; he fetched a real kerchief and told me to wipe myself and give it back to him for keeps, not forgetting a little of my armpits sweat. I obeyed and started to think I had found a real sophisticated libertine, way apart the lot of cum spurting males in my class. Over the shaft, I made him smell and shoved the rag into his jacket’s pocket. He thanked.
Not far from Exhibition Lane, the car entered an unmarked side entryway in which he punched a code and parked in a clean basement. He turned the engine off and cuddled me again, then he explained we were in a private hospital he was partner in; because he felt such a crush on me, he wanted us to do the full shebang of STD tests so as to unleash the dogs at one another. I told him we had all tested for HIV at school lately but he demonstrated that was not near enough because some other nasties might have already taken seats in our velvet parlours. He suggested we went upstairs in a private room, play as much as we fancied on the safe side, collect the necessary samples and meet again with the doctor in two days. In the best of ways, it wouldn’t be a lost of time even if I realised I did not fancy Victor anymore. With a bit of racket over me, the lift led us to a desert floor where a young blond nurse, after a short request from whom she recognised very well, led us to an all-technical turquoise room with one bed and an examination seat. She went to fetch blank paper files and a tray of plastic test-tube racks; matter-of-factly, she asked me to undress, sit on the chair with my legs parted, took a set of stick-on labels, drew a few tubes of my blood, a few swabs from my mouth an vagina and handed me a card with the last numbered label on it. When Victor exposed himself on the chair he was hard and he held my arse, but as soon as he could, he groped under the nurse’s blouse and she let him do, only checking my eyes. When she had all the samples, he gave her a real kiss, let me look at her intimate sanctum and introduced us. As she walked out the green coat fell back in place, she had known what not to wear.
During the testing time, after a long blank sleep, I went to see Sarah at Camille’s. Whilst I boasted my escapade I felt her swinging from amusement to craving. At first playing with my fingers, she pulled me down on her undone bed and asked me to detail the car trip until we had to wrest our pants off. When we later tumbled across each other, in the overwhelming daze of our mixed odours, she murmured that the test routine was a cool portent of a lecherous episode and she wished she would join; I agreed and held her disarming head, stirring up the fantasy of what we could have shown on the black leather of that car.
From the day we met in the Beaux Arts, Sarah had been one of these incestuously magnetic persons I clung to since the night when we first feasted upon the starry skies along with Simon; and the grand mastery of our Cynthia’s rare orchid. As tall as I am, Sarah impressed altogether by her aloofness and her graciosity; her restraint and her sexy sway; her gracile sassiness. Soon she had impressed the crowds by striding across the halls dressed as Corto Maltese, wearing some waisted black cadet uniforms scavenged from her Danish family’s attics, white navy bridge pants and English Jodhpurs; she became known as a snide German lesbian and I loved her all the more for that. We had patronised “L’Etoile Amusée”, Camille’s lair doubtlessly because she had an eye on us, and when she dispatched us between Hugo’s and her maid’s room, we wound up in a few warm beds together. As the school’s common wisdom left us and the private society gravitating around Hugo’s peers proved pleasurable, we distanced ourselves from the mainstream contemporary art swindle.
I slept with Sarah after we fed on petits fours from Chavigny’s and indulged Petersburger porn with natural models our age. She was thrilled all over, teasing that I would prostitute myself so she wanted to experience it too. I mocked her father discovering she did that but she responded that she already did more than I seemed to know.
Victor called in the second afternoon, asking if he could pick me up anywhere I wished, so I waited for him at the Voltaire on the quay. The sun was setting the Grand Palais ablaze when I jumped into the low seat. He quickly tongued my mouth and asked for my knickers but under my rich Italian rainbow threads jersey knit dress I wore none with my black crotchless tights; he had time to dip a finger in me before the following car honked. He asked me to uncover my enjoyment pinny and show my sissy smile, I did. In fun, he asked if I was ready to meet the full truth, to what I joked that apparently he was the risky one.
At the clinic, we were led to a comfortable office room where a doctor Streff saw us. He asked to meet each one separately first, as the protocol stipulates. To me first, he beamed a magnificent open smile and showed me all clear charts and he complimented me on my good health. After he spoke to Victor we gathered again, and exchanged our charts.
He lived in a top floor near the Trocadero, I think he owned the whole building, if not the whole district. In the dark, his aerie looked infinite, the Eiffel tower glittered crazy every once in a while. As he stripped me down and puffed up my hair like he would to a stage model, I was trying to make sense of the place first. The large floor to ceiling slide-glazing over the river and the left bank was ran over by engraved lettering both ways, conterminously scrolling on across the hardwood floors in encrusted steel and bronze. I did not really get the quotes, I do not sing in latin, but the mere form of the double dutch gave off a strong hint as to the power of the client. Generous parallelepipedic sofas of seemingly deer skin in dark hues offered available comfort for a numerous party.
At a magic trick he did, lights and music dawned up at level with the cityscape glitter; a dazzling bateau-mouche was cruising by, casting a parade of dizzying shadows. He pushed me on the next couch and unleashed a maddening tongue all over my willing body as drones of raving harmonies resonated through my plexus. He left me panting and pulled a drawer under the black mirror top of a side coffer and fetched a jewel snuff box embedded with diamonds casting clutters of minuscule instant rainbows. I stared astounded at the quantity of white powder inside the box as he held the perfect little gold spoon at my dilated nostril. I sniffed eagerly and the quality of the toxic was such that I capsized in cosmic bliss while he entered my sassy well. He went largo, lento, all the scales of our swirly cadence and another tourist-barge was searching the ceiling for sense where it read “lament” “qualm” “worth” and a familiar voice sung at the rear of my skull: “Potamus…Washington…”.
He discharged copiously into my middle pond and asked me to suckle his dripping tyke whereas he conscientiously wiped my rims with virgin cloth. As I regained a navigable cerebration I scrutinised further around me and scanned the panels framed on the walls under low lighting. they were dark marroonish, sensitive arrays of coarse patches tightly sewn together in intricate geometry I later learned were sails used by fishermen along the east African coast, traded for new modern ones and little money by the decorator. The makeshift canvases traditionally used were not dyed but soaked in blood and sun dried, the process making them stiff and leathery for years of daily effort. They adorn the walls of the splendid fucker with their otherworldly patina far from any idea of a Kenya beach.
He proposed again with the miracle spoon and I felt inextinguible again. We went to a grand, warm, teck-panelled bathroom where we showered in a bosque of Ylang and he pumped salt water from a black bulb into my arse to free the way for his reborn truncheon. Simon and I had practiced the enema as early as we could read the “Mindful Companion” by Reginald Trum in our wonder days. Holding a vial of balmy pommade, he pushed me towards a convenient massage table and ordered me around. He handled my shy burrow with such maestria it surrendered in softness when he foraged in. He poured some more treacle on the weasel and let it root through my merry hunker in endless bouts of thrust until I felt the holy catastrophe. With a few shivers of my hand on the Mindy Tom I blasted the whole jingle of chakras up to my core shine and glided out in circles.
Again he soaked me with an opulent Greek sponge filled with Zanzibar euphoria and wiped me in a fresh towel which unravelled down to my feet. He offered some snacks in the kitchen, so we walked naked to a laboratory tiled with grotesque and unchaste majolica depicting bacchanal scenes and whoremonger merrymaking embedded into eye-teasing grotto walls; as I read the pornography on the plates and vessels, some broken and some intact, he flattered my timid breasts and gave free rein to some shrewd compliments I greeted down to my womb. From inside a walk-in refrigerator integrated to the utility wall clad with titanium plates, he chose a few boxes and handed me some. In the center of the room was a spectacular table made from the core slice in a very old drift tree, the crevices and fissures of which had been filled in shiny bronze with the utmost craftiness, resting on sturdy forged black footings; while we displayed the ramekins and bowls, he praised tables that don’t move when you fuck on them. We sat on polished wood chairs, in the shape of seashells, across at a corner so he could ask me to spread my legs, he himself stood at jolly attention and I was bloomed up like a magnolia; the cold terrines and salades were unreasonably palatable; he suggested I start with a bisque scattered of urchin corail, then lobster medallions in saffron custard on a bed of seaweeds, raw shavings of pink daurade smudged with kumquat filaments and lavender yogurt and finally a stunning blue lotus sherbet which sent me back to my Hamburg high-minded debaucheries, for no reason.
We drank vinho verde from a lens-shaped flask in exquisitely obscene Venetian wine glasses; he ordered me to lick the sticky drops on his glans while, in return, he skilfully annoyed my rosy buds. The heavy trunk felt quietly warm to my spine as he dawdled at my nymph’s threshold until I asked for a boost, but he said I was already quite swollen and he should apply some sweet salve before he rode me through again. He walked out; meanwhile in the complex arrangement of the tall glasses, the bowl rested on hands of acrobat fauns fucking white fairies in mid-air as a prowess of the glass-blower; he came back soon with a purple bonbonnière from which he grabbed some white gel he pasted thoroughly over our fleshy toys in a breath of honeysuckle and easily frisked both my slippery slits to heart, sparking off a sudden tutti in my maddened plexus.
Restored, and raddled, we wandered around the labyrinthine apartment which displayed the epitome of distanced art. After a cocaine pause, he showed me some very inviting single entendre bedrooms, with a true “Plato’s retreat” waterbed in a cloud of pinpoint lights, contention devices around leather-padded apparatus, cedar wood retreat with wall to wall black fur, seamless black room with an apparently limitless luminous ceiling of insensibly changing colour from cobalt blue to poppy red.
He pushed me on the velvety black mat and let me stare while he mumbled carnal anaphores on my liebling Freudian gaffe of a button in full decompensation; an ultra low modulation bounced through the diaphragm at a lewd rhythm while the imperceptible balance of the light colour from the ceiling set sweet panic in the mind’s ability to keep a sensitive record, unleashing psychedelic phosphenes and typical fractal draperies of the indelible lysergic memory; I experienced a loud and heavy orgasm and squirted in his tireless mouth.
I laid spent and still tripping through my overrid eyes into the cherished clouds of my recalled epiphanies while Victor palpated and massaged my abandoned febrile body. He slipped his sleepy stem in my lazy mouth and came half taut with a taste of elderberry sap.
When we woke, he took my hand and lead me through a large corridor where seducing colourfields hung in subdued perception, warming up my inner strains and pushing me to brush against his gently hairy skin; he gave me a lover’s kiss and held my ribs up to bite my usual glib seeds. We then entered a murmuring control room over-stacked with live computer screens glistening like mosaic rainbows. The walls and ceiling were lined with red copper openworked in shapes of mathematical formulas and symbols, a faraday cage he said. There was only one elaborate chair, he sat and made me ride with my legs wide parted, but he was coiled quiet, although he went on snooping in my neck. He told me to watch millions churning, pulled a keyboard and speed-typed for a few seconds; The six main screens in front of us start to flicker and blimp as if they played together, I can’t decipher any of the hundreds acronyms in front of the lines and columns, suddenly the numbers are still, Victor points one long one and says I made him earn a carambolic sum, and sniggers. Again browsing my silly petals, he warns an presses a button: on a little gold trail fixed on an upper counter, a gold miniature train runs with a few cars an stops in front of us. Lifting one roof, he shows me a light blue powder he calls the broker’s galore and he fetches a tiny attached shovel to bring a load to my nose that I pinch gleefully.
Then I felt he was separating, he said I would go home and sleep and think of coming back in three days for whatever I agreed to. I found my clothes at the other end of the house, he asked me for my knickers so I gave them and he handed me a thick black envelope, telling me to buy myself a dress; I felt a bit dumb until he said a car waited for me downstairs. On the way I peeked into the envelope and coughed at the sight of the bounteous bundle it included plus a cute golden wrapper that felt like powder. Back in my room I needed my V and sleep.
The train blows its two-tone hoot to a phase whirl ruction like a musical avant garde trip. Grooms in green uniforms hassle me with my fairy-tale clothes and rip me bare. I run along cars corridors to an engine room where black dogs bark in their chains with mad rolling eyes. Brushing past warm oily metal contraptions I reach the control room obstructed with shiny metal bird cages; a white horse stamps on a large piano, producing grandiose chords into the mayhem. Outside the parted windshield, black waters foam in lacy vortex in which the unleashed dogs rush in circles after a laughing blue albatros which poops ruby eggs in the wind. As I stare through the horse’s shoes, I feel some warm humping from behind and I think thankfully of Victor’s honeysuckle treat.
The next day I was still drowsy, with the delicate halo of cooling down synapses in my pearly brain. Hugo called for a session and I could not refuse because he had been quite beneficent to me as to let me dwell in a pretty select lodging for a few benign peeps at my arse. I reckoned I would display the right mood of lechery after the smutty plowings of the night. After my day of shuffling around my haunt, recounting my bounty and gilding my lilies, I went downstairs at tea time with no shoes on.
Hugo’s scriptorium oozes otherworldly scents, and that day there was an unusual violette trail that kept me, so to speak, nosing around, so as he sinfully portrayed the young harlot he had jumbled over with the night before; a fuzzy breed filly with a wealthy mane and a thin waist, easy and impish like a lewd goblin. As he watched me, through the sophisticated lenses, swiftly lose the light gown I wore nude, he asked me to play with a few oriental caftans he had made patched up and felt so gentle on the skin. He fabled that in the family who mended his collections, they tested the pieces on their little girls quite sensitive to itches.
Either he was busy behind the camera for long minutes, or he flitted around me, getting my nipples to point in a fold or uncovering my precious under an hesitant selvedge of imperial satin, brushing locks of hair he scented with a bemused nostril. He complimented me on every touch of my body and my unfazed composure, he glorified my jolly trained lips but he kept elegantly aloof, bantering about the liberties his distinguished trollop had tirelessly granted him.
We remained inly at arm’s length of shagging on the legendary cushions, but I reckon we enjoyed the foreseen certitude that it would unfold eventually, in the full thriving of a merry licentiousness. I myself did not detail my night of caroused depravity, albeit I felt like I poured sex from all my ends and crannies.
I bedewed my boon stoup at the fantasy of a fully dissolute ribaldry, hinting my best bawdy glances at the camera, In the spirit of our gentle lease, I kept undressed for the rest of the afternoon amongst the awe-inspiring collections, Hugo laid a finespun shawl under my bum. He brought some white tea in a silver dragon pot then came behind my head and smelled a lock of my hair, asking me where I had been with such a scent he had never met.
Apart from staying nude about his house, I had never yet played any naughty game with Hugo, whom I had likely labelled too old for any proper physical accosting. With a fine smile, he kept questioning about the perfume in my hair; I reeled off my rakishness, pearl by pearl, for his apparent bliss, as he told he should write me down. Pushing the tea tray away, he sat on the table and caught hold of my feet, so gently, so kind. He wanted to know if I had come as many times as Victor and liked the idea that I had certainly taken more pleasure than him. He asked my permission to lick my blooming dell and did, beautifully, garner my jittery huffs.
Hugo was impressed by the precautionary arrangement and thoughtfully grazed my thigh, whereas I reached for the bump in his trousers and chased the buttons. He joked he might not be as safe as Victor but I told him our mouths were off limitations. While I silently returned the favor he had granted me, he then revealed that the select network of his friends had played according to such a rule for some years, like always, as a matter of fact, in the rich libertine realm of privileged prostitution; power mentally feeds on debauchery but profligacy harbours epidemics just like rats carried pestilence. He said he had not entertained the mirage of luring me into a prostitution community, albeit he indulged in some, twiddling my curls as I suckled harder, he only had coveted what happened with us. He leisurely spurted in my mouth and I masterfully gulped in and lasted as long as I knew he climaxed, till rest.
Victor called and ordered I went to Marnie’s, rue de Sèvres, buy an anthracite grey pinstriped skirt power suit as in an office tyrant’s dream. I reckoned he fancied the call-girl charade but as I knew he would unclothe me as fast as a Cossack, I suspected some other staging. I asked about the underwear and he decided that a simple mist-blue silk slip dress and stockings would befit; In the same street, Harryman made excitingly prude suede mocassins. He asked for as little makeup as I would.
He picked me up at the Voltaire and liked my attire, devoured my eyes; he fetched a ritzy leather box and let me open it and stare at a hard-to-believe but nevertheless witty strand of pearls that did not look like fakes. He joked there would be a Cartier watch next time. The necklace completed the epitome of a corporate hunt game, or the efficient passe-partout for a picky call-girl. Hugo had offered me one of his blends of pure essential oils of Neroli, tuberose and cinnamon, thus my rakish brooklet exuded trampish hints as I eased my legs in the car seat.
He seemed anticipating, he did not unzip me, only sliding fingers on the way to the bathroom where I found a full bulb of rosewater ready. Back in the grand lounge, I found him in conversation with a very strict Asian man to whom he introduced me. Mr Armand Tho from Singapore, a visiting colleague; he wore an obviously all bespoke outfit, silk and alpaca, pheromones and money. By their respective attitudes I reckoned at once what I was casted for in the show and gazed at Victor out of the corner of my eye; he sent back a sharp wink and swooped in the drawer where the snuff box was. Armand jolted at the sight of the diamonds in the gold sun rays, begging for a closer examination. Victor showed him first the contents and handed him the jewel and the spoon. Armand mumbled in Chinese, reached for a folding tester to read the hallmarks and said, as he scooped a full one, all the respect the royal piece inspired, I dipped into the resting treasure when he passed the spoon and I swung back onto the headrest thus showing some skin over my stockings’ hem.
Once the brains were chilled and the music sparkled, Armand pulled near and laid his manicured hand on my thigh. Victor crept on the other side and rubbed my loonie doves for a while. They enjoyed the hitched-up rag they made of me, sharing my mellow troughs as they did the snowflakes. He brought some Crystal champagne in high-stemmed tulips. Armand rounded my face like an idea of the moon and asked me if I would like to try a golden pellet , a thing I had never heard of. Victor said it was a blend of pleasure drugs used among rich Chinese libertines and I should not be more weary than I was about coke. In a ravishing ivory netsuke finely sculpted into the embrace of a young girl urinating into an old caitiff’s grinning mouth, Armand showed me two golden suppositories that smelled strongly of lotus while his left hand rummaged in my sneaky den wet of Damascus rose.
I had already danced on the verge of such a heady path before, but there Victor had well and truly sold my skin, and my sentience of the play was unfurling down in abandon. I spread my thighs a tad more in show of consent and he slid the golden cap inside my quivering sheath. They peeled off my suit and the rest of my fineries and Victor took a long sinuous kiss on my mouth while Armand was undressing entirely, showing a bronze-like polished figure with a bent up stinger; lifting my legs he pressed on my sleepy hole as if it needed no dressing and, as a matter of fact, met the melting bullet and pushed deftly in time with the waves of shattering glimmer that threw my whole womb into bliss.
My pelvis droned and swirled like the beacon and the storm in a clear night, my heart hurled around drum rolls of head-ravaging flushes as Armand slew through my overjoyed pulp. I recall howling at nebulae of refracting pulses like a swarm of morpho blue butterflies through the lacy branches of my extended nerves. I remember climaxing tirelessly along tunnels of opalescent ardour in echoes of perfect harmonics. I passed out in a curliferous drape of vibratory lashes as a joy ridden subaquatic field.
Clearings in fluttering purple foliages, both elated stallions deep inside my bedazzled innards; and collapses more, exhausted plexus engulfing clouds of longing shivers; awakening auroras in veils of sudden frost; distorted cavalcade of shimmying chimes along my revealed gleeful meridians; halo misty glow wings of tinkling wisps of my life as light.
I woke up in a clamour of children running under the windy bloom of a cherry alley; then my head was as fluent as a fresh peony. I was nested in a black furrow in black silk and swishes; the bed poles were supremely ornate and polished in asymmetrical outpourings of beads and petals. I felt clean, pampered, preened and contented, my dear intimate calyx smelled of lotus and hummed.
The room was black and bare, seamless; the only visible element other than the exuberant bed was a tall window facing it from where glowed the only light; behind the crystal panes snow was continuously falling in an unfathomable night.
My loins and limbs felt like pouncing around for another dandle and stare carousel, just like I had mumbled in Simon’s ear after I had finally responded to our firsts holy puffs of Panama Mellow, in the wee hours of a syltian solstice.
I could not find any clothes. Behind the dementedly profuse headboard crested with a black velvet canopy was the pathway to a polished ebony clad bath so quiet I listened to my pee drip; through a round tenebrous cove I found a long pearly grey corridor of warm stone floor and lustered stucco walls against which were displayed a dozen armful wide blue-toned monochrome photograph prints showing pigs in a large mud puddle. Half my brain shuddered at the sight of imperturbably copulating hogs.
At the other end opened an oval room under a crepuscular cobalt spiral-inlaid opaline glass ceiling where reigned a striking ensemble of repoussé silver dining furniture watched by eight near-identical holographic life size portraits of a young girl with wide eyes, unclothed shoulders and an elaborate confusion of hair locks and curls, framed in hammered silver. Four axial silver doors opened in the sky-green waxed faux-marbre walls. The floor deployed a checkered spiral of serpentino and travertino marbles around the room. The black wood table top was inlaid with a constellation of random signs and letters like a giant whirlwind Ouija rotating clockwise like the floor pavement. The chairs offered a black velvet cushion supported by an outlandish efflorescence of nerve-like branches chiseled with millimetric esoteric motives so as to recall a distorted chorus by Stockhausen.
As I stood in the subterranean glow, a young chestnut haired and coffee-black eyed maid entered and kept looking down while asking if I desired breakfast. She brought a black Yixing clay teapot in the shape of a gourd roamed over by detailed insects, a plate of toasts under a bell cover, a silver basket of fruit and a glass of pear juice. Later, still looking down, she brought on a silver tray an ebony box inlaid with a web of mother-of-pearl lines around an argyle shaped stone of lapis lazuli. In it were the pearl necklace in its sleek bed, a small enveloppe with my name on it, and a thick larger one containing triple the sum of my last visit; also a sleek Moroccan leather holder, ornate with tiny stars, containing a hard black plastic card with a six digit silver number and a microchip.
On a bristol card with an embossed gold beaded red glove in the upper left corner, he had written his vivid emotion about , as he called it, my night fly. He definitely wished to see me two days later and thus would call me; he tipped me about the pearl’s hidden secret. I opened the case, felt the pearls as if they wanted me, and easily lifted the black velvet cushion to find a lilac sachet of an all too well known dust; he also advised me not to lose my number and to check in once a month if we were to remain close friends.
As the apparently submissive maid led me to a white lacquered dressing room lit by embedded vertical lines of soft tones, I glanced in a mirror door as she was watching my bosom; I gently stepped back on her until she had to touch me, then caught her chin and nape and kissed her wildly. Her wavy hair was cut short with a fringe; she stared halfheartedly and mumbled not to make her lose her job while I found she did not wear knickers. I tuned my voice as to tame her quiet and inquired as thoughtfully as my reawakened lust could about her life in this nonesuch realm. Helped by my adagio dexterity, she let out that she was willfully used and largely paid for all the shades of services she offered to Victor and his confidants. For the while, she helped me dress up and promised we would be together again, her name was Beryl.
The jacket had pockets real enough for my loot, the shy fringed blonde servant called a taxi and kissed me goodbye on the lips with a swift tip of the tongue.
In the cab, head swings revived the night charivari and also my womb beats; upstairs I undressed and pampered my fleshy dolly cranny once or twice. I had to tell all to the buckled head squirrel kid so I slipped into an oversize jumper, baggy jeans and sneakers, called and found her at school, wasting her time in a shambolic studio. At the tone of my invite, she ran with me arm in arm.
Back into my bed with a cup of her preferred tea, she heated along with my story, starting with my happy feet. She marveled at my sinner lips and ravished them all the more. Then she frowned at me, doing that disarming square mouth, squinting; she wondered how it had been at all possible for me to trust my head in a tiger’s maw; an almighty man, a coke head with a restless brandiron on the loose, might as well have disposed of my expended body in the grinder, no one I loved would ever have known. It was irrefutable, I felt foolish and touched altogether that she might have thought of this firstly. In any case, I gave her the address and telephone number, there was no chance Victor would move soon from his overkill Shangri-La; I promised I would introduce her.
On the day after next, he took me to dinner in my new pinstripe suit, no shirt, pearls, Easton’s flat heeled two toned black and grey oxfords, at Florent’s, a discreet noshery near Sainte Clotilde, all rustling of shady small talk by gray-templed beaux and expensive tramps like myself. We were ushered to a dark rounded alcove upholstered in soft buckskin. He had ordered dry steamed Zeus faber circled with a vivid garden harlequin, splashed with an ideogram of saffron hollandaise and sprinkled with pale purple fleurs de thym. He had unzipped my fly low and was plinking there when the maître d’ lifted the two silver bells without noticing, nor did the sommelier pouring white Clos du Pape in bubbles of crystal very slowly with an eye on my windswept nether.
The meal was caressing in all manners of senses; the place actually felt like like the superlative Berlin brothel of the Weimar parenthesis. On my dessert ruin of thin rose waffles hiding a frozen mandarin mousse, he swiftly dropped a tiny turquoise pill and soughed in my ear that I should try this now and trust him as I had with the golden bullet. His mulish little Lord had been drooling on the tablecloth but he kept his composure as he pressed my hand. I swallowed and peeked into his black pupils, he was high already; I had myself dropped a few V and the wine was awfully good; he ordered me to go to the restroom and look for the door with the “private” sign, knock one, and two, and one later.
A tall gracious Senegalese giant opened and let me brush by him to a low ceiling oak paneled sort of lobby where Victor joined me soon and carelessly mouthed me against the warm wall. A bright-eyed couple passed us by and leered at our dishevelled outfits, she wore a crepe gown split from the waist down on a dizzying hip curve; as we exchanged glances, I felt I knew her well but only smiled. Victor led me to one of the dimly lit corridors where framed mirrors alternated with doors along a curve; through one of them a faint glimmer showed that heavy curtains had been drawn apart on a scene with a rowdy trio in which a slender little harlot served a lecherous half-unclothed older couple with zeal and diligence; she was lapping up Madame’s squirts while Monsieur was rooted in her firm and clear-skinned jacksie; she was lustfully gracile and her laid back benevolence was attractive but we moved on. By doing so, we were met by a smart couple in mock dinner dress already a tad ransacked; Victor was embracing me and unlocked my belt to let my trousers fall halfway; the newcomers started fondling my behind as I was busy masturbating the steed. They offered to join with them in one of the cabins but Victor had another design in mind.
After a few sighs, my pants back up, we explored further and discovered a lone cavalier busy keeping his poker straight in front of the window: Victor pushed me inside the box and undressed me against the young contender who kissed like an educated girl. I was beginning to feel like I would wear some heavenly pelisse, all my skin ridden by electric thrills, warm wavelets, I saw gems in the boy’s green eyes when he pulled my head down on him while I was being roughly served in my craving cunt by Victor.
The car felt it was on autopilot along the Cours la Reine, at a stop he told me I tasted sperm but he fumbled in my mouth with ardour. My pearly creek too smelled feasty and I kept twiddling my nibble as the boats’ illuminations twinkled across my erupted mind; he helped me wham once more in the garage and held me to the elevator where another mirror showed me a stoned happy face.
I wore nothing but pearls when I sailed to the nightly lounge and noticed two guests in tight fit black apparel holding white highballs. The diamond box was on the table. I was too far gone to shy off and I fell on the opposite couch spreading my arms over the headrest on which Victor perched, deliciously rummaging through my hair, reaching my tipsy nips when he bent to kiss me. Without a word, he led me to the grand bathroom, followed by the two strangers; one was the sturdy Sudanese type shaved bald but turned out to be American, the other one a red headed highlander with speckled cheekbones, both were slender and fit and remarkably able-bodied; all three wielded my limbs, head and shivers with maestria; they douched me with rose water and anointed me well enough. They pampered themselves too, letting me feel the steel of their main nerve casually.
This room was black leather up to the ceiling, dramatised by focused spotlights. Contention devices, hooks, pulleys, belts and chains, the whole kinky paraphernalia did not warn me off, albeit the confusion that flooded my brain. At first look, a collection of obsidian masks displayed across the facing wall flaunted some awe and stupor. Sacrificial weaponry in the same stone, some with rainbow dazzles, were arranged on the next wall in a mighty panoply under which had been aligned all sorts of godemichés crafted mostly in horn and gold, headed with crafty metal devices, maneuverable in all ingenious manners, all of it designed to stretch and exhaust my feeble labiated guts.
I craved proper abuse and spend whereas my soul twirled over in bliss. They bent me into a padded pillory and began to take turns into my innards. As I knew first hand Victor’s safety protocol, I had hereon expected no restraint in their comings and goings. they strapped me up and down and aside, most of the time using me together; they sported considerable weapons, one sturdy black mugger and a long pale rider teamed with the congenial totem pole of Victor’s I had endured already.
They strapped me against the third wall, neck, arms, wrists, waist, thighs, ankles, so I could faint to their frantic tongues. They petted each other as well, enjoying their familiar warm toys before turning them on me. They shoved spoonfuls of shattering dust into my nostrils and cleaned them with a stroke of the tongue. Victor reached inside my drooling nymphonietta while DaShean humped him in the dark funnel and he stared at me so near that I saw one big corona scintillating red like my own bursting neurons. They pulled up my ankles high and apart so they had all the ease to eventually discharge for good inside my blowsy ragbag and watch it drip, breathless and soaked wet themselves.
I passed out and again as they untied my bonds; the black tormented faces with turquoise or agate eyes and teeth confided appalling crimes to my face in a dislocated mumble I shook out of my ears. I sobbed like I recalled the helplessly off-beam kid in the lopsided forest, wildlife lapping the dew on my abandoned body, until I woke up in a warm bath big enough for all of us and more, smelling of the cedar wood in was carved in. All their stamina was expended, their natural or not desire of me had drained away, they massaged me dutifully with an expensive blend of essential oils Victor kept in his pharmacy and put me down in a merciful coma.
The bed was utterly plush, I was drowning in gossamer flounces as in a lime flowers avalanche; my uncle Achim, Simon and me ran barefoot down a June prairie to an azure lake, larks fled from my breast as I threw my threads away to splash on the sandy edge of the cold water; my belly exulted in the soft fluttering of wings; Simon sang in garble jumble and Achim laughed as he knew so well.
I faded to mist and felt as dead as ashes; only some legerdemain passes on my enthralled body. I reached the light as we did in childhood and through lace and frills recognised a wistful Beryl, nude at my side. She seemed happy to have woken me, she laid a swarm of butterfly kisses all over my face and neck that soon made me weep like a silly lamb and clasp her slight young frame to hide in her fragile neck. As it seemed time was abolished, we kissed like two clusters of wisteria in an endless mellow breeze. She mused on how many times I had been tossed this time, and, spreading away the bed covers, forced me joyously to put up my leg and show my nether slits. She took a mock commentary tone to describe my pleasance plot and bet she would rouse it again.
Beryl was sixteen, she had been hired on the recommendation of her mother, who had been doing Victor’s linen for ever and knew perfectly well his lifestyle and sidesteps; but she also knew his faithfulness and grand generosity, so, when Beryl started to stray around, at thirteen, and ruined any effort to make her live on a regular track, she reckoned that her daughter would rather benefit from inside the hell fire circle, she did not properly sell Beryl but she let life happen. The mother and daughter lived in an apartment downstairs and weren’t allowed in Victor’s after legal work hours, but he turned a blind eye when the little devil infringed the rules with guests she liked. He had never really touched her, only watched, and grazed her peach fuzz when she dared him.
Eventually, she brought a bed tray with breakfast, albeit she told me it was afternoon; she also brought the same box as before with a knowing smile. The enveloppe was thicker again, the blue sachet heftier and the card said Victor was away for a few days and would call soon, so I played with Beryl who did not work much that day. I ended up inviting her out on the Saturday for anything she pleased.
She met me at three by the Trocadero fountain and we rode to the Bon Marché where I played doll on her. When we kissed, she smelled muguet, a toned down heirloom scent which marveled her neck. She had graceful legs and wore willow-green leggings in butt-licking jeans shorts. She craved tramp boots so we found some of the most expensive sort. I earned what I had bought for: she beamed. Kids wear hoodies, we found one rusty red with a plaid print inside. I looked for tee-shirts because I wanted to feel her up in public, she twisted my pekoes like a cunning sparrow; I made her promise never to wear bras.
Out of my crafty mind I had tipped Sarah, certain she would be spellbound; so we met her at Serengeti for tea and macarons. Beryl went as vamp as a blue jay in the eyes of my black suited pet cadet and was truly up to her wits. We soon spilled together the tale of our encounter and Sarah flamed up; she decided we should go to my apartment try some rags, so hurried was she to strip the girl down and lay her probably. She hailed a taxi as in a strike of luck and we slumped down on the backseat with Beryl between us; she was already kissing her so the driver kept silent, he leered at her when she tipped him happy.
Sarah was intensely thirsty so I helped her my best to unwrap the baby as well as herself while Beryl wrestled with my fly, pulled my shoes off and loved my white cashmere socks as she surrendered her drippy slit to quench Sarah, pale with desire. Reaching the bed, we crawled into one another as puppies, the kid had Canova feet with purple varnished nails. Through the linen veiling a scattered illumination toned down the colours and shapes among the ripples and crinkles in the spilled out sheets. She had waxed her legs and holy meadow, her complexion was lotus cream with a rosy transparence and faint blue veins at the groin; her mouth was drawn in an unfading smile and she had just only underlined her childish eyelids; seen from the left side, she had a tiny tad squint and that was utterly sexy. She reared up in rapture twice as her assailant wouldn’t rest; I straddled over her mouth and spinned on her infuriated tongue like a humming-top.
We would never vanquish over her imparable blooming licentiousness, we cooled off in the shower but I couldn’t help fingering her clenched little gap with the help of soap and grind up some new shivers for her.
Once dried up, she explored my perfumes as I tried some bergamote on her labia; she chose the English geranium-orange for the rest of the evening, her mother awaited her by ten. We went for sushis at Akiko’s and drove her to her door with her shopping bags. Sarah scrutinised the building and hugged me back to her bed for sleep.
Victor summoned me in executive attire and make-up. In the afternoon, Sufia, at Girelle’s, revamped my curls and made me an adult face with cola peach lips; Kairun waxed and pampered my hands, my feet and my luscious provinces, I wasn’t hungry, I snorted blue dust since morning and played volley-ball with my own brains, I was slimming and liked it in the mirror; I had not confided that part of the follies to anyone even Sarah. I pumped orange blossom water in and out of my easy gut and then felt available and slutty.
Six tense gentlemen were already rounded up in the lounge with their computers lit up, hooked by red wires to a flickering pod. Brief unintelligible comments they spewed gave the impression that they played some game, but Victor’s expression meant otherwise, he briefly introduced me and I did not catch all the names; they were actually working, but they would also bet for some fun with me.
I wore a double-breasted pantsuit in black and white pied de poule “à la Lauren” and a crew-collar steel grey twill shirt, black silk socks in black varnished slippers, no undies. Victor passed me the diamond box and started a lewd slow dancing with me, sliding his hand in my pants and smelling overtly his fingers with an approbation smile. The day was dying and the machines blinked like Oxford street. Suddenly, he released my belt and let my pants fall, exposing my bum, and ordered me to stay still as he left me standing face to the Paris sunset.
Over my shoulder, I could tell the gents had not foreseen the show; I was turned on as I trusted Victor’s intrigues to turn out lecherously palatable. The click snicks accelerated on the keyboards and sharp interjections punctuated the wavy ambient music.
My fine drapery jacket hid most of my butt cheeks, so Victor came to embrace me and uncover the coveted lot, tonguing my corrupt mouth and whispering on how much they would pay for owning me until two.
At ten, when the Eiffel Tower started its five minutes scintillating, they all knew the auction was closing and the fingers raged; then, as a bateau-mouche swept the ceiling with its white beams, the words “…chaos within you spawns a dancing star…” ran along the walls while one of the contenders snapped his computer closed and jumped up to my side and seized my waist. He said his name was Carl and he had just made me richer. The transfer had been done on my new offshore account.
Picking up my trousers, he invited me to follow Victor who led us to a smaller dark round salon from where black stairs spiraled down. The walls seemed polished slate perforated by red luminous points every five centimeters; as we moved around, modulations seemed to follow us as ghosts and fade around; each step down induced a rainbow whirl down the stairs till we reached ultramarine blue and I was nude.
Passed an obscure corridor where we saw ourselves, gloomy night-vision way, in a black mirror wall, we entered a large ash-grey room lit by a large thin ring of low light, with a square bed upholstered in an inviting chiseled velvet, of a monochrome leaden colour, showing demented paisley efflorescences, ferns and seaweeds. On the opposite wall were aligned identical shelves in a floor to ceiling pattern, each holding a similar casket of the same grey wood, each bearing the word “Angel” encrusted in silver. As I tried to open one of them I was frightened by the bedazzling light that flashed out and let the lid fall back. I was still stunned as Carl clasped my chest and made me feel his manhood.
He fetched his own golden pillbox and showed me on it the reverse painting by Fragonard presenting a young maid being shagged skirts up by the Gentilhomme while she innocently pets her kitten; chained to it was the ornate gold spoon he presented me full of thrills. As he twiddled my best lips I wished for a martini of sorts, so he led me back near the entrance, into the bathroom where he found vodka and bitter in an icebox, with what I dropped two Vs.
I fell on the soft sculpture, legs apart, with a starving wild boar making me moan relentlessly as he rummaged through my basin with his tongue. His grizzly head smelled woody grapefruit and money, he was a gifted fucker. He laid behind and swallowed my mouth as he slowly entered the rear hatch, helped with toad slobber. As I obligingly contorted and spread my arms around his head, I was mentally digressing, while up in flight, about the precious velvet and wondered if Beryl’s mother would have to clean our stains, or Beryl herself, and I figured her in my place, so much prized by the hellfire circle of aesthetes.
Carl was lazing inside my sissy pit, hard and deep, and handled adroitly my earthly puppet while I floated as a spring song through the blooming hawthorns. I wished Victor and Sarah and watchers had wanked on my wasted self, my elated soul.
I felt his warm squirt and I climaxed myself with my clever hand. Unexpectedly, he stirred up a grey towel between my thighs and let me effuse gently as he told me to clean his cosh and bells with my mouth, witch I did, not balking at his own blind eye. With more spoonfuls he was at it again, and I felt as receptive as an Empress, after he had nibbled my buds obsessively. He disposed me on the bed’s edge, my filly badge resting on a fat cushion and he swashed in, without restraint, for my ultimate ecstasy.
After an ambling plunge through angelic grey vapes, I blinked back to conscience under a shawl of layered pearl silk, gliding mellifluously down to a shushed universe. My consumption had doubtlessly been inspired. I meandered to the all grey bathroom and peed in a marble bowl then wondered at the curious glazed shower cabin with no head, walked in and considered a recessed touch-screen, triggered a tropical downpour, dwindled to a Sylt July blessing. A thousand holes in the polished ceiling trickled out light or heavy droplets on demand and I stretched my arms like dancing.
Wearing a cloud of a found Barbaric Rose, I ventured unabashed in the nightly corridor with my amiable though lifelessly glaucous reflection. I heard feminine voices and found Beryl, nude in bed with a splendid white-haired periwinkle-eyed girl, under a dome of innumerable luminous petals, at the center of a clear in a forest of sculpted trees. She jumped up and embraced me like a learned slut and pulled me down aside An, who kissed me like her mistress; I craved a cup of tea so we soon gathered in the kitchen following a sinuous path. Beryl operated magic for a fruit spree and pancake mix had been simmering already; she had pear juice, and high grown flowery pekoe to brew.
Victor loomed in the kitchen and grabbed a cup; he bent to kiss An and pulled me as I stood up and then embraced Beryl against me, saying all he was pleased to see us lovers and morning kissers. Before long, he was out of his black pants and fucked the gamine in my arms on the massive table while An acquainted with my elfin shells.
It had been a quick round, after a spoon fix Victor led me to my clothes and in the computer lair he explained to me the new arrangement, my stealth account and the procedures; he showed me the balance and fingered my happy snag in pride. He told me Carl would certainly want to meet me again and I should prosper in his wake as well as other’s he would convey for me. Suddenly a persistent beep caught his whole attention and he zapped me totally, he muttered that Wall Street was on and, without looking, told me to come back in two days and meanwhile have fun with the girls.
Beryl would be on flight deck duty, as slutty as she would, Victor needed her sleight of hand, at least, so after he offered many tender promises, An and me called a cab and reached my tidy place. In my pockets I had found two sachets of thrills and a buckskin pouch containing a perfect bracelet of grey pearls, seeing what An had slid a daring hand in my pants and muttered how lucky I was. She was a pharmacist, much younger than her hair said, but had laid so many good doctors that she currently seated in a few lucrative positions and cuckooed in rich patron’s beds, like myself, reckoned she.
She was extremely accomplished operator, once she had stripped me bare again she ordered me flat on the bed and eagle wide spread, making me howl. Then we talked, and she invited me out at the Grand Tour. She was intoxicating, put apart what she blew up my nose from her own superlative stash in a florid jade vial; I called Sarah to join us as a candid rescue; It was a lousy idea, they did not bond, and An, weary of what she could not reveal, scowled off. Chilled aside, Sarah said I looked spooked, she kept her knees tight and fled before dessert.
An made me talk a lot, flattering me, late in the deserted restaurant, becoming eagerly keen when I revealed being German; so was she, Vögel by name, from Leipzig, her family escaped long ago from the DDR. On the padded marroon banquette, half-hidden by the generous tablecloth, her hand in my peach petals, she grilled me in German about my life and whereabouts, assenting all my choices and ways, applauding to the idea that Simon and me disposed of an apartment in Berlin. She was altogether more evasive about herself, pretending that her own life had been rather bland until she buckled up her thesis in Freiburg and the fun began.
She wanted me to come along to a small party with other rich friends of hers, and it sounded game to me. After we went powder our noses a tad, she bolted her pale cerulean eyes in mine and offered a sumptuous cleavage to my jaunty ache. The cab driver didn’t blather a word but unhinged the rear-view, for all he could we were German.
The villa stood in a private park of the posh west, sheltered amongst evergreens and ivy, monitored as a US embassy. A butler greeted An and her young friend, ushered us inside what seemed a cloakroom and gravely required our door cards; I recalled the black number and found it; he inserted one by one in some kind of thin device with leds that apparently gave the right signal. An seized my chin, licked my mouth, took my clothes off and hung them in a closet along with my shoes, wallet and, yes, telephone, closed the door and fastened the key with a chain to my wrist. After we stripped her too, she shuddered along my body and intimated to let go of me; the buttler ostensibly approved of what he saw and retired.
Behind a double door, on thick carpets, in the warm shades of sparse candle lights, the heavy fragrance of oliban, cinnamon and clove, interspersed with puffs of pleasure sweat, a fully-fledged imperial orgy was unfurled on the caparisoned ottomans and billowy ceremonial settees. An was leading me amid the slow mayhem while many hands flattered our thighs and bum cracks.
The rooms were richly paneled in dark wood and Persian garden design carpets, under the fall of graciously human angels amidst golden clouds, painted and marouflaged to the ceilings. An ushered me in a midnight blue alcove where a fat man was being gluttonously served by a supple young fawn; recognising her, he held a welcoming hand and turned a curious eye on me. She pushed my bottom towards the apparent Nabob whom, still swaying inside the willing mouth, pulled me down to his face, told me to draw my tongue and sucked on it as it was an ice lolly. Someone forced my legs apart and pointed a creepy one into my evening catalpa glove.
After the briskly prologue and a powder puff, An offered me a multicolored pill from a crystal bonbonnière, saying it was her own make; she put it in her mouth and drooled it inside mine. I was already whelmed away by a pair of forest hunks and breathlessly defiled; I scented a roar in my plexus and a rain of sparks down my womb, whereas in my spirit dawned an urlicht chorus of vibrant harmonic layers and lashes of theremin ribbons syncopated at my crisis’ command.
Then I was lapped over and through like dulce de leche by a whole lobby of instant devotees like my sweat would dope up their boundless fervour. I peed a few times in headless galopades while my soul plumes caroused in a galaxy. I swooned out in bliss and bloomed again and more with another stem through my merry hatch, knowing no more neither my name nor any of my propinquities, floating on a salty warmth under a starry dome, awaiting life.
An grabbed my rosebuds and drew me ashore; I was candidly surprised by my own weight and reckoned I had maundered in Epsom salt under a wreath of electric stardust; I raised a happy smile and followed her in the polished wood shower cabin. She slathered me head to toes with a balmy gardenia slime and asked for the returned favor. She purred at my paws until I slid inside and joggled her whole rump. I shied away to the running waters and rubbed my body on hers when she recovered. We rinsed eternally amongst recalls of vertiginous chords.
The cab dropped her near the Invalides and took me home. I roved around my nest box nude and spent. I dared not call Sarah, she must have been vexed. I could have whored Hugo for good, I read his eyes, but in his genteel way he kept me under a bell jar. I knew he bought prostitutes, I had met Malo and gathered their intrigue, for all he would wish for, and she seemed like a sweet girl to me; he had made incidental comments on photographs I happened to peek on; most of all, his apartment felt like a high-class brothel and smelled flowery sex.
I went to Girelle’s to serve up my expensive skin up to Sufia’s expensive skills, perked up by a double rail of powdered strass. She playfully complimented me on my shadow rings and greeted my luck, pitching for a high tip. She delicately touched up my pussy, mumbling I smelled awfully good; she obviously knew what I had studied so intensely the night before. She gave me honey-gold nails, made deep submissive eyes and won big with purpling my tits. I chose an unmistakable black bias-cut silk slapper dress over the knees, a long black silk velvet vest adorned with two bands of fine needle tapestry, black silk stockings and black strapped ballerine shoes. In a manner of dinner I snorted a take-off with the round end of my cuticle pusher and walked to the Seine. I told myself I should ask Victor for a proper coke spoon, if not a complete set. The purple pashmina shawl proved requisite, the river flaunted a bad mood out of season, or was I starved?
The car was different, it flashed; it was a bigger four doors sapphire blue German berline with matching upholstery and dark burl trimmings. Once the door closed, the silence was unreal. On the backseat stood young men and I guessed why so I detailed them well while shaking hands. Lucas was a fine featured night bird with a coral necklace and a black tees-hirt, Arsam a bleached blond sailor wearing a red shirt in a thin skin jacket; they showed splendid teeth in the dark grey filtering light.
Victor kissed me wet as he lifted my skirt and made me expose my small planet, he handed me a neat brown packet with a gold ribbon, winking at me. As he drove I broke the seal and uncovered a jewellery case housing a blue jade flat vial capped with an azurite bud holding a nose spoon I was open-mouth stunned and at the touch of a button he tilted my seat half-way backwards; I felt hands down my breasts as we slid towards the Arc De Triomphe.
On Avenue Foch, the quiet vessel dived down a side alley to a service station and right to a private gate which opened conveniently. The parking space was almost empty but cars followed us till we stopped. Victor unlocked my belt and lowered the seat more; he lit the passenger light as the boys seized me and stripped my clothes gently. An audience was already circling the car with a few women this time, bared up the belt or entirely soon. I drew in what was offered to my nostrils and crept to my servants’ lap where jeans had fell off.
My foot rested against the roof, I let Lucas in my rabbit hole and sucked Arsam’s considerable command staff; In the surrounding darkness, housewives and whores were liberally assailed and masturbators jolted their sticks around. Arsam took turn in my easied back way and discharged at once without flinching until a second volley; Lucas was pretty efficient with my little imp so I could release my fiery soul out. After I had helped Victor in my throat we drove away leaving a troupe of obscene stooges pant in the dark.
Lucas must have liked the taste of semen, for he kissed me wild over the headrest as I sat back on the front seat. Victor gave them money and let them out on the Champs Elysées before we drove to his place. He was amused but searched for my excitement. I told him that I had given so much of my cunt lately that I felt a bit wasted, if not all spent, actually. I renewed my astonishment about the lovely blue bud, he called it synchronicity, the idea had spawned in his mind in the morning and he was thrilled. He lifted my skirt a little more and I spread my thighs.
I held my clothes at my hand when we took the elevator, he led me to a small low ceiling in which a few dark buffalo settees circled crystal trays supported by realistic orgiastic bronze groups. The deep carpeting mimicked a pebble beach, the spatula rendered jasper walls and ceiling evoked a light grey mist. On eggshell thin plates, eye food sparkled in tiny treasure islands, Crystal champagne rested in a quartz bowl.
After the toyish collation, he crawled to my rainy spell and he scented of seaweeds as I dripped off the reflux of his Personal Depravity Detail’s fulfillment. He danced me towards some alabaster temple and commanded steam puffs while he gorged my innards with sweet lotus tea and watched me spurt like an obscene fountain.
Clean, restored and powdered, I followed him through a maze of pinpoint multicolored lights infinitely reflected in all directions. A low muted quake-stump held up phased-off chords in space and I began to drift in his arms. He sheathed his horn, for play, in and out, as he trailed me to a plush bed in a weird box. All around, a rusty distressed metal grid held one-foot squares of splintered glass against a gloomy glow. But, unseen at first, the whole array was bond-shielded in clear glass and he slid me on as he sipped on my titty bells.
From behind the wreck-wood headboard, the white-headed An wormed in and robbed my head as Victor swung in through my fleshy wants, to the hovering beat of the sound blanket. She guided my hand to her conch and muttered her need to get rammed, which I steadily complied to, when I won inside her. He exulted so as to make myself, and her, faint off.
A storm has died in the night, I am silted up to the chin, petrified. Two tall grey Bauernpferd horses, astray on the beach, eat gold coins from the sand, side by side, as if they had lost their work shaft. In the blurry haze, the lost U-boots twinkle like a wind chime. Dull blue scarves fly by and one of them blinds a horse that stops near a bush of sea-roses and listens. The song appears red in the dancing spindrift around the stabbed-hearted herring gulls. Simon rides the seeing horse and flashes a torch light towards the lost U-boots, he laughs but he doesn’t see me. Uncle Achim rushes in in his athlete’s white shorts, picks a rose and walks up in my direction but misses me. I want to shout but out of my mouth slip icicle festoons that whirl around the gull’s pretty wounds and bleed on the roses. Simon cries at the end of the beach and a blue seal digs out the sand along me.
Beryl slept, her arms refolded up aside my chest, nude and peaceful. The sound system played a distant seascape scattered with crystal flakes and whistle ribbons. I stretched along the young floating mermaid and lipped her eyes; she frowned in her dream. Her hair smelled of mimosa, coumarin and nestling; I pulled the silk shawl upon us two and enlaced her frail breath in mine.
In those days, time snaked along devastated shores, mind trips began to upend reality, An’s doses of experiments transfixed in Victor’s paranexus wealth were suffusing my blood into sheer expense. When she disposed a trip to Berlin I longed to sleep again into Simon’s abiding heart as a forlorn child out of a frozen forest.
Victor planned to join us and stay at his cousin Ferlis’s, we flew with very credible tins of foie-gras and pâté in our bags. Our bloods had not been tested for chemicals. We reached Bürcknerstrasse early in the evening and I could mirror my eyes in my angel’s soul. An was astonished with the likeness and the closeness of our connection, and since I needed to shock and ply her, I dragged Simon to bed and became quite lecherous; it wasn’t long before she dared participate with double the bustle. He smelled like the German hero, bergamote, lavender and pepper, some testosterone on his splendid knotty tool and ballsack; he was hard as a stump and An was faster to it, so I lapped as a tipsy wolf cleaning its cub.
We found Chinese downstairs that Simon could recommend and ate from the boxes. Simon had never seen so much fairy dust at a time; we played silly until we snored off.
He was up first and brewed a pot of harsh coffee, he had to go to college and he would stay in Potsdam for the night to collaborate with other students and maybe shag one. He summoned me for the next day to go to Hamburg borrow our mother’s car while she was away; I needed more hugs and tugs but he ran to duty. I kissed his willie goodbye and went draw a bath. I was joined by An, we shampooed each other with some up-to-the-minute product we snooped out in the white tiled pre-war bathroom; she was sweet and thoughtful, made me cum like a river. She devised a shopping afternoon and a bouncing evening at K-ops, a club within our circles. After some ritual V and dust, we rode to Friedrichstrasse where we found some expensive prêt-à-porter like a black polka-dot twill shirt-dress with a black-on-black embroidered vest for me and a deep back-cleavage for her with a lilac shawl. I found black calf dress slippers, she chose leisurely mules. We went home for details, she opened my dress almost totally. We perfumed ourselves like brides, she smelled of sassy gardenias, I sprayed my body with blue lotus.
At nine, pampered and loaded like ladies, we sat in Rosie’s for an immaterial en-cas of fluffy salads and astringent veggie cocktails. We landed at the club’s awning at ten. She asked for the owner and we were ushered to a thrilling copper-lined elevator.
The square building stands alone, it is a leftover bunker no one ever dared to obliterate from the city’s past; it has been poshed-up under travertin facades and fake windows but it remains unlivable at any season due to the four meters walls, it is a monstrous cold and wet cellar; but the ground imprint is large, so the folly on top of it is capacious and lush, with a view once embraced by the four flak-canons.
She enlaced my loins and nosed my neck during all the imperceptible move up to the Faerie Lair and exposed my undone belly to the ceremoniously bald Cerberus. Yellow pills she had unfettered from her fake tins were kicking in loud as the unfazed man checked our cards in the desk computer; he gave us another numbered key bracelet and led us to a vestiaire lined with Glassed lockers in which we left all our belongings. Heavy carmine velvet curtains hung in a gold sculpted frame representing a lewd update to the Hell’s Portal of no remorse. A young redhead damsel as lithesome as an otter, yawned in a smile and asked me if I would covet her, on a hunch, then she fondled me while bantering she didn’t have time because she was expected. She smelled of minty musc, patchouli and incense, I fingered her Dillinger, she moaned it had just been loaded.
An had breezed passed the velvet, I followed and found a shadowy emporium rustling with music and sighs, smelling like a Royal hammam. In a golden glow stood a diminutive girl, only wearing a gold crown within her black curls, at a glittering buffet of toy-food, pralines and candy, who offered a drink in a funny German as I ogled her crotch; her eyes rolled and I was over her, she smelled youth and elderberry, her crack was wet; she seized my merry snip and pulled me to a vacant cove where she laid on a pixel-mad rug. She was delicious and my mind was unravelling. A surreptitious bounder was forcing himself into my casimir with enough savoir-faire that I let myself crush down on the lovely bosom and she laughed, gripping his balls from under.
When a new customer rushed to it, I had tipped the tango and the little squirrel’s eyes popped as I guided the bat to an easier fit, turned on by her juddering at each deep gaff shot. She was so light that she was robbed away in a string of giggles. An happened upon, along with a gray haired blue eyes cavalier she wanted me to greet and mouth deep at once. He soon drew us to a recess where a stair pit lead down in the dark except for turquoise light lines.
In the twisted corridor, at each bend they held me to his bugger frenzy for a while and we moved along doors materially glowing of a carnelian fire, as they would have been struck in hot steel. They pushed one and we entered a shady golden cube with a huge gong hanging; a fat baron fondled a pair of comely twins wearing leather collars and straps; An banged the colossal instrument twice her height with her feeble fist, the sound was mountain deep, the girls grabbed us to force us on the bed where the vibrations met and thundered to the great excitement of the guest who ransacked the nearest little arse he could while the other one was devastated on three sides; the hum lasted eternally, it was like low tide on a desert bay where noises of suckling tinkled aloud crudely.
Further on the dark path, after a large bathroom where a sportsman sloshed in a pool of urine, apropos of which we casually obliged a merry pint or two. Some doors were locked, some not, we peeked into a strange smelling dusty storeroom jammed-up with wrecked furniture and a high rick of wood. On a pile of burlap rags was tied up a defiled girl gagged with a torn shirt that might have been hers. A short character, flat-top blond, in horse-riding boots and pants, skittle and balls impressively urged out, bare-chested, invited us to the punishment of his treacherous mistress, to what our main patron patted the offered hunk and dipped his gherkin while the jealous type handled both An and me, then pushed me on the captive and shagged by back molly with some revenge.
After a round of ablutions in a soaked stone cave where water ran everywhere and smells of mint and grapefruit, fennel and blackcurrant spun dizzily in the head. I had already been upended quite a few times for the day and a glass of what seemed vodka shot me back up on my toes. We ended up under a wall-to-wall high definition screen, walking on a pool of snug mattresses and cushions between black carpeted walls. We fell down as a shifted colours sky started to roll over in tempo with the pulse of the sound cascades.
We had been followed by a thin black-eyed emo Ariel, all pale with blue reflets in its hair, holding a sleek purple metal box. I had been stretched wide and tongued boldly all over as I spiraled away in the dazzling, splintering vortex showering my howling brains. An maddened my mouth and my flesh pickles whereas her master ravaged my devoted haunts; when he felt a pointed tongue in his very own breach, he turned to the blue mane and loved the gentle head. The elfin creature, whom sported a stiff but measly stem reminding me of my lost Cynthia, deftly opened the box and handled a tiny syringe out of its wrapping, bit off the cap and crouched to inject the sire in his anus, quickly.
As her rider collapsed aside in bliss, An spread apart her labia for another sting of the sylphic wasp in her much irrigated cunt; she ordered me too as I shied away, and she was so imperious while the stinger was so balefully beautiful, I was already so morally flimsy that I let go of me and did not feel a thing.
The maleficent angel was packing up its traces but I seized its arm and wrapped its hips with my legs. My soul was shaking the concrete juggernaut surrounding our pathetic hides but I needed another pass at an ambiguous desire. I hurled myself at pleasing the flabbergasted minion and was offhandedly rewarded but tasted the drops on my tongue as the elder rode its pleasure bung with manic fire and An rubbed her gaping pansy on my mouth.
It had been an unforeseen regalement, the nightly fawn ran and left us panting under the distraught fractal garlands. Overwhelming brusque reminiscences of the jolly enlightenment with Simon and Cynthia caused the ongoing trip to fissure, so my stomach turned up; my chest shrunk; my temples clenched. I stumbled in tears, so An helped me to a bathroom but nothing could do, under the shower I vomited shards; eventually a houseboy found me a glass of pear juice and showed me to the cloakroom; he abused of my sleazy skin pretending to help me dress up. Once hastily redone, I was pushed in a car and driven home where the page boy put me to bed.
I was blown to pieces when it dawned that some familiar thingummy was actually shagging my hamper. My head was scattered in aching rags but I knew Simon liked to wake me up wet. I clung to his mouth and staggered to the bathroom.
My eyes pained a tad and my innards weaved awkward knots but his coffee helped me gather the bare necessary neurons to reach Hauptbahnhof and board the ICE. I felt a grand healing when the slumbers took me over again on his martial shoulder.
It was warm and hazy in Hamburg when we drove along the Alster to our yellow stadthaus; after we peed together and brewed another pot, he drove the car out of the garage as I closed the doors; then he asked gleefully if I would drive?