10 – Katherine Sophie – Seasons In A Live Stream

My Stream – One – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

 

My Stream – Two – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Three – ©Chasseline @katerine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Four – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Five – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Six – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Seven – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Eight – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Nine – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

My Stream – Ten – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Eleven – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Twelve – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Thirteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Fourteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Fifteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Sixteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Seventeen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Eighteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Nineteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Twenty – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

11 – Katherine Sophie – The Gentle Straddler From Oz.

Dr Cynthia Möhlitz wrote:

Dear unforgettable Katherine,

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

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

Simon wrote:

Faraway star of a sister,


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

Katherine answered:

My Rothenbaum rake,


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

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

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

Katherine Sophie

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rodolphe Bresdin – Le Bon Samaritain – 1861

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ingres – The Spring – 1856
Musée d’Orsay

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

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

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

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

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

Charles Meryon – Le Vampyre 1863

Dr Cynthia Möhlitz wrote:

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

 

 

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12 – Katherine Sophie – Hector & Victor

Sarah says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Katherine says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Katherine says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah says:

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

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

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

Katherine says:

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

Sarah says:

As the date of our emotional show at “L’Etoile Amusée” neared, the hustle and bustle about readying our pieces, asking Marie to photograph them, answering 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!

Katherine says:

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

As we sat, legs up on the settees, she kept next to me, showing her taste in me, sliding her hand into my shirt and uncovering my shoulder while grazing my breasts. Sarah laughed that she had known she would do so, reclining on the armrest, one knee up so as to expose her crotch under a deep blue canopy. Julia pushed her forehead on my ear and begged for a kiss, so I played openly and responded, she was indeed desirable, she smelled of a transposed masculine bittersweet grapefruit and 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.

Sarah says:

My own better Julia did not forfeit her sharp wisdom, neither her eager taste for loose damsels. It is warming to see her covet my Fairy Queen as fondly as she had bewitched me, then. She has 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.

Hugo says:

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

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

Katherine says:

Sarah and Hugo had sailed to the intangible, I covered them with a shawl and led Julia upstairs to our bed. We were almost enervated but anticipated sleeping together like some last elation for a long day. She left her hand on my pussy.
At dawn, I was overjoyed to feel the gamines over us, Natalia pushing her nose in Julia’s groin, Beryl clasped tight on my back. Julia was waiting for me to emerge so as to grasp what caused the invasion, but she fell for a young muzzle, still in the bounds of her dreams, showing her total innocence.
I woke up to see Natalia flying, stretched wide at Julia’s will, who licked her nerves passionately. Beryl had not dared trouble my dream but she flocked endless kisses on my lids as soon as I tried to open my eyes. She smelled of honey and straw, her night sweats left a blessing of lust in her armpits and crotch, she knew that I would tumble her over.
Once the morning torments appeased, Julia turned a silent glare at me an open palm turned upwards as in wondering. I took some pleasure telling her these were our pet neighbours and she might as well get accustomed to their nifty homages.
Under the shower, we peed ourselves standing embraced, laughing, then rubbed the foam all over. I played with two fingers in Natalia’s bumhole, to punish her for nothing. Beryl forced Julia to squirt and again, with pride. When Sarah returned from Hugo’s, she found us all aroused. We had splashed some cologne spirit on our dazed bodies, full of 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.

Sarah says:

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.

Katherine says:

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.

Sarah says:

Marie was easily reclining aside on the sofa like the Etruscan spouse, with Gauthier’s dick in her jacksie, Kate cherishing her face and new bulgy breasts. Like everybody was getting their fill and I would end up wanking; in a whim, I texted to Hugo, asking if he would like to lull me out in his bed. The answer was swift, James was with him, and they could rock me fine together, if I wanted what would inevitably ensue. We could start with some petits-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.

Katherine says:

Gauthier kept Marie with him, she cared for a boy’s body, he is a fine specimen. Downstairs, two entwined scallywags were warming the bed, I lounged myself behind Natalia, she murmured random phonemes. In the morning, they had fled, not before tucking me in, so as I slept my heart’s content. Julia Grant would ring up soon, I let her in, letting her know II was only half-alive yet, going back to the bathroom, where she followed me in a good mood. In any case, after peeing, I brushed my teeth and shambled to the kettle. She needed tenderness, we petted like schoolgirls, I let her dispose of me but I craved 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.

Camille says:

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

Hugo says:

My dear suave antipodist, not an acrobat, drifted like a straw on waters unto my side, playing some surprise. He smells like the closed gardens of 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.

Sarah says:

There was smuggle of Lorenz’s redolent cream in its cobalt glass jar, but my impermanent fling was not keen on sodomy tonight, although she twirled her butt on my two fingers like a baby otter in the rill. I wondered if Simon still spared her that part of the treat, or else she was not yet ready to let avail her timid candour at any flex dick and that is her bon plaisir.
At one time, Liselotte garnered the favours of the two young squires together, and it moved my cadette to watch, the debaucher in the middle had talents, she had earned her day, which did not prevent her to come lie against 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.

Camille says:

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

Sarah says:

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

Camille says:

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

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

Katherine says:

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

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

Sarah says:

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

Camille says:

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

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

Sarah says:

I never felt such congeniality with the artsy gang as I had relished at Saint Loup, we would have nothing much to share in conversation about the hung pieces in the cruelly posh setting of L’Etoile Amusée. Dandy surrealism has perished away when Daniel Cordier let his arms drop at the showcase front he had fought for; as sexy as they showed, they lugged along mediocre pop clichés, picking up butts from Duchamp’s careless ashtray. My musing about mental automatism, as a kaleidoscopic conduit to the (soul?)’s focal point, like it was vigorously charted in bright metaphors by André Breton, only met mundane marketing concepts from otherwise doable colleagues, and unfailingly brought up interrogations, winding or frank, about our obviously desirable means. Boys or girls, I used my impeccably provocative allure to snub them aside from that kind of ethos, even if I could fantasise buying some of them to a furious bed.
James introduced me to his daughter Annabelle, with enough proximity for me to sniff her maddening English rose, and read her reciprocal yearning for fine grained girl’s skin; as her dad let be seen our thorough sensual connivance, 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.

Katherine says:

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

Mary wore a short dress, undergrowth-coloured, silky, fishbone-patterned knitted, sleeveless, showing her praised breasts; dark yellow tights and avocado-green Mary Janes. She was disappointed not to be let to shoot around in the beautiful assembly, a series of posed official 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.

Sarah says:

My pupil availed all her trove to me on the cab’s back seat, on the way to her quarters; accustomed to private means, I did not pay much attention to the driver, who took care not to be reminded of. In as few words as I could, I asked her if she knew what she was up to, at my hand, for Louis’ project, eventually. She murmured in my neck that she was aware it was prostitution, but it was nothing new to her and her boyfriend had sold her to Hector, to whom he owed his junky life. No, she had not been hooked on anything herself, only had her enjoyed recreational psychedelia, and not heavily, because her mother would have sensed it and stirred the whole kinsfolk of puppets she called a family, not to mention her sly dad who had forced her to swallow his jizz, as to avoid stains on his grey flannel, ever since he had had his office on another floor. Her old boyfriend had all the videos of what he had made her do on a webcam, she had plotted to ask Louis and his might to rid her of the whole vicious trap, and she asked for my help, for that was what he had advised her to do, swearing it would be rewarding and safe. I devised to break down the whole plot to Hugo, Louis was one of his peers, and to my soulmate.
Back to Camille’s, I went in through the back and splashed some water over my merry hide, tried on some Florentine talcum, and trotted through the pantry towards any more carnal delicacies. Julia was keenly chatting in her best English with James’ newfound gracile daughter, she noted I had read in her eyes where the soft conversation would lead to, so I only mimicked an air kiss behind Annabelle’s bonny head. I noticed that her array of veils weren’t stitched in the back, and it itched me to feel her back arch, right then, but I let Julia lull her towards her hotel, she would later tell if there was treasure to be 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.

Hugo says:

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?

Sarah dreams:

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

Katherine says:

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

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

Sarah says:

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

Katherine says:

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

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

Thankfully, Martin von Kettelær, Julia and dainty Annabelle had met in the lift, and Julia’s radar had sensed possible unsavoury tremors, then parsed out who was here, speaking to them with a Californian college accent, self-conscious and wired like a debutant. She took lead and, while holding Annabelle’s hand, deployed a Faraday cage of small talk upon Martin, whose Kettelær porcelain eyes became all too happy to beget enchanted by her stare, introducing him to most of us as the 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.

Sarah says:

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

Katherine says:

As geometry goes, there’s always a circle in a triangle. From Sarah’s vivid tales, I deemed Julia Grant some superior intellectual ascendancy, not hearing about where her clout might originate from, having just read Mr von Kettelær’s attitude before her. Nevertheless, when we became nearer to jump in bed with a real Scottish fairy we both had leered over all evening, Julia revealed carefree and candid about what might happen. She taunted her own taste for sex and vowed not to hustle any one’s pace on that trail; she had already her hands in my dress; she asked Annabelle what a pale beauty like her had been into, as yet. Pulling off her shoes, so as to rest her feet next to my thigh on the settee where we had nested in the meantime, she delivered a scanty resume in which she had not known her father before she mastered in art history at Saint 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.

Sarah says:

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.

Katherine says:

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

Hugo wrote:

In the solitudes archipelago, cartography comes as paramount to maintain an ambit of 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
Hugo Decharny