As the date of our emotional show at “L’Etoile Amusée” neared, the hustle and bustle about readying our pieces, asking Marie to photograph them, answering to Camille’s messages about them, regarding the catalogue she was publishing, all this was surpassed by the worries as to the guest list. I did not go back to New York city days, the gap would have been too wide, but I strove hard at spreading the word in Saint Loup. Tudor Weiss, our art teacher, was at once keen to attend; we reminisced on Skype, and apart from a network of tiny wrinkles, he hadn’t changed that much. He was helpful finding coordinates of comrades in the art workshop. I would solicit the numbers for other species, of whom I kept precise recollections of, from Harmony’s desk.
I was assured of Ayla Naveen, I left messages for that little bunch of wide-eyed animals who had been with her in the dormitories. But I had no hunch about Julia Grant’s whereabouts, and I was beginning to fear something. It was my Far who ferreted out her track, or his intelligence relays; he explained that she bore another name, too implicated, but he had left my coordinates in a message, with enough credentials to be taken seriously, and so I only had to wait; he felt we had had enough intimacy to justify my search of her. He also told me that there was only a thin chance that my Mor would attend, for reasons I knew well.
As for Paris, Liselotte had caught fire and rummaged through her address books, in hope it would lead her back in our pants, or more. I doubted that our work would earn us recognition from many Beaux Arts “anciens élèves”. I took a micro-sadistic pleasure telling her about Fulgence and us, while acknowledging that she was, however, worthy of his consideration. She suggested in return that we could solicit her good friends again, and she would concur, accordingly. I mused on the eventuality of bargaining my arse for some support, and in all sluttiness, I did not rule it out, yet.
I received a message from whom I will keep calling Julia Grant, she warmly affirmed her pleasure to be with us on the great day and possibly a little more; she had plenty to tell, to hear, and was eager to get to know my partner. She would call as soon as she were in Paris, she had kept a vivid remembrance of our Swiss days, she even mentioned the boxwoods.
Meanwhile, Liselotte had sensed my bawdiness as to selling some of me to Pr Y., set up an afternoon appointment, and she explained that Y. was indeed keen, he offered to shadow-write one review for each of my “visits”. She insisted that it was worthwhile, Y. could pull more strings in the media than I would ever want to know; besides, had he ever been overly vile to me? She did not think so. I yielded, with a little shudder in the chest, but I had experienced far worse, lately, if only for the vice of it.
We were expected at his formal office inside the school’s compound, that added some kink to the shenanigan, and I might run into some old acquaintances, on the way to fudge my integrity, if that bore any sense nowadays, when I could rationalise that whoring was pertaining to my art form. I dug out of the far end of our wardrobes a still fresh marine blue linen shirt-dress with white lace trimmings at the collar, the short sleeves and at the skirt’s flounce, with an allover girly candour look, that I pondered would tease Y.’s lust, and the simplest of Greek sandals of the same colour. It worked the way I had foreseen; again in the sight of his Liselotte slave, Pr Y. ordered me to stand at his desk’s end, eyed me slowly, looked over my portfolio of prints and mumbled favourably. He told me to pull my dress up to the waist, to spread my legs, to look down. He had been overjoyed at the sight that I was nude; he came near, sniffed at me, I smelled of santal, gardenia and blackcurrant, he exhaled of balsam and black pepper that made him look less taut than I recalled, put apart his Johnson he was pulling now, poking me around with it, and ordered me to kiss its tip. He unbuttoned the dress til it would fall and Liselotte picked it up. He talked, threading metaphors on my moonshine complexion, my lithe rump and limbs. He commanded to Liselotte to undress, which she instantly obeyed, and lick my arse as I bent forward, so he could then bugger me; she did it with dedication, I knew she had a crush on me, she also furthered her fingers in and out of my lady-bits on her own account and went on, as Y. pushed to penetrate the still-scowled little hatch he had said he coveted, albeit his glans dripped of smoothing drops, to that very end. He was a steady fucker, he wetted himself in Liselotte’s mouth, told her to wet me, and eventually was half homed into my dry sheath, but it seemed it had been his crave to make it harsher; I only could hope he came fast, which happened.
He ordered me to lie on the desk, with my legs up enough so he could continue in the same orifice, while Liselotte covered me with kisses. Now he was at ease and he thumped deep, holding my feet and biting my toes. For a change, he hustled into my other gash and it felt warm as a string of pleasure beads grew up along my spinal stream and, unwittingly, I moaned in a broken tone.
In the small bathroom, Liselotte and I helped each other primp; she was wanting, and I sympathised with my best handwork. The professor was back at his tidied desk, unruffled; it was some understated pleasure to play along his line while listening to my entrails, still tepid of his endeavours. Matter-of-factly, he growled there might be some new opportunity, five days later. I did not answer but gave him an eye.
Julia Grant wrote:
Blue forest veronica, best squirrel of Tudor towers, elf in the boxwoods, my chest is overwhelmed at the thought you searched for me, have you kept your helmet of curls? Do you still go lucky upon the prairies of your dreams?
I am staying at the Fersen, on rue du Bac, I could walk to you any time, shall we party at seven? Eager to see you!
Sarah wished I impressed her fondly remembered elder, and so she chose for me to wear a simple antique white linen man shirt, knee-long, and nothing, like she was offering me to the notorious girl-chaser, the leonine Julia Grant. She remained in her “try me” attire of the afternoon. She smelled light sex, she touched-up her eyeliner. I wore one of Hugo’s scents with lily, jasmine and orange blossom that would trip her over if she wasn’t expecting someone who had, of all semblance, overtaken her soul at a key time of her age. Nevertheless, she nosed into that shirt and reveled, for my sweetest pride.
A boy of black leather brought our feast of canapés from Gustollo, he sported a bushy black exploded hairdo that earned him a rich tip; his way of watching us could have earned him other things. Julia called from downstairs and soon walked in our lair as someone raised under high ceilings, with indisputable grace, and presence.
She had a glorious mane of honey gold hair, light-speckled skin and amber eyes. She wore an ethnic woven blue and green dress tightened by a Navajo belt, turquoise necklaces and beaded sandals. They hugged with moans and sobs, like a cosmic return, and Julia started to knead her like old times, sniffing into her neck, asking who she had shagged lately. Tousled, Sarah made no detour introducing me as her most significant shag of all, rubbing my belly towards her in a lewd way; she kissed me and asked me for a dance, feeling my nudity in the linen.
As we sat, legs up on the settees, she kept next to me, showing her taste in me, sliding her hand into my shirt and uncovering my shoulder while grazing my breasts. Sarah laughed that she had known she would do so, reclining on the armrest, one knee up so as to expose her crotch under a deep blue canopy. Julia pushed her forehead on my ear and begged for a kiss, so I played openly and responded, she was indeed desirable, she smelled of a transposed masculine bittersweet grapefruit and bergamote blend, with ylang-ylang suavity. I unlocked her belt and reached up her thighs, she was, in all, the legend Sarah had told me, the frank straight shooter, who wanted me. Sarah came over and pulled off Julia’s dress, she showed modest breasts, to my taste, and a chubby pussy; her belly was daringly muscular, in the smoothest light skin.
Caught in our transports, unsurprisingly, we did not pay attention to the intrusion of the henceforth house girls, from the shadows. Natalia and Beryl stood enlaced, a vast smile on their impish faces. Julia, who had some background in schooling the nymphets, called them in and asked their names, noting the sparsity of their costume, which summed up in oversized tee-shirts. And so were it an orgy, for our greater prestige, and contentment of Julia’s thirsts. But Beryl saw that we needed tea and took Natalia to the kitchen, if only to give time to the unexpected encounter. I explained the habitual presence of our finest schoolgirls, and the leeway they had to barge in, like house kids. Julia had a whim for Natalia, she asked her next to us and groped her legs; the young doe swayed her neck and lent her mouth, she was a crafty imp. After a sweet while, albeit I would have sunk in bliss readily, my responsibilities began to kick in and so I enquired, tentatively, about class in the morning, anyone? So, not before they grappled some quick thrills, they put their shirts back on and left, giggling, making obvious that they were not yet sleeping.
Back at wanking me, Julia gazed in my eyes as I gave more details about our youths, and Beryl particularly, what kind of salvaged little whore she was. I could not tell if Julia wanted to know the precise truth, she got involved in my body and made me climax.
Julia had brought a basket of marzipan fruit, so we sweetened our mouths and chatted. She held me from behind, and Sarah licked us randomly. She said that we should get accustomed to see her security detail at our door, reminding Sarah the escapade to Geneva and all the fun they had, revealing to her Far his daughter’s ways of life, prompting none but his smile.
All in all, Julia was merely not more than a family asset who could be targeted, it was utterly boring; but she could not spend her life in one of those gated compounds for the wealthy, so safe that the protected themselves become dangerous for each others, therefore she was cause for some handsome ex-marines to get a rich-smelling, well paid job, and yes, she had laid some of them, with no dire consequences for them, as far as she knew. It was like the word had been passed that she was a kind, beautiful slut.
She agreed she would sleep with us, on both sides of me, I heard them revive their Swiss paradise and the infinite opportunities for lecherous characters like them. She learned about Ayla that Sarah hoped would attend the vernissage, at least. Julia remembered her, for all the lecherous reasons, and she craved to meet her again, should she even pay for that.
My own better Julia did not forfeit her sharp wisdom, neither her eager taste for loose damsels. It is warming to see her covet my Fairy Queen as fondly as she had bewitched me, then. She has slenderised, a tad, she shows less hip and tummy breadth, she has became an icon of cool, turning her frankness into wit, looming inside your pants gracefully, so as you’d better yield, and no fuss. I waited to see her do with our boys, or Hugo, yes, she would be introduced to the landlord, and disrobe for his ever alert lust.
Kate was overjoyed with homages that surfaced from my past, she had fantasised the nights of Saint Loup and caressed me to keep telling; I might succeed in providing some more.
Julia knows no morning languor, she pees, brush her teeth, and smiles. She smells womanly yummy, all the more when she has tormented your best friend. She whispered to me, begging for coffee while absentmindedly teasing my lady-parts, and so I pulled the morning-sized Italian coffee pot, popping open the tin of moka we kept for just that, a coffee-buff shag of ours.
I do not brush my teeth in the morning, evening is more appropriate, in my logical view; if I want to kiss someone, I rinse my mouth with orange juice or water. She gave me a thorough kiss while the coffee pot spurted its song, infusing our house with its irresistible smell. She went down for my nightly labia and clit, were it only to show me she wasn’t merely agitated in the morning; sitting on the worktop, I accepted her gift without thinking, but she ran before I could retaliate.
Kate bore the aurora-struck gaze she kept when a dream had enthralled her; I cuddled her with her face in my neck and Julia grazed her butt, mumbling some vaguely lewd rhyme. The day started in serenity.
After my call to downstairs, I announced that we would be expected for dinner with swarms of beautiful persons of all sexes; it sparked Kate good spirits, and questions from Julia on Hugo, at answering to what we surpassed our awaking craftiness, in laughter.
In the studio, she marvelled at the view overflying Paris and the Louvre roofs towards the early sun, she said she could feel home and called us spoiled girls, aren’t we? She had known my research in Saint Loup, so she traced some of my ways; I showed her the remnants of my skulls pieces and brushed the naughty ways by which the project had been duly validated whatsoever, so they could mockingly harrass me. I looked at Julia and lashed out that I reveled in being some kind of a a tramp, and laughed, she might learn more, eventually.
She eyerolled and owned up to being not as free as she saw there, she often regretted our Swiss days, she reckoned that she might be more useful, to others and herself, teaching over there, joining Harmony, and waking up new generations every year, in our odd doxa. But, beforehand, through the years, had anyone ever heard of any suicide attempt among our bustling crews? Yet it happens in many such institutions; adolescence is a tough age, my word. Unbeknownst of anyone but Harmony, Pr Achenbach would ferret out a strain of dire depression or melancholy; from his Cheshire-like observatory, he spinned the many crafty fictions of the young crowds, like the traffic controller, at a busy airport, on a weekend night; his good-natured exchange, never primarily enquiring, had tamed my own squirrel-fast soul, for one.
I ought to speak for young Ayla, that I craved to cuddle again soon, who hid her misery to all of us; I blamed myself about her. Later, we tried to call her on Skype, and she appeared in a simple tee-shirt, with a tired smile that bloomed into awe when she saw Julia with us; she was at breakfast, on her undone bed, in her double intimacy, and she smiled like the first day I saw her. I insisted she should be with us for the opening, she would meet many people, under our patronage, and, moreover, she already knew Hugo. She confirmed that she would be there, of course, Hugo had already offered to organise her stay. Julia was moved to watch this desirable girl of her past, but I knew she felt awkward to know she would be totally shunned and doomed by the society in which she lived, so she elaborated further, she tearfully reproached Ayla’s silence when it had been time, still, to keep her with us. The little rebel bluntly said she had tried, but we did not hear the words, only my Far maybe had sensed some distress. There, I told her he would be there, too, and so, in a breath, she was like dumbstruck, then instantly recomposed, joked that she would steal him from me. “Gesundheit!”, said I, as it flew through my head, “you have means I don’t, but he’s in love with my feet! “.
In front of the screen, Julia had perched on my lap, like we were team, and thrown her arm over my shoulders; she smelled the same geranium-orange as us, but on her it rang brighter, like the brass section, whereas, in Kate’s armpit, it flowed like strings. As I stretched a little to scent her, she rubbed her cheek over my head, and Ayla, seeing that, made screen captures, in rapture. Now she was pulling off her shirt, like a chaturbate pixie, and exposed her crotch wide, like no amateur, for us. I was surprised to notice she was left-handed. I asked her to show her feet, which were dainty and unspoiled, she had been wearing expensive shoes.
She displayed humble round boobs, a tad more mature than I remembered, for having seen them rise in a season of pride for her. She playfully bragged that she had props, too, and fetched a black leather collar she buckled up at her neck, and then a leash, I moaned, thinking of some of my own performances; I slid a hand into the sweatpants Julia had borrowed, she asked for Kate’s kiss.
After Ayla hung up, Julia went to the couch and swiftly undressed, releasing some tension and squirting on the tiles, under our applauds. It wasn’t yet time for me, nor for Kate, but we cheered her heartfully. I mulled over the idea that Ayla was probably scoring her first client now. I proposed to get coffee for Julia, who understood I was showing my approval of her.
When I came back up with the coffee pot, Kate was sprawled across the couch, panting with delight, I laughed, recognising Julia’s endless talent. I brewed some tea. If there is only one coffee pot, there are teapots everywhere, I chose that one in the shape of a traveller’s bundle, wrapped in a blanket, with the knots on the lid.
in the evening, we preened for Hugo, donning easy flared dresses, lending Julia a bias-panelled black velvet model lined in satin, which slid swiftly over the skin; since there was carpets all the way, we avoided the shoes, and it was mellow enough to run bare. Julia had a milk and honey smooth complexion, I told her she would soon know Hugo’s grand bed, and more.
The great amateur greeted the American princess with ample salute, daunted by her legs and feet on his Iranian rugs, her carefree stance and frank gaze. He joked about the security at his door, told her about the secret services having watched us during the escape of a young victim of human trafficking.
He offered fruit and flowers soft drinks, but asked if she would rather drink alcohol, to what she laughed, and said she had known me for ever with an alcohol aversion, and knew already this had not changed and furthermore it had gained my loved ones. She threw her arm around my neck and said she knew why and lived happy in my rule. Neither of us needed booze to crash any complex and get laid.
Hugo said he could spend nights listening to my uninhibited recalls of our wolf-cub days and our fruity shenanigans. He made a swift move to grab Julia’s foot and keep it like one of the bibelots in the room. She smiled as if ready for a kiss, but he stood looking, so, she turned to me for one long one.
In the micro-span of a minute, Kate must have felt outcast, and so reached under my dress and uncovered my legs to her want. I enlaced her waist, still bewitched in Julia’s kiss, and let her shuffle my labia as she would.
Julia described my blaring advent upon the school’s lawns in mock- predication emphasis, a twiggy tomboy of black and red sporting a black fedora adorned with trinkets of kitsch, her wild candid eyes contradicting her bold postures, she had been spellbound, and felt compelled to mentor, and seduce, the otherworldly newbie, with Harmony’s blessing. Retelling about that day, she felt only rightful to my ears and soul, I warned her that I was going to cry, she moaned we had all been so dazzling in the lakeshore sun, and forever troubling in the blue shades of the moon-lit boxwoods.
Kate was eager to catch-up into our crystal ball, she unbuttoned me all, and, grumbling mad compliments, denuded me under her caresses, causing praise from Julia, whose dress would untie in the back, my hand following the hem undoing the clips, till Hugo could strip the velvet at once, and rave on her honeyed skin. Letting him free to roam further, I turned to my best accomplice ever and checked in her eyes for a squall on her shore, tickled her ribs and stole her easy-off dress, then rolled over her to erase any waver, while Hugo was embracing the sunlight maid on top of him.
The mood in the hifi had threaded into an endlessly over-sewed calligraphy of subdued synthetic sirens, slow phase shifts, and the array of sensitive chaos prone to ditch you into carnal awe, all it took to make me confide my past flutterings into Kate’s heartbeats, alleviating the remorse of having left Saint Loup.
The island fairy sensed a veil of angst in my breathing and kneaded my skull, as it was her joke with the skull artist she once won over; it forced us out of the vague sorrows we shared, meandering along the sinusoïdes of the electronics,
Julia had opened wide for Hugo’s feast of her Venus mound and all of its shudders; when he stood to sabre her, his robe spread as wings over her belly, she pushed up and he answered. We joined on both sides, on her bosom and her armpits, her mouth. She jolted with his tossing her hips, Kate was helping her clit, she yelled along with him.
In a much pleasurable epiphany, while daintily fucking her to the spine, I read into Miss Grant’s glare much of my Sarah’s best grips onto your soul, her ceaseless attention to your syntactic stance, a raptor’s unfazed pertness in otherwise candid eyes, they cast the frisson of their sharp focus through your veins, like a probe of your own yearnings. She has already fathomed my desire for both her epitomes as Sarah’s providential mentor, or a splendid windfall encounter, brought, unattired, to my want, by her best true-blue follower.
As Julia plays my moves in a most gracious swordplay, I digress unmannerly, watching Sarah wiggle her loins, I revive my bias for the lithe young stem who had been groomed and trained by my faithful Camille, just when Kate vanished. She was the twinkling star out of the profuse lineage of an European legend, having been airily midwifed by this returning fair American embodiment, on a lake shore.
Julia too, here, seeking bliss, offered a crafty vagina, she squeezed me in wavelets at a cheering pace, as likely for her own good, keeping a half-toppled smile all along, until I gallantly ended in a carnal panache, in my view.
Fetching a soft kerchief to wipe her, I saw the two merry cousins at each other’s merriment. Kate was always the incestuous swan, in her glory, and Sarah craves her beauty unconditionally since they met; they synchronise any passion, like Swiss clockmaking and trains.
Nowadays they live effortless jointly, they wouldn’t think of any other kind of arrangement; they garner so much more benefits in sharing that they wouldn’t think they missed any other chance in life, that is what they learned, and I praise that.
Regaining a better hold on myself, I kneeled before Julia, who had finely parsed my vagabond mind and could take offense; luckily, she showed delicate feet, and so I might wholeheartedly play with them, collecting my skills for her best delight, to the point of assailing her tighter ways of entry, rub cream in her unfettered bunghole and push, again, from front, her legs high up.
Anyhow, Sarah had taken advantage and sat on Julia’s mouth, while licking her toes, Kate was damning her slutty tongue into my own arse, like a fanatic. I began to view galaxies and pearly drapes in my furious spend, I seized Sarah’s foolberries, plunged my prick by all its length and let go of me in Julia’s innards, as Sarah infuriated her hand upon her familiar bud, and Kate granted me a raging kiss.
Eventually, Julia emerged, in sweats, a little distraught, and that made her desirable all the more. They circled together in the heady smell of copulation, we caught our breath, I suggested we gather under the shower with other scents. We used our fingers for our monkey trade, I wasn’t able to take advantage, were it Sarah’s little hole; the shampoo washed away the remnants of lechery, until soon. I hugged Julia, reading in her fawn pupils, grateful and content, turning her, I held her lower belly in my palms, kissing behind her ears, the other nymphs came on with pointed smiles.
I had bottles of a garnet drink of hibiscus flowers and squashed fresh sugar cane, made by Adel at Dalila’s, it perked up the morale and led us to sugary feasts. In the kitchen, we found fruit, nuts, and honey bread from Casa di Lucia, light rum chestnut cake, marzipan, the whole Pinocchio.
As she savoured the tidbits, Julia questioned me, now that I had jostled all her privacies, driven and helped by the debauched cousins, she re-threaded our acquaintance, mannerly, orderly, and I let her do, buck-naked on my stool, at orders. Her hair was drying and needed tousling up, I proposed, but Sarah went and fetched a convenient hairbrush.
Like most of our visitors with some wits, Julia was intrigued as to the gravity’s rainbow in this household, prone to suspect a lode of black matter weighing from another dimension; she wondered and mused, with faces that made me guess she had been born in the imperious spheres of the Empire. I let her presume whatever fit her, mostly conveying in return a heartfelt admiration of her beauty and appeal. Like all our visitors with some wits, she was to content herself with the obvious. She turned to Kate and flirted, soon to find herself under the bewitchment of her quiescent, yet lascivious gaze; the Wattenmeer fairy could either smile impenetrably and frustrate any pass made at her, or lay her slender graces at your will in the gleam of an alabaster blond skin. As Kate had grasped Julia’s unease, she responded complacently and frankly enlaced the sunshine girl with her legs parted.
I knew I would meet Sarah’s dream anytime, like she had allowed to die in my sheets for a night, I relished her gracile neck and took her back to the couch. We dozed out together.
Sarah and Hugo had sailed to the intangible, I covered them with a shawl and led Julia upstairs to our bed. We were almost enervated but anticipated sleeping together like some last elation for a long day. She left her hand on my pussy.
At dawn, I was overjoyed to feel the gamines over us, Natalia pushing her nose in Julia’s groin, Beryl clasped tight on my back. Julia was waiting for me to emerge so as to grasp what caused the invasion, but she fell for a young muzzle, still in the bounds of her dreams, showing her total innocence.
I woke up to see Natalia flying, stretched wide at Julia’s will, who licked her nerves passionately. Beryl had not dared trouble my dream but she flocked endless kisses on my lids as soon as I tried to open my eyes. She smelled of honey and straw, her night sweats left a blessing of lust in her armpits and crotch, she knew that I would tumble her over.
Once the morning torments appeased, Julia turned a silent glare at me an open palm turned upwards as in wondering. I took some pleasure telling her these were our pet neighbours and she might as well get accustomed to their nifty homages.
Under the shower, we peed ourselves standing embraced, laughing, then rubbed the foam all over. I played with two fingers in Natalia’s bumhole, to punish her for nothing. Beryl forced Julia to squirt and again, with pride. When Sarah returned from Hugo’s, she found us all aroused. We had splashed some cologne spirit on our dazed bodies, full of bergamotte, lavender and jasmine with all the undefined alchemy; she was vibrating of sacred woods behind the most carnal gardenia, she had stolen some untold verse of night, she tasted of almonds.
There was no school that day.
Julia left after breakfast, she wanted time, on her own, in the great city of Paris, and she had people to pay visit to; she would not be away for long. We greeted the opportunity to recoup our wits in the studio, heeding on our long term work; not that we considered that carnal expenses were unwitty. Only did we not expect one main magnitude epiphany to fall upon us, like a cartload of fresh peonies, on our feet.
Ayla had been summoned by Hugo, ahead of the vernissage, and so she called in the afternoon to say she actually was downstairs, climbing up to see us. She wore one of Hugo’s antique robes of purple brocade , and, given what she didn’t wear in it, intended to lose it fast.
We cried in each others arms, she smelled of rare wisteria, indeed, and the robe smelled of timeless incense. She was back from the haze of nowhere, beautified by a good seven years of constant care, a perfect skin on her triangular, girlish face.
I wore my easy working outfit, an overwashed, greyish sweatshirt and liana-pattern printed opaque tights, in mismatched sneakers. As we hold and shake each other’s head, her robe opened and uncovered her elfin silhouette, her creamy white complexion and lotus-bud tits. Kate had not avoided to come near, she hugged our harlot princess and gave her a ladylike kiss while I uncovered her entirely.
After she blew her nose and wiped her eyes, she fetched something in the hidden pocket of the robe on the couch, staring my soul of all her dark obsidian glare, she tore the purple tissue paper pouch and held a supple bracelet, in white gold, with a line of small sapphires, that she clasped to my wrist. Taken aback, I think I watched her stupidly, but she reveled the moment, Kate ventured that she had nailed me, Ayla retorted that she had not yet, and slid both hands under my shirt and started to pull my tights down, like old times.
Once we were all naked, we sprawled on the couch and I made a vivid praise of Kate, who was conquering every patch of the coveted pet reclined on my lap. We retold her of the notorious broom closet in which she had been proud to have hustled me firstly, the laundry room gang bangs that aroused her, and the sex contraband in the boxwoods, we made Kate one of us, and it lasted until sunset, when we felt a bit famish. Ayla was inundated, we played more games in the shower and headed downstairs. We ordered salad bowls with poached eggs and croutons, she applauded to the idea of kombucha. Hugo wasn’t home.
Perched, nude, across our Windsor chairs, as free as squirrels but wildly aroused by Ayla who knew it, we dared question her on the good side of her life, she retorted that up to now, she had avoided the bad side, moreover because she was fully legit in Switzerland, in a fair and square society structured like a palace hotel; she was one of the well paid staff, contributed her taxes, paid her insurances, and could ask for help if needed. She knew most of her clients, they praised her scheduled availability, they wanted to keep her, most of them succeeded at making her come. Kate wanted descriptions, but it was none of the sort she could experience at Victor’s and it intrigued Ayla, who frankly declared she might fly over, the next time we wasted ourselves among his collections.
Ayla confessed that she missed girls, as she patted Kate’s tummy, her daily sensual operation consisted in offering the best of her body to almost undistinguished gents, she could no longer cuddle a girl through the night, as she had done in the brothel, but she reaped so much more money now. Kate was overwhelmed by the overtly professional ways by which this new girl relished her, she abandoned ship to her and drowned in the sea of dreams.
When Natalia came alone, later, she found Ayla and did not , in the dark, figure who she was, she enlaced her thinking it was me; we had splashed ourselves with the same cologne. Only in the wheel of hours did appear to Ayla that she was being captured by some unknown lightweight animal with gracile hands. As she told later, she had all gently turned round and tried to see, in the black, whose face it was. It did not match any, but she liked it; this young girl slept peacefully against her and smelled of sweet citrus and lavender, she had preened before creeping into the bed. Ayla began with tiny kisses and tongue tips on the lips, found delicate muscles and nascent breasts, reached an unaware moist vessel that she knew how to bustle softly. Natalia came and woke together, she seized the face of whomever treated her so deftly, instinctively discovered it had not been me, widened her eyes and grasped there was a quartet of us in the bed, of whose one was unknown to her but most palatable, till now. Ayla caroused her silently, drove her to lap at her feverish bud and the nymphet improvised some legerdemain tricks of her, they acquainted their craves, attuned their shudders, fiddled their nerves, next to us, for hours, and fell back into their dreams, clutched together.
Ayla overslept, I went to glance over her, her forehead was serene, her breath steady, and she smelled sex. I turned to Kate and jollied her about her capacity to knacker a trained harlot out, to what she yawned that, had it been her, she would have been a somnambulist, and she had no recollections at all, apart for some lullabies. We massaged our guest out of slumberland, gave her all the caresses she wanted and waited for a conscious gaze. When she parsed out that it was the two of us, she jittered impatiently and eventually asked where the girl was. It only took us the first words of description to guess who, I pressed Ayla’s head upon my chest and told her.
She was overjoyed, she wanted to meet the night fairy again. I told her she would, and then another one, for free; we explained who Natalia was and how she happened to sneak in our bed almost every night. She was moved by Hugo’s gesture, I was thinking that we could have done the same for her, I told Ayla we were the weird kind of big sisters, but Natalia also had weird big brothers upstairs, and more.
Ayla became more and more intrigued with us all, she fled.
Liselotte said that I could meet Pr. M. E. for some critical help, as he had singled me out and grown a fantasy of me. He wasn’t appealing in the least, but the point had been to trash myself for some benefit, had it not? I confided to Sarah about the proposal, for she started the whole scheme, anyway, and we had been team. She took some time hugging and mused that it made no difference if I were to tell Liselotte to go away, but she, herself, had eventually no regrets of her debauched expenses with the institutional mafia, but she was a whore at heart, wasn’t she? I went to the clinic to give samples, so as to keep my account clear. I knew M. E. carried a black card, too, but we never checked on each other, Y. did.
I met Liselotte at four on place de Furstemberg, she was radiant, in a black trench-coat on a black and white daisy print crepe short wrap-dress, and classy black and white man’s richelieu shoes with white socks; she carried a black leather shoulder bag. I instantly figured how she would spread up her legs on the first settee available, she was pale and desirable, she let me leer at her cool expression, she was in for show, already.
We took a cab to the right bank, the Fleury and its white stone beaux-arts façades with maroon awnings. She tentatively groped me in the car, so as to check I wore nothing under my floral loose shirt-dress, she smelled pure white jasmine, she said she had bought it at Zelda’s on fifth avenue; she nosed in my neck and moaned about the scent on my skin, an expensive elaboration of seashore blooms breaths, inebriated by ultimate chemicals, suffused by the bedazzling Parisian vice. On my shoulder, she sighed that M. E. would certainly die today.
The mighty professor’s shirt was already out of his trousers, if he wore any under the flows of white linen. A boy stood next to him, naked and erect at his hand, pinkish young under a mess of blond hair, he reminded me of the fauna in the sands of Sylt, he had a candid stare, I wondered if M. E. had plotted to let the boy shag me.
He softly suggested that Liselotte help me undress, so she unbuttoned my dress with indolence, let it drop, threw it on the next armchair; she stood against my back, fiddling my arse. Letting go of the boy’s fierce willie, he sent him to me, so I enlaced him, for he was affecting. M. E. encouraged our moves, as if we needed, and I grasped that I should let him lead because, to hell, it was his call.
The cadet was thin, all the more so that his nudity revealed a bony structure, but he was standing straight, square shoulders and hips swayed; a blond fuzz ran upon his upper lip, his pubic hair was soft and light; his eyes were cornflower blue with a darker rim, his gaze was frank, I kissed him boldly, holding his pulsating prick.
M. E. liked, he told his slave Liselotte to unclothe and suck him, which she did, exposing her arse hole in a bountiful backside; he wanted Mats, the boy, to hump me in the rear, standing, so he could better watch, and so I was hustled round and the youthful thorn began to push cruelly on my pansy. I put a stop to this useless rape, before he had me teared, looked at M. E. and said it would go nowhere that way without preparation; he was already rolling his eyes under Liselotte’s skilful manoeuvre, affected an impatient grimace and told me to ask the boy to spit in my hole. Liselotte intervened, in a most deferent manner, whispering she had brought what it takes; from her black Alexa bag, she fetched a small night-blue tube of lube and handed to me, I had thought of clearing my ways, but not that.
Mats, who might have been Swedish, had remained unflinching with his bodily means, he threaded me like a pearl, once mother nature was attended for. M. E. was panting on the couch, his vast shirt pulled on his paunch while Liselotte coddled a goodly flesh truncheon; briskly, he invited me to straddle upon it and lean back, then he dared the young squire to ream in my open fig, which took not long in our wet alleys, while he relish the feel of the lad’s spear along his stump. I supposed that Liselotte busied her mouth at Mat’s rosebud. The crisis was prompt, first the boy, then the senior knave, flowed warmly in my shivering entrails, causing me to swoon back on M. E.’s shoulder, so he could point his tongue in my ear.
Like a crafty professional, I woke up with the attitude of a job well done, my delicate dodging to the bathroom implying there would be no more number to the matinee. M. E. played fairly, complimenting on my supple ride, claiming that he would advertise our show dutifully, provided that he could shag Sarah too, as Liselotte would tell. Knowing the clout of the old bastard, I reckoned it was not too far-fetched to ask, I would warn her to bring in some KY.
The blond cadet with candid eyes was indefatigable, Liselotte sucked his drenched candy bar and guided it into her back hatch while she turned to the professor’s staff of debauchery; I let her reap her share and ran. I had a naughty restless arse syndrome, I walked back home. Sarah was in the studio with Marie, still radiant and rounded like a cookie jar. The afternoon ought to have started as a photo op for recent pieces of work, there were lights set up, but now they were both in the raw, sprawled on the red couch. It was another delight to retell them of my whoring to an old vicious academic. As a merry pair of trollops, they mockingly approved of my professional standards, and moaned that they could indeed use the young staffer who still felt in my crack, so they checked.
Marie was sculpturally gorgeous, her doctors, those expensive bigwigs that she paid in true acme slut skin, they had prescribed the right amount of unguents to keep her body unscathed while the would-be baby girl lived her aquatic season. She had, from early times of her outgrowing, felt urges to breathe, drink, eat and fuck in pure elation, her instincts drawing her simple path. She had started to smell everything relating to her body, and shunned all made perfumes, she felt like a dog, which did not prevent her to sniff at us lecherously, that part of her instincts having overwhelmed her soul, with bliss.
I brewed tea in the appropriate pumpkin pot and opened a tin of Sarah’s Royal Dansk chocolate and orange peel cookies, curious to see if they would pass the test of Marie’s nose, they did, to Sarah’s kidding pride.
On a hunch, I pulled on rags and went upstairs in the other staircase, with the whim of bringing back our golden knight and his dainty dagger, in case he relished an honestly pregnant cunt. He had been reading Dominique Fernandez, he fondled me some, took a shower, wrapped a saffron yellow silk brocade robe, slipped in a pair of embroidered babouches and walked with me, kneading my butt in the elevator.
Marie was overjoyed at my intervention, like all the Xmas mornings she had never had, she coveted what she foresaw inside the bright silk, and I had warned Gauthier against perfume, fine soap would be enough.
She begged for kind hugs, Sarah and me cheered her want by the handful while she dolled up his noble trophy of a dick, attuning the new guest with her stirred-up lust till he would bugger her sweet arse with method, and KY.
Marie was easily reclining aside on the sofa like the Etruscan spouse, with Gauthier’s dick in her jacksie, Kate cherishing her face and new bulgy breasts. Like everybody was getting their fill and I would end up wanking; in a whim, I texted to Hugo, asking if he would like to lull me out in his bed. The answer was swift, James was with him, and they could rock me fine together, if I wanted what would inevitably ensue. We could start with some petits-four or anything I would wish.
The scene had aroused me, so two wicked silverbacks was what I needed to wake up as satiated as Kate showed. Downstairs, I took my time, preening like an artful courtesan, clearing my paths, touching up my lashes and painting my nails indigo. I sprayed myself entirely with a scent from our collection, prowess of Hugo’s, a subdued violet laced with incense in a bed of tuberose, that would make my absent self bewitching and contained no alcohol, for my sensitive folds. I wondered if I would have rolled back eyes, like deadly rapture, and thought I would ask the gentlemen to take a photo of their complacent victim.
As a lustful augur, I dazed my bud and stirred the perfume with my own cum along the vulva, I felt beasty. I chose the dark night robe on which was embroidered the starry sky in silver thread, and shoed my feet in silver sandals, nothing that wouldn’t fly off at a first whiff of their desire. I wore a strand of sneaky grey pearls to my neck, wrist an ankle.
For the big prospect of the current days, we needed James, he would parse with us the elements of whatever restrained communication we would let go, and support our endeavours in the gallery, in the adequate word salad. He owned a well-rooted reputation as a trend leader in the fringe realm of the art field, and he had never caved to the speculative powers. Being somehow publicly linked to him would set the conjectures about us on the right clock. I was indeed again being self-serving, and depraved.
There was a splash of light, on one couch in Hugo’s drawing room, where he led me to; I spread out the skirt of my robe around me, keeping three buttons tied, enough to let the men drool on my pale cleavage. James exclaimed his awe at my feet and Hugo concurred, foreseeing their complete relish.
On the low table were trays of multicoloured canapés and flasks of kombucha, candied fruit in tiny boats of crisp pastry, strawberries and cherries; they begged me to disrobe and I complied, shining in the circle of the black satin lining, surrounded by constellations.
Hugo made me retell our recent orgies and turpitudes, which I did with the most bookish diction, so as to drive them frantic. James wore a golden green silk velvet jacket and vest, sleek black trousers with a big bump, up the front. Hugo wore black heavy silk pyjamas under a scarlet and straw brocade with scattered lazzuli flowers, in striking contrast with his greying manly features; him too, was erect.
We reckoned together that mine and Kate’s whoring, well played, would churn out the best buzz in town at an unrivalled cost, although one of my nights was priceless, obviously. Unabashedly, we were determined to roll on.
Hugo evoked the pledge, by Malo, to participate at our opening, in music, and in her best costume. I took a minute to chew my nibble, trying to figure a nude cello in the gallery, and declared the idea brilliant, bringing to all three of us an otherworldly dimension. He jubilated, yes, Malo was an event in herself, but our presence around her gave her incarnation, remained to design a proper set for her, he had thought of some profusion of roses, and possibly a young extra to hold her a robe when finished.
They felt impatient, albeit they knew me through and through, and we chatted about the party, which was taking form, as I followed them to the bedroom. Hugo handed me a crystal tumbler with clear water that had a faint bitterness, then I laid, my limbs to the four directions. James needed to lick my feet, toe by toe; Hugo savoured long kisses in my mouth, they took their time.
Gauthier kept Marie with him, she cared for a boy’s body, he is a fine specimen. Downstairs, two entwined scallywags were warming the bed, I lounged myself behind Natalia, she murmured random phonemes. In the morning, they had fled, not before tucking me in, so as I slept my heart’s content. Julia Grant would ring up soon, I let her in, letting her know II was only half-alive yet, going back to the bathroom, where she followed me in a good mood. In any case, after peeing, I brushed my teeth and shambled to the kettle. She needed tenderness, we petted like schoolgirls, I let her dispose of me but I craved for toast and tangy apricot jam. She dazed me in a virtuoso kiss, we sat for a cup of Darjeeling tea.
Sarah appeared, wet from the gym shower, her bathrobe untied, her eyes funnily spacy, childishly desirable, as she sat on Julia’s lap, and wrinkling her nose at me. She avowed what she had herself be done to, again, by the two stooges, and that she loved it, waking up. A tad unsettled, I hesitated but ventured a comment on her staging over again the worst moment of her young life, if I had grasped her description of her ordeal in the Jutland wild.
Julia knew what I meant, she had probably helped her out of the void’s pull, back then in Switzerland. After a ten seconds glare, she concurred, and said she had heard the wind in the trees and smelled the sea afar when emerging from the blank dream, each time, with the thought of a bird nested in her heart. What Hugo had done of her bereft parenthesis left some cohesive bond in her soul, that shed some reason upon her search, instinctively, and perspective with her work, sunshine in the hollywoods! She only wished she could confide to good Pr Achenbach. Julia woke one of the Danish berries.
Sarah rounded the table to come sit on me, she smelled linden bloom, and after what I had unleashed on her, it overwhelmed me, and I couldn’t help crying in her neck. Now she was the one consoling me, and she declared she had a nifty piece of news for me. She retold what Hugo had said about Malo, and I saw at once the transfiguration of our exhibition, the welcome synergy of our endeavours in heartfelt connivence; she drank all of my tears.
Julia was stunned at our description of Malo’s act, Sarah went back to her to make her resent the mood of the musician’s chants, then decided we tried to invite her, to seal our project. Hugo wouldn’t answer the phone or read messages, she decided to risk going to him, if by chance he wasn’t at work. She slid in salt grey paisley leggings and an antique white boy’s shirt with tails down to her knees, grey velvet slippers with silvery white S or K embroidered on the vamp. She ran.
Beyond the morning agitation, Julia was moved; she remembered Sarah at Saint Loup, a popular tomboy everybody had craved, on both sides of the river. She was enthused by our joint accomplishment, the forestalling we brought to each other.
I recounted, broadly, the course of Sarah and me, the unsaid attraction we had fostered in the unsettling school surroundings, the gravitation around Camille and Hugo, my fall, her doggedness after me and the salvation we built in this house of scents, under Hugo’s watch. Julia had already parsed my providential atonement in Simon’s heart. All that she heard of our incomparable life gave her a yearning to settle and court us daily, in earnest.
A delivery came in of a big wrapped box, in the name of Sarah’s, along with a closed note from J.W.M., James had wanted her to know his grateful emotions in the morning, she had not shown the least doubt as to her tormentors; I felt a nasty knot deep down my entrails, I cursed evil Annie and my own head, back to the yet unclosed season in the Berlin bunkers, but a clear vision of a swaying gold chain and pocket watch let me suffuse my veins with the familiar streams of oblivion, so when I heard Julia’s voice as she held my hand, asking if I needed anything, I answered to her amber eyes that Sarah’s nonetheless dicey and selfless endeavour was lacing my soul with crippling afterthoughts, the blanket amend operated in my annihilated brain by Pr Schubert might have been torn by the idea of Sarah’s boldness; for a short lapse, I had recoiled back to his almighty empire, like I had submitted myself to, during the fateful sessions.
Hugo was the conduit to Pr Schubert’s science, I would open my soul to him, that is, all the capharnaüm from the apex of my brain all the way down to my nifty arse. I needed Simon, too, despite all his too kind protests, I still mulled my guilt, whereas I reasoned that I should not impede his accomplishment on the path he had long chosen.
Julia drew me aside to a couch and vigorously hugged me, kneading my back so as I released my shoulders, wrenching open my plexus by passes unknown to me, letting me stretch over, as simply as she devised, like the famed wolf wizard.
Sarah came back, spruced up and candid, saw the gift and read the message “A la sublime rêveuse, I will never forget”; she unwrapped a sharp crystal box in which a stem of seven black orchids spawned from a silver pot on three legs. The dangling beauties were indeed wholly lascivious, offering their dainty scarlet vaginas inside nightly velvet coronas. She was like shied, standing her frank boyish stance, looking at us as if she did not know she had done that. I grabbed her hand and pulled her among us, she smelled sex, I pulled down her pants.
Sarah announced that it had been Hugo’s intention to invite the whole of us for a bit of music by Malo, anytime that evening; she was in charge of gathering up the audience. We ordered a raft of Minelli’s glass pots of hors d’oeuvres, salads from Kayser’s and macarons from the new chef Alain Gobert.
I insisted with Camille as for her attending with her two darlings, using a wig to hide Fanny’s face; she promised to consult the services in that regard. Anzy was most welcome, if she was still around; Camille laughed and said she certainly was, for long. It was too short to call Simon, I wondered if Liselotte would entertain the crew, once properly lectured. I asked Sarah’s advice. Gauthier would warn Donovan and Theo.
Malo was overjoyed with our welcome to our event, we warmed up to the idea that it became a three women show. Liselotte appeared black and red, black silk stockings, vermilion mini dress, in a short black silk evening coat, black gloves and fedora, she smelled pure indecent roses, she was a high class tart ready to roll over. Anzy and Fanny, arm in arm, looked like a gentle couple chaperoned by a madam, who said she had missed our lair and rummaged into my dress. Fanny smelled of young jasmine, in a bluish simple, cloudy, silk jersey tunic; her cavalier, in black, smelled gingery grapefruit in a fistful of chamomile which struck me with an urge to make her pee, at once; she wore leggings under a knit bias pullover dress, in what I found her all nude. Theo wore a straw-bran coloured three piece Irish flax suit with a light mauve Nehru shirt and white canvas oxfords, his eyes were lit, he was ready to get raped. Gauthier and Donovan came in lustrous beaten cotton blue-black Targui gandoura and black ornate babouches, they looked like the Tangier amateurs. Hugo had donned one of his sumptuous ikat robes over a full-length ivory-white silk shirt, and one of his guests had already got him erect like a sailor.
Camille inquired about my exploits, I advised her to try Liselotte’s cunning talents, to which I had sold my arse, first for the sake of it, and for some academic support; she rolled her eyes and groped me like a mere slut that I was.
Sarah had let our night fairies chose from her wardrobe, if it was possible to differentiate from mine, Natalia wore an old Danish white lace nightshirt and nothing, Beryl had found a not too oversized white and sunshine yellow bare shoulders beach dress, she was barefoot too; Gauthier caressed her legs and up under the skirt, like lovers do, Natalia frisked into his golden mane with awe, Theo breathed funny things in her ear, and she showed they acquainted like chamberfellows.
We played the house girls to Hugo’s relief, feeding the troupes and being groped over and over; Fanny and Anzy served drinks, Anzy still a tad savage at the game, Fanny as complacent as a cat. When only the macarons stood on silver plates, Malo walked to the chair on which her cello rested, disrobed of her maroon crepe evening dress and held the gleaming instrument between her legs, testing the A from her own tuning fork. Hugo had gradually lowered the lights, Sarah captured Anzy and pulled her pants off, Fanny had drawn me into an armchair and begged for kisses. Malo smiled in a golden beam and woke a bumble in the low chords.
I felt pride in my spirited battalion of mollys, to say I know each of them from inside out and again, their elfin dew in the first arousal, their skin under my saliva and the surprise in their effluvia when I achieve my aims on them, before leading their attempts on me.
This new Liselotte feline was an intriguing persona with some enviable moral gleam to her, good or evil; in all likelihood she was after me, out of malice or excitement, owing to what my better fairies had told her. But when she reached me in a couch corner, pressing a dark glare upon my senses, she played fair and square, breathing the question, in my ear, if I did own so many beauties in my realm?
She was desirably pale like a night lily, she kept stealthily silent when her hand crept up my thigh and we pretended to watch Malo draw enticing chords. In turn, I found a few buttons to untie her pricey red rags; she appeared laser-smooth in a whiff of black rose and stuck her tongue in my mouth as if to unhook my head. I wore a light mauve dress which opened in the front, we both had foreseen an easy disrobing, as it was unfolding then.
Malo, rosier than Liselotte who had quieted, now that she owned me, at least for a moment, floated her seamless, unravelling poem in the thought of a cloud above us; she had distilled an improvised festoon of images in the manner of ornate calligraphy, telling of her two friends, for whom knew them. I could read the analogies and predict a success in the gallery, all the more by the sensation she would inflame with her simple costume.
My dear suave antipodist, not an acrobat, drifted like a straw on waters unto my side, playing some surprise. He smells like the closed gardens of narcisi on the Scilly islands, his curls have grown to a soft renaissance mane, just like I showed him in Fontainebleau, on the heavenly bodies painted by Primatice. He raved on the long legs and the fluid hips, he coveted the chubby pubes and the realistic, in his nifty view, penes. In the Duchess of Etampes’ bedroom, he had some style epiphany, all the more literary that the place of a king’s beats of passion was now converted into a grand staircase.
Theo’s skin was youthful, silken, womanly; he rubbed my erect manhood with his butt, following Malo’s traits. I twiddled his girly nipples and refrained my thrust, like everybody around.
James, whom I thought would want keenly join such a heady reunion, crept in stealthily and found Sarah enlaced with the new wild-eyed maid child. Anisette Pullman had twigged, already, the manner of letting any of the good company fondle any piece of her lissom self. Seing that Sarah had surreptitiously smiled to the new gentleman, she let him casually stroke her leg up to her crack. His belt buckle vaguely clinked as he lost his trousers and pulled her hand for use.
Malo spun a long note to die and woke under a bouquet of compliments. She waved at the couples of all kinds and strolled about, as if she weighed who would do her. She had not met Theo but liked what we were doing, so she kneeled and kissed us all, soothing her fingers with the diminutive rattle that began to spruce up at his smooth pubis, yet. I made the presentations, and left her some space with us, so she could kiss his mouth and open for his stiff little toy, while furthermore I aimed at his convenient boutonnière; he went playfully, possibly inspired by a King’s exploits, and we reached the unisson in arpeggi, so to speak.
There was smuggle of Lorenz’s redolent cream in its cobalt glass jar, but my impermanent fling was not keen on sodomy tonight, although she twirled her butt on my two fingers like a baby otter in the rill. I wondered if Simon still spared her that part of the treat, or else she was not yet ready to let avail her timid candour at any flex dick and that is her bon plaisir.
At one time, Liselotte garnered the favours of the two young squires together, and it moved my cadette to watch, the debaucher in the middle had talents, she had earned her day, which did not prevent her to come lie against Ansy’s back when she had freshened up, teasing my eyes, biting the newbie’s ears, and unabashedly offering me to trade three columns and a picture in “The Beacon”, if I would spend an afternoon at Y.’s, bringing this new rosebud, now that she had seen her. This latter did not grasp, although Liselotte did marvels along her spine, so I unveiled the usual plot to her ear and awaited for the delicious small vertigo that she would trip on softly, or refute altogether. She smirked and let two ravenous libertines denude her cuddlesome soul.
Malo was overjoyed, James had rightfully shagged her bootyhole with all the due sensitivity, for he fantasises her as her instrument, as I enlaced her, then let her drip on me. She foresaw the show opening as a coming out of sorts, a threshold, we would print a CD.
The specialised press was giving already, thanks to the girls’ cunning diplomacy and Liselotte’s licentious dedication which I let her guess I would not overlook. She’s a gifted lover, she confided she had been enthralled by the two “Germans” since school, machinating plots to lead them to prostitution, until Sarah bit her bait and beautifully sold her arse for honours, as it should. I mused on what Hugo and his circle would elaborate upon a recruit such as her; she is desirable and willing, he will soon peel her to the raw.
For the last week before the event, the house has rumbled and whispered, putting me in a bittersweet lull, like the first summer break at Saint Loup, when the ones with real families anticipated whatever sports on endless beaches, leaving us, near-orphans, all the space in the school for daydreaming with Ayla, who now breezed in, all smiles, and did not bother to find her own bed.
Simon caught up with Anzy in the new cosy room next to our studio, she brought all of her stuff and woke up in the morning with her eyes ringed, but a disarming smile. Nevertheless we had tender threesomes, Simon is so attuned with my own Kate, and the stray kitten is now so relieved that they make my smile shine.
Liselotte would not neglect the fishing line she had floated onto my crush for Anzy, as a contrivance to angling her, and watch; I was one to know it would only turn into some inoffensive worldly playlet, and situate the palatable debutante usefully through the corridors of the scene she had vowed herself to, sometime. Notwithstanding her grand spend with her German engineer, she agreed to come along with me and fulfil the whims of a taciturn professor, for the coveted purpose of reaping some of his professional influence upon our exhibition. During a sincere expense of caresses and words on the red couch, I let her know that I would be using her just like Liselotte and Y., and I offered to let them consider her as a first-time amateur, free to reclothe herself and leave, if ever she became to taste the cookie sour.
Therefore, we were summoned the next day, and Liselotte came to help us costume for the intimate ceremony, as it were. She thoughtfully stripped off Anzy and lauded her body strained by the long days of shagging, and the mauve shadow at her lascivious eyes; she was already wet being considered as a mere desire animal.
I gave her a rosewater enema like she had never done, sprayed her with an understated violet and Indian rose, slid up black silk stockings and lent her a short black faille dress that would slip down as soon as someone pushed apart the shoulder straps. White powder and mascara would kill Y. She shoed some flat varnished black Mary Janes I happened to have, just enough girly to make her desirably self-conscious.
As for myself, Liselotte first fondled my upper thighs and pretended to share advice with the young doll. I inundated myself with blue tuberose, pulled on black gossamer stockings to a flimsy lace garter belt, then loosely buttoned a deep blue and purple black changing taffeta shirt-dress; my Stubbs and Wooton black velvet slippers showed embroidered gauntlets on the vamp, pointing a silver star on the box.
I gave Anisette a thin geometric patterned bracelet of onyx and diamonds, which made her round a pretty mouth, and faint Liselotte of envy; I was proud of my gesture, whenas I would trade her tender skin to a twitchy deviant scholar who could.
Liselotte contemplated the impression she had suggested of us and loved it, whatever she had schemed with the instigator; she could not help her hands and lips.
Swathed in light black smocks, we hasted to the umbrageous doorway to resonant corridors, smelling of rotting wood and cat piss, leading to Y.’s forgotten chambers he was so proud about. A deaf lady in rags pretended to polish the ramps in some timeless liturgy. Even Liselotte had not figured how to switch the lights; she craved Anzy’s shudders in the silk.
The silvery bell sounded ages afar; I did not remember having climbed this way before, Liselotte whispered there were a few other paths, like in many ancient structures of old Paris; she asked if I had explored the caves and quarries, as I most certainly should.
A young man opened the door, dressed as your casual art student, tee shirt, baggy jeans and frayed sneakers; he sported a bold smirk and showed his natural pull towards Anzy who responded coyly, I contemplated biting in his tanned nape, I was already in heat.
Y. greeted us with swift kisses, in some precious African long maroon gown lavishly ornate with ochre-yellow embroideries, buttoned all the way down front with gold pellets, altogether a wearable program of the ceremony to come.
After Liselotte had introduced Anzy, who was still moved by the sailor boy, I gamely stated my bid of rule regarding my protégée, who would be asked permission for any liberty on her person, unlike what I had permitted on myself, unregretted whatsoever, to what Y. smirked briefly.
Fabrics swished in the muffled room as we shuffled off our day cloaks, and Y.’s gaze lit up. As I had dared a tad more than during our previous encounters, but still let him very near, he seized my waist and led me to a table where proof prints were displayed, with ghostly photographs of me, quite evocative, albeit not showing what had occurred when he had recorded them; as I browsed through the article, I comprehended enough that it was a sound accolade of my, and our, overreaching endeavour, in all correct wording. Y. had repaid us our expense at his vices, he was a thorough master; he was pulling my skirt and taking pride of my wet labia. Liselotte cuddled an easily disrobed Anzy while with the other hand she handled the boy’s unleashed peter.
I could not help crying for real in Y.’s neck; he struggled to keep his composure. Reining back the game, he told me to order my underling to fetch his cock and service him duly with her mouth; I started to pop the golden pebbles out of their slits, as Anzy smiled at the other two’s passes in her cleft. Y. looked for submission and did not force her; she offered flowery indolence, her eyes down. He asked that she offered herself to Axel, for such was the sun bleached stud’s name who was now in the raw; I read that she was more than willing and embraced her down on Y.’s desk, guiding a turgid shaft into her. Y. let her play his flute as she moaned of the boy’s thrusts. Liselotte took possession of me and deployed her overwhelming skills, triggering me to dare her soul to tilt in bliss, finally surrendering to her unending kindness.
Y. reached for my hand, asked for my eyes and told me he wanted my arse now, turning me face to the wall where hung a small German etching of a nymph shagged by a muscular faun. He prepare the way for his considerable envy and invaded me in a seemingly new yearning, as if my response to his written acceptance of our life aims had softened his possessing of me.
Hugo has been in my bed like old times, still his own smell, his auguring gift of a dick which once nailed the last day of my fall, one I would cajole endlessly, to feel his pleasure like gems. Are we not proud, these days, of our shameless sylphs, well-to-do maidens turned cunning harlots, best even to my street-hardened craftyness, mind you!
We are so proud of them, like Paris is haunted with their scent, abuzzed in word of mouth and else in their light glory, they managed to fuck every good soul in the book.
Answers have poured like Zeus on Danae, from all over an empire, the attendance will permeate our walls for aeons of fame, I will gather cohorts of willing fairies.
They earned a dazzling preface by no less than Professor Y., Hugo would have imprinted too obviously among rumours, he publishes a longer article in the New Review, which transcends his personal relationships with the corps de ballet.
Melchior, for one, and other magnitude luminaries have pledged to attend, Malo will radiate, I hired a handsome assistant to pose as a lackey and carry her instrument, I told him it wouldn’t hurt if he made a pass at her in the heat of emotion.
We did not print any poster, but a seventeen colours catalogue on an exclusive Singapore machine, plus a number of flyers of the same pictures.
My Hugo, haven’t we succumbed rightfully when we fell in love with these talented and unabashed tramps?
We chose to treat our guests on center tables, and later upstairs, not to move out to any after-party, other than the probable random exultations we know how to care for. The caterers would be Agnete & Sanne, whose red lorries have signalled healthy roundups for quite a while now, they draw inspiration from the timeless tradition of Nordic smørrebrød, and thus the viking adaptability to foreign delicacies; by our exhibitors’ decree, the food code was vegetarian with fish and eggs, altogether organic and responsible, bohemian and peaceful. I knew I could not avoid champagne, but our two Danish matrons also concoct kefir and lemonades of all colours, for those who do not need to be drunk to get properly laid. My precious fairies insisted about a supplementary cargo of macarons, arguing they keep well, in any case.
Then came the unforeseen security protocols; black suits would spawn from any street corners like a world conference, none in an official capacity. Sarah’s daddy, Melchior, Fanny, whomever Julia Grant thought of dragging along, I could not manage that many details. Fortunately, I could lay out my concern to the Captain who had lovingly driven Fanny to her school for some time, and he more or less coordinated the actions, except for Melchior’s janissaries, but these were known as faultless whatsoever. Sarah floated an allusion about a chauffeur called Hector. Captain Thierry brought three unidentified sullen types with black cases who literally auscultated all the furniture and walls, pipes and vents.
On the ground floor, I had the four salons arranged in the likes of the 291 Gallery’s, of glorious memory, so as the smaller formats of the fairies wouldn’t shy on deserted walls; we had fixed narrow shelves at elbow height and hung ruched velvet underneath, only to invite one’s lower waist to brush on easy, while scrutinising the obsessive complexity of the mental visions. I chose an overall dull grue colour as inoffensive to the works and suggestive to the viewer’s mind, off-white trimmings set off enough architectonics and the deep dark slate-grey carpeting muffled the sounds like in jewel box. Sleek LED ramps diffused their scientifically neutral light over the presentation area in such angle that the treated glazings would disappear.
As soon as the decorators cleared the place, Malo came with her most precious gleaming contraption and we tested, with Fanny who possesses a trustworthy ear, many settings for her to sit and play, to eventually agree that the axis of the gallery enfilade was best; Malo risked the suggestion that the wall behind her not be velvet but some hard surface, I agreed that a floor standing antique mirror would do fine with her arse, wouldn’t it? She played for us, she undressed to let us feel her from a distance, and finally duet with an amused Fanny on her lap.
Gianni went into Neapolitan mode, most certainly swearing all the time in his born vernacular, begging us to come to his mill, a large storeroom in a disused department store, where we could meet his brigade of dexterous wasps of all ethnic and genre qualities.
He refitted for me a rainbow-dyed, couture, bias-pleated, ankle length, sleeveless silk jersey dress that hardly covered my timid breasts; I could throw a cloud of pearly silk mousseline over my shoulders. On my silver sandals were white opal cabochons, I would varnish my own nails pearly white. I intended not to bother the sight with any kind of underwear.
Sarah brought some black heritage boy’s uniform tailed jacket, trimmed in bright red, with two rows of gilded buttons; be it inherited family canon, it fitted her chest flawlessly and she intended to wear it shirtless. She wanted off-white, high-waisted, thin wool casimir sailor trousers that would give her endless legs. As is his wont, Gianni groped her indecently over her leggings and promised to cut some heavenly trousers, with a bridge over her crotch, lined in satin; she stood half nude in the lit spot of the workshop while he admired the craftsmanship of the jacket, lined in thin-striped ivory cotton satin that showed no traces of having been worn, her great grand cousin had died before he could sport it, said her; Gianni nodded, pensive, and went on checking my sailor had not grown. I waited to hug her.
Having watched from a chair, Natalia anticipated to get disrobed from her jeans and multiple shirts, Beryl played cool, next in turn. Unfazed, Gianni seized the elfin model’s fingers and showed her to pivot on herself, muttering in his sabir, then, holding her chin, made her blush with flowery compliments on her beauty and perfect allure. He said he pictured a maid-of honour dawn yellow taffeta minidress, gathered at the neck, sleeveless and cunningly slit under the arms so as to let one guess her nascent breasts at every move; she could wear white tights and yellow court ballerines, show her angelic butt and make all the black-suited voyeurs sweat. She too, grabbed me on her bare chest.
In no haste to redress, she helped denude Beryl; they scented the same orange and lavender mix that Natalia boosted a tad more. Now the seamstresses of all genders in the room had stopped working and watched. Slightly taller, Beryl was perched on the sleekest streamlined legs, bound on elongated butt cheeks, as moving as the most expensive yearling’s; being given to watch them both scattered shudders through the silenced shop. Gianni marked his lead by running a delicate hand down Beryl’s spine and tapping Natalia’s lobe; he went to the far end and fetched some hanger on which was a dark purplish fussy-printed biais twill flared high-waisted sleeveless dress he threw over Beryl’s head and started to shorten with pins, taunting her she, too, would display her thighs for the connoisseurs. Natalia was still in her white cotton knickers, and she hinted a dance embrace with Beryl, making Gianni grumble.
Having been felt up all over by Gianni and his petites mains, we let ourselves randomly flatter and sniff as we decided to homeshop for shoes on the perfectionist Stubbs and Wooton website. Sara and me knew our exact size, Beryl wore our shoes, Natalia seemed a tad smaller and dreamily narrower; otherwise, when it came to sandals, K.Jacques is still paramount, in our manners.
We’ve been fly casting all over the memory pond, willing to counterbalance the fine-tuned PR work by Camille and whomever she deputed accordingly. Our mail inboxes have bulged, as we try to grasp the whereabouts of mostly old crushes, sweet tingles in my brains and spine, about what these might even not remember my name; I doubt.
Ayla Naveen will bring some new girl, she tells with a hint of lust. Tudor Weiss is all too happy that I thought of him. Harmony agreed to forward the news to the kindest smelling animals of the farm, and fortunately, no bad news of anyone bounced back, so I ready myself for even more dishevelled times than usual.
Liselotte, who cunningly threaded into our ways, as a gifted entremetteuse and a superb partner, has kept records of the best of the Beaux-Arts, she recommended Fulgence to Camille and Y. provided some of his best victims.
Simon dug up from Kate’s shady period, when Cynthia flew away for good. there had been a Jinlo von der Ghenz, a desperate admirer of her and her affair with Cynthia, an elfin boy who longed to emulate their feminine manners, and smelled of expensive scents he stole from his mother. Jinlo was mocked and rebuked, bullied, so they had granted him shelter on school grounds, and taught him delicate bed manners, like Kate was a wondrous expert at since kindergarten. Now she said Jinlo came along with Simon, and it woke chaotic episodes of her coming of age story.
Far would attend; I did not even know my mother’s address, nor those of my entire Dane kinship; the old Admiral had died and Far was having the old barrack on Christiansø restored. I fantasised staying over-there with Kate and others. I could have related to many persons who had contained my special life, nannies, guards and chauffeurs whom I had not always regarded duly, teasing some of them beyond any restraint, testing my nascent seductions over their male instincts; I might have been a privileged lolita, so it ended in the Jutland sands and it led me to the lake shores, god vind! To me, Far would remain forever my harmonic damper, like, he once craftily explained to me, one sits at the top of the tower Taipei 101, and I relished the double entendre of the metaphor.
At least, Fanny and me had an extended, balmy night in expectation of the next frantic evening. Anzy had run to the castle of thrills at Simon’s call, she wouldn’t emerge back in fitter before most of the crew. But Agnete and Sanne provided a brigade of six or seven maids in black jeans, short-sleeved shirts and sneakers, all poppy-red trimmed. Sports trained types, motivated, clever, they displayed the buffet in iceboxes, ready to run to the celadon green tables.
I shouldn’t have been surprised by the quantity of flowers that were delivered, my damsels entertain a princely areopagus, when the lights fade in their studio.
At the end of the far side, in the gallery, the decorator had stretched a twelve leaves lacquer screen behind the gilt-wood and purple velvet chair Hugo had certified would fit Malo, for she had sat on it, before, to play. The screen presented an animated pond overlooked by a silver heron standing in the windswept reeds, on the lookout for appetising frogs.
The black polished carbon fibers cello case had an anthropoid presence next to the chair, while its owner collected inspiration among Fanny’s vales, deep in my bed, upstairs.
First to show, four men in black took a steady position at the doors, after they checked the toilets.My own bouncer, so to speak because he was a professional, for whom I had let myself a fancy from time to time, a Korean athlete who shagged like a diva and whom I could trust to filter out the scroungers at my door.
A Dottore M.E. entered first, in a double-breasted flax-coloured suit and two tones shoes that made him altogether look like a Don; a thin young assistant in a navy blazer carried his attaché-case, obviously; he intended to be granted a tour, and revealed a most precise knowledge of the matter of the show, before he dropped he had authored three reviews for it, leaving me speechless, and even cunningly hinting he had very personal relations with the artists. I was unsettled, raving on the novelty of the four-hands plus pieces, he cornered me down to touch me with his belly, whispering I sure was lucky to foster such gems on my walls. I grasped, at his delight, and I felt proud of my two crafty protégées. He spoke in the most exotic French and smelled of the Florentine hills, he reminded me of my best jockeys, I would ask the girls about his manners.
Prof. Y. soon joined, along with an inspiring Liselotte, bare shoulders once she handed her silk trench to the vestiaire attendant, whom she leered at for a few seconds. I knew Y. from old times, of course he had asked me, and obtained, favours as twisted as a demented schoolboy would invent, then shagged me in mostly dark and deserted oratories and mausolea he obsessed about at the time. Altogether, the remembrance of these characterised abuses upon a doctoral student did not bitter my mouth, and I had sussed out that the same shenanigans had occurred with my sweet stargazers, when I read clever articles about them in The Paris Studio and The Golden Wing, signed by him, totally ignoring any reference to the current academic endeavours of “airport art” and the billionaire’s poodle speculative schemes.
As the hungry boho fellowship rallied by Liselotte, at my girls’ demand, berthed along the well supplied tables, the two academics congratulated each other, anticipating some future reviews of the body of work, so to speak.
The young troupe of funambulists smelled sandalwood and body ardour, I knew I would see a good many of them in the raw, eventually soon, when the fairies would have sorted through them. Currently, they dwelled in peripheral territories, in subsidised artist shelters built in cheap concrete, but they sported inventive accoutrements with no lack of elegance or taste, and swayed their hips like royalty. I treated them like desirable.
To go along with his finely aged golden green velvet jacket and vest, James held the arm of an unknown, British for sure, tall and thin pale redheaded beauty he came to introduce as his daughter, of whom nobody had known of. She wore a long lichen grey gown printed like Margaret Mac Donald Mckintosh’s screens, I knew she noted my gaze at her feet, she was savvy on these manners.
Now a bronze-coloured limousine put ashore, under the direction of uniformed police, and let the main becoming cohort descend upon my emporium; Hugo cladded in a waisted maroon silk velvet shawl collar jacket over a lilac Nehru shirt, black silk trousers and varnished loafers. Kate flitted graciously, almost nude in a charivari of rainbow chiffon, weightless on silver toe ring sandals; at her neck, wrist and ankles, white opals panicked gently. Sarah displayed graphic elegance in black and white, her high waist, wide off-white crepe trousers propping high the fitted black uniform tail jacket, punctuated with silver buttons; although she did not button up, she wore no shirt, and her Melchior-given art-deco white jadeite, black onyx and diamonds choker made a killing. She wore her sacred platinum tank watch along with Ayla’s present, and the Kettelær ring, as she wanted to beguile her dad. She walked in white braided-leather bespoke Jodhpur boots.
Ayla Naveen trotted all smile, holding hands with a thinner nymphet, both in dark fluid sequined trapeze dresses hung from their minute breasts. ebony and gold bangers at their wrists, multicoloured jewelled chains at their ankles, over black lacquered simple sandals. Be it keen mimetism or Ayla having played doll with a newbie, the show was striking and visibly aroused Hugo. They gazed from under the same fringe, the younger one showed crisp little ears, and displayed a sizeable diamond at her long tapered hand; I thought that, had I time, I would shell out some to lure her into my bed, or both of them.
Sparkly Anisette was proud of her princely catch, whom had visibly shuffled her whims at no end, and was willing for more, Simon wore an elegantly cringed ecru flax outfit, as always buttoned up over his scars, rawhide loafers and a wild ponytail. She wore, as a tempting surprise to me, one of Sarah’s ancestor’s long shirts, a deep blue strass belt and possibly nothing more but her black docs; with her newly bloomed smile, she was devil’s bait and I knew all her numbers.
Finally, Natalia and Beryl jumped out of the car like the maids of honour at a mob marriage, all the more blithely in pristine Victorian undershirts of embroidered linon on impalpable white leotards, one with ankle socks and Mary Jane shoes, the other with flat white deerskin sandals, for Beryl had edible toes.
Guests queued up and had been warned that ID would be checked; Louis hugged me demonstratively and couldn’t help lush comments on the attendance; I was surprised to recognise Victor, more like an old jockey of mine, of fair sport memory, as a tingle up my spine meant. He brought Fulgence Rotor, a Beaux Arts alumnus of my belles, who had renewed some mutual ardour in a recent encounter in Victor’s realm. The voracious lone wolf still bore his charm with panache, he would certainly entice one or more of the guests in his glittering berline, to firstly disrobe them on the rich leather and feel them wet for the peeper’s lust, as I recalled it, relating to some of the girls’ erotic confidences; he smelled Greek scrubland and moonlit shore; Kate’s downfall resurfaced as an emotional shudder, I took a deep gaze in his black eyes and ushered him in my home, where Beryl came, wiggling like a kitten at his side.
More impassible servicemen took position for Mr Kettelaer, undoubtedly her father, whatever Sarah called him. She ran to him, leaving Fulgence to Kate who was dancing the seven veils for the beautiful lad.
Three black vans brought Melchior to my door, and signals were exchanged for the now overcrowding security not to shoot each other; a cloud of German cologne floated, I was shrinking of fear, but happily Hugo ran to us and introduced me to the greying man with piercing cerulean eyes and pinhole pupils. I let him watch my breasts in my opened shirt, with my most engaging face. My ink-black, pinstripe suit was adjusted on my hips and I saw that the manly fly attracted him, as he did not try to hide it. He smelled of silk road loot, balms, resins and rare woods, he could have anything of me, too.
The energetic team in fitted black jeans were building up some imperial tip for themselves, the bite-size Danish inventions were swept and resurged at a frantic pace. Fulgence helped pour Champagne for those in need, ewers of pale beverages kept all adorable lips fresh.
I never felt such congeniality with the artsy gang as I had relished at Saint Loup, we would have nothing much to share in conversation about the hung pieces in the cruelly posh setting of L’Etoile Amusée. Dandy surrealism has perished away when Daniel Cordier let his arms drop at the showcase front he had fought for; as sexy as they showed, they lugged along mediocre pop clichés, picking up butts from Duchamp’s careless ashtray. My musing about mental automatism, as a kaleidoscopic conduit to the (soul?)’s focal point, like it was vigorously charted in bright metaphors by André Breton, only met mundane marketing concepts from otherwise doable colleagues, and unfailingly brought up interrogations, winding or frank, about our obviously desirable means. Boys or girls, I used my impeccably provocative allure to snub them aside from that kind of ethos, even if I could fantasise buying some of them to a furious bed.
James introduced me to his daughter Annabelle, with enough proximity for me to sniff her maddening English rose, and read her reciprocal yearning for fine grained girl’s skin; as her dad let be seen our thorough sensual connivance, like you may allow in a heated gathering of rare species, I sensed that we would soon crease some fabric together, and I shared gazes with her moor-green eyes, in the most benevolent manner, so to dare speak.
Malo appeared in a black satin domino that Hugo untied from behind her, unveiling her sleekly pale figure seizing her cello from its robotic case and laying her slender feet on each side at an angle, under an elaborate shattered crystal chandelier held up with a thin rod from behind the black and gold screen behind her. She silenced the audience with a few spacey traits she had rehearsed for the rooms and let go forte. There, she was no longer facing a party of intimate libertines, although she could have picked almost anyone for her whim, the tense security squad included, she was happening through our companionship, and recorded by three sophisticated devices manned by Gauthier’s recruits who spawned out of the shadows in tight black outfits, headphones on. Her ethereal wreaths and scrolls, so familiar to Hugo’s household, detangled the nerves of the assembly, which weren’t a confederacy of dunces, be that as it may; the fray of expensive stuffs loosened kindly, and I swooned into Far’s Denmark’s scent, and let him support me, closing my eyes, reviving the Tudor terraces under the snow, lighting up my plexus thrills as if I stole Malo’s volutes for us two. He masterfully dropped in my ear the words that he wanted to talk to me, so I weaved us out to a faraway corner and smiled, face to him, who, most thankfully, did not change. I was always unconditionally bedazzled by his professional skill to alleviate any irrelevant dregs from his talk. He gave me a solid fatherly eye, the very same as mine, and shot in few words that my Mor and Martin were in Paris and humbly begged to meet me briefly, whatever aftermaths it might. He swiftly went on to assert that a party like the one there was the best emotional jamming around a quick encounter, even if I chose to ignore the plea. The music was truly poignant, I could not have spoken, I took Far’s manicured hand and slid it under my lapel, on my bare chest, where my heart beat like a scared cygnet.
Far said he would go outside to call, and he came back soon, and Martin was following him like a brainwashed warrior. He fixed me with a frozen gaze. We really looked alike, only he had probably worked out the American way and became too burly for my taste; he stood silly, said that he had thought of me much, and he needed my permission to ask Far for my coordinate and write like once a week, if ever. Far came back over, Malo was granting us an angelic coda, I said yes but I could not cry, Martin thanked me, almost clicking his heels, half-rolled his eyes and ran.
The music had ended, Hugo wrapped Malo in the black silk and hugged her. I noticed Theo had arrived with Florenz, Kate crossed my eyes and hurried to me. Far hugged me again, he greeted Kate and said at once that I had had a hard knock to withstand and she might help. I couldn’t leave his chest, after a while he asked me for a tour of our works. We met persons curious about my new cavalier, I did introductions, first rather icy, then I felt like thawing, and flocks of scarlet crows were flying away in my visions; unintentionally, I held Kate and Far in the same embrace, and she wasn’t shied. I told her in her ear, Far let us rock ourselves, like we do. We walked around and gave him the most sincere report of what had induced, so to say, the trip of all the pictures he saw; after some time he risked that we should write what we were telling him in a book, along with the pictures, Hugo, who had approached, agreed to this idea and was visibly thrilled to know my father. Kate was now embracing me as usual, our demonstration to Far, that no one knew but stood with undeniable charm, became a fortuitous attraction, after Malo had captivated the souls. Impromptu, Ayla came forward at a threshold and made a gracious curtsey, lowering her eyes then staring at Far keenly; he asked for her hand and kept it to his mouth a tad too long, unabashed, as if to manifest some superior respect; she then took my wrist and kissed the gift she had clutched to it, then returned to her young fling, as in a swanky tableau, and winked to Far’s eye.
As ever, Far should move on, but invited Kate and me for dinner the day after next, promising that there would be no more Martin apparition out of the blue; Kate was in love with him. Suddenly, Julia Grant stretched a straight hand and laughed, seeing Far reminisce the saucy comedy scene in the hotel, so he laughed of good heart with us three and said Geneva had been altogether a good idea, to what some masculine voice concurred positively, as we recognised Tudor himself, and Julia jumped to his neck, providing a distraction as for Far to flee, followed by his usual detail.
Considering the three girls in front of him, plus Ayla who ran with her protégée when she saw who he was, Tudor turned his palms to the sky and rolled the eyes, mumbling he wished Harmony could have come too. He seized Ayla’s little face and kissed her forehead, telling her he was overjoyed he snitched on her; she slid back her hand on my chest in a move that ravished Melchior, who passed by and leered at me, again.
The invasion by Martin was thinning in my mind, I felt nasty. Louis requested my attention on the side, asking me to look at the young girl he had come with, short light brown mane on a small head carried high, tall androgynous frame and round butt, in black moleskin shorts, loose Liberty boy’s shirt and distressed docs, Louis read my lustful mind and said, briefly, she called herself Liseron, still stayed at her working parent’s, and was on the verge to waste herself out for real; he was asking me to show her the codes and pits of a lifestyle she had never lived, and bring her along if I reckoned she was my kind of class, he would reward heftily my endeavours and hers. He took me to her and introduced me, telling her I had many keys available, or not; she fancied my outfit, was tempted to do what Ayla had done, smiled as Louis left. She timidly asked for the cloakroom, I took her hand and guided her to a much quieter bathroom in Camille’s office.
As we snuck in, we heard some unmistakable sort of beastly noises, at least two were shagging in here; strung up as I had been, I jumped on the opportunity and put my hand on her mouth, pushing her against the wall, like in a good schooldays’ shenanigan. She smelled some intoxicating man’s cologne, with a hint of a pomander kept in a cedar drawer, I kissed her blooming lips, she stroked my tadberries, her shorts fell, her shirt floated. Simon heard the breaths and the rustle so he stopped and whispered, asking who was there, I said it was me and pushed Liseron who was hesitant but moist like dawn, near the desk where Simon was humping the whole nude Anisette who invited a kiss from the new girl.
She wore Bacall blond rich hair and a formal flared black with white polka dots twill dress, 3/4 sleeves, and black satin cuffs, collar and side pockets; black varnished richelieus and opaque stockings. Stunned as I was by all the red stickers under our labours, I shrugged off the inner appeal she had produced, there were a few new beauties cruising around that night; howbeit, she called my name and stared like I should hear a bell ringing; Indeed she was my Jinlo, as a girl, and a superb embodiment altogether, radiant skin with no makeup, sensuous lips I kissed a tad longer than casually. She was thin and styled, as tall as me, she moved like a born Highness, actually. I offered a drink, she asked for the pale mauve lemonade and we tucked ourselves in a corner, at everyone’s wonder. We had been frequent lovers after Cynthia flew away, so we stared mute each other’s eyes, hers darker than mine and rimmed, she had a blessing of long thick lashes, I thought of dragging her away upstairs . She was overjoyed with her instant success, she told me she had spotted me here, in Paris, for long, but had worked out her transition, with the vague view to win me over, were it just once. After a blank, she told my eyes that she had, nevertheless, kept her willie, which I had acquainted merrily all around the Alster lakes, and also had Simon, as of late.
I was elated, it was a pearly ribbon in our triumph bouquet, and since I sensed that I could not shag her on the spot, I looked to show her to Theo, who graced between Lorenz and Gauthier with Malo in a gleaming orchid-black pencil dress, barefoot. They linked up swiftly, Cynthia was their mutual idol and, as it came, had spoken of Jinlo in graceful terms.
Mary wore a short dress, undergrowth-coloured, silky, fishbone-patterned knitted, sleeveless, showing her praised breasts; dark yellow tights and avocado-green Mary Janes. She was disappointed not to be let to shoot around in the beautiful assembly, a series of posed official mementos had already been made, none of the attendance wished to adorn any social register. Her new intimate condition did not reveal itself yet to the obvious, only for the friendly eye would she seem to stand with her feet at a slightly more open angle. In the Epicurean mood of the evening, I craved her and wished I share some more of her undoubtedly unique variety of pleasure, given the tribe’s inclinations and the errs of the planet around. She asked if we came swimming a few days later, I thought if would be a grace to feel her in the water.
Sarah seemed besotted with an unknown androgynous tall child of her own, whose marsh green eyes shied from any others but eventually stood up to mine, and livened up to a smile, as I made my best welcoming face. Sarah floated that she was about to drive Liseron home, for it was a school night, and I grasped that she was chasing schoolgirls, lately; her gaze meant that she would clue me into the loop, later; and she seized her catch by the waist, towards the street.
Simon’s nape smelled sex, obviously, and Anisette looked like I would have reveled upon her blooming labia, and she knew it. But then I was taken aback when an older lady in a flax beige power suit pivoted and i saw my mother, reaching out to me, as beautiful and classy as I could have dreamt of. I had not seen or talked to her since the deadly mess I had spawned, fool-headedly. She was there for a major reckoning and I read that Simon had engineered his own closure masterfully, and now, that, was making me cry like a girl. Hugo and Camille were alerted, but finely grasped the situation and remained distant, until Simon could Introduce them as best friends to his swollen-eyes sister. First, Mama saw the whole art show as mine, disconcerted to see that I had disavowed my previous trends to intellectualise my stance, as young artists easily do in the German situation; it went to show that we had not discussed as artists since ages. She read my bend backwards to some Sylt holidays in the old couple’s workshop, and Simon concurred, there had been rainy days.
Soon, Mama responded to my clasp as if not thinking of what I had unbeknownst inflicted to her; I reasoned that Simon had already worked out with her the dire quid pro quo in which I had woken, defaced, twirled in the withdrawal syndrome, nonetheless shameful and wasted. Her soft-tone musing on my art, then, surreptitiously harboured the motive as to why I had not killed myself any further, but sought refuge in that random klinik, whenas I would not bid a grain of faith in their practice more than any church of sorts, we had elucidated the swindle, foremostly in the German realm, with my stellar lover Cynthia, who knew very well that, by the time Freud was capitalising upon the upper class nightmares, the likes of a Julius Hallervorden were slaughtering and dissecting hundreds of thousands of people and children deemed nonconforming. One day, Cynthia had taken me to the gravesite where forty-nine brains of euthanised children were rested, in a small rose garden, she explained that none of the doctors who had perpetrated these murders ever were prosecuted, after the collapse of the “third reich”. Cynthia and her parents had literally fled to Australia in front of the horrendous comments that the direct heirs of the unrepentant nazi medical staff had dared utter as to her undecided gender.
Now I pressed my reassuring mother’s arm, and overly talked in front of Sarah and myself’s elaborate mirrors of our soul-searching pastime, she smelled her timeless rose as if she never had worn any other scent; she tried to know about Dr Schubert, incidentally, and wondered where my partner was.
Camille’s arrangement did marvel, the voices were muffed, people felt somewhat coddled by the dressed-up walls. Liselotte had rallied some of her old mates near the two academic connoisseur bird-watchers, and seemed hatching one more of her, on reflection unobjectionable, private parties; she swiftly winked at me with her hand under someone’s jean belt. Tudor, who lived his light-weigh life amongst privileged youths, engaged in cerebral joust, for the pornographic pleasure of exchanging with alluring libertines, in case one of them found Switzerland exotic.
Mama said I’d been yet again swooped out in another cloud, like I always did, Anisette realised I wore nothing under my flurry dress, like most guest had figured, she squeezed up to my side, she smelled of Camille’s shower lotion and, in her neck, Simon had licked her skin.
Melchior and his goons had vanished, so had Ayla and her heavenly youngling, we would learn. Julia Grant had been to the restroom, and so had Fulgence, who nonetheless triggered a flirt and hinted about our last conversation, as in our last merry shag. I felt a needed to pee, and led him to the door written “Private” in the diverted service corridor, and in a shady backroom, lit by a green emergency lamp. As he began fondling me through my dress, our sight adjusting to the glaucous obscurity, as well as some discreet panting, made us seek through the shambles, and see the white skin of Gauthier, butt naked, buggering Malo’s arse as she pulled up her dress. We kept the whispering mode to cheer them, Fulgence was utterly tense as I held his conspicuous manhood, he chucked my rags over my head and tweaked my body into a shudder mill, swiftly surpassing the talent he had shown at Victor’s while the others accelerated their quest, too. He spewed his cum in deep, inflaming my entrails and prying loose the orgasm I deserved, still rummaging my arse for more of my tremours. Malo and Gauthier had exulted, too, and came around; beyond the room’s awkward scent, sweats and pleasure distorted broadly our parade fragrances. It happened that the hardy boys knew each other well, enough to mutually wank back to order.
My pupil availed all her trove to me on the cab’s back seat, on the way to her quarters; accustomed to private means, I did not pay much attention to the driver, who took care not to be reminded of. In as few words as I could, I asked her if she knew what she was up to, at my hand, for Louis’ project, eventually. She murmured in my neck that she was aware it was prostitution, but it was nothing new to her and her boyfriend had sold her to Hector, to whom he owed his junky life. No, she had not been hooked on anything herself, only had her enjoyed recreational psychedelia, and not heavily, because her mother would have sensed it and stirred the whole kinsfolk of puppets she called a family, not to mention her sly dad who had forced her to swallow his jizz, as to avoid stains on his grey flannel, ever since he had had his office on another floor. Her old boyfriend had all the videos of what he had made her do on a webcam, she had plotted to ask Louis and his might to rid her of the whole vicious trap, and she asked for my help, for that was what he had advised her to do, swearing it would be rewarding and safe. I devised to break down the whole plot to Hugo, Louis was one of his peers, and to my soulmate.
Back to Camille’s, I went in through the back and splashed some water over my merry hide, tried on some Florentine talcum, and trotted through the pantry towards any more carnal delicacies. Julia was keenly chatting in her best English with James’ newfound gracile daughter, she noted I had read in her eyes where the soft conversation would lead to, so I only mimicked an air kiss behind Annabelle’s bonny head. I noticed that her array of veils weren’t stitched in the back, and it itched me to feel her back arch, right then, but I let Julia lull her towards her hotel, she would later tell if there was treasure to be reveled in.
As Liselotte mislaid a silk gloved hand along my ribs, we affected to gossip like Ladies. I confided to her lecherous greed that I would avidly spend some pussy ardours on a well hung squire, if ever. She asked if she could watch, possibly, gazed at my slightly powdered face and smirked away, telling me to sneak out to the office.
One of the stray poets who smelled weed seized me from inside my jacket and while tonguing me like the adolescent he might have been, daintily unclothed me. Soon, Liselotte joined us with two more hopefuls she wanked hardily as her dress fell down. My servant laid me on the desk’s leather and it was obvious that I was on the other two’s plate, Liselotte already easing two slimy fingers into my accesses. They eagerly took revenge on the distant spoiled brat they probably had lusted after, with no avail, as students; her best skills were to wind other’s embers, and sit on my face, conveniently.
Theo and Jinlo held hands, they sung Cynthia’ praises, cocooning themselves apart. Sensing that, Lorenz had pulled easily one of the bohemians whom he would play to enslave to decorum and fine haberdashery, anyhow, I had seen the hand upon a sizeable dick, before they evaded to the high style Olympe of heavenly balsams, the model was elegant, he might be traded back on my shore, at a pinch.
Camille had freshened up, she worried about the younglings, whatever I would demonstrate as to my circle being trustworthy.
As a matter of fact, Fanny wandered back on set, her short flaxen hair wet, wearing opulent silk pyjamas, no shoes on, and a sweet tooth over the colourful plates of confectionery that were being brought then. Her unaffected poise in the bronze-coloured, maze pattern printed, gleaming satin, her perpetually candid silvery green gaze which had worked marvels as for her new life, I seized her quietly but granted her a full fledged stealth erection that she acknowledged handily. I complimented her mellowness, in my low tone of voice, and hinted that she ought to have exulted in a galactic spend, skimming her steady heart under the alluring little breast. She confessed to have bewitched her sitter when he announced that the program was over, the high powers reckoning that the cobweb was exterminated. He had been desperate and elated altogether, but he was a soldier, eventually, and the sharpest strain, that is. She rounded her drifting stare as the timeless figure of the wordless survivor; I sought to soothe what I had read as the shadow of a fever, she cuddled herself into my jacket like a pet, and Camille smiled.
Beryl and Natalia beamed up, with sparkling eyes, out of some time corridor of a few hours, safe as love. They confided in my keen ears that they had followed Victor on his promise he would show them amusement without harassment or any of the kind. He drove the big two-tones blue berline which felt like submarine; Beryl soon coddled her beguiled cadette in the smooth swaying along the sleepy avenues, Victor emoting rave compliments at the rear-view mirror as Natalia was denuded on the rich leather. With the help of some true crooning from the big center speaker, the two nymphs did what they knew best and reaped shudders of joy unabashedly. The luxury carriage had slowed insensibly and stopped, now strangers looked eagerly through the side glass windows, for the girls’ merriment and Victor’s who masturbated in a white kerchief. There had not been much more going, and the wide-eyed Silver Wraith had released its angelic shipment where it had picked it up, an awaiting chauffeur letting a besotted Victor revel into the scents of the back seat.
I knew that Beryl played as Victor’s agent in sensuous regards to Natalia’s fine lechery, so I let her feel watched and liked as far as it had been, pawing her tight butt against the panelling.
It was time to gather up the household, I called the big town car and covered Camille’s hands with kisses. A host of aftermaths to this night would start at dawn, but I plotted to sleep along with the two younger light-hearted damsels, whom, I suspected, Victor had aroused, on edge, as a message to me. Beryl is one crafty little whore, at what tender age had Victor baptised her?
Down from the Tudor terraces where the industrial angels freeze upon their pinnacles, the relentless waves beat the derelict shore, attack the disused powerhouse where the scarlet crows nest. It snows. I wear my heavy blue and blue scarf, and a flannelette pyjama printed with red squirrels scattered over a dark starry night. I am cold but Martin has locked me out, the house is dark. The stone sitting corner chimeras grumble fast comments about me, some crows watch over from the overlooking monumental chimneys of the ruined plant. My bare feet make a darker imprint on the pavement, I will eventually die unnoticed until thaw, I wouldn’t make an acceptable industrial motif in the decor, besides, I have no symmetrical counterpart, which seems to have been the main concern for our building to exist. The street lights are so far down that the quantity of snow enshroud them away, only the night is clear enough. Squirrels have scaled the facades and coalesce as to pull me back to the French window I came out from, I feel the scratches on my feet. They rage upon the windows frames and their tiny claws finally unlatch the casement so I follow them in, so do some crows which scatter, laughing, in Far’s enormous bookcase. The squirrels have naturally ran to the kitchen, I can hear the rummage through the cupboards, then louder the train that hurtles along behind the glass walls of the library, unknown to me before. My feet rest on a carpet of moss stud with curious teensy blue flowers that stare at me and shut when I will walk on them. My brother Martin barges in, wearing the Westpoint uniform with a red thunderbolts badge on the sleeve; he runs up the library ladder and jumps on the dark train. I lay down on the smiling lawn and wish I was nude, when my mother passes by, from the kitchen, with a large tumbler of clear water; she says in French that my squirrels are pillaging the breakfast news and I’d better find them a refuge before the Swiss army kills them for fur. A train has stopped, crystalline and gloomy behind a plane-glass door in the wall. At the touch of a finger, the two halves part with a pneumatic cry, so then the little red troupe runs in, leaving a trail of sweet cereals behind them. As I walk, minute plants spawn from the steel floor in my traces, at the hilarity of my turbulent escort. They call for my attention towards a dump of rags in a shady corner of the mirror chrome clad car that seems to wriggle more than the train course would cause; I try to draw the top blanket and see a girl I knew, Elsie Chautemps, in a simple tee shirt, who begs me to tear off the blanket because it is so heavy she has been laying there since Mayday. I rid her of the rags, she smells like the fresh-baked orange cake with a hint of cinnamon, the scent she always offered to me to lick off her skin. The tiny jokesters gathered and they rub on her gracile body; she asks where have I been.
By any trick, Natalia was sleeping along my back, in the morning, and she smelled daintily animal when I turned and cuddled her. Time for me to go pee in my own shower and rinse away the ebullience of our tightly filtered social confluence, one might say. When I finished wiping and brushing, the two of them had found each other’s warmth and dreams. Finding only true stale bread in the kitchen, I went for French toast, a sure mean to see Sarah ramp at my feet, as fair game, to start with. However, Natalia’s purr in her neck and my own predictable, though stealth, rummage, then my beating the eggs in the same heavy porcelain bowl, had driven her on my path, except she was still wet when she grabbed me from behind and listened to my heart and breath.
She brew strong Darjeeling tea thoughtlessly, parsing the events of what remained of her dream’s, as I still heard the long beating of low summer waves on the whimsical Wattenmeer sands. Mama had yet to avow what might have gone horribly wrong when Achim died.
With her ticklish feet on my lap, I succeeded to open my bulging mail box, her dad was first in row, with a shared heartfelt review of our unfettered endeavours, funambulistic attempts at a cartography of souls, for the inner peregrine to follow. Lars von Kettelær is a wandering wizard, I would nest in his breast pocket.
I was dumbstruck by the equivocal squibs by some of the Liselotte squadron, could I have so mislaid myself together with Béraud de Fourchez, and Nathan Vidal, and Pol Fannon? Or was it of no matter, anyway? Sarah puffed in her icing sugar and mumbled that we had been brash, indeed, on debauchery, but only once we had made everyone giddy with metaphors, enough to let them waver as to our sanity for the years to come. She did not believe those three squires would utter differently, had we shagged them or not, by the bye.
Natalia still smelled of all the licks she had reaped when she lifted Sarah’s feet to sit down in their place, and once they were upon the table, she chewed on them; she was light and careless, she parted her legs and set her feet on the chair’s rungs, she was wet like a daffodil.
Beryl yawned as she shuffled in, wearing one of Hugo’s shirts loosely buttoned; she floated they both lost their outfits, and she stole a mouthful of her beloved pupil; she smelled of windy honeysuckle all over, like Hugo does to you when he lays you happy and massages you more than once. She pulled a chair next to mine and groped us like toys. Sarah fetched a new box of oatmeal, mixed some with raisins and flaked almonds, brown sugar and cinnamon, switched the hotplate on and asked Beryl to stir gently while she pleased herself with her languid body.
Simon and his flame, hand in hand, came begging for something to eat, too. Anzy beamed, she wore borrowed boys trunks and singlet so wide she shows her goodies that we grabbed and stroke, Natalia and me, so as Simon extended in his own shorts. Beryl made a complimentary smile and served the plates of porridge, for the time being; Anzy had not yet known Natalia, she wanted a full kiss.
More tea, more hand tricks, yet the gossip took over, and then appeared Ayla and Esther Thamar, for that was who was the new marvel she brought along, black eyes and half-long hair, peach-pale complexion with irresistible freckles, thin like a gazelle. Everybody looked at her with greeting smiles and lust shivers, sensed the refined sisterhood between the two girls in casual faded hoodies, coral for her and pea-green the other, greyish plumage leggings and pastel paisley the other, both on thin flat sandals. No wonder Sarah got prime hugs and rubs until the sweat-shirt surrendered and dropped from the sylphlike body, winning her a general awestruck sigh, for the greater pride of Ayla, who stripped easy.
Anisette had pulled Simon by the knob and sucked him thoroughly on the couch, so Natalia ran to help and my dear brother swooned once more.
Having slipped into an antique white shirt, I excused myself to climb up to the studio, my laptop in hand. I followed procedure to reach my Far and waited for green light. Ayla had followed me, dragging up Esther; she went eager on me, like old times, said she, showing me her catch who sat on my lap, in the red couch. She began to retell their venture at Melchior’s, and I knew what that meant, her intern of sorts had came back with more diamonds she had ever touched, and the artfulness of cat for more so.
Esther, who spoke enough of the Swiss languages as well as Youtube English, was almost seventeen and a runaway, like Ayla had been, who had picked her from the street soon enough before it turned real sour for her. Esther was not a registered prostitute, as of yet, but came in as a prized co-star for a choice of connoisseurs; soon enough she would reap gold in her coffers, she already was rich by her natural virtue, so to speak, but Ayla wouldn’t let her spend her gains; also, she had home schooling in languages and some literature, according to what my crafty little whore recalled of Saint Loup. At first, she had thought of leaving Esther at Harmony’s, but she was already too old, and morally astray, her mother had sold her repeatedly at a very young age, eventually Ayla was the only person who could bring Esther the guidance she would profit from, and the self-esteem that made her so beautiful; from the wasted rag doll she had scavenged from a dark nook in a hotel corridor, bruised and torn, she had woken this alluring apparition of a higher grace; new shoes, well adjusted outfits, sleek haircut, laser, manicure, and so the gleam of youth had recalled its due territory and Esther could hold up her pensive face, whereof a long straight nose was the mark of a noble soul and a wide sinuous mouth the promise of ardour; the Egyptian eyes needed no pencil to outline their vivacious shrewdness, Ayla’s teaching had diverted the use of most of the compulsive tools young girls wield upon themselves to ruin their own inner harmony, specially on brows, Esther’s were as daring as Ayla’s, her inky-black lashes bountiful, too. The aesthetic and erotic sisterhood of the two girls composed this obviously costly duet I was given to party with, knowing they had availed endless treasures to the Master high-flyer all night.
We conspired as rashly as we had, by the memory shores, in the boxwoods, besotted by another little whore to whom I sang a passionate welcome.
Once she had enough of our ardours and laid spent, I recovered my spirits and asked if they would join Far and us, Simon, Anzy and Julia, whomever loved my dad. After two pondered seconds, I grasped Ayla’s hands so as to make her feel that I sensed that she had not confided the whole truth about my father and her, but I trusted her and fed no grudge and would not demand elaboration.
Far sounded overjoyed that I rounded all this blossoming youth at his stopover, he very well knew how to corner me in a crowd for an intimate connection whenever he deemed necessary, or enviable.
Sarah and I went ahead to her dad’s hotel, to orchestrate a classy smørgåsbord of the French kind, with the help of the well known in-house brigade.
With mostly girls, it promised to be a ruffling henhouse, in which she expected to see her brother perform, as well. We spent like Xmas, a private salon and sheaves of wild flowers, fresh removable upholstery on chairs and settees smelling lavender for the bare legs and arses. We had plotted to run barefeet, I share all with Sarah, we would be imitated, for sure, but at worst, it might be touchy to avoid letting Ayla undress, and keep an innocent gaze. We told the butler where to order the fine fruit lemonades and kombucha.
The season was blossoming like a dream, evenings lasted ad æternum in the breath of Guanyin. We wore short waistless skirts cut by Gianni Capodimonte on us in new ikat rolls from the silk road, lined in contrasting coloured silk and stitched so as we could show our undies, or none. Sarah was unmistakably blue on blue lotus, lined in marigold fever, I donned sweet-pea carmine on jade lined in turquoise shiver, my knickers were skin-coloured and thin, but I did not intend to tease His Excellency.
Hugo arrived with Camille, Fanny and Malo, sans instrument. He wore a diverse coloured raw silk herringbone knit Nehru jacket on off-white tee-shirt, pleated trousers and oxfords. Camille fitted herself in a pine green Chinese dress opened to the navel and slit up to the hips and a gold and jade dog collar, like the white hooker in a Shanghai opium den. Fanny’s cloudy shirt dress was printed with large faded chrysanthemums, the sleeves were rolled up and a braided pale silver silk belt underlined her elfin waist over her mignon butt. Malo had avoided her often dramatic make-up and only touched her lashes and lids. a beaded Poiret tunic flew around her narrow frame like a small chute of crystal candied berries I wished I spilled on the high pile carpeting.
Our mother has always felt on me as over-elegant. She walked in prudently, in a celadon green, fuzzy bias cut silk bourette ensemble with zouave pants and silver Egyptian sandals, holding a silver bejewelled flat pouch; she serenely sat next to me and I immediately sensed her unconditional bond, as it had never failed me, had it? It glowed like some underlying manner of mutual pride, an immediate wash of pardon overcame by Simon’s will, he whom, unabashed, embraced our midst in simple joy, soon to run back to an indeed blushing Anzy. She had chosen long black chiffon Gipsy petticoats scattered with coloured dots and went barefoot already, fumbling the carpet with her dainty toes, much in some onlookers’ taste.
Sarah’s dad was on time, her mom at his arm. She wore lush couture, subdued-coloured peacock patterned twill, in layers of different lengths skirts, under an open shirt; at her neck, and wrist, three rows of dark iridescent Tahiti pearls; she had cultivated smart looking feet, tanned with black-purple nails and sandals. Her father donned some textured duck-blue two buttons blazer, black pleated trousers, black loafers and powder-blue open shirt and socks. We reveled in watching her pride, although I dreaded the entry of her unfazed brother into an otherwise melodious assembly; she acted her house girl part, was read rightly by our dignified Hugo whom played second, triggering edginess among the white jackets.
Thankfully, Martin von Kettelær, Julia and dainty Annabelle had met in the lift, and Julia’s radar had sensed possible unsavoury tremors, then parsed out who was here, speaking to them with a Californian college accent, self-conscious and wired like a debutant. She took lead and, while holding Annabelle’s hand, deployed a Faraday cage of small talk upon Martin, whose Kettelær porcelain eyes became all too happy to beget enchanted by her stare, introducing him to most of us as the Princesse’s brother she had not known, minutes ago. Tactically, he manoeuvred, in his faultless night-blue silk suit and open white shirt, to reach behind the couch where his parents sat.
Annabelle moved as fluidly as a prairie stream, lending a pensive smile to any of the guests and accepting to join Camille and Fanny on a settee, visibly welcome. She wore a long multi-layered sage grey chiffon gown with long sleeves, under a long vest as intricately re-threaded and embroidered as a spring’s edge; she wore matched, painted of honeysuckles, long Mary Janes, and lichen stockings, or was it me, fancying they weren’t tights?
Her alluring date Julia was now embracing Sarah like so as to keep her from rooting in the middle of the room; as she had precisely known her relation to her father, foremost since they had been caught in bed together in a room of his hotel by some unforeseen “men in black” and he had laughed the matter away, Julia knowingly respected him, and loved him.
Julia was the thin muscular type, the picture-perfect glamour girl, but wholeheartedly aware of others. She wore a classy copy of a deerskin American Indian tunic, randomly embroidered in the style of the traditional prairie maps, beaded with rustic turquoises and porcupine spikes, fringed along the sleeves line and at the knees: she ran in beaded mocassins as well. Her mane was tied back with a bejewelled headband of Indian motives far too precious to have been crafted in the ancestral lands. She winked at Mr Kettelær, and came by to hit on me.
Far went to Kate and kept her hand a while, as she did not seem to have minded; he pulled out his tortoiseshell spectacles to read her grey eyes, and flattered her so as to make her step sideways cutely, he could do that to me, as well. He was warm with Julia, asking if she had hoodwinked her security detail, she bantered back, venturing that one never knew who might be behind the door, obviously giving him the eye. He was overjoyed with a more intimate and benign crew of appealing persons. He remembered Fanny, from photos, and complimented her on her fluent English, thus associating Camille as naturally as if he knew and approved the arrangement. Beryl was impressed, Natalia was strung up and aroused altogether like the fairy tale streetwalker she will never be. Anzy paled nicely when he inquired about Simon’s good health, cheered at the news of his achievements, and became somewhat abstruse about his family clout in Hamburg, to little echo, irregardless, from their mother. Simon, embracing Anzy for her relief, just retorted that he thought of re-settling in the old family house by the lake, and was told that the city had become a most pleasant place in the world, indeed. Anzy could not have slurred a word. He then became honey smooth around Annabelle, who sharpened her Scottish accent and insensibly arched her back as he watched her through her dress.
Ayla’s streamlined legs were sheathed in black silk, in black varnished Salomé shoes. She whirled in a striking short, black, grosgrain trapeze dress graphically trimmed with three graded white ribbons applied to the cleavage, the bell three-quarters sleeves, and the hemline. Her modestly double-lined eyes flung shards of obsidian while her smile won her all hearts; all Far did was to hug her and tell her name. I ceased wondering what the two had ever conspired together.
The young apprentice stood mostly in black herself, her dainty pale shoulders out of a twill, flared dress, applied with all-over, toned-down purple, crimson and siena smoke-ring shapes; she movingly floated a tad in what ought to have been her lover’s size, my craving of her pinched my womb. She wore long black evening gloves.
Far and Hugo shook hands as worldly club men, Far disclosing, in conversation, a solid knowledge of our dear writer’s corpus, a tad more than a mere intern could have churned out for him; Hugo beamed, probably more because Far’s considerations as for his daughter’s whereabouts had not sensibly crossed him, as long as she demonstrated happiness.
I clutched his arm and seated him at the edge of the center settee, there, where I could slide my feet under a cushion, for him to find them, at the understated amusement of Kate, Julia, and Ayla.
He announced that he would leave us in two hours, Kate protested but I remained unfazed, as ever about Far’s schedules; stroking my right foot, pointing at Martin to approach, he started mezzo voce in our Danish. He said he was setting a family trust through what Martin and me would own all his inheritance, provided we let our Mor live for ever at Tudor City, her allowance being cared for otherwise. There were also houses in Denmark and in Sweden, the supervision of the trust had been rested with a Danish law firm, the same who had advised our family for ages. He invited us to Copenhagen, a month later, to do the paperwork, in the grand townhouse overlooking Rosenborg’s gardens where everything smelled of a terrifying mute Grand Far.
He had switched back to his dignified English, and he described lovingly the works he had ordered on Christianø island, in the old Admiral’s barrack for which he had protracted the lease with the Søværnet. He showed us pictures on his telephone, sent by the architect; I was overwhelmed by the tide of emotions that washed up to my soul, my pretty young self totally unbridled that very summer, getting shagged in the smell of wet wool in the rowboat, half-raped on the fisherman’s charts table, his poignant repentance, and after that an after-season in the raw among titillated holiday-makers, the roots of my contemporary art farce, eventually leading rightfully on Y.’s desk with a fox tail in my arse! I swore out loud that I needed to show Kate the tiny world where cats and dogs are forbidden; we could, among our usual lucubrations, roam through the Admiral’s trove of charts in the vast chests of drawers. Kate agreed, only if we went to her sacred home in Kampen, on another emotional island, to what Simon exclaimed eagerly, and Anzy lost the thread, but cuddled under his shoulder.
At said time, a butler crept in swiftly to murmur in Far’s ear, making him press my toes and then kiss my forehead; after holding everyone’s hands or shoulders, he ran through the door where two grey-suited athletes awaited, and off he was. I sensed some cute amusement on Ayla’s face, she fed tidbits of calisson to obedient Esther.
The night was young, my Bror stood behind the settee where Kate had filled Far’s imprint and taken hold of my feet with warmer hands. Martin ached for conversation, he eventually dropped that he wanted to move back in Europe and set up a law practice, profiting from his international credentials; the topic did not thrive, only Mor and Julia had any faint lights on such opportunities; I only grasped that he would be closer to me, bearing an indelible mark like old tale’s renegades. He craved a hint of an answer from Kate, his fly at her nose’s height, but she kept only just tending my little bones. Most artificially, I asked Martin if he would like to live in Copenhagen, he joked that he would let me keep Denmark and the Queen while he would besiege Brussels or Strasbourg.
After a complicit stare at Kate’s eyes, I excused myself to the powder room, where, unluckily, no one showed. When I returned, the two brothers had found common ground, and I intuited that Anzy had switched out, so I could catch up with her palatable face I had been fast, before, to make out. Hugo and Camille helped me entice her aside, she smelled of Cornish rose after the rain and it maddened me, even though the two dowagers, for whom that evening had been some crucial alleviation, in the wake of their daughters’ worldly debut, somehow chaired this cunning assembly of trollops and libertines, I let myself enlace my whim bait, in her weightless chiffon mess, grabbed her butt and greedily kissed her. That was my move as to Martin’s attempt, many in the room donned a fine smile, Ayla swayed her dainty chin when we turned towards the room; I was thinking of not letting anyone believe I abused Anisette, I kept her tight as Simon came back and hugged us two. Mor winked at me.
By the time the disguised fruits, cream puffs and other nougatines were left alone, some other plan was cast on me, by the craftiest of players. The dignified mother queens had left, Beryl had rang curfew with Natalia, indisputably, though effusively; now Ayla clasped on the bracelet she had owned me with, and summoned me to her hotel room, making Hugo’s brows jump up with envy. Esther smirked candidly, I bit Kate’s lobe wishing her good night as it seemed she was to welcome Julia and Annabelle in our grand bed.
I tipped the impeccable staff and implied they save the untouched treats for their kids, then I was ushered into a night cab, between two Swiss keen trulls. Their hideout wasn’t long away, with a fancy grey and red porter in a top hat; they strolled through the lobby, unfazed, offering a smile at the always unwavering concierge.
We became fastly as nude as lilies, sniffing one another brazenly as our lickings infuriated animal scents. Esther’s offered, smooth labia swelled, as I deployed my utmost bounty upon them, before the genie of the mirabulous broom closets made me swoon upon her lover’s bum. And the relative newbie had all the same stamina Ayla had shown, among our beloved school’s best battalions; she proudly knackered me off, wet and spent, at her mentor’s delight, into slumbers.
In the morning, I felt like a bee in a may field, unable yet to grasp my whereabouts, except that I smelled sex and needed the loo, where I loitered to on all fours. I perceived brutally that I had been alone, whenas the whole sequence on that voluptuous bed recaped in my fluffy mind. In a moist and inebriating terry robe, that I had picked up where one of them had dropped it, I found their breakfast relics and a note explaining that they had some appointment in Zurich, where I owed them a visit, definitely. Another line in a different handwriting said I was more awesome than A. had ever been able to tell in words, it was signed E. with a star drawn on the tip of the middle bar of the E.
I found a new toothbrush, a hairbrush, drank the rest of the still fresh orange juice, dressed and went down to the lobby where I asked for a taxi, letting the new concierge eye me, not knowing if I was one or not, as I tipped him, reasonably. Although I felt a tad crossed with them for fleeing like thieves, my chest radiated of happy thrills and I craved to tell my chums, with a cup of tea.
As geometry goes, there’s always a circle in a triangle. From Sarah’s vivid tales, I deemed Julia Grant some superior intellectual ascendancy, not hearing about where her clout might originate from, having just read Mr von Kettelær’s attitude before her. Nevertheless, when we became nearer to jump in bed with a real Scottish fairy we both had leered over all evening, Julia revealed carefree and candid about what might happen. She taunted her own taste for sex and vowed not to hustle any one’s pace on that trail; she had already her hands in my dress; she asked Annabelle what a pale beauty like her had been into, as yet. Pulling off her shoes, so as to rest her feet next to my thigh on the settee where we had nested in the meantime, she delivered a scanty resume in which she had not known her father before she mastered in art history at Saint Andrews, like her mother had done. James had known her existence, and contributed to her student life, a few years back. In short, she knew of our lifestyles and had cultivated something quite similar in her mellow, granite clad, shelter. To that, I let my hand stroke her feet, and up, while Julia undresses me. Annabelle went on, marvelling at our boheme arrangement, when summoning her, James had omitted any physical descriptions, albeit beauty had all along been Hugo and his circle’s motive, and she was still stunned by the look of all the women she met with us. Now she appeared to wear no undies, and Julia had moved to help her pull carefully all of her delicate veilings, untousling her extraordinary hair. We shuffled to bed, Julia had lost all vestures, she nosed inside the armpits, onto the modest breasts but prouder than mine. Annabelle preferred some freshening before we hurtled on each other, so we reveled in a whole party of watersports, in which she seemed wholeheartedly accustomed; she peed on us, too, and thoroughly splashed in her coochie edged with fluffy gold.
She was a dedicated amoureuse, she came and again like waves on the northern shores. She kept her moans mostly to herself, whilst Julia burst and sobbed, shaking her head side wise. I could not say what sort of song I voiced, they were so lovable on me.
Late in the morning, Sarah snooped in, with the unmissable smell of croissants and chocolate rolls; she had been brewing tea; she peeped in and could not resist eyeing the new one, who let her pull the quilt away from her languid pose and lay a cheek on her shoulder. “Welcome to the boxwoods”, said her, making Julia laugh, then cunningly showing what that might mean, in their private smutty idiom; I had often begged, and again, Sarah to revive for me the debauchery that she, and her crew, had used to celebrate in all possible nooks of her own holy Switzerland. Julia had been all along one of the tutelary priestesses in their games.
Soon, we decided to show to Annabelle our studio; once everyone duly dolled up, we unearthed enough shabby rags for every one to play in, the Scot fairy’s long legs out of distressed, but clean, pastel blue shorts that set her round butt. I scented an imminent visit by her father, to whom Hugo would have hinted where his offspring drank the morning dew.
Having tested Annabelle’s unsuspected ardours, noticing the way she looked at my heavenly tomboy, whose gracile neck begged for another kiss, I asked Sarah to wear that mystical cologne which, on her only, transcended into a gleam of jonquil, like a Scilly matinee. They instantly fell in love, but Sarah defended her buttons and led the troupe upstairs.
She was all the more enticed to brag upon her Swiss romance, and Julia wanted more details, I deciphered the intonations, the adjectives she said, I heard, despite her, the expense of love she had poured into the nomadic souls from her hinterland. Annabelle, who was bewitched since the magic scent, reached for her feet, as she had seen her father operate, and lost herself daydreaming.
Julia cried, she had fondly loved Ayla at school, and felt stupid when she had vanished, leaving no chance for Harmony or anyone at Saint Loup to rescue who was then a mere kid. Yes, she had been overjoyed to see her brilliant and welded as a gun, and she would not let her own nefarious shards of moral education overwhelm her soul. She sniffed, blew her nose and went to the bathroom spatter her face with cold water. Coming back with reddened eyes, she abruptly said she wanted to settle in Europe, for good. So, Ayla was a tramp, a lovely one at that, under the Swiss law, granting her freedom and protection; so be it, she was her friend, forever.
James called, asking permission to come up, wondering if his daughter was among us already, and he found her coddling Sarah’s feet, slippers and socks cast aside. The scene put him in a good mood, he settled in his armchair, he smelled of bay rum, Annabelle crawled to his knees, sat on his lap, and greeted him welcome; he accepted some tea.
He was stunned by our accomplishment, particularly the involvement of tall academics like Y. and M.E., he asked us how this had come about, Hugo had told him he did not know them. Sarah, rubbing her feet one on the other, smirked finely and said that it had costed more than arm and leg, altogether, but we had been rightfully served, for that matter.
James affected some doubt, but he did not garner more details, as yet. He noted that M.E. had, in one paper, slightly departed from his usual sectarian art scene stance, and bowed to Camille’s endeavours which we exemplified notably, said he. The old sly sycophant of the market sharks had even let out some knowledge of surrealism vicinities, and crafted some skilful metaphors on our artistic tribadism that would titillate at some troughs of the worldly chatter. The outstanding presence of apparent powerful players, in full-fledged armour, had certainly beguiled them, on top of whatever magic we had bound them in.
It would be the day; the dainty boys, from upstairs, knocked, in their distinctive manner. A whiff of extravagant resins tangled up with drops of bigarade, of which Florenz had blessed his live Patinir trove, against the backscape of mountain hay, fresh cropped hemp and gentian, perfused by the golden knight’s mane, these olfactive events caused us to enkindle some licentiousness, Julia drew Gauthier on the settee, I kissed Theo as a girl, and Annabelle was back at licking Sarah’s feet.
The messages abounded, cheerful; my mother begged for another meeting in smaller circle, her children and their significant others should be all.
When Annabelle slid her hand in my shorts’ leg, I felt better go with her on the studio floor, against the wall. She liked to demonstrate to her father how unrestrained-minded she was, all the more when I started to unbutton the shirt of mine she had borrowed. She did not object to Theo joining us, she had grasped his kind nature, she busied both her hands and he worshipped her puerile breasts.
I maundered mentally trying to guess if there were a tension between Annabelle undone with us, rummaging in her delicate freckles, and her father, who could have very well toyed with anyone in the room, not showing the slightest bit of unrest at her view. I reckoned my own shamelessness towards Far had eventually triggered his decision to offer me new surroundings, after a full week of understated farewell in London, and the infrangible promise of running for my tiny life, if ever; it had thrived through my nerves and veins up to now, without clipping the far-fetched roots of my soul, as would testify the gruff Pr Achenbach in his tower, and Far still twiddled my feet for dessert.
There was some telepathy, just as I became aware that it was time to go lead the so lovable Liseron to her fate, Annabelle slid up and walked to James’s knees, in the mess of her clothing, and turned her bosom to his face.
I stood up, embraced Kate and told her what I had promised to show Louis’s find; she answered she guessed I would unlikely squander my time if the lark held the promise of her eyes, she expected my account on her progress.
Now James engaged in serious lustmaking with his purported daughter, and it flaunted a wildly transgressive display, as it happens. Julia affected to entertain conversation with the copper-headed cavalier, while holding on to his hardy cockshaft, wisely parsing his overall trade and unbinding his whole apparel. Theo did not dare meddle with the ongoing gallant duet, which was edging on the cheery, worldly fencing bout, with coded name dropping and tasty rendez-vous. Julia could suck a dingaling with the most achieved harlotry, she was owning the golden squire.
I called Theo to my side and kissed him silly; my seat was sturdy enough to swirl along with my contorted efforts to peel his linen, while keeping his crafty tongue in mouth; it was swifter on me. He smelled a wealth of scents, his smooth body slid upon mine, in elation; we had to climb down, I fetched a quilt and feasted on his modest but stiff dicklet, so as he readily spurted some liquid with a taste of tears, thought I as I drank it. He did not falter, rubbing his nipples on mine, he funnily begged permission for my lesser vent, and I thought that a little drool would do. It did; my legs high up, I noticed Annabelle’s stare on us, as she might have not foreseen a middle-gender glimpse in action, however, with James’ truncheon very near to penetrating her, she showed no dislike about our playing, and was reamed by her own spawner, with a high-pitched moan.
In the solitudes archipelago, cartography comes as paramount to maintain an ambit of flottable sanity, some measure of fathomable metaphor to wake upon, the delusional love streams under the starry void, the mere derisory token, availed in the tall order before the Omega.
Katherine Sophie and Sarah von Kettelaer happened into our trifle glass theatres, tiptoeing on dew drops along gossamer lines, blindfolded across the present day’s deadly fairground, upon the shared ultimate orient in their chest.
Away from the cheats they shied in the corridors of mundane schooling, they had painstakingly revived their soul’s cravings for the timeless mental topoï, like those the self-centred child, in the lone room, ingrains forever in the fibers of the altogether unique sheet of life.
Many before us have, possibly faithfully, inventoried all the graces and all the concupiscences, in order to either absolve their eventual cowardice, or claim the vanity of further endeavours. We do not condone the chess game metaphor, nowadays tossed around the wasted grounds of cultural institutes, to foster the hollow simulacres of a duplicate stock market in the white cube.
Here, in a free breathing gallery, we are presented the mirrored arcanes of a never ending game, and the charts for which the beacons might have eluded, showing routes to islands we may know, past the shores where lay our own floatsams, our prized treasures.
At L’Etoile Amusée