Category Archives: KATHERINE SOPHIE

10 – Katherine Sophie – Seasons In A Live Stream

My Stream – One – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Katherine says:

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

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

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

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

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


My Stream – Two – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Sarah says:

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

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

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

Malo says:

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

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

Katherine says:

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Three – ©Chasseline @katerine-sophie

Marie says:  

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

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

Sarah says;

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

Hugo says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Four – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Katherine says:

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

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

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

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

Malo thinks:

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

Camille says:

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

Katherine says:  

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

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

My Stream – Five – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Mary says:  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Six – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Marie says:

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

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

Sarah says:

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

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

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

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

My Stream – Seven – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Hugo says;  

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

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

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

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

Camille says:  

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

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

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

Mary says:

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

My Stream – Eight – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Katherine says:

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

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

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


Hugo says:  

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

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


Gauthier says: 

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

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

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

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


My Stream – Nine – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Katherine sleeps:  

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


My Stream – Ten – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Sarah says;

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

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

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

Marie says:

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

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

Katherine says:   

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

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

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

My Stream – Eleven – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Marie says:

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

James says;  

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

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

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


Sarah says:

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

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

James says: 

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

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


My Stream – Twelve – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Katherine says: 

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

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

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

Sarah says;

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

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

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

James says:  

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

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

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

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

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


My Stream – Thirteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Marie moons: 

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

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

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

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

Sarah says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


My Stream – Fourteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Katherine says:  

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

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

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

Gauthier says:   

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

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

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

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

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

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


My Stream – Fifteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Sarah says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Katherine says:

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

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

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

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

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

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


My Stream – Sixteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Malo says:

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

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

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

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

Katherine says:  

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

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

Hugo says:

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


My Stream – Seventeen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Sarah says;  

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

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

Katherine says:

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

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

Mary tells:  

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

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

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

Sarah says:

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

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

Marie tells: 

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

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

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

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


My Stream – Eighteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Marie cries:  

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

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

Katherine says:  

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

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

Sarah says: 

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

Marie recalls:  

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

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

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

Katherine says: 

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


My Stream – Nineteen – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Sarah says

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

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

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

Katherine says:

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

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

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

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

Hugo says:

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

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

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

Sarah says: 

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

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

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

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


My Stream – Twenty – ©Chasseline @katherine-sophie

Marie dreams: 

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

Sarah says;

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

Marie dreams on:

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

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

Katherine says:

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

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

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

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

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


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

Hugo says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Katherine says:

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

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

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

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

Marie says:

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

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


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

Sarah says:

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

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

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

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

Hugo says:

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

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

Gauthier says:

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

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

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

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

Katherine says:

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

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

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

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

Sarah says:

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

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


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

Katherine says:

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

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

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

Sarah says:

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

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

Marie says;

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

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

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

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

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


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

Katherine says:

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

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

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

Marie says:

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

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

Sarah says:

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

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

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

Marie says:

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

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

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

Fanny says:

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


11 – Katherine Sophie – The Gentle Straddler From Oz.

Dr Cynthia Möhlitz wrote:

Dear unforgettable Katherine,

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

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

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.

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

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

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


Katherine says:

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

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


Sarah says:

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

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




12 – Katherine Sophie – Hector & Victor

Sarah says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Katherine says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Katherine says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah says:

Simon is, at heart, as unfettered as his sister, but his mind is all set on hard reality, all the more since his fanciful all-time lover brought him, unforeseeably, to near dismemberment, my word. He has parsed our private planet and reckoned it is delicious, all the more to a nerd like him. He will soon be back at Ansy’s cherry arse, and eventually steal her, taking her away to the dunes.
Time 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 Anzy’s back when she had freshened up, teasing my eyes, biting the newbie’s ears, and unabashedly offering me to trade three columns and a picture in “The Beacon”, if I would spend an afternoon at Y.’s, bringing this new rosebud, now that she had seen her. This latter did not grasp, although Liselotte did marvels along her spine, so I unveiled the usual plot to her ear and awaited for the delicious small vertigo that she would trip on softly, or refute altogether. She smirked and let two ravenous libertines denude her cuddlesome soul.

Camille says:

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

Sarah says:

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

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

Camille says:

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

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

Katherine says:

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

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

Sarah says:

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

Camille says:

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

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

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

Sarah says:

I never felt such congeniality with the artsy gang as I had relished at Saint Loup, we would have nothing much to share in conversation about the hung pieces in the cruelly posh setting of L’Etoile Amusée. Dandy surrealism has perished away when Daniel Cordier let his arms drop at the showcase front he had fought for; as sexy as they showed, they lugged along mediocre pop clichés, picking up butts from Duchamp’s careless ashtray. My musing about mental automatism, as a kaleidoscopic conduit to the (soul?)’s focal point, like it was vigorously charted in bright metaphors by André Breton, only met mundane marketing concepts from otherwise doable colleagues, and unfailingly brought up interrogations, winding or frank, about our obviously desirable means. Boys or girls, I used my impeccably provocative allure to snub them aside from that kind of ethos, even if I could fantasise buying some of them to a furious bed.
James introduced me to his daughter Annabelle, with enough proximity for me to sniff her maddening English rose, and read her reciprocal yearning for fine grained girl’s skin; as her dad let be seen our thorough sensual connivance, 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 figured. I had not seen or talked to her since the deadly mess I had spawned, fool-headedly. She was there for a major reckoning and I read that Simon had engineered his own closure masterfully, and now, that, was making me cry like a girl. Hugo and Camille were alerted, but finely grasped the situation and remained distant, until Simon could Introduce them as best friends to his swollen-eyes sister. First, Mama saw the whole art show as mine, disconcerted to see that I had disavowed my previous trends to intellectualise my stance, as young artists easily do in the German situation; it went to show that we had not discussed as artists since ages. She read my bend backwards to some Sylt holidays in the old couple’s workshop, and Simon concurred, there had been rainy days.

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

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

Sarah says:

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

Sarah says:

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

Katherine says:

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

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

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













14 – Katherine Sophie – Convolvulus in the thorns


©Sarah von Kettelær


Sarah says: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah vo Kettelær @Katherine SophieLe Bal Des Toupies  ©Sarah von Kettelæ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lord Metropolis

Lord Metropolis  ©Sarah von Kettelær

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Capital Octopus – ©Sarah von Kettelaer

Lizon tells:

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

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

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

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

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

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


Hugo says:

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

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

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

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

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

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


Sarah says:

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


Lizon says:

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

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

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


Sarah says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Ayla says:

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

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

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

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


Sarah says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

15 – Katherine Sophie – Free Swans Of Schleswig-Holstein


Hamburg Nacht – ©

Camille says:

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

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

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

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

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

Katherine says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Fayelle (Ansy) says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roses And Swans – ©


Kate says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alstermeer traum – ©

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t uneasy to enlighten Simon’s high prized brain as to what clattered in his affair with Fayelle. He resented he had been out of phase with me since the otherworldly times when Cynthia had worshipped me. He confessed that he had then responded to our father’s overtures unbeknown to me, and thus, rewardingly thrived in another field; but he swore he had always wrested out promises that Papa would spare me always —that he had retold him on his hospital bed before Simon could even breathe properly. I remade myself as smooth as when I taught him caresses, and demonstrated that he detained a privilege entry to a most sophisticated Parisian henhouse, for free, provided he let the cast emancipated.

It smelled hellishly good out of the oven, Emma had spent hours swaddling up some alchemical mixture into cabbage leaves, cram as many as she could in a terrine and elaborate a cheese crust over the whole clutch. Inside was an unctuous stuffing of chopped mushrooms, nuts and fruit, we commented vividly till Emma blushed. Impossible not to dip chunks of soda bread in the concentrated juice. For dessert, she had bought a bucket of blackberries from a neighbourhood kid, and whipped enough cream for a Viennese operetta. Simon already acted towards Fayelle in the incestuous innuendo he had lived in, after all; I manifested that I was in the game, too, as Fayelle checked my gazes and Fanny played in her plate. It wasn’t time yet to group-improvise on free polyamorous life, but my brother had relaxed a notch.

Simon walked us to a house facing the wild, in neat moonlight shadows, humming of bass pulses; he said it was one of Sylt nights getaways and I had not known it. Beyond the double-door entry, the sound system took on the chest and the lower waist, it was brutish. Fanny and Fayelle, who wore fuzzy shirts and jeans with new white sneakers, made instantly their way to the barnyard frenzy and swayed their hips against the beat, garnering some stir and envy. Fanny could enter manic mode on a flip, and throw her arms up like flames with the freshest of smiles, Fayelle was restraining a kontrapunkt of inner jolts and acted borderline crisical as the cold light made her an eerie mask of trance. I would have wished Sarah to be with us, she had this power of tearing me to pieces, otherwise I would trigger my bunker fits, and skid. Simon had revived his athletic frame up to a thoughtful Berliner choreography I had not yet admired, –showing it off to Fayelle might have been a reason why we stood now in a steam room of privileged sweats and musky wants. Then, faster than a secret service predator, he was diving out of the tempo and caught by the hair a bulky villain who had been trying to rape Fanny in a dark nook beside the tall speakers. He had torn the shirt and the pants and held her down like a dove in a sewer. Simon was harsh, still grappling the man’s hair he pushed him with his foot in the kidneys towards the house bouncer who seized the culprit and took him outside. Fanny was scattered down, crying silently in the still running electro pulse, I carried her to a chill-out room where people were making love or else, someone gave a fresh black tee-shirt stamped with a condom brand, one emo-like character came up with a new tack-on belt button, inserted a black book in Fanny’s waist and punch the button with a star on it one centimetre east of the hole, it held. She asked Fanny’s name and wrote it in her black book, I took her shoulders like they were wings. Later, Simon came back with drinks of iced-tea, the raven girl smiled to him, I knew her.

Wings Of Fanny – Katherine Sophie


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

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

I did not know where Camille was, and I would not be so proud to retell what had occurred on my watch. She would be devastated, and as long as Fanny stayed with us, she, her tutor could enjoy whatever free time she had wished. However, in harmony with the girls, I called Dr Méant who offered to meet Fanny in the evening, when I offered to chaperone her fully to his home and back. And so we went, Fayelle not angered to wait alone with me in the lounge couch. Fanny was somewhat comforted to reunite with her regular confidant; she would have asked, anyhow. In the comfy pavilion of that private alley where Dr Méant lived, Fayelle was more and more impressed, now she felt she had lived a boring life in a bleak suburb, unmotivated by a botched upbringing, with the only luck of her appearance, and she was beginning to reason how it would have turned, had she not owned that. She was convinced that she had had not a chance in hard knowledges like maths, physics or biology, only art, or rather what remained of it, had once in a while glimpsed at her, while she glimpsed at it; she had garnered enough vocabulary, and she had fucked her way through to the same funny nonsense as us, her two current hosts, came from, with a nagging obsession that she was walking along a cliff-edge.

I have no recollections at all of my own redemption at Dr Schubert’s care, and I will never try to, but, as Sarah does, I shelter the conviction that I may obtain some healing relationship with someone if I may touch whatever I feel, all the more with a lover. As soon as we nested in the golden green velvet couch, I deliberately untied Fayelle’s sneakers, stole her socks and started to please her slender feet while i read her misty eyes. Her aloofness doesn’t mean that she looses along the good of an argument, she might have been brilliant, had philosophy kept its value in the modern academic scales, at Aristotelian studies, but then she would have had to cut short on precisely what was steering her, Hic et Nunc, into my arms. She needed to hear a tale of our becoming whatever she craved, and not shun my shortcomings, in the picture.

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

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

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

Liselotte called me, after having tried her preferred Sarah, to devise a crafty dinner in a new private place, which could not have existed without her, and she did not even have to blog to do this. But when she heard that I were followed by youth, she could not picture nothing unsavoury, she begged to let her join us up in a while, Camille was amused. In the soundscapes of Harold Budd and friends, the petty grooming of worldly belles wiped away the hours until the flashy black and white presentation of runner Liselotte amazed us. She wore a short white shantung minidress, squarely flared under a sleeveless bust with mock-military black striped epaulettes and same pocket trimmings; White opaque tights in patent leather court escarpins, no undies but a slit that made Fayelle blush, already. She could have worn kid gloves for Horst P. Horst. She smelled of white intents gone weird like jasmine and datura entwined. She landed all lightly in one of our couches and marvelled at the roses bush, playing as to guess whom they were for? In her oversized, distressed tee-shirt, Fanny was more than nude and she literally bewitched Liselotte, who flimsily stippled around the girl’s neck, muttering that something very unacceptable had be done, there. Fanny had her distant glare, Liselotte begged me to fetch some velvet ribbon in our hoarding store and some appropriate larimar cabochon to affix onto it. Fanny followed me, Liselotte was right, I did exactly what she had devised, with night-blue velvet and sparkling aquamarines. Fanny came back in the salon as undressed and glorified as Manet’s odalisque, but we wouldn’t wear mules, would we?

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

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

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

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

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

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


Sarah says:

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

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


Fayelle says:

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

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

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

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


Kate says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Lizon says:

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

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

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

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


Hugo says:

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

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


Isles Of Scilly – ©Katherine Sophie

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

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

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


Sarah says:

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

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

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

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

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

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


Kate says:

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

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

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


Sarah says:

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

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

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


Kate says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Lizon says:

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

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

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

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


Fayelle says:

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

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

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

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


Lizon rants:

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

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


Sarah says:

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

However used to meeting suave humanity, so to speak, Beryl was stunned by a smiling Delfan, near whom she sat, eye in eye, listening to a smidgen of introduction by Kate, on the subdued tone of caution, at what one responded by opening one’s legs and hence giving a good glance at her, resting a knee on Beryl’s lap, inviting a caress, as it went. All the time when the two little courtisanes bragged their debauchery in the stunning haunt neither Kate or me ever knew of, Beryl was fondling and sucking Delfan and earned a wet face to herself. Later, Natalia emerged from her young sleepishness, we called for a rhubarb and plum tart from Punch An Judy, with the custard, and I brewed some rainy blissful oolong tea.
Lizon had reminiscences of the dead, pressed against the edge of the purple tunnel as if to escape their ordeal; she rationalised the vision without the supplementary dimensions the drugs had suffused in her mind, I called her on me, she smelled of a shy rose, and an idea of all the assaults she had let be done to her until dying at dawn, I was enthralled, her new pants felt peachy easy.
As Natalia had encaptured Fayelle upon James’ armchair –where Annabelle had she lured James away to? Kate joined Delfan and Beryl in their plays. She wanted to bring Delfan downstairs before dinner time. She invited one to see for some fittingly appealing outfit to visit the Lord of these swishy dovecotes.

























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

Sarah says:

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

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

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

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

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


Kate says:

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

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


Sarah says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Kate says:

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

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

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

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

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

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


Sarah says:

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

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

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


Kate says:

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

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

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

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

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


Sarah says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elsie suggested we took a cab to Washington square and have an ice cream at the Peacock, where her mates could see us. We sat mingled, Julia slid a hand in Kate’s pants, they kissed , I wanted Elsie to do the same to me, she still shied, I breathed her neck.
Once on friendlier grounds, Elsie took us to a white ice-cream parlour with a lounge upstairs, where we were looked up, and smiled, to. Visibly she was a regular, but probably not as gay as I made her seem, now. In a vanilla moment, she stuttered a little mite and started. She had reached a conclusion that she would not be fit there, in New York and even less in America. We could not see, her skin was as clear as many Europeans, her hair was just only curly, her nose was straight and pointed, but nevertheless, in some uptight moments like professional arguments, or even mere social exchanges, racism lurked through a thin veil of convention.
Through her studies, because her mother had known my father on and off at work, she had aimed the day when she would dare beg him for help at the UN, because that was the magic realm where the American racial bias did not function, even in American minds. But now he was going, and although she could easily land a job, she felt it would never grant her such a good career plan as inside the Great Glass House. She was near tears. I hugged her tight, first, my father was not quitting the UN, for years, since he sent me to Saint Loup, he had operated from Geneva, which was as big a UN station as New York, and I scented that he would continue, living in Lausanne; second, she might also come live in Paris, where, overall, racism is not so deeply rooted, except for some stupid urbanistic errors –and I admitted I wasn’t one to endure the tensions, given our lifestyle–. She was shuddering and I felt dew on her breasts; I told her she would visit us in our Wonderland, huff around for some while, test her French and probably fuck some; She let me unbutton one more, some passers-by had smirks to her, and did not stand up to my gaze.

Like a gang of procurers on a recruiting job, we cajoled the desirable attorney into wishing to visit our realm, nonetheless I did not avoid any facet of our easy going boheme, like those I would not even allude to in front of my father; having known me from childhood, she assented, and gently slipped a hand upon my thigh. Julia had bright eyes, it was Saint Loup all over again, on Washington Square. I let her see the cog in my easily unleashed mind, with the subtext of giving her all reasons not to follow me, while I kept deploying my best sluttiness, for the relish of the other two.She was stunned. She had thought of me at thirteen while reading Anaïs Nin, like it were literary tall tales to wank oneself over, but there we were, and she felt we could spin the yarn at will, for her.
We strolled arm in arm to Bleecker street, I told Elsie I would not miss what the city had became, all the more since I had earned my place into the keenest society imaginable, at least for as long as I could vamp a pretty girl with not much more than my eyes. Had I told her that, after my brother’s misdeed, I had planned to fly off our balcony?

Far —the others called him Lars— changed expression when he saw us seated with bottles of Kombucha, discoursing on our lives in Paris, our show, our trip in a private jet, shame on us.
He felt positive, all personal transactions about Tudor City and Lausanne were concluded as he wished, and he invited us by the lake next Spring. As an artful diplomat, he soon turned to Elsie, asking her if she had got wind of the UN operations in Geneva? He read my smile and kept the iron warm.
We agreed to every course the gentle lady with a thick white apron proposed, and Far asked for some hard boiled eggs, and butter. So we had artichoke hearts stuffed with mushrooms and nuts, fresh corn pancakes with asparagus tips, and candied chestnuts in little cradles of marshmallow sprayed with rum.
My compulsive little self had engineered to pull, unaware to anyone, an empty chair next to Far’s, but there would be angelic smiles when he started to untie the thin blue leather straps of my sandals and execute his magic on my feet, all the way up in the midst of my brain.
I felt a hint that Kate was again playing footsie with Elsie, who would let be un-shoed for her, and she asked my father what he had thought of the Goldman Sachs Mehretu frontispice. He finely picked an opportunity to salute Mehretu, whom had built an exemplary career on her own, but, retorted Elsie —and then I knew someone was stimulating her, unseen— wasn’t there a ghost of what one called the “pocket” Indian in her fame? Wouldn’t many such artists decline a commission from the most evil tricksters on the planet? Now Far still held my toes in his right hand, and he touched Elsie’s, wondering about the Rothko precedent at the Four Seasons, and the later endeavour with the Menil Foundation. Would we go to Houston, said he to the table? we might possibly conspire to some escapade of that sort, my whorish little soul told me.

Julia wanted to check on the terrible twos and Elsie had promised to feed her neighbour’s cat, so there were two cabs, one to the west and the other for us. As we passed Park avenue, I reminded Far of the
family brunches at the Waldorf, which was closed for a number of years, now, he asked Kate if they had Sunday brunches, she said they would always eat some very similar meals in front of the lake, and when sunny the swans would await for them in the garden.
Far let us drink tea on the terrace and withdrew himself, we pulled our screens and read the mail. Melchior wings would await us in Teterboro the evening after next, we would have excellent company. I half-bantered it was a n easy way to pay our fares, she called me a whore and bit my ticklish spot under the ribs.She showed me a video of Fayelle and Simon pleasing each other, a few hours ago, I told her he was as good a fucker as she was, and we went to the shower, washed our hair with some vintage shampoo that smelled like roses in the boxwoods, I told Kate and she peed on me, kissing. We went on the big bed and told each other episodes, like when I realised I loved her by happenstance sniffing at her crotch in corduroy on a café bench, pretending to be drunk.
Early in the morning, Elsie called asking if she was welcome; when it was clear she had slept with Julia, I gave Kate a heartfelt high-five and asked the newlyweds what we would be doing? They said there was a show of Sarah Sze at Gagosian’s and it felt right, around lunchtime.
I snuck to my Far’s quarters and found him reading his screen; he paused and hugged me, I smelled morning white, Kate had said, he kept me on his lap, and I could not help feeling dizzy in the same eternal Habit Rouge.
I told him that I thought I knew all about Ayla, and I found nothing wrong, at all, in what he could have been doing, because I had seen her not so long ago, when heinous things happened to Esther, and she had been so kind about him, and I was going to cry but he told me not to.He had known about Esther, but Ayla swore she needed no more help and I was there with her, then they had gone to the high mountains with all the medical attention, the haematomas had vanished for good and Esther’s nose was new, and straight.
He knew what the girls were at in Zurich, and he knew I knew too; he commented that on many individual rights the Swiss had often been long forward, and it was probably why he wished to retire there, albeit he had hesitated with Denmark, but finally cleared the place for Martin, under the family trust; a week or so, once on a sommernat, in Taarbæk, in the white house felt like enough. I enlaced him and asked him to take me next time he went, he asked me if I would bring Kate along.


Kate says:

“Walking The High Line” was a picture book by Joel Sternfeld, it had fascinated me, aeons ago, by the creative situation it testified to, a disused raised subway line in a then destitute part of New York, its long rusting decay, its appropriation by good willing citizen, probably because the otherwise wrong willing ones could have easily found themselves trapped on the elevated corridor. In a series of highly technical photographs, the book presented how the dilapidated railway had become a fairly exciting community garden, for memory’s sake, doing its part in the unavoidable conservation of the health promenade it became since. The Gagosian venue Julia was leading us to was in the meatpacking area, a stone throw from the high line.
Elsie had slept with Julia, at the Century, lured in by the unique collection, and lust for a truly inconsequential adventure, I could not scent if she had been fed to the naughty twins, too.
Now she smelled rich Central Park spices, just like my best boy, I dared sniff her in the armpit, as she passed a bread basket overhead, and sustained her response gaze with an inviting smile for later. She offered a thin, tight, muscular body and was in love with our ways, she would make an outstanding partner in our crew, in Paris.
There was an access up, on twenty-first street, we walked down to the Whitney Museum and back, the wind had freshened thus we did not sweat, but we swapped companions. I wore an aquamarine green linen long night shirt, over-stitched with thin black stripes, under another opened long-tailed indigo on emerald paisley shirt I kept open, my knicker was skin-tone and thin, I was not to walk alone in New York like this.
Julia had tucked a buttercup silk tee shirt in large corn yellow taffeta hemmed shorts with a large Navajo silver buckle belt, under the assorted, double-breasted, oversized jacket. The stiff silk felt like I were groping a dragonfly with golden mosaic eyes.
Elsie had found a half-thighs, ultramarine and ochre hotchpotch -printed twill shirt-dress, bound with a matching foulard, thus letting the view on her sleek legs down to the barefeet sandals.
Sarah wore one of her unique, fitted, high waisted spencer jacket of black silk with moire lapels, on her bare chest, with her nifty butt molded in wide Katherine Hepburn trousers, in off-white crepe. she walked in flat, round, black patent escarpins.

The gallery space was the epitome of the famous evanescent white cube, and it was indeed what the work of Sarah Sze would want. It smelled like a properly finished new apartment, solvents, detergents, and whatever magic they lace the chemicals with to trump your instinct. We never had any argument about what our work smelled, neither any bit of each other’s life’s, our exhibition had been a cloud of roses, we were Parisian girls.
We had enthused at Sarah Sze’s “Three Points” in Venice, how she told she had been on set months in advance, roaming and gleaning amongst the forlorn nuggets of the Serenissima, then staging her loot into a mental analogy of a cosmic synchrotron. It had made us feel a tad petty inside our pocket-sized lady’s works. At the end of art school, it had been a reaction on our part against the ongoing dick contest, even with those who did not have a dick at their crotch. Thus, we promoted, at our own dimension, visionary mavericks of a more private scope, and found them many in the surrealist realm, before American big money spoiled the game; and, justly there, we were contemplating a truthful artist nailed in the middle of it.
All in all, it boiled down to the same diffidence as we had reckoned from Goldman Sachs, but it served us with a first-person conclusion, and Sarah’s dad were finer at his new lakeshore retreat.
Amused by our fabricated compunction when we walked out,, Julia suggested we tried to reboot our mindsets at the Studio Café on floor eight of the new Whitney, if ever there were a table for us. Elsie let her embrace her, she was enthralled, and wouldn’t know what to imply from our visit, the Gagosian sleight of hand worked. Sarah had made her face sharper, and played solidity —much like Lars— but I crashed her like an egg with my tongue i her neck, and she shut me off with a lewd kiss. We were elegant, in a suited place, passersby smiled at us.
Needless to say they had a table on the terrasse, and neat, truthful smelling salads with fashionable dressings, nuts and figs in the vegan version, poached eggs and croûtons in the “let me mop up that yolk” version. The fresh blue oolong tea was up to its name.

Elsie was wearing a fine turquoise nugget on a Navajo silver ring, not one’s average tourist tat; I congratulated her, cupping her hand, and giving her the innocent gaze. Obviously, she had forgotten what one felt for having been enticing an it girl and thus being offered a true gift; luckily for her, the Princess had brains, too.
Sarah arranged with her father for a finger snap last dinner at his home, we would spend the afternoon at the Met. In the morning, I had promised Camille we would pay a visit to a good uncle of hers, Adlai Stern; if time was enough left, we could also meet a patron of Liselotte’s, the renowned Leo Schulz in his extravagant penthouse, she had said sometimes his imagination was worth the flight.
Now, Julia was laying plans to come along with Elsie to Paris and Europe, she was enough in love for a bed-in at the Gritti; Sarah liked that, but she knew Julia enough.
Rekindled by a faultless Hudson luncheon, complete with a short demonstration by the big Marine one fireboat of the FDNY, we packed a yellow cab to Fifth Avenue, Elsie blushing at Julia’s expert hands. Sarah whispered on the other side that her old schoolmate would be a bomb in our home, wouldn’t she?
Julia led us straight to the outstanding display of the Goran and Dagmar Blix collection of costume, spanning from middle ages to roughly WWII, all the pieces a labour of love and had been expertly cleaned, restored and reshaped on grey dummies. A great many items originated from the trail of the once thriving “Silk Road”, with some precious weavings incorporated into Mid-Asian and European prestige attires or religious adornments.
I was jolted at the thought of Hugo’s passion —he had occasionally vested me into such fineries for photos— I looked for restrooms where to call him from, it would be civilised morning over there. He was in Venice at the San Vio’ s, along with Delffan, our indeterminate gem, found inside a hourvari of debauchery, dewy pure, and lost as an air stream; they had been meditating in our special church of Santi Maria E Donato in Murano, among the ruins and the reeds of Torcello, and of course, Hugo knew the renowned Blix collection, he had been a blessed purveyor to them.
I hurried to Sarah, and reported the news; she was overjoyed to reckon that Delffan would thus quite possibly nest upstairs in the Castle, to what our presently enlaced lovebirds grasped naught, and so we laughed, reminding them we lived into some genuine fairy tale.

Just like for some sadomasochism games, we should have had our hands cuffed back, so great was the appeal to touch the handiwork and feel the caress of the clothes; for aeons no one had, without gloves, obviously —I had more than once been prettily jostled, nude in such stuff, once Gianni’s expensive sleight of the hands and eyes had deleted the wear of ages, and rendered the sublime vestures as soft and smelling as the Ritz’ bath robes—
Happily, the MET affords uncompromising attendance, keeping eager wasps like us at coughing distance, reminding me of my wish to find some kind of short-distance spectacles one sometimes saw expert-type visitors flaunt.
Julia knew a high ceiling café in the American wing, to rest the small of our young backs, with passable black tea and orange slices. I had a message of Panado wings confirming take-off at 11:00pm, with two passengers other than us, at our… “convenience”? Sarah touched the tip of her nose. In her box, her father told her he had ordered light finger food with Erin Eberly, Adlai Stern managed an early lunch at his Hudson street suite, and Leo Shulz awaited us at three in his East 65th town house.
Julia said the two of them would visit us, in Paris, in about two weeks, if we wished. It was settled, either at one of Julia’s usual crash-pads, or in some free bed in the Castle, ours, for example.

On the following day, they would laze among the Century hoards and probably discuss future. Sarah, who did not get her bearings in the renewed layouts of the Art preservation fortress, needed to show me one fetish painting, a bouquet by Margareta Haverman, in the consecrated Flemish genre, which had haunted her since a sweet Art teacher had pointed a finger to it, during a class visit. It remained some intimate criterium, even when she had wandered in the conceptual wastelands with Dr Wolfsohn’s craniums, even though the old paedophile had been irreproachably delicate with her —who was a daredevil with irresistible eyes and a tight little belly—.

We held our temples together before the panel, big, considering the density of the workmanship, because there was that, too, along with the virtuosity of the lighting, the overall contenance of the composition. The ancient cursus in the Saint Luke guilds everywhere in Europe produced this supreme ability, albeit restraining women’s talent to minor subjects. A unique exception like Artemisia, —whose “Beheading Of Holophernes” haunts my visions for always— at the enormous cost of being enslaved to her rapist without recourse. When we devote to these overwhelming antiquities, can we keep in mind that those who commissioned them were unfettered perverts, too? After all, Margareta’s strategy might have been the map for a safe confederacy of womanhood, a couple of notches above the needlework on the masters’ trousers?
She had guessed me, Sarah pressed my arm, muttering that Margareta ought to have been quietly happy, as showed the drops scattered around the explicit analogy of the gaping white peony, all this long before Georgia O’Keefe ever saw one? We giggled like unruly brats, the attendant frowned, I smiled to her.

Margaretha Haverman – BouquetMargaretha Haverman – Bouquet -; Authorship disputed by her teacher who claimed it was one of his, thus barring her from the Académie Royale, in France. Courtesy The Metropolitan Museum, New York.


Sarah says:

I would presume this painting is “mine” because I was told by my father that its author was one of our Danish family, moved to Holland where her father imposed her, by means unknown, as the sole pupil of the most famous flowers painter of his time? This narrative must have hit me at one of my clock ticking times. She herself moved to Paris and became a member of the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture, only to be expelled the next year, on the protest by her teacher, Jan Hylsum, that she had appropriated one of his paintings to convince the Académie.
So then I steered offshore the sails of our amazement, dropping that, after other blighted pretenses in the branches of the family tree, this one had to clear the view of a nonetheless still wondrous Hylsum piece.
Julia was conjugating the unavoidable grace of a nonpareil fire of European acme with the feel of Elsie’s supple back, I had known this in full, personally, and Miss Grant had left me feeling proud to know her, since my early bread and creamed morels slices, in Saint Loup, bless her.
Kate wouldn’t stray from her fear, at ground level she said a vapor of dirt glazed the backdrop scenery worse than Paris and Berlin, she smelled disquiet, she heard through the city hum the heavy silence of a wreckage in the making, said her, as we had drifted towards a Saint Jerome by Patinir, one of our favorite old-timers. From her inner nexus, she could breathe the air of the faraway bluish land where all flying souls would return from. She sent me to the inner spheres I had fantasised from the towers of Elsinore all the way to Tycho Brahe, I had not let go of her hand, I needed a kiss.

Stepping out on Fifth Avenue, I recalled out loud having been brought to some bright social event in the building across, the 1000. I had been coerced to dress like a real girl, with a lace-trimmed, polka-dots cotton panty absurdly matched to my eye colour, as if both were to be contemplated together; some planetary hoopla that my father understood soon anguished me, but became some kind of fun when he took my hand and kept it; all sorts of goons —in my taste— in all sounds of language spoke to him without asking about me, except an eerie creature with otherworldly blue glasses whom I did not comprehend but mutedly agreed with; I had been a pet all evening and I loved my Far.
The dampness had waned off when we reached our family’s eyrie, Julia carrying an armful of heady lilies; she had felt like a candid gesture could not harm the request she had wished, from one of his daughter’s schoolmates he knew otherwise quite well; perhaps was it a dare, she had acted on a whim, seing a florist on Lexington.
Far fetched the biggest of our Danish Holmegaard blown glass vases to let Dawn arrange the lilies and bring a few carafes of water; the bouquet stood over a buffet of neat looking bites overridden with coloured lines of sauces, I thought the pollen from these majestic flowers could not be poisonous, could it? Far said it is, but only for cats.
While Julia, leading Elsie like a master dancer, maintained conversation with Far, Kate wanted to hear more about my angels and pulled me towards the terrace.

We entwined on one of the sturdy loungers, I released my strain on the city’s bygones, and vowed to spend at least a week with Kate in the ramparts of Christiansø, so cold that we would spend our days in comforters with our pets. I coyly recriminated on her keeping me offshore from Sylt and Amrum where she had torched her trip with the younglings.
Joking aside, I confessed I did not retain much of new York culture, in earnest, the spiritual drive felt drained after the horrendous suicide of Mark Rothko, the extinction of jazz music and Morton Feldman, the exile of Peggy Guggenheim. Skinny cokeheads like Marcel Duchamp and John Cage had fled into their own resounding gaz bubbles and left the yuppies dance at Castelli and Gagosian.
There had been a time when cohorts of my angels friends rallied atop the vacant ConEd chimneys, when the heavy New York snow tried to shut off the bustle, albeit the FDR drive had always rumbled underground; today, they called from the antique lead roofs on the Louvre, they hustled barefeet nymphets on the Senghor passerelle, automobiles were chased away from the river banks, we would expend ourselves in the stealth corridors of the Palais Royal, like Europeans.

The conversation between Julia and my Far was taking a delicious turn, so Elsie looked for us and sat on the footrest. She took my feet and begged me to make good on my promise to host her. She had already seduced Kate, who left my side and went holding her backwards. She had crossed a lonely vale since our farewells long ago, it had been lighthearted on my side, she had lost her mother and kept herself together on trail, she had not exulted daily like us but the recall of our unbridled parentheses had thrived like the Ténéré tree in the desert of soulless phrases she thirsted in.
There could well be an international lawyer among our glass vaudeville, where few avowed their circumstances, other than temporarily desirous. She had better fathom the mere looseness of our own, before, eventually, stumbling awkwardly.
She would now sort her mundane necessities, rethink the bewitchment we inevitably cast on her solitary persona, with all the delights she guessed in our evocated private garden, and follow, or not, Julia in an American tour of the Gai Paris.
Meanwhile, I gathered at a distance that Julia had become enthralled with my Far and would indeed meet him at the Century, new perspectives, was it not? But at present Elsie and her logically departed early, our final day was possibly busy all the way back to our home.

As he saw us clear away the table and wrap the remnants, Far told me he had thought once to sell off the whole lot and see for a decorator in Lausanne, but these elegant pieces had looked him back and he had started to inquire on their origin and make, and so became enthralled of what he learned on the Danish craftsmanship, coming to think his mother ought to have been the one to devote herself to style, his father being morally strung-up in his guilt and furthermore, blind to mere functional elegance. Had it not been for the calling to parse the ashes of the near Armageddon humanity had spawned, in which our name had been stained, my Far would have chosen architecture as a vocation, and in that aspect, he breathed lighter in Geneva than in New York —a manner of telling me that he did not intend to let be sidelined of his lifetime endeavour. I should reckon he had constantly steered me outwards from where, for instance, my schoolmate Elsie now stood, with no apparent damage. He said there would be living space for both of us, girls, and my gang, and he liked it that way, he would help to it.
Kate was back and so smelled cologne that I enlaced her; she had found some grey oversized jersey and not much else, Far was looking her legs but he parted, like he usually did, wishing us a pleasant flight, had he known.


Kate says:

We needed no more soap, but tepid water to rinse off the very idea of all that rubber and exhaust dust in our hair. I could not tell if she was crying her lost angels, she mumbled fugitive calls and pursued my mouth like a lorn child. The rich towels made us into blank sheets of eager drawing paper, I needed to conjure all the promises of happy returns, in the shape of kisses beaded all over her in her imaginary smells.
I promised her more Xmas in Central Park, and roundtrips of debauchery together and more. The peremptory horns of the city’s forge heaters bounce up the hard edges of the sinking chaos, as we stand nude at the window, lightheaded, contemplating the blue shafts of the searchlights from atop the flakturme all over town. No squadron in sight, only the same slow cohorts of aurora’s smiles we used to wait for, my brother Simon and me, in the dunes; Sarah sighs as if she had been crying, she clings to my arm each time panic stricken horses jump over our hidey-hole; A creeping cat with three kittens searches a path between us until we let them in, and Sarah follows them and I swirl into myself, like the funny eagle with a clock in its tummy on the high shelf at the old candy store. There’s a fire on the horizon beyond the woods, with standards and flags; I would not move, as I am full of swarming little blue-eyed babies frightened by the trumpets and horns that hurl in some German tongue I can’t remember. Black clad soldiers with one-lens goggles rummage around but seem not to see me, huddled around my bag of sleeping souls and Sarah who blinks, turning her gaze to the starry sky where a long trail of swan flights stretches as far as my eyes can see, while the racket in the depths is deadened and I’m left with the soft mane of Sarah rolling upon my chest.

The bathroom was shut, so I opened my telephone in the AA armchair in the corner —where she would have sat and watch her mates undress for her. Some funny mail, from one of my own hacked addresses, said our flight would be on time, we should have company again, and everything we would agree to let be would be accounted for, with due regards.
Sarah came out, pampered as an appointment, I slid in and told her to read her mail; yelling through the door, because I would better not open it, she told me she had a message from Hotmail and she was certain whom it came from. I asked her how it made her feel, she cupped her hands on the wood and said low that I was a real one.
Lars was engaging, drinking coffee as he saw me brew tea in one of his silver Jensen pots, he explain it had made his life simpler not to expect proper tea at hotels he would, perforce, patronise.
He was relieved, after all, that the time had come to call the movers and pack, the house in Lausanne was overall ready; he insisted that I should come along with Sarah, I might appreciate more than New York, for what he knew. I promised, I did not know how far Zürich is from Lausanne, but there was someone I craved to meet again, over there. Yes, they had known exciting years in this extravagant residence, but he had had to reckon that it weren’t the place to raise Sarah, nor her brother, for that matter, I certainly knew all the good Saint Loup had done to her. I concurred keenly at the second she walked in, holding her telephone, shutting it and asserting that Mr. Stern awaited us. She sat on her father’s lap, like a cat.

Lars did his farewell lightly and promised to see us before the housewarming. which he needed us to attend, more than any others. He gave Sarah a peck on the lips, to me on the forehead, and he ran. I found her feet under mine, and told her how gifted I thought she was to have kept a dad like him, she bantered she had always been a crisis in the making, albeit she thought not, once her brother’s crime erased with festive years in Saint Loup. I liked footsie with her.

Next to a cantilevered pile of terraces and showcases towering up in the winds, the scrupulous red brick old style office building with recessed levels —as was the rule in regulation days— on Hudson street, in which Adlaï Stern maintained his well-waxed offices, extolled steady heartbeats, and so did Camille’s silver-haired uncle who showed us in with great demonstrations once a black pinstripe power suited hostess had greeted us in silence. Lengthy corridors of the same forest green plush carpeting, on which middle-aged ladies tried their heeled ankles, ascertained a patinated capability to handle any figure of wealth smoothly, like the sales attendant at Harry Winston’s showing the umpteen carats stone; it felt we stood in a plexus of global power.
He sat upon an outer corner of his massive mahogany desk while we shared an almond green armchair, and I felt two presses of Sarah’s hand on my waist, asserting she also had read old Adlaï’s gazes in our legs. I donned a lichen green shantung shirt dress opened above the knees, a sage embroidered uzbek velvet floating vest, jade green velvet Stubbs and Wooton zebra slippers on my bare feet, absinth chiffon thong he might have already seen. Sarah showed her imperceptibly speckled shoulders in a zigzag myosotis Missoni fitted tank dress half-thigh, a night blue velvet afghan boy’s vest embroidered in silver whirls, thin straps sandals at her beloved feet with night blue nails, like her hands —she had been doing that, when I had dozed out in the clouds’ hordes.
So we showed ourselves, like available baits, and he enjoyed. Pinching up his trousers’ pleat, he made a truthful compliment of his once forlorn niece, her finding Hugo as a john , first, then thriving out as we knew well, thanks to him. She had reached for the last kinfolk she found through the Circle —his eyes inquired about our knowledge, Sarah simpered we had all the keys, till then—. He said pensively that he had been alone not to be embarked for Pitchipoï , Camille’s mother had been liberated too late, too mauled to raise the gift a cruel providence had trusted her for. Unbeknownst to him, in the muffled out slums of guilt-ridden Parisian communities, she had unravelled during twelve harsh years, at Camille’s dismay.
He made a brusque sniff, and wanted to know how we knew Camille, and so we told him, and let him guess we were all but white geese, nor street sparrows in need, and so, after having ordered tea into an intercom, he led us to a vast padded sofa, of the same green leather.

A comely thin asian woman in a fitted black sleeveless dress brought a tray with a mud blue teapot and glass mugs she did not fill. Adlaï turned slightly towards me, laid his hand on my knee and said he knew me —paused— from Victor’s, of hellish fond memories. I did not recollect, but there had been, indeed, chaotic spends in the labyrinths. He was deftly unbuttoning my dress down the front, telling Sarah we were undoubtedly among those his faithful partner longed for. He brushed my breast smoothly, worrying naught about the impassive waitress who was pouring golden green water in the mugs; no hint of underwear showed under the thin crepe of her vesture, cleaved high on the hip in the Old Shanghai fashion. Adlaï wondered if we were lovers, and asked us to kiss, as he dared a hand between Sarah’s thighs. We drank some heavenly cloud of a tea and our awe let him venture further on us both. As the waitress returned, he casually covered my nudity and ask us what we wished for lunch. Sarah, who was still half-showing her crotch, looked kindly at the girl, in a tone which might have meant that they would end in a bed together, that any kind of mixed vegan salad around fresh pineapple would befit, and I concurred, leaning back in the down cushions with Adlaï’s hand rested on my thigh.
I needed to pee, he jumped up like a youngling, asked our hands and led us behind a heavy mahogany door to a greenish marble shower room with a golden glazed bowl where he sat me, then he adroitly pulled out his erect dick and played with it on my lips, while he was pulling up Sarah’s skirt and told me to wank her, as I sucked him and he kissed her. His honourable shaft smelled Bond Street, he took out a hefty pair of balls; it was not too boringly lengthy, he soon discharged in my throat without warning, and waited, stuck in, that I swallowed the whole load, finally helped by my teammate’s sucking kiss. He acted as fully relished, saying, as he buttoned back his fly, that he wanted to keep that smell for later.

He pulled Sarah’s dress away, she was instantly homey in the dark wood and green leather setting of a posh corner office. Jiao, as Adlaï had confessed her name was, brought wooden bowls full of orange carrot ribbons, white strings of radish, pink peeled grapefruit sections, and grapefruit chunks intertwined with leaves of different herbs; pretty mounds of white rice, because one eats rice, and porcelain flasks of dressings, bamboo sticks and silverware. Adlaï complimented her, pulling her hip softly, she explained, in ladylike English, that the meal came from the swanky Leonard Street caterer they patronised commonly. He was kindly uncovering her bum next to Sarah who felt her all over, up to an inviting smile, but the silky maid escaped. Adlaï told us that she had become more evasive during her lucrative work hours, although she complied regularly sitting on the golden bowl, and not wearing undies. She might come with him for his next visit to Paris; he wished we could entertain, with a reward, in the hotel of his heart, he capsized Sarah upon the back of the sofa, licked her whole bum crack for a while, and we had lunch.

The sun was sharp, anew we felt bright and slutty, as we drove up to E65th Street to a coquet townhouse to meet our last appointment. Liselotte connections had never been spoilsports, to say the least, and our minimal undies were folded in our stealth armpit pockets, we had found time to water-up our slits and steal some of Adlaï’s Cologne down there, one never knows.
The black lacquered door looked as armoured as Number Ten’s, and the security procedure felt complicated, with a sas and lots of cameras, but once we walked in the deep-carpeted, chiseled velvet upholstered, dim lit foyer, opening towards similar nightly ambient salons and polished mahogany stairs, a long sustained whistling greeted us from a tousled-head, burly, showbiz type shouting his pal Liz had not failed him and we were gorgeous, and as dirty as he liked. He groped us at once, relished our nudity, and pulled us to the rear of the house where a splendid naked Black girl laid reclined on a leopard pattern silk velvet plaid. She flashed a wondrous smile when Leo introduced her as Beondra, and pulled his tongue in my mouth still aware of the cock surge it had withstood. He turned up an apalled black eye when he had to concede we were both unflinching teetotallers, and served us cherry punch and soda. He wore a long open silk caftan over a deep sapphire blue, soon to be opened, long silk shirt which already did not conceal a sturdy haft that I politely seized. Sarah was again disrobed and held Beondra’s head upon her muff.
Once he had denuded me, Leo regained some quiet while spreading my thighs wide and playing at savouring my quim and butthole. He told us Liselotte had announced the niftiest pair of sluts she knew of in Paris, now he regretted we wouldn’t have time to be overthrown by all of his power gang, but he would certainly remember to call for us in his next Parisian visit.
Cajoling Sarah’s face with one hand, he forced me to his jolting truncheon in order to get sucked, but I finely rebuffed him, telling him that it was Sarah’s uncontested savoir faire, so he straddled her face and fucked her mouth gently while she was being eagerly serviced to climax. Still suckling on my tongue, he grunted when he crammed Sarah’s head full of smelly cum, and immediately dived on her to lick her face clean, like an eager animal.
I had never tasted a Black pussy, I devoted myself to Beondra’s lava rose, she was responsively jumpy, Sarah’s fragrance had untied her senses, she burst and screamed and ejaculated her spices on my busy tongue for long minutes, then collapsed, spent. Now Leo was buggering me with two fingers, at least, and he knew what he did, he asked permission to use a condom, I granted him so and soon I felt his invasion, accompanying his thrusts with inner squeezes, making him yell his vibrancy out, the chords in the coiled spine, the thrilling drone in the loins; I missed the ultimate fetish of his live gush, that would beastly drool out of my retracted arse.
Once the throes appeased, our sweats wiped in perfumed coloured towels, I told him that we did not use condom in our realm, because we let monitor our bodies in a network, he retorted my arse, for one, could eventually make him wish to expatriate, but all the nerve of his wealth was on this island. However, because of all that happened in their lavish home, to which he remained mostly a vibrant voyeur, they had already projected, on Liselotte’s advice, to set up such a web in America, but had not yet met a lawyer to envision an endeavour like this for less than tens of millions, plus my arse, naturally.


Sarah says:

Although it would be unthinkable they would leave without us, it would soon be time to reach Teterboro. Our day had already unreeled frantically, Kate rested aslant on the taxi bench en route to Bergdorf Goodman because I had realised I could not depart without some present for Dawn, and money was not an option. Graciously helped by ladies who, at first, had looked down on us —did we smell sex, that much?— but to whom I gave my little girl’s gaze, whom I let feel my near-nude frame, knowing that Dawn would be one size bigger, they suggested a sumptuous Italian fawn and blue silk twill blouse with a New-York sized price tag I did not flinch to, Dawn had been my all-time unreserved ally. Kate, who simpered like a naughty schoolgirl, approved of the choice and it was swathed into layers of shimmering tissue paper, a powder blue solid cardboard box, a powder blue double box and a Bergdorf Goodman gift tote. My platinum card nobly swished through the wires.
Back in a cab, Kate wondered if I had fucked with Dawn, I let her know we had maybe showered together and I had tried to seduce her, but stopped at the tone of her prayer not to compromise her; she had been a faithful comrade since, and I liked her near my Far. We had the thrill of watching her breasts when she couldn’t wait and try on the Salvatore Ferragamo blouse. It was fugitive, but I put Kate’s hand upon the virginal globes the size of half-grapefruits, Dawn cried.
We opted for the versatile summertime travel outfits, whatever happened on that plane, we needed not show off. A light, vague, black ribbed jersey tank dress would be my best asset, eventually, in a black, white overstitched, sashiko jacket, a true luxury. I would kick in black, round toe, mary janes, and black open veil tights, if only to make Kate salivate. She herself chose a vague emerald and ruby on white ikat shirt, half-thigh long, gathered with a silver plates belt, under an oversized double breasted jacket, in sea-green, huge palms pattern ottoman lampas , lined in turquoise satin, off-white open tights —not to be outdone— turquoise slippers trimmed in silver grosgrain..
We really boasted be crafty harlots, in the whole; she had perfumed herself like a giant peony, I smelled like the blue haze of hyacinths in the blooming underwood, Dawn helped us till downstairs and made me promise to be in Lausanne, soon.
Visibly, the young driver liked to drive us, he had probably seen a flash of clear skin when I sat in. He babbled incomprehensibly at red lights, let his eyes wander down, but managed to carry us in time. In addition to a carful of fantasies, he pocketed a joyful tip.

Traveling out of the US is easy, one more stamp, yet, the white bird hissed already while we climbed aboard. This time, a svelte asian young man awaited us at attention, donning a Khmer smile, pretty as a girl. When he took my jacket, I sniffed a stream of something more than a cologne, nothing oriental, between grapefruit and blackcurrant, or maybe he had just gulped a gin and tonic; his hands were well educated. Kate rolled up her sleeves and unbuttoned her shirt down to the belt, tossed her slippers and sat on her feet, her smile said that she had noticed the attendant, too.
The pilots boarded, seemingly in good humour, recognised us and came to kiss our hands with some innuendo. On their heels, three bespoke clad Chinese executives walked in and spoke sharply to the attendant, who announced that the gentlemen did not speak English and he would translate for us. Like in tic-tac-toe, they filled the seats next to ours, and stared at us straight in our faces, with inexpressive masks, I sensed that they were fearing each other.
After the formal announces in technical English, we all buckled up and outside the window, Gotham World shrank into a web of blinking strings, while my neighbour’s hand was already on my bum, stealthily.
After a yaw above the ocean, we were following the ever populated coast, the quiet boy served drinks, we asked for kombucha because we knew there would be some, and the mandarins, now in expensive white silk shirts, asked for champagne, which came in two monogrammed silver coolers.
They let us know they were business partners of Panado Ventures Ltd, in Shanghai, traveling eastward around the planet to meet their contacts, and lovely occidental artists like us; I could not catch their names, but they did ours, and Kate had already two pairs of hands inside her shirt, about which one asked haughtily if it was Tibetan, to what she said it was Uzbek, but nevertheless her assailors did not approve of ethnic elegance and she was swiftly disrobed, less her tights that visibly excited them; she threw her hands overhead and spread her legs lankily while she was lapped upon, all over; the tights were peeled off and she moaned when one decorticated her feet with an all-oriental dedication.

On my side, the eminent passenger had watched out on his colleagues’ moves before lifting my simple dress, revel in my crotch for a while, burying sweet ideograms in my butthole, then ordering me drily to pull everything off and grazing slowly my abs and my chest, whispering “my little boy”, while he expertly wanked my quim to tears. He truly relished my figure, his manicured hands in every nook and tickle, his mouth stealing my air and suckling my tongue; he maddened my sleazeberries hard as I wriggled on the Connolly skin. When he heard the sound of unbuckling belts, he impatiently brought a rock-hard peen to my mouth, hurling some injonction to suck, he was already near spurting and he filled my educated throat for my pride to gulp it all and smile.
At a staccato formula he jokingly made, one of the opposite pair took his place and tasted my mouth, leaving me thoughtful as I gave him the flavour of his chum, with a sly grin. He stared at my Danish eyes and penetrated me straight on, humping like a mad boar and discharging, like fireworks into my womb.
Everyone was soon in the raw, these gents were all apparently fast-shooters, we might eventually take some sleep. Telling us to remain wide open, they asked for more champagne, then invited the quiet boy to join, and one of them fetched his dick out of his trousers, held it on fingertips and told Kate to kiss and suck, while the youngster was
carefully undressed, his clothes folded on a nearby stool.
While the three amigos had short, sturdy, hard cocks, this one sported a straight, long, supple one he had either shaved or epilated, and balls like small eggs in a satin pouch. They waved me to get near, and I craved already to lick these toy-like jewels. They guided him inside Kate’s dripping slit and showed me to point my tongue between his bum cheeks; soon I felt one of their rods enter my minge and my arse alternately until it slid easy, I parted my thighs as wide as I could to facilitate, and focused on some fine climax, a new flow of semen helped at that, and Kate, who heard my notes, joined me, making the no longer quiet youth gush happily.

My first assaillant of that night had a crush for his “little boy”, before we were offered dinner by the quiet boy —renewed in his prerogatives— he had already offered me millions to become his property; it was chilling, but I ducked, telling him that I belonged to the owners of Panado Ltd, and I was only on loan to him. After Kate had been accompanied to the bathroom and came back unfazed, my hasty suitor pushed me, since I needed it anyhow, and there he was standing, in his black socks, kissing me deep and feeling me pee, then acrobatically wiping my quim with his mouth, so I felt clean.
The one whose word would not be disrupted grabbed Kate’s arm and pulled her to one of the the resting settees, laid her before himself and showed her to sleep, firmly enlaced. So did my eager suitor with me, but not before he succeeded at buggering me slowly, not unpleasantly, since I dozed out upon it, he probably had used some shrewd lubricant.
Everybody woke up, under cashmere stoles, in Paris. Once we had slid into our togs, the quiet attendant showed us some most complete bathrooms in the reception building; we giggled to each other; a long sleek limousine awaited us; the tea was mediocre, but some grapefruit juice freshened our befuddled minds. Seeing the regards with what we were attended to, our fellow travelers, who had rightfully used us as mere trollops, were thrown in awe; they had, and my Romeo mostly, tried every manoeuvre to obtain our coordinates, but did not ferret out the stealthy armpit pockets where our documents would be, our phones were locked out; our only response had been that we belonged to Panado Ltd. A sleek shaved chauffeur, in a navy blue suit, grabbed our bags and laid them in the trunk, then waited at the car door, impassibly.


Kate says:

There was a suitable low, blank sky, and it was warm as in a dying summer. We still granted our fuckers some furtive indolent hand wave. Soon, I enlaced my rosebud tomboy and we dozed together through the bleak landscape of a modern suburb, tagged with the same graffiti as anywhere else, and an hour later, Natalia was waking us up on the backseat with her kind manners, as the chauffeur carried our bags to the elevator in the next building; she stared at us as if we had been gone for weeks, she felt like this all-Parisian wit in a pair of scattered blue volutes leggings, I did not understand who told her we were here. In our tidied home, an armload of dark crimson dahlias sprung in the big silver urn, the arcs of our old disparate Windsor chairs circled around a fresh provençale blue dotted yellow tablecloth on wich sailed a wire basket full of viennoiseries. My lighter than air imp wriggled her bum on my lap as soon as I sat while Sarah, still in some dream, put herself at brewing a pot of tea. Natalia made me a theatrical moaning kiss and I slid a hand to her modest tits, It was started for a party of jet-lagging after a transcontinental orgy. As it seemed, Natalia knew more about New York than we had had a chance to live, she had over-compensated the lack of reports from us with all the ressources she could gather online; Sarah joined us to thank her for breakfast in another heartfelt kiss.
Shutters closed, we traded pillows on the grand bed, Natalia in the middle ready to daydream in our sleepy midst. Later, Liseron found it a homey nest and embraced Sarah’s back.

We were indeed bad parents, we brought nothing back from our trip, no token that we had missed our home pixies, we let them order what they wished for dinner, and liters of fig kombucha, no pun intended, albeit… Camille was coming over with Fanny, Natalia ran upstairs for Delffan who was too shy, and Liseron caught Fayelle reading “The Manuscript Found In Sarragossa”. After all the dicks we had sucked and fucked, we would hold an all-pussy —and a half— party, the sunset already smelled like Kew Gardens. Only Liselotte was missing, and in gratitude for her improbable pirate cousin, I called her —that, she had been awaiting— and she ran at orders, greeted by Natalia, fittingly wearing just leggings and a torn tee shirt.
Camille wanted details of our visit to uncle Adlaï, showing us beforehand the effect of it in our accounts with the gallery; everyone marvelled at our depravity towards a gentleman we had not known when we rang his bell, but Camille concurred that he was so irresistibly obsessed that he had shagged her plenty the day they first met, and been an indefectibly faithful friend since, why she sent us to him, knowing what we would allow, like the two gifted alley cats we were. Liselotte relished the tale of her mock cousin Leo, and predicted he might as well spring up in Paris overnight, and desecrate all of the fine slits she sensed in the room, after what she pulled off Delffan’s pants and played the orchid with her tongue.
Natalia was sparkling with arousal and Lizon gave her the last blow of bliss upon me, as I kissed her backwards, and Sarah busied her tongue in her butt crack. As Fayelle had raptured her overjoyed mate Fanny, Camille cajoled Delffan’s bald head and gave her worldly honeypot to suck.
The telling of our well ordered flight fanned the flames to white heat, like the Asian invaders had been avatars of Sun Wukong, the immortal monkey god, in heat. Sarah was most amusing recounting the prowesses of her Romeo, and how he eventually buggered her to her “petite mort”, only to watch her vanish into a limousine. Camille regretted we had not, at least, kept with us the quiet boy, and wondered if she might get hold of him in some way. It was about time to fetch the dildos.

When Hugo joined the bacchanal, happily bedazzled by all the witty bums that crowded our den, Liselotte overtly fawned over him, helping out with his clothes and licking his balls, but he had spotted Delffan in bloom and craved that rare treasure; he offered the kindest compliments and nuzzled the cheeks and temples as one was climaxing at Camille’s expert hand, then asked permission to play, offering his proud weapon at the parted lips, a pointed tongue as soon licking a drop of clear cum. Delffan keenly spread wide open and Hugo, well taught by his aventure with Theo, asked what to do and where to shag —for he knew it might possibly not happen for the obvious— so Delffan seized his cock and presented it to the tiny pussy, asking for some mercy. The path was wetted, Hugo was utterly deft in such matters, and succeeded at nesting his glans into the mignonne slit —but after all, he had penetrated apparently smaller holes before— and progressed, one tiny jolt after the other, into one’s merry well, and fucked for good to the general amazement, the smaller goad begging for Camille’s lips, which wrapped the straight blade in eager succion. The gush came through a secretive orifice under the shaft and atop the pussy, Camille was splashed on with a smile as Hugo was triggered to fill the pouch that had expanded a tad. Delffan was elated and proud to have shown how to be considered, Hugo was smitten by this preternatural, lithesome body of pleasure that he embraced and kept tight, while Lizon and Sarah licked the toes on the narrow feet.

Delffan’s beautiful orgasm had been the cause of an intermission, and half of Agnete & Sanne’s shop on our table. But also, one after the other dared ask the middlesex newbie permission to kiss the unusual orchid, as one stood on Hugo’s lap, so much so that he erected anew and began his moves to bugger the angel, in what he was helped by Lizon’s opportune drooling, and some lube when Delffan asked; thankfully the chair was sturdy enough when they climaxed again, and this time they went to the shower, smiling.
Pulling a chair next to ours, Liselotte noticed Natalia on my knees and groped her, my eyes rolling being insufficient, I whispered in her ear that this one was not fair game for her, and unmistakably the all-alerted squirrel heard me, and playfully opened her thighs to a bedazzled Liselotte who gave a little lap there and asked if she could just kiss, but Natalia was eating. Her own legs parted wide, she embraced us as Sarah started the part in Julia’s live-in museum with the demon twins; clung to her, giving the eye to Hugo who wanted to take away Delffan, as he did, she played with the suckleberries as my best tomslut revived the indefatigable twos in all our holes. For that or for art’s sake, Natalia wished to go see Julia’s collections, and I did not doubt a second the latter would fondly appreciate, so I promised, and you had to beware with Natalia, that I would let her ask Julia the next time, soon, that she would visit; for now, she was more involved in seducing Sarah’s father before he left New York.
As predictably, Hugo invited Delffan alone to his lair, half dressed and fled. Camille and Fanny took Fayelle to their place. All of us left went in our bed to watch a Miyazaki tale, at Natalia’s request, and Liselotte crawled up in her legs at her pleasure.


Sarah says:

I could not fathom if Julia had succeeded at shagging Far over their highly connoisseur meetings; nevertheless, Elsie sounded definitely willing to respond to my invite, and should be with us, whatever Julia flew by, sooner than later. Kate was adrift through the time zones and it gave her the small eyes of a young girl with a flu, but Natalia and her melted together so much so that Beryl wondered, then shared Lizon with me, as it happened.
Natalia was turning eighteen, and would begin literature, art history, and English at the Sorbonne, at least she would trudge through the freshwoman year, skilfully mentored by Beryl. She rested assured on a safe seafaring, but the terrible other in her needed hustling and bustling, unleashed after all she was given to see and hear, she wanted to measure herself and dared Kate, whom she always loved, to let her alone in the “cage aux fauves”.
At one of my transatlantic Xmases, a comely copilot I had casually followed to the airline hotel on 57th street, had gently, among many delicacies, explained to me the use of melatonin, an overall inoffensive hormone, to induce sleep ahead of the clock after an eastbound flight. I had had to find some hazy excuse for the few hours lateness, but I kept in mind what he had so amorously explained, and used it on my way back to Europe. It were already times when my mother and brother had moved, and thus, as long as I looked physically fit and altogether clean, I was granted some kind of autonomy, or was I? —Wasn’t my blue suit fling one of those security watchdogs I had always seemed to see, except for at least once?—

The season was waning, the perfidious twilight breeze called for another layer of flimsy fabric, or the warm breathing of a lover upon the breast. We had migrated back to our high view observatory, but it had revealed itself unfeasible to lock out of it the new younger and slender astronome apprentices, as the metaphor went. It has soon trended to meet our neighbours, possibly in indecent attires, seated around our table, keenly listening, or reading, in their turn, the Journals of Anaïs Nin —with further comments— or the dreamy parables of Marcel Schwob. This clever arrangement had been spawned by our old Magus, I would say James W. Manner, whom got wind that we had repatriated our court in the Pré Aux Clercs.
He sent first an armful of white gladioli, all-dressed-up in ferns and lace-paper, asking if he could visit on the next afternoon, along with Annabelle, his golden sylph of a daughter. They appeared as a whiff of lavender, assailed by lashes of bergamotte and frills of juniper, she was as limpid as the highlands rains, we all craved to unravel her tweed spell. Fayelle and Lizon were here, barefeet, one in an oblique wrapping gown of thinly striped blue-black Japanese weave, the other in a granite blue giant sweater dress showing all of her legs; they emanated both a stubborn ribbon of jaunty freesia, we had been “spying in the house of love” by their dulcet tones of voice one would wish to hear Anaïs Nin, the epitome of cosmopolitan grace.
At once, James took Lizon by him, on the red settee he had offered that for. As Fayelle kept a thumb into the book she had been reading, Annabelle perched on my lap and her feather weight tipped over the seat of my chair so that we found ourselves kissing, unavoidably.

James’ polished nails were running up Lizon’s complacent thigh, I wouldn’t recall how she knew the old artist other than the reception at our show, but she appeared open as a windmill, and he was ready to romp in, feeling no barrier to his caress.
He claimed that Anaïs could lead us a long way, she had been a pioneer of polyamorous freedom, after cutting through all the available paths of well-off education, incest, marriage, and then all the free reeling we enjoyed ourselves, fifty years beyond her. She probably had been some case, to Miller and the others, but in her writings they looked good, better than many literary echoes of companionship in women’s writings.
Lizon sat nude in her overthrown gown, he stroked her whole body and kissed her eagerly, still dressed up in his Irish Tweed and golden green velvet vest. His trousers bulged at the crotch. Anabelle wore off-white textured open tights and responded nicely to my steady manipulations of her damp cunny, one of her legs rested on the table after I had sheltered a few accessories, she acted as shamelessly as a daisy in the prairie sunlight, or as I had in the warmth of the basement laundries at Saint Loup. I grasped something that had kept whistling in my head, that she had certainly not any shade of daughterly attitude towards James, who was now currently widely bedraggled so as to let Lizon pump him kindly; my hunch was that she had chosen him as a sponsor in Paris, then made-up the kinship to secure her position, and let anything happen, which, with a rascal like James, meant a refined modus vivendi.
Would I spare a couple of intimate minutes to discuss this arousing play with Kate? It seemed that nowadays we had boarded all the lovely tramps we had met and our main deck always was crowded, more girls than knights, my quim said.
Now Fayelle was on all fours licking Kate, wide opened, both feet on the table edge, pulling the chair ahead in her lover’s face, and meanwhile James reclined so as to slide his fingers in Fayelle’s slits. Annabelle and me had succeeded at peeling off and we uncoiled over the carpet in half-light.
James knew very well of our spacious modern shower at this level; when each of us was fulfilled, he achieved his nudity and called all of us in the tepid rain, but most of all, he needed us to piss on him and in his mouth, which Annabelle did firstly, with no further comment from us than this foolish warm liquid release, and frank laughters.

James and Annabelle had promised to come for another party soon, when all the books we had ordered to picture the tale of our trip would be delivered —no one needs anymore to carry heavy books and catalogues in their bags, they are all at Amazon’s—. Fayelle and Lizon seemed to have plotted something together next morning, so we remained together, awake like the moon, and shared our feeling that it was Annabelle’s right to live as the incestuous daughter of James’s; I would clear my head of any reluctant reserve, and let my Far play with my toes endlessly.
Then Kate retold me what Natalia had laid for us to think, and I reckoned she had been rightful; we could not keep on bantering about selling ourselves like whores for the meer pleasure of it, and keep our word to her mother not to let her take her seat on the merry-go-round.
Also, she plainly deserved to begin shagging all her fill with indefatigable stems of her age —we did, at any occasion—. What I feared was that, at once in college, she would be preyed by a cute Cro-Magnon specimen, whom, because he would stuff her with semen, would think he rightfully owns her soul and arse, climb up the roofs and make our lives miserable.
Before we dropped our melatonin pill, our deal were, once Natalia would have told us her cravings, and it could take a few days, and more jaunts into private places, we would ask Camille and Liselotte, our trusted procuress —so to speak— and Hugo, His Lordship, what to offer the talk of the town, as a free fate.


Kate says:

We grossly overslept, but who cared? Natalia laid tight alongside me, daydreaming in her keen animal way, Sarah’s hand on her waist. As a matter of fact, I had been dreaming with her, or probably she had just stepped into my conscience on tiptoes. She faintly smelled of something, unsure of my breath, I soughed in her jewel ear I felt she had fucked last night, she said nothing but a tongue zest in my own ear.
Sarah brewed the first Darjeeling, and a panful of French toast with her distinctive vanilla note. Natalia kept fiddling on her quim, her rapscallion missed of delicacy… she grasped that I had read her, kissed my shoulder, and wept. After a blank moment of cajolement, she spilled the meager beads of her chagrin, all but miserably obvious; it had not been a rape, upon a pile of clothes in a dim lit room of a bourgeois dwelling, while the heavy beat of a students party pushed, she had very soon resented derailed, misused, unfit, dry and sawed in, and now she was in fear the unaware boor would track her because he knew her classes.
Leaving her on Sarah’s bosom, I pulled a shirt on and ran downstairs for a balsam proper to quench pussy burn Hugo kept. I met the always nude Delffan who gave me her peaceful lips, told three words to Hugo in his sultan robe, then I grabbed the vial and climbed back. I knew —might I say first hand?— the properties of the heady violet smelling cream, and Natalia asked for my fingers to insist in her, as she kissed, and eventually came, in a great relief spend.

Although my appetite had thinned flat, I complimented my simply distraught von K. on her confection she would never miss, fed bites in Natalia saddened childish mouth, and claimed she would stay the day with us, upstairs. I summoned Liselotte in terms fit to make her aware of some flaw in our affairs, and Camille, both of whom attentive around Natalia’s well being.
Liselotte was first to sneak her way in, now that she had grabbed a lot of our codes, and pecked upon Sarah’s toasts elegantly, allowing herself to stroke our smooth looking forlorn maiden. She had a way to pull some confession with enough detachment so that it produced the same healing in the soul as the cream in the cunny, and she relished being asked to console our house fairy she had craved for.
Like a master scheduler of the waters in Babylon gardens, Liselotte had become expert for a stealth nation’s lovestreams, at higher risks than a therapist but far more rewarding returns. Sharing Natalia with me, she invented at once a safe life plan for an impish student too pretty for street life; she would commission Fulgence, this one Natalia could use at no cost, to escort her, him or his trustable chums, during her public necessities, until the lout in question understood she were off-limits. Liselotte gave her word that there were no compensation on her side, only our man Fulgence would be too glad to ingratiate himself with our gracious society; besides, he deserved a more dignified share of our affection, whatsoever.
Natalia saw Liselotte as a saviour, and allowed cat paws all over herself.

Camille appeared later, and grasped the matter fluently, deemed Liselotte’s idea brilliant, brought it up to conspiracy scope, all the time stroking Natalia’s thighs, it began to smell heavenly throes. She reckoned that Natalia had simmered in unfettered lewd effusions from us all, without much more than mere licks on the cakes, so she —and she patted the small belly saying that— might be let to visit some of the brightest pastry shops, like her comrades in the attic lairs. She wondered pensively about her own house fairy whom no one could tell her age and was still dependant on her therapist. Fanny had heard and seen life ways, learned at hopping pace the structures that had been alien to her too long, but she was not asking for more than what she found during a few get-together with us, and most of all Kate who had been her vision and her ultimate buoy. Natalia would be able to retell her what it felt to roam bare in Xanadu, without a telephone.
In the meantime, I was missioned to talk with Hugo, who was entirely after Delffan, who seemingly reveled in that. I had hastily pondered anyway that one could hear my query about Natalia, and Hugo ought to speak up with Lena, her mother, on her daughter’s coming of age in a nexus of life ways of sorts she could not ignore. Hugo approved all of our guidance, promised to speak with Lena in the evening and let me cuddle up with the sweet pixie.

Beryl had been seeking for her mate in many places before finding her with us; she smelled like she had ran, but it was overall palatable; she grasped easily what had gone awry and eventually cried, taking the blame on her because she had dragged Natalia in that unknown house. So, then, it bore on me to heal the wounds of two runners, and I told Beryl she would come with us to the clinic, for a first whole shebang on Natalia, who was overjoyed to hear that.
I held her hand for the blood drawing, more as a to