Sarah says:

Hugo had himself taken Fayelle at Prinz’s, the ultimate glove makers, to order a bespoke aviator bonnet in petal-rose kidskin; when it was delivered, next day but one, they found it so sexy that he ordered two others, one powder-blue, the other marigold, she would not have to feel like a crippled brat. Furthermore, the Professor had told her that past six months, her coconut would be tougher than ours.
Still centre-stage amidst the soft-coloured mishmash of cushions on her bed, she let be cuddled by her nude courtiers, eagerly listening to Annabelle’s embellished recalls of our night in the clouds, later joined by Lizon, in a new hairstyle, straight out at nape’s length, and Fæbian, eyes of jade in the shady brook under her fringe, I could not help disrobe and mingle in the fray.
And now, Fayelle’s and Kate’s seaside cavalier was announced in his prestigious Parisian estate, I would suppose the pretty brigade of the suave scents would lie in wait —such an appropriate term— but Kate, on the same wavelength as Fayelle about der Erhenmann, had warned that the 911 attribute might be not adequate in the tight city, that we used chauffeured cars to go get laid.
Other than immemorial threads that had established branches of his family on the much-praised island in the Seine, Lauritz’s granddad had not left a particularly nice scent nearby, but he would soon enough comprehend that sixty years of building Europe had cleared the atmosphere somewhat like André Malraux had washed the facades. No one would ever talk of my own granddad, or Kate’s.
I would relish scheming some shenanigan with Ayla, a pleasant one, that is, my buddy is a royal treat, in earnest, and so is her squiress, if I would say, I expected to hear from them soon.
Gauthier had received a truthful contract to revive the whole second floor of the von Peck estate on Quai de Bourbon and the keys to all the building had awaited him at a notary’s office. Nobody had seriously lived there since the war, but the doors had been sturdy enough not to be forced. Gauthier at once found enough quality antiques to put together a fine garçonnière, only the kitchen and bathrooms needed to be modernised, and necessities like the heating and the electricity. He set all this for two or three months of work by his overpaid teams, and it did not seem to bother Lauritz, but it might be wise for him to come ahead and stay in some hotel nearby.
Gauthier had been impressed by the contents of the building, and began to wonder about the provenance of such goods, so, with his fearless candour, he questioned Lauritz who did not baulk and addressed him to the French notary who might have kept the inventories in archives, so as, after a clerk consulted the files, all concerns about pillaged properties were lifted, all notable pieces had been there long before the war —i.e. the occupation.

Gauthier had been wearing a surgical mask once he had started to delve into what generations of Holy Empire’s plenipotentiaries had hoarded thickly into these walls, from all the stations they had haunted, at less than a gunshot from the seat of France’s head —they believed a few of them had been buried inside Notre-Dame, in a lead coffin.
Called for help in what was resembling a millenary debacle, Hugo advised moving all paper material to a safer outhouse for expertise; but when Gauthier unearthed trunks, filled with immemorial rags, kept whole, thanks to the camphor wood and other weird sachets, he was dumbstruck, thinking of his mother, a reputed costume designer who hunted such troves in all possible auctions, also, not so impartially, what Gianni might revive of the more recent Art Deco pieces on the daring libertines at home.
Lauritz was at least wary about these cubic meters of memories he had decided to alleviate from, and so, after having watched the videos Gauthier had streamed to him, told him to dispose of everything textile as he liked, for free.
So then, one pearly-grey morning over the river Seine, the notary clerk, Gauthier and his beloved mother Adeline, Hugo and Gianni, plus squads of burly stevedores at order, all equipped with powerful flashlights, began the squaring off of the von Speck estate, in good humour. All the carpets were reserved for the cleaner-restorer, duly inventoried because there happened to be prestigious names among them.
I showed up, with Dagmar in a long wrap-around coat of blueberry cashmere, so as Gianni saw a new challenge to his talent —he matter-of-factly untied the coat belt, seized my pupil’s waist and swayed his stare in approval, like most of the heavers present; she wore tight jeans and a fitted navy turtleneck jumper — he then turned to me and groped me as ever, he had had time to evaluate all sorts of queer outfits for a boy like me.
Back inside the Capharnaum, it was only Gauthier, Dagmar, and me, plus two art cleaners chasing dust on the floor, attentive to any other tiny bit or scrap. We went upstairs and opened a cranky window to breathe in. He was overjoyed by the look he had read in his mother’s smile; gently grabbing Dagmar against me, he kissed her for real and then watched us do, then returned to his laid-back normal and invited us to his place, that night. He also announced that he would throw a great new-year party in his own family château, big enough for all of us.

Gauthier’s bachelor pad is almost as spacious as our apartment was before the recent extensions, with a spectacular four-slant top bedroom, where I helped him greedily disrobe Dagmar, acting so as he understood she wasn’t one’s common loose girl, but he already knew all, we played wholeheartedly with the golden-nimbed totem pole he was retaining a tad longer to ensheathe in her rounded butt. She was so maddeningly obedient and defenceless, and nonetheless responsive to minute intentions. I breathed that he would, as he had done constantly, shelter that willowy, candid, cloud-walker from any further drift-nets or hooks. But he had also known she was on the higher-up’s radar, allowed to sleep in the Aviator’s legs upon the sublime futon, and so, we cuddled her between us and listen to her breathe till we hovered above the green towers of Denmark, afar from the murder of scarlet crows.
In the foggy dawn, the copper dreamer knight had stealthily fled, but after a ylang-ylang shower, nude, as our stuff had fallen downstairs, we were met by the amused smirk of Philippe, the current squire of whom we had just shagged. Still rummaging in the cupboard for tea and crumbs to feed my pet bird, I was tempted, because Gauthier had been mostly overwhelmed by Dagmar’s eyes and else, and so I wooed the young page-like, blond strands, amber-speckled eyes, fluffy cheeks, unable to hide he was hard-up for us, so I could hold, I turned my back on him, embraced Dagmar and did not wait long to feel a strong push in my back hatch. She laughed and offered her mouth over my shoulder, the cadet must have been frustrated with his night, because in a few ram hits he was already flushing me up so generously that I had to run to the loo at the great laughs of Dagmar. I promised Philippe he would be allowed other rounds of the game, but he was already confiding his shaft in the shower to a pretty humoured Dagmar who casually pumped him.
Had we met someone in the elevator down to where real tea was —Philippe had confessed they drank coffee— that one might have liked a pair of nudies with their rags on their arm, so did Fayelle and Kate, sniffing me with a cute smirk. They could not guess who had shagged us so early. Fayelle did not wear her bonnet, the long stitch was disappearing under the new crop of clear thatch, she only looked like she had done that to herself, Dagmar sat her on her lap. I brewed tea.
Kate had been reading messages from Lauritz, from Cynthia too, she was hustled and bustled morally, at the moment when she had shunned her brother’s choices, other figures of her youth resurfaced. It was time to reacquaint ourselves with our main walk of life, on our long table upstairs. Fayelle wanted so, Dagmar took her big jumper and said she was going, to learn languages with Delf, and it might have been true.

Fayelle had been a smidgen uneasy with our tidying of the studio; she was not only cicatrising her skull, she was searching for traces of her déjà vu curtain, but she was afraid to open the big volume of Cortazar. Kate floated an excellent choice in the short novels of Bruno Shulz, if she kept her dainty feet under the cover, and that recall of my teasing on the day she had skirted death tinkled in her smile.
In Saint Loup, a free seminary had examined what few documents had been left of Jewish Poland, Lithuania, Galicia, other than the photographs by Roman Vishniac and a few honest testimonies scavenged in some ruins, not the ignoble delectation by the extermination troupes of the misery they had devised themselves in the ghettos. There had existed a written masterful testimony of the Galician Jewish culture, in Yiddish and in New York, it was written by Isac Bashevis Singer. Then a dust storm had raised over Palestine and from there had clouded the testimonies, in the eyes of privileged schoolgirls like me.
Because of the name she bore, and the language she heard in the staircases she haunted, Camille, our now brilliant big sister, then hustling herself out of the destitution —that had eventually floated her adrift to Hugo’s door— had explored these tales of Pitchipoï but found in there no more valid epiphany so as to the inexorable misery of her sad lineage, than in any other manner of Bible, save the boon of beauty she had made a living off.
Only through Shulz transfigurative parables had she found the surreal harmonies Hugo had let her guess across the cosmic Orient. When she had enticed me into her bed, and then in the high perches of her already notable dwelling, we had lived a whole season of Shulz —for all good reasons— she liked the tone of my untraceable accent, and she repaid me opening windows of my soul.
When they had printed the drawings of Bruno Schulz, about whom had been known firstly “Sanatorium Pod Klepsydra”, —a Polish film by Werner Haas, a concatenation of Shulz’s themes, filmed in real vestiges of the post-war, long-putrefying Polish countryside— then, this black carnival of sordid passions, of child prostitutes put up for auction in front of sprawled down shop-keepers, not long after the same would have crawled in the mud of Klondike or the tenements of the Lower East-Side, Bruno Shulz had been one who missed the last boat, like millions of them.
I had, like some of my confidants, been troubled in my soul by the world in the drawings, somewhat like when I had roamed astray in the rear of the Saint Loup stables —straw and horse droppings— knowing full well the cossacks had been on the lookout. In the worse of my acting-outs, I had provoked the whip and shamefully gushed on my pulled down knickers. It had then been a harrowing expense to come to discuss that with Prof Achenbach.
Fayelle did not miss a word, a comma, but the studio was only just big enough to contain the elephant that stood in it, still. When I crawled to her gathered feet and fondled them, she kept on reading.
Annabelle had bypassed the elephant on the sly, she sat in her father’s armchair legs crossed, a handful of yellowed magazines she deposited on the carpet so as she would dissect them one by one. She was there to hear Fayelle, we all shared friendly glances, the elephant told me I was a bitch in heat.

Michelle was giving a grand dinner party for Cynthia’s opening, nonetheless, a more prudish gathering than had happened before in her inspiring salons, because a few tight-lipped Mandarins had answered they would attend. Cynthia’s attainments in Australia, plus the smell of sponsors’ money had let deem the event palatable.
And so, with Delf’s most appropriate diligence, and nought written trace anyone, the overall code would be of blunt sexual abstinence on ground-level and only the special TRÆVIX affiliates, those the AI knew of, would be admitted upstairs for whatever they wished —the security personnel would be Melchior’s elites. Of course, Liselotte would stealthily spawn her innuendoes with the bigwigs she had all the savoir-faire to hook up, but we doubted that medicine bosses would make interesting clients for her and her battalions.
Also, it had not been conceivable to ask Malo for a performance, an event in the vein of what we participated in under the stars would come later, for a different audience, so, she agreed to play her amplified cello, in a vermillion-red pantsuit, barefoot.
Otherwise, Cynthia, who had willy-nilly followed her parent’s trails, not bidding on the obvious of her being, but on hard work by more associations and awareness groups, had said that she would be very surprised if such a meeting, under all the might money provides, would garner one or two fruitful acknowledgements. Out of what she had read coming from France, this country still trailed back in scandalously outdated knowledge of the intersex world. Beyond the funny mind-games of gender-related semiology, and a fashion for mere cross-dressers and convenience reassignments, a population of newborns were still butchered in silence, in French hospitals, condemning them to a lifelong martyrdom of torture and surgeries, to no avail whatsoever to their personal lives.
A moral deal had been written, between Cynthia, Michelle, and Melchior, that her operation be a mere experiment, with a reckoning in three years, giving her latitude to fall back to some other sympathetic base —I would say Switzerland, IMHO— and not lose her funding.
Our own mollycoddled baldinette Delffan, from circus freak, like she had been set amidst a rough orgy, when we had let her sneak in our car, understood all the PR on the matter but dared not hope that Cynthia would enrol them aboard, yet jumpy made them pretty.
She disembarked at noon, the trip had been harrowing but she had been able to sleep in the second leg, from Dubaï. Kate had asked me to come with her, Delf, and Theo.

To some undeniable chagrin of Theo’s, Cynthia had been mostly enthralled to meet up with Delf, who embraced her every second, in a marigold yellow Indian sherwani, matched slim trousers and patent court flats that made them look as appetising as fresh lemon pie. It was sensitive that they had already knit some sweet syncrasy, complete, however, with a kind interface towards the univocal samples such as I.
Warned, Gauthier, Hugo and Philippe stood at attention before the lacquered Prussian blue double door with bronze plates onto the lower and middle rails, a discreet spyhole and a bronze colour keypad at man’s height.
One of the commendations had been to avoid mirrors, easy to use but disquieting to some of the persons she might happen to invite in. Not the case of Theo, the one Cynthia had entrusted to her youth lover as probably some kind of precursor, so it looked, who knew to find his image in the polish of panelled walls. Behind the electric door, a glazed security vestibule with a wall-to-wall doormat kept the already peaceful street traffic noise locked away. Then a traditional diagonal checkered marble floor inspired the hint you had probably not walked into a mere business operation, this echoed by two paintings of life-size jesters, wearing black and yellow tights and diamond-patterned leotards by Leonor Fini, looking at the visitor with a fine grin. A black and bronze curvy Roccoco desk with its chair stood aside on a black and gold acanthus motive Aubusson rug, against the salvaged glass bits mishmash, leaded window diffusing some artificial light, and before the radiant futurist gilded iron grid of the elevator.
On the desk, in a black and gold curved-striped blown Murano vase, an armful of marigolds, set for the obvious, smelled of a prairie dew. Cynthia, sincerely cuddling Delf, sported the clever look of someone who was just only mildly impressed by the circumstance decor, like mannerisms of the old world.
Only her, Delf and Gauthier could take the lift, we ran up to a different mood stage. Although still surrounded by blind yards, the first floor (in French denomination) seemed naturally lit, and was wall-to-wall carpeted with an old rose English thick pile —the investors had specifically oriented Gauthier’s choices towards the top drawer— and four empty offices, behind double doors, floated sheltered in virginal flax veilings, encircled with white empty bookcases, waiting for furniture.
On that morning, the sun lent a wing across the second tier upon the pastel blue carpeting, on the same layout of four corners, with stairs, bathrooms and closets concealed. A large window on the landing made it a liveable waiting room. Nought of medical practice was intended to take place in the building, the whole atmosphere should be that of some council office, a family lawyer, possibly, a moral refuge if necessary.
A key was necessary to reach the third floor, Cynthia’s apartment. The ceilings were lower, I could touch them, and the beams had been uncovered, then painted white. A large living room ran all the southern side, all tiled in antique red tommettes. Cynthia had wished to unearth a whole household of Biedermayer furniture that had been sleeping in a Hamburg storage unit since the family went into exile. These consisted of more or less Grecian-inspired shaped sofas and seats in clear-tone veneer, a Schubert cum Schlieman utopia, a tad like our starchy Danish self-conscience, but in the halfway rustic restoration of a Parisian Boheme interior, it sounded like a clavichord in a Hamershoï painting. I was curious, Kate had described a keenly sexual being, during her recent meteoric visit she had spent most of her time in aparté with Delf, would she remain distant from our polyamorous lifeways? —These were mere decorative considerations that wouldn’t retain any sort of value once she would undress Dagmar.

The best part of Cynthia’s domain began on the fourth floor, acceded by a bent staircase, and even beyond to some last levels much resembling those in Camille’s house, where I had been a happy squirrel for two years. And the last corridor led to a door in the new staircase, the original one to our new bedrooms. In these typical attic rooms, the decoration had been left blank, but Gauthier had devised clever bathrooms with unlikely geometry, future hideouts for nieces to come? Cynthia had ended cuddled-up with Delf on one bed, it would certainly go like so for a few days. I asked Delf to wake her for dinner with us.
What we had not visited was the subterranean structure, which appeared to have once supported a different construction, with massive ashlar stone foundations, the same one the tunnel between us and TRÆVIX was mazing through. There was another complete gym room and storage, but no access to the street level. A door gave on our part of the tunnel, with a keypad, but not directly on the highly secure one, and this now was about to be reviewed with the instalment of connected offices in the further adjoining building.
Hugo’s mood oscillated between wondered and jaded, this house we stood in had been shuttered and silent since he had known it, after its owner had fled to Argentina, and some distant relatives had asked the judge to declare him dead. Now, an equilibrium was tilting in the exo-cranium the writer had subconsciously let grow in the periphery of his sanctum, and only by him touching Cynthia would he resettle it upon its base.
When Cynthia Heard for real who was the Lauritz whose installation seemed to inflame the spirits of Gauthier’s team, now that her own was up, she felt pain and she told us. Didn’t Kate remember, in the merry Amrum-Sylt rally days how this spoiled rooster talked about her? He, then, was driving a black Karmann Beetle cabriolet. Kate and Simon were the daunting characters of the summertime youth, although no one imagined their deviant bond. Lauritz had a crush on Kate. When rumours began rumbling about some funky style attitudes in trio with a girl from Amrum, he set his anger and his stooges’ at spying on them and he discovered what was not seriously concealed anyhow. It had been before the invention of the social networks, but already, word-of-mouth on three or four cafe terraces fanned hate against the family house, hence the moving to Cynthia’s father’s sanatorium on Amrum where the beaches were less crowded. Lauritz’s ire, in the times, had spread as crass as one could then bear on sexual specificities, as offensive as you still may hear in football gatherings. No, really, he would have to let his head freeze for more than three days, in Canossa, to earn the peace, she looked down on him, and all the cutest does ate from her hand, nowadays.

Delf had shown Cynthia the way from her upper niches to our backdoor, then introducing her to Fayelle, in a blue-headed mood, who candidly mentioned her open-skull adventure, and also to a still bare-arsed Dagmar, in her wide-knit cocoon jumper, wide-eyed, leaving the wayfarer dumbfounded. Her first reflex was that of a doctor, she searched for Fayelle’s stare and held her hands, asking a flurry of questions, then, if she would take off the lovely helmet and let her see the stitch, almost instantly wowed for the even little zigzag through the amber-gleam lawn, and, to make the show, Fayelle herself knocked on the rewelded plate with a smirk.
Dagmar’s tale was a whole life to date and as they liked one another at once, they cuddled up at the far end of a sofa and Cynthia listened, terrified. The time was still long ahead of when she would tire of telling, but to that end, Prof. Méant had negotiated a visit, soon, with his referent, Prof. Nantoux to help her, like himself was doing with Fanny, recoup her valid soul.
Hugo had come up for dinner, and so did Michelle, in white and yellow layers of lose-fit knitwork and buttercup moleskin shorts with revers, wide enough to let slide a hand in; she was proud of Delf’s spirits, and she was for a lot in that.
Annabelle brought on James, who was all impressed by what he heard and saw, in German; he asked us to lend him some sketchbook and pencils —to alleviate his emotions. Natalia had, of course, known the number for the back door, she joshed it made the access all the easier, at what Kate seized her at the hips and mumbled in her tummy that she had always been our fairy bell. Beryl was with her, she had heard us say we did not shun her as a Victor stooge, and actually, Michelle liked her fine.
I brewed some high-grown Taiwanese Tung Ting tea, they delivered bottles of Kombucha, I saw that James had a silver flask in his jacket. There were six colourful chartreuses and bowls of sauces, crisp shoots and sprouts with balsamic cream, honey fruit chutney with some almond rice, creamy heart coconut cookies.

 

Kate says:

In order, probably, to soften the unavoidable social mingling she runs in, defending her cause, Cynthia has now let her straight thick black hair half-long with a cleared nape, so as to showcase the fluid moves of her slender neck above her square shoulders. Or did I think that way because of the boat collar, sleeveless, waistless, black crepe midi dress out of which her black-veiled legs were refolded, set out her long slender arms, as she retained her want to grope Dagmar, who knew it well.
Natalia had left me to go woo Annabelle for a while, so Cynthia linked me in the armrest conversation in German, retelling Dagmar of our lifelong relationship, and letting slip it was something similar to what she enjoyed with Delf, physically; so she nodded, interested. And as if enough was of her confession, she kissed Cynthia in the neck.
We had a heap of catching-up to do, Beryl and me, and she showed me she could still be the surprise pixie, worthy of the trust we had deemed her as for Natalia’s accomplishments. Raised amidst the fiercest debauchery, she was poised to reap a tenure in liberal arts, the field of Liselotte’s highly political influence, as we all knew. Her smell of heather honey and dragée enthralled me back to the time I was as heavenly submissive as a pillow in the coves of Victor’s genius, so I beseeched her to take me to bed and tie me up.

 

Sarah says:

Dagmar had lured away Cynthia and Delf to her new room, although this last one knew zilch of German —in spoken form, at least— and that could easily spin all fantasies. With Kate eloped in Beryl’s whims, remained a quaint hand to play.
I had let myself disrobed at Natalia’s kind want, Annabelle and her saviour taught English to the round-headed damsel, and Michelle was explaining some dainty pulley effect to Hugo who kept watching her pants, a prelude to the two’s fleeing downstairs.
I asked our house-fairy to regale me with some of her virtue tales under the sleight of Liselotte’s and, for us, she had a sweet tooth for telling how wily she could play, in French. Each time, It left me gobsmacked to hear what our long-overlooked comrade harboured of vice and craftiness to the relish of the rich and mighty, thus, however, siding her apart from the real evil, when abuse is not a play, by the way.
One evening, she had been asked for some endless use of her until dawn, at a price she had actually seen credited to the account she had indicated. She should be dressed as a middle-class housewife, in a skirt and no bras, a blouse, an undershirt, cotton knickers, a garter belt, and stockings. She should wear brown low-heels common shoes. The reference was a 1950 bride without children. She also had had her hair curled up like cathodic days TV presenter. She was to walk, with a red leather handbag, at eight, on the sidewalk by the garden of the Observatoire.
The weather had been sad, she had found a slate-grey mackintosh that made her look all the more like a prostitute, but her thin wool tailleur wouldn’t have stood rain. She did not have to stroll for long, without any noise, four men in black hoodies jumped out of a nondescript grey truck, seized her and pushed her inside the vehicle, pulling a black jersey bag over her face, cuffing her wrists in her back, and her ankles. A loud radio played a rap station.
After some twenty minutes, the truck stopped, the engine and the radio shut off and the four men jumped out, leaving her in it, blinded and cuffed. Through the bag on her head, there was a smell of printed paper. It began to get cold.
We had shut the bedroom door, it was dark, save coloured garlands of tiny LED lamps. She was obviously reviving a weird experience, she had heard them take her telephone apart and throw the pieces in the handbag, she could actually have disappeared.
When the slide doors were pulled, she heard the echo of a large covered space. A mighty hand held her right arm and dragged her, forcing her in ridiculous little steps. There were noises of glazed doors banging and shoes shuffling. Different male voices insulted her in the whole sexual repertoire, then she was uncuffed, the mac taken off, she was bound to a faux-leather chair, and her head uncovered.
There were three middle-aged men in cheap grey suits, wearing black jersey balaclavas, they called her Gillian.
Asking questions about a Bernard Berg and the Valerik network, and all gibberish they seemed not to make-up ad-lib, they succeeded at making me feel such a misgiving might become real any time. I had been patient, unfazed, but only with hurling absurd questions at me, always the same, and insults, did they make me cry for real.
The place looked like abandoned classrooms or offices, ageless yellowed paintworks and oak wood furniture, four white globes radiated a meagre light, two high windows were blanked with antique newspapers, so were the high glazings onto a corridor.
They had called her Dimitra, and there had been one in Ukraine, in the family tree. She felt weird, but she had known funky turns in Liselotte’s roundabout. She asked for the toilets, they said she could piss herself and laughed like boors.

As she was reliving the jolty experience of first-person cruelty theatre through which she lost, at sundry moments, her sense of reality, she was in sweats and her vagina dripped. There was sharp delectation in details, while we mostly rested in scissors face to face in pillows, eager to listen, eager to tell.
It had been unsetting, despite all, that these men had memorised the same argument, the same book, and she had felt like a double whore, beyond all she had readily served up. Amidst the jolts of shouting in her neck, she had wet herself and could not stop pouring down on her feet. They handed her up on her feet, her skirt drenched, and one of the handlers kicked the left shoe off, so she stood wonky while one buckled a thick leather collar at her neck and pulled the other end of the rope it was attached to, through a pulley on the ceiling, so as she barely stood on one shoe. Strong leather bracelets were buckled at her fists so her arms were extended sideways with two ropes.
During all the handling, there had been hands over her body, and they began cutting her clothes into shreds while playing their story to each other, a seemingly sombre affair of treason, worthy of the worst STASI times paranoia someone might actually be reviving for some reason.
Her deal did not include whipping or marking, but they knew how to make her contort in her bonds. Now they went barefoot, wearing only black tights with open crotch, and they were all erected. they wore adjusted black leather half-masks, with globular mirror eyes, that covered back their hair and ears, she couldn’t have recognised any of them, unless she would have fucked them before, but she was still new on the market, wasn’t she?
The play now was that Dimitra knew what she had chosen next, by not giving up her network and some alpha gave a signal by urinating on her nether waist, followed likewise by the whole posse. She stood in a pool of piss and understood a vague scent the floorboards had whiffed of from the start, she heard there was a plughole behind her. When all bladders had emptied, the alpha bantered on how she reeked, he pulled a hose ended with a long life-size penis-shaped bronze cannula, spewing warm perfumed water, inundated her, kicked the right shoe, letting her hang slightly tougher in the yoke so she could not even try to speak until they adjusted the rope.
They affixed anklets and pulled her legs at an angle, now they could finger her holes at a whim. The water flowed, not unwelcome, and the room became steamy, then she felt the hard nozzle at what it had been designed for, gushing in her arse and quim, to what she could no longer resist as she felt like endless diarrhoea washed away in the flow. That had been the most monstrous enema she ever had, the goons showed good humour and began some silly hokey pokey in her arse, a few humps in a file, of no consequence, with more gushes of water in between, so as she was widened, and rinsed.
Nought she would consider undue to a dignified whore like her, given the hefty reward, and she foresaw the thrill of being silently recognised by any of these bullies in the real world, possibly during jury work; would they hit on her?

They freed her ankles and wrists, leaving the bracelets and anklets in place, but kept her leashed as they wiped her dry, thoroughly. They handled her to the far end of the main corridor, sadly lit by globes, and up some bent stairs.
The whole empty venue was time-worn but clean, through ajar doors one could see desks and chests of drawers against two-toned brown wall-paint, some man-height plinth darker. She realised it must have been a genre of police offices, or whatever.
Her handlers brought her to a small door in a wall, pushed her inside and she heard the key lock. It was some kind of blank closet padded with oilcloth, soundproof, not even a dungeon, she could only stand. After a while, she crouched as she could. The door then sprung open and one of them hurled himself against her in the confinement, licking her face and contorting until he sheathed a vibrant rod in her, letting her figure a monstrous coupling, one knee up, her arms inevitably around his neck, all shuffled madly when he decided to bugger her and slid along her. She had in mind this cartoon she had seen of the last embrace after a train wreck. Once he had discharge amply in her bumhole, he recovered and shouted a loud “yes”, to what the door was unlatched, and another febrile man slid along her. The whole squad took turns, they smelled of soap, some forced her to pull her tongue in kisses that tasted weird like violet or anise. Her thighs were soaked, she slid on the wet lining, she must have fainted, crumbled in a pool of sperm.
On our unmade bed, we had already attained our peak a few times, but she remained wired up as a kid, out of pride that she had measured up to big-time sluts like us.
She had been chain-spread again, flat on a warm stone with a large hole under her butt, and a rolled towel in her nape. The lukewarm flow smelled of lotus and as she disgorged her innards, they seemed to massage every tiny sinew in her limbs, so as they sent her back in pleasure syncope, with great cheers. If only for that manner of torture did she long to return.
The next room had consisted of a nightly arena, lit only by a galaxy of minuscule light dots across a seamless vault over an obvious elevated bed, circled by a round of bar stools. They dragged me and chained my collar to the side of the bed which started to revolve slowly. Fully erect, masked men who could be not my previous tormentors, handling their penises to shape, took a seat on the dozen of stools. The alpha, pointing on some device, induced a roulette of purple lights under the stools until it stopped under the butt of her next shag. She was already plugged to the moon, wet and in bloom, they used her at the random of the rounding lottery, some of them twice, like some self-powered luxury contraption, until she was flushed down her inner vortex.
She had woken like a violet in a clearing, in a suite at the Continental where she called room service for breakfast. She wore a nicely fitted burgundy satin pyjama trimmed of emerald piping, she felt like she had slept for a week, and actually, she had been away for three whole days. When her telephone rang, it said Liselotte, who was overjoyed to speak to her. Her patron had already complimented her about the utmost class of her girl, who had withstood to the furthest climax, and still smiled in her sleep. He had been able to scan her body and brains in that state, for fruitful scientific reasons —at this, they both laughed— nevertheless, she tipped her devilish procuress that whoever they had been, they were otherworldly masseurs and she felt like Cyd Charisse in Silk Stockings, all fine, had retorted Liselotte, because Natalia was awaited for some dancing session at the Cité Bergeyre that very night, what a life! She felt she’d had her content of hydrotherapy, she did some cat toilet and found some manly jasmine enough to make heads swivel all afternoon at the Sorbonne, she sprayed her nethers and kept the bottle.
On an armchair, a most expensive set of clothes had been carefully folded, a peacock silk jersey long-sleeved pleated dress, black lace garter belt and black veil stockings. No knickers or bra, as a reminder. Night-blue flat Mary Janes and a statutory stiff black satin trench, in which pocket was a sleek leather box with a delicious line bracelet of lapis lazuli. The concierge winked at her when she left.

 

Kate says:

I suppose about the same time the Church of France, rich anew on the back of those who had had the presumptuousness to overthrow its ageless powers, was recollecting the stoneworks it owned, the “Ile de la Cité” had been almost entirely gutted, then covered with the mercantile architecture of piled family-sized units like crates for cabbages, clad with the ever-degenerating Beaux-Arts style emanating from such obese pastries as the Gare d’Orsay or the Opera house —not that it had shown any better anywhere else, had it?
And it was on the third floor of such a bourgeois stack on the “Quai Aux Fleurs” that our 911 high-roller had taken up his provisional residence, three bedrooms and a Portuguese housekeeper. He was all too happy with the view on the copy of the Town Hall.
He had been overjoyed with the late cavalcades with Fayelle and I, on Sylt, he had fancied —I would not undeceive him— a more spirited walk of life, just like I had, years back. He invited me alone one promising day, I did not know if he had learned about Fayelle’s accident, and he seemed touched, for he had liked her breaking-up folly, she had not treated him as the second choice.
It gave me the opportunity to embroider about our voyage back, and test if he would actually appreciate lesbian bed stories, but he had grown up a bit and demonstrated, on a Napoleon III sofa overlooking the Seine, that he would have like to carouse with us two.
I was damn ready for anything he might wish for, and he soon exhibited a proud flamberge to my taste. I had been wearing a large autumn-toned patchwork cashmere shirt-dress over another cotton one, and more, which gave a lot of buttons to play with to reach for my simple knit tights that slid down so easily.
He was as good a partner in a foreseeable blue Toile de Jouy clad bedroom in the heart of Paris than in the awkward bucket seats of his car. Once we had spent a mutually convincing welcoming round and I licked clean his rod like a mere bitch as I was sitting on the loo, I came ahead of questions of lifestyle, so I laid straight that he should fully adhere to the blank card circle, and I would introduce him to more willing pussies and holes he could ever shag, at no great risk, unlike what I had been doing with him, and again. He let me make an appointment for the next day afternoon and buggered me again in the lights of the tourists’ boats, of lustful memory, for me. Just like Fulgence and Erik, he was a steadfast stag, he would be in great demand in our undergrowths, and while I went on wanking, for him, I described, like a fairy tale, this life of debauchery.
He had scouted some possible restaurant on the right bank, at the edge of the bustling Marais, telling me they also accommodated for vegan sluts of my class, and in truth, they were young, gay and altogether loveable. Lauritz devoured his slices of lamb like it were my ladybits, and before long he had torn apart my expensive tights, only to know I was exposed on the red leather banquette. Like the doe at the threshold of the woods, I had munched all of my mishmash of greens and tempeh with a brown sweet-and-sour sauce of nuts, raisins and figs; besides the gentle groping, a sign that we weren’t finished was that he did not drink more than a glass of Chablis.

In the morning, we were to attend a workings visit in his private mansion, with Gauthier and staff, at an early hour, for a complacent harlot who had been threaded more and again, late in the night; but what suffocated me standing was to find, like a Xmas morning, three pairs of the very same tights he had torn, from the same shop, in near shades. I had no argument when, in my joyful effusion to his gesture, he decided to shag me a quick once before work. Even after a shower, I felt I would smell like a whore, all the more if Sarah was there, so, I swore she would be next watching the tourists’ boats.
Yes, she was here, and fully awake when she sniffed inside my three layers of tramp shirts, so I pulled her into a moderately clean bathroom to explain all I had been doing and be done to, and that I went that afternoon to sponsor Lauritz in the Hellfire Club, and last but not least, she was next on his list, thanks to me. I wanked her savagely, as she was trying to pee.
On the noble floor, the cumbersome piles of cartons had been sorted and stored elsewhere, an impressive decor was unveiled and scientifically scoured of almost a century of patina. In the grand salon, the main chimneypiece had been clad with a high panel of eglomised crystal after Jean Dupas in the vein of his unsurpassed decor for the Normandie first-class dining room. Hugo, who had been groping my butt against Sarah, said he had never heard or read about such a commission. The design was in the vein of some other famous wind-filled sails, in the Bordeaux harbour, a square composition twice the height of a man that gleamed in the light of the restorers’ flat lamps. Two fountains of light, in silver-mounted mate crystal volutes, would later shine on both sides of the radiant electric foyer, with old-rose round sofas as their pedestals. Other than the bygone, otherworldly transatlantic wealth of defunct steamers, it unmistakably evoked the Maisons Closes and might have been the weirdest of them all.
All the opposite facing wall to the foyer was clad with a white gold gilded wooden abstract low-relief, in plates reminding of Egyptian temples. In its centre, a gracile goddess was holding the disk of a luminary, in a dancing attitude, into the round of one arm, either offering or stealing the moon, with à la Carpeaux smile. A flurry of geometric textures that diffracted the reflection of the crystal wall across the room, at this time, pushed a weightless Sarah against me half-seated on a silver piano, the moment for a feline Lauritz to literally press her in some lustful tango, mocking in her gaze. I entered the game, holding back her arms. For the workings visit, she had been wearing a posh tracksuit of navy blue thick jersey, trimmed with white striped wide elastic bands and embroidered of a large spread eagle holding bolts of lightning. As Lauritz graze her thigh with his indefatigable erection, I could feel she was all nude under the tracksuit, and so I kissed her in the neck while he dared a hand under the belt. He took a softened voice to tell her in the eyes that I had promised she would come to his apartment at eight. She eased herself more upon me and let him grope her, silently.

There soon had been mundane matters to attend, the German black leopard quit us with what looked like a done deal. Sarah revelled in her slut-be-sold moment, she was all wet. Hugo got all the hunch of the exchange, that was that why he loved us so tight, he then affected to comment on the massive cornice, where stucco naiads swam around the ceiling, along with dolphins and sharks, splashings spirals of foam along with their lascivious escapes, thus blurring the edges of the fading whirlwind around a monumental chandelier in the shape of a wreath of beaded crystal shells that one slim tomboy of dark-fringed, black jeans and tattered jumper girl was patiently awaking one by one with kid gloves, atop a wobbly scaffolding, so as I knew that Sarah, whom I was then holding, in her warmth and emotions, would do anything to come to know and woo her. I breathed in her ear she sure would have the leopard and the filly, even together, come what may.
I took Lauritz to Sanne & Agnete small salon enlightened by the tall blind white walls of the yard. He agreed to try a few vegan nibbles, as I contented with a fruit salad and tea. He did like all the girls he saw there, few of whom spoke French. Still spellbound with all he had spent of me that night and the perverted deal with Sarah, who played whore, I let him twiddle my hands, knowing that before we went to the clinic I wanted to change myself, and hence let him in our place, and shag once more with the shower; he sure agreed, he could keep his sleek silk suit for the rest of the day.
At the clinic check-up, in the exam room, he managed to grow a new tough one, for the laugh of the nurse, a pretty one I wouldn’t bet would have refused a quick one, but she did her chores, unfazed, looking at me, and she also had to manipulate the thingy, she did all professionally. That, and all, was an overall good-humoured moment, he would pick up his black card the next day, fill some forms online and come with me —and probably Sarah— to Philippe’s, we would have warned Sami what magnitude of a patron he was.
By foot, and no Porsche in sight, he was a pleasant companion, even with no shag in mind for the rest of a sensitive, powdery-light, mid-season afternoon. I had time to tip him on where to shop or order all things one likes to have available near your bed when fucking some new acquaintance.
I set up a meeting with Liselotte for him next afternoon, once he would begin to wake from Sarah’s glare and all she does well. I let him go find himself bound into the web of Liselotte, the craftiest procuress at her altitudes, nonetheless our classmate.

 

Sarah says:

As for that lanky dancer up there, Kate had read me all clear, as soon as she had gone with the northern stag, I began my gentle touch manoeuvre, then I held firm the frame of the rickety contraption she worked on when she wished to come down. So, as she pulled aside her protective glasses, I asserted my hunch of a most lovable face with a cute slight squint of one of her chestnut eyes. She had a thick mane and a low fringe, she was tall and pale, I crack for those who match me. At lunchtime, she accepted my invitation to the corner brasserie. In less than ten minutes, I knew she was called Cécile Brigadin, a name she wrongly doomed as ridiculous, she was our manner of art student and thought she had been lucky to find that job. Ten more minutes and a blueberry pancake later, she bravely accepted to come along with me in the stag’s lair, none access barred as I had complacently described before, for a reward amounting to one week’s pay. She bantered that she had read me out at once and seen my gentle games with Kate, as I was fondling her knees under the table, we agreed on polyamorous lifeways.
I promised myself to make Gauthier grant her a pay raise, whatever he would appraise my being in her pants. She agreed to take the afternoon off so we could dandify her a tad before our soirée. She instinctively shunned woman’s clothes, so I took her first to buy true Chelsea boots because she has longer feet than us, if otherwise, I know there will be a pantsuit her size in our vestiary.
Grasping that the expensive shoes were a gift, she began wondering randomly what I was doing, so once we were home, apparently alone, I began to undress her eagerly. She smelled of fresh sweats and simple jasmine soap, her quim was as innocent as a little girl’s, with all its timid fleece. I threw her spread upon our grand bed and I made it brief that we were rich bitches with a taste for debauchery, collecting niceties of her kind, with none complaining to date.
She surrendered to what I did her, she responded instinctively, avowing her ignorance of things lustful. Then came time to prep our skins, and she had barely heard of anal sex all the least of an enema, but by then, she followed my lead, she saw me do, she let be done, and she feared what it might feel being buggered, but she kept mute, we had more to accomplish, with pink wax.
She had adored my bare coochie and she was only lightly hairy, she let me do and shouted a few times, all the more around her bumhole. When she could see herself smooth as a rose petal, I wanked and fisted her, using the ultimate unguents devised by Hugo, telling her she would know where to obtain all the supply she would need of the sort. I had sprayed her with my idea of a sensitive Cologne for an effeminate boy, a scent Gauthier would later single out, making him look at Cecile as one of ours. I gave her the whole bottle, we would be back to fetch it after we exhausted our man.
While she stood before the clothes racks, nude, blushing of her bare pubis, my crafty fingers in her holes, she whistled in awe, she had never seen a rich girl’s closet. Having fetched my tape measure, I reckoned I should go back a few years, and I found a silver pinstriped night blue three-piece boy’s suit, nicely fitted, even for her slightly more puffed breasts than mine, that let me wish she wore no shirt under the vest, an overt invitation to impish hands. I forbade all underwear.
As for myself, I chose the same kind of vesture, a double-breasted tuxedo with satin lapels and nothing under, now we looked like Berlin Belles, she could not tire of sliding a hand upon my devilberries. I shoed black patent Chelseas.
Almost on the threshold, Fayelle barged in and hugged the newbie and asked who she was. She was wearing her sky-blue bonnet, she smelled of mischief, she had been with Delf all day. I asked her if we should keep Cecile with us, she swayed her hips, slid a hand in the pale slit and said it was so smooth.

She was stunned when I called a car, a black one with no sign at all, and only slid a bill in the driver’s hand, so I told her he was being paid elsewhere. In the flickering lift, I see her up close, with no makeup, she is radiant, I did only a mere touch-up of the lashes and some secret liniment that did more good to my eyes than to hers. I gave her the folded bills and told her to stash them in an inner pocket. She blushed.
Lauritz didn’t spot her as the chandelier cleaner and it was all well, I introduced her as Cecile and matter-of-factly said that I had imagined he would not say two was less than one. As he was waking at the prospect that he had two sluts instead of one, he seized Cecile lapel, at what I “tst, tst” him, he should be gentle because she was kind of new, but willing. He roared back and thanked me, he was already zipping her fly open, kissing her full mouth.
He had started a random playlist on a boombox plugged into a laptop, with mostly eerie Nordisk jazz that seemed to synch with the dancing projectors of the tourists’ boats. He smelled of precious leathers and woods, like a luxury car with a hint of rum.
He made our two trousers fall together, he was enthralled with the settings I had devised, he relished watching us butt-naked in our formal jackets. Once he pulled out his noticeable dick, he told Cecile to suck, as one does to a whore, so she crouched, legs apart, and took his pride in her mouth, I felt a tang of excitement at watching a slut in the making. He did not warn but held her head firmly as he spurted deep, amazingly, she swallowed all she could, before I went and licked at her lips. He thanked her, rays of white light ran upon her face, she begged for my kisses.
Having learned from Kate the dos and don’ts of our otherwise desirable tribe, he had ordered from A&S what they knew we would crave for, and crates of their filtered fruit juices, pear, peach, cherry, whatever. There was a round table against the Trench window, he told us to fondle each other, then to remove our jackets and vest, then, if we would pause eating, go on the sofa masturbate one another.
It was Cecile he had a massive crush on, it was all in order since I had, too, thus I was helping him exert his ravage on her and I fingered myself while doing so. His shaft rekindled, he brushed her wet kitty with the glans before he gained enough bravery to plough through her narrowness and revel in her young moanings I knew weren’t of any suffering as I devoured her bloomy mouth.
Since I was the one who had brought the siren ashore to him, he went on overtly using me on her, and then he dared me to revive the rod in my mouth, as he was already licking her shy back hatch, holding her thighs spread wide. I evaded my mission to grab one foot and take the shoe off, I had not yet once sucked on her toes, and they were obscenely free to giggle with my tongue. Lauritz suddenly agreed he had overlooked these lively bits and shared with me for a while, I had debunked a fellow worshiper, I could show him around, indeed!
I still played with one foot when he began pressing his glans upon the supple skin draped in a star between her diminutive bum cheeks, so I cried for lubricant, was he out of his mind? It had been ready, there on the cupboard in a deep blue bottle, he apologised, not ceasing his pressure. I fetched it and splashed Cecile’s back brooklet with the clear goo that almost instantly defeated her defence, at my greater pleasure to see the pitiless manhood burrow its pink blunt head —probably for her first time ever— into the narrow little well we had refreshed together.

We dragged ourselves back drowsy in the wee hours, her head on my chest. Her current crashpad was far east, in Ivry, and she had not wished I see her there. Then Natalia did not understand but found Cecile smelled good, and since that bed had always been hers, she crept along the slender back and allowed herself liberties, to what was responded, until both unknown soughed in each other’s ear about who they were, and never minded.
Things became funnier when Kate, who had let herself be tumbled at whim in one of Hector’s tours —she would deny most of it in the morning— found one dark mane too many in her bed, and no, it wasn’t Lizon, but it smelled as good, and in the haywire of her conscience, knowing it was called Cecile and embraced Natalia —who is not a lousy mind— was enough.
When I landed from the green towers of Rosenborg, three languid alley cats were licking each other’s quims, my new recruit overwhelmed by the crafty pair. I did not budge at her rescue, but I admitted to some background. Kate jolted when she figured out the scaffolding kid, and she complimented the sharpness of my eye.
Natalia was overjoyed, forcing Cecile to remain in the raw at the breakfast table, where it took time to make her avow to being a coffee buff, she had no time for French toast, and I had decided to accompany her to work, I wanted to sort things with her bosses.
I scolded her who had left her money in the jacket, and helped her very inefficiently to slip on her own sort of working rags, I retold her in many ways she was mine, now, even with the others that she would befriend, too, Natalia was still kissing her.
On his worksite, Gauthier was an impressive bellwether, all in smart language and a sharp eye. He had grasped our round with Lauritz, but since it seemed to have been the reason why this palace reopened, he applauded. In short, I pushed him into a storage room and while, per usual, I groped him like a whore her client and made him register that the chandelier girl was mine, and ours, for that matter. He laughed, I wore a grey tracksuit with rainbow embroideries and a big “Castro” across the chest, so, it was all too easy to bare my arse and fondle. Nonetheless, he promised to pay attention to Cecile and see for her salary, he said, in earnest, that she was a skilled worker and she might earn degrees in the trade, with or without the arguments she had not extolled by herself till now. I understood that he would hit on her on the first occasion, I knew he his a fine comrade, but I would put her in the know. As often, the most part of my crush for her was to foresee all the carnal spending she would let me watch or report to my wicked mind, regardless of my truthful involvement in her well being.

Cecile had accepted that we two would be like together for at least a while, I dressed up in black, too, jeans, jumper, boots and trench, I knew I would look like a Vogue model taking out some stray kid, that was a start. I had promised Kate we would share her that night in our bed, but first, I had some ideas for her.
I had seen her work in threadbare sneakers, so I dragged her to Doc Martens to buy real security shoes that even her well-off schoolmates would wear; the attendant agreed to discard the old wrecks. Then, we bought a few pairs of Wranglers, the slightly higher waist more adapted to work moves, a heap of military-grade tee-shirts, fitted so as to let be seen her timid breasts, and a handful of boyish cotton briefs that would not show in jeans, anyway. All that did right for the working girl.
I floated the concept that the active professional needed some street armour, like a tough leather jacket. She retorted that it was either crappy or too expensive, so I stared straight in her disarming youth and flatly laid she was mine to spend for, as long as it made her more desirable, I wasn’t her pimp, I was her manager. But I would relish pushing her to sell herself. We found the real Perfecto by Schott, not in excess of chromes, but evocative zippers. She would show us her butt in this that same night.
Sitting in a brasserie with our bags, her smelling rough of the novelties she wore, she stamped her newly armoured feet refuting she was not so, but I showed her some of those seated near us who had quietly been gratified for their arses. The only evil limit was to let it be done for someone else’s account, for the rest, the money needed to flow, was mine more rotten? I tasted the kiss she granted me.
She was a suburb lily, her father had owned a prosperous café near a populous housing estate. In all her school years, her life spent in the tidy backyard of the café, not to mingle with the clientele, she had been noted for her artistic abilities, in the goodwill of her professors who convinced the family to steer her towards applied arts schools, demonstrating to her parents that, all in all, it would be as good as any for her future. At what time her father died of his clients’ second-hand cancer, followed by her mother, who had been selling them cigarettes and money games in the same air. The walls had not belonged to them, she was left with nought and was lucky enough to be hired by this small operation that Gauthier called on occasion.
Clutching my leg between hers, she raged that she could lead a proper profession, and please, that I did not take advantage of her, she had until then succeeded at looking like a nobody, she was tall enough to avoid the hustlers, and now I had singled her out and showered her with money and caresses, she did not know how to behave thus, she was utterly scared.
An only child with no medical history, she had grown up at the side of her overworked parents, self-teaching on the screen of good enough second-hand computers a discreet old neighbour provided at no cost, nobody ever had a hand in her jeans, with Lauriz, she had been a virgin.
The car that came to pick us up on the boulevard would not quiet my lily, it was a bulgy black Escalade with dark glazing, I made fun of it, groping her under the Perfecto, telling her I might take her in a jet, sometime.

Kate wouldn’t have the heart to get rid of Fayelle who had wished to stay with us, after all, she was another suburb lily, too. Her pretty head was all curls, now, not a sign of what terrible operation she had been through, and otherwise, Dr Pontchartrain did fully well with her. The only shade in the landscape was that now, Cynthia and Delffan had filched Dagmar for a long journey, as it seemed; and so, some Jiminy Cricket must have sung to her that the new shy one looked like good company if the other room became free, who knew? She deployed all the more easily all of her cajoleries that Cecile was a true white goose in disguise as a tomboy.
In good sense, Cecile had agreed she could not keep her new work-shoes at a fine dinner party, all the more now that she knew I had caught her interested glimpse at our bare feet, it had been a small complicit lapse by which I had touched her heart, beyond the blatant vision I kept of Lauritz’s chuck inside her untouched little well, but that might have happened beyond the realm of her conscience, or had it? All that was rooting in my own soul was that she was surrendering to me, come what may, and it referred me back to the heavenly days and the boxwoods —when only one last soul had missed me. Helped with Fayelle, who was eager to show herself a cunning little whore, we disrobed Cecile along with ourselves and I could fiddle with her toes in the leather smell of new shoes.
I had brewed some earthly black oolong and we had ordered creamy thick pies, all sweet had said the younglings, blueberry, chestnut, rhubarb, and carrot. Cecile listened to a gentle digest of Fayelle’s life with terror in her eyes, like she had never heard of what she had spared herself, but I could tell unmistakably the shivers she resented, as we all do, by grazing the lips of her quim, as wet as mine. We raised a toast to the resourceful Hector, and I warned her he could easily sweep her away to carnal expenses compared to what our amusements with Lauritz would seem like mere daisies. She asked like what, so we all had to retell true-to-life adventures all beginning in Hector’s grand cars towards secretive venues of unspeakable luxury where we might be given for use by squadrons of well-hung studs, at no harm, as she could touch. But we, in earnest, around this table, were merely wayward brats sheltered by fate, and we also cared for cases of ultimate despair who had resurged from the unfathomable abyss, but that did not make us more of some kind of saints.
Fayelle was magnetically drawn to Cecile, who might share some of her charisma with her, a gangly smoothie unfazed bohemian just like her. When Gauthier called in all neighbourliness we were all naked as in a Victorian painting, but Cecile had not fully grasped who was coming. Most thankfully, our best knight had manners, and he showed up in a Silk Road dream of a robe upon the liquid gold of a satin pyjama, barefoot, followed by blond Philippe in a deep ultramarine, tone-on-tone over-embroidered djellabah, both already overjoyed with the news they bore. Gauthier kissed everyone and came to Cecile last with funny whirls of his imaginary wings, then seizing her feet telling that no, he had not been one to single her out but one of his close friends did for him, so she belonged to his A-team, if she would, with a salary that made her jolt in disbelief. And whatever happened there, that night, she would still have to finish her extraordinary job on the von Speck chandelier. Sensing some nervous disarray in her new playmate, Fayelle took advantage to grab her tighter and congratulate her. At once, not waiting for an answer, Gauthier as a gangly moth came upon me, as Kate reacquainted herself with her already dearly partner.
Fayelle eloped with Cecile to her room, which was eventually the move to make, and, in our bed, I took, with the operatic Sultan, well-simmered revenge for the night with Lauritz —of which Gauthier did not even know— when I had been demoted to harem slave while he had deflowered the velvet-eyed odalisk, unbeknownst to her. I felt vindicated for my so timid champion, I cherished the golden fleece spear more and again, then swooned under the snowflakes on my evermore Tudor pinnacles.

Probably because I had pulled all the strain at Gauthier’s benefit, as he so deserved and responded, I remained an endless life in Manhattan cliffs like the scarlet crow searching for the bygone chimneys, painfully letting Kate pour some true tick-tocking life in my brains. Then I sprawled like a mindless kitten and grabbed her who smelled of jasmine already.
Most of Cecile’s wares were left, at attention, with a note. She wrote she was fondly grateful, but it was not fitted to stand, day long, hands up, on a trolley. She would wait for me at the end of her day’s work, she did not know what to think of what Mr Gauthier had said.
She had not made herself coffee, I felt bitterly guilty that I had bustled a forthright character with my easy money, and like a temperamental brat, I cried on Kate’s shoulder.
Fayelle, who had spent the night with my crush, as in our twisted world, mocked me. Whatever would go in Cecile’s workday, and she believed it was all for the best, my seduction handiwork remained to be done, Cecile was not like the others in our nevertheless kindly Areopagus, more or less weathered tramps, up for kinky tricks in good humour, no, her charm was of an unadulterated soul, and we could keep that, whatever I had ensnared her at Lauritz’s, the matter was not of a good shag in the arse, they eventually laughed with that.
I decided that the titanium plated on Fayelle’s skull had bestowed her with superior wisdom, and they convinced me to press the soft-pedal, then query our tutors, Hugo and Camille, on Cecile’s needs.
After a day when I forced myself to jot sketches, listening to Fayelle’s reading of Bruno Shulz, and Kate was fascinated, I was howbeit actually beating the pavement downstairs at the von Speck Hôtel at five, to hell what that looked like. When she saw that, Cecile was the wiser one, like she wiped my slate clean, with a smile, and let herself be kissed, whatever the other workers thought. She said she had a new permanent contract with Gauthier’s enterprise, all truthful, with a real-life salary, and he would enrol her for further training at the enterprise’s expense. Yes, he had been suave, letting her think there might be other private occasions, but nothing necessitating to close the door; she had kept that friendly impression that she was part of his world, now.
She wore her old sneakers —pop stars do— inside which I knew what hid, but she otherwise had kept the new fitted jeans on her narrow hips, and the Perfecto we both considered she had earned, and she blushed when I grazed it with the back of my hand, telling it looked good on her.
Sashaying like girls along the noisy quay, I had a hefty bag of beans to spill about what she might wonder about our weird beehive. No, nobody was being trafficked with, sexually or else, and then she had only seen the outskirts of the realm, I, myself, did not seek to know the heart of it, whereas it had been there, operated at my feet in our own studio for months, on a computer much smaller than one would think, by a ravishing blonde with aviator glasses I had nevertheless happily shagged. That would be another surprise.
Down the stairs to the lower quay, I stopped talking, pushed her against the still warm stones and nosed into the jacket along the collarbone, she smelled of household soap, that had been in the shower, mixed with new leather and a hint of sweat on the tee-shirt. I felt her surrender, again, to whatever I would. I made us sit down, only one guitarist played far enough not to bother us.
I waited for her to speak —Automobiles along the river are a major pest, and those who decided for that politic were scumbags, even if they perfumed themselves with a damned art literacy, to hell with Pompidou. I was contemplating Cecile’s hands, perfect nails, and blessed the makers of gloves; she laughed, taken aback, she had perfect teeth, too, bless the social security, she said she wore two pairs on top of the other, and Gauthier had checked that, too, giving her credit for as many gloves and masks as it took. In a moment when she had believed he would strip her undone, he had confided in her naive ear that until then, he worked only for the wealthiest, and should hope it would last like so. —Did she want to spend a season restoring Art Deco pieces in an apartment in New York? She might even take one of us along with her.
She remained in two minds, like in those dreams when the train goes insensibly faster and faster and one can never board —like sung the guitarist. Now we behaved like a girls’ couple, I offered to make her encounter in historic order the magicians in our lives, no strings attached. For now, she earned what she had earned, she would soon be famous as the chandelier girl, in the trade. I called Camille’s and Fanny answered. After a short blank, she said it would be sweet to meet Cecile and me around ten, after a pain-in-the-neck dinner Camille could not afford to avoid.

There was time, I took her to a quaint little place in the middle of that chunk of a maze that has survived between the Seine and the Boulevard Saint Germain. One of the stations where, in the days, I had tried to draw Kate’s attention, and none of my Swiss tricks would do, she was already an out-and-out slut for Victor, did I learn later. Not that she would shun me, but she made me resent I was all too plain for her, sexually —had she only known the wealth of turpitudes I had spun in the green paradise— she had enraged me until we found ourselves both trapped into Camille’s kindly web, and then she ran to perdition in Berlin’s underworld and no friend.
Cecile would not understand much of what I tried to unfurl for her. By now, she listened to my tales as I would have read Jane Austen or William Burroughs for her, but she was beginning to keep her eyes in mine and accept my touches as such. My vague Denmark and the East River did not make images for her, and I did not confide in my intimate drama, but Camille’s fairy tale enthralled her, and it was only a tiny thread of it.
This ageless restaurant bluntly called “La Marmite” was run by two grumpy old matrons, Suzanne and Maureen, and their metis daughter Alexandra. I have known them since I arrived in Paris, they love me as they do Kate, each time they put up an endless play as to why we do not come anymore and they are not stylish enough for us ladies, but there, they kept smiley but speechless, waiting for me to say I had not estranged from Kate, dumbfounded by the disarming charm of my vis-a-vis, whom they knew to read I was wooing. So I took my little girl tone to give news of Kate and all those lovely lesbians they counted us with, and they brought a hefty clay Römertopf brick that exhaled a cloud of motherly love when she lifted the top, and in another pan were fresh spaetzles to go with. Suzanne took pretext and looked Cecile in the eyes to tell her there was no obligation to finish, she would be honoured to accommodate her leftovers, punctuated with a tingy “darling” and an indiscernible knock of her elbow on my shoulder, I stifled a laugh in the grand napkin, Cecile blushed like a cherry tree, Suzanne was overjoyed. We actually did justice to the Alsacian-vegan pride, and no traces left, like people’s brats, she had been hands-up all day, burning carbs, and she could still bite a couple of bettelmans with black maraschino cherries on, mind you. After the swift draw of my card, we had to leave, and I did not prevent them from hugging my Cecile.
Well-fed, we strolled up to Camille’s in time, ringing at the all-new secured portal blocking altogether the entrance to the gallery and the home, that we had known more like a merry windmill, in the old days. I could sense that never would have Cecile walked inside at random, like many of us —darlings— had done, once.
Fanny tiptoed with joy as she greeted us welcome, she was radiant in some risqué sort of gym suit unmistakably Missoni pearly blue gleamy futurist, barefoot, she slid herself into the Perfecto, that near to smooching a dumbfounded Cecile. She smelled of jonquils in the sea breeze, I had a premonition that Hugo might invite Cecile to the islands of Scilly next season. Camille was princely, her bushy blonde mane still as silky as the dawn, she smelled of impudent gardenia as she seized my waist, if not my butt, we kissed as ever, full mouth, and she swiftly turned to Cecile, right like I had expected, she fell for her at once.
It was easy, she was no stranger, and certainly not inaccessible since she went out with my sort. I had seen Camille do with Lizon and Fayelle before, she could not misstep, her green eyes in Cecile’s dark unsettling ones in the shade of her wild fringe and frank brows, she took the heavy jacket at the collar and made it slide back, gently forcing her to reveal her shy breasts in the tee-shirt, in a split second, Cecile recollected all that I had said of Camille as our mentor.

The grand sandy hues apartment had not changed, as of yet, since Camille had become a considerable heiress, only a few more paintings gave a hint of her new might, and a tall six-panel gold lacquered with coloured birds screen by Jean Dunand. A triptych by Leonor Fini showed immodest courtisanes with meticulously depicted labia, in otherwise lavish outfits, of what the painter herself might have regaled a dying Marquess with. A large, all proportions kept, drawing by Hans Bellmer, which contorted, as per usual with an artist who had dwelled perpetually in carnal extremes, a whirl of interpenetrations, on matte soft-rose paper, framed in a bevelled mirror frame, gave Cecile a delicious hip sway that made Camille all the richer.
At the first tier of small-talk, there were three of us niggled by the necessity to unclad the tenderfoot, and so I started with her sneakers and socks, matter-of-factly, as Camille was, with Fanny on her chest, offloading her résumé, regardless of Cecile’s awe, leading me to fondle her chest to help her breathe. These were the burning roots of a hellish character, indeed, and Camille might have avoided the scary prelude, had I not been cuddling my candid trove of a girl. We had not yet heard a word of Fanny’s history, had we?
Rid of the poisonous core of her tale, Camille knew where she sailed towards when she relived her life of inescapable prostitution, showing evidence of a resilient soul. She had been so lucky while she skirted, at such a young age, she said, the mucky trails of alcohol, drugs, and suicide, the latter having been a longtime refrain in her tune. Only she had been fast, grabbing the basics at school while she made her rent with her bum, that kind of undetectable evil when the abuser is cunning enough not to leave traces, all until she met one elephant, she called them, who gave her, for free, apart what he made her do, a few fruitful addresses, amongst which Hugo’s, who loved little prostitutes but sent her back in school and upwards, on top of shagging her relentlessly, till now.
That was a fierce cavalcade for a shy loner, of whom I was, all the same, riding down the zip of her jeans, probably because she felt the smooth sofa velvet would set her best? Fanny, her periwinkle eyes rounded, came playfully to the rescue when the matter was to slide the pants away and remained at Cecile’s knees, chasing shudders on her thighs, skirting the elastic of her knickers with a dainty finger, ostensibly getting inebriated in the smell of her.
Then I pulled the tee-shirt away and Fanny the last patch of cotton, Cecile shook off her mane, which was her own way of hairstyling, and she was as disarming as a Burne-Jones captive. Camille said it would be time for her to show her cards, Fanny’s life could not be spilt like pebbles, she might invite Cecile in private to let her know, notwithstanding, she looked bedazzling.
Cecile was convinced that there was not much about herself, while our assiduous trio, less and lesser dressed, begged for details of her childhood, her waking to what she looked like now, but there was nothing she would want to say of her parents, except cry helplessly, and it appeared she had altogether shunned life as it went, collecting heaps of small heart tokens while learning techniques and skills of the art realm. She was constantly taking me for a witness, and she let out the event with Gauthier its consequences, to what Fanny applauded.

Camille had slowed the pace of passion, impressed by Cecile’s candour, but each of us relished a new feature of the girl. She wondered how a person could be living in a museum, I retorted she was currently working in such a private place no one knew about, and I had seen enough of them to keep her busy her whole life, with the talent I had seen of her and the famed social skills of Gauthier’s.
At least, Camille was aroused, all the more sharing her discovery with us. She asked Cecile to walk a bit, like a model, and she was excitingly docile, straightening up her shoulder line, stretching the legs, she kept saying she knew nothing but she eventually came to avow to have watched plenty of photos in the many magazines her mother sold, then, she told that, like all kids, as soon as she was granted a laptop at school, she had known where the free porn was, and not always the bad one, at twelve. otherwise, she had grasped not to go on the social networks, and fend off all the unsolicited mailings, she only had an official Gmail address, and used filters.
Thus, she wasn’t what kids call a retard, she was a luckily preserved working-class lily, the kind I had obviously never met, and I told her that, before I bribed her again into whoredom, so she would not think I manipulated her virgin soul.
She agreed to live with us, we would go together to pack her things in Ivry, she would camp around, and we might even find her a more private room. In the middle of the night, we called a car, she liked cuddling in a big car, and I would invite her on longer rides in bigger cars —if she liked.
The next morning, she had used the coffeemaker and cleaned it. The Doc Martens were missing, she had unpacked the tee shirts we had bought, hopefully, she had moved in.
I called Hugo, who knew already from two directions that there was a new bird in the dovecot, he wanted to have us that very evening, he deemed great importance to Camille’s advice, who had hailed my daintiness, besides my greediness for new pussy. Gauthier had taken time to retell the chandelier affair, and how my eye had been sharp enough to single the baby in the air.
At six, Cecile called from downstairs, I gave her the code and opened the second door, it had never been easy to come into our home. Because of TRÆVIX, there would soon be biometric cards for everyone, what colour would it be?
Yes, she was my warrior with tough shoes and a Perfecto, but with the money she had earned, she had bought new sneakers and a hoodie, she said. The chandelier was clean to the taste of Gauthier’s, the electrician would rewire it the next day. There were a dozen more lighting sculptures to take care of in the house. He had been overjoyed to see the big one, he had heavily hit on her, she had not known what to say, telling him I had things to see with her. As I was decorticating her armour, starting with her slender feet, then all the rest, I bantered on how much we should ask, now that he had tasted the fruit? It took her aback, for three seconds, and then she burst into laughter. She had also bought some Cologne shower gel, in her jeans it smelled of bliss.
I told her we were awaited by our grand Sorcerer for a night of magic, and so I would dress us as ladies of pleasure, which did not mean slaughter, our host was a true gentleman, she made me swear and spit on her quim.
In the lustful vein, I slid onto her an azurite blue long sleeves flared silk-twill gown lined in matching satin, all front-opened with only one gold button, it was an Ottoman delight to see her manoeuvre it around her lanky body, I made her note we weren’t leaving the house, we would go barefoot, but we could meet other boarders, which happened when Annabelle came down to find something to eat and did not think she needed permission and it went fine.
For myself, I knew I would please Hugo by wearing one of my heavy silk satin pyjamas, open fly, as Cecile could check, and Annabelle, navy-night and silver trimmings, we made such a couple of harlots that Annabelle, a bona fide damsel, was all aroused. She explained to Cecile where she slept.

As a homage to Hugo’s creativity, I chose to dare him to perfume our evening, both of us. He knows my skin like his first counting rhyme, but there would be a novelty, a particularly white one.
In a gold, red and blue Ikat robe, he greeted us with played greediness and knelt down to kiss Cecile’s feet, while she was all eyes for the fervently perverted version of a memorial iconostasis, a collection of mostly anonymous —for a reason— erotic depictions and lewd poses in the same labour of love quality as the so-boring tokens of universal bigotry.
She felt the layers of silk rugs at her feet while he chased up shivers inside her fluttering gown, then he thrust his fingers in the depth of her nape’s fleece and bent her face to the light, I knew what he was feasting his eyes off, beyond the freshness of youth, it was the true candour of the wild rose the gardener clears from the bramble, to share the witness of with a neighbouring soul, be her in pyjamas.
He sure groped Cecile any old manners as he led us, a crystal goblet of orgeat drink in hand, overseeing a few silky open beds, all of which I had been pushed into, once and again, at will or at a whim.
We reached the Ottoman harem lounge, she had never imagined she would once walk into such excessiveness, I would swear I saw a veil of dew on her forehead. Myself, I had not been brought there in a while, as to be shared with Hugo’s debaucher co-conspirators, the room was worthy not only of Topkapi palace but also the sublime skills of Al Andalus and the perversity of the demented age of the grand cosmopolitan brothels.
Three tall windows were glazed with geometric grids of contrasted multicoloured glass rear-lit at will; two grand French rock-crystal and gilt bronze chandeliers hung low over Pietre Dure round low tables; a centre divan of turquoise blue buttoned leather could receive the exhibitions of a herd in furore.
All around the room, fitted sofas welcomed guests of all minds —and Cecile was astounded by the capacity, I concurred I had seen crowds in there— a row of small columns ran atop the backs of the low seats, in different coloured stones, supporting little arches in black marble inlaid of mother-of-pearl; between them, the wall was clad with precious Persian ceramics in patterns of different stylised flowers. Drawn from the two hooks of the chandeliers, a web of gilt wood encased a swarm of little blown mirrors, til a cornice of convoluted gilded stucco clouds.
She couldn’t help toppling over on the centre bed, and we had known she would, she was so overwhelmed by so much fine labour in the privacy of a pleasure venue, she only once had resented an emotion so eerie, watching the ballroom of the Palazzo Valguarnera-Gangi in the movie Il Gattopardo —she had so identified with Claudia Cardinale, whose dark eyes looked at her.
Hugo displayed her hair around her face and watched me diddle her to a good ending, spread out in the circle of nightly silk.

She didn’t comprehend why I could entice her into doing anything —like selling her virginity to some apparent high-roller, who revealed himself a decent player— for her own best, so it seemed, or else rest laid, like so, available for someone she did not know but commanded a heap of unsuspected treasures. On the spur of one moment, she had fatefully clutched on me, and for all it had brought, as of yet, thankfully.
Hugo held the wild child’s head on his lap but he had not pulled his clothes aside, although I could swear he was stiff as a bamboo. Instead of requesting her mouth, he was unclothing me first, there would be more steps to relish, in all well-intended debauchery. As I served him my best, I played our tongues alternately so as she ended sucking along with me and then for good to what they call the bitter end that I shared as a good comrade.
And there we lay in the merry company and an extra I had not known before brought tea and nibbles on a silver tray, causing deliciously modest expressions on Cecile’s face. From then, Hugo would certainly ask her soon for a journey en tête-à-tête, wherefrom she would come back crowned as a frank libertine, but here he kept watching like he would have a newly acquired, secret, chryselephantine Chiparus.
Nonetheless, as for teaching good manners, he harboured grand tastes. As by magic, the smoothest aleatory music on a glass harmonica became heard from virtually nowhere, like the aeolian harp touched by some delusory god, and the bronze-toned extra approached on my side, grazing my cheek with the bulging pleats of his trousers, ostentatiously, like a good soldier. I had been consecrated to parade my easy arse for the edification of a Princess-to-be. Had I not guessed the young stooge had such a light-hearted mission on his badge? Hugo knows with me any lusty and polite goon will do, and this one was a thoroughbred Berber, doubtlessly from Sami’s brigade, I began at his feet.
Cecile was reclining over Hugo, so as he made her spread her thighs just as if she was next on the show, her gaze from under, like a mischievous brat, with a tight-lipped, half-baked, smile, not so long as Dris unsheathed his impressive weapon from my overflowed mouth and shoved it to the hilt in my blooming cunt, and furthermore unstoppable into my pleated rosebud, leaving me washed ashore, as the other days’ cossacks had taught me.
This one was not extinct, he relished his tea with some sugar and the best of his homeland delicacies, preening my hair over my ears, considerate and thankful, but now he fiddled with Cecile’s toes, and Hugo’s eyes were still bright, and her gazes were swift. Dris could have tamed a wild fawn with the sleight of his hand, but she had not foreseen to withdraw her ankle, nor any of her body, in the heady scent of our free flows, and I helped her take him in, still tense, with long sighs, and soon vibrant moanings.
Neither did she sway to avoid when Hugo, who supported her, pulled up her legs to let her buttcheeks spread and take way to her not so shy hole I had seen buggered before. As I offered my ravaged pussy to her well-intended mouth, I glimpsed at a quiet sister soul exulting, while another tongue blessed my relaxed little ring.

There, she had tasted a good swig of my discharge, I licked all of her face like a puppy while Hugo had fun pissing in our bumholes, in the patchy ceramics round shower room, a collection of pillaged tiles from the Silk Road ruins. Cecile knew what an enema was, there was a gilded bowl to evacuate and any smell soon disappeared. She was clung to my shoulders and begged for my eyes at all times, there wouldn’t be any reason why I should tire of this, anyone could see the bond.
Dris had vanished, but I knew we would feel him again before long, if I was to take Cecile to Philippe’s, to further her education, and apropos, she was to get up early, so Hugo, after he gave her a bottle of “Juniper, Ginger and Angelica”, a boyish enough scent to wear while working manually, and arouse the herd at the end of her day —if she felt like it. I dozed out in the images of her running through the high hays of a Miyazaki springtime.
Liselotte had been eager to meet my new flame, not only that I may allow her to inhale the flower of her armpits, but it had been retold that together, we did such an exciting sisterly pair. No way could she visit the grand procuress, one who could entrust her to whichever social acquaintances she might use at will —Natalia and the girls would tell her— in her butch armour, even if, once the leather was gently broken-in, she was all the sexier, beating the pavement clad as so. She did not question my playing doll with her in the vestiary, she agreed to wear, like me again, the kind of flared shirt-dress that let you butt-naked at a whim of your cavalier. Hers was up the knees, elbow-long sleeves, dark indigo milleraies velvet with a round collar and white piping trim, she could play the schoolgirl of the brothel, but we needed, say, Mary Janes her size, so we ran to rue du Bac —and profited to buy also calissons for Liselotte, a big diamond box of coochie-shaped nibbles— where she changed from bulky Docs to navy-blue patent flats one needs a hook to clip on, they also had opaline-white stockings. I donned a black, silk panne velvet, double-breasted, shawl lapels dress too short to wear stockings, but black no-crotch tights, and black patent boy’s court slippers with a grosgrain tip. She could wear her new signature scent, I put on the “iris, violet and ambergris” only Hugo could ever afford, knowing our naughty pair would knock down the sultriest of connoisseuses. At the last second, I bestowed her a choker of pearls, like some heartwrenching daddy’s girls’ wear.
It was only a gentle stroll away, we held hands. Liselotte invited us to her top perch, all sizzling at the sight of my find, and she demonstrated utter talent in finding the exact tuning of voice not to let Cecile clam shut. Before we sat, she held her hands, watched her, smelled her, complimented the stylist, and caught the troubling stare. She said mezzo-voce that Cecile knew probably who she was and what she randomly did, but she needed not to know more of Cecile’s, but she craved to see all of her. That had been bluntly saying. No sooner as she kissed my mouth, she slid a hand through my dress to take a whiff of my scent, from my holy slit.
She pressed the diamond-shaped box on her chest and bantered that we had, eventually, become old ladies, but she rested the delicacies and drew Cecile down at her side into one of the two deep, buttoned, maroon wool-velvet sofas I wondered how she could have had them hauled therein.
She had sensed Cecile was in my perverted influence, so, as if she was invincibly drawn by her perfume, she nosed in her neck and released one button, another, swayed so Cecile would bend on her shoulder, giving her way to throw her own left arm over her head, so as when she turned her head completely, they kissed while the right hand was grazing higher than her stockings.
I revelled in the savoir-faire of our true Queen-slut. In the froufrous of stuffs, I only murmured to Cecile how she was irresistible.

Liselotte had been pondering upon whom, amongst her influential patrons, might deserve a tad of carelessness in such a lovely game, thus worthy of any endeavour Cecile might set sail towards. Gauthier’s recommendation would, nowadays, suffice with most of the pundits she knew inside out, and she would, furthermore, hear what Hugo had to dream about.
Thence, having meandered these blistering concepts while twiddling the core argument of the poem, she suggested, at present, to look into what she was expected to offer to the meanest of clientèle. Turning to me, as she would dare some manner of a rival, she floated that she was in the know of a nearby trio of healthy schoolboys fundamentally devoted to demonstrating their generosity, and she burned to peep at the cries of her sweet cavalière. While she went for the door, I jumped on my protégée to fathom her heart and loins, she sniggered it couldn’t be worse than the previous gambols, could it?
All had been devised as an ambush, and the three stooges were all, save your garden variety wankers, card-carrier Philippe’s extras, best Cologne smelling buddies who had all shagged me at least once before. Finding themselves in company with bona fide Canova models, the least curtesy was to disrobe at once and let see the tension we had caused, in the tinkling laughs of Mother Goose herself in sapphire velvet mules, who chose, as the Madam of the house, the first allocations, handing the delicate Cecile over to a thick-set horseman, with feet double those of his prey, membered like a fair attraction, worthy of the moniker vine-stock in the deeper steam-rooms of the Palais-Royal. I was honoured by some cousin of my occasionally regretted Cossack, with a slanting stream of dirty blond hair and enough manners to wake me up at the tip of a vigorous tongue, whenas the supple Cecile arched backwards to suck all she could of her porter and thus offered her coochie to our host who was herself slain to the guard by a straight, long, warm sword of a penis at the pace of the hussars. No sooner had Cecile been put to the challenge to gulp the shot than she was pulled upon an armrest to be steadily threaded in by the most impressive chuck of the three, patiently, as she released the young discharge that this ploy anew of debauchery in confidence triggered, and again. The bulky operator had not been assigned with an evil mind, Liselotte knew his loving patience, she had witnessed him force mercy into the tautest of bumholes and hail victory, at his partner’s amazement, after an endless effort; he would have cried shame if anything had broke. Now, unfailingly, she would receive the opportunist homage of the two others in her suppler sheath, and overpour of so many discharges.
It had probably been Liselotte’s design to test my novice to the most, but regarding the rear path, it went in reverse and so it was the steely long one who opened the way —which I knew was no more virgin, not even close, now— with help of a lotus-smelling gooey gel that slid like bliss, while she gently lapped at my carnal frills.
Jam-packed as a bunker at wartime, Liselotte’s bathroom showed more or less of the same, with steam and foam, these merry souls had a lot of stamina, with good humour. Cecile and I enjoyed another humping while embraced, Liselotte was admirative.

Gauthier had made remarks on the fatigue-rings to Cecile’s eyes, on the mode that he, too, would love a bite of the fruit, as I should know. He reported that Lauritz came sniffing around like a mad wolf since something had happened that I probably knew of. I made him two promises, but at least for a few days, Cecile would go to bed early, with me.
Nothing would be more aleatory than my words about our schedule, and, for one, Lauritz was not small potatoes, now that he would hold court in the very heart of Paris, in own of the most astounding decor. There might be some windfall for Cecile’s fate, whatever gives…
My mind set on the good humour we had enjoyed in our parties in the whirling lights, I called Lauritz about nothing. I sailed the phonesex upwind like a cunning vixen, bringing him to name a price for a weekend in my pants, and I was proud enough of my worth, but would he overbid in the case of Cecile, hands and feet tied, on his carpet? He doubled the figure —tough on me— and thus I took him to his word, on condition that he clammed up and he let the girl in peace, till Friday. I asked for one hour to answer in Cecile’s name.
I danced her to the bed, she had been willing before at a week’s salary rate, now the Prince of Hamburg granted a month’s worth for two nights of virtue, would she sell? Without me, this time, he wouldn’t care for a shoehorn. Kate and Fayelle had been coddling each other’s brain box in the depth of one’s new room, they found us revelling in our débauché plot, which they envied, with full knowledge of the gentleman. It boiled over in pretty lewd lucubrations and laughs, so I went isolate my answering call in the studio, where I found a tranquil Annabelle in contemplation of a Unica Zürn album, pleasantly barefoot on the red sofa. Obviously, she listened, with a fine grin, to my conversation with Lauritz, and she heard me warn that I would not condone any small bruise on Cecile’s body, then laugh at the answer. When I hung up, she bantered the gesture of lifting her dress and asked me if I would be her pimp, too? We had some tender moments, I promised I would sell her to the Northern Lord, then I asked her downstairs, for it was pecking and babbling time. She had not yet plainly seen Cecile in all her clear details, so she was moved —like we all were.

By Friday afternoon, she had clocked out early to find me in the studio, where the mood had been of perennial exile from nowhere land to the mirage of Cinnamon shops, and Fayelle’s voice bloomed like hawthorns under black clouds. Cecile knew —for I had sung it— that I got my best high these days when I unbuckled her jeans and smelled the soap and sweat mix of her cotton underwear, same with the white socks. Kate watched, in wait, like the most selfless comrade this side of Utopia, for the minute I would grant her a sip of my new bliss.
We ran down to the wardrobe, her holding her pants up by one hand, because she had her grand appointment and another perfume to wear, although she seemed to distance herself —a trait that would yield her all the more lethal, on this facet of her career— While considering with me the most overwhelming backdrop for her candid jewel.
I felt the thrill to bedizen another self, with the tricky black eyes and the same angelic hips, same unaware butt, a whiter shade of pale. In the angle of the mirrors, I detailed her profile, differences were minute, forehead a dash more rounded, tiny cheekbone bumps, nose a tad longer and angled, a timid smidgen lump at the chin. She sported the same high slender neck, small cockleshell ears, stark charcoal paraph brows that spice our gazes.
She had been so docile with me, I wondered how she would respond to Lauritz on her own, now the marbles had been tossed. She stood bare in the soft light, I came to envy her small clouds of breasts, I fondled them from behind and made her soft on her knees.
In one of the frosty garment bags hanging there, was a sleek black, fitted, ratine redingote, adorned with gleamy black great mourning braids and lined with shivering crystal-patterned purple silk brocade, buttoned with small jet balls down to the lower belly. In that single piece of pomp costume, she could go with nought other, save some black moire cape, and black suede ballerines I had ordered in her size.
She had only time left to suffer the wax, the week next she would start a full body laser, like us, at the clinic and she would feel like a baby. She bit a wisp of the sheet, of pain, a few times, but after a lukewarm shower, the enema, a massage with the magic balm and a thorough wanking as a premium, she had become the utmost delight a Hanseatic heir could wish for, had it cost him a feather of his hat.
Kate and Fayelle had come to see the Friday girl, who did not protest at furtive touches to her perfumed quim. She made a giddy impression, as I tousled up her natural curls. I did not resist riding the car with her to the Quai aux Fleurs, where Lauritz waited, all sleek in black silk, he did not see me.

However happy, or envious, it had made us three to send her on a rich date —we had our share, hadn’t we? I had called Sami for a not so uncanny request, he mastered a perpetual Rolodex of refined debauchers who trusted his interpersonal skills —and would not baulk at expenses, in all senses.
Fayelle was like new, she had never seen any more axolotls, her sailor boy curls and leaner belly did marvel with white bell-bottom fall-front trousers and black-and-white boat-collar shirt, under a padded black twill caban a tad girlier.
Kate, too, had been somewhat snubbed by the resplendence of my new paramour, she mulled over some whorific outfit to un-wear with zest. She pulled out a wavy-knit jade silk jersey mid-thigh dress, with a scarf collar open down to her butt crack and armholes to the waist, so she could be ogled and groped in style. She would, too, go bare in thin silver straps sandals. I helped her make a curly updo in an elastic band, it called for kisses in her gracile neck. To make it so obvious, she buckled on a heavy contention collar in padded leather and steel that made me wet only watching her stare as so.
The only way apparently left for me to up the ante would have been to go in the raw, with a choker of sapphires, that would be a tad far-fetched, even in Sami’s car. In my turn, I felt like wearing the naughty tux, tropical-night silk velvet, lined in ultramarine satin, with crossed moire lapels, a diamonds brooch with a hazel-size blue spinel in the midst of it.
According to the elegant cocotes’ unwritten etiquette, this would be anything but a dinner party, and even if there turned out to be food, it would be richer to shun it, so we consoled our tummies in advance by way of calissons, riz à l’Impératrice, and Turkish delights, on the fly.
There was a one-piece black leather couch at the rear of the grand berline, and Sami had unfolded a jump seat from where he could watch and feel up to our pussies. He did not recognise the slim sailor and did not touch her knees until Fayelle revealed herself and let him unbutton her trousers to slide a hand. He noted that stockings or tights had been out of fashion that night. I let him crawl to my bumhole, too.
In a curve, we saw the lights of Paris, further below, soon, in the headlights, a double black-lacquered metal portal opened, and a colossal black athlete in a black suit ushered us in a neatly clipped park with modern sculptures by Calder, red on a lawn, and Augustin Cardenas upon white marble cubes. The car stopped under a glass marquise, before low steps to three bronze glazed doors. Black lacqueys in red vests stood at attention, holding their hands.
Yet another giant in a black suit saluted us, asked in pure English that we shut off our telephones and deposit them in a Victorian silver-repoussé jungle motive box, and led us through a mirrored door to a corridor that led to an all-glazed gallery that gave onto a second, bigger conservatory with a stained-glass roof. On both sides, long madder-red banquettes ran along the walls under draped El-Anatsui metal tapestries. From the left side entered an imposing African character in a gold-embroidered peacock blue gown, followed by a leaner one in a same-coloured gown, apparently the son.
The doors to the conservatory were pushed open, a warm breeze of Ylang Ylang fanned out, and a flock of exotic butterflies disbanded upwards to the multicoloured glass ceiling.
Our host —he was the most obvious alpha male I had ever felt— told us in the most class-coined Oxbridge accent that this conservatory of Zanzibar spice plants had been organised only so as to keep live butterflies, for he detested the dead ones in boxes, or, as of lately, pasted up as mandalas.
As the fluttering gems came back, curious of us, the Master of the place began tentatively to undress us one and the next, vaunting our coloured attires he let rest upon branches around, and we were naked. All around were large stools of padded crimson velvet on gilded wood carved in the shapes of ropes, he softly pulled Kate backwards upon one of them, as himself sat on the next, and asked her to open her legs, to let him graze her quim with some sort of syrup which took no time to attract the flickering crowds, making her moan as the Master thrust his tongue in her mouth.
The younger Sir was already smitten for my bum and tapped his fingertips up and down my proud abdominals, from my back where he made me already feel his nervous rod under the thin stiff cloth of his grand Boubou.

Someone must have helped him disrobe, for I soon felt a firm, warm body against mine and a glider shaft enter my bumhole as I was pushed down bent over a stool and so I had to part my legs. It was a sturdy long willy that succeeded to his balls and took its time knotting my entrails.
A manner of throne had been rolled in for the Master, two servants had pulled the gown over his head so he lay belly up and ordered fluffy-pussy Kate to come to sit her arse on his pride pole, while Fayelle’s pale orchid was carried up to his licking suckling mouth.
The iridescent blue, green, white, and all shades in-between, butterflies seemed aroused by the moves, the sweats and smells our group stirred up, with the nimbleness it took, not to be touched in our pleasure jolts.
My Prince was first to gush in me roaring, seizing my head back up to mumble unintelligible sarcasm in my ear, as I rather heard bells carillons in my blood pulse, and he didn’t care if I would know what he had said to my body.
The patriarch then discharged copiously —or was it that Kate accompanied him— so her lower belly flourished with flickering petals and they both rejected their heads back. Fayelle jumped off the massive neck.
In a fast vernacular, the patriarch gave such an order that one of the men in wait, who had already disrobed, seized Fayelle’s arms and forced a tauten up rod in her drooly minge over the stool, making her vocalise funny when he humped against the wall of her womb till he unbunged his load at no end. Then he held her ankles higher and went on in the lesser hatch all the way, at her great cries of passion.
The glimmering blue and green swarm was bustled away when a new colossus surged on and turned Kate face to the Master, who no sooner encunted her, and possessed the released bootyhole in one or two easy jostles, she was chock-full of their raging strain, but she lay her cheek on the Master’s chest, helping the tempo with the swirl of her hips, singing.
The signal had been heard for an open circus, in the conservatory, the sweet coloured angels remained up in the sphere, while we were shared at envy long after the Masters had gone, like what deserved the rich whores of our kind. Eventually, when we had surrendered all our wits, someone ordered we be brought to a grand gold mosaic basin filled with tepid rose water, after we could have expelled the traces of all these beautiful bullies in us, I could have spent days in such a bath, my whole belly was purring.
Long later, but before the water chilled, the light was gradually augmented and we could see that one of the blue flutter souls had followed us and clung to the painted tropical canopy on the oval domed ceiling. Two servants in red vests and bulgy trousers brought oversized towels and our vestures.
Sami, who had slept in an armchair in a waiting room, met us in the corridor where we were restituted our telephones, as well as little red-lacquered gift pouches and so we ran to the car. Sami was morose, obviously, he had not foreseen he would be treated as a mere flunky, and he mumbled it had been a matter of skin colour.
Looking at my pals, I read the same as I was thinking, that once the steam had been turned up, one or two more were an easy premium, so, Sami’s eyes lit up when we suggested they sopped the car in the far end of the Bois de Boulogne. The chauffeur, a regular, joined us as Sami had already his dick in my mouth, he lowered his trousers and threaded Fayelle in her pale back. We strived heartfully at emptying their sacks, when a few flashlights began glorifying our lewd mishmash, with cheering comments and splurts on the windows. The chauffeur had to climb over to go back to his seat. As per usual, Sami went on in Kate’s frenzied bottom till the last seconds, the car waited in front of the Legion Of Honour that he discharged a last one.
Fayelle decided that we take the elevator, it was the dead of the night, but we ran under the shower, like the filthy brats we had been. Still enamoured with each other, Fayelle straddling on my lap —her quim was all smooth and tepid— we looked into the gift bags to find bulgy envelopes and big-name red leather boxes containing three colours of gem line bracelets, sapphire —I opted— emerald, and topaz, so the count was right. On the envelopes, it was handwritten a thank you for our unbounded zeal. The amount left Fayelle speechless.

 

Kate says:

It would be a late brunch, Natalia and Beryl too, had overspent their precious hide, they relished massaging my sore shoulders as I retold bits of what I remembered, a line of emeralds at my wrist asserting we had been accomplished harlots, for a price. The two buddies finely laughed, because they, too, had fired their loins up, for some wealth. Liselotte had sent them to a top arcane psycho-analyst, the like you find only in Paris or Buenos Aires, for an “über-privaat seminar” of which neither recalled the matter.
Natalia, who had been genuinely relieved that we did not hold Victor’s misdeed against her soul-mate Beryl, had inextinguishable stamina when bantering her tricks with bigwig pill-popping men. My two harassed bedfellows, hearing the beloved voice, and still not tired of naughty gambols, her nifty holes rested, dawdled to the breakfast club enlaced like kindergarten buddies. Sarah was all the same not able to cook, even French toasts, so we ordered boxes of croissants, chocolate rolls, pastéis de nata, and some black cherry bettelmans that Natalia did not know of, yet.
There had been twelve —twelve?— disciples with the one that refuted any variety of titles, plus a sexually undetermined secretary. The two younglings had had to dress like little girls, white socks and black Mary Janes, dreary grey flannel skirts, white shirt with round collar and V-neck jumper with cable stitches, one spinach green, the other navy blue. the underwear would be a white ribbed jersey pure cotton knicker and a simple, white thin straps undershirt. They should be close friends in earnest, it had been stipulated, and they would be interrogated one about the other.
Nought makeup, nor nail varnish, hands or toes, thorough cleaning and enema, it would be all checked for. The reward was fat, but Liselotte had apprised the girls that it would most certainly evolve in the weird, as she remembered for herself, although the patrons would not condone any farcical twist in their set-up. Having been nurtured in Victor’s toxic backstages, Beryl owned a mite more acquaintance with the contemporary vernacular to which our schoolgirls’ gig might pertain, and of all magical gifts, her and Natalia interconnected by telepathy —like the magic horse— so they would overbid the Manitou’s wordplays towards carnal candy, for their money’s worth, as always given the imarcessible limits as to sadism and scatophagy, which could seem not self-evident for psychiatrists.
The tale promised some saucy twists and turns, and since we had the two cheeky lasses with us, we saw it had not become sour whatsoever, I drew them along on a sofa, manoeuvering to rip off their jeans first. They smelled like lively trouts in the watercress, like raspberries in the chilly dew, like they always did in my morning bed.
Dressed as dorks under their macs, they had walked to the puppeteer’s siege, minutes away from here, and repeated in the interphone that they were the sorry orphans.

Natalia retells:

There was a smaller door cut in the grand multi-centennial portal, and a resounding echo under the high vault closed, at the far end, by coloured, warped glazings on a dark yard. A big opal globe in a metal wire net dispensed a mean, yellowish light over two stone steps that led to a low-climbing white marble staircase, with a gracious iron and wood bannister, that led to a shady landing with distorting mirrored doors. One leaf was pulled open as we reached, hand in hand, the red and white checkered floor. A tall, sinister character in a shabby grey tweed jacket, shirt and trousers ushered us in a large room that might have been a ballroom long ago, lit by an uneven circle of candles on side tables next to the austere middle to aged men in nineteenth-century opulent-looking armchairs.
The vague factotum took away our macs with somewhat annoyed gestures and went to hang them in the entry corridor before locking the doors, then disappeared behind the sinister Areopagus, near three tall windows occulted with sombre red curtains. We stood in the centre oval of a wall to wall savonnerie carpet representing a faded cornucopia against a sunset sky. Before us was a low table with an apple on a little silver plate, on it.
The old man sitting in front of us in the axis of the room spoke with some manner of abrasive growl, he asked us our names, and straightforwardly what was our relationship and how we found ourselves there, with them. A few times he took a second and ordered us not to budge.
The faint noise of all the breathings was thickening as we spun the perfect yarn for them. After a pause, the apparent leader said the questions could go, so, still standing with our hands in our backs, we could feed the ghosts with our more and more lustful tales, well beyond what they had expected, without ever getting at odds with ourselves, since it was the truth.
We heard rufflings in the dark of the armchairs, at one time, the mastering voice spoke high in a language I did not know, so the grey goon came up with handcuffs for us, then the voice ordered us to eat the apple, as we could, to the core. We started bending over on each side to bite the fruit, we needed each other to push it. It rolled away on the carpet, we were ordered to pursue, like dogs. The apple went against some fine bespoke Derby shoes, with black silk socks in them, the owner did not move, but I felt his hand sliding under my skirt, all very kindly. His feet smelled like the cork of an ageless brandy, I was wetting myself.
There were cheers, like a sporting event, and surreptitiously the apple was replaced with a new one, and so we went offering our bum cheeks here and there for a while. Then it was enough, we were dishevelled and reddened, our common minion helped us up, wiped our faces with hot towels, wisened our hair and pulled down our knickers to mid-thigh. We stood like so as we recovered our breath, then the growl called us near, waving me closer, then fingering my holes with dexterity and smelling his manicured fingers. He told us to go to the doctors, who all wanted to palpate mostly our bumholes but avoided any hurry, scratch or discomfort. There were totally arcane comments, some others blandly obscene. They all smelled expensive Colognes.
Dicks were beginning to show up, and soon we had to suckle with no hands, but the Main speaking called us back to the centre. As we were, said he, we should take off our shoes and one sock. It probably was enjoyable for them to watch us contort, our privates already in bloom and wet. The goon came to take off our jumpers, not caring to arrange our shirts that had come out at our waists and took our stuff aside.
We were told to stand like so as a kind of verbal jousting unfurled with a sensitive fervour, an expense of metaphors and much applauded quotes I did not understand, at all. I looked at Beryl, whose eyes shone with lust, and I was a whore through and through.
It was easy to unzip the skirt and let it fall but many in the audience wanted to see us in our undershirts, probably lifted a tad up, so our flunky friend uncuffed our wrists so as we could unbutton our shirts calmly, in the continuing flurry of witticisms, and turn on ourselves to show our bums, then walk to the eager hands and dicks.
Now it had been time for dignified mayhem and spreading our legs on the padded armrests while, trousers down, the luminaries buggered two paid for students clad in one sock and a cotton vest. Some preferred the front, vaunting that they relished kissing the mouth while shagging deep in the cunt.
Unabashedly, they abandoned us on armchairs, intoxicated with words, our raggedy entrails filled with beastly fluids, mind you. The unfazed stooge came up and told us that before he would give us a bath, we ought to let him try each and all of our ways with a long, stiff cock he had pulled out of his fly. I told him he could fuck us all his whim in the tub and around, naked and aroused he no longer looked dreary. We walked back home with only our undershirts and knickers in our macs.

 

Kate says:

Assuredly, hearing Natalia reliving that summit symposium without a dash of discontent drew Fayelle near, to finish in undressing our all-time neighbour and cuddle up with her. We also had heaps to unload, for heaven’s sake, and so did we, until the yawnings became irrepressible so Fayelle took Natalia and Beryl to her bed, and I cuddled my only Sarah all over, who slept already.
It was late morning when my telephone was called by someone who was listed, I did not recall any “Branwell”, but I answered, knowing one would know I had been woken. A sassy voice, but toned down at once, engaged in a vibrant erotic fantasy onboard the Dragon Express, and in a suite at the Carlyle, Allo? I rolled out of bed to go pee, unable yet to return quips when he bantered that he was already wanking for me, did I want a video of that? I caught him up and showed him just what I was at. He laughed like a wild kid. He jumped to it and said he was at the Brighton Hotel, alone in a junior suite, till next morning, with nothing best to do than shag some privileged slut like me.
I reckoned that Sarah, regardless of whom she had devoted her tushy to, lately, would remain all day in wait of Cecile, so smitten had she become. I had no seductive strain to put on with an old shag mate, I slipped on a satin boxer, and a loose-fit, ribbed knit, Ténéré-grey, shawl collar, merinos set, with flared trousers, raw buffalo jodhpur boots, underneath a cashmere wrap-around trench overcoat. If that were not what he had just described that he would likely fuck.
Watching me do, Sarah wanted to know whom I was readying myself for, and I had to tell, and why I had devised to go by myself. Pointing one foot to my face, she laughed that I had guessed right, but she would nevertheless try to get hold of Dagmar’s tight nether cheeks, for the day, and she jested some childish considerations on Branwell’s weenie while rubbing her cooch.
The thought of this high-collar double-breasted wool armour revealed as a brilliant asset on the Senghor Passerelle, unlike that once when we had, like fool-headed, showed our butts to the boatloads of tourists. It was chilly and pearly misty, my heels tocked on the floorboards, the funfair had pulled up stakes, Branwell could already see me through the sparse remnant leaves.
Yes, he had ordered breakfast —although tea would have been the kind that one tames with milk. He had been a while in the Bahamas, his speckles shone like fool’s gold and his amber eyes were set off in girly lashes, his hands could at once grab whatever he pleased.
A low white sun invaded the sober ambience of the room, which could have been a Nordic bachelor pad, only an antique etching represented General LaFayette with feathers on his hat; behind double glazings, I was nude in the light, overlooking the garden, it wasn’t a frequent sensation, he came behind me and made me stretch up, feeling his morning rod on my bum.
I felt lazy, I asked him about his partner Bloom, he responded that she had only been with him haphazardly for these few weeks we met, and she went her way with an astronomer, somewhere on the Chilean highlands; he remembered I fancied her, groping me, he said that had he been a girl he would have been madly bisexual. He pushed me upon the grand bed and managed to hold my head on his dick and fuck my mouth with grace.
He knew some of our events since the Carlyle spree, but he was wide of the mark, he wouldn’t know of all our unconditional adoptions and the rise of TRÆVIX in our heartland; came a point when I wouldn’t speak more of the new configuration of our fancy planet, he should query through other channels upwards in the structure that paid for his travels and accommodations.
After the butterfly binge, I was in no need of sweaty banging, he let me induce some slow meanderings into the tightly muted bubble of the room. I had already lived, in time, moments like this when it felt like wasting one’s soul. He shagged me on the side, rounded and passive, waiting for his spurting like a sleeper.
At random with another teapot, we began trading confidences about our childhoods, and as I made no fuss avowing my special bond to my brother, he released, with some strain, that for him, incest had been harrowing torture. He had a twin sister, Jemima, physically different to him, dark-haired, black eyes, and matte skin. His father was an officer in the Royal Air Force, so, they had lived in sundry locations of the ghost Empire, at the care of nannies, in the kind of grand solitary installations I had known, too. Nobody had paid attention to that they had shared their beds, until around the age of seven, when their shallow-minded mother nevertheless decided to put an end to such a practice they had grown to revel in. It had been not much more than evasive little thrills and puppy games, probably guided au contraire by the verbal frame expressed by the nannies at bath time, appraising the mystery of their mutual corporal nether regions. Anyhow, their given reciprocal harmony thrived, unseen, into a passion, through a trove of invented Indian signs, until they got caught, big time, enlaced nude in a storage room and the face of the Pater Familias turned crimson. Jemima was immediately sent to an aunt’s in Ireland, while he was grounded, waiting for being locked up in a posh reform school in Australia. They never heard of each other again. Once his position granted him access to all sorts of confidential files, years later, he learned with heartwrenching rage that his sister had killed herself after a few months in Ireland, she had hung herself with a tie of his that she had kept.
He had stayed almost two years of his puberty in the harrowing abuse of the undying British sexual tradition, enduring his first ejaculations in the worst shameful manner possible, being blackmailed into replicating the hideous abuses himself on any weaker pupil, until his father died of cirrhosis and he went to a free high-school in Melbourne, feeling the branding of the horror years.
At his majority, with contempt for his frivolous mother, he sued his father’s estate to afford the tuition and expenses in Berkeley, California, where he lived with a man he had wooed first on the internet, the arrangement remained cool enough to bear, he graduated in political economy. He had then moved to London, with a flair for the socially arachnidian British ruling class, and befriended a most wanted criminal before being recruited at long arms-length by whom we both knew.
Although it would be a valuable asset in many configurations, he grew a distaste for the nurtured penchant for dicks. Through a nonetheless prolific, random sexuality, he kept, in the depth of his soul, searching for Jemima. The aunt had died of an overdose of gin and oxycodone, he could not yet find a smidgen of a clue in Ireland, they all said a Jemima Cerebus had never existed.
During one of the sessions that I also had, like Sarah and the crew, the privilege to be summoned to, at times, he had confessed without being asked that he bore two minds about his sexuality and was anxious to find some leads towards a hetero fulfilment, other than mere prostitution about which he would have a blockage.
The Seldom Seen, whom he had shagged with a few times, grabbed the knot of the maimed attachment towards his disappeared sister, and lauded the resilience of his soul, notwithstanding the pain. Then He granted him a prank admonition on prostitution’s refute that he should not be so sure of, having practised it himself at length, hadn’t he? Undisputably, forcing anyone to have any form of sex, whatever the means of coercion, was off the table, at any rate, included many manners of forced marriages. But then, adult women —and the criteria for adulthood might be argued— own the privacy of their lifeways, and ask for money against whatever shape of personal complacency belong in that realm. Beyond that freedom, as our Swiss cousins teach, transferring money between strangers is subjected to taxes and insurance, for the sake of living in a society.
And so, Branwell later found under his door a very recognisable, by him, envelope with, inside, a leaflet of names, numbers, and figures, in all the cities he might be sent to. Besides, for most of the travelling missions, he happened to be paired with quality partners such as Bloom, as I remembered well.

 

Cecile tells:

I suppose I might even have not come back here in this soul-shuddering apartment, but Lauritz himself didn’t think twice as to help me carry up my bags of gifts upstairs. He had bluntly decreed there should be my home, because Sarah’s dedication would help me stand, like the rosebush in an English garden.
Now, I needed to kick off the violet-brown loafers I had craved to wear along with rolled-up jeans like these pill-popping prep girls in the magazines, in revival features, isn’t it arousing when you do not fathom why you crave things? No sooner my white socks pulled —and she smelled them with a mischievous grin— than Sarah undid my new jeans and smelled me up like the playful bitch.
Lauritz watched all this with half-open eyes, his trousers bulged like it had been these two days. Saray wore only a mist-blue deep fleece trail suit, I waited for him to pull down the elastic pants, but Kate barged in from the wind, pulled out her loose overcoat and took to Lauritz’s neck and groin, like a sex buddy, that they were.
So, with not much transition, here I was, homey as never, like Sunday nights’ orgies had always existed, along with blueberry flan and macadamia-raisins shake. these two soul-sisters demanded my telling of a rich whore’s weekend. The john was being serviced in Kate’s mouth.
When Sarah brought me to the Quai aux Fleurs, she wouldn’t know that we didn’t go upstairs, but down to the water, where a lovely vintage wooden boat awaited, for us only. She sailed to the sunset, as Lauritz was easing me into his possession, the two-crew men remaining out of our sight. At Sarah’s pressing enjoining, I refused wine that I know would have knocked me out but I did not need that to let be done what he fancied of me, he had already given me a full taste of that.
In the chilly breath of waters, he gave me oversized sapphire-blue satin pyjamas, pearly piping-trimmed, with abalone buttons, that I will let you see, playfully demonstrating that then, he could take hold of any worshipable patch of me, while keeping most of me warm; there was a long fly to it with no buttons. Himself sported the maroon and gold version of the same, and his friendly peter was all out of the silk in my honour.
I wouldn’t insist how gentlemanly he toyed me over, and he didn’t wait for some reward except Kate then took him away to the bedroom and I would confide only to my intimate, dedicated pervertress. I lay down butt-naked, at her dainty hands, my only beacon her lazuli shards glimmering stare. She guides me like a willing filly in her marks, with grace.
Although I would stare at the city I had never seen so, he wished to be sucked in glory, I had a hunch I could make it faster, with the most zeal; his want had been piling up, he discharged before our route went backwards, and the Eiffel Tower lit up in universal analogy. Only the tips of Chaillot still glimmered gold, the big tourists’ barges fired their warfare projectors.
He was still coveting me and my body, nibbling at my toes much like he had seen Sarah do, as she was doing. We had been installed on some manner of a Roman couch, half-outside, facing forth. He fetched the famous boxes of A&S treats; no offence, he complied with all of my new big sisters’ tips.
He asked me to pull off my trousers and take his maypole into my tight rosebud, under a cosy shawl, jolted by the pitch and toss of the boat, fucked by random, wrung backwards for kisses of his mouth, my thighs widespread. He was mumbling gently in German and English.
Easterly, the moon was now glancing golden behind the fateful incinerator that I had known all my life by the river, the menacing beacon of my insignificance, so when the boat veered to my new hopes, I wriggled my best till I felt his warm squirt, then we collapsed, laughing.
The two crewmen smirked watching me reach the small toilet in my pyjama top, but I saw myself as appertaining to their unquestionable patron, thus immune of their appreciation, they could ogle me, as a premium.
Previous to disembarking, Lauritz had fetched in his bag of tricks a fleecy roomy lichen-green tracksuit, with comfy wide elastic bands for waist and joints, also a pair of matched sneakers, my size, as he had known. He tipped the lucky voyeurs, handled the duffle bag, and jumped up the stone stairs. We walked to the nearby house embraced like lovers, I saw myself like a good little soldier.
Once upstairs, on the third floor, he did not switch the lights on, because Sarah had vaunted the moving boats’ lights, only there weren’t any more, thence, only the sad sodium reflections. Decidedly not lacking initiatives, and willing to satiate his mind with the sight of my person, he lit up a few garlands he had already hung here and there, with some bratty snigger, then put on music of the spacey ambient genre.
He played plenty with my body into the loose cloth which smelled of some liquorice and lavender, some brands care. Kneeling down, he untied the sneakers and cherished my feet, while I kept imagining how Sarah would play whore with style; it felt voluptuous to be so, if that’s a way to love you, Sarah.
I reckoned I must have smelled rude when he pulled down the pants, I jolted and said I needed a shower, to what he retorted that he, too, so as he followed me and unabashedly started to piss over my lower waist, a harsh warm acid into my open thighs and my face, instantly vapoured out in the shower flow. He had bought an expensive jasmine allover creamy shampoo, we did all the same canoodling on each other, I snuck two daring fingers up his arse, too, and he groaned that he liked it.
He dolled me dry, brushed my hair and seemingly chased every muscle of my anatomy with that big name jasmine oil, up to another full orgasm he repaid with facilitated standing sodomy, that he rinsed away by means of a douche. As Sarah had bid, most men love our arses.
We lay on the carpet, aside a round silver repoussé tray bearing an ewer of orgeat drink and a plate of marzipan miniatures and Moroccan bitesize delicacies, I teased him he must have been on a diet, just so he kissed my words.
At day time, I woke up clutching his wide back, in a curtained-up poster bed, mellow gold and wilting rose, like a Visconti film set, minus the poisons. The morning was young, he turned over and I knew I would reap an early cock, as he craftily made me wet before he sabered my quim, deep in the creases of the ruffled linens, my face pressed against his hairy pectorals, feeling altogether beastly.
With a truthful manner of magic —and a malignant smile— he then pieced back together the porcelain-like shards he had just shattered, and kindly fiddled tepid water between my lips, and later handled craftily my tiny toes, said he, before announcing we would go shopping.
He had pointed out that, for all the delight he would garner walking alongside me, it would feel a tad too awkward if I went in my sumptuous black hetaira costume, he preferred, because it had been his natural whim, that I look like his niece or little sister, in the tracksuit, sneakers, sport undies.
It had felt like an element of grooming a whore, roaming through that top-notch department store, showering me with all niceties I had not even known existed, not even seeing when their price was paid. When he had seen me on the verge of cries, he had found stealthy manoeuvres to fondle my clit and wake the slut.
We had barely fit in the elevator, with all my bags, he revelled in my wet gazes, he buggered me over an armchair before the door was closed, I heard some neighbours snigger, but he only raised an eyebrow afterwards.
He had bought me a provocative ankle-long heavy black satin gown, draped down from the chest, the back scooped to the birth of the bum crack, slit from the hip down, he had let me guess where I was to wear so little of silk. There were black grosgrain mules and obviously crotchless black tights. I was already speechless when he added an anklet, black onyx articulated square plates inlaid with platinum geometric lines, some set with tiny diamonds, and he had made me lift my knee up onto a chair to try it on, as I saw the attendant watching my coochie, I was only a whore, wasn’t I?
As someone must have told him, he knew of a vintage shop where to find that slick black long-fringe shawl, as fresh as new, smelling of some imperishable priceless scent. In the car, I felt more than nude, saddled for fuck, like a beast, was it not what Sarah had described?
We arrived on one of those avenues I don’t stroll on, a black lacquered door with lots of shiny bronze trifle and an eyehole in a circle of lights that lit up when we walked near. On either side grew bushy evergreen gardens behind shiny black iron grids, in a manner that forbade sideways photography. He barked his name to a perforated polished plate, engraved “The Panopticon – Private Club”, and otherwise showed a visiting card close enough to be read. Nothing was asked about me, the current mount.
It was a silent black and red plush path, with a little red counter in a red booth where I consigned my shawl and let scan the black card I held in a tiny black grosgrain vanity embroidered with the eye of a cat. He did too, then we engaged in a bent corridor that led to a plain copper elevator door which opened at the push of a button, onto a cabin fully clad of black mirrors, where I liked what I saw. He stood upright, all black silk and patent boots, fitted Indian collared shirt, bulging dick up at my fingertips.
We had not felt any movement but the elevator opened tangent on a similarly curved corridor, with many black glazed doors, in regular sequence, bearing funny nameplates like Dove, Bouton d’Or, Tomtit, Cherub, Foxcub, Lillybelle, 404, Emeround, Dundass, Antim, etc… Eying closer through one pane, Lauritz pushed one “Galabelle” door, and we found a couple in the action, unabashed of our overlooking. She was nude, bent over a maroon leather sofa, the dick of a dignified moustached gent humping deep in her sluthole. She wore a demi-mask, which allowed my partner to thrust his spear in the blooming mouth while holding my waist firmly. The riding Lord asked to see me, so in a whirl of hand, Lauritz turned me around and lifted the front of my gown, to the whistling appreciation of the connoisseur who let go his discharge at great expense of rattles and gasps of agony, happy soul. We moved on.
Further in the round, a soft piano improvisation meddled with some vocal erring more in the obvious yowling register. The large room must have been round, for all one could discern of the obscure surroundings. A society of affable couples either stood at a black lacquered bar with a copper railing or meant to dance in thin rays of light, on a copper-clad floor. The pianist, a young man in a tuxedo with a long stream of hair, succeeded at pulsing enough deconstructed pace to allow the slow drift of the dancers. Most of the women had lost any vesture, some had kept evening shoes and jewellery, like real ladies of pleasure, others were integrally nude; some men displayed aroused manhoods, others kept undercover.
There were padded, curved black velvet banquettes, black varnished chairs and side tables, under a mess of thrown attires showing luxury linings and labels. Beyond the front circle, where the moanings raised from, feet were waved up out of tempo, shagging was on the loose.
Lauritz did not release my hand, he gave me his amorous kisses of the tongue, relished to guess I had never mingled with such a menagerie, eventually feeling I was utterly wet and excited.
One dreamer couple came, not inadvertently, brushing along my back. The man was older than Lauritz, but well kept up, grey temples and square shoulders; his dancer was nude, with long red hair and meadow green eyes, she had long tapered fingers and she searched for the opening in my dress and in my tights.
She had fondled me over, more to find some zipper or buttons to make my veilings vanish down, and, like the professional she probably was, found them. I was holding Lauritz’s spear as she undraped me, and went on sliding the tights away. Soon, another couple navigated close by, and I revelled my dancing more or less bent on Lauritz’s chest while being handled by delicate feminine hands. Then I was acquiescingly being fingered deep and unnaturally smoothly in my bumhole, for the convenience of whoever owned that febrile stem, and my squire liked to watch me pant, and kissed my mouth all over. For the kind of inauguration, I received two copious discharges with the dancing consolation of two delicate bargirls, my thighs running with smells. However, pulling the redhaired nymph between us, Lauritz disposed for a revanche and commanded the other blond one to prepare the shagee one as she had seen her do to me. This one had minute hands, she plunged them one and the next into the expecting hatch, her friend rolling her eyes.
As the two patrons had stripped down to black silk open tights, they wanted to be cleaned off the smear they had caused, with perverse stress in their voice, and thus the free slut forced me down to suck the soiled weenies, said they; I resented the dirtiness, but I obeyed with, in mind, predications Sarah had distilled into my ear, as to the delicious unquaint thrill of debauchery that would not tarnish the gleam of my soul. For having read, as a pubescent wild child in my cubbyhole a distressed copy of “La Philosophie Dans Le Boudoir”, to which happily —I know— the last third had been torn off, I had been in the know of the possibility of such vertigo as transgression, it had been fuel for my awkward masturbations. I have never succeeded to deduct who might have thrown such an ember among the refuses I sorted for bits of stray knowledge, precisely. My elegant handlers greatly appreciated and greeted Lauritz, I was a perfect whore.
As other tuxedo johns broke forth to invite my two comrades for whatever dance they took a whim for, I reckoned that I was in a brothel for good, and for that, too I had found bad literature in my path. But if indeed Lauritz was a playboy, I would not have framed him as a pimp. He still kept me near, as men like him played me, he even drew me along with two gentle-faced hunks, to the “Perdita” cabin where they all three of them used me as a toy, together, without damages, but a heartfelt plea to stop then. With a grin, he had washed me in a lovely bathroom, while telling me that all the mirrors were both ways, having my attires fetched, kissing me quiet.
Having half-dozed in the car, with his hand between my thighs, I staggered along to the elevator and accepted all the kisses he craved. In the glimmer of the salon, he wanted to suck every patch of skin to make sure I had been altogether safe, put apart my self-respect, beyond my acting as a bona fide trollop, but for that aspect, Sarah is my mentor, isn’t she?

 

Sarah says:

At my fingertips, I craved the pale mauve dash under Cecile’s eyes as she stared with pride of what she had been telling as if she dared me, would she? Wasn’t she still in one porcelain piece? In her funny cocktail vanity, with a jewel diamond corner at the flap, she fetched a tiny torn, folded note written “seresine@phil.xyz”, and grazed the crease upon her lips, so I seized her waist and told her that I had also met Seresine on an orgy scene, and I liked her ways. She mused and said she had felt like she were Lauritz’s whore, and as such safe to let be done. I lay down on her lap, as if I would talk to her quim, and whispered she was my whore, and Lauritz was a pretty cool player. She searched for my lips, I spread my thighs and ordered her to lick me.
Dagmar and Delf found us enlaced sleeping on a couch, under a convenient black shawl. Cecile Jolted at the pair’s little manners, then I sensed a rose at her plexus as she read Dagmar’s stare. Lauritz and Kate tried to sing Radiohead’s “I’m a creep” in the bathroom, I guessed they had been pissing together, then foamed everything, they had used the “geranium orange” gel.
Lauritz showed all sweetness towards Cecile, wrapping her in his arms, but both were under the new ones’ spell, mostly Dagmar’s gazes, the tall pixie had visibly profited from Cynthia’s abilities and held Delf’s hand. There hovered a lot of talking to do, I could order what was left at A&S’ shop, sundry sweet and salty pies, I brewed two large teapots.
Dagmar had regained the giant jumper in which she could refold up her senseless legs and let out her long feet to tear my heart. We all copied that style, I unhooked one of my centennial Boro coats that Lauritz appreciated at once, noting it could not be shut. Cecile did not speak German, but her hands did, for Dagmar’s relish. Lauritz was stunned by our tall rescapee’s tale, so Kate and I teased him it wouldn’t be the last of horrific fates he would come across in our orchard.
There happened funny round-head solidarity between Delf and Fayelle, leading to the occurrence of Lauritz witnessing Delf’s real nature, come what may, as they said. Kate felt more appropriate to explain a dainty case in German, like there would exist a Syltian vernacular between them, or to make it fast. Prima facie, it was weird, he had heard stuff but discarded it as urban legends, kinky tricks. There, he didn’t see much, and he, too, had shagged with Fayelle who was actually necking nicely with the pretty thing, who, by the way, appeared more on the smooth-feminine side, and whom no one expected him to fuck, whatsoever. He remained pensive, for a few seconds, no one had tipped him off ahead on that one.
It was a good Sunday tea, a safe bet would be that more jungle beasts would point their noses, and so came Natalia and Beryl, survivors of another fruitful metaphysical seminary which, once rinsed and rested, was killing them of laughter.
The devilish Natalia at once calculated Lauritz’s look of her, and she already knew all there was to know. She was jealous of my Boro coat, in what she groped me mad, asking to go pillage something fitter in our vestiary and not listening for an answer. She came back soon, stark naked in one of Kate’s Ikat robes, showing as if by accident her arsehole at Lauritz across the room, overjoyed. At the same time, she knew perfectly I was obsessed by her superb shape of ankles and feet I would always compare to those of Ayla, in the broom closet.
Dagmar made herself easy to Lauritz, while I knew there would be much more of holding her hand to Cecile, who was beginning to feel out of her depth. I wasn’t Lady of the house, so I breathed in Kate’s ear that I was eloping with Cecile upstairs, there were enough beds around for what would surely not be missed to happen, all the more if the usual minders showed up.
Still standing on the stairs, Cecile thanked me, she had felt all the pearly veils Lauritz had shielded her in vanish, more like Monday morning than Sunday night, when the wooden doll made it to school, with her saddest face. I shrugged at all these doldrums and recalled her to caress the onyx anklet still at her leg.
I put on my Saint Loup slow dance compilation CD and made her cry on me, some never wear out.

 

Cecile says:

Dagmar had said I could have her room, and so did my big sisters, although this whole life-changing scares me, but then what, last time I checked on my bank account, Lauritz’s money was there, glaring. Otherwise, Monday morning everyone expected me at work at Speck’s house, and later, Gauthier spoke to me like an old pal, he was happy with all I had done on the chandelier, now there were four wall lights of the same make, with a bursting abstract design, in bronze, iron, mesh, and frost glass, of which three shards were missing. He was testing me to find a way to replace them, there are only photos of the whole wall, so the motive on the sculpture is quite small.
Once and twice, he pushed me aside and kissed me, but then he said he would stop that, and risk his chance at home, among all the others. As for Lauritz, he came for the regular tour with all the contractors and he complimented my work in a forthright voice, but he came again to ask me about Saturday night, same punishment?
After a few hours on the Internet, I came up with a hunch that I might find documents of my missing panes in the Arts Decoratifs library, Gauthier liked the idea and gave me a name to call. Within a day, I found, not my very motives, but some very close ones, on other light decors for a cruise boat I could photograph sharp enough with my telephone. I bought a sketchbook and pencils at Sennelier’s and, at the feathery light price of being groped by Sarah, I asked her permission to use her table, and showed her I could draw, too.
The next morning, after an exhilarating night with Fayelle, Kate and Sarah, making up for all the time I had shunned girls’ tenderness, I presented my sketches to Gauthier who at once said that I had the exact matter, that I should redraw at the precise dimension, and bring it to the glass founders, he was thrilled, so he hugged me like a brother.
There still was work on the metal forms, the documents I had seen showed the amount of patina that had been devised from the start, the wiring had been serious, and we could try different strengths of light bulbs.
When I walked out at the end of the day, I saw Lauritz’s windows, where I would, again, behave like the part-time whore, but at dinner-time with the gang of privileged sluts as they called themselves, I could alleviate my soul, like one scrapes layers of old paints and rust, by telling them what had my old life been, and better more listening to those of Fayelle and Annabelle, and the ones I did not know yet.
One night, Dagmar and Delf had taken me to the TRÆVIX palace, if only, maybe, to make me realise what planet I had landed on. Michelle was away in New York for a few days. I had seen films and videos, my sight was educated by a few years at Dupeyré, but there, I was dumbfounded, and all the more that I could unclothe the fairies who lived in this eerie beautiful decor, kiss and smell them and let them do me the same. Ah, they danced for me in Neverland, Captain Hook!
On another fine day, Fulgence and Erik had shown up, it was the three of us, Fayelle was with Hugo and all the others had funky business to attend to. We had a warm mushroom and nuts pie and a fresh fruit salad. Sarah, who had known from the first glance that I would obey her blindly, sat next to me on the sofa after we had cleared all, and casually began unbuttoning my jeans, while inviting Fulgence, whom she had seen I crushed for, on the other side, vaunting what I smelled like, so as the boy bent down on my neck as she pulled the shirt aside. She was, again, selling me out, knowing I would wet my pants, and she invited Fulgence to feel himself, freeing the way down my quim. Visibly, he had been given heads-up, and he relished what she showed of the little slut who blushed. She had slid down on the rug to unshoe me and worship my feet, she called on Erik to join, and I was amazed, I had never thought of touching a black man, to say nothing of the pervasive suburban clichés I had been raised amongst, but it was Sarah who reached for his fly and disentangled a fierce black shaft, as he smiled to my face and eventually kissed me full mouth as he guided my hand to his pride.

 

Sarah says:

I was helping Erik’s jeans to fall off his ankles when Fulgence, who was being sucked on by Kate, looked up at Cecile and let out that she was young, and she only was obedient to my will, apparently. It had been true, I had to concur to having been relishing her docility, to the furthest extent as to let her anus be forced in by Lauritz’s considerable spear on the first encounter. I had so fostered the fantasy that she was another me, who had enjoyed being given away by a younger devil brat.
As a manner of answering, Cecile was now pumping Erik’s copious black cock, legs wide apart. And so, it is surprising how shy rosy slits accommodate sturdy rods in no time —if a proper method is applied. Furthermore, Fulgence could later garner some laurels into the lesser vent of her pliancy, thus playing a few marbles in my mind game of imprint I had had the intuition it be the lead for Cecile I loved.
Now Kate showed a pinch of distraught as to my seeming win over Fulgence’s daintiness, and I wouldn’t let any dust of salt cripple her love of me, so I playfully roughed her belly with my fist, asking her if she would not relish the tales of Natalia’s follies for some rich older loonies?
Cecile went to some crappy suburb to find Almels & Co who, according to Gauthier, could fabricate, at any price, new glass pieces. She was met by a Mr Armand, who recognized the work and congratulated her efforts. But he seized his scarcely bearded chin, looked her up, and said that it wasn’t flat pieces she needed, then he asked if he could come to see the apparatus.
The next morning, he came and was greeted by Gauthier with respect, he was awed by all the ageless artistic endeavour around the house, and about the glass restoration, he floated the idea that a curved mould should be made, could Cecile come and work it in their workshop?
Though he knew it was a thing she had probably overlooked long ago, Gauthier had a hunch that she would implicate herself profitably in an altogether limited try, so he undersigned the operation, Mr Armand was vindicated in his judgement, and Cecile blushed. Besides, Gauthier foresaw that if ever the attempt revealed pricy, Lauritz would condone an overstep by Cecile of whom Gauthier had sniffed he was smitten. Mr Armand borrowed one of the remaining shards, to sample the glass.
Whatsoever the debauchery she complied for me, with one or the other of my own regulars, she did marvels, in earnest, and won a badge of trustworthiness by Mr Armand, a step towards what we, the perverted bohemians who used her, started to foresee in her life.
In no time, she had learned to shape some crude earth to match the design, in relief, then cast the counter mould, and finally watch Mr Armand pour the melted glass into shape. He even came back to assist in the mounting of the new pieces, and he took Gauthier aside to laud Cecile’s adaptivity, taste, and dexterity. Beyond the crush he reckoned was well out of his reach, he had fathomed her harsh background and wished her well, Gauthier agreed wholeheartedly. When eventually switched alive, the lighting sculptures did sensation with the teams in place, they projected grand luxury, again, and Lauritz had missed nought of the accomplishment, besides expecting some prodigy for Saturday night.
By the bye, that evening, Gauthier asked if they could, Philippe and him, have our manner of dinner together, I liked the tone of his request, and Kate anticipated a tad of rampage. Cecile came home with a box of macarons, pride glistened in her eyes as I unclothed her, telling her she should impress Gauthier also gracefully, just like he had always shagged with us, she was family, wasn’t she?
Annabelle and Fayelle had spent their day reading in the same book, under the same covers, so they went on in English, on the couch, bare feet.
Gauthier was wearing an ample silk twill shirt printed of a large Art Deco motive by Tamara de Lempicka, sassily effective with his electric mane; his tight butt was fitted in a deep purple satin pair of jeans that I knew at once aroused Cecile, whom I had exposed in a gleamy blue-on-blue wavy pattern silk jersey tank dress, and nought else, I had painted her nails night blue, like mine. I wore not much more than her, a Chinese-collar midnight panne velvet very fitted gown, under the knees and long sleeves, Cecile had said it made me kind of obscene, as in a party at Suzy Solidor’s, we wore our anklets, it would certainly no deter our boy guests to lay at our feet. Kate had not played it anymore prudish than us, she had unearthed a long, wide lapelled silk-twill shirt printed of celadon paisley enlarged patterns against a contrasted ink-blue background, she was not trying to hide her thighs. Philippe wore a black and white sweater with random astray stripes and yummy fitted jeans letting be known of a more-than-boyish dick.

Insofar as we have all lived the luxurious lifeways of a polyamorous liberal pact, I wish I forgot the subordination I might become the one to assess in Cecile’s current life, her youth, her versatility, her beauty, and the blind faith she has vowed in Sarah. My worshipped mother has, most of the time, slept with her assistants and probably their offspring in such a manner that lust did not override the accomplishment of her always-on-the-brink, highly demanding, endeavours.
When Phillip and I descended upon the nest of saintly beauties, I had set my mind that I would first relish what and whom he would indulge with before allowing myself a taste of the new kid on the block. Lauritz, my considerable client but also one who shagged brilliantly most of the herd, had proudly, in aparté, vaunted the lustful complacency of my new recruit, sold to him by the unfathomable Sarah, such a tale for quenching Hugo’s thirst, who might elope with her to Bora Bora, for pearls. Meanwhile, I would expect some exploits by Phillip, who was in full bloom, actually, to garner the good graces of today’s wunderkind.
Before the baking sheets of finger food went in the oven, there floated a scent of gynaeceum reminding me of Chevillon, where my mother’s workshop swooshed in music —here more heady, like a red door house, I should say— the sisterhood had readied for the usual philandering and so I knew soon there was no cotton under the silks, for all the good it felt.
Although we talked little of her ongoing success, there was some squirrel wit in her puzzling gazes, and a tad more pout at her lips, she went at first easy with Philippe, who had acted more like some peer to her, on the workings set, though she would still be a mere haphazard intern, were it not for Sarah’s sharp eye.
Visibly, it amused the sister fairies to mate their new boarder with mine, and so, inasmuch Annabelle and the axolotl pixie warbled in their fluffy nook, left only my undaunted self to train their peculiar legerdemain on. when one of the two played tongue with me, I would say she was the best kisser I knew, anyone. They also had the manners to suck cock, one more lascivious than the other diligent —so to speak.
Once Cecile’s dress hitched up high, she showed a Thorwaldsen figure, with daintily arched feet and smooth knees on long slender legs, I was right about her feet, which wore a notch longer than ours —bringing her, or anyone who cared for her feet, inevitably to spend heaps for shoes, with fetish thrills— and her toes as free as little fishes. Between boys, albeit we did not frankly hang out together in the locker room, Lauritz had vaunted her shy quim, rosy pale dawn that would sheathe in a fully mature dong, and so for the lesser hatch, I was all aroused to watch that, as my two hosts frolicked between my legs and in my mouth.
My most cossetted pet boy behaved like a rich gigolo, swiftly pulling off the dress and saluting the merry twins and their blushy buds, in the nude, she lost all traces of social shyness, Sarah would make her a lady and an artist.
Phillip is well taught at letting be sucked, also at poking tongues in sensitive crannies, she retorted stroke for stroke, she had been taught the rose-leaf, Sarah confessed. Even with Kate soon perched upon my willie, we still commented what the younglings, on the other shore of the salon, were at, mezzo voce. They were beautiful as the Saxony Grand Elector’s private Meissen collection, they both gushed a few times on the couch without alarming anyone in the least.
I discharged a happy once in Kate’s honey-pot and intended to bugger my Sarah later, but meanwhile, I profited of my habitude with the blond prince to approach the rested bodies and fondle a contented Cecile, thereby I knew the suavity of her skin, the suppleness of her lips, and, without a word in all, licked her inundated pussy full of my lover’s cum. It was pure lubricity, just like it happened, always, in that house.

 

Cecile says:

It had been quite a balancing act in the timeless vessel of my thenceforth found sisters, Sarah knows she owns my soul, moreover, my body, to spend at whim. That she did, literally serving me up to my nonetheless boss, however craftily enough to keep Gauthier leashed along with the Lost Boy, and he revealed himself a Golden Knight in earnest, like all of them around here, worthy of their legend.
Now that Dagmar had declared, in French, that I could have the room next to Fayelle’s, with all the luxury space —because she lived with Delffan and Michelle in the TRÆVIX Palace— Sarah came around to also coach my becoming, and she bought me a worktable and the same chair she uses —on which she showed me all the naughty we could do— and came with me to Sennelier’s, to signal me too on the open account. Kate had ordered a nifty laptop and a sound system, they were spending as they shag, it made me dizzy, and feel a whore — like they say they are.
Sarah loved that I told her that Lauritz wanted me again for another round, she lauded Kate for luring her 911 suitor to the Seine’s quays, and she promised we would soon go to the Palais-Royal —if only to watch. We had a night the two of us, once Kate had eloped with Natalia and Beryl to their apartment and met a number of Fulgence’s stooges, I had loved the face she showed in the morning, it was the day when I would join Lauritz, she pulled me to her lap and smelled Sarah on me.
It was windy, under my black satin trench I had slid in a vermillion, ribbed-knit, mock-neck, long arms, knee-long cashmere dress, and knowing where I went, no underwear. I shoed mahogany-brown Chelsea boots and maroon over-the-knees tartan stockings —a present of Annabelle who had made me deliciously pay for them— in case it might tease him.
He was already waiting for me downstairs, he kissed me like in love.
A silent black car waited nearby that he called, he knew at once what I did not wear. It was a ten minutes ride on the right bank before we entered a nondescript white stone rational three-storeyed building with black mirror glazings. The unidentified door responded to the black card. We entered a low-lit, black mirror-clad corridor with large red-copper plates on the ceiling holed for projectors, the floor was a wall to wall dust mat. The proportion of the whole was of a bank, or any private institution with utter prestige, such was the perfection of details arrangement —and the size of the mirrors.
At the far end stood a red sliding copper elevator door, as indicated by call buttons. The cabin was of black mirrors with a thick red copper handrail. As he kissed me greedily, I wouldn’t have told if we went up or down, nor if it had landed.
Eerily, there would be no solution of continuity in style, on the landing, near a side copper door, was a plate inlaid with a round lens, pierced of speaker holes, an array of buttons and a card slot, one had to identify oneself by means of comparing the data on the card with facial recognition, both of us.
Now it smelled of musky cypress, over Lauritz’s Imperial Cologne, as he drew me through a blind maze of mirrors, black lacquer, and red copper walls in smaller corridors, and I could not fathom how he guided himself. At one time, he pressed the side of a copper panel that sprung open on a closet, where he told me to hang my clothes and shoes, so no one would ever steal anything. Out of his pocket, he took out a black suede pouch from which he poured a sparkling white gold and dark purplish-rose spinels necklace he clipped to my neck, then he turned me towards the mirror while he groped my loins to make me contort.
I was already smoothly frenzied and he pulled me further behind another door, tousling my hair and thoughts, necking like a mad cadet. After some dizziness had settled quiet, I noticed we had not been alone, some grapefruit smelling was inhaling in my neck and I couldn’t tell whose hand was furrowing in my bum, I heard him compliment in Lauritz’s ear.
This all-dark corridor ran along the backside of two-way mirrors on lewd scenes happening in sundry austere rooms, upon black leather benches and beds, some arousing me, regardless of the turmoil of having been pulled adrift defenceless, at the only certain end to saddle me up in one of these booths.
Pushing me tenderly against the black wall, Lauritz, who had now released his pecker out of his fly, took his smoothest voice and explained, bluntly, that I had already earned an extra week’s salary, and I could possibly double that, in going inside the roundabout, and I would reap a week’s worth more for each partner I would let do his whim on me, not more than what he did to me himself, but not less.

So as to prove to me that I was beyond myself, Lauritz diddled my quim and I gushed in a heartbeat, for the relish of a bystander who knelt to lick me. That had been more than acceptance, it felt like a bush of hawthorns had bloomed in my chest, as he handled my bum towards a copper door.
No sooner had Lauritz vanished behind I could not tell which panel, than a man in a tight black leather bodysuit, combed-back grey hair, thin moustache, a thick rod straight out with notable balls was onto me, with manners. First, he was watching my every nook and exposing them to the invisible watchers, then he held my temples so as I should lick all the way to his back hatch, in the red-trimmed slit of his tight, then humped in my throat to make me swallow the first load. and furthermore insisted that I suckled his glans to rekindle his want, while he did fairly well with my modest hooded pearl.
He perched me, legs widespread, on some barstool with swivel side-stirrups, so he could sheathe his whole length in my coochie while pressing me tight against the leather of his chest. It was well-devised and he could thrust in easily while I embraced him, thus he lasted a good deal of time before he spattered again, making me join the flow with truthful moans.
He was overjoyed, he thanked me because he said I did not look like what I did, and fled. I was in sweats, I lay on the high bed with rolling clouds in my womb.
A woman of no age in a white smock had barged in, telling me not to bother as she showed the way to a shower and toilet room, and said she would help me clean my privates between johns; she was unflinchingly professional and her touch was forthright as that of a surgeon, already threaded through and through, I let her do me all she did, and eventually, she massaged me all with some heavenly body milk —and let me dream.
There was a kindly tap on my shoulder, I lazily turned over to discover yet another eager man, Asian and bald, nude and stiff at attention, smiling and telling me things in a much worse English than mine. Eventually, I grabbed that he asked me to part my thighs high to show him all my treasures. He had known there was a command under the bed to adjust the height, so he brought my crotch conveniently to his mouth and started a treat worthy of Sarah’s, to what I sang softly. Noticing that I could no longer keep my legs up, he fetched steel chains rested on the wall behind me, tied me to the attached anklets and, from a control box, hung me high with no strain, discharging into his perpetual smile; he, too, was amorously dedicated around my creased bud, and it made me feel what would happen next, as it did.
Operating on the commands, he brought my arse at the top of his glans that I felt quivering, and rolled up some towel under my loins. After fetching a spurting bottle of lotus smelling lubricant, he began massaging my rectum as wide as he needed, together with my neighbouring labia and their secret. When he thrust in, I welcomed him with little restrain, and since he had been a kindly player, I offered him some twirling moves he liked so much that he spat twice in a row.
The maid showed me, low on the wall, a box with two big buttons, one green that was lit and read “next”, the other red that read “no”, the green was lit, which meant another john could come when she was finished servicing me, placidly.
The third was already up, a giggly talkative middle-aged man, tanned and considerably well-hung but I was already too far-flung in debauchery to be scared of it. He needed to palpate every tiny patch of me, which was not unnecessary to rekindle my nerves and behave otherly than a piece of meat, I smiled realising how bitchy I was becoming for Lauritz’s pleasure, and I also had the vision of Sarah’s smile when daring me to be like her.
The sun lover installed me laying on my back, my head tilted at the edge of the bed, so he could force his truncheon deeper than I would have feared he could, gradually but steadily, maintaining my head like a maniac, until he poured, at great grunts, a profuse spritz of bitter sauce he made me gulp with grimaces of his own face, raving that it would make of me a better slut. Then he upturned me on the bench nearby and tied me in the most obvious position, my arse protruding. laughing as he was fingering both my offered ways, he massaged my whole rump and spine with a masterful efficacy, bantering that he had seen how I had meandered my arse for my previous taster, with the talent he craved. He eased both paths at his width, patiently, thumping against my womb wall, then alternately unfurling my entrails, then again, with maestria. My mouth still overtaken by his beastly taste, I panted as he filled me to heart with frenzy. He chose to discharge away inside my bowels, it felt kind of unearthly, I had never sensed any shudder that would let me expect that.
This one had left me passed out, tied on the bench. Seeing the white frock, I had barely the courage to ask her to switch the beacon to red.

I woke in another room, with randomly alternate panels of gold leaf and maroon velvet. On a black plinth stood a wide opened Yupik transformation mask the size of a man’s arms span; the crow had revealed a disdainful mighty man who considered me in a slant of light. I smelled of forbidden delicacies, frangipani, tonka, and coumarin, I would not say why they would not have been allowed, then.
A hand touched my shoulder, as I was transfixed in the wake of all the abuse I had let be done with unabashed depravity, Lauritz smirked greedily. He casually explained that he craved me overspent, as I lay then, on a smooth, black, mellow silk velvet cover. He cuddled me all over and I responded as a purring slut.
Obviously, my quim was acutely sensitive, but not injured, nor my arsehole, I felt with cautious fingers. He lay against me, he was nude, I turned to face and enlace him, he showed a well-worked, sinewy figure —I had heard he spent time playing beach volley in the nude on Sylt— much to his advantage, compared to the gonks that had just shagged me, so much so that I let myself melt once more, as he had known I would.
And just like the trained runner garners new air beyond the threshold of desperation, all poisonous spikes vanished from my joints, muscles, skins, and linings, once again available and dewy, as in the docile puppet they paid for.
I wouldn’t know if we were watched, there, too, there were black glass panes here and there, but if there were onlookers, I purport they saw a faultless exhibition. That bed was endless, he plied me over and over like his mollycoddle to root his urges into warm flesh, bestowing to my body all the cardinal metaphors of the fantasised universe, letting me vision the rivers in the sand and the fire in the sky through the frenzy of his whipped up desire indefatigable till I passed out again.
Aeons later, I found myself amidst folds and pleats of percale cotton, weightless than candy floss on my new red knit glove, that once my so tall dad held my other hand, that I slide not on the snow, in the clinking lights of the funfair.
It was dusk, I cuddled in his woolly shoulder, in the silently gliding car, he held my hand, then my cheek, he searched for my neck, and I shivered with contentment. My telephone buzzed, it was Sarah, she asked no question I wouldn’t say yes to, in a low tone. He suggested that I open my bank application, the amount was regal, he laughed and said he wanted all my Saturdays.

 

Sarah says:

Cecile slouched back in about dinner time, she smelled of magnolia, like, in summer, the family of prim young trees in full sunlight near Harmony’s offices, where I had waited seated on the stone steps for my father who came to square out my life in Saint Loup, and I did not know my heart about it.
We went in the closets, she wanted some vague cotton and I offered to lend her one of my Boro coats, all rumpled as she felt to herself, it would set her out sexy, with the shady rings to her heavy gazes. As I devoured all I could grab of her skin, she only sighed that she was so rich, and retorted to my cuddles.
Kate was enthralled to see Cecile nude in the hastily knotted indigo mishmash, she dived both hands to seize her hips, mumbling that she sure looked fucked like a strumpet, before adding that she craved that on her, and blooming her lips to hers. Then she ostensibly crashed on a chair and mimicked some despair. She had learned in the afternoon that there was a stepsister with her father, an Anna Louise five years younger than her that Simon had met in Sylt for a mysterious week, he had said that she looked a lot like Kate. There was a threat that she might descend on Paris, which would make it the season of the Germans, indeed. Then she shrugged and took Cecile’s hand, eager to know how she had liked the 911 guy they had, Fayelle and her, wooed with great success, thus luring him back here on his ancestor’s scene. Cecile was defenceless, retelling her anonymous performances in a mirrored showcase, the unknown, utter abandon she had fallen into, the quivers of her womb thumping at her temples, she was indeed a gifted debaucher, a sweet vindication to me.
Playing footsie with her, I unveiled a few episodes of our own, to show some support that we were all sluts, indeed, our difference lay in that we had freely endorsed our walk of life, and probably helped a few sisters out of inadmissible dependency, after Hector or others had fished them off the fray.
The pumpkin and nuts pie with salty cookies was a success and a velvety Taiwanese black oolong. we groped each other on the bed watching the old animated Peter Pan as a contest of sexual innuendos, Cecile did some sleazy Tinker Bell.
Natalia, too, was overly curious about Cecile’s night on town, complimenting her when not teasing her tiny hooded bead with the tip of her tongue, she liked to be her view of Tiger Lily with twisted sexual craves; nonetheless, she had heard of Cecile’s marked success restoring Lauritz’s treasures and that excited her as well as the new smooth skin she grazed her cheek upon. She chained on telling she was seeing a rich collector of Art Deco and relished describing their dancing sessions, suggesting he might like a double feature, pressing her palm on Cecile’s still feverish lower belly.

The next morning, Wendy had gone back to school and we took our tea upstairs in the studio, Kate was on the phone with her brother, it turned out that he found Anna Louise had so many things in common with her, and she had obtained from their father that he gave her an apartment in Paris. She was more of a literary buff, Kate might want to see her.
On that, Fayelle, in her stars-strewed black flannel nightgown, barefoot, begging for a cup of tea, offered that Annabelle and her do the reading in English, as we liked. Kate was absent-minded anyway, I suggested Anaïs Nin’s “A Spy In The House Of Love” they hadn’t known yet. In the meantime, I had a little fun seated on the carpet at her feet.
Actually, there were emails by Anna Louise, boldly introducing herself, explaining that, from all that she wormed out of our brother, she reckoned it would be more fun to neighbour our tribe than to replicate a Berlin fiasco, and besides, she had the hunch that an exile in a new language —but she had gone to the same school as Kate, which went to show that her father bore no grudge— would help her unleash her literary writing.
Kate was more bent towards resenting she had received a monkey on her back, moreover, if she had fostered the thought that her family ties had been set clear, now there would be a potential stepmother. More attractive was that Simon had, carelessly, let float that they had already slept together.
In her neatened-up spoken English in which nothing survived of her Glaswegian quagmire, Annabelle played wonderfully a lie detector of no genre, altogether, within the same phrase, the candid perversity of Sabina. Transfixed, Fayelle unconsciously watched and mimicked the reader’s diction, in the hope of letting her lover’s spell bleed upon her soul, and I believed it would, but she couldn’t have read aloud the curly words of Nin.
It is such a sensuous luxury to listen to some live reader when you wander, or centre, on the work that needs to exist out of you. In Saint Loup, Tudor Weiss had brought us to the habit, in French and in turns; we were of the age for Dumas, Balzac, and all the literature that stemmed from the Revolution, but after almost a year, when we started working with the skylights open, some of us preferred hearing music, and Tudor had some authority time imposing a contemplative soundscape, I had been his best support against the disruptive bucking of punk rock.
That day, Kate had been sent freewheeling through a Wim Wenders mood, merely jotting doodles as her mind tried to make room for a sudden double of herself, in bed with Simon.
As my mother —whom I tend to shun— says, news won’t stay single, at the moment my rhetorical horses felt like being on the home straight, I switched on my phone and saw a message from Marie… Marie? She had not really tried to share her holy roundness —to our despite, actually— and her distancing had led us to avoid bothering her, we knew full well that she mastered all her life needs, and so we had remained in wait. Now she announced a baby girl, Nancy, and I could not repress a huge sigh of relief, so I had feared a boy, unthinkable in Marie’s life. She would need babysitters, but I purported to nought competence on that before the legal age; to me, toddlers always carry around weird odours and stubbornly wish to stick their fingers in your nostrils and mouth, in any order.
Somebody was at the new back door with a delivery for Ms Cecile, a handrest-height wooden crate heavier than one thought, someone had to sign for that, and tip. They let it in her room, it looked like an art transport. When she came back from work, she did not understand, and anyhow, it would take a screwdriver to open it. I reached Fulgence, although he wouldn’t like to do the factotum for anyone, but Cecile, maybe.
Chocked inside the crate with wood blocks and felt was the Yupik ceremonial mask Cecile had recently admired in most peculiar conditions, and now it made her quiver with joy. The piece was closed but already splendid, a polished and varnished crow head with a beak long as an arm and the impressive soulful eyes First Nations Indians draw. An occasion to send a video to Julia, a connoisseur if any, and a means to ring her for attention.
Fulgence and his buddy Erik were earnestly impressed, all the most when they surmised, undenied, the reason why this grand artefact had run aground in a girl’s room. But the awe was total once Cecile had explained how the mask should stand open on the black plinth, with the small creature inside, staring. In a manner of owning his tip already, Fulgence fondled Cecile’s butt, casually.

 

Kate says:

That should have been some propitious day, Sabina! News of my stepsister had fallen like a piano on my head, Marie had delivered a Nancy, and lastly, no sooner had a formidable sculpture been installed in Lauritz’s new flame’s room that she was already cavorting —as well as I would— with the team who had lent a little more than a hand, as it seems.
Annabelle had cunningly lured Fayelle to her father’s who deserved some amusement, and would assuredly relish a confession by the lanky Queen of the axolotls, a passion of his own putative daughter, a pure daydream, for James.
Sarah and I set up a conference call on a laptop, upstairs, with our Marie the Tree-hugger, and we admired two nude girls, one suckling on the other at no end. Marie was visibly tired, but also proud of her obstetrician who, despite the fact that it was her first, had granted an epidural block, and had not cut her perineum as most do, she showed an already rested quim, ready to shag a well-bred squire.
She took a good look at the camera before demanding we not go buying rags for Nancy, she had all set, we should only try and find something inspiring to hang on her walls, she trusted us for that, be understood that Nancy would remain a very little girl for a long time.
She knew she had to tell us she had enough help with a full-time woman from Lithuania who spoke French and English.
As expected, Nancy was a gnarly little thing with no real gaze to offer, but Sarah spoke nought but love omens —it being so ostensibly not her world. Once Marie had bantered us back to our free-fluttering lives, we wondered how she might have garnered the means to flaunt such serenity; Marie has no family support nor solid patronage, other than Camille?
Now, Anna Louise was trumpeting that our father afforded her a four rooms apartment on the top floor of a rue de Rivoli historic building, funnily next to where I had cavorted with Branwell recently, and she would have a tall view across to us. She asked me if I could recommend a good interior architect and I retorted a resounding yes, at a price, will you? I wouldn’t know if he could work for her, she joshed that she could grant him favours, as Simon said I did, so then I saw coming some family brawl, or not. I asked her where she was and what sort of telephone she used; satisfied, I questioned her on her lifeways. She boasted a restless Berliner lifestyle thankfully less risky than what I had deployed, in the days, but, as I heard, as licentious. As I pushed sleazily further, she proposed gamely to continue in video, saying we would get nearer that way. I was in for a big jolt, something like a kick of narcissism, so similar we looked. She had been wearing a casual flannel shirt, and she was pleasantly unbuttoning it, quipping about not sporting more breasts than me, did I? She was enticing incest —like she dropped she had gone as far with Simon, it ought to rest in our genes, would it not?
Matter-of-factly, I took off my own shirt and leggings, I had not been wearing knickers, we laughed like naughty brats, which must have intrigued Sarah, who found me nude —that was usual— watching myself on my monitor, a doppelganger who asked who that was. Never missing a batch of clear fun, Sarah already was nude on my lap, watching Anna Louise exposing her fine bum, explaining to her that there would be two of us, thenceforth, for her. Sarah quickly reckoned that there was no downside to the situation, as long as her father did not pull her out a stepsister from his own hat.
Anna would stay at the Hotel Du Continent, rue du Mont Thabor, the week after, I had told her we had boarders in every bed, which, at the sight of the twist things took, might soon be no hitch as to her coming with us; in the meantime, I told Sarah it scared me to meet Anna, it might have been easier if she had lived like a plain Jane, might it not?
Cecile was over-thrilled by Lauritz’s extravagant present that I could feel she had saluted worthily from the first minute, with two culprits on the run. As we had been naked, we remained so as to go with her to her bed and mollycoddle her. I couldn’t help fantasising that some peeper was watching us through the eyes of the divinity in the ultimate centre of the contraption, but that must have been because of the many times we had knowingly made a spectacle of ourselves

 

Sarah says:

Cecile still smelled of some manly shampoo she had used at Speck House, she had not used any soap to rinse her aparté with the handler boys, she had read somewhere that the abuse of soap made for the most part of dermatologists’ bread and butter; her skin, raw, smelled of lust, like after the swimming pool the girls at Saint Loup had scented amidst the boxwoods —she was one of them.
Now then, she gloated pride for a new prowess Gauthier had saluted about her work finesse. The workings on the lightings were done and well, so she had ferreted through the temporary bric à brac, and her eyes had been seduced by a tall three-fold screen of Jean Dunand’s representing a flock of white gold sea birds ascending a slanting course against the noble surface of black Chinese lacquer. Something had tickled her special eye for things, she had grazed the majestic pannels barehanded and became engrossed in the certainty that some layer of filth hid the true splendour of the piece, all the more when compared to the Dupas wall.
She had waited for Gauthier before attempting anything, only a tiny patch she had scraped and spat on clean would tell her beloved boss. He became to agree with her, but he stood cold feet as to the right method for safely cleaning such a peculiar material. Hugo would teach her the process, it was reason enough to bother him.
I could imagine Hugo’s eagerness to Cecile’s help, he longed to possess us both like sister fairies, like incestuous Undines, and he had restored many important Dunand’s panels and screens. She bantered that in front of the screen, while bending to scan the surface, he had been groping her in her work jeans, telling her how fine she smelled, and eventually dictating the composition of chemicals she would use, and how, so as she let him unbutton her for a while. He had proposed a trip to Corfu, I advised her to agree, and obviously, Gauthier would understand the escapade.
Kate had been titillated by her sister’s foolhardiness, she was up for some careless expense of ourselves at the Palais Royal that Cecile had not visited yet. The two of us had an easy game convincing Cecile to participate in one of our chronic debaucheries, she had grown to a bona fide libertine; I called Sami so he could advertise our coming ahead on some community boards. We did a full toilet that amused Cecile, she would wear a black-on-black embroidered silk satin, fit and flare, short-sleeved knees long dress lined of vivid ultramarine twill, buttoned upfront, only down to the paradise, with small jet buttons; a discreet lace garter belt held black veil stockings, she wore black patent and grosgrain pumps; she was stellar with a dash of makeup.
Kate was in heat, she chose one of her stand-alone blazers, cross-breasted, half-thigh long, stiff twill printed of pearly grey faded psychedelic twirls, lined of grey satin, and greyish crystal-pattern printed open tights, she added a white leather padded dog collar with palladium rings.
I wore an antique adjusted black worsted queue-de-pie that Gianni had lined with ecclesiastic purple brocade, purple epaulettes, matched fourragère, and braiding volutes on the left sleeve. A veil-thin white open wing-tips collar shirt, a low-waist white piquet vest, and a creamy suede drop front culotte to the knee; white silk stockings in black patent slippers.
I was obviously the most complicated one to undress, although one could tinker with my quim readily, and rid my pants off with three buttons, as Cecile could have a taste in the car. We paid utmost attention to smell as heavenly as regal sluts, down to our little private wells, with a neroli-scented edible balsam.
We had a table ready in the “tents” decor, it was one such night, we had time to eat lightly before Sami came to sit with us and devour Cecile alive, she smiled lips closed like a good girl, she slid a hand in my culotte. She found the arrangement of the privy round tables in striped little wigwams looked like the Piccaninny camp.
Undeterred by potential on-lookers —he had often said that there always was at least one table of stool pigeons in wait, a remnant of the time when the police were constantly sniffing for the matter to blackmail important people.

Sami had ushered us through the little door behind a screen in the familiar suite of narrow corridors and stairs all muted by thick maroon carpeting and vaulted ceiling. I held Cecile near, to reassure her, and tried to defuse Sami’s ardent stares, like jostling his already tense peter while whispering he would have his turn.
The room was dark, warm, and probably immense, as let think far voices and bustles. The infra-low hum of metro trains under the stone slabs aroused me. Sami took Cecile’s hand to move forward, as an array of lanterns were slowly powered up feebly, not enough to give faces to an assembly of nude men on strap couches, glimmering goblets in hand.
A golden glow was appearing around a large round padded red leather plateau —I did not remember having ever seen— in the middle of the musk smelling cenacle. Into Cecile’s neck, I breathed this was the most impressive fuck arena I had ever been dared to (I was most certainly lying, images of lines of hanging sheets drying haunted me still). It was Sami’s role and I could not refute when he firmly enlaced Cecile and kissed her full mouth, as he does, while pushing one by one the seven little facette balls back into their slits, to let uncover the lascivious, slender beauty he was dazing with his kiss. She made it all so easy for him that I wetted my culotte only watching.
The dress was thrown away, holding her face, he told her to unzip him and kneel on the stage to suck him, she opened her thighs wide as she reclined, offering the murmuring audience behind her a moving tableau.
I had enlaced Kate because Sami was so talented by himself —we both knew by heart— and it gave the signal for three fine Morrocan leather mask bearers to approach our couple while they now admired the long-length course of Sami’s shaft in Cecile’s runny sheath.
One player entered my game and called me a boy, dancing with me, still clothed, with his fingers in my arse, as I let him do, he buggered me with my culotte at my knees, like any old admiral a fresh cadet, and moreover, he called his pal to come profit of all the sliding goo he had poured in me. They were trained blades, I even spurted on the second sailor’s feet.
The low rumble came and went like hellish music, Nude men, not all of them tight-waisted, but still meaningfully tense of their disparate johnsons, surrounded up the leather arena to watch one another pleasure themselves with us. Then other nude sluts were brought into the round, among whom I singled long red hair as being the still willing Seresine’s and we grabbed hold of each other, our mouths proudly smelling of sperm. This tender encounter unfailingly inspired some of the merry customers who took their part in our embraces. I was rekindled by that a thick rod forced into my so natural coochie and filled it up like a jack plug carrying a megawatt of sound up my spinal cord.
Seven Rhinemaidens were chased around the slippery ring as men climbed up to compose triple figures or worse, like one jester who succeded at getting shagged by one of Cecile’s feet, wanking his half-baked doodle.
Once only the despaired cases still clung to us, Sami cleverly led our farandole to the shower cupola I had known before, a fine dome of ashlar local dull yellow stone, a remnant of the buried foundations under which ran the rumbling trains, to the difference of Berlin or London where they hurl next to one’s cellar.
We frolicked in the tepid waters raining from ornate heads affixed to the vault, a few altogether kind men helped us wash away all the fluids we had taken in, a good excuse to greedily insert cannulas into our exhausted bumholes, but then, eventually, we escaped clean and all smelling of violet and lotus; I proposed Severine joined us, but she had been here with some cavalier she would not dump harshly, we agreed to let Sami arrange a meeting at a lesser carnal expense, with us.

On their way back from the debauchery of their own, Natalia and Beryl found us worthless, like drunken wrecks, minus the smell that they relished over us. Kate mumbled Palais Royal so they grabbed it and fled laughing, having pulled up the covers upon us.
In the wee hours, Cecile wandered out of her dream and collected her wits to go to work. I detangled Kate’s face to let her breathe freer, and I caressed her butt crack only so she moaned feebly.
After that somewhat unexceptional night, when the sole issue had been putting Cecile to one more lecherous test, and she had withstood playfully, like us, since long, the carnal council of the herd, none offence taken.
Now, restlessness in my legs hurried me to bring her some manner of support at her workplace, be it a thermos of the best tea —and the embarrassment of being looked upon doing this, but I could soothe any such angst.
Kate was a pretty mite crumpled, but hazily overjoyed like each time she had skirted the old shallows under no other influence than raw wants, but now then she might expect a half-double in her life —as if Anna Louise had claimed a share on it.
Natalia barged in afresh, smelling like dawn in Amalfi —that idea had sprung up, I had been four or five years old when we had stayed, the whole family (and detail), in a villa clung to the rock, in Positano, between rows of lemon trees— fit for a morning encounter with one of her tutors in-situ, right under the grey nose of a posse of jaded civil servants —after all, her grades would be sincere, wouldn’t they?
She went jealous that I took Cecile to Philippe’s for a grand bang, whenas I had been so meanly protective of her, to what I retorted —while she was taking a taste of my convalescent ladyparts— that the three of us had begun long before she was of age for anything of that sort. After two seconds of reckoning, she concurred I could certainly not have taken her to such places but she had snuck into our bed before any hair had begun growing.
She sat on Kate’s lap, did magic passes on her swollen eyes, cuddled her forehead and said she was thrilled to have two of them, therefore.
Some serene moments after Natalia fled towards probably as many turpitudes as in our night, Annabelle and Fayelle, back from James’ asked if I would make French toast for them because they had found black cherry marmalade and had developed such a fantasy since. James, by the way, sent his love; he was currently writing all day, when not carousing with two young depraved beauties; the matter of the article lay in the unconscious strategies of visual seduction, beyond the lame merchandising of disruption. Whatsoever, the brilliant artist had given them sparkling eyes, and they smelled of hay rucked up with lavender, broom, and an afterthought of virginal rose, all that in the carnal sweats of a morning run, I would have damned myself in a pair of their still tepid socks.
Of course, I made too many toasts, and I was robbed of my slanting night tee, but I had vowed to bring some tea break to Cecile, so I filled a Thermos with… see, she would want coffee, wouldn’t she? and I wrapped the rest of the toasts, promising our readers that I would catch up in the House Of Love, later.
Damn the politics of the 1960s which indefinitely poisoned such a thoughtful cityscape, shame on you, Pompidou, the brainless contraption that bears your name does not, by far, makes up for the damage you do every day. And moreover, you dared live in this bland pastiche plastered up in the middle of the sacred perimeter.
Every princely detail of the Hotel was being refreshed by every trade body, each one its own routine. Someone showed me Cecile, under a bulky respirator connected by a yellow tube to a couple of high steel bottles on the floor. They had dismounted the folds of the screen and lay them on felted trestles, she was absorbed rubbing the surface with pads hafted onto handles, before discarding one by one in a lined bin nearby, on the floor. Actually, the toxic stench she worked in was aggressive. When she had seen me waving a hand, she lay the wet dirty pad on a tray and, indicating the next room, put her breathing contraption to rest, untied it and smiled, under a plastic charlotte.
I was totally vindicated by the welcome she granted to my sentimental toasts, but I discovered a shining, brand new percolator in what served as the staff room — Gauthier knows what it takes to let valuable workers work, his mother would always prefer to lose a job than hurt the feelings of someone in her workshop.
Cecile was nicely sugaring her little mouth, in dirty blue overalls. Under a black thick wool wrap overcoat, I had been wearing one of my old Danish boy shirts, and grey tones wavy-knit leggings, still, we had the visit of all the men, one by one, and one tasteful butch lady with the full tool-belt. It reminded me wistfully of school days, Cecile gave me the rough working girl full-mouth kiss, and we got caught. They all knew she was Lauritz’s crush.

On this chilly, windy, and sunny morning, Kate had gone, her soul split like a fracture would suddenly appear inside a gemstone, to meet Anna Louise, the step-sister that had revealed herself. Nought was it of her concern to sort why this altogether mundane geometry had come to light, only would she consider a visit to her mother by the Alster’s cold waters. Anna stayed, since the previous night, across the Seine in rue du Mont Thabor, at the Hotel Des Deux Rives, a quaint second-row boutique resort in a lively street, aside from the noisy Avenue she had experienced with Branwell.
Cecile had taken the crease of an early schedule and made her coffee on-site, courted by a good many of Gauthier’s posse who weren’t univocal. She had not yet rolled over in the storage rooms with any of them —unbeknownst to her, she’s a rich bitch, she shagged their bosses, and moreover the client himself.
Annabelle and Fayelle lived in the fusion stage of an intellectual affair and it did them a lot of good, thus they slept late, for what it meant. Natalia had not come let me smell her day, with my cup of tea, I felt in disuse like some holidays in the dorm house. I shook my head, slipped in a big fleece tracksuit and walked down in the secured maze for TRÆVIX palace, and other sweet girls, barefoot.
The place was warm, tidied up and vacant, except for service personnel, I had been scanned so many ways but still, I felt like I was spying. I could have climbed directly to the attic’s rooms where I imagined Dagmar and Delf inside a perfumed comforter, but I had a heartbeat for the one we had harboured behind the red sofa, the untiring pleasure it had been to pull her pants down while she lay enthralled by the multicoloured code on her monitor —and she had liked that.
The whole house knew who, and what I was, thus I had casually access to Michelle’s Sanctus Sanctorum in total silence, she would already see me in the corner of her screen. Yes, she was busy, but overjoyed to see and touch me, she cuddled my feet and pulled down the trousers, certain that I had not worn knickers to come and see her. As expected, however, she would be totally selfish, riveted on her virtual nuts and bolts, salving the rule of law, for all I could tell. She lost her Aviators for one split-second, as I pulled the sweatshirt over her bushy blond mane, then we were both smooth-naked, me on her back, chasing at her chakras down her spine, poking my tongue in her butt furrow. She lightly hummed her pleasure, which in the day’s mood was enough for me. At one moment, she told me to expect something, she had fed a live video of us to Delf’s computer. The roof pixies soon flew in, babbling with laughs, in their floating night tees. It felt like Dagmar was rewinding the ball of her spilt infancies, and Delf patiently mended the torn threads. Now then, when I made metaphoric love to her feet, Dagmar was only a sliver more present to it, not entirely deadened as she had been. In the secrecy of Michelle’s grand orb, she was learning her own intangible worth, and Fanny joined for imaginary potlach weeks —when Camille had to go to New York. I figured Michelle as the distant gardener of bonzaï souls achieving grace in a secluded recess of her cloistered universe, for the blessed minutes when the numbers finally spun on their own.
The laughs and the weird pidgin the pixies had come to speak had flown back away, Michelle asked me to detail our lewd expenses at Philippe’s or elsewhere, it freed her from her mazes. That night, I played to convince her to try once, like it was told that the Queen herself would have snuck in the opera grand ball to hitch up her regal skirts for strangers, some deadly times. Michelle’s coochie became as wet as the Macarena Virgin’s eyes, at the thought of some parenthesis of prostitution, unbeknown to anyone, thus she began asking if some woman could go masked, and I fancied up a mask with corrective eyepieces, letting her climax with my easy hand.

Sami had given me the address of the craftsman who fashioned such masks as I had been fucked by amidst the metro rumbles. Obtaining Michelle’s lenses’ parameters had revealed a tad more vicious; in a word —because in full daylight she did not clearly remember what the heck we had fantasised around. After I had made her wet her futon once more, she agreed to lend me one of her spare pairs of glasses, to have lenses cut to her sight. She gave me a copy of her prescription without her name on it. She did not pay attention while I was reporting the measurements of her skull on a sketch. I relished toying with her body while she was moving billions around, somewhere.
She pretended not to know what it was I elucubrated on, but, as long as Kate was busy catching up with her sister, Fayelle and Annabelle spun an idyllic romance with no better need, Cecile appreciated the comfort of her room to recover some stamina in view of next Saturday, and draw, with the faith of a debutant, and Natalia reaped fortunes serving her deranged patrons, I groomed one of the most secretively powerful women in the world in order to allow her a voyage in depravity land, where she might eventually shag her nemesis without knowing.
Luckily, She owned a black card and did checkups, she had understood the freedom it gave her on occasion when her house receptions went deliciously astray.
So, it was an aniline mauve and emerald green leather helmet covering down to the tip of the nose with some sort of owl beak that did not prevent full mouth kisses, as I checked. The leather was finely embossed of geometric fancies and big eyes glimmered iridescent metallic, the skull was elongated enough to hide the whole hair and curl up on the nape. Nude with that on her head, she was becoming a legendary beast of lust, she decreed that she could see through the oculars as well as her spectacles, she unclothed me without hesitation.
She decided that, unless a terror attack suddenly wiped the white house, we could wander in lust the next day from six to midnight —if I would hold her hand.
Sami had chartered an electric, statutory, titanium grey long body berline, she wore an oversized black hoodie. We had, according to what I had devised with Sami, dressed as expensive whores, she was in a Chinese-collared plum shantung straight long sleeves dress buttoned upfront, hold up black veil stockings, no underwear, round nose patent and grosgrain pumps —she had been wet ever since she had been dressed.
My own mask, so as she wouldn’t be possibly identified as a friend of mine, was a simpler black velvet Venetian domino. Since we would at once unclothe in our stockings, I wore a simple night blue milleraie velvet long tails shirt tied with a silk cord, high black silk stockings and grosgrain court slippers, all this wrapped in a crisp black satin trench.
We snuck out of a side door and moved away fast, Sami was sensuously intrigued, he was seated up front and I provoked him, not letting Michelle cross her legs so he could guess her quim, he thought he could gently hold her knee, I knew she was in turmoil, she begged for my mouth.
Somewhere near the Arc De Triomphe, the car glid down in a subterranean park, and let open a succession of metal doors to a white-tiled private garage moderately lit. The car stopped before a black lacquered door with a polished plate inlaid with a lens and a numeric pad, pierced of an array of little holes. Before we left our seats, Sami asked us to lift our skirts and show our open thighs as we kissed, she let herself be done.

Sami had given me the address of the craftsman who fashioned such masks as I had been fucked by amidst the metro rumbles. Obtaining Michelle’s lenses’ parameters had revealed a tad more vicious; in a word —because in full daylight she did not clearly remember what the heck we had fantasised around. After I had made her wet her futon once more, she agreed to lend me one of her spare pairs of glasses, to have lenses cut to her sight. She gave me a copy of her prescription without her name on it. She did not pay attention while I was reporting the measurements of her skull on a sketch. I relished toying with her body while she was moving billions around, somewhere.
She pretended not to know what it was I elucubrated on, but, as long as Kate was busy catching up with her sister, Fayelle and Annabelle spun an idyllic romance with no better need, Cecile appreciated the comfort of her room to recover some stamina in view of next Saturday, and draw, with the faith of a debutant, and Natalia reaped fortunes serving her deranged patrons, I groomed one of the most secretively powerful women in the world in order to allow her a voyage in depravity land, where she might eventually shag her nemesis without knowing.
Luckily, She owned a black card and did checkups, she had understood the freedom it gave her on occasion when her house receptions went deliciously astray.
So, it was an aniline mauve and emerald green leather helmet covering down to the tip of the nose with some sort of owl beak that did not prevent full mouth kisses, as I checked. The leather was finely embossed of geometric fancies and big eyes glimmered iridescent metallic, the skull was elongated enough to hide the whole hair and curl up on the nape. Nude with that on her head, she was becoming a legendary beast of lust, she decreed that she could see through the oculars as well as her spectacles, she unclothed me without hesitation.
She decided that, unless a terror attack suddenly wiped the white house, we could wander in lust the next day from six to midnight —if I would hold her hand.
Sami had chartered an electric, statutory, titanium grey long body berline, she wore an oversized black hoodie. We had, according to what I had devised with Sami, dressed as expensive whores, she was in a Chinese-collared plum shantung straight long sleeves dress buttoned upfront, hold up black veil stockings, no underwear, round nose patent and grosgrain pumps —she had been wet ever since she had been dressed.
My own mask, so as she wouldn’t be possibly identified as a friend of mine, was a simpler black velvet Venetian domino. Since we would at once unclothe in our stockings, I wore a simple night blue milleraie velvet long tails shirt tied with a silk cord, high black silk stockings and grosgrain court slippers, all this wrapped in a crisp black satin trench.
We snuck out of a side door and moved away fast, Sami was sensuously intrigued, he was seated up front and I provoked him, not letting Michelle cross her legs so he could guess her quim, he thought he could gently hold her knee, I knew she was in turmoil, she begged for my mouth.
Somewhere near the Arc De Triomphe, the car glid down in a subterranean park, and let open a succession of metal doors to a white-tiled private garage moderately lit. The car stopped before a black lacquered door with a polished plate inlaid with a lens and a numeric pad, pierced of an array of little holes. Before we left our seats, Sami asked us to lift our skirts and show our open thighs as we kissed, she let herself be done.
A large red doormat, windowless walls clad in black bevelled tiles, black lacquered ceiling holed for invisible mellow lightings, and a profusely chiselled vermillion double door, representing the opposite to any fall of the damned, inferno gates or other morbid pornography in art history, with exceptions —Delville’s “Treasures Of Satan”, despite the title, aren’t so much self-conscious, altogether— on these panels, doubtlessly Chinese craftsmen had sculpted the ascent of orgiastic combinations to the serenity of eternal twilight, the whole piece in a toned-down red satiny material appealing to the legends of old Shanghaï brothels.
The stunning door had silently swung in on an all-red entry of the same hue, and a tall middle-aged woman greeted us with casual manners, asking for our coats, and then for our dresses, wouldn’t we? She had seen the slight recoil of Michelle, so I, already boasting my proud fickleberries and my boyish shoulders, explained that my girlfriend here was new to the games we played, and that appraised her all the more, didn’t it?
The Madam smirked and considered what Michelle was reluctantly uncovering with all the lust she professed, addressing the weird motionless stare of the dark mask. Pinching matter-of-factly one of Michelle’s tits, she said that anyone was free to leave whenever they wished, but if they went into the mirror room, it should obviously be to let done all the patrons’ whims.

The woman wore an adjusted black lace full-length gown and nothing under, which displayed her nudity but kindly erased all dashes of ageing, she smelled of some of the long-unavailable perfume marvels of the bygone high-life era, it moved my discreet geranium-orange aviator when the mistress-whore gave her the best kiss she knew and began groping her like her little crush. She bestowed us gold necklaces with very readable figures on the oval plate, Michelle had the number nine and I the number twenty-one, we were turned into cattle, I felt a tingle in my lower loins, she was inundated and mute. Clutching the chain at Michelle’s neck, the madam told us low to go get fucked by the richest men in town, showing us the mahogany door with a brass handle.
I enlaced Michelle as we entered a long gallery, one side entirely of mirrors, with a line of gold-tone lights above them, all along. A few steps opposite ran a maroon velvet padded banquette, where half a dozen girls, in no more costume than ourselves, a few entirely nude, but all of them bare butt, legs uncrossed, talked, flirted, and kissed, all bore a number well in sight. They detailed the new ones and invited them in their midst, with eager lips and stray hands.
Only a few minutes later, a soft voice called number nine, and the aviator had to dawdle her way to the door at the other end of the gallery, where I would not wait too long to be called, too.
My first john was in a hurry —like he wouldn’t want to be charged more than the minimum half-hour— yet he smelled good, like a shop in the Burlington Arcade, leather and snuff, where I had dragged my all-loving Far, to buy me shoes. The room was more of a padded cabin upholstered in maroon velvet —seemingly the colour of all the house’s innards— with a tall mirror behind which I guessed a black booth hosted voyeurs, a grand clean percale bed assorted to the walls, and in a recess behind a drapery, a lavabo, a bidet and a toilet bowl, likely enough to clean what would be at work, in there. The window was fake, but the air was lively and the man’s shoes smelled like new.
He pulled down his trousers he lay on a chair, his dick stuck out of his trunks, stiff and pale. At once he held my waist too tight and mumbled he wanted me to suck him and then he would bugger my tight little body. I pulled a pillow to kneel on so he could force his cock deep and fuck my throat in a frenzy, thankfully even shorter than a pop song before he made me gurgle and thanked me, and turn me over on the bed while I begged for lube —in all logic, he would ram much longer in my arse, now— which was right there, on the side chest. He made some gracious compliments about my backside, telling me I was the kind of tomboy he craved, and he threaded me in, swiftly, moaning his pleasure, giving me not so harsh names, clutching my fists behind my back with one hand, slapping my bum cheeks with the other. I helped him by willingly rolling my hips and contracting my savvy butthole on his tempo, he wouldn’t have thought of coming so soon yet, and strong, that was. I heard some ruffling beyond the mirror. I let my john go limp in me, he still liked me and played with my foolberries, he said I was better than a boy, I ran to the bidet, found disposable cannulas for the enema pear and rinsed my anus for my next trick.
I had pulled my stockings back up and tousled my hair pretty when I walked back in the show window; a foreign true blonde grabbed me and played with my pussy, tenderly. A French white-skinned black-eyed emo type told me that my friend, if she was, had been called as soon as she had walked back.
As if it had been the after-theatre press, we were all called out and other girls came back, their pussies in bloom. My new john was a black man, he greeted me with a glutton kiss and fingered my relaxed arse before pushing me to the assigned door. That one had no bed but an array of padded bondage devices, leather benches and pillory that let me hope this room was seriously monitored, even if the client did not inspire fear. actually, he bantered he had been lectured on what not to inflict to the top-drawer models in Paris, but he craved to fuck well-strapped bodies that would jolt in their bonds and lay helpless at the tip of his shaft. That said, he asked me to pull off my stockings and shoes, then he forced me down on the pillory jaw and closed it, and cuffed my ankles parted on the black polished wood floor.

He took his time with the adjusting wheels so as my mouth and arse rested at a suitable height for his use of them, which meant back and forth trials that were, obviously, the most part of his relish. He was particularly abundant, like the buffalo in heat, he gushed twice, front and back, before he moved me panting upon the pommel horse, face down, arched up, so he could as well hump the wall of my womb or invade my entrails to the hilt, he was one of those experts.
He swore I would orgasm on his rod as many times as he liked to see me faint and cry, and I sincerely believed him and vindicated his ever-growing meat truncheon humping inside at a steady pace by discharging and pissing to his mad want. Still hard, but probably aching despite the lube, he untied me and left me, all spent, on the bench, where I dozed off.
When I hoovered down from the green brass pinnacles of my fairy homeland, swarms of butterflies inside my ploughed lower belly, I was being washed thoroughly by a ravishing young Asian maid all nude apart from a tiny thong. The Madam was hereby, too, sporting a sympathetic smile, she said that she had seemingly done me a certain favour sending me Mr Berving, otherwise known actor, with exceptional needs as she felt in me, her hand exploring my still exposed slits with some kind of balsam. She offered me some tea in a glass, and saw my hand sliding in the little black triangle of cloth on the maid’s quim.
She said that one of the girls on show that night had singled me out, but not my shy girlfriend, and there was no worry, whatsoever, Ms von K. Her tea tasted flowery and fresh, I surmised that it would rekindle my envies, whatever it was laced with. The Madam went on with her caresses, while the maid massaged me with holy milk. She suggested I go back to the show bench without the stockings and shoes because my feet were enticing. Holding my butt, she drew me to a concealed monitor to show me Michelle, lain between two lean Asians sharing her. She took over my mouth again, she was such a skilled lover.
I walked back behind the mirrors, it smelled like Grasse’s gardens in June, two of my fellow velvet nymphs seized me and raved how I was so much more exciting all in the raw, I heard a little voice saying she was Seresine and she loved me. Madam Susanne had said that we should openly frolic for our audience. By the bye, the calls rolled again and I was startled that I felt ready for more, after a Mr Berving.
My next trick was an older sucker in a dark suit with warm hands, in a Napoleonic green brocade and mahogany quaint room, chintz-lined curtains to the poster-bed, bee motives everywhere. He told me to lie down in the Maja pose as he disrobed. he showed a small willie, but I had endured the whole loaf of Kong just recently. That one leered eagerly and tried to make me take humiliating poses, to which I obeyed but I forced a tad on my distant natural, and he liked that. His erection beat up in tempo with his heart, but he was in no hurry. He made me sit on his face, then lick his arse, with spirit —what was that?— while he spurted over himself, then he stood up, went to clean himself, kissed my feet, dressed up adroitly and ran; was I huffed?

I had to straddle upon a football player for aeons; play school with an obese jester wallowed across the bed who made me turn my face to the corner of the crimson and gold striped upholstered walls and then piss in his mouth as he fingered my arse; read very blasphemous lines he had scribbled over those of a Bible he had brought.
Only one other, with slicked black curls, dark complexion, totally black eyes and a stentorian voice, in an orange and black stylish room, gave me shudders up my nape. He sported a phenomenal membrum and hanging testicles worthy of a bull. As I stood at attention while he undressed, he made me pivot on myself and wheedled all parts of me people I love had also vaunted, he called me the perfect ephebe with a ready cunt, he stared scaringly in my eyes and wished I never changed. He was burly, but he fucked like a smitten youngling, he eventually made me rest backwards on his belly and sodomised me at length with a pole as thick as my arm, while he twiddled my indefatigable hooded pearl to make me drip, and again, on his balls, as he whispered pretty compliments in my ear.
That would end my party beautifully, once I had washed, I roamed the rooms corridor in search of Madam, and I found her magically enlaced with my aviator in a flight pose. I joined and announced we would leave, so she called Sami, who had been in bed somewhere and smelled of hemp and patchouli.
Michelle was still stunned, although she had witnessed our life manners, she had not foreseen such woozy vertigos, now there were a few hints she grabbed in Dagmar’s attitudes, she longed to go sleep with her pet girls.
Only, what I knew would happen, happened, and Sami, softly, took up Michelle’s foot over his seat and begged for alms. I explained that it was a goodwill gesture to shag him after he had awaited all evening and that we did that in the car at some places where peepers wouldn’t miss a double-parked luxury car. She had a funny laugh and asked if Sami wanted her arse? I added I could do the chauffeur.

In the morning, Kate had been in two minds, she wouldn’t even listen to Natalia and I jousting about our sexually debased nights —at least, she hooked actual ambitions to them— or who might be my mysterious teammate. Meddling our feet, we let a layer of silence settle over pancakes and raspberry jam —the one with no nasty seeds, concocted by our cook genies, A&S, who had seen their trade prosper along with our polymorphic conspiracy— thus she gave word to both sides.
Assuredly, she had been dumbfounded when Anna Louise had shouted at her to come in at her room’s door and she had been nude in her bed, and she had thought it would be the breakfast, so she would have been as such with service, whoever it be. Kate had relaxed, silk twill, icebreaker leggings, barefoot, she had sat on the bed, hence waiting for her sister’s breakfast, which was actually rolled in by a young exotic waiter, blushing at the sight of her, unclothed.
At the remark I dared, she smirked and began to unbutton my shirt, testing the silk with an approbative nod. Same, almost same, Simon had described her with all her weak creases, she had retreated to an armchair in the vague sunlight.
Since about the time she had attended the same secondary school, Anna Louise had mythologised her mildly scandalous half-sister she so resembled. As a child, she might have crossed her on the Alster shores, since she, too, had been living in one of these statutory mansions with their feet in the water, on the Rondeelteich, minutes from them. And she had slept with Ms Blandin, the French teacher, be it to let her tell about her well known lesbian sister.

Kate says:

She could impersonate me in some of my mood swings, same jade gleams almond eyes, pale amber complexion, candid smile, all that Sarah raves about when she craves me, we could team in a scam, or a nifty libertine trap. To know she had slept with Simon aroused me, then overwhelmed me so that I recoiled an instant to recover my breath. She had been so brazen, like showing herself in the creased sheets to the waiter she barely knew —she sniggered to that one— and unbuttoning my shirt, that I took her at her own whim, and, not yet an hour that we had met, I joined her in her bed, naked.
Contrary to the flaming hysteria that her first impression might have let me fear, it had been a mezzo voce duet in no haste, a wordless reckoning of our similar tastes, a nonetheless revolting rebuke of my beliefs on the nurture vs nature debate —does Sarah share any other trait with her brother? Anna Louise is a languid slut like me, but I have, on my side of the mirror, learned from years of dwelling in the same bed as Sarah and her invincible rightfulness, even around carnal manners, thus I owned an altogether natural lead as the elder and we mindlessly wetted the sheets before we met the realty agent.
Anna Louise showed me how good our butts look in jeans, even as baggy as a Berliner bohemian might like, under a sailor striped wool jumper and a shabby fatigue parka. I looked like her posh mother in my priceless Chelseas against her raw hemp sneakers.
From the portal under the arcades on the rue de Rivoli, a stone throw from the Galignani bookstore, there had been a vertiginous staircase all clad with virtuoso stuccos inventing Neverland marbles, polished like regal gems. A frail elevator had been sadly affixed through the handrails later, we could not help grazing the young gopher in her sexy strict pinstripe skirt-suit, she might have thought she met some German mutants.
The bright weather now was deceiving, with a top floor view of the park, the river, and all the way to our roof, perhaps, it felt like a Hollywood set. Four rooms, a grand kitchen and two bathrooms, our elusive father had really granted free rein, it seemed. Anna showed me the room at the back where she would sit writing her soul out, the back was not that noisier than our own perch, was there hope for electric cars?
Gauthier arrived and was stunned by us two at first, then also because a young debutant could afford such a grand flat, although he had always been in the know of our father’s fortune, and found strange that I kept afar from it. In his expertise, he saw nothing to warn off about, even the bathrooms which are commonly the weak spot of Parisian dwellings, as for what the agent said the seller was an American diplomat, this explaining that. Anna would not tell about the price, to me, who might not be of any help on that, Hugo being my conscience in the matter, since I had lived with him and Sarah. We are kind of hydroponic flowers of sorts.
To the visible satisfaction of the decidedly palatable realtor —of whom Anna extorted her personal number— an appointment was scheduled between the competent lawyers after she had texted to her father that the choice was good.
As if she was taking over Paris in one bite, when the blushing gopher had received the green light to give a set of keys and left, she turned to Gauthier, asking him to wire a bid to manage the decoration of the place. I had already told her he and his teams would be the best choice, and when she heard he was working on the von Speck Hotel, she jumped on him for good. I felt malicious to leave them in the empty place, but according to my own feelings, Gauthier might like my sister, would she be only half.

Sarah says:

Kate returned, puzzled and pensive, soon after an exhilarating report that she had made love to her doppelganger, then passed her on to Gauthier, she went to the studio to call her mom, which, if it was more frequent than me calling mine, remained seldom.
Natalia had relished the kink of the sisters’ matinee, now she had grasped about my night in some new venue, and she could tell I had a tad overspent my stash, or not, did I prove to her poking a raspberry tongue in her disarming mouth. She obviously succeeded to confess my sins, with my hand in her jasmine knickers, but I did not flinch as to a partner. I knew she would trade her talents to Sami’s avowals, but it would let some time for Michelle to restore her wits.
All in all, I was ready to go back with our slutty house fairy, if she wanted, offering threesomes with a rebate, for I love to see her be fucked. She recalled the first time I brought her to Philippe’s, she said she had wanked herself for days after that. I needed to retell the trip to Hugo, and I could not, or would not, forbid Natalia to come along, her excitement would echo my own vice.
Michelle called, she wanted me for dinner or anything alike, and that I would retell to Dagmar our jaunt, in German. She knew that Camille had told Fanny of all her past, either tragic or willingly pervert, when her pet girl was overwhelmed with her own fate. Dagmar had been sturdy, but most of her imaginary hidey-holes had remained, till now, planked-out and that cramped her self-improvement.
As she was poking her nose in my groin, Natalia was still listening, she was enthused of a busy day, I would not shun her invincible candour. She mused that she had been gifted an altogether nonpareil childhood, never failed or misgiven on love streams, thanks to her astute mother and Hugo’s generous patience.
Hugo knew the place, and Madam Suzanne, he said Sami was a diligent connoisseur of all of Paris’ outlets, and obedient enough of safeguard rules such as not let minors to prostitution, said he, taking hold of Natalia vivacious feet she had offered. She bragged in a faint gentle voice, possibly because her mother might be listening —this was also her house, after all— that she had been prostituting herself since she went to college and it was still fun, and lucrative, for that matter. Hugo retorted that he might have known what Liselotte hatched amongst the Academia, but then again —and Hugo’s sleight hands had hitched up Natalia’s sweatshirt— she knew ways to keep control, and Natalia knew as well.
He drew us to his parade bed, clad with a grand Persian silk rug for nude conversations. The room had no sideways communications, we were among ourselves, mostly pummeling Natalia of kisses, were it only to hear her laughs. And when I went retelling my private forfeits in Madam’s cosy rooms, the cunning little slut licked me so eagerly that I should stop talking and Hugo took obviously advantage of my dripping quim, daring the house-fairy to clean him afterwards in her slutty mouth. Eventually, I had to promise that I would, once upon a  time, team up with Natalia in the mirrored corridor, she craved the fantasy of offering herself at all winds, for a profit. She played it so lewd that Hugo turned her upside down, creamed her bumhole thoroughly and buggered her to the hilt as I made her lick me again, that she did to my completion, my love for her would always make me come.

Michelle’s extravaganza left unsaid —and whom other than Sami could snitch? Natalia and me groomed each other in the shower upstairs. Kate was gone, probably for another mirror fling, Fayelle in her intensive English course, I texted them to order their dinner on the account while I would be at TRÆVIX Palace, and I would be in the studio the next morning.
Cecile came up and Natalia was overjoyed, she had not yet found a true occasion to befriend that one in her peculiar way. She had been obsessive on the Dunand pannels all day, she felt numb and cold, I would not have the heart not to tell her to come with us, all the more that Natalia had clutched her from the back and was sliding her hands in any aperture she found on her. The tiredness waned on Cecile’s face, she was soon off her day clothes and on with us to the rags closet. She still needed a bit of help to pace up with the lifestyle of the fairy house, and for that, I was responsible to her soul, as her sometimes aslant glares showed me. Out of arguments, she consented to pet with Natalia who had been sincere, while I decided for easy-going jersey lounge gowns, Niger indigo for Cecile, wavy subdued rainbow for Natalia, who claimed she would never return it, and I, in stark 1970s black and white horizontal stripes. I had sprayed my whole body with blaring white jasmine that would tame in time for a possible fuck, Natalia deserved some innocent fizzy rose that would certainly not discourage any assault she would condone, Cecile went to her room to adorn her gangly grace with her very own boyish Cologne, a gift, which caused Natalia a frenzy in her armpits.
Cecile was still vaguely scared by the subterranean maze that smelled of drying cement, She had not yet seen the skeletons in the low pit, Natalia, as brazen as ever, showed her whom she called the seven sisters, in their bed of rubble, while she unavoidably slid a hand between Cecile’s thighs, which made the sightless real, like adolescents revel in gore.
The house girls waited in the hall, dressed with visibly the same sneaky intimate hunches as us, Delf in a short, light mauve and gold fuzzy pattern butterflies printed crepe half-sleeves girly dress, no undies, barefoot, Dagmar in the decidedly fetish, faded periwinkle oversize knit sweater dress to her knees, with a lose low cleavage on her flat smooth chest that I adored. She had kept it from the first forays into our vestiary, I never had the idea that she could not make it hers forever.
While Natalia had made Delf stiff for her at once, I took charge of my two windfalls of pupils, for if Dagmar was staunchly trusting in me, with her utterly disarming eyes, Cecile couldn’t help the self-conscience and the angst that she was hardly justified in this otherworldly realm, something hinting her that she could as well be thrown overboard anytime, or later when she might become to look like her own mother in the murky souvenirs that haunted her, the smell of the ever warm mop near the expresso machine, when she had been reading her outdated magazines, behind the warped grid of her cubbyhole, below the line of sight of the harsh-smelling customers, in the whirly sounds and the trashy music of the doddery speakers.
It was mine to refound some steady base for them and others around, in compensation for my privileged youth, the rock-solid attention of a Danish Far, all the way to the Swiss paradise where I became of age, unfettered and armed. Dagmar had improved her pidgin French with typical Delf turns of phrase she almost unavoidably missed, but, at least in my view, her overwhelming eyes did for the rest. I set these two, arm in arm, and showed Cecile how smooth Dagmar felt, down from the neck, in the magic slope of the vague cleavage; In my eyes, she read that she could break away from her long-gone mires —like she had had to when Lauritz took her.

Michelle came down the stairs with a radiant smile, in what I knew of her personal code, it might have meant she had ripped open some cyber scheme, or she still felt butterflies in her womb, in any case, she regretted nought. She gave me a full-mouth kiss, held out her spectacles, and redid it with vigour. I seized her like the new slutty pal she had become, and I made her moan.
In the pearly room where Lee Junji did not pay attention to us, bent down in her tights, were four candelabras on the round table, amidst a crowd of visibly savoury pyramids on different heights footed dishes. Delf, who had already made a short pass at Natalia in the toilets, was all rejoiced of the playful edible landscape, she sported the smile that made me want to blow her —since that night I saw Delf as some superior feminine being, and besides, she wore a dress— I promised myself I would, and asked, mezzo-voce, Cecile if she did not find everybody so foxy that night, I reached for her breasts and asked her aloud about her painstaking work reviving of a historic treasure we would probably admire one day in the Speck Hotel, I had followed the need to assert her as a trusted craftswoman, not only my current crush, even lesser Lauritz’s shag, that which should be told later, as some badge of honour.
The nibbles were either garden fresh or crisp from the oven, There were crystal pitchers of Kombucha, which Michelle had adopted rather than sweeter drinks, and fruit juices, Delf had a whim for lychee juice. When I breathed in her ear that she was wearing a dress, she opened her legs for me like the mischievous pixie, I said I would let that thingy in me later, with pleasure.
I had to switch places to sit next to the blonde with unforgettable blue eyes, right by her thigh, and said in German that I would play her conference interpreter because Michelle would like to avow she had spent herself like a slut and she had liked it, like me. Dagmar took my arm and brought it to her heart, under the cloth, and told me in her eerie tongue that most of the time she had liked it, too, but she had not known better anyway. She reclined her head on my shoulder and I repeated softly Michelle’s escapade report.
It amused Delf, who had known all the bubbles in the cauldron, and was unconditionally grateful towards Michelle, bantering they would replay all of it themselves. Cecile was more fascinated than amused, she asked questions that let me think she would be more than tempted, in a safe ecosystem, and so she learned it had been, there were enough card-holders to serve, both ways.
When she heard that her putative tutor had let herself be done in all ways, Dagmar instinctively began to grope me, asking deliciously if I agreed. Michelle looked at us both from the top of her world, but she did not overstay on her bird-like appetite, which seemed to surprise only Cecile, who might have begun to like the aviator and the laid-back manner she retold how she could not have, this time, refused her bumhole to an over-thrilled gent, and found it like an intimate emotional roller-coaster unknown to the fucker.
Dagmar asked me detailed questions about my own conscience of self and the appeal of vice, that I could not trace back, only that it had always been in my bones, probably more aware than my neighbours, unfazed through some accidents I had met she was eager to hear. I told them of the main contingent turn that had eventually landed me at Saint Loup, after my Far reckoned I was a wreck in the making, be the International School as avant-garde as it was. She revelled in my school tales, she dreamt of the boxwoods and I welcomed her, and the other two.
We carried on Memory Lane at crossroads, a pack of fox cubs on the grand settee in flight amidst another Neverland with scattered follies and a monstrous clock that did not tell the hours. Snippets, in pidgin stimulated by the ever-good genie Delf, from Dagmar’s lonely corridors, bloodstains on lavender sheets, tears in liturgic silverware, tears on my chest.
Cecile was dumbfounded, these cumbersome phrases coming out of cold tombs, by the most desirable mouth she savoured, not as a ghost’s, for sure. Like before, she felt freer without clothes, that Lauritz had grasped at once, more finely than his repute would have let expect, although Fayelle had frankly relished the trip in the 911 —Kate had always looked down on him, anyway.
Delf took a whim on Cecile’s princely traits so much as to fuck her by great ploy, she would sneak her valiant little spur in anywhere she chose, and make herself be felt at no big expense, kindly. Dagmar drank all the moanings from Cecile’s mouth while her constant companion offered her a discovery. She was still lightheaded when I capsized her, later, on her bed, under the coloured wood exploded crow’s inner genie’s eye.

 

Kate says:

My unexpected step sister had dared me to stun her with Parisian resources in kinky situations, underestimating my own dire course of Berliner debauchery. So I called on Sami, offering Anna Louise as bait, for whatever trick he might concoct, given she was as brazenly lickerish as myself. Sarah was on some wicked plan dared by Seresine de Chalandin, one lithe red-haired nymph we had first met in the depths of the Palais Royal.
Not knowing if Sami would let us parade in costume to his inspiration, I floated the idea to exaggerate our sameness by clothing alike, but there was no time to bustle Gianni to the exercise, so we went to one of those crafty prêt-à-porter deluxe shops next to her hotel, and buy velvet tuxedoes and fluid crepe trousers, velvet slippers, and nothing more, she flames up at that!
Sami was bedazzled, he was leaning backwards on his seat and watched us in the slate-blue velvet cabin of the berline, I felt like giving him a classy teaser, kissing Anna for real as I half-opened her jacket. Feeling like the usual lust, he asked for her foot and unshoed and massaged it, enthralled with a younger me, and so be it, I don’t feel the wind.
We head west, she has already dropped her trousers when we reach a monitored gate portal in a forest, at the foot of a steep hill, hairpin bends of a neatly paved road meandering up through tall trees, so as to expect some other eclectic style, contorted mansion, left by the first industrial revolution, to appear in the last curve, but that was a tall blind rampart projecting a salient angle, crowned by an arrogant ledge of white ashlar stone, the hip of a cavalry times fortress jutting out in a darkening well of night. In the headlights’ beams, one could not envision the height of the construction.
The car glided slowly through some postern and stopped in a narrow yard laid in polished flagstones, sparingly lit by a surrounding row of frosted glass lanterns when the driver switched the car lights off. We remained, Sami grazing Anna’s thighs as she was reclined backwards on me and kissed me.
Two men in tight-fitting black suits and white gloves walked up to the car, letting me guess whose property it was we had stationed in. Sami walked out and our doors swivelled open. I had been Melchior’s guest before, but Anna was overawed, scantily covered in the black jacket, coldly overlooked by the nearest male, she would overcome her fear, I pressed her hand.
A rose-gold light beam was cast on the levelled floor when a stark rivetted door was pulled open, a nonetheless graceful path to follow Sami’s amused invite, I could read the pride he felt having been summoned to bring in our libertine pair, at the tip of our prime Parisian season.
Passed a tomb-like entry, the atmosphere became suddenly warm and airy, though austere like the bare squared limestone walls; scarce openings, in no other discernible order than some forgotten warfare logic, had been carved out, here and there, in the stone, without style.
On the floor sprawled outframed patterns of contrasted marbles, like a new layout would have been built over a previous scheme, and furniture of coffers, sofas, and rest-beds, composed yet another alignment with precious carpets and tapestry floor cushions.
Man-height, in canted and bevelled frames, richly ornate with gems and repoussé silver, night blue mirrors hanged alternately with large, haunting paintings by Ljuba, set in mock-tortoise, ebonised and guilloched wood, reversed profile cornices.
If the whole structure imposed an impeccable architectonic logic, it was without any recourse to symmetry. the plan was trapezoidal, the broken vaults were aslant, the huge fireplace was decentred. Over the entrance door, a stairway led to higher tiers. Owls hoots hovered somewhere high, so fittingly in accordance with the decor that we both smiled. The rugs looked so precious that we took our slippers off and felt the tight-knotted silk with a shiver of luxuriation.
Melchior stood behind us, in a golden yellow robe of silk moire with rows of brandenburgs and padded satin lapels, a riding crop in hand with a jewelled gold pommel. He seized our waist to usher us further near the dancing flames into which one of the black-clad servants had laid a new log. Before we sat, he pulled me close and poked his tongue between my lips, while he found the buttons to release my trousers down, saying that I too, had legs he knew so well. He waved Anna to sit across on the large ottoman, while he kept me at hand, approving of my laser-sleek thighs.
I wouldn’t be impressed, he had bonked me over quite a few times, I sat on the good side to slide a hand in the robe to his puffed up cock, and my slut of a sister let her lower belly wink at us. I congratulated Melchior on how fast he had known about my sister, and that he had manoeuvred the licentious confederacy so as to have us brought near him in the right dispositions.

I had not foreseen a top encounter so soon, Anna Louise did not know who she was facing, nude in her tuxedo, so I strained all my efforts to show, through my demeanour, the utter respect I bestowed to this mature gentleman in an extravagant outfit, glancing to make sure she read me.
Having parted my thighs high enough to fiddle in my bumhole, he spoke an order in sabir, hence one of the minders came so close to Anna that she could smell his fly, and did not repel it, moreover when the lad slid the zipper and fetched a sturdy young stem out of his boxer to annoy her lips with. Since I had met her, in the wake of Simon’s lustful bewilderment, she had played forward ho, and my attitude left no doubt as to the rule to play, so she gracefully butterflied around the offered glans, manifested that it smelled yummy, and let it fuck in her mouth, like a convenient whore, whenas it would apply in reverse.
Melchior watched greedily, congratulating our obvious kinship, and pulled my head to avail, too, toppling me so that I soon felt another of his janissaries forcing my lesser access hatch for a first time this one night.
Once they had splooged long spurts at the deepest of our available disposed conduits, the handsome factotums had run hiding their soiled flies, Melchior invited us to suck clean his own exhausted dick as well as our mutual cunnies in poses he relished and fetched from his pocket two little black suede pouches in which he took, first, a fine gold anklet of pea-sized green fire-opal beads he clipped at Anna Louise’s left ankle, to her girly bliss. Then he pulled out another row of the same stones in a choker he tied at my neck, quipping we could steal from each other.
A new servant carrying a large silver tray with two tall ewers showing fruit in water, through the dew, approached, unabashedly looking and smiling at us, so as I might have done him at once. Under the fire of Anna’s questions, Melchior, wallowed in his mauve satin pyjamas, fly opened, his peter reclined, recounted that the place had always seemed to harbour a dark mystery, then he shrugged off and stood, inviting us to follow him. In a corner was a small door, he opened it with a key on the ring he carried, to an obscure corridor where he pressed us and inhaled our beastly smells while the lights came up. He whispered how same we were, to what Anna Louise said that, moreover, I did not know our mothers were sisters, too, which left me speechless, only time to reckon it wasn’t worsening our case and I kissed her ragefully.
A few steps further was a library, entirely overlain of bookcases with only one tall arrow-slit, filled with non-descript cardboard files till high at the vaults feet. But what he wanted us to look at was the floor, one big slab of clear glass above a hollow space, and he made us, bare and pale in the diffuse light of four opaline globes, dance upon the void for a few voltes, before we began to comprehend what lay one man’s height below the glass. In a rummage of dry rubble, wormy wood shards, torn pieces of stuff and tatters, were resting scattered bones, and skulls of many dimensions, some entwined with soiled and warped jewellery and metal wares.
We stood transfixed, like spectres over a burst open cemetery, as he pulled us back to the threshold and cajoled our trembling heads. The remains were much older than the fortress, which had been built upon layers of ruins. As thorough as he had been able to privately investigate, there had been no explanation, the remains had lain under a low vault, apparently piled up in wood coffins and he had chosen to seal them again under this repository of soulless records. Thinking of it, the most intriguing was that the whole Capharnaum was seemingly intact, Melchior mused aloud he might open it to archaeologists one day.
Hoots concluded appropriately our morbid reverie, while he wrapped us into his robe and his prick stiffened up anew. Now he led us back to the stairs, to introduce us to the hoot makers. We walked through a high panelled hall, totally empty, where the blaze in the foyer reflected on the polished floorboards, found another flight of steps in an opposite corner, climbed before him who groped our butts more and more, till we found ourselves in a well of piled potteries with openings in the top timberwork I recognised as a dovecot. He said the pigeons had long deserted the place, perhaps because a family of owls had moved in, and anyhow he greatly preferred to hear the hoots at night than the pigeons coo all day. He prevented us to enter further because of all the bird shit on the floor.

From atop the piled earthenware pots that had been used as nests by the pigeons, so as it would be easy, by way of a full-height swivelling scale to visit the pots and steal the younglings, to eat them —old pigeons are as unpalatable as the crows, why should I know that?— a family of owls stared at us, unfazed, but it would probably be the only time of their lives they would see two nude party girls standing on their doorstep.
Melchior closed the door, a shuffle of wings rustled and he pushed us gently towards the other end of the bare stone and wooden floor landing where another flight of stairs descended in strange bends. Behind another halfway door, he ushered us in the raw messiness of strange fabricated bits of some scattered contraption, which were revealed to be pieces of an utterly complex astronomical clockwork left unfinished after the suicide of its maker, found in the very room, long after, his remains mingled with those of the clock that should have adorned the high gable of that tower, for almost no one to look at. The twirled wire he had hung himself with still dangled, up there.
One tier lower, a long corridor ran to a tall stained-glass window unreadable against the night. Rows of polished brass sconces holding concealed lamps behind transparent shells enlivened the colours of Persian runner rugs upon the polished slabs, which Melchior uncovered to show us mysterious Roman inscriptions nobody had been able to translate for him, although he had submitted reproductions to savvy academics —he would not have let them come to see them in situ.
He unlocked an imposing riveted steel door and invited us, by brushing over his opened robe and his gallant pecker, in a narrow entry, upholstered with medieval tapestry, lit by one thin porcelain lamp in the shape of a dragon, at the top of one wall. Another door opened on a corner of a grand bedroom with a four-poster bed in its centre and many eye-catching pieces up to the emblazoned coffered ceiling. One athletic gopher was attending to the fireplace.
If we had not felt chilled yet, then we took conscience of more liveable warmth and rolled embraced across the lush vermilion silk damask bedcover, in the desirous stare of Melchior’s, beyond the grip of the dead.
Head to head, we could marvel at the wonder sphere the room composed around the bedposts and lampas curtains of plum and saffron silk. Along the dark wood skirting were aligned antiquated black-studded coffers, preciously cobbled together cabinets, rare stones pedestals and plinths supporting sculptures and natural artefacts, large gogote stones the size of a sleeping swan, the portrait of a shy maiden by Brancusi, a rhodium-plated edition of Nogushi’s Undine, unobstructed on a porphyry column, an unknown gilded bronze pensive Greek boy, a slender neo-Greek pederastic thorn-puller, a smaller copy of the lain maiden with fingers entwined I had contemplated in the Ca Pesaro, a gilded bronze hopeful child by Henry Moore, and hovering over all this an arm span-width Calder mobile in black, red, yellow and gold.
In the second row on the Carpaccio-red silk bourette damask hung paintings, drawings, etchings and photographs in most finely crafted frames, like a hand-sized miniature by Dali in a cornelian and onyx composition with erotic micro-mosaïc medallions, a waned rose demi-raisin sized Bellmer pencil meta-rape in a dull grey mat, and a guilloché ebonised frame with a bevelled crystal pane, a tumbling legendary city by a rough seashore and crowds fleeing by the mystificator Monsu Desiderio in a Venetian cornice of black mirror bands and soldered dark purple, swirled glass rods. Above the fireplace, a large chiaroscuro scene by Odd Nerdrum detailed an unfettered orgy on a lonely seashore at dusk by a merrily frantic Areopagus, the whole much in tune with whatever we could expect in that moment.
Unfazed, the handsome fire-feeder stealthily drew near and watched us with approving nods, then took his clothes off, threw them on a chair and knelt on the bed, opposite the side where Hugo lay, still in his robe, his dick tense. The manly chap, observing notice of when to stop, seized Anna Louise’s foot, raised it high to bring her wet quim to avail, and gently began to insinuate his glans, and then the whole stem at her hurried demand. She moaned buoyantly, which probably caused other fit boys to rush in and strip bare, to my eager relief.

It suddenly smelled of lemony clove, cedarwood and chamomile, like the complete household was on us two, how could it have been otherwise, Melchior sported his most ingenuous smile, altogether with the most rigid penis, approving of what half a dozen of his myrmidons inflicted to our abandoned flesh. He kept declaiming our praise mingled with the rudest erotic diatribe that made Anna swoon with joy. Reminiscence of my abuse seasons, I saw my hands and feet as living flames twirl on any patch of skin they found.
That was a ferocious episode, then they joined their mouths at cleaning the overpouring, thence the smell became that of transcended animals, and Melchior sheathed in Anna’s arse, letting her relish all the loving insults he could speak.
It had merely been a skirmish, to them, they went on massaging every joint and anointing every hole, wiping our exhausted faces with hot towels. They rolled in a cart of restorative delicacies, while none of their penises seemed inclined to look down.
Melchior relished the novelty we had brought, and the shared easiness he bantered must be a genetic trait. He alluded to the other debutante he had caught a glimpse of, with Sarah and Lauritz von Speck —that otherwise nice young dilettante— he would persuade Sarah to take Cecile for a ride.
It felt like being the bunnies in the cage of big cats, the boys watched us again, waiting for the alpha’s whim. Melchior yawned of all his teeth, thanked us wholeheartedly, wrapped himself up and fled.
Half a dozen faces turned to us and the greed mumbling players grabbed whatever of us they found. I needed the loo, so they took that as an invite to watersports I would not repel, three of them followed me in the bathroom where a fuzzy green mosaic free-space shower aroused inventiveness. One was already humping my bumhole again, the other two lay down, in wait of gold to pour. Anna Louise, who must have heard the goings-on had escaped, to watch me piss and be pissed on, laughing, so as she was caught in the smelly game and eventually buggered in the rain. When we wiped ourselves, she granted me flourish names. Back on the bed, our servants left their prick seldom out in the open air, like maddened stags, and I reached an endless quiver that made me pass out in bliss.

 

Sarah says:

In the morning, Sami had dropped the wonder sisters, a tad emaciated but fresh as daisies, with bags of Danish pastries and tea from the most exclusive gardens. In Anna Louise’s tastes, there would never occur a faux-pas, she wooed at once our metal-head survivor, although she doubted the story, so inviting were our gangly tomboy and the wild rose of Scots, but Fayelle let her feel the scars and took advantage to kiss her like a true slag.
We moved up to the studio where, as Anna petted Fayelle in her jade green and blue paradise birds pyjamas —trimmed with turquoise piping— they described, still in awe, the new venue of our über-männlich patron, lost in the woods. Kate told me He craved to know Cecile better, so we would be invited soon, I would certainly not object, nor Cecile who was letting me steer her fine debauchery.
Gauthier called Anna’s phone, she took a mellow tone of voice and said she was on her way. Fayelle, although she had been aroused by the sisters’ odyssey, took on her reading of Bruno Schulz’s “Street Of The Crocodiles”
Later, Natalia and —long time no see— Lizon stealthily crept in, to our feet; she had cut her hair with a short nape and a side parting, all apparent reminder of a sad past had waned. As she fiddled with my feet and toes, I recalled our grand tours of the city, the reweaving of her torn soul and the unbending of her spine, with some coaching. The two had hurtled in on a hunch of naughtiness, Liselotte had a novel stratagem on her charts to be given a try, she had sent them over so I would style their allure, she knew I would love to do that in her trends.
There were unexplored treasures in Kate’s Victorian times’ garment bags, she had overspent in clothes, too. I picked a black, burgundy, and gold jungle giant pattern printed velvet shirt dress half thigh, that fitted Natalia next to wearing nothing, a silver charms anklet and black velvet Stubbs & Wooton slippers embroidered with gold-thread question marks. Not only Natalia had been in our souls but also in our shoes. She stole a pocket spray of “Wild Rose and Thorns”, before I made her pay, in kind.
As for Lizon, I had kept a spleen about her, something in the manner of a lost girl in Anaïs Nin, or an alley-cat under a street lamp, set by Brassaï, and although she had overcome her misery and lived by Louis’ largesse, she would still quiver in my plexus like the lost fledgling. There was this knee-long deep purple panne dress, waistless, flared, poet sleeves, which wide Peter Pan collar set her gracile neck so as to call for a necklace and thus I fetched a vivid violet beaded choker, with matched wrist and ankle bands; there were lots of black patent leather flats to chose from. With only a dash of eyeshadow, she looked like a Balzac murderess, she deserved an old-style gardenia, without the vulgarity of modern musks, and Hugo had provided just that.
Now, they turned to me, bare as an angel under my boyish curls, and Gianni had conveniently refitted a lean gentleman’s redingote, double-breasted, half-thigh long, outrageously lined of a violet-blue twill that could kill whoever dared open the coat’s panel on me. I donned round-nosed grosgrain pumps with cute strass knots on top, and then my platinum, white jade, onyx, and diamonds choker. To woo anyone of Lislotte’s confederates, I would rely on a bottled meditation Hugo had achieved from a lotus, all the appeal of roses amongst the boxwoods in the rain, barefoot in the grass —some of us had liked to get soaked while kissing.
Liselotte was nested in a corner of the large car banquette, she whistled at us when we climbed aboard, whiffs and smiles, she moaned of relish as she snuck cunning hands up our thighs. In her grand signature manner, she sported a floating, long bishop sleeves, wide notched collar, vorticism-patterned printed silk-twill shirt, opened on her bare chest to the navel, tucked into a high waisted flared black crepe skirt already hitched up by her sitting, above her black silk open tights. She wore black glazed leather laced ankle boots. The driver slowed his course. She wanted news about our wind sent little sister, I joshed Kate would recover, her replicate was as licentious as she.
That must not have been far from the Arc De Triomphe I had seen pass by, a double-height passage through a nondescript, shuttered off, apartment building. Two security guards checked a Qr code on Liselotte’s phone and let the portal open. The path led to a massive brick disused structure with a few winter sad butterfly bushes rooted in the tar cracks, otherwise, all cleared out.
On the ground level were aligned large metal double-doors altogether a structure one might have expected for a big post-office. One of the doors was opened inwards and lit. The car glided silently, at a walking pace, to an empty hall where a collection of the same polished autobodies rested under a cobweb-like frost-glass roof, three tiers higher, in a perfect state and a few yellowish, meshed, light globes, hanging in lines.
A smell of dry old paper floated when we walked arm in arm towards the only possibly live entrance perron adorned with bushes of Jacqueline roses in full bloom. A young man in a frock and a ponytail awaited us at attention; Liselotte whispered something towards his dickey, and so he promptly ushered us through a side door in the soft-lit, vaulted brick corridor.

Liselotte flaunted her most cunning smile when we were met by two hostesses in strict black worsted suits, calf-long, veil stockings and office pumps. They smelled of English Cologne and looked us in the eye. They led us through a few vestiaries packed with long garment trolleys like we were in some couture factory.
We reached a warm brick-vaulted room, circled in high built-in wardrobes with a gigantic massive wood table that transported me to some Venetian sacristy where Kate and I had been right-out sacrilegious. So then again, the polite ladies ordered us to disrobe, as if it had been agreed upon —of course, it had. They made us parade and floated some heartfelt compliments, Natalia was even lightly fondled. Though they found us as clean as blue tits after the rain, they wished to water off our bumholes, with noises, in a fully tiled vaulted bathroom adjoined; when dry, they powdered our much-praised bodies with light-handed puffs.
From a drawer, they fetched a few lace trinkets lain in tissue paper, in oblong chip-wood boxes, which revealed to be symbolic aprons and garters they affixed on us, so we looked like bona fide prostitutes in the Paris’ Sphinx’ cocktail lounge, in the 1920s —that I had seen in Hugo’s photo archives. They knew to tie elegant knots, with tempting bands at our butt’s height. Keeping a faint straight face with sparkling eyes, they tested our body response to fondling, to wanking, to kisses, and told us we were gifted sluts, I could have played in their parts, too.
Through another door, they led us to a spacious galley room, with men staff in white cotton uniforms at once rolling their eyes upon us. We were told to pick each a small silver tray with each four one-third filled glasses of champagne and walk in the salon at the guests’ whim, either coming back for a refill as needed or, most certainly, following any of them to where he wanted, how he wanted, to that end, we would find the place was unlimited.
There were the two glazed swinging doors, one labelled “In” and the other “Out”, we entered in a file in a gentle crowd of black-tied gentlemen and evening gown ladies, babbling mostly in broken English, ogling us only stealthily. On a low stage played an odd sextet around a muted grand piano, what sounded like revamped Gipsy and Klezmer standards, downtempo. The smell was blared by towering bouquets of lilies or cascades of daturas mingled with all the expensive scents everybody wore, resulting in the disorienting whirl that emanates from frequented perfume shops.
I soon made a success with my drinks, and my arse, which was kindly tested on its way, even by a grey-haired blue-eyed lady. In the corner of my eye, I saw Natalia taken by an arm towards a far-side corridor, she smiled like a trained actress. As for me, I was a few times struck by characters I might have met before in my rare appearances at my Far’s side, and that might have stiffened my face so as to chill any suitor, but Liselotte, with her below gazes, met me at the first refill, joshing that we were less in demand than the kitten, still playing subdued. At our return, Lizon was gone, my shyberries had devouts because it made me sway like a reed. A mature, bulky well mannered Egyptian type took a fancy of my apron and nodded towards a nearby curtained opening, thus I left my tray on a convenient trolley and walked to the unspecified exit while he petted my bum cheeks.
In the dim-lit vaulted brick corridor, alcoves alternated like no end, people were busy at diverse sexual tricks, all the women wore the same genre of lace aprons as I did. We entered a shell-like padded cove, the man kissed me hungrily, then told me to suck him hard, which he needed as a matter of fact, but he soon became tight enough to bugger me standing, his trousers on his knees, granting me his best shot, asking me to clean him dry afterwards, for my sleazy shame and twisted pleasure. He mumbled awkward compliments and left fast. As I guessed, there was a convenient bathroom behind the shell, with warm water and the clean canula I needed for a rightful enema.

On my way out, I was grabbed apart by an all-nude slim bald fellow who was already balls-deep into a bent long-haired blonde and asked me to face him and make her lick my arse, seated and spread on a stool with convenient foot-rests. I obliged, the fucked servant too, she was probably more skilled at that than swaying her butt, I came thankfully and that made him fill her in a few jolts with sharp cries. He made me clean a burly rod that still drooled of bitter fluid, and the toilet was to be reconsidered, in doing so, brushing her native wheat yellow flow, I found her more than palatable —if we were to be granted any initiative— her name was Valine.
The powder on my skin smelled of iris and violet, I needed no silver tray to be seized under one of my arms each step I tried, and I heard a full rainbow of bashful insults as manicured hands vaunted the suppleness of my loins. A couple with a thick German accent and a high-waisted pearl-blue satin gown, a spiralled chignon and noticeable diamonds at the thin wrist, circled me out to yet another outlet row of wilt mauve refuges a black ponytailed, middle-aged woman in a black bodysuit and sneakers was finishing to clear.
The German lady let me hitch her gown up as her cavalier told me, his hand in my crotch. She was as slender as Woglinde if she wisely remains in the legendary flows, her nude pussy mound flourished of the said gold, smelling of broom flower honey, while he buggered me like Alberich with a white-hot rod. She gushed to my face beautifully — thankfully her skirt had been gathered up— more than once, as I hurled my mouth on her inextinguishable bead of grit and her aristocratic arsehole until she fainted like a Fuseli dreamer and I, on my side, received long spurts of sap, deep inside. Woglinde joined me licking her master’s declining shaft, but he ordered she drink his outcome from my arse, which she did —after she gave me a periwinkle wink.
I felt so licked leading her to the bathroom, unwrapping her from her precious befitted dress, sensing Alberich had more grudge to his ire when he saw my gentle nose amidst the pallors of his wife, he ordered me to come and lick his own while he would bugger her, capsized over the bathroom stool. Her name was Waldine, she wrote my number in her dress, he smirked.
Back amongst the starched-up Niebelungen, I singled the pretty skull of Natalia being thoroughly tongued by an amber-skinned, black-curled demigod, so I intuited to mingle into their prelude and joined my hand in her backside, the manner I always do with her. A pair of topaz wheels whirled straight to the back of my brain but mellowed when he began reading my intentions, so he pulled us away to the nearby recess in drunken peonies plush, expecting me to only assist his toppling over of our shimmering baby whore. I let her rest overbent on my chest as he sheathed a long curved up dick in her quim humping her womb’s wall just like she felt and she discharged a spill of bliss. Then he made me lay and hold her, kissing her beloved face, our thighs both spread so as to play the full register of his envy and I was fondly available when he thurst full length into my pleated hibiscus for a time, waiting for more, but he expired, outspent, in Natalia’s cherished innards and ran, like a thief nobody accused, leaving us to a well deserved mutual grooming.
The party was still dreaming on, smelling a tad more of beastly scents, like boxwoods and roses, piss in the gillyflowers. Lizon was lying back, legs spread open across a grey couple’s laps in black and mauve silk, the shimmery-headed woman poking her tongue in that of the always obedient lounge liana, her companion merely able to finger the convolvulus corolla, he waved at me and asked that I helped him in my mouth. I found a half-baked peen buried in savoury linings of cotton and made a case of reviving it enough to bugger an eager Lizon all set, I did earn a tinsel star on this, at least my lanky pal drooled of something merry I could lick dutifully. This one, too, wrote down Lizon’s number.
A rangy old beau had observed the scene, wanking in the creases of his high-waisted pleated trousers, so when my good deed was done he winked me over to join him in the corridor, grabbing me close at once like his fiancee, nude as a whore, but yet. He spent a long time kissing —that he did in a dazing manner, even after all the spendings I had done— letting out a lazy lizard to my care; I hate to soil real tailoring, so I suggested he stripped, but he kept on his long tails shirt that smelled of tradition and Cologne. I was becoming a professional, with a funny conscience, I pumped him like he had been the mad Cossack who had kept his whip in hand to excite me, when no one had seen me respond to his invite  —only Julia Grant had known, she submitted to the bastard, too, sometimes. This one held my head firmly when I guessed he was about to stuff my throat with semen, I did not lose a drop.

Liselotte said my mouth still smelled of spunk, I retorted she could as well lick my arse, after all, what were we there for? Our little playlet amused some military-type character who had been ogling my butt for a few minutes and conveyed us to a private lunette, upon a black buttoned-leather rounded settee in the midst of which he stood, waiting that we undress him, with care, said he. He was erect and smelled of benzoin, much in Liselotte’s taste, who gulped his dick right away, while he pawed my body repeating that I was the pure angel he had sought for, a dry figure with real vagina and arse, a dreamy face and heavenly eyes, he kissed me deeply, holding my nape, and concluded I tasted like a whore with a smile.
He discharged in Liselotte’s throat, she made it all disappear swiftly, at the officer relish who told her not to stop yet. He held me down backwards on the leather, lifted my legs, said he had known boys, but I was an angel to shag, which he did, fastly as to keep his strength, then into my released starfish, with an overjoyed expression on his face, moreover with Liselotte’s tongue stirring hell in his own. His tool pistoned my rectum beautifully with a long amplitude and steady return, I was running my fluids upon my touchy flesh ring, more and again, the madness of us made us exult together, inescapably, for Liselotte’s complete awe, she called me Tomboy of the galaxy. The proud Pacha asked for both numbers.
Now I felt justified to sleep some, Liselotte did not argue, but it wouldn’t be a doddle to catch the other two, I made up that we had to be in Brussels in the morning, to tame those who had not yet abused our talents, and ran the place in search of our babies. Lizon was skewered up by the master while the mistress cajoled her, we helped them earn their profit faster and pulled a dripping, though gracious beanpole on the run, we worked at three to drain off two musketeers who shared Natalia, some esoteric practices on the perineum achieved an artesian flux of seminal want, acknowledgements, gratitude, bye.
In the sacristy, the two wardens had slept but we cheered them to dream on, we had time to rinse the invisible stains of our turpitudes, in and out, to powder our hides and adjust our rags, Liselotte ordered the car and Natalia slept before we reached our door. I begged Liselotte to sleep with us and see the changes, I brewed some tea and let them find night wears to their tastes, Lizon wrapped herself in an oversize Capri-blue cashmere cardigan with no buttons, Liselotte found black satin pyjamas trimmed with old gold piping, Natalia nestled, kitten-way, in the middle of the bed, in a vast rainbow night-tee, slept; I slid in one of my shapeless Boro coats and let Liselotte and Lizon play with my boyish berries, the Pacha had not been the worst of my johns.

I would have craved to hear about the passes Natalia had played through, she is such a witty slut, and no cheater, hence the slumbers I could not help and go feel her —like I guess one does with an exhausted child. Her breath was as unfazed as clockwork; she also knew how to draw limits, she has always owned us.
Now, Liselotte savoured all the concealed patches in the vague blue knit around Lizon, I joined them, I was famished for girls’ feet, those which need to be warmed up. In her neck, it smelled busy like a mock brawl in the gym cloakrooms, when all was about the knickers of that week’s new crush, and she had used her father’s Cologne, and she pretended to be immobilized by one of your pals. Then, days of palavers to obtain pardon, to stay so close as to hear heartbeats, touch innocent places like the back of the hand, the jaw, whatever until she let herself locked in the broom closet that smelled of wax and mop, with me. Lizon had never been there, when she covered herself with the old cover of her own old cradle and watched the confederacy of rats on the flat roof across, scattered with refuse. Louis had entrusted her to our realm —like he does— and she had kept her marsh green gazes, aslant in melancholy, possibly deadly. Now she could dwell amidst us, we have architects and planners (I always had) to secure our doors.
Supported by Louis through his liegeman Hector, she wouldn’t have seen the profit of asking Liselotte for easy tricks —if anything resembling what she had just thrown us in deserved to be called easy— nevertheless, she enjoyed fantasies curated by Sami at Philippe’s. Like Kate, she had sailed through the dire paths of chemical addictions, now then, some rude moments of carnal abuse at the hands of a cunning maestro, altogether drinking freshwater, with thoroughly vetted partners, was her paradoxical redemption, and she had been writing journals on that cause.
Fayelle and Lizon had stories to trade, they went on the Senghor bridge to speak over the river stream how steep the fall had felt from the fragile and vain houses of their infancy, and the saviour who would not even take credit, saying he had profited all the same after a sharp eye had singled them out of the sewer. They laughed and cuddled, since now they dwelled in the places where you may kiss a girl in the open and not be martyrised, it let them appraise their luck. Princesses like me need to be taught the scope of their privilege, as Camille does with her catches. I had been sinking in the regrets of my castles and parks, the petrichor scent of the rainy rendez-vous, with fresh hands on my belly and elsewhere. My father, my Far, fiddling my bare feet, all due distance, on the banquette of the emptied afternoon lounge of the restaurant on the Lake Geneva, had only meant I could encompass human life as I pleased, he would have accepted that I remained in Neverland. Whoever sent me to Paris, Tudor Weiss or Anaïs Nin? Camille’s gallery showed signals like Hans Bellmer or Heinz Stängl, she owned the flair of an orchid who had to pay the rent with her arse at twelve, and eventually had told her deadly secret to the greatest collector of souls, who bought her shoes and attires, and a window on the city.
Just in time, Princesses of all blood drifted in her gossamer traps, her mohair velvet sofas and her courtesan percale bed. Her alliance with Hugo had made of her my beacon of existence while I would have blamed myself if I had cramped my Far with demands. Moreover, Camille revealed my taste for making a trade of my body, in the safe ring of her own patrons, and later the connections of Liselotte’s —one I had overlooked in the Beaux-Arts corridors.

The day after our carnal rampage under the warm brick vaults, we tried our old routine, there were ongoing paintings on the boards, but it was helpless, firstly, Annabelle was in a crush for Lizon and wanted her to tell how she had let herself be done with the socials in bespoke stuffs, a sleazy pretext to steal her socks under our very eyes. They knew I would not help from creeping to their bared feet and warming them in my breath.
Annabelle fanned the embers when she avowed she had merely been a backroom hireling when James had picked her in a pub and rid himself of her pimp, all she knew of bright debauchery had been with James, but most of us knew what it meant, he is a reliable soul. Upon the once more unrolled famous futon —I would tell Michelle that— She had made the easy slender lass comfortable, the blue cashmere creases following her whims on the lissome animal. She fancied parading nude in the suave smelling assembly, given to whatever they would use her for —provided it would not ruin her manicure.
Kate was away with her sister again, they still wondered at each other, chasing that incestuous gene of theirs, and Gauthier was their confidant. Simon was announced as soon as Anna’s quarters would be set. Liselotte had fled early to the necessities of her office, rewards had been granted in order, causing Lizon to bestow me one of her deepest kisses, only for the joy of it.
Having found the henhouse empty, Cecile had climbed up, wisely unshoed but still armoured in her jeans, a black and red flannel and a teeshirt. She sat on the red sofa and listened. It was the part where Lizon had been taken to a side recess by a well-to-do mature couple, asked to put on a collar and a leash, then told to piss in two white porcelain teacups a butler had brought —casually grazing Lizon’s shy breasts on his way— then stand on all fours and come lap the lady’s uncovered muff in antique open knickers while they drank, after what the man lubed her and engulfed a notable dick in her arse, not that she had seen him strip anyway. He lasted well enough to make her spurt on the carpet, then he discharged like a month’s worth of semen as deep as he could, a rectum can be deep. That was not the end for her, she had to clean the actually massive penis, only just out of her arse, but while she did, she felt the lips and tongue of the lady regaling of her relaxed arse, with foreign commentaries and giggles. they had let her go to the nearby bathroom when the so-called butler pushed her in and pulled his pants down, holding her with the leash, so she sat on her heels and pumped the bastard as if that would be enough, which wasn’t, but he chose to plough her vagina, earning a splash of pussy orgasm triggering his own outpour, then he washed on the bidet and ran. It was mundane whorehouse hustle and bustle.
I had been drawn to Cecile’s feet, obviously, and although she had grown up away from any sort of society life, let alone of promiscuous incline, I could tell she was aroused by the girls’ wantonness when I reached for her jeans’ waist buttons and slid away the stiff cloth. I could gleefully tell she had been fucking not long ago, yet still, her quim smelled as fresh as a Swiss brooklet in May. She did no manners to tell an assembly of gentle doxies that Lauritz had ruffled her up, before he ran to Hamburg for a day, in the attics.
Now then, I needed to present her to Camille, our ever unfailing Swan Keeper of sorts, who had bestowed the two candid foreigners we had been, Kate and I, a map of Paris treasures once it was awfully certain our schooling would not, to say the least.
Cecile was of another breeding, an outcast in her own province, a gem I had stumbled on, in its natural gangue, because anytime I will nuzzle at girls’ noses, on hunches. Only, then, her wanderings had brought the rendition I had revelled in, and thence her docile availability for Lauritz, whom, for all we had known, was no more than an aristocratic playboy of the German kind. It rested on my smitten soul to provide the stranded damsel with the same safety net we all bounced in, with the benefits. One of the essential anchor points would be sealed, no doubt, in Corfu with Hugo, but before that, without breaching good manners, I would relish watching Camille’s unfazed green eyes twirled into Cecile’s subtly eerie gazes.
In all incestuous grace, the family of two Camille had bonded with Fanny had withstood the late upheaval. Materially —if I may speak so— Fanny was content of the burly visits by Mathew Mulder, the New York attorney for Camille’s newly inherited firm, whom I personally testify he shags like a full-fledged quarterback, with style. The Gallery was becoming more esoteric by the day, but that line had hooked up such worthy catches as Fayelle, in recent times, so Camille kept it attractive to desirable wandering tramp girls.

Certainly not the verbose breeds from the stud farms on rue Saint-Guillaume or rue d’Ulm, nor the loaded, overworked killers of med school, but the scruffy stranded loners dropped out of art school, or the literary angels in ideal tatters, of the mellow genre, that would not withstand the heavenly scents of her luxurious bathrooms, for starters.
As Cecile let me clench her waist while we toured the private collection —after we wisely took off our shoes— Camille allowed herself, with manners, to touch her feet with the tip of her toes while she lauded the magic (no magical thinking, whatsoever) in a wondrous domestic sized panel by Monsu Desiderio —the signature of a couple of French XVIIth century painters, François de Nomé and Didier Barra, established in Naples— she, herself was stunned she had bought.
The painting showed an oneiric view of Venice’s Bacino di San Marco, drawn out of some written description, with all the elements of the Piazetta like they might as well had been, but are not. Cecile has a sharp eye, she bent forward a chink to read the minute crowd standing on the quay watching some sort of Grand Duke’s galley —nothing near the Bucentaur one sees drawn by Canaletto— and thus grazed softly Camille’s breast, who seized the occasion, firstly, to hold her arm, then try a kiss at the corner of her lips, unavoided, avowed, answered.
But then, in a way taking her softly from me, she let her scan the painting, not a technical prodigy per se, but still, an endearing echo of wilder epochs, though not so direr than those around the nearby Dado or Ljuba, or the Filonov on the opposite wall. Cecile spoke with candid respect as if she were already devising the means to revive the Desiderio in the tones she guessed under an oxidised varnish, to what Cecile seized her from the back, letting her float some reflexive insight beyond the frame while she cautiously pulled open the zip of her perfecto and slid a feathery hand upon the modest breasts, under one of my best cashmere jumpers —heart-throb of mine.
Camille showed no hurry, her hands might venture inside the leggings of the same wool, and she gleaned kisses in the newbie’s nape. Fanny was amused, she did not wear a thing in her ample off-white cotton peasant shirt, her legs so gracile lightly supporting her grace, she relished seeing Camille court a timid newcomer, probably assured she would have her turn, no one ever escaped her whim.
Oh, yes, she had sexy abs, indeed, they rolled over the back of a massive mohair sofa, correcting tentatively their position as a middle-aged woman, black-haired, black-eyed, in a dark yellow pantsuit, pushed a service cart towards us, loaded with food and drinks and disappeared at Camille’s thank you. She still held Cecile’s hand, she avowed that she had visited Speck House on Sunday, at Gauthier’s incitation, and apart from all the treasures that bedazzled her, he had vaunted the work done by the young crush of mine, on the monumental chandeliers and on the Dunand’s panels. He agreed with me that there was sufficient talent and dedication to constitute a future —the aforementioned subject was blooming crimson— so, they might league together to establish Cecile, some way or another on the trail to a fruitful career, wouldn’t they?
And the way I had laid her inside Lauritz’s bed, and then she had shagged Gauthier lightheartedly did nought to her value, she had shown she was a dependable craftswoman, to start with, and being hired in Gauthier’s firm, she would be granted all the work available in the friendly collections. He had wondered furthermore if some connections could give her access to specialised studies, titles she could post and print if she was to fly independently. This enthused Fanny, who took the pretext to jump stages and sit next to Cecile who let her do her fantasy on her.
Doing my best J. Worthington Foulfellow —Pinocchio’s fox— impersonation, I also floated that our friend Liselotte owned some funnier means to grant access to some statutory shield —if she wanted to comply with her ways. At my perverted insinuation, Fanny burst into laughter, bantering Cecile would pair along with Natalia whoring to the high-wigs of Academia, whenas Camille wouldn’t let her. She uncovered Cecile’s navel to nose in, I groped her enkindled little butt.

 

Camille says:

Unexpected vision of an offish hipster babe in boyfriend jeans and expensive Perfecto, though her fine feet told why Sarah would be smitten, Cecile casually envisioned my Desiderio with engaging manners, revealing herself just what Sarah had vaunted, a graceful Parisian doe who did not shun flirting once she had heard wise talking.
I wouldn’t doubt Sarah had gripped that stray soul in no time, in the going shamble of workings, she’s gifted at that. Now, she relished watching my own schoolkid roll her loins irresistibly for gathering caresses while undoing the buttons one by one. I was struck, in my turn, by what body that shy working girl had kept hidden in her baggy rags, indeed Sarah had taste, and Lauritz was no fool.
We soon were lying au naturel on the sofa in a stampede of niceties to leave Cecile breathless, Fanny’s fist humping in her womb until she discharged. Sarah was roosted, spread wide, on the backrest, so as to let Fanny lick her while she was poked in her bumhole by me.
We all tiptoed to the bathroom, Cecile, who had been buried in the cushions while cumming was in sweats and I licked that all, I had a glimpse of her true nature and I loved it, too.
She’s a spared singleton of the shuffled suburban herds, just like me before her, I feel compelled to let her guess —if Sarah didn’t tell— we came out of the same jungle, and she reached the tipping point when she won’t ever cope again with her sores, I have heard that in her voice when she mused about an outworldly Desiderio —given whatever she was born in.
I couldn’t help touching that sleek pallor, the timid breasts underlay by boyish muscles, her slender neck. She was no trained slut as we were, she had never been butchered to the boors’ want, her lust was pure native. Her eyes’ elusive squint made one feel off-guarded, unread, allowed to stare greedily at her innocent grin.
Chasing at her explorative looks upon my obvious wealth, I prefered to warn her all this had not been a godsend, only the goodwill of Hugo’s after I had washed up to his doorstep as the little whore I had been always, even before I became an orphan at twelve and the landlord saw it as an opportunity. Now, beyond an epic destiny of wandering, the only one left of my lineage had left me with an uncountable might, in the best of all peerages. Her eyes swayed in the flow, I told her I had given Hugo permission to answer all the questions about me when they would fly to Corfu.
Fanny jumped on her like a swarm of butterfly kisses on her tits. After she captivated her gazes and made sure she relished the feel of her namesake fanny on her belly, she lashed out as banter that she, too, had been born a pussygirl, raised for a henchman’s whims and redeemed through magazines. She was her own Tinker Bell self, she joked her therapist couldn’t even write a book about her case, she said Kate had given her the magic number in the trying booth of a shop in Venice and she would never forget it. After a befuddling moment, Cecile responded to my pupil’s unavoidable kisses, while Sarah poked her tongue in her daring and valiant little arse.
It was her turn at the truth game, obviously. Fanny asked her since when she had been a fille de joie, she retorted since she had met Sarah, and laughed candidly.
In her mellow-toned, rounded voice, like someone who had consistently avoided language confrontation through the many educational straits, she described life in the metaphorical undergrowths of a social gathering graben of sorts, in the midst of a devoiding suburb waiting for redevelopment. Thankfully, the law forbade her to stand in the public area, where her father held the bar with one or two barmaids and her mother sold money games and magazines.
Although it might not have been trendy among the colourful schoolmates, she had adored school, plain bleach and wax clean venue of knowledge other than betting and football, the only programs her father would tune in the house TV sets. By the unseen anthropology of these forlorn territories, being the daughter of the joint where their own fathers offloaded their grudges and a chunk of their pay, gave her some social status amidst the unpredictable schoolyard, she also had reckoned the system of seductive markers, she had never worn girlie attires and colours, and although she could read in some teachers’ eyes, she had mercifully avoided becoming any teacher’s pet.

With Fanny’s smile resting on her chest, she grasped that I was enthralled by her tale, and Sarah was proud of her, clenched to her back, kissing her neck and shoulder. I refrained from stealing any more kisses, to hear that sparrow of a voice telling the rhyme of a child’s wisdom. All of what I had ever been deprived of.
Her only mates had been the shy ones, the neglected, those who would disappear from a fate they had merely glimpsed upon, those the institutions failed and no one cared.
There was a blind room where her mother —a country girl, of whom she thought she had been the cause of her sad marriage, as she blamed herself for— stored the magazines she sold. There was a wire-meshed vent at floor level through which she saw the public room from below, reading the magazines she stole from the piles with the tacit knowledge of her depressed mother.
Fanny cried upon her as they recollected what both naive little girls had found in the same middle-class printed sources of wisdom, furthermore the softcore porn magazines full of terrible literature and botched photography that could be sold there. Cecile avowed her jeans had always been roomy enough to let her masturbate, reclined on the rags she folded near the vent; Fanny had a whole different story about her father’s porn. Not long after she had confided to her mother that there had been blood in her knickers, and she had been shown how to use tampons, some booklets had happened in the piles she kept, from the family planning, all-wise and clear, and she had learned to look at her sorrowful mother in another way, but it had been too late, she wouldn’t speak of that time.
In the following years, she had steadily worn black. The new counsellor was a woman who took Cecile in friendship and tried to reach out to her father, in vain, the death of his wife did not grieve him affectively, on the whole, but left him unable to run his business, and so he drank to his death before the year-end. Cecile was still a minor, the café was sold by a legal tutor who managed her assets so as to rent a proper bedsitter in a safe building and live a correct lifestyle. After her diploma, she was admitted to an applied arts school and showed promising talents, it had been them who had sent her in an internship with the firm Gauthier had called in for the Speck Hotel.
Fanny was overjoyed, she foresaw that we would be able to keep Cecile among us, one whose soul had fed upon the same French magazines as her, and whose lips tasted like peach.
I was bewitched, as Sarah could plainly see, and it recalled me of the early days with herself, whom I had beguiled in the gallery, and so it doubled up on my pleasure. Fanny wanted Cecile to move in, but she had nested richly in Castle Hugo, and Fanny could not altogether move out because of her protected status —and my love of her.
I could tell her we were three sponsors greatly motivated to let her establish herself and liable to maintain her as a multipurpose practitioner on precious artefacts, teamed with Gauthier she had not frankly shunned as of yet. Hugo had said that, in the wake of the recent reshaping of the group of buildings between his and TRÆVIX, he had acquired groundfloor surfaces above his projected subterranean art storage space currently being fireproofed, like mine, downstairs.
While Fanny was deploying her craftiest ruses over all her body, I elaborated that she was young and free to endeavour an enviable career in Gauthier’s steps, she replied it had gone so fast, a few weeks back she was a mere journeyman —said other genderwise it would sound kinky. Sarah jumped in to claim she had not yet ferreted her out, then, and that had been a game-changing crush. Besides, she had been a lot poorer, too. Melting under everyone’s skilled tongues, she conceded it was all true.
At the cost of a heap of tender promises to Fanny, they succeeded at getting dressed again and running, it was only time Sarah cradle her amidst the storm of new expectations, earnest.

 

Sarah says:

A dream of white parrots amidst the green pinnacles of Denmark had settled the morning mood as serene, there was a message Cecile “You own me, hard luck, take me anywhere at your whim I let you do me” I answered with an “I love you at five o’, boss of me”.
Our groceries had been done, the biggest silver basket was brimming like a cornucopia, I needed to squeeze lemons in a mango smoothie, haunted by the Duchess of Kircaldy, cry, baby, who knows?
Putting on an off-white tracksuit —with knickers, every drop marks through in this kind of fleece— I climbed upstairs for tea, expecting the heath fairies and their whiff of kind news. Camille called, Fanny had stayed in her bed and they had dreamt of my pupil, so overwhelming. She felt she was a keeper, she teased I had seen her feet first, I said her squinted eyes through her bangs had killed me at once and it had been hard work to peel her off her jeans to her toes. She said Hugo could use the Melchior Wings Express on Tuesday morning to elope with my fiancée, to Venice, Cecile had shown the destination would beguile her more. Anyhow, he had promised her he had not even begun his courtship of her and thus she owed him nought. However, the season was fit for museum hunting, he would revel in watching her discover the troves of the Serenissima. If all went smooth —why wouldn’t it?— Cecile would then be in affective condition to learn a bit of practice on the Desiderio, with Master Sylvestre, back here.
I had, myself, a vague remembrance of Corfu in the springtime, a gigantic wisteria enlaced in a cypress tree, inside the old Venetian fortress. It had been a school trip, with Tudor Weiss, our art teacher, who then slept with a few of us, in his cautious way. Moreover, a few Cossacks had been onboard, too. I concurred that, whatever Hugo would spend to the lust of her, she would gather more fruit for thoughts in the ghostly palazzi of the wet Serenissima than in its now vulgarized distant colony —Next, he should take a Perdita like me to the Pausilippo, to break his loins in the scent of lemon trees.
In the meantime, it was a chilled end of a sunny afternoon when I walked to pick Cecile on the Quai d’Anjou. I wore a shamefully rich black twelve-strains knit vicuna wool leggings and jumper ensemble — a gift of Melchior’s— under a stiff silk-satin trench, black calf Jodhpur boots. She had found a striking red tartan flannel shirt that blazed under the black leather, the sturdy Docs had complied to her feet in vermillion socks —she did not wear black Wayfarers. She had frankly borrowed some man’s cologne, and that earned her a spirited kiss on the Pont Saint-Louis.
Despite the harrowing rumour of automobiles on the rightfully named Pompidou highway, we strolled all the way to the Louvre and the Palais-Royal where Sami waited for us. She had time to query my eyes a few times to assert a faith she said she had not encountered before in true life, all I did was to let her warm her hands under my wools and speak my soul, forehead against forehead, reminding her of what she had asked for.
Sami offered us fresh cane juice with hibiscus flower red tea, at Philippe’s bar, rolling his eyes on the tiny bits he could see of Cecile, I enraged him by unbuttoning a notch more of her flannel, so as he could not wait and ushered us through a private door I did not remember beside the service door. I held Cecile by the waist in a short dark corridor giving on downwards steep steps, then, as per usual, as I told her, a maze of gloomy passages with scarce chilly vents here and there, ultimately opening on a dim-lit sombre wood-panelled un-dressing room where he took time to peel us entirely and return him the courtesy, he was stiff as a horn when I made her suck him like a debutante on prom night, knelt on a convenient cushion.
From a drawer, he tinkered with some tinkling accessories and came up with two padded dog collars and a solid gilded chain, buckled us up like animals, paired us and clipped a leash between us to lead us behind a heavy dark wood door, beyond a thick, plum violet, soft on us, chiselled velvet drape, into a low vaulted, warm salon around a black, buttoned bed-stage bathed in a golden gleam.
Sami pulled us all around the ballroom-size salon, along the bearing walls where deep armchairs sheltered vague shadows of people in disparate outfits and costumes, some women in various postures of wanton, dresses with convenient creases and slits in an overtly suggestive manner, many of the gents showing off their genitals matter-of-factly.
I enlaced my protégée in a way that aroused the audience, and Cecile, who had already visited the Panopticum, was moving with the simple grace she showed when in the nude, unfazed of what might happen to her since I was there, too.

I had no clue as to what these roisterers belonged, I could only trust Sami who had had to advertise our peppy arses in a day’s course, and thus far seemed to make a sensation, as showed his sleek weenie. It would appear mostly that they had convened to some live performance, men showed no sign other than exhibiting their tense pricks, and Sami led us like thoroughbreds at an auction, from hand to hand, gleaning well-phrased compliments and indiscrete fingers.
It all had the vicious feel of a clubmen’s amusement, were it not for certain offish rebuffs from the women they forced to stroke and kiss us, whom they called degrading names while ripping apart their expensive underwear. Trying to keep my composure, and relishing Cecile’s natural at that, I rolled my eyes towards Sami, who whispered, smiling, that some Board Of Directors had brought the ladies, that night, unbeknownst to them.
So, that perverted twist rekindled my loins, and I started to woo these women who might have been inclined to look down on us, showed them how good it was to kiss Cecile while their husband fingered my arse. The comedy of ascendancy flourished like prickles on a wasteland, some revolted in outrage but none could leave the scene, as the rich outfits fell at their feet.
The craftiest of these spouses acted as to take what was offered, and some revived their boarding school nostalgias, wanking us in tune, others let be done with affected exasperation, thus I gave them a glimpse of as good a game as what they had endured since prom night, eventually at their profit, although they would not confess. Once convinced of full secrecy, with the proper incitation from their domineering cuckolds, they might arrange their lives with Sami’s extended resources, more than one was highly palatable.
In the racket of chains, Sami eventually laid us, Cecile, upon me, trying to open the wider as possible for his unflinching rod, and he owned the style for humping in a novel bumhole while the party of office revellers applauded, their astounded females somewhat deflowered.
However, after one hour of that impromptu, having spent my talent at watching for Cecile safety and showing the housewives the true colours of life, I still had not been properly shagged, although my quim drooled like a toddler.
Sami reckoned that the swinger’s party would roll by itself, like another trading room, he led us through a new tunnel, ignoring calls for our lustful bums, to the gallery of voyeurs, overlooking a dozen salons I already knew. He unlocked our bracelets, explaining he had feared the roosters might have fought for Cecile. Looking through the glass panes, at couples and groups having a go in inspiring poses, she said it was like the round in the Panopticum and she liked that, clenching at my side. Sami had a grin and led us to the other side to let us show ourselves to whomever.
It was a posh, kitsch, viridian green lampas and contorted gilt stucco pleasure box with a grand ceremonial bed, clad of opalescent taffeta, two chests with white marble tops and dimmed festooned candelabras and three gilt almost papal armchairs. A prolific bronze faux-rococo chandelier dispenced a mellow rose light on Cecile’s skin as we entered. She wanted the loo, the bathroom was as spacious as expected, with mirrors in every view angle, and we took our time to clean and rinse out our privates and come very near to the mirrors, to show the glory of our youth.
Predictably, Sami’s fresh team of amber-skinned minions —the kind our fool husbands would have usefully hired at their needy wives service— had snuck in, dicks tensed up, smelling of Zanzibar, zealous and considerate, enthralled by Cecile’s black eyes swayed aside, so much so that I chose to stroke her nerves as they assailed on all sides, leaving me the pale buds of her nipples which I knew how to wake and bustle. She was splendidly disjointed, expanded, ravaged and her cry was a long low song, syncopated by humpings in her throat.
In a shudder along my spine, I felt the unseen hold of another muscular body and soon I guessed whose spur was sheathed into my willing rosebud, Sami had seen my sacrifice, but I was all that his Johnnie longed for —after he had long shagged Cecile upon me. He lasted to my complete spill and collapse.

 

Hugo says:

On the afternoon trip to Le Bourget, Cecile had wicked fables to retell. She had been at work all morning, she smelled of Cologne soap, her fringe was silky to my nose, she was proud of having been frankly slutty lately, at the whim —that would be a euphemism— of Sarah, and then Lauritz, who sent me earnest greetings. She was funnily bundled up in her street warrior outfit, a rich vermilion scarf tucked in the aslant neck of her jacket, she had brought a brand new forest green backpack with mixed colours pockets and flaps that tamed down a bit the black leather Sarah had clad her with.
Being so blatantly singled out by whom she saw like one of those unreachable aristocrats amidst Lauritz’s otherworldly workings, then propelled on the fast track into her magazine fantasy —including the kinky ones— all this luxuriation topped by the indubitable proposal of the princely Camille who dared vaunt she had been a child whore, just like this moon-fairy she lived with, all the clocks and watches in her miraculously preserved soul had been wound-up, also the self wonderment of waking unharmed through breathtaking debauchery.
She had not yet encompassed the worth fate had deemed her, I let her comment their visit at Phillipe’s, causing me a hard-on at the thought of them two chained together, then her whirly night with Lauritz she had to interrupt when we glid upon the tarmac until the Falcon’s stairs, she had not yet understood we would fly in a private jet, it left her wide-eyed and speechless.
Melchior’s staff all knew pretty squirrels weren’t natural nieces, but none would sneer or look away, Cecile answered candidly to all salutes, she was a relish to watch do, I kept silent in wonderment. The blonde attendant welcomed her and asked if she wanted to unshoe; she wore mismatched woolly socks, one white and one black, in the manner of my upstairs boarders, where she now lived fully, and so she could gather her feet on the precious leather seat, eager to watch the take-off.
I pushed down, off the way, the armrest between us, and looked over her shoulder the sparse shards of a dirty yellow dusk light spun around as the vessel rolled; she said she had never flown, I let my craving hold her warm and moist feet, the cashmere socks were gifts of Sarah’s. From her seat, the attendant showed me that we ought to buckle up, it was an understood pretext to touch her some, then feel her heartbeat when the Falcon braked at the standstill pad, then gradually freed the full thrust of its engines and sped off till she raised her eyebrows when the sleek machine dived up into the dark in comparative quiet.
She mumbled when we reached out of the clouds and a mellow sunbeam grazed her face in a bend manoeuvre; she was thrilled to hear the captain say we would fly at 15000 mètres height.
She agreed to my foot-massages, she said she had never figured that real persons, like she thought she was, lived the way she had seen us do, all the most with the sensuous mingling at liberty, while none of mostly women in that realm seemed to fear for themselves, many of whom she had heard recovered from horrendous pasts, except Sarah, who actually gave a feeling she was one of her snow angels, in the flesh.
I felt I had to answer these, thus far, Cecile had not gambled away any smidgen of her life in playing with a mild confederacy of polyamorous privileged bohemians, she could still —I would see no offence— live tranquil in her own bedsit and be hired by Gauthier’s well-established firm all the while leading any manner of love streams she would.
Now, over the tipsy golden tops of the Alps, she was calmly feeding a greedily present passion in me, and her feet smelled of leather and cardamom. I left it to the journey on the black waters of the laguna to allow more laisser faire without breaking the thin glass of her free will. Although she had as yet complied with Sarah’s wicked wants, I had my own courtship to achieve, too, at no detriment to those she had finally come to play with, for her benefit.
Entered into the city of cities by the unremarkable Cannaregio Canale, the sleek taxi-boat had to slow down by law and I invited Cecile to stand up along with the sailor as we would sail down the most sumptuous avenue in the world —like most connoisseurs can’t help do. The man was visibly proud of his boat, pampered like a regal coach, an intelligent manner of justifying his rates. He did not fully grasp what a black bespoke-clad gentleman my age was tangling with a cute swanky fashionista, but given the name of the place we went to, he refrained any other judgement than ogling her fresh muzzle in the wind.

The Amigoni Hotel stands in the straight part between the Rialto and the Ca’ Foscari. A row of four elaborate rosy rib glass lanterns affixed on ornate stands into the solid stone walls sided the landing portal. Lines of black and gold spiral-painted piles with gold-turned tops marked the Palazzo’s outskirts. When I paid the sailor handsomely, he gave me a funny eye, Cecile had already jumped upon the welcoming carpet and the red gilet porter was holding her the door. Some usual Influence had granted us a dignified suite with two large windows on the Canale in the salon and two stately bedrooms where I knew boatloads of virtue had been spent.
Time to tip the young boy who carried my bag, she had disappeared in the bathroom and came back only five minutes later, all nude in an hotel plush robe, so as to wipe off all moral precautions on my part, she played Sarah’s advice to a baby courtesan. She had put back her fluffy socks as a token of her leeway, she believed Fanny’s incentive, Sarah’s promise and there were cuddly loveseats everywhere.
I kicked my shoes and tossed my jacket so as to kneel before her and devoured her treasures until I heard her cry warm tears.
Shivering in fright of having caused her distress, I wrapped her back in the robe, cuddled her tousled head and drank away the bitter tears. She sobbed, mumbling that I should not pay attention, it had been only angst of not being worth it, she was better at being let done than do, all of us had been so crafty with her little bird of a soul, she could not fly on her own.
That was beauty, redemption for all the luxuries here and around, a dazzlement in the crystal only Sarah could have mined out and set free. With my forehead on her chest, I vowed not to forget the lesson, then I shrugged off my own sobs and said we should order dinner, or else.
In my awkward Italian, I persuaded the chef that we were vegetarians, with eggs and cheese, so he swore that he could treat us, all the same. Truth be told, Italian chefs I know are the next best thing to motherly love. Although two waiters had come set a table in the salon, I had told Cecile to remain as she had been and let them eye her up, and so she did, with rosy eye rims, pretending she read one of the displayed magazines, looking up at me so as to show I wasn’t the cause of her tears, letting surreptitiously the robe slightly parted on her thighs, playing whore.
Under the silver bowls of our large plates was chopped penny buns spaghetti in a creamy sauce, slices of a colourful chartreuse, polenta and grilled artichoke buds. Indeed Cecile had been starving, had she been at a French table she would have naughtily mopped up her plate. Like they would have to newlyweds, they brought dessert with coffee, small heaps of shuffled nougat, almonds, hazels, and candied fruit amidst torn shreds of sugar paste, stuck with little spears of caramel, all enough to make her eyes sparkle anew.
For sure, there would only be one undone bed, that night —and the following. She had devoured all the sweets and she showed a ravishing sugar rush, across the satiny sheets, she demonstrated all the nasty she had learned the preceding loose nights and candidly gushed a few times for my reward. She was all the way as cunning as my own Sarah and did not bargain for her pleated rear bud into which I offloaded heaps of manly want, to her joyful cries. We were lethally spent when I washed her in the shower and she pissed on me —as her mistress had taught her.

In the morning, the Canale had dissolved into a whitish veil only lashed through by the shrieking lights of the vaporettos, she stood enthralled, in the crumpled nightshirt she had brought, because she had once read one should never sleep naked at the risk of wryneck pains at waking; she was so right, and her tone of voice saying that had enthused me. I enwrapped her against the bleakness of light in the cosy cloud of the palazzo.
She was a coffee person in the epicentre of coffee roasting and preparing, I had brought some vintage Darjeeling all to myself and it was brewed and waiting in no time, in an English silver pot. She had found the Gallimard guide of Venice in the bookcases and read avidly while dunking her almond biscotti like a little girl. I suggested we start our stay with a visit to San Marco and the Palazzo Ducale and then some refined shopping if she let me play doll with her. The guide concurred with my choices.
A boat took us swiftly to the Piazzetta that she recognised from the painting she had seen at Camille’s and craved to help restore; she asserted the whimsical representation on the painting but anyhow was seized by the eerie magic of the decor, so far from anything she had sauntered by in Paris, where symmetry is the godly rule.
She wouldn’t need a teacher, she stood, bewitched, uptight in that fuzzy drawn outfit I knew what she hid in, hands deep in the side pockets, her small face hidden in the red scarf. I was there to look, for the umpteenth time, the glorious theatre unfurled around another passenger who would, her lifelong, recall these hours of mist.
Granting me one of her trick gazes, she pivoted towards the jumble of San Marco, I followed. Was a time she couldn’t walk in without her hair covered, now they wouldn’t know what gender she hid. I am still of two minds as to San Marco, a cumbersome extravaganza of shady loot, but the golden domes have a psychedelic effect on me, and so on my muse, who needed to rest her nape on my shoulder not to topple back. She smelled of Byzantine intrigues, she invented tessellated mythologies, and she was becoming the new Theodora, black-eyed courtesan and Empress.
A privilege of the cold season, the Palazzo Ducale was deserted, dark and resounding, she had read and agreed that she was mainly concerned by the bewildering ceilings in the power rooms. She almost fell into a panic attack, when we reached the hall of the Mazor Consejo —the Major Council— in my arms. I took it on myself to call her attention to the Veronese medallions when one of the attendants began making a ruckus on her telephone; that had happened before, it could be endless; I did what Leonardo San Vio had told me to, I went to her, pulled out my own telephone, mimicked that I was recording her and made the horrendous gesture of cutting my throat; she went to pursue her scene elsewhere. We sat on a side bench, hand in hand. I could tell she had her fill. We walked out under the murderer look of the mostly feminine attendants.
We needed warm food, there was a still delicious place for that on the first floor of the ridiculous Napoleonic ballroom, we hasted so as to shake up the contemplative torpor in our limbs. We found a small round table next to a high window on the mist. She was in the mood for hot cocoa and dunked biscotti and she marvelled at the creamy thickness of Italian cocoa. She doubled her order with the niftiest of smiles.
She had opened the Perfecto, but the rough denim frustrated me, so when she came back from the loo, I told her the most desirable shops for girls were just over there, in the other corner. As we kissed under the ground floor vaults, I proposed a complete Venetian styling, starting with some swanky boots. I promised I would carry the bags like a gentleman. I was enthralled when the young shop attendant helped her try on some navy blue suede Chelsea boots and held her feet, advising her she could fetch finer socks, while literally fondling the tepid cashmere. Black calf, lashed Jodhpurs fit her wonderfully too, and it became that the whole Bottega would, as well. She kept on the blue Chelseas, I would carry all the rest, but suddenly, it was jotted to my mind that she couldn’t keep running the museums in box-new shoes, thus she needed soft elegant sneakers, the kind every chic bootmaker does, nowadays. She was grateful for my dreamlike fatherly concern, but I assured her it would then very soon turn to incest.
Next door lay other irresistible trappings, I assailed her for hours in the Loro Piana shop with fabrics she had no idea of before she slid her legs into, and my hand grazed upon. Now then, she would run her daily life in assault-proof denim and leather, and she would glide her evening affairs in fluffy weaves, perhaps Sarah would convince her to put on easy dresses, sometimes? She muttered she had, already, and had felt totally slutty.

Cecile had not seen my card fly by to settle my enamoured spree, the shop manager offered to transport all the bags to our hotel  —next morning for the three trousers that should be hemmed— that would be a blessing because she furthermore had to disrobe somewhere else to try on under-niceties, even if, like her mistress, she wouldn’t wear much.
Bar the bras she had no use for, La Perla makes all the silky stuff a woman’s body likes to flow around, and her stay with the herd had woken the taste in her for such pyjamas and slip dresses like Annabelle was wooing everyone around in, she had wandered her hands on her as so. The shop attendant was a young tasty vixen, with no useless makeup, she had a crush on Cecile, so I let them spend at her taste, it would have hardly been my place to stand idle in the store. I granted them forty-five minutes.
That very night, I wanted some marking token of my affection, beyond what I might bestow any city harlot. She was a trove of Sarah’s, most assuredly one of us, now on. I knew a jeweller nearby where I had bought ancient pieces before. I felt like a choker and I knew her size. The elegant man showed me a sumptuous unsigned tutti-frutti I hesitated to buy on my own, also a flat articulated Art Deco platinum band with square blue stones in the corner of the aligned diamond-pavé plates, onto which the working was top notch. he said the blue stones were true Kashmir sapphires, hence a hefty tag; he had all the gemmology certificates, same for the Jaïpur tutti-frutti. He spoke excellent French, he probably recognised me from before; he offered a deal for both pieces I did not let myself refuse —That sometimes off-kilter stare of the new kid had made me utterly frantic.
The two snazzy gamines chatting in pidgin whatnot in the all transparent shop were a living invite to enter there, the bag was light but the tag was long, nothing compared with the impulse I just had had, my plastic card was fireproof, anyhow; I clearly sensed an invite in the swift gaze of the green eyes who handed me back my card, had I been with Kate or Sarah she would have fast learned where to join us for dinner.
Cecile was exhausted, more with the excitements of the day than physical strain. She said the shop attendant had groped her in the trying booth and she had liked it. I told her she might need one or two other pairs of stockings the next day, this hussy beauty had given me the eye, too; it would merely be a matter of money, though, but I relished that Cecile buy —so to speak— a prostitute on her first trip to Venice.
Up in the apartment, my hands burrowed through all her expensive rags, and they fell off easily, but we agreed it was not time yet, we needed a shower and I had dreamt of pissing onto her as she did on me, I felt like a Prince of Wales. She put on a night blue satin pyjama with vermilion piping in the fresh Hotel robe, I did the same in foulard motive silk jersey. I thought I would remain hard all evening. Before the room service dinner, we called Sarah in video on my laptop, but it was Fayelle, with new blond curls and not much more on her, she had seen it would be me, Sarah was in the shower with Annabelle for the moment. She asked to see where we stayed and cried for envy when Cecile clenched to my side. They had spent a most gracious night at TRÆVIX, with the boys, she bantered that she liked dick. Sarah joined in, nude and radiant, and marvelled at Cecile’s pyjama. then listened to our day’s events, predictably ready to come over. She asked if we would go visit Murano, show Cecile a real furnace, and pay respect to the Virgin who looked like her, I asserted it was a good idea. Sarah melted at the idea we would invite the silk attendant in our bed, she said she would have done right away, at the description Cecile retold. That night, she would be out with devilish Natalia in one of Liselotte’s schemes. Before we hung up, she asked that Cecile open the pyjama jacket and let be kissed by me, we were interrupted by the waiter pushing his cart.
It would be spaghetti with asparagus tips, then artichoke hearts with mushroom and walnuts filling. But before, I drew her before the mirror and fetched the thin black box in which her present sparkled on grey velvet, parted the robe and clasped the band to her pretty neck. In silence, I saw the tears overflow, and I wrapped my arms around her because she was stunned.
While we ate, each time she rested her knife, she would smooth her neck with the back of her hand to feel the stones, she said it made her feel belonging, like an animal, and she liked it. We drifted about the night before we flew, she said Lauritz had announced he would enter the little ad hoc firm for her, like the others. He trusted her talent and character, while he knew he would remain a playboy with a Porsche. She had told him she had no better idea and she had enjoyed all of his shenanigans with her.

There was no greater need to expedite the refined meal, thus I pressed her to relate the romantic side of her latter night with her Hanseatic gallant so as to titillate my taste of her at the whim of another. She had abided by that penchant since Sarah had so blindly seduced her as to have overthrown her along in Lauritz’s bed and others, still proving to her the dearest attention. She could have lucubrated to being the flower of a unique passion to a man who had not even seen her in his own salon but he had played to her level, spilling his easy nuggets amongst the sidewalk pebbles so as to tell her to pick them. He had incarnated the lousy pornographic literature she had been reading in the solitude of her cubbyhole, just like she had seen fit, without any lie nor abuse.
After the previous extravagant weekends, when she reciprocated his altogether harmless, if spectacular, fantasies, he invited her inside the very place she worked in, for she might help him confront some demonic leftovers of bygone mayhem, with her unfazed candour.
As a matter of fact, it had become patent that Lauritz’s family estate in Paris had served, in times of nazi military rule, as a special bawdy house for a-lister persons the secret services wished to influence or blackmail, in conjunction with Alfred Greven, Chief Executive of the Continental-Films set up by Goebbels as a propaganda tool, which lured a wealth of pretty unscrupulous younglings among whom to find the honeytraps for the Speck hive, or “Der Bienenstock”, as it was referred to in some confidential notes.
Lauritz had drawn Cecile upstairs, in the now almost tidied rooms, and after an apparently most dignified first act on a brand new mattress —her eyes gleamed of pride while confiding me her exploits— they had washed in the brothel’s bathroom, he had lent her a silk robe that smelled of him, told her to sit and look. He had fetched out a set of keys he explained he had ferreted out in Hamburg lately, opened the walk-in closet and operated a sliding panel, behind which piled up columns of grey metal lockers. There it was, and he told her it might not be the only cache in his house, they would soon begin scanning the cellars, too. He had made her swear on her soul that she would tell no one, apart from Sarah, Kate, and me, obviously.
Some eighty years later, files contained there were potentially poisonous for all sorts of private and public affairs, he wanted to keep the high hand about the necessary historical work, or a definitive silence. He pulled one brown folder and showed me a series of fine-grained photo prints of a middle-aged man in bed with different young persons in interesting positions who visibly knew they were pictured. The age of little harlots had not been a concern in the pre-war houses.
Whatever the moral and political reason for these documents, Lauritz had not been able to dissimulate they aroused him —his erection bulged under his own robe.
After a few seconds query for a nod of me, she went on confessing that she had long been indulging in watching pornography, I spared her strains, holding her hands so she could just casually relate her tastes, and proposed to let her skim through my own collections back home, or even pose for me.
Having sensed her pleasant stir, Lauritz had displayed the prints before her on the bed and obtained to bugger her while she rested her head on her wrists. She had overflowed beyond expectations, so suggestive was the black and white work of the operator, with the perfect balance of contrast, said her. She had asked if the cameras and devices were still in place, obviously behind the mirrors, based on the view angles, so they went looking, and found the Leicas in place and film rolls in closed tubes. All the rooms had been equipped, Lauritz had suspected that there would be other hidey-holes, he had put a brake on the renovation of the upper floors until he knew where all the keys he had unearthed from his family safe went.
Laid bare on the thick pile Art Deco rug in the refurbished grand salon, before the heat flow of the renovated electric fireplace, the four big coils heated to red, Lauritz had pursued his caresses, fantasising that she had been enslaved to his mob of vicious spooks, at no mercy. He had entrusted her the mission to rummage through every nook of the house, with all the contraptions she would need. No one would pay attention, they were all smitten with her jeans, she was the owner’s pet.

She welcomed my total complicity, Lauritz had foreseen that. She relished the talent he had deployed with her till then, most of all she felt so strongly bound to Sarah, and I could not have agreed more on that. The dessert arrived with hot coffee, a charivari of three chocolates, crushed praliné meringue, and a splash of raspberry sauce.
I connected my laptop to the Bluetooth port of the sound system, played Schönberg’s Verklaerte Nacht and invited her to dance onto my stiff desire, in the shuffle of silks, spinning my best flights of spy fancy, figuring I would shag young Ninotchka herself, biting her earlobe. I spared her mouth, I had had a hunch she was too young to offer it heartily, however, she responded vividly to my mouth over her honey slits and poking of the tongue. By the bye, she had let say that Sarah could kill her with that sort of smile, and I joked she had graduated in the best school for it, along with an international elite of carnal knowledge Cecile might happen to meet if she would. As we joked together, she prepared herself, lay upon me backwards on the rug and inserted my maddened shaft into her bunghole, ever so slowly as she spread her arms and legs and rested her head so as to speak in my ear, asking if I liked the rolling of her hips on me.
When Kate purposedly called on Skype, she had guessed I would be shagging the new pixie, and I clenched Cecile at my side, tousled. In Paris, she was proud that she and her sister had done the same a moment before. Onscreen, the likeness was spectacularly kinky when they played tongue judo for us and that excited Cecile. But Kate had a weird request to make, Lauritz had hit on her when she had found him fucking Sarah on the dinner table, lightheartedly, and he had invited the sisters for a round at the Panopticon, next night, had Cecile any hint on that? Cecile laughed, her body fidgeted for my instant excitement, and she said clearly that they should have fun there, and Lauritz was a forthright cavalier. Otherwise, Kate obviously knew better than her what went on in these clubs, they would certainly fuck till faint in the display booths. They showed us one more tight embrace and wished we go back to it ourselves. It had probably been a test of Lauritz’ handling of Cecile’s young soul because Kate had long known him more offish than caring, I was sure she had recorded the call to scrutinise Cecile’s expression, in case.
Cecile wondered if Kate and Louise had been overall candid in their call, she thought she had nought to add to what she had already retold about the debauchery jaunt Lauritz had pulled her into. Since she had more or less blindly followed Sarah, she had simply followed the lovely pack and revelled in their manners. I would think so, my guess was that Kate had only wished to share some of Lauritz’ wind since they had been long time partners on the northern shores, nothing more.
The mist had turned into fog, the vaporettos blew powerful horns, blaring projectors had been lit every stone-throw along the canale, she went near the stained-glass pane in the blurry lights, I took off her robe and watched her gradually take the pose of the Houdon statue “La Frileuse” until it made me feel only cruel so I wrapped her again in a tender cover.
All the guilt in the Laguna assailed me when the wake of a boat light gleamed on her tears, I began to feel like the boor trying to hold Saxony porcelain and about to break it. She shook off her torpour and spoke fastly, staring at me like a trapped animal, swearing she had not wanted to cry, for it had been an overwhelming day for her and she was all mine and words froze in her throat.
I took her to bed, pulled her night tee from under the pillow and dressed her in the proper Winnicottian piece of rag I had not been the one to buy. She read my move, but I did not let her demean the whole attitude, she was in her own right, nought to taunt about, and we were even.
When she stopped sniffing in the hotel’s tissues, I made my apologies, raging that I had had a disgracefully heavy hand on her, after all the metamorphoses she had accepted. I proposed she call Sarah, whom I believed she had vowed herself to, but she sighed, pulled me on the sheets, embraced me, and dared me to fuck her —for all she deserved, in her shabby shirt.

The Venetian night distils a quintessential aroma into the dreams of who sleeps amidst the primordial soup of the laguna, in the warm of the nevertheless frail architectures roosting upon a sunken forest of alder trunks. Be it only the blessing of resting at a long distance of the automobile pest —boat engines, as rowdy as the vaporettos manoeuvres may sound, run with some legato rumour, against an elusive element.
To be attentive in the Accademia at winter sunrise, I had ordered breakfast at eight, as so suggested a crystalline voice in the heavily gracious white handset of the Cinecitta telephone. I was on my own, Cecile had already ordered coffee —had my mother ever once made some, comparable to this?— and rolls. She studied the day catalogue on her IPad and the Gallimard guide, cross-legged, her quim available at the hem of her easy shirt. She jumped up, only to find herself rubbing against my morning glory she had just rekindled. She said a young courser from Loro Piana had brought the finished garments and had received a considerable tip. She would not elaborate, she knew I would fantasise some quick favour, or shag, but she added the boy had had his money, too.
She began trying on the three trousers, without her shirt on, along with the different shoes, and gave me a demonstration that she could as well wear the Doc Marten’s because she was thin and the trousers perfectly cut. Although I could have greedily accepted a thoroughly grateful fellatio with my tea, I reminded her she wanted to pass her number to the zealous lingerie shop attendant and it might be a good idea to try it before our diving in the sublime if she would join us for dinner, and more. Cecile let her eyes sway and reckoned it was a nifty plan.
Obviously, I love to walk through Venice, hoping to get lost anywhere new, and she ran swiftly in her all-black outfit, The long, peak lapels double-breasted overcoat with tennis stripes fluttering at her calves. We circled by the Rialto bridge shivering like an erased pencil sketch, she went into the shop with an already folded hotel note, came back soon with a small pouch and a smile, she muttered it had not been so expensive, and clenched my arm on the way to the Accademia. The most pedestrian route in town was deserted, the antique books shop presented touching illustrated editions of Pierre Louÿs’ Songs Of Bilitis and other more salacious works that could not be fully displayed at children’s height.
We climbed the endlessly ridiculous wooden bridge, provisory since 1933 —and in the light of what manner of a reception Venetian citizen bestowed to the Ponte Della Reppublica, chances are they will keep their toy logs forever. Venetians are no more worthy of Venice, says Francesco.
Cecile was ethereal when she walked under the ceiling of a million wings, and I held myself ready to take hold of her if she capsized again, swooning in bliss, and she did, for me. Of course, she knew by heart the greatest museum in the world, to which she owned a pass, but she had read enough intelligent preambles in the morning not to overlook this anyhow comely venue, refreshingly unpretentious, disorderly, un-Napoleonic, thus, she felt home, finding her way to the gems of the collection.
She had hardly been in school yet when the controversy about the restoration of the Louvre’s “The Wedding At Cana” burst among diverse big-mouths in Paris, not all of them in the least competent. As she did not spend all of her hideyhole time masturbating on lost magazines, she was caught on the matter, now she was keen to approach “The Feast In The House Of Levi’s”, the other painting of the pair, the one Napoleon had not stolen, and that had been hung opposite in the hall for which they had specifically been painted.
She smiled, first, and became subtly reflexive, having obviously opened the third eye, scanning the inner framework of the enormous picture, asserting the truth of what she had read in the morning, butt-naked on the brocade sofa.
It was her first visit, just like everything had been first since she had involuntarily wooed Sarah from high on her scaffolding, she was trustful she would come back, with me or others. That day she had reckoned that she could withstand three major encounters, I had brought so many of my muses, interested or not, in these rooms, that I knew how to let be awhile, but what I was watching was Cecile.
Without much comment, but a tender embrace, we walked to the smaller rooms where radiated the legendary “Tempest” and recently restored small paintings by Bellini and others, who came and went through the years. She jaunted her special stare while I casually supported her back, she mumbled kindly without asking nought.
I felt she was eager to confront the Carpaccios, and that was what it was, first the city scenes with the theatrical flat perspective, the demonstrative poses, the multicoloured mundane details.

She was overjoyed, letting me hold her under her coat and jacket, she explained that she had been able to zoom in on her tablet’s fine screen, so it was exhilarating to recapture the cosy details amidst the actual polyphony, although she had no clue about the cleanliness of the pictural layers and the painting medium used, she found the famous reds more or less the result of oxidization —as it is for raw meat, by the way.
The monumental procession by Gentile Bellini around the Piazza San Marco impressed her in a radically different manner, the composition is utterly boring and you feel that all these little portraits have been politically ordered, but it was neat and solemn, San Marco still fired up of all the gold that time has ripped away.
At the end of a famous corridor, I was in for a big surprise, not only the Legend Of Santa Ursula was opened to visitors, but it had been thoroughly restored on the Save Venice American fund. Just like Sarah when I had brought her there, Cecile was enchanted and began to move like a courtier, and again like a boy page, not like a maiden, she too, would kill to get armorial tights like these Ambassadors, I told her about Sarah, that made her proud and lustful.
She wouldn’t want to know any iconology that only paid for bookworms try to impede your candid brains with. American students were seated on the floor drawing sketches of the compositions, she agreed that was the right manner to glean some wits of great works indeed. For then, she was looked up at like some movie face by them, because they grasped the flair of what she wore while she sported her curls and bangs like some rebel. Had she stood a tad closer to me they would have deemed her a daddy girl or a whore. All this might have crossed her mind, but she kept changing view angles, knowing how not to be obtrusive for them. In my virtual diary, was summoning Carpaccio to bear witness to Cecile’s elegance, and she was guessing something of the kind.
She had a last wonderment, like many, on the threshold outwards, the door is cut out in a wall to wall painting, as well as a second one inscribed in faux stone foundations on top of what Titien has painted that blonde little girl addressing the people in the doorway of a palace, while the crowd which has followed her remains distant on the other side. I wouldn’t waste my time grasping what she does there, but she radiates obviously like a divine person. In any event, Titien patrons said it would be the poor infant Virgin Mary already groomed to become pregnant of an air draft, and no one cries foul. Cecile was seized by the heavenly light in the painting, well beyond the hot air so many people died for, and still.
As the Accademia still doesn’t offer a tea room, and I did not wish to hurry a visit to Ms Peggy Guggenheim’s collection, we crossed back the bridge in the purple fog and went to the Campo Santo Stefano, where they know how to mix coffee, chocolate and almond biscotti. Cecile was proud of the manner I had let her be. She told me she wished she would stand Sarah’s worth, whatever it meant.
She took out her telephone and told me she skyped for Sarah, who wasn’t long to answer from her drawing desk, in her vague off-white tracksuit; she asked to have a look at the café we sat in and gave me an irresistible nod. She took as good news the return of Saint Ursula, she said Cecile would have to invite her next time upon a mist. we laughed, Fayelle came to sit in Sarah’s arms and she did not wear much; Annabelle’s curly head appeared in the frame, she said they’d been working English and pulled the tip of her tongue, Cecile said she would retell our night later.
The boat picked us across the Accademia, it was a short trip and it felt he could have navigated eyes closed. I ordered tea, she could drink coffee anytime. In the salon, I unclothed her entirely, her feet smelled of the new shoes, which had left them unharmed through hours of random trampling. Now that the mock-neck was off, I could relish the necklace upon her slender neck, she gave the deep sapphires an inner life.
I was letting a mystery hover on our evening like the fog on the city, she tacitly approved of that, even when we played watersports in the shower. She donned the night blue pyjamas that designed the shape of her labia —if she would. She jumped up when her telephone rang and she answered mezzo voce that we waited for her to dinner.

Annachiara was at the age when a day’s work won’t cramp an evening flair, Cecile never told, but damn, this one looked expensive, and altogether gratified being there. Like all good professionals, she was dressed like a corporate executive, blessed with natural blond hair she would untie if asked. She showed a honey glow complexion and her fine hands had natural short nails, like one who could fondle flippantly the patrons she craved —like had been the case.
Cecile embraced her without fuss before she could lay her statutory handbag somewhere —there had been a tad more than tickles in that trying booth. She introduced me, so Annachiara gave me her hand with no strain to take it back, while Cecile succeeded to unshoe her with her own impish bare feet. The little harlot let go of herself in the cushions and I soon could feel the utter quality of the finery she sold daily.
When the waiter pushed his cart near the little round table, I could tell he knew Annachiara, and she sensed I had grasped that, so she smirked and I made clear I liked her ways. I asked her if she would like champagne or prosecco, on her own because we were teetotaller originals, she finely said she wouldn’t need any.
There was cashew cream linguine with shavings of truffle, then grilled mushroom tops stuffed with a mix of artichoke heart, figs and pine kernels in a ruccola bed, in balsamic cream. Cecile’s invitée had pretty table manners, and her opened high-waisted jacket let see the pale nipples I had watched before, through the deceptive immaculate crepe blouse.
The dessert was shards of praline meringue mingled with maraschino cherries and laced with hardened caramel drippings, the two easy nymphets had coffee, with sugar, back on the sofa after Cecile got rid of Annachiara’s disguise, orderly laid on an armchair. Her own suit had flown in a breath, I stood at arm’s length, but I couldn’t help pulling away the expensive little triangle of silk veil, then bring her foot up to my lips, thus parting her thighs for Cecile.
She smelled of honeysuckle at sunrise with all the bees, her armpits whiffed of chamomille and broom, her vulva some of freshly crushed violets, overall, aside from Cecile’s perfume, all hints of blue sky infancy, the pure antinomy of what she was actually doing there, I began to foresee eventual reactions of the other angels of the flock, but it would not exist that I would neglect a Venetian windfall, be it in the worst of fogs.
Meanwhile, as Cecile was delighting in the taste of wild violets, Annachiara was turning her parted mouth to me, unavoidably, and she was gifted, so much so that I gave her a taste of my lineage that she was skilled enough to make disappear. Her pale grey eyes had not flinched as I had slid deep to her throat, because of all that, I kept thinking of Fanny, the other Venetian stray angel.
Cecile had rolled upon the cushions and was asking to be lapped, thus letting her lover present her heart-shaped bum, in which I poked my tongue keenly. She wriggled a while, then turned her head aside to tell me she had condoms in her bag —please— so I could bugger her all my whim.
Given the hour, I imagined she might want to run for some other tricks, but when I proposed she come back next evening, all same conditions, she granted me a blooming smile and hastily answered yes, with grace. Cecile helped her dress, with pride, and walked her to the door, in the nude.
I was dumbfounded, and in a way reassured I was, as I told to that decidedly amazing young recruit of Sarah’s. She never wanted to tell me if and how much she had paid, she retold me all that Sarah had taught her of prostitution, I was thankful I would not have to. I entrusted her with my instant embarrassment towards this young pleasure girl, so she geared on at once, that she had fallen for her in seconds, whatever fate keep her in, or not, we would sort chances next evening.
In the shower, while she pissed along my legs and gulped my tongue in her candid mouth, she decidedly readied me again so as to serve her the same punishment as to the little blonde lace merchant, the moment before.

The next morning, remained in the air a hint of our visitor, and I was the one to find her minuscule thong behind the armchair, a proud token of trouble that we might have caused her, or only that she carried many others, in her bag of tricks. Nonetheless, it smelled beautifully of her, and Cecile agreed, ready to wank that off.
In that teeshirt that I was becoming to like, she had already texted the whole affair to her mentor, but was back at Carpaccio on her screen. Breakfast came in, the cute waiter was looking stealthily in Cecile’s direction, for she had omitted to dress a smidgen and I could see her pink labia with a deliberate amount of amusement. When the boy, who could hardly dissimulate his trouble, ran out, I bantered that Annachiara had already rubbed off on her and dared her to score with the boy, she mused up and said she could do it the next day morning  —if I liked.
We realised that the world had changed, and I found that she was all the more irresistible because the sun blared outside and all the way into the mirrors and the grand chandelier. She looked up the weather forecasts and three of them agreed that it would last three days more. I had ordered the plane for the next day but one in the evening.
I devised that we go revel in the Scuola Dei Schiavone, then sail to Murano and meet my all-time faithful Virgin at Santi Maria e Donato —and she would understand.
Among the volume of apparel we had accumulated, there was a deep purple velvet shirt that set off her necklace, but I insisted that she take the new black vicuna scarf because the wind would sting, on the boat, moreover, she needed gloves and there were shops for that all over. It took us a good twenty minutes to find the shop, grab three pairs of marigold yellow, cornflower blue, and onyx black kid gloves and back to our waiting boat.
The sun was bleached white, in eternal connivance with that miracle Istria stone that has kept Venice kempt up for millenniums, was I raving inside, as we stood up like plenipotentiaries behind our happy sailor who had his day made. Ever so slowly, we passed along the litany of self-absorbed facades until beyond the Vivaldi Pietà, so as my ally the brilliant courtesan would be bestowed another course in Carpaccio magic she would never forget.
Sentimentally, the Scuola di San Giorgio Degli Schiavone, inside its grids and dull madder curtains, passionately furnished and burnished, sets up an epitome of secrecy, as to all the trafficks that had masqueraded as devotion upon these solid benches. The genius of the place had placed, made to measure, a rich meta-narrative more suited to our nowadays deconstructed adhesion than the almost contemporaneous otherworldly, preterhuman vision of Michelangelo. —that, by the tender bye she had let be of herself, I was willing to follow with her, in Rome and Florence.
We stamped around, close together, the cordoned-off benches did not help the visit but it would be so forever. I spent my resources of stoicism, Cecile was like over the moon. The sailor had been conveniently awaiting across the nearby bridge, he cast off towards Murano, skirting the cemetery walls and the largest human ashes repository in the world.
Santi Maria e Donato is such a gracious little church, greeting the visitors from the canal by showing them its round bottom of rosy bricks, and I wouldn’t think the orientation has a religious motive. It is said that is the place where a dignified glass blower wants to get married but, as promised, the Virgin in the goldfield waited for us and the whole world, candidly showing her palms, like the immemorial pagan pacificator she ever was, just as the goddess Kwan-Yin superseded the all-male avatars of Buddha in the unwritten legend.
My plexus flamed up at watching Cecile’s awe when she saw the bounden stare of the black eyes upon us all, the casual attitude denoted by the position of the Virgin’s feet, and we could sit there, clenched together, as sinful as we would.
Probably because I have been querying wisdom from that single image for all those years, and our novel scion sensed that through me, we felt rekindled, and so, in the sacristy, we bought out the stock of nicely made photographs of the Holy Virgin, but one, against the charity of a propitious donation well over the price asked; Cecile asked for a handful of them, she wasn’t thus that lonely, after all.
At the trattoria across the bridge, she asked for a double espresso and dunked yellow Venetian biscotti without losing one. her mood was uplifted, she said the place smelled better than her father’s joint, the sailor was having his coffee at the bar.
We sailed north to Mazzorbo, next to Burano, where I knew the Trattoria Alla Maddalena that could provide quality verdure fritte and polenta, then a plate of house pastries along with Cecile’s coffee and my cioccolata. Our Captain Sylvio was having mixed grilled fish at a different table at my account.

Cecile had been a trifle unsettled after my sentimental bout in the church, hence she derided herself as less worthy than this Annachiara who had folded her in her pocket with a few well-appraised hand plays, fishing for truthful opinions of her character, as if Sarah’s spell on her soul was waning.
The boat had moored next to the Basilica Santa Maria Assunta, yet another occurrence of that pervasive marial cult the protestants had so violently fought against, among other quibbles. Cecile saw me drift towards the literary bee in my bonnet about the many catholic sanctuaries dedicated to Maria Maddalena, a not so virtuous girl turned fanatic mourner on the Man’s feet, at the freat despise of the Romans, she dared me to call her a whore.
We hugged in front of the majestic mosaic wall, as much to warm each other than to commune in awe. Behind us, Maria was now holding the Holy toddler and it felt like we did not need the disappointment. The somewhat plain architecture —if considered as the precursor to San Marco as a symbol of the Venetians as a people— owes probably more to the Byzantine rituals I ignore.
The sunlight began powdering gold through the high windows, and our mariner had done a busy day waiting, Cecile’s curls smelled of imaginary myrrh, incense, and more of her dreams when I mumbled through them that we should then follow the sunset. This time, the transparent awning was pulled, and we cuddled on the comfy banquettes. Our captain had ceased watching us as an immoral couple, it appeared that Cecile’s candid allure in her well-cut outfit had alleviated his references —he looked contented with the reward.
At the hotel, we ordered some more coffee, tea, and biscotti. It was so warm and dry that I could watch my own little harlot dip her biscuits in the nude, all along with recalling the rich trajectory from the meditation of San Girolamo at his sophisticated pulpit to the mischievous constatation that contraception had changed humanity, at least the life of its most numerous half.
I too had dropped my tweeds and donned layers of foulard printed jersey, which rendered all the more obvious my grateful erection. But she took a meditative expression to muse out she ought to tell me elements of her past. I retorted swiftly she wouldn’t have to, on the hunch that she had intaken personally my rave about Maddalena. But she went on as if it was unavoidable.
She had not the least been spared, in the murky swamp she had grown in, she had inexorably been abused by the nearest male in the fray, her father’s younger brother who helped with the deliveries to the cellar where he had regularly easily entrapped her. Although she had been a regular at the school’s infirmary to ask for the next day pill or else, no concern had ever been raised, it would seem that she was far from being the only case, and the poor nurse’s main worry was to avoid those early pregnancies.
I had pressed her against me, in a now-on more innocent manner, but she wasn’t finished. Overall, it had not been so painful, he was a cunning swine, and she had sussed out it would be less of an ordeal to let herself be done than fight a bastard triple her weight. Nonetheless, what continued to bear on her soul was that she had killed the scumbag. She had known, at thirteen, how to make one of the bricks, on which the ladder he used to climb down in the cellar rested, slide aside under his weight and make him fall. She had fled the other way, by the stairs he pulled her down through each time he wanted her. Nobody had suspected foul play, her father had made concrete stairs built down the bar hatch, she had recovered the peace into her cubby hole, watching her discarded magazines.
So then, as I preened her black curls at her temples, I conjured her to let the bastards bury the bastards, so she cried for the little girls who could not loosen the ladder’s stanchion. I promised her I would keep her secret so as she would not bear it alone, she could tell Sarah, she knew whom she could entrust it with, and anyhow at the bottom line she risked nothing, the slate had been rained upon too long.
She might want to know that many of the little stray cats I had conveyed to Venice once, whether they craved Carpaccio or not, had horrendous stories to tell, even privileged angels like Sarah had a murder of crows in their dreams.

I wouldn’t have dared the featheriest inkling as to what had weighted in Cecile’s candid soul, I did not wish to let the hoarfrost of psychology hamper my want of her, thus we talked it open as she breathed in my neck, until Annachiara found us in the dark.
But she had made a point of irradiating as the most staggering gem we could afford. She quit her petal-pink patent boots to feel the rich rugs —to woo me, that is— and let us admire the winter flourishing she wore. It was a tweed-like ash-grey and withered pink houndstooth ample double-breasted blazer with spike lapels opened on rose-quartz glazed kidskin jeans and a form-hugging matched silk jersey tee.
I raved of delight and Cecile waved a hand to have her sit next, I could smell her sinful gaiety as she displayed her rosy toenails upon the coffee table’s edge. As they were kissing like schoolgirls, I whispered that I wouldn’t let her pay this time.
Our waiter, too, was astounded, it should be said that Annachiara’s wide-opened thighs in those jeans were unmatched. I could see the herds of masked popinjays peeping over the balustrades for the next Dogaressa in times when the republic was hardly ruled by shaky old fogeys. Both devilish courtesans could tell trouble in the boy’s pants — Cecile did not attempt to refold up her pyjamas— but he succeeded at serving the tagliatelle with baby fungi and figs, the chestnuts, olives, hazelnuts and dried apricots ragù, and the little round mounds of rice pudding scattered with candied fruit. I would guess he would glean some reward on top of what I gave him, by the wink Annachiara sent.
On the off chance, I floated out that I ought to call some important dealer and fled to the bedroom for that, waiting, as long as I had foreseen, for the door to be shut, and Cecile to come to find me, as nude as Phryne. They had been so kind, Annachiara had lost her jeans and the rest, her mouth smelled of the boy’s copious youth, I was as horny as San Giorgio’s spear.
In triumphant bloom, Annachiara meant that she had sensed I would have brought her back in our plane, but she would decline, she was living a brilliant life to her taste. She grabbed the thin dawn-shaded jeans we both had fallen for and asked how much we thought it cost, bespoke? She laughed and said she neither, the owner of the brand had taken her for a tour of his factories in the backcountry, once, in his red Maserati Ghibli. She still saw him with pleasure and profit, said she with a lopsided grin.
Cecile had been captivated, all the more after Annachiara had made her do so well with the waiter, she longed to hear her seducer’s tale. Annachiara was the only child of a working-class couple who had descended from their Friulane village, before her birth, to work all sorts of trades in the tourist industry. They had lived in a modest apartment on Sacca Fisola, overlooking the laguna, at a short Vaporetto hop of the city. It had been a quiet life, her mother did not need to work, she spent her time cleaning, cooking, and eating her cakes with the neighbours. At the age of thirteen, her school had given computers to the pupils, and the quarter had been connected to fast ADSL, but no one taught the parents how to manage their children connections, let alone install a firewall to spare the younglings in the cyber-hell —if there ever was such a possibility.
At fourteen, Pasquelina, a girl she was attracted to in the higher grade invited her in her bedroom, the same sort of bedroom she lived in, firstly taught her all the delights of lesbian love, then unveiled for her the realm of online porn, and eventually online peepshows, where there was money to be made for cute brats like them. The only restraint at their young age was that they would need a bank account of some sort, that girl was paid for the tricks she did in front of her webcam on her older brother’s account, all he asked in return was to shag her for free.
It had been a bustled season, on the one hand, she was enthralled by Pasquelina’s love manners, on the other she was already selling her to her brother Lucca, who had been already ogling her, and was as desirable as his sister. She was no snowflake, even before Pasquelina had given flesh to her intimate thrills, but above all, it was the money she saw Pasqueline spend that busted Annachiara’s reservations. She was thin, her complexion was flawless, and Pasqueline had once said that, by judging on what Annachiara’s mom looked like, it would last long enough.
The two baby-sluts had given their first joint performances to Pasqueline’s clients and the response was roaring, so much so that she called Lucca to deflower Annachiara right then, in three’s company, and it went pretty well because they had been so aroused.
Next, she brought her laptop over and Lucca configured her account to the same site as Pasqueline, under the alias Flimline, he would give her her money in cash.

We were all ears, she was a good teller, totally unabashed and daring, she had let me her feet as they were enlaced, quietly wanking each other.
Every week or so, she met Lucca in his room, nearby on the Giudecca where he rented a student bedsit, and they fucked online for his own channel, he was a gifted partner so he could renew his herd, but he insisted that she come as often as she could.
It had not been bright years at school, but the programs weren’t that competitive, she had caught up with a lesser course of commercial practice, and English, because she needed it to smooth-talk to the invisible token-bidders making her rich beyond her control board, also typing lewd answers to vicious questions.
Her parents saw her fit —she worked out like a pro— joyous, and easy to live with, they never inquired into the course of her life, they still didn’t. She was so lucky Lucca did not drift to worse than he did with her, he had wanted to become an engineer and he did. After she could run her own finances and spare good money, she decided to buy a farm on the island of Sant Erasmo, because that was what her father had been talking about, and he was still healthy enough to run one as he had seen in his country youth. Like other happy prostitutes I know, she bantered she had made her dad happy with her arse without him touching her, in her case.
When she became major, she rented a clear apartment near San Tomà, set up a cosy screening room and played her game solo or along with Pasqueline —Lucca had moved to Bologna— when Pasqueline was hit on by some Venetian woman who had recognised her and offered money for sex, took her to her apartment on the Canale Grande and after a heated session exposed her business venture in organised prostitution in the more or less legal frame of Italian law. That woman, who had been an escort for ten years all over Italy, was the owner of the lingerie shop where we had met Annachiara, her name was Carlotta, she taught them all the etiquette of safe prostitution, commencing with patronising the good hotels, home is not safe unless there is a burly matador behind the door, and then he will pocket your money.
Annachiara then joshed she had shagged all the hotel managers and concierges above four stars, and also the trustworthy barmen, and also a cute waiter here and there, as we knew. In return, Carlotta could send them any time to these dream venues, silently connive with some of the stealth worldly power brokers beyond their security details, even, sometimes, in afterwards of special pre-tasters, at a price.
Cecile hovered in her magazine fantasy, beautifully rested on her back so that it was her I wanted to fuck with the help of Annachiara, I carried her in my arms to the bedroom and we feasted of her overspent remains, the modern Venetian Dogaressa moaned with the tip of my tongue in her bumhole. Eventually, she dressed up in a blink, gracefully took a well-deserved tip and ran towards another richly upholstered bedroom for another number, promising us to be there for the last of our four nights.
Once our heartbeats paced down again seamlessly, Cecile headed for the shower, I followed her and our animal ablutions lasted until all the unsaid had been washed away like sand after the tide.

The sacrosanct night-tee had been washed and tumbled, it smelled like a toilet in an airport, I had to lull her into a perverted tale she would have let happen in the VIP salon at Berlin Brandenburg with a Polish prostitute whom she made pass water in her crotch and many things she heard no more, the page in the magazine was an advertisement for the night. She had described this habit she had had to fall asleep on a vacuous page in her cubbyhole and no one cared.
In the morning, she had been up recapping in her diary the profuse emotions of yesterday. They brought more coffee and Baicoli for her. She agreed to go visit two or three churches, as they contained major elements of social metaphysics other than San Marco’s hodgepodge.
The sky was a flat grey, she chose the long itinerary that circled all the way to come back to San Sebastiano that I had emphasised she needed to see —and probably pray in, like I knew she had, in her delectable idiosyncrasy, to the Virgin Mary that looked like her.
This comely little venue had been entirely designed and curated by Paolo Veronese, as some extraneous concession to a strong mind the Republic wished to keep fostering, while the Church was at odds with all he meant to express —as wittily addressed in his written response to the fierce remonstrances claimed by the Inquisition to the Master’s envision of the Last Supper they forced him to retitle Supper At Levi’s.
A worldwide confederacy of rich patrons has made good to wholesomely restore the building and the artworks it harbours, it stands now as a manifest of Renaissance, that is the forthcoming victory of mind over blind faith, whatever attires the demonstration borrow, who cares today about the foolishly concatenated holy scriptures and the esoteric rhetorical keys? Whatever stubborn brains will continue to spin, at this date art and “geometry” had chosen another tangent through the galaxies, until the profitable chain of catastrophes that started in Paris in 1789.
She considered my rants like a squirrel a button, with witty eyes, more fascinated by the ceiling when she rested her head backwards upon my neck. After a half-hour, need be not conjure any high powers for it to happen, a young man with a wealth of curly hair carefully opened the painted doors of the organ and, without a flinch, started playing a discursive game of baroque improvisation, to the true rapture of Cecile and a handful of stunned visitors, until the cold seized us and we walked out.
The neighbourhood, like many in new Venice, was a collegiate one, we found a warm café in which we passed for what we were, but she made a sensation, to what I saw her do the stare that had killed Sarah instantly. We did not stay long enough to create an actual ruckus but it had not been so far.
We boarded towards the next big attraction under the mystified look of many a pretty lad, Cecile confirmed. She had been so wise to wear some fluffy wool tights, she had been aroused and smelled of chamomile, I dared a deep kiss behind her scarf. She wore new vermilion gloves, she seized the lapels of my thick-woven Irish tweed overcoat and mumbled to my face that she loved how I cared for her, with all her soul.
We approached the Chiesa Santa Maria Gloriosa Dei Frari from the facade, the wind was nasty, Cecile’s black coat flapped so I clenched her to my side. The main portal was closed, we entered through the mundane door on the square, in the midst of the arch-baroque funeral monument of Doge Giovanni Pezzaro designed by the great Baldassare Longhena, author of the Church of Salute —that Monsù Desiderio missed being told abo, in his dreams. Formidable, disruptive, erotic, the four black Atlases overwhelmed, if any more, Cecile’s plexus and life strains so as I sensed through her spine upon my arm, this much for Giovanni Pezzaro beyond inferno.
There were seats for relief, sighed she, and she probed my eyes to ask if it would actually go on direr in ecstasy, I could only assure her she was the first I knew who swooned so candidly in Stendhal’s syndrome, I meant it as a heartfelt compliment.
To her supposedly dispirited suburban soul, Phoenix of washed-out shores, the conspiracies who had built such extravagant structures had vanquished the stench of death, she fathomed the long stream of endless sacrifices consented for the sake of one inextricable fantasy and she reckoned she was grateful to be able to sidestep, without losing the bliss of transcendence in art.
She smelled of the hotel elusive shampoo at the temples, a reminiscence of burnt spices and potpourri roses that responded to the dead scents of bygone hopes that skirted these mad walls, the vain offerings of the Three Wise Men.
I warned her before we neared Donatello’s John The Baptist, a rebuke to any legend of his death to the unswerving whim of the possessed nymphet Salome. Here stood a human shard of otherworldly eloquence, but she would not listen, she hovered in the fantasy of a Gustave Moreau dancer —or was I?

Now she tired of the whole religious caboodle and stuff, she muttered that the swine she had killed not only went to church but had pissed her off with his scuzzy guilt after he repacked his murky organ. She said she had just had a flashback of the bastard’s self-indulgent stare among those posers up there on the altarpiece.
She agreed to a pizza on the Campo San Polo, the sailor was happy to leave us alone for an hour. The self-called birreria rekindled her with a hustle and bustle style she stood up to with grace, and the two of us brought enough supposed flair to avoid a long penitential wait at the bar, a considered childish limonata in hand.
She liked the wholesome pizza strewed with grilled vegetables, olives and capers, she withstood the peppered oil despite my warning. She asked for a double espresso along with the true Tiramisu.
She said she did not fathom what would remain in her memory, of the overall dark vision of the gigantic Church, whether the four black giants had hit her carnally —like she wouldn’t deem any candour of style to their bold stance, among this beyond-death wishful stone apparatus, there had had connivance of innuendo between the old potentate and the material author of his last will. Bluntly said, she felt the tomb constituted an ultimate manifesto of homosexuality, regardless of the colour of the four giants’ gleaming skin. She made no mystery these lucubrations helped her to alleviate the retching that all the liturgic contraptions around had reawakened.
I concurred that it would be enough for catholic porn, I floated the idea of the Correr museum that displays mostly lay elements of the historical life of Venice as a state and stands next to the best shops. Somewhat unquieted by her morning bitter epiphany, she wandered in the galleries, mostly attracted by the grand chandeliers, outclassing those at the hotel by much; it made her nose up, while her black, flared silhouette floated like a silent revenant with the pale face of some oracle. She flew over the odds and ends of the long-dead empire, expired in the throes of dereliction and the blade of the executioner.
She finally cuddled me against an embrasure, like a little alley cat, asking if she had been boring me. We were lucky not to be reprimanded, her wools were so fluffy to my hand, she wondered if she would be any more than a slut.
Like her mentor Sarah, she wouldn’t care for wearing a Codognato ring unless I would require it as an erotic token, besides, I possessed a whole collection to try on and put back to rest. Nevertheless, she had been moving around dashingly enough to make me wish to thread on a ring to her finger, Nardi did not flame any desire either, she already foresaw the cabrioles with Annachiara. I called the boat as the sun was glowing red beyond the Salute.
On her nonetheless subdued register, she had become a tad grumpy and wished to cuddle up to me in the glazed cabin on the short trip to the hotel. We ordered coffee and tea and Venetian cookies so she would soothe her nerves by dipping them. She showed no reluctance when I began with untying her shoes, fiddling with her feet in the moist cashmere, pulling all layers of warm wool until she lay bare, at my want. I told her how much I was reliving my encounter with Sarah —when Camille had then pushed her in my arms, and so in my bed. That thought revived Cecile, who teased my nose with her foot. Reawakening her sullen quim seemed proper, it smelled of elderberry flowers by a gentle stream, I did my utmost to make her murmur the little cavatina of her soul.
When Annachiara swished in past the door curtain, we had remained in the near-dark, I had stacked away all our clothes and put on a foulard jersey robe after we had splashed each other under the shower and perfumed ourselves of the same hesperide thought that the hotel granted us, and Annachiara relished that. She boasted of having just then been shagged by the hotel manager, who had kept her pants as a trophy; she smelled of bon ton debauchery, the bloke had used a condom. There was that perverted thrill, that Cecile shared, of unabashed animality, and obviously, Annachiara had known that. She joked we could have hired her after the end of her night, couldn’t we?

Annachiara had been wearing a variegated silk jersey calf-long flared shirt-dress over a sheer black crotchless bodystocking and flat black patent rounded opera pumps with taffeta knots I hastened to worship while the two birds pecked at each other, and the waiter had been totally silent. Cecile was her all-slutty self again, she whispered an invite to use her mouth, from where she knelt at the armrest, letting her hand sidle up the boy’s fly, swiftly pulling the zipper and welcoming a fierce dick to suck.
From the other end of the sofa, I could gently bash the bishop watching the two floozies extort the lucky lad of his intimate passion, Annachiara keeping her tongue poked in my beloved miscreant’s arse, until she gulped a bitter appetizer. Breathless, the pretty apprentice even thanked the devilish pixies before running, trying to pull up the zipper.
I reckoned then that it would be the right time to abuse Cecile’s all wet back alleyway, as her dedicated whore would hold her tight, arse up. It was such a delight to bugger her, after a day of her heartfelt candour, in the mid shadows of legendary Venetian vice.
There were linguines, laced with thin strips of zucchini, peppers, and orange, in a creamy olive sauce, then roasted stuffed artichokes, and for dessert, tiramisu scattered with toffee splinters, and coffee. Annachiara had been more famished of Cecile’s ticklish riches than food, she heard our impressions, first of San Sebastiano’s homely feel, where she had heard heartwrenching madrigals sung by a countertenor friend of hers she made a point to prove was a valiant swordsman, too, in any daring of beauty. Together with his lover organist, they had, said she, enjoyed heated rehearsals in the locked little venue at night.
After the tiramisu, Cecile’s quim tasted of a hint of vanilla, and she was ready to thread ecstasies like a randy child. Annachiara begged her to stay with her and so she would make her a Queen-whore of the Canale Grande. Cecile retorted she was enough of a loose-living art practician and I was building her the shop of her dreams; she added that Annachiara was most welcome to visit the merry herd which could make her the Queen-slut of Notre-Dame!
On our bed, I took Annachiara reversed upon my revived spur, letting her swear in Italian while Cecile tortured the most precious conch pearl at no end, and I lasted till the edge of her fainting, hearing Cecile drink with joyous comments.
I wondered how she could possibly run from there to another number, but from the flows of the shower, she said her next was a tranquil antique who would merely shove his manicured fingers everywhere on her as she would retell all we had just been doing, against a severe ransom.
While she slid back on her titillating costume, we exchanged our coordinates and I warned her that she would soon be summoned on my recommendation by some impressive patron she would care to consider, did I smile, and Cecile noded.
Once all goodbyes were said, Cecile still smelled of spunk, but I quieted her it would not hurt her innards to keep in what had not dripped out of them. She said she felt happy, she would be glad we fly back to all she had going, now.
In the morning, she teased me with having shagged already our decidedly assiduous waiter, a quick once over the backrest, and the smell to confirm it, I congratulated my slutty pet girl, but I disapproved of her lack of precaution, to what she retorted he had used a condom, before gushing upon her belly I licked.
Still fascinated by the way she dunked the biscotti in coffee, I announced that before we left at five, we would visit a private grand décor palazzo, the Ca’ Corvarin, after a tour of Peggy Guggenheim’s collection, across from it.
She donned the slate-purple, palladium-striped ample pantsuit with a black ribbed mock neck jumper, no underwear behind the buttoned fly she could leave open, at whim. She dared slip in the black calf jodhpur strapped boots, judging they were soft enough.
When still at school, she had keenly seen the show around André Breton at the Pompidou Centre, and the teacher who had advised her, besides luring her into dark closets, had granted her some keys to open her mind to surrealism and given her catalogues, so as to tell he had not only been a self-centred predator.
She revelled in the smaller, uncompleted arrangement of the building, and fell for the Giacometti white maiden in the garden. Of course, all the glorious mavericks of the times had been right here, so far from the toxic luxury of venues like the dizzying Hotel von Speck, yet she longed to go back to wallow herself with Lauritz’ poisonous photographs. I reassured her that friends like Sarah would teach her how to bear more than two minds alive in that lovely mortal skull.

We had been greeted in the Palazzo Corvarin by a greyish, stiff bearing, German-sounding Majordomo who kept his smiles for Cecile, as per good taste. He Ushered us through the vast checkered-slabbed vast vestibule visibly arranged to let floods spread a few hours, once in an aqua-alta. Two sealed-in marble benches, on each side, fired up curvaceous caprices around fierce armorial shields, under where one should lay one’s cumbersome mantels of old times. Traditional boat lanterns with contorted ribbed glass facets stood on decorated staffs, emitting the proper gleam in Cecile’s eyes.
Between two burly atlantes hurling their cries across the ceiling’s painted beams opened the glazed doors of the anteroom at the start of the double staircase, itself lit by other silky glass lanterns, overlooked by a saraband of slender ambiguous creatures playing with flows of elegantly creased drapes only to conceal their lower bellies. Another cage of ancient clear stained-glass opened to the side of the long centre portego floored in traditional purplish terrazzo covered with Persian rugs.
Cecile was stricken by the enfilade of five man-sized chandeliers, like glittering ballet acrobats hanging down by their feet in a long chorus of sparkles hovering upon us, Cecile docilely letting me lull her into her bliss, in a faultless errant waltz.
She felt like a blackbird in a rosebush, the flaps of her coat whirling like wings. In a sliding when she entrusted her lithe body to my grip, I seized the wide collar and tossed away the overcoat, then, in the balancing of my arms, the jacket and the trousers, all slipping easily on the rich satin of their linings. She let me rest her, in her skin-fit jumper and unclasped bootstraps, as naughty as she had felt in all this decorum, vindicated of the resentment that she had felt smothered on, the day before, at the display of the sombre catholic porn. Nude amidst the head-spinning luxuries of innumerable generations of powdered pillagers, she willfully danced to my egotismic whim, such as I could have dreamt of for another century, had it not been by a friendly favour from the high spheres.
Alerted afar by a gentle cavatina of bustled crystal, we went, her clenched to my alpaca and silk chest, to the side door where shadows flittered and discovered, under another spirit of a multicoloured chandelier, that table had been set for two, young French-style lackeys awaiting behind the gilded rococo chairs, unfazed as to Cecile’s style, and she was amused.
It was a facade room, with a widely exaggerated cornice of stucco drapes and nude slender angels flying on them, some of them daring timid breasts. On the walls, like some wondrous scree, a bold disorderliness of broken etched mirrors, clouded by oxidation chimaeras, the whole décor visibly responding to Cecile’s fantasmatic throes, though kept afar, like the von Speck grand salon and its cohort of orgiastic testimonies. She mumbled of having shivers, thus a lackey ran to fetch a long iridescent gauze domino, the layers of which idealised her pale body more than it disguised it. She was candidly amused by the turn this lively capriccio evolved like.
Under ornate silver bell-covers with overtly burlesque finials —penises in glory and their flourished testicles— steamed creamy pasta under shavings of truffle smelled properly of edible profligacy.
Her lackey had taken good care of displaying the dark curls upon the stiffing corolla of variegated silk, she was not certain he had not caressed her nape doing so, stealthily.
The next course was a roasted half onion squash stuffed with a stew of chestnuts, penny-buns, prunes, apricots, and olives. Next, coffee was poured from a gold pot ornate with a saraband of nymphets in a most precious porcelain cup ornate with the painting of the rape of a shepherdess by a greedy faun, she saw me watching out for her smile when she dipped her biscuits carefully.
I don’t know if she saw my wink at the lackey who stepped up to her, but she showed no surprise when he slid a slow hand down to the lace that kept the domino on her shoulders, her gaze told me she had seen my act coming and was at the very least ready for my pagan schemes, so long as nought remained of morbid religiosity in my tricks.
The boy was her age, he had been vetted by the same ex-Machina that had devised most of our wants, far apart from the herds, wore a gold interlacing against black background motive open silk jacquard waistcoat on a white frilled front and cuffs shirt, off-white knee-long breeches and white silk stockings in flat black patent pumps. His physical emotion had been obvious for a while behind the drop-front of his breeches, so it would merely be charity that Cecile undid the three buttons that retained it.

In all likelihood, it spawned from a concern of balance that I considered I was, too, sided on my left by a jolly chap —I had been granted a green light as to the lads’ willingness in both currents. The breeches were thick satin, I slid quietly to the crotch, forcing it gently open, and I found the cloth-clad buttons to unleash a manly dick I held up while staring into his brown eyes. It smelled of honey and clove, almond and straw, he might have been a cavalier, somewhere in the hinterland. Cecile scoffed funnily when she realised I was doing the same as she did on her side, but I told her she would soon have the two sailors to herself! I thought mine was lovely in his shirt alone. He had an apple-rounded bum and sinewy legs, he was lightly benevolent, I made him say that if he did not refute my wanking him, he would prefer shagging my young friend over there. I retorted I would let them do both, provided I could fondle their bodies while they did.
Along the wall opposite to the windows to the Canale spread a chiselled velvet banquette which destination made no doubts, as Cecile grasped, once she had disrobed her gallant; he was keen on her, he might not have encountered such refined-mannered all willing pixies yet, neither his compadre I had to let go for the royal piece.
In my shirt, I was reclining behind the trio and fiddled with whatever came near, but mostly girly feet. Then I helped them sheathe a frantic rod in the pleated rosebud —one of the boys had known to fetch some lubricant, they were no newbies— the other one went smoothly into the dripping coochie, and as she stretched backwards, I could ask to be sucked so gently, for I knew I was not about to see her go out of my life so soon. The two younglings were trained, well-fed, polite and considerate, they fired a good three times each, revealing herself to a panting Cecile that I finally could not help bugger in the shower, so animal she was smelling.
However, I tipped considerably the two sportsmen, trying to convey the idea that such an orgy had been only good fun, as did Cecile approve of, although faintly.
The boat already awaited at the pontoon, our luggage in order, the management had fetched a new suit bag for Cecile. The two lackeys in costume did not even feel awkward, it might not be the last such celebration they would attend.
Cecile slept all the flight, stumbled with a childish nod to the customs officer, and slept again in the car home. I could kiss her serene forehead, she smelled of the Acqua di Magnolia di Santa Maria Novella that had happened to be on the tablet in the anachronic Liberty tiles clad bathroom of a madly pagan venue in the forgone Repubblica marinara, laced with poisonous beauty, where my Venetian friends had invited us in.
I felt urged to witness her come back to her room in the Faerie perch, see Sarah, nude in an antique Boro coat she could not keep closed, enlace her novel crush and smell her with greed, telling what she had been doing, gourmand. My express orders from the Amazon galaxy were piled near the bed foot, Cecile gashed open the cartons one by one and jolted up at the names of all she had seen these few days. I knew Sarah and Kate already had them all in their studio, but Sarah said nought, all enthralled of Cecile’s neck, and more else.
There had been missed video calls from Annachiara, to whom Cecile had promised to introduce Sarah and the flock; she called on a larger pad and the cunning vixen appeared, at once bowled over to finally see Sarah, nude in her artsy indigo rags, holding her lately lover at the tips of her lithe hands, under the cobalt blue eyes.
In my head passed a heavy puff of completion, I could plainly see I had succeeded at my escapade, not luring myself that it always was an easy game, even more so than retelling it worthily. In any event, I felt I would sleep happily very soon —unless I met Natalia on the way to my bed.

 

Sarah says:

Years of magazine shed living have made her a stealthy stoat, this morning yet I missed her white belly already, I should not wank myself with the laundry basket smells, would there be expensive cashmere socks in it. Nosier than passion, I gazed at her loot in the wardrobe and cast a tender spell at Hugo.
Kate had been back in our stately bed and slid her hands in Natalia’s jeans, like any other schooldays morning omen; they had been waiting for me to brew tea in the pumpkin Yixing pot. Natalia smelled irresistibly boyish, Kate’s aura was faltering in lotus gardenia marshes her sister must have showered her in. I had merely used Cecile’s straight cologne soap, hence I was flattered when Natalia visited my dawnberries with sighs.
As the talk went in the grandest of towns, Anna Louise was setting camp and had already suffused the muted corridors at Philippe’s with her Berliner accents —when it comes to sex, Hamburg sounds a tad gross. Fulgence and his burly mate had obliged.
Licking her fingers of the French toasts sugar, Natalia raved about Cecile’s mauve eye rings when spent out, I retorted she had better purchase sunglasses, then, because Lauritz had not seen her for days, but it would not shy her, anyway, in the Bateau-Mouche’s blaze or on the moon, but if she was famished for pussy, she could devour mine.
Later, after I had rubbed Natalia’s wonderful abs and sworn she was still our house fairy, before she fled, Kate and I climbed upstairs where the low winter sun gilded our walls and bookshelves. We wore not much more than battered tracksuits, the new dryer made life so easy but shapeless; it did not make her waistband less attractive, restlessness was our treasure.
Un-extraordinarily, Hugo was first to sneak in, as he owned the first privilege to, all clad of the finest silks. We had some idea the Venetian adventure had unveiled some unforeseen gleams of our new boarder’s spell, and he was admittedly smitten. He updated us on the project to install a workshop on the ground floor, where Natalia had grown up, among other uses to set up, Cecile with Gauthier and himself in an art restoration practice, with funds from whom we guessed.
There was a whole new tier to Cecile’s past, said he, that she would confide to us, possibly, like most of our escapees, particularly two that landed opportunely, on bare feet, and begged for tea. Hugo retold the touching little mania of Cecile’s of dunking her biscuits. Annabelle, who was wearing rose nail varnish at her toes, recalled having been scolded for doing so, but still did when alone, that was never, by then; all the fun, and she saw that I looked at her feet, was to soak the pastry but not lose it to the bottom of the cup. Hugo concurred, cuddling Fayelle, whose flannel pyjama happened to let see her navel.
We heard about Cecile’s remote silence when her mind was being seized by an art call, how she had perambulated amidst the newly restored Carpaccios of Saint Ursula, in that turpentine scent she knew so well.
Finally wallowed on the rug, I kept Annabelle’s feet upon my tummy when he described Cecile’s enthrallment in the music on San Sebastiano’s organ, then we surrendered all reason at the tale of Cecile buying, on her own, a prostitute for the evening, to share with Hugo. As I had had a hunch of, that slender butch on her scaffolding had some to teach us.
Hugo left us with Cortazar, Fayelle needed closure, her therapist had suggested, all her scans and test were optimal, she was already less frightened of mirrors. Anyhow, while she kept reading unfazed, Kate snuck along her back on the red sofa.

Annabelle had insisted she buy dinner, she said Liselotte had made her rich, lately, sending her to a patron in a suite at the Belitski who had asked for a truly British slut. He wasn’t even close or afar a subject of Her Preterhuman Majesty, but he had chased James’ at once wicked and good fae to every nook and corner of the apartment ordering her to speak Glaswegian with the toughest rooted accent. She had ended ragged, tagged, bagged, and shagged, waking in a deep bed upon a hefty envelope, alone, her clothes all cleaned and folded. No one had dared ask her anything, but the concierge had smirked finely to her face.
Now, she had ordered fruit pies, pineapple and plums, rhubarb and cherries, pears and grapes, apples and oranges, and we were seated naked on the mismatched Windsor chairs, each of us smelling of the same Liberty dawn of broom and heather Annabelle had lathered us with.
On a naughty hunch, our brawny neighbours rang at the new door, and we all agreed to share our pies, as a start. Natalia, Beryl, and the rest of the chorus were busy in town, Fulgence and Erik were overjoyed to find us wired and triggered in the raw, but they asked about the rookie they had, of course, grown a taste for. Gauthier had hurried them to the ground floor works, with specific princely requirements, no pun intended.
As is my imperious wont, I was first to flush out Fulgence’s comely penis of his evening jeans —I had smelled his work outfit many times before and found it arousing, too— should I be heralded as the greediest slut of the house. Was it Cortazar, a seditious fever was about to flare-up, and Fulgence, his renowned staff already into my mouth, evoked the possibility of a new pair of Cossacks Liselotte was teaching French to. That zealous varmint had been in the know for my secret Slavic stables fantasy but in any case, the two brothers had been in a heap of pornographic videos before fleeing totalitarian conscription; we would then owe them some reward, if we understood life, but it would remain well within our grasp, so to speak.
Fulgence relished my suckling but did not force it to completion, he had sensibly not been frustrated, whereas Erik was already ploughing the one he had always looked up to, Annabelle in pourings and moanings, so pale around the dark, urging, loins.
Kirill and Marat are twins, shaved and waxed to perfection like years of public fornication had nurtured a new life form to them. Fulgence went downstairs to usher them in, they rolled their eyes seeing us in bloom, Erik kept plunging his stubborn rod, in a tighter burrow this time, and as a skilled professional, one of the two Cossacks jumped to cuddle the dawny blonde whore in throes of revelry, so as so she ended assailed both ways, and a third proposed the tip of his shaft to the tip of her tongue.
Out of the blue, the tall silhouette of Dagmar was here, all smile and tousled mane, in her fetish oversized jumper, making eyes at the Cossack invasion, who inquired for permission to Fulgence in regards to the visible new quim atop an ideal pair of legs.
Michelle had whisked away Delf for a trip to New York, Dagmar had sulked off the hustle and bustle, declared that she would beg for refuge with us. That would mean cling to my neck thus I would not think twice, neither would Fulgence, who let the twins prowl with a smirk.
Dagmar breathed in my ear that she did not regret the hunch that brought her with us, one of the brothers was giving her the spiel in his rough-cut sabir, while his hands burrowed under the wool, meeting mine. The other of the pair, reckoning the situation, turned to Kate and Fayelle heads-on inquiring if they were lesbian exclusive but Fayelle as soon fell on her knees showed him her talents while Kate bewitched his tongue.
Eventually, Dagmar let go of her magic wrapper, to Marat’s wonderment, and we enlaced while pretty soon being buggered each on our side, one leg held up, allegro. I relished watching the Steppenwolf cubs round their eyes on each of us, barely catching their breath before shagging whoever agreed. They had been sent over by Fæbian who had met them shooting a video in Prag, asking Liselotte to grant them refuge.
We wouldn’t have the heart to rush off the squad of spearmen out in the wee hours, I took Dagmar in what had been her nesting box, she was stunned by the changes and shied by the grand mask. I warned her it most certainly concealed a peeping device and pushed her on the bed, bantering there would only be lovely things to watch, whatsoever. The pillows smelled of Cecile, Dagmar asked where I had ferreted that one from, so I lulled her with an odd version of the Rhinegold she liked me to pull, in my weird German; she smelled of wet hay along a sunken lane, at dusk.
Would it have been the magic of my tale, we woke up three, Cecile was clenched to Dagmar’s wings and breathed in her nape, she read in my gaze that I found them moving. The morning light through the veilings was miserly yet and Dagmar, warily twirling inside Cecile’s embrace, discovered a shrub of dark curls through what a pair of black eyes blinked through thick lashes. It was Cecile who said hello, letting her free hand stroke the angel’s tummy and chest.
My best morning love ways would be of a platter of french toasts, and Kate never missed thanking me. The male pack had fled, leaving heady wet towels for us to inhale. Cecile didn’t hurry anywhere, Lauritz was in Hamburg and she, Gauthier, and possibly Hugo, had decisions to take, downstairs. Meanwhile, she sheltered a huge crush for a German angel who let her cuddle her feet on her lap, under the table; I had been doing that, too,
As Annabelle would teach the round-headed girl English in the Memoirs Of A Woman Of Pleasure, that day, and these other two were gathering their separate pots —coffee didn’t like Dagmar— with a dish of my toasts, to be taken towards the eye of the God Crow so as to trade secrets before a day’s work, who knew, Kate and I also moved camp to the studio and plugged our long-deserted Soma radio.

Cecile says:

When Gauthier came to show us downstairs and found Dagmar and me, in the raw, watching a big album about Veronese, he smirked and tickled us out. She could only slip on her magic jumper, I could not resist giving her one of my cashmere leggings, and her to roll of pleasure at the feel of it.
The venue in question was being stripped of all fixtures and partitions, it made a connecting row of rooms that might have been stables and carriage shed in the horse-drawn times. The light from the high bays was poor, but the view, on some plot of vegetation beyond black-lackered gratings, thick ivy running upwards on some blind lattice walls, did not miss poetry, it was the landscape outside Hugo’s first floor high windows, most of which were stained glass.
Jaunting around in her powder blue and white sneakers, ash grey leggings, and fallen hood wide knit dawn grey jumper, Dagmar gave us a sense of architectonic scale —even if I would have better shag Gauthier right there— and I knew I would trust him. Only intelligible request, a glazed studio space, out of the dust I envisioned myself doing, and a storage room, or two, at the far end, for miscellaneous documentations.
Natalia barged in, it seems that’s what she does, always with the most disarming gaze; she moaned that she was born there, only to swiftly add that her mother was so proud of her new apartment in the heights. She grasped there was some brain grinding going on, so she invited Dagmar in some mute dance they were both gifted for. Gauthier had taken out a notepad and a laser telemeter, all measurements and annotations would be stored in the digital toolbox he had set up for my next realm. As candid looking as the stoat who has seen fresh blood, Natalia was letting Dagmar teach her German.
Hugo came down, embraced me and took me for a turn of my soon-to-be domain, describing sound-proof double panes here, an Italian shower there, a securitized cellar I had not seen, converting the previous kitchen as storage for solvents with permanent ventilation, building a replica of my refuge cubbyhole, if ever. He was still addressing me like we would go to bed next, but he also invited the two others, for tea —or coffee.
As planned by Camille, I went to a secluded backyard near the Arts et Métiers where blaring lights signalled from inside not so clean glazings Cyprien Merindol’s workshop. He was a mature, lean type, tall bushy-grey comely man, giving all signs of social frustration that I related to full well. After some pass of banalities, he dared look at me and then called me “The Venetian Maiden” that Ms Stern had asked him to consider for a trainee, while she entrusted him with a browned-out panel by Monsù Desiderio. He went as far as to lift up my hair like he would have on some pricey art piece, only to stutter back in excuses, his breath smelled of anise.
I was clad in my street warrior outfit, a gift of my beloved Sarah, I carried my overalls and old sneakers in my backpack. Cyprien showed me to a clean cloakroom with real showers and a properly closed and clean toilet. I would not, by what I had felt in his gaze, bet he was not watching or recording, but also, by how I had heard him speak of Ms Stern, I didn’t fear any mishap, thus I stripped bravely and slid on my weary whites.
The painting I had seen at Camille’s before, a small arm span wide, stood under a flood of white light, on an up-straight easel with a removable crank. It had been transferred to a new linen canvas, it smelled of hide glue, it was properly even, with a tiny web of cracks and layers of dirt.
Cyprien explained that, while I could feel like giving the whole thing a sweeping scrub, it was the exact opposite that I would do, little patch after little patch, constantly surveying my action. He stood behind me and he had grabbed my hand, so as to show the amplitude of the movement I should keep, then he looked at it, pressed it and told me I should find gloves my exact size in the cupboard, or go to the store and buy some because all of the products I would use were harsh to the skin —luckily, one of the previous trainees had left a box of my size. He also drifted into old-style compliments, the sort I had read in magazines.
I was to firstly clean the actual time dirt, with basic soft soap and pieces of natural sponge and two buckets of lukewarm demineralised water. He told me that would be enough for my day, and upped the volume of Bach’s piano music in high-shelved speakers. Starting from the upper left corner, I pampered slowly the old crust until I saw the bare varnish. It was not before a few well-tempered variations that I took notice that he was, from a few steps away, perched on his stool legs crossed, he was drawing my profile, matter-of-factly, much as they do in an art studio, I kept my cool.
The blessing of Bach is perpetual, when I reached the lower-right end, dusk had fallen outside, Cyprien flaunted a truly boyish smile in front of the Desiderio and pulled out his sketchbook to show me all the fine drawings he had done of my left side. We both blushed, but I could tell he was gifted. I busied myself going to empty the dirty water, tear off the gloves; he stood in front of the painting and declared that I would attack the varnish next time. Then he turned a shy misty-blue stare in mine and asked if I would, whenever I liked, agree to pose for him, honourably, for a few hours?

Our arrangement with Lauritz ran on weekends, he called me das Sonntagsmädchen but it was more of a Saturday night affair in all the nasty venues he could find in an hour’s flight from Paris —since after an inheritance he had bought a jetplane of his own. Always keen about my intimacy tales, Hugo called me a night flyer and kept an eye on me but he agreed I might go with Lauritz to visit Munich’s unavoidable museums —and whorehouses.
We had still kept sorting out the sordid archives in the von Speck hotel, he had acquired all the equipment to digitise the pictures and the documents, and perversely shag, anywhere in the haunted old brothel. I owed Sarah my becoming to a life of free-flowing pleasure and altogether accomplished —beyond any magazine gibberish.
On our ground floor, the teams had finished the fireproof cellar and the freight elevator, I could load down pieces larger than myself. Gauthier had designed the same kind of shower room as he had done upstairs and we tried it together, Gauthier is a demigod in one’s arse.
Monsù Desiderio had, as Cyprien said, properly executed the work, so I could, in smaller patches, dissolve the brownish oxidised varnish without weird surprises. But now, an old offwhite linen sheet had been spread on a high-back sofa with pillows on the side, and the teacher anxiously awaited that I deign to arise out of my working whites and lay down before his pencil in whatever glory he relished out of me. When I had retold Hugo, nought complaining, of this amiable routine, he wished he could see the drawings; since he was one of my main investors, there would be nothing bizarre to his visit. He loved the Desiderio, then casually inquired about my portraits, looked at them while Goldberg spun time far in the background, and asked to buy a good handful of them, to Cyprien’s great amazement. Not only did he offer a high market-wise price, but he announced there would be plenty of commissions —if he would. After that visit, as the painstaking swab chase of tiny specks went on, Sarah was first to come along and asked to pose for Hugo’s benefit. Shy Cyprien was sorry when came some restoration work he could not delay.
Obviously, Sarah was princely, if ever, I thought only her could be so wholly provocative and angelic. It was her idea, in the gleam of her sapphire eyes, she recounted all the comments she had ever heard of her physical traits, androgynous, tomboy, ambisexual, whatnot. Cyprien sniggered, because he liked what he saw, and told her she might be the best of two worlds, he loved our kind. Thus, she mused aloud if he would dare draw a real flesh and soul hermaphrodite? I was already smiling because I knew where she was headed.
Cyprien was caught in parenthesis of divergent strabism that made him look like some ecstatic Mater Dolorosa, then he retorted to Sarah’s blue sparkles that he wouldn’t dare take advantage of someone’s singularity, that he was not a mindless camera of sorts. Sarah, who was lain spread and aloof, fully aware of the torture she had invented by pushing the draughtsman out of his meditation while still imperceptibly rolling her hips, took her smoothest tone of voice and said it could be arranged gradually, the person in cause did not resent their exception as abnormal, and the lifeways they had found did not bear any complication; moreover, they would themself teach Cyprien all there is to be known about hermaphroditism.
That day, Sarah bought the drawings he had done of her, for the same price as Hugo had paid, then she almost raped me to tease Cyprien who remained somewhat agog and aghast. She said she would be back with a portfolio to take away her purchases, we dressed up and she took me shopping.
After we kissed like teenagers against a portal, she took me to the Heschung shop where she had had an idea for me, they made these huntsman’s laced ankle boots, leather and hessian, perfect for walking on pavements. To the attendant’s amusement, she did the trying herself, relished to show she fondled my feet in my expensive socks. The whole shop smelled of leather chemistry like a British berline. I knew I could not think of not accepting, I would keep the Docs for very bad days, I acted like I was the plaything of some imperious lesbian princess, I gave the attendant the eye, for all she deserved.
We walked back talking of Cyprien’s talent, I wondered if Camille had known he was an artist at heart I wanted drawings of Sarah and the others in my room, she would do the translation for Dagmar, too. The three of us ordered stuffed mushrooms with Wakame gravy and a pecan pie. I realised that Dagmar was catching up in French and English, she told Sarah that Fanny insisted she go live with Camille and her, since they attended the same school; she could have a room of her own, too, and anyhow remain easy to get together with her. Later, Sarah wanted us to watch the pilot episode of Twin Peaks that we did not know —none of us had been born when it had happened— watching her cry threw us into tears, of sublime erotic essence, respect be paid to Master David.

In the workshop of Bach realm —Cyprien seemed to have edited a long loop of all Richter’s Bach recordings, with enough breathing air between the pieces, and he told me, in a bland tone of voice, when it would be another cycle. I agreed that the solo work helped me focus on the painstaking chore of wiping away the centuries of brown soot-ish matter, with alcohol on swab after swab I rolled on the tip of a lollipop stick, ready to stop the process at once with the other swab of turpentine in my left hand.
On his part, he had soon reckoned that the money he had been paid for his nude drawings compensated his lack of commitment towards work he had taken in commission, but some time after I had let him draw me nude and it had not wreaked havoc, of sorts, he avowed that he had never met the chance to get to know such easy company as our lovely brigade, ready to lay undressed for his eyes. Thence he felt he had met his epiphany, and he fostered the hunch that Ms Stern had been well aware of what it would beget by sending me to his watch. I could only reassure him that, thus far, he had behaved faultlessly and I intended to summon all the muses in the Faerie to come and sit still, therein Richter’s paradise.
Indeed I was living a blessing well worth of my cubbyhole years when women’s magazines had taught me a haphazardly hotchpotch of poor man’s yoga and gymnastics, nonetheless conferring my long frame with graceful muscles, besides what Sarah had called the random chances of genetics, and the sad quality of the food I had been granted.
Had I not been amply fulfilled in my carnal wants, either on the ethereal sapphic mode on any perch in the four winds castle I had come to live in or in the gentlemanly, boyish, or brotherly manners of my suitors and their goons, who had so skilfully upturned my soul through all my holes that, as a result, I felt glowing in the dark, I could have attempted to bestow some rosy flesh of mine to Cyprien’s obvious masturbation, but no way did he show the complexion of a pathological neurosis, thus I reckoned that he would eventually come to freshen his embers with one in the perfumed brigade I had happened to join.
Predictably, Cyprien turned mute the day I brought Dagmar along, so he wouldn’t dare ask her for more than holding her head on three sides, only letting out, possibly because he thought she would not understand, that she truly personified an angel, and that brought a smile in her outworldly eyes. She responded supremely to the music, which had not been a given, Bach could have stirred ancient ordeals in her soul.
The Desiderio had been deemed clean, herefrom, but was visible only while a thin film of turpentine dried off on it, Cyprien explained that it needed to be properly varnished, and that operation was better left to specialists who would spray a film, flat in a dedicated cabin, as they did for most museum pieces, these days.
Dagmar was wearing a thinly knit cool pink, turquoise, and pearl zigzag silk dress and matched leggings —lent by Lizon who had just only discovered her— and turquoise all-stars lows. Her nipples played through the silk, she kept disarmingly aloof.
Again short-breathed, Cyprien asked me about choices of cornices for framing the painting, he had an assortment given by the framer. Closely enlaced with Dagmar under Cyprien’s knowledgeable eye, we exchanged in our usual double Dutch —not as senseless as anyone thought, and we kept her trying— to eventually rest on a choice of timeless ebonised wood rows of small diamond points, and Cyprien beamed, for it had been his intimate choice, too. Enkindled, he dared touch Dagmar’s arm and mumbled that he would love us to sit together, just as we stood, if only I accepted to take off my whites, which I did, to Dagmar’s amusement.
Followed a more or less vacant week, Lauritz had lost the habit of telling me his whereabouts, except for Saturday nights. Camille came over at breakfast time as if to see for herself that I actually dunked the Baicoli biscuits that Annachiara had sent me in lovely yellow metal boxes. Camille loved my telling her I had bought a prostitute in Venice and shared her with Hugo three nights long for real, she swore she would go invite her too, with me if I wished, and she had her hand on my sleepy quim. After she took a moment licking me like a she-wolf, she helped me dress in stone-blue, high-waisted Katherine Hepburn trousers, and a plum thin crew-neck cashmere jumper that she could hardly take her hands off. She raved about my new shoes and muttered Sarah always had the good idea and begged me to let her slide my fluffy socks on, then she ordered me to pull her my tongue.

Since we went out on a worksite, my new Perfecto felt appropriate, so much so that Camille seized both lapels to snog me eagerly. She asked who had put such a classy piece on me, certainly not Hugo. She was overjoyed to know it had been Sarah and hummed that her old flame was undoubtedly more enthralled with me than she had seen, I blushed, but I did not snitch on what conversations we had had with Sarah before she had thrown me into Lauritz’ bed and other grand vessels, I only asked my spirited sponsor if she wouldn’t be doing a scene? She held me to the door and muttered I could have whatever I wished from her.
They had been pouring the concrete slab in the cellar, except for a three-step wide square at the far end, pretty boy Philippe explained that when they had cleared the old rubble bed, they had stumbled upon three lead coffins and they waited for Hugo to decide what to do with the discovery. It would seem that, with Gauthier and a few of his scholar friends they would look into the well-preserved coffers then leave them there, as they had left the “seven sisters” in their rounded oubliette which impressed so much Delf and Dagmar. The ashlar walls and vaults had been cleaned and pointed with the powerful dry brush and vacuum method that had left no traces, said Philippe.
To the contractor who witnessed our tour, I must have felt like the coddled plaything of the real customer, and Camille’s craving for my rump obvious, but then Gauthier, his prideful head adorned with copper strands, and Hugo, tough grey tweed and paisley silk vest, both demonstrating the affectionate attention I knew of them for the mere girl I was, moreover accepting Camille’s flirting, all set me square in the centre of the matter, and ushered me in a role I wouldn’t shy from, although in such a moment I missed Sarah’s gaze upon me.
At the ground level, a new pavement eased the access from the porch and the street, enough to convey large pieces at no risk. Near the entrance and the elevator hatch, stood the administration glazed booth, at the far end, a door gave, one side on the cloakroom, toilets and shower legal requirements, the other on my pet whim, a storage room of precise dimensions, of which no one figured why it comprised these grided vents, my inner refuge, the well of magazines.
Cyprien had already been hired to boot me up at what would become an extension of his trade, without bustling him from his own modus operandi we all had come to cherish now —and Camille gave my candour credit for that— insofar as there should not be a conflict in the field he owned undisputedly, my workshop would remain vassal to his, unless he preferred definitively devote his skills to the unending pursuit of the fleeting graces who came sit in his lights, and he had assumed a taste for, at the tip of his pencil.
Nonetheless, my master had presently put me in front of the darker quagmire of a painting one could guess had been either a Virgin Mary or a mere lady, painted on a linden panel the size of two by three hand-spans, more or less. One guessed a hand rested on some window sill, a few vague bluish shadows of a vesture, but the centre, thus the face, was missing, terribly, like a large scale had fallen off. At my side, I could feel life through my coarse work whites, Cyprien grazed the painting with a turpentine pad, to give it some readability and show me it had been high-quality workmanship, hence I would revive all that remained, like a devoted surgeon, and then fill the missing scales with flush layers of gesso, the same kind of lean primer these Cinquecento painters used. Although it had been coated on both sides, the panel would be utterly sensitive to water, thus I should squeeze my sponge each time before I touched the surface to clean or rinse. Then we would all gradually test the pure pharmaceutical alcohol; if, given the aspect of the painting, it turned out insufficient to dissolve the resins in the varnish, he would show me how to wear a respirator mask with compressed air bottles when using poisonous solvents, and he would leave me alone with it until the room would be ventilated thoroughly. He took me to a metallic locker and showed me large tins bearing serious warnings in many colours, then said I would have to read and learn at least three manuals about these before I called myself a responsible professional, he would write down the references for me, and meanwhile, he was finally groping my bum and my belly, I could feel he was really hard, but he swiftly kissed my temple and walked away; I stood a bit dumb, and I smiled to myself.

As Delf had returned from New York and found Dagmar had moved back in her old bed I wasn’t always sleeping in, they ran to hear better news than they had gathered from the TRÆVIX penthouse, or rather the first-floor swimming pool where they had attracted, as a boy, some consideration mostly from closeted men. Michelle had warned them that, apart from a few impromptus they could score with Mathew Mulder, her lawyer, they still would have had better chances of fun staying home near us.
I had not been there for their reunion, Lauritz had flown me to an orgy on the Via Appia in Rome and I still maundered between Charybdis and Scylla with my entrails crazed when I shored home for coffee. Delf had lost their timeline and the smell of coffee drew them by, after hours of elegant shagging I still found them likeable with their unmatched childish seriousness. They too wanted to play the dunking routine, they were as good as me. They became transfixed when I retold my night, part of them missed being a mere playtoy, they climbed on me to sniff all creases of my body, with priceless little manners. Lauritz had asked that I dress like a candid debutante —with no undies. I had borrowed a night-blue, waistless, high-gathered flared short dress trimmed with pearl-white grosgrain, white veil open tights bought at Annachiara’s and black patent court slippers.
With only a few hours of sleep, I ought to go to Cyprien’s, so the idea bloomed to tell Delf they could exhibit their unique body to a most gifted draughtsman, provided they were ready to pose and not expect from him to shag them. We could bring sleepy Dagmar, I would try to not maim the faceless lady meanwhile.
I heard splashes and laughs afar, and since they had undressed me before running at my idea, II felt like joining them under the tepid rain. None of us was properly awake, but we massaged the tiredness out and eventually, in the foam, Delf found the energy to thread in my so trained arse.
Across the Pont Des Arts, we danced our steps like wired schoolkids, a whole box of Annachiara’s Baicoli was firing up a sugar rush, it rang in my mind that I should soon try to call and retell her how she had become a happy token in my already joyful new life, I had a wish Camille would bring her over, such a cunning little whore she was.
I could not have warned Cyprien there would be three of us, but there I saw that his inner eye would whirl at the sight of the elfin pair I was following. Indeed, he was stunned, and Delf knew perfectly why, they had their malicious glint in their gaze.
They both were scared by the painting of the ghost, I told them they had time to see what would become of it, albeit I remained overall puzzled about that, but the surroundings of the accident had come fine under my swabs, it appeared to show a rough landscape with tormented trees, a deer on the lookout, a maiden looking down into a well. Everything clean and dry, it was time to lay the gesso in place of the missing chips, on the bared underlayer of fine brown cloth. With a pointed brush, I began the painstaking labour of applying the layers, waiting till they dried, gently sanding them, and over again.
Behind my back, things bloomed gently. I had suggested that Cyprien show the fairies, they sat, two of them now embraced on the sofa, the drawings he still had of me, all the more the risqué ones, so as to trigger Delf’s naughtiness. Inevitably, he was in for a dreamlike playlet I would have bet it made him cry, when shoes first, then leggings and all other finery disappeared magically from the lissome bodies who already invented poses à la Carpeaux. I called up Cyprien so that he took his pad and pencils, he was enthralled. He did not react when Delf made obvious their cute anatomy, this occurrence might have had time to root in his mind so he was only slightly underwhelmed when it became real, but their witty spur stayed rested after he had honoured our carnal ways in the morning. It seemed to me that the somewhat naive boy he had managed to remain was quieted in regard to a rare phenomenon he then reckoned did not threaten him the least.
We all let Richter pilot the flight, they found laid back attitudes and eventually fell asleep in the most sublime abandonment, Cyprien was in sweats, in my slowly distorting mind, he stood amidst the pride of lions to whom I had availed my gentle person for a good share of the night.

Due to the certain diligence of Gauthier’s teams, my ground floor quarters’ conversion was completed before expected. A new floor heating replaced the previous radiators, most of the pipes and wires were concealed, wide remote-controlled lighting panels hung from the ceiling without visible cords. The main ashlar walls had been exposed and the partitions doubled with sleek light grey panels or closets. I had hesitated about the three tall bays, between clear or frosted glazing, the existence of neighbouring windows made me decide for the latter, and an inaugural shag with Gauthier and Philippe, in the heady smells of the works drying, on leftover cardboard sheets, had definitely convinced me this would be my place.
Everyone wanted to help me shop around for furniture, but one morning, I found a statutory deep British hi-back buttoned maroon wool velvet sofa in the middle of the second room, I was told it was a tradition of sorts, and the person to thank certainly was Hugo; he wouldn’t confirm, but he revelled in the thankings I offered him upon the object in question.
The next morning, on a blatantly clean new easel, rested the view of the Piazzetta in Venice by Monsù Desiderio, vibrant in a coat of perfect varnish, framed with austere rows of black diamond-points, adorned with a wide laguna-green moire ribbon in a gift-knot and a Camille Stern card bearing an innuendo compliment I was all too willing to accept.
It was so simple to take a lift down to the door that all the bees in the hive wanted to test the new sofa compared to Kate and Sarah’s famous altar of depravation, and it was a hectic tie game. Delf even brought Michelle who could not ignore a new extension of the domain. I had not acquainted much yet with the legendary Aviator, I was beguiled when she, of all the genteel sluts nearby, began to slide her slender hands upon me. She was wearing off-white silk velvet jeans, an aurora chiffon blouse under an all-embroidered white-on-beige vest, thus it was only a breath to denude her to a tiny mauve knicker. Behind the crystal lenses, her stare took a weird intensity because of her pinpoint pupils, she explained she had been using eyedrops, because of the screens light, not morphine.
From all the tales I had guessed be told, I was overawed to feel the fine skin of the futon girl in the invariable scent of the Geranium&Orange she used since she had found some in Kate and Sarah’s studio bathroom. Her quim tasted of bitter-almond frangipane, her tongue was swift like a squirrel, she showed enthralling bed manners, Delf was overjoyed to watch us do. Eventually, Michelle gushed to my face with a smooth low moan, while her pet child did too, upon my labia, panting. licking my lips, I said I loved the smell of us, she retorted that she was overly pleased I would never be able to consider her an insensitive nerd, I assured her I had never heard anything like that about her and we cuddled, in our own scents. Her telephone gave a tiny squeak, to what she dressed with a sorry smile, said she was overjoyed to have me near, poked her tongue swiftly in my lips and ran the way she had come by. Delf pulled me to them, undeterred to fuck me again.
A while later, I let Lauritz find us as such, I was amused to watch him wonder what he saw, so was the double pixie who foraged casually into his fly no sooner he sat between us and gave him a lordly treat, while he considered the funny orchid between their parted thighs. I confirmed the obvious and told him they were Michelle’s merry partner, as prone to flutter around the many beds of the château they owned all the access codes to, as Michelle was to dematerialise amidst code lines. After he spurted in Delf’s little mouth, he cajoled them and reckoned that the sofa must have already been honourably christened. It was timely to some impromptu supper in that club someone card-carrier had shown him in, behind his house. We would certainly be dressy enough to wallow on the couches, served by half-naked submissives, he called for a car.

The clearing of the portrait I had been assiduous with, regardless of all the turmoil I seemed to have brought into Cyprien’s life, and nought he would complain about, now let see a delicate painting, the second hand of the sitter holding a blue tit. It only felt disastrous that her face lay under a crying white splodge. When I could feel the primer perfectly flush with the painting, like Cyprien had directed me to obtain, it dawned in my mind that he should give her a worthy face, since he spent his days depicting all my friends’ faces. He hesitated, but I demonstrated that whatever he would attempt on the painting would not offend what was left of it, which was not showable anyhow.
He tended to agree, it might be an easy game to play to procure to Dagmar some noble ancestor, just as I knew he would say. I kept silent, made some coffee in the big Bialetti I had bought, to dunk the langue-de-chat biscuits that were the closest to Annachiara’s Baicoli. Cyprien had been passionate with the few images I had retold him of my trip to Venice, bar the scabrous aspects, and he liked to hear me speak about Carpaccio so much that he was considering a few days stay to see the Sant’ Ursula suite restored.
The next day, after a splendid night with Sarah in the warm workshop —sturdy tables, silver Aeon chairs and all sorts of chests of drawers, all that on wheels, had been delivered and mounted— when she was raving about me and made me gush like such a skilled courtesan, I found the maimed portrait on a different easel, on what had been my dedicated one had been mounted a newly relined canvas with scars, apparently depicting a deep forest with cavaliers riding through it. It was a long format, a full arm-span wide and more, and it was awfully dirty. He conjured to take my time, it was an important piece and I should never rush according to the size of the piece, plus, he said candidly he had come to love my presence, he pressed his hands on my shoulders and sniffed through my hair, all lightly.
He was sort of disgruntled when I explained that Dagmar would be scarce, now on, because she had to attend school and not remain a mere plaything, thus she had moved in with Camille’s adoptive daughter, in their house he knew. I promised the pair would come to see him some day off.
Shuffling through his drawings, he regretted his idea of drawing Dagmar in the white void, but then I figured there was another pair I could ask for him, and I gave him a description of Annabelle and Fayelle, the heather fairies, guessing whom of them he would choose to incarnate the immemorial Princess.
That night, I had been invited by Natalia upstairs, with some genteel courtiers, had she said with a grin and after a day along with the incurable immaturity of Cyprien’s, I longed to be properly manhandled, and that, Natalia had read it in my soul. Beforehand, I searched for the pale mist witches and found them nude, wrapped into a quilted Liberty comforter, at the feet of Kate and Sarah professedly at work, Fayelle reading Cortazar aloud. My proposal pleased them, they craved wooing some stranger and undressing for his eyes, like they had been trained for, now that it would be for their own benefit. Meeting me on the loo, sparkle-eyed Sarah swiftly rode me upon and while she peed over my quim, she whispered she too would party at Natalia’s, and the Cossack Prince would be there. After a quick freshening, I joined the blondes in the quilt and stole one of Kate’s striped socks, for a bite.
Natalia had asked us to wear pyjamas, like high-class whorehouse kitties, so did we, from the legendary wardrobe. Sarah put me in some sleek black satin with the rainbow trim, telling me with her hand on my bum that it fitted exactly, she donned an extravagant night-blue duchess satin ensemble randomly scattered with embroidered silver stars, barefoot, and with her hand, she showed me our trousers were lined so as not to be stained if we dripped, these were not outfits made for sleeping.
Natalia had found for herself some light-mauve dupion silk for a mandarin suit, wide-legged but fitted bum, she looked slimmer than in her day clothes, she palpated at once that I wore no undies, she demonstrated a consumed art of snogging I savoured of letting her do.
From the recently subsumed staircase and corridors in another adjoined building in the masterplan of TRÆVIX enterprises emanating, it seems, from the dainty lover on my sofa the night last, the two familiar black and white hustlers could run barefoot, in ample tracksuits, Caterpillar yellow and black lettering for Fulgence, powder-blue with white trimmings for Erik, Natalia was proud of her beautiful minders, she let them overtly pet her, like the cat who wasn’t there. Sarah cuddled me like her own just as I had liked it since she had singled me out.
The vivacious Cologne lads had brought along the said pair of “Cossacks” and I sensed a quiver along Sarah’s nerves, she had precise memories of their carnal skills.

The twins smelled of Morello kirsch and aspic oil, more like some weird embrocation with an after-taste of wet weed fire, but they behaved inescapably, like raged puppies. One was at once over me, I could not parry off his hold, would I want it. He had been wearing a black nylon quilted jacket and baggy distressed jeans, he suddenly was tanned and satiny, dangerous as a mad poney, all I could wish for, and I saw Sarah was even more surrendering to the same fury, maddening her mouth on her fun mugger who had chosen not tear away her nightly silks but rub them in an avid sleight of hand on her abandoned body.
My own handler had rid me of my costume and thrown me across the wide padded ottoman, Natalia played to mingle in his kisses in my neck, my armpits, my groin, till she reached his uptight spur and sucked it as deep as he would, willing or not thus exposing her butt to Fulgences want, as he had been on the lookout for. Erik joined our side and seized my hips, he couldn’t help whispering kind obscenities to the new kid in the corral, while he pulled my trousers down so I could offer some gap in my crotch, but it was a Cossack who prevailed, only for the time Erik grabbed the lotus lubricant on the side table. I exulted standing amidst the formidable strains of the two animals, feeling as light as an armful of wildflowers, their confronted thrusting in deep, like mischievous brats at a pillow fight. I had ceased all efforts at their whims when they gushed in my bedazzled innards.
Eventually, we panted, scattered in the room, proud of our happy debacle, already covered in sweats and juices, in the rude scent of elation soon guessing what would happen of our troupe in the steam of the shower.
The devilish brothers had been bantering together in their fast vernacular and I sensed that I was the joke as they cunningly crept so as to hedge me in, still muttering, simply making me feel utterly desired, like a fiddle in a may field.
They easily obtained that I rekindle their bitter-tasting penises while they returned the politeness, I loved the smell of saliva upon us, though puffs of such redolences still raised from a doomed, bygone cellar, to my weird indulging. Then too, letting them use me, bones and flesh, unfazed, I felt this heave in the chest from long ago, when the dark short-haired little girl I had been wetted her knickers watching the butcher, who had never had a twisted word for her, slash through the supple maroon pieces of gleaming meat, constantly edging his knife on a steel, and I would lower my eyes down on my worn sneakers, in the sawdust.
I was entrusting my disarmed carcass to the savoir-faire of the two jugglers who let me read in their eyes the bliss they found at possessing me both. Erik had not given up, he came to ask my mouth to gulp his dong in reverse, so he could push at will as I was again kneaded like a pure lubricious ectoplasm, like vindicated of all the stupid tears I might have wept.
The soap in Natalia’s shower was predictably as naughty as Bombay gin but smooth to the thinner skin that Sarah and Natalia both fondled gently. We had fought off the adorable brutes, asserting there would be another round. Sarah muttered about the taste of vice in my mouth, with proud eyes, and asked Natalia her idea about it, bringing her to grab my head at both hands and pull me her also disarming tongue.
We starved, Natalia took out flat boxes of easy nibbles and displayed separately the salted and the sweet on large platters she lay where we had been shagging, on the ottoman. She brewed white tea in a big glass pot. Yes, our mouths had tasted of semen, but spices and sweets helped, like new dreams wash old angst away, like the alcohol pads wipe the soot and the blemishes.
They still fought to share me, I could not close my legs, then Beryl came home with a younger stray cat who, at first, rounded her eyes at our allure. Her name was Apolline Silas, her auburn hair was braided in rows to the nape, her candid eyes were reed-shore brown. In her slim-fit jeans and grey velvet hoodie embroidered “restricted” in red caps across the chest, red ankle sneakers, she remained dumbfounded with a half-smile until Beryl, who had been to the loo, asked her to take off her shoes. She wore funny mismatched socks with spiders and skulls, Sarah could not resist and took her to the sofa to fiddle with her toes. Our amoral courtiers understood that this one was not the same slutty class as us, Fulgence, in a most classic stance, claimed there were no rapists around and she was safe in Beryl and Natalia’s home; nonetheless she was in the know what simmered behind our eyes as we looked at her.
We did a round of presentations, she probably singled out the twins that had been all over the generational pornoverse, Then Beryl let out that she had found Apolline somewhat lost in a corridor at Victor’s realm where she was still herself a house pet.

The advent of a shy beautiful street urchin amidst the libertine Areopagus I had just lately been deflowered in, hardly unsettled the naked feasting guests, satiated anyway, but broke the mood somewhat earlier than foreseen by indefatigable buggers. We all gathered our clothes and kissed good night. The quieted newbie found enough wits to appreciate our styles, Sarah, anew in her impressive polar night silks, asked Apolline to meet again, whenever they wished, Beryl kissed her heatedly. She said they would need some time, possibly.

In the morning, the rooftop fairies came down at breakfast, eager to show their pampered face to the artist. Like everyone in the house, they mocked me and my biscuits, Annabelle sat next to me within reach so I could fiddle her quim.
We needed umbrellas and trench coats, they didn’t have time to protest, I swore we would hire a car on the way back. Cyprien greeted us and stared at me as if to ask me if there were many others in our posse?
On the cosmic metronome of Bach, it was scheduled to restart at the well-tempered heart and the magic operated. We made coffee and tea, Annabelle stole my biscuits and they quietly began the sitting. There was no need to hurry, the models enthralled Cyprien, the painting had the time to dry.
I preferred to have a screen unfolded in my back, hour after hour, I began discerning crowds of details in the undergrowth of the forest I had been summoned in, I overheard the murmuring of the damsels. Annabelle wore a printed paisley verdigris cotton boat-neck knee-long flared dress Fayelle a mullein yellow off-shoulder waistless vague dress, I knew they wore no undies, I was wondering what kind of effect it would bring to Cyprien’s pencil. Like in a classroom, he let his preys gambol and go peep in the bathroom. At midday, they ate Chinese, I was content with my biscuits in black coffee, I did my best not to let Cyprien guess that I had slept, and more, with them —he wouldn’t have suspected of that with Dagmar and Delf— neither would he need to know any hint of their past, they offered the fittingly candid gaze required for a Renaissance portrait, most of all, they inspired his pencil.
Since I had been prime awakener, I intuited the manner to undress the angels, sufficed to allude to the series he had sold to Hugo, in which he had not dodged detailing my vulva in bloom. Matter-of-factly heard evoked by me, it did not trigger any sniggers by my dear fellow creatures who then affected to obey me, disrobing all at last. Cyprien accepted their gesture as some welcome windfall, mutely turning a page of his tall drawing book, sending me a grateful glance. For as long as they would bliss out in the ethereal crystallisations of Bach music, he could fruitfully nurture his anachronic talent to all extents, a whole web of connoisseurs awaiting for him at L’Etoile Amusée.
On my part, I had been encountering unexpected behaviour at the tip of my pads, some weird brownish murky matter that came under the varnish and smeared the cotton wads. I had to call Cyprien for help and I understood he could not refrain his lead, as of yet, so I went to the bathroom, then made more tea and coffee.
He tried himself, smelled what oozed up, spread a dab of it on a piece of glass, smelled it and called it the pest of all restorators, the pervasive resort of all the artistic crooks of the XIXth century, what fool headed art suppliers sold as “mummy brown”, a rich transparent overtone supposedly obtained from grinding the vast quantities of animal mummies unearthed in Egypt, mere bitumen, actually. It features the particularity of never hardening, unlike oil, resins and pigments otherwise used for painting, thus, in the present case, a layer of the stuff had been applied to the painting, to achieve a uniform warm patina, and the resin of the varnish had haphazardly dried over it. The owner of the piece would face a big surprise, good or bad.
Fayelle had dozed out, crashed by Mathew’s Passion; later, the car went smoothly upon the glittery causeways; I had wanted to shower, as if the weird stench of the mummy tar had clung onto me, so, then I smelled of Cyprien’s shower soap, Penhaligon’s Juniper Sling, so Annabelle nosed in my neck with heaps of afterthoughts. I invited them to Agnete&Sanne’s where the rain must have chased the customers. My tender posse might not have been dressed for dining outside, but it would be all the more fun if a whim took them to let their nethers be seen by some shrewd rubbernecker.

Each time I went to bed in my room, most often with a desirable company of whatever manners of life, I gave a wink to the leaping dancer with his fists wielded forth in the centre of the parted mask, so entrenched had become the certitude that Lauritz, and whomever of his choice, would watch, all the more reason to sway my arse a mere tad more than naturally before laying down, hiking up my nightshirt as if I had been asked to.
That night, Kate and Sarah would spend their evening cavorting elsewhere, the novel attraction upstairs might have bustled their course adrift, Kate seemed bemused by reliving her past through the eyes of her unsuspected sister, together with her incestuous brother, on the other bank of the river.
I revelled in the perverse tales of my two redeemed slappers, letting them boast about the many mean vengeful tricks they had lived by, sapping their tormentors’ souls, were it in vain, into more booze and drugs. I played candour, even if Sarah’s selfless grooming had soon brought me on par with them, long after I had nullified my abuser —but that, I did not tell, then.
I was up on my track early, that chore of ridding the forest of the mummy murk was driving me, I would dip my biscuits later at the workshop. Cyprien was tense amidst his last drawings, he said he was indecisive as to whom might figure the redeemed Lady. I concurred it was a balanced choice, moreover, one of the sitters would possibly be vexed, in the end; he was tempted to draw a mix of the two.
My pads returned gunky all day, but the original painting began to re-surface in its liveliness, it seemed to be a notch more ancient than when it rested under the layers of its weird varnishing, in a brighter key. It took another haul of preludes to clear up a somewhat primaeval scene in a golden age, with three brutal scratches across and a good many stains Cyprien said were oil overpaints that I needed to wipe down carefully with alcohol.
On his side, he had pinned up the portraits of my lady friends and had been mingling their traits into one unknown cousin of them he was proud of. I agreed it resolved the whole matter worthily.
The next three days, Lauritz took me aboard his black Learjet with the red armchairs to Munich. He had required that I wear my black cashmere waistless shirtdress, open tights, laced ankle boots, and my black gabardine trench, the perfect outfit for an expensive tramp. He promised we would spend our daytime in the extraordinary museums there, he would only smirk about nighttime, he played footsie reminding me what I had enjoyed in Venice, with another sponsor of my shy allure. As the aeroplane was taking off, I opened my dress for him.
We boarded in a posh, padded, fluffed, tucked hotel between the Residenz and the museums, a suite worthy of my wantonness, where he ordered a cart of desserts with a fruit bavaroise and black coffee. The waiter had been so discreet that he caught me nude on a silver-blue chiselled-velvet sofa, I chose to stay still and turn to him a candid gaze, he pretended to ignore me. Lauritz had witnessed my deft looseness and he liked that in me. He told me to lay flat on the padded ottoman that must have been bearing legions of tender bellies before and he licked me like a wolf then unclothed and buggered me long.
The two tiers of the cart were covered with porcelain plates for portions of rich cakes which I tasted most, under his wild eyes. The coffee was still hot in a vacuum silver pot. He wanted more of my submissive debauchery and I knew he would abuse smoothly till I faint.
At dark dawn, I was again drawn by the scent of coffee and I rolled my hips, feeling gently unbound, not shied to sit bare upon him while he sorted his messages. He had ordered a plate of dry biscuits, he was smitten. I answered Sarah who had wondered where I had been, she envied my tight little arse, I retold her she could have it anytime after I have lost my breath in the Brueghels and protested I loved her most.
In the bathroom, was an assortment of toiletries Lauritz said of which didn’t fit his idea of me, instead he proposed his own luxury Cologne, by game.
He let me be impatient to go worship one of the most impressive collections in the world, had I read in a magazine. Be it because we were in Germany, Lauritz stayed along with me and agreed with the comments I could read from a guide in French. Every hour or so, we sat in a dreamlike cafeteria with sky-high light-brown brick walls, he laughed at that I had found Speculoos to dip, I preferred not to go lunch in a restaurant, him either.
We had moments of synchronicity before the Dutch ribald paradisiacal humanity sceneries, he wished he owned Henry De Clerck’s earthly paradise, he also envied Ruben’s orgiastic ballets, whatever the subject, I was a tad discomforted by so much overflow, to say the least, thus he slid a hand in my dress. I felt homey in a Momper invention like I had with Desiderio, but the vertigos I resented in Rubens did not enthral me as Veronese’s had, I did not claim it.

With his long sun-bleached strand of hair, squinted eyes and aquiline profile, he really looked like Siegfried the hero for magazines, but he was kind to me, and I did not abuse that. Once our brains had overflown with emotion and a carmine twilight hovered on the museum lawn, he said we had time to go hunting and called a cab. The shop was Enterfelder & Co and seemed to date back to the Biedermayer age, the windows framed with brass columns, Lauritz too had decided to play doll with the little penniless tramp. He had lived for three years in Munich and thus knew what he was doing, his idea being to lay silk jersey on my sleek belly, so I dared not decipher any labels. He attired me like the shickeria icon out of Noughtinland, my flat heels ankle-boots de-phased enough to stamp my style.
It had become so easy to let flow these sublime Italian fabrics upon my bare pubis, in long, flared, thin straps gowns barely hiding my humble nipples, printed in tiny old gold or indigo paisley motives on black background, shamefully gleaming and we also took a black Barberis Canonico alpaca serge tall-lapels calf-long coat lined in prune duchess satin. He looked overjoyed like one who has fulfilled a dear troth, in the car back, slanted upon his chest, I wondered if he had known of Hugo’s similar buying spree for my slutty person’s benefit in Venice?
As he made me spin with awe before we left the hotel to I did not care where, he kept his boyish grin and said I could also wear what was inside a slim black leather box he let me open. It was a strand of Tahitian black pearls the size of my little finger with a platinum and diamond clasp, I felt a pang in my little girl’s chest, she that I had barely been in my cubbyhole. It fitted as a low choker, we looked at me in the full-length mirror, I was wet like a magazine princess. He wore a slick silky black suit, a lavender mandarin-collar shirt, and patent leather oxford shoes, I understood his luggage had been brought and tidied up.
A sand colour taxi took us to Hahn’s, a two-storeyed opulent-looking brick villa amidst tall trees, with a paved forecourt and two black symmetrical cast-iron lampposts figuring nymphs in flight holding facetted globes. A black man in a gold-trimmed dark green and black livery held the door.
A scent of benzoin hovered in a sparsely lit corridor of dark architectural wood decor with panoplies of gleaming exotic weapons or whatnots. I gave my coat to a cloakroom attendant who eyed me up with some kind of poise, I began to feel Lauritz was a returning regular. He held me by the waist and whispered that I be reassured, it was merely a pleasure venue, he asked me to present my black card in a wall teller machine on the side.
We pushed double stained-glass doors and found ourselves in a round hall with a spectacular painted ceiling showing a flight of nude younglings across a golden dawn sky, the whole in a somewhat awkward manner, enough to reckon it was in a bawdy house, not a chamber of commerce, although, sometimes…
A faraway piano improvised brilliantly along roaring twenties themes, giving me a sway of syncopation altogether as cool as our Bach tapestries in the workshop, I let Lauritz drive the dance. Sundry of salons opened around, lit by arrays of miniature lamps in varied bowls, Just like candles without the smoke.
As we passed by in the subdued light, I understood that the couples in the low sofas were all in different phases of lovemaking, all genres mingled. Clenched at Lauritz’ side, I was struck by the beauty of two boys, artfully half-denuded, handling each other in no haste, and Lauritz asked if I wanted one, or both?
The musician began a possibly endless rendition of “Tea For Two” that brought us to dance slowly and predictably my dress to slide down on the thick carpet, soon to be met by other couples of which one was also nude, and I began to feel some fondlings here and there, while my cavalier wanted my tongue. I heard low voices in german near my ears, sometimes Lauritz would translate kindly admirative appreciations or utterly lewd propositions, underlined with the smooth grazing of my butt-crack.
I acquired the sensation that they all were on drugs, but cool ones, what Lauritz confirmed. To me, it reminded the feeling I grew when, behind the grid of my closet, the populace was altogether drunk and I began to ramble by empathy. Picking up the dress he had just offered me, he drew me, and my suitors too, towards the majestuous stairs of the kind you do not feel climbing, and the upper gallery where carved doors opened on mostly busy bedrooms.
The herd I had gathered entered a muted dark space around a narrow dance floor softly lit from under and above, Lauritz asked me to take off my shoes and go dancing, as eager pairs of eyes scattered around on invisible couches. I remembered my first night in the Panopticon, I knew I would deserve an endless shag before Lauritz put a final period to it.

A feminine voice from the crowd demanded in a rocky French that I pull off the stockings, too, and seemed to be asserted by the rest of the attendance. So, I wore only a few pearls when I stepped into the lights and Paul Oakenfold pulsed irresistible rhythms through a mighty system, making my booty shake beyond my will.
But suddenly, somebody’s hand pushed a gilded bowl near my dancing feet, shouting something I thought I guessed, so I swayed sideways down on my parted legs, under their applauds, and waited that I peed in their bowl, which eventually happened in an ovation, a meagre quantity, though, they should have made me drink before.
When I was finished, it was swiftly stolen, and a nude greyish head crept under me to lick whatever would still come and make me moan. They all talked softly, I singled Lauritz’ voice in French, telling how he relished seeing me spending with strangers, but I should not let myself endure above the heed of my own whim, he had seen me do before. Now the creeper had pushed ahead and was penetrating me from under, I let my vagina find his measure and soon felt fingers applying lubricant at both my pleasure entryway and another strain upon the tight rear burrow, me still crouching at their avail. One of the boys who had diddled with his friend’s dick came up to thrust his in my throat and seemed to vaunt my ability to swallow sabres.
They went under tempo, making me feel the feverish gush each time and the next, my feet were sliding so I had to stand on fours and lay back upon he who chose my butthole, then Lauritz announced something and the carousel ended, he carried me to a scented bathtub and rinsed me thoroughly, calling me dirty names.
As I climbed down, dressed up but easily indecent, I had to let be kissed and groped by amiable admirers, those who had gently used me on the dancefloor.
Lauritz decided it was time to go back, he ordered my platter of fruit bavaroises but forbade coffee, having been told I could have elderberry lemonade. Unwittingly, I managed to let the waiter peep on me nude, he earned a proper tip, too.
Lauritz disrobed, his command staff showed full well what he needed from an unabashed whore like me, and his want had been wound tight for some three hours, he gushed in my throat after the sweets but I took every drop of his. He spared none of my well-trained orifices, with the help of the Swiss Navy.
It snowed on Munich that night, as if my perversions allowed the grand erasement of the world’s mundanities, through the high bay, I stood nude in the cautious yellow enlightenment as the innocent fluffs descended upon the town. Lauritz had been looking all over the apartment for me, he wore a satin pyjama and was hard up, already. He quipped that I could do some apparition for the waiter who was bringing up breakfast. They had found some crisp lemon biscuits for me, Lauritz sat against my back and asked me for all that was leaping to my dreamy mind in the taste of the drenched little cakes, so I did not avoid the dishevelled tales of an Andersen-ish secret orphan in the pathways of a workman’s tippling-house at the hour of the first pint of dry white wine, stealing away her heavy cup of black liquor to dip in the kind of biscuits that no longer exist, doing fast her late homework in the closet before running in the still crackling snow to the all lit-up realm of school. Lauritz protested that there be no lemon in my dreary tale, I answered I had never tasted lemon biscuits before and it was sweeter than all the semen I had drunk in the kitsch mansion of the rutting deer, but I would remain his bitch for the while, whatever the fantasy of the Posilippo’s lemons in the blue moonlight, and then I woke up.
As always, I longed for a second sight of the Pinakothek treasures, but he regretted we had only three days and there were other important venues in the museum quarter, he promised we would return at once if the moderns bored me, but at least I should cast an eye upon von Stück, he was certain I would relish his “Sin” painting, all the more that I knew no such concept as sin.
Firstly, we had been light-headed improvident as to wintertime hazards such as cold and snow, and so it made Lauritz laugh that my bag would be growing heavier, the reason why he had said nought when I had followed him with no luggage.
He took me to Stil & Manier, another purveyor of the sterling style men had recently craved to wrap me in, at any expense, obviously, seeing the already cleared bit of sidewalk that led from the car to the dark red lacquered shop. Un-regretfully, these displayed mostly masculine apparel, but I had no wish to remain in my windy shirt-dress, plus I craved women in boyfriend’s attire, like Sarah and Kate would, at least in the daytime, and Lauritz opportunely loved me as a crossover, saying I would not risk looking too mannish, whatsoever.

A genteel moustachioed attendant listened to Lauritz’ demand While ogling my unassumingly depraved little person and obviously fondling me in a manner of marking my measurements, so as I recalled what I had raved about my lemon cookies, while Lauritz’ eyes glimmered. Unavoidably, I had to denude for the old boy, in a fitting salon wide enough for us three, where I could not understand what they mumbled about, only that it be me, and the lavender stooge did not refrain manhandling my butt at his whim, with my mute obedience.
I wouldn’t ask myself if he fathomed what kind of game Lauritz and I played, he did not ask for anything else than palpating my already well broken-in body and selling to my master three full top-quality outfits, large hemmed trousers, high-waisted fitted jackets, Oxford boys’ shirts —he had dutifully constated that my chest was all flat and smooth— fancy vests in timid colours, mock school ties like I had seen in Sarah’s wardrobe.
I kept on my new boots and took some cream cashmere knee-high socks — accepting the tailor’s fingers about my butthole— slipped on fresh boys’ trunks, sand worsted trousers with a buttoned fly, a dawn-mauve shirt with a most classic collar and a black and old-gold striped silk tie the boy showed me how to knot, holding me from the back, a maroon knit vest with flat browned copper buttons, a dark purplish herringbone tweed fitted jacket, both men were in awe in front of me. All the rest of my wares would be delivered while we visited the Neue Pinakothek, I put back on my warm coat, the snow continued, the car glided slowly to the museum.
Lauritz said he was so proud of me, he wondered if the old boy would survive me. I was searching for my reflection in the pictures’ glass panes, I had never in my life worn a tie. All the skylights were buffered out by the snow, it was an eerie night. Albeit he was cautiously cuddling me, I kept grumbling I wish they had other treats than French gone-by Seine shores. Anyhow, I wasn’t rude enough not to give it a try, but frankly, is it the same painter who did the Isle Of Dead and Sugar Daddy On The Riviera?
I had known Walter Crane’s Horses Of Neptune but I did not expect to see them there amidst heavily catholic meadows and mountainous throes. But Lauritz had his idea, only a blink for an ethereal Klimt musician —who would take me to Vienna? They also have rich bawdyhouses, over there— I found myself in front of that growling black and gold setting for a deadly Venus of the all confusing times, “immarcescible Nemesis in a Badelaireen opera”, would have edicted the critic of The New Realm review. Hugo had regretted not to show me Venice’s Salome by Klimt, I would lure Sarah there, for the sake of Annachiara.
Lauritz called a car that was not a cab to take us despite the snow to the Lenbachhaus museum which was a stone throw away. He assured me he wasn’t vexed with my unfazed disdain for a whole heap of Germanic art, there had been time enough for letting him unbutton my fly while I gave him a devilish kiss.
It was a rigorous heavy-yellow exercise of Italian architecture, coupled with a parallelepipedic blind golden container, in an unimpressive size, surrounded with distant, uptight office volumes and a Greek-ish colonnade leading to some sort of parade grounds. Lauritz told me we would have some coffee and biscuits in one of the two facing pavilions over there, later, and I might like some antiquities, too.
Meanwhile, we let our coats and walked into the small building, dedicated mainly to the Blue Rider group and the birth of abstract art, I had read that. There had been a special issue of Telerama on Kandinski, I liked him, this was where it had happened. I liked the ever-so-kind Paul Klee, and a grown man was eyeing me special because my fly had remained open, Lauritz wouldn’t tell.
It smelled of cleaning stuff, all the paintings were in the pristine state in crystalline white light, I had lost the pitch for the Blue Rider and my stomach felt hollow. I tried to hurry Lauritz, then, but first, he pushed me into a recess and fingered me like a bad boy. So, it was how it would play in three days, we walked in the tracks to the one pavilion where he knew they would serve me good coffee, and possibly lemon biscuits, too.

The cafeteria in the Glyptothek was held by gay old boys, totally friendly although I did not look like one, and the toilets were faultless. Lauritz teased me that he had merely seen me eat cakes and coffee. I retorted that it was a trait of my immaturity, I had read, I had grown in a place where people fed on ham or saucisson sandwiches with wine or beer, I hated all that, I stole packets of biscuits my mother sold beside the loto counter, mostly Oreos, which are junk, as we know. Sometimes, I would go next door, where the owner gave me fries and grilled tomatoes but would always fondle my butt, though he never tried any worse —there, I refrained from telling Lauritz all that happened to my destitute little person before I became who I am. He fixed his wolf-like stare in mine and bit one of the two large sausages he had ordered with fries.
People like me, almost a Parisian, live in the pervasive presence of marble or stone sculptures, once they quit their native wastelands, so it took me a gentle lecture to learn that these here were the almost real thing, if not, copies done in the Roman times. Yes, the sleeping faun under his cupola, in the face of Medusa, moved me in my womb, and the bronze Apolo of Tenea on another key, merit an accessit in the gay Pantheon. Be praised the owners not to have let copies debase their grandeur.
The otherworldly mood of a snow-day light lay a blessing upon the airy display of mainly marble statues, I told Lauritz he looked like the Alexander portrait, thud he pursued me to some dark nook and made me suck him, for the bliss of a stealth wanker who had followed us.
We walked to the other pavilion, following withering tracks, in the seizing silence. I wasn’t so available, all the more with that well-known bitterness in my mouth, to consider a display of antique pottery troves, really, until we remarked the funerary jewellery, the gold foil crowns in their spotless gleam I would have craved to reshape anew —they wisely do not— and as I bent forward to see the work, he was discreetly stroking my arse crack.
I wanted to go back and order coffee in our room, he ordered a car and we went under the said Propylaen, whatever it meant, on the third side of the almost virginal esplanade, to wait on dry ground. A white berline covered in ads flashed its lights, soon.
This time, our first waiter found me in my shirt and trunks, barefoot, nothing other than eager glances occurred but Lauritz liked that, also some coffee and lemon biscuits. He inquired my stare silently, read that I was fit and said that we would go party, to what I retorted that it had been my easy guess. I used a dash of the curtesy skincare cream to wipe stains on my shoes, he said we would let them outside our door at night and they would clean themselves, for a tip.
After he groped me in front of the mirror, he made me slip on the fine subdued-coloured stripes on black whipcord trousers, a black fitted jacket with wide satin lapels and a buttercup yellow flannel vest, so I looked like a worldly debutant and he said I had the perfect face for that. He said the luxury men’s Cologne I had used all over me, citrus, cloves and lavender would make me utterly sinful for the damned Bavarian Catholics who would thence be hard as wood when they would confess their throes to a most certain predator.
We headed to “Der Rote Flügel” through another snowfall, the car rode at walking pace and the radio played the Electric Light Orchestra in Wembley, the driver asked if he should shunt it off, ogling me, Lauritz said no and hugged me with his hand in my fly, daintily. We would have certainly turned to stone when the car stopped under a porch lit by gas flames and a red-vested bell boy opened my door, it felt even more shickeria than the night before. The music through the snow had stirred my blood, we left our coats to a black cloakroom attendant and showed our cards in the slot.
The glaring vermilion carpeting and the black-lacquered posh mouldings led to a vast nightly arena of black padded leather alcoves under galaxies of low-glowing colourful balls hanging unevenly from a stamped red copper tiles ceiling. A heavy bass deep house music pumped on the chest and swirled in the belly from all sides, red livery waiters shifted about, holding serving trays of diverse drinks and bottles, a black usher showed us to a rounded recess and asked what we would drink, Lauritz told me he had ordered a refined lemonade for me. He watched me twirl my neck and shoulders to the deconstructed endless music. As my eyes accustomed to the obscurity, I was not surprised to understand that the other patrons behaved at first sight unusually, a few of the women wore no clothes, seemingly moving from table to table. I question Lauritz who offhandedly said we were in a brothel, proper. He knew of my funny game in Venice, he told me to pick one of the girls to play with or be played by. Now my trousers were undone, my shirt open, men were considering me.

Lauritz asked me which part I wished to hold, being picked or picking one of the wooing ladies, he would come along, either way. A handsome grey-temples had leapt to my side, smooth-mannered, considering he was grazing my chest, saying in English that he had wondered if I were AC or DC, but he could now feel I was palatable either way. As I sipped some of my delicate peach lemonade, my suitors shook hands over my bare belly, then proposed I accompany them to a room, the Britton sported a wide smile, probably because he had learned I would be for free.
Up a flight of stairs, my outfit in disarray, I followed the two gents who exchanged about me to an almost empty room, where a grand bed was neatly tucked in, two deep armchairs with wide armrests, a padded bench as wide as the bed, side tables at the headrest. The walls were waxed, the carpet was extraordinarily thick, to wonder why there was a bed.
It seemed the Brit would do all the moves, he took away my jacket, asked for my shoes and trousers, looked at me holding my hands, telling me I would make a lovely twink, too, then he took the shirt and pulled down the underpants, sniffed my quim and moaned, possibly of pleasure. The light came from the indirect wall fixtures, he made me turn and dance to what reached us of the ground floor music. He asked me my name but he did not tell his, he raved about my body, asserting I was indeed a feminine beauty, with the most gracile of legs and feet, a sweet apple of an arse, a faultless belly with none of the tits he wouldn’t have liked anyhow.
I appraised the quality of the carpet when he said I should kneel while he disrobed with the scent of lavender but then he did something I did not grasp at once, he was now holding his belt and began to whip my buttcheeks, firmly, pushing me to hold the bench there, watching Lauritz’s staff out of the bushes, stiff in his hand.
It was my first whipping, I moaned and cried, but then the men slid fingers in my vagina, only to assess that I liked the treatment that did not last long. He wanted to be sucked by a crying whore, would I? Unsurprisingly, he sported a straight, long and lean dick that, soon, thrust at the narrow end of my throat, and he complimented Lauritz’ on his training, I felt like a beast and I dripped all the more. He came in my mouth and made sure I swallowed, then praised my effort, inviting Lauritz to make the most of my inundated vagina, gathered his clothes and snuck to the bathroom. Lauritz was ready, my obedience to the stranger had tautened him like a spear, he seized my hands in my back, bent me upon the bench and made me feel the whole length of his want in one endless go, then in my neighbouring shy hibiscus that could not refuse his drenched glans in, then the full course inside his prefered game place.
He carried me up onto the bed, the rough bloke had disappeared, he cuddled me, only until a new lad barged in and told me to suck him like he would a house girl, and in fact, I was, he smelled of patchouli, had thick black hair and big gonads, a tough spur he had difficulty to fit in my mouth, so he asked I offer my groin and I was ready to engulf his truncheon for the few humps he took to come with copious squirts. After he regained his breath, he thanked me and went fetch towels, then left.
Word had been circulated of my fresh complacent arse, a third, a fourth and others came up, one after the other, sometimes interrupted by my own stallion who kept aroused. It could have lasted to no end, I chose to pass out, and I woke inside a car, all properly dressed, Lauriz at my side, overjoyed to see me smile as I told him he had made the grade, bastard. On the radio was Pharell Williams, Lauritz wasn’t jaded about my fly.
Before he deposited our shoes outside our door, I saw him slide some bills into them. I sensed that as a final omen before I dozed out for good.

I had woken, tormented bowels and nether parts itching. The tepid water stream on the bidet almost set me back in dream mode and let me tilt; that cleared my mind somewhat so as I walked in the shower and turned the intuitive tap of the sophisticated mixer, only to be seized by a gush of cold water, soon warming up to steam dimension before I found the proper caress. I realised the smell of semen in my hair, I sniggered at the conscience that I had become so fastly accustomed to vast ablutions but I appreciated the presence of holding rails. The complimentary shampoo smelled of may field and wild rose, it produced inextinguishable lather that made me cry in the flow. When half of me had been dissolved away, I shut the waters and waited for the mist to clear off the mirrors to look at my face; I liked it, with the purplish rings of shade at my wilding eyes, nonetheless those I had always seen in my sweetest solitude. I wiped and combed my curls so as they covered my stare, Lauritz remained sound asleep, I clung back to his wing.
In the morning, beyond the ultimate shores of a sketchy funfair along the river, I woke up from under the comforter with Lauritz smelling me like I was some exotic fruit, I said nought and stretched wide open to his delight. He must have guessed of my nightly redemptions and other witchcraft he would only crave the outcome of, he stared as I dunked my childish subsistence in the black coffee.
For our last day, he conceded I wanted to return to the Alte Pinakothek, although at my pace a thorough would have necessitated as many years as I had wandered in the Louvre. To blunt off any attempt of his, I meandered to his morning joe and sucked him dry, like the sharp professional I could not deny I had become, besides my cravings for transcendent workmanship. I made him gush his want like a little boy and he helped me dress in fresh linen, black hi-waist trousers of which he made me promise I would keep the fly open, be it for the mere idea of it, black cashmere socks. The jacket was of black and cream houndstooth tweed, it made me look like Las Vegas. Obviously, my shoes had been fussed over and smelled of beeswax; a glance outside showed a pale winter sun and dry frozen snow.
Lauritz had time only to nose into my neck and call me names, swearing he would never betray me, I was already devising plans to retell my delicious sins to Sarah, and ask her if she would care for my utter confessions. Anyhow, he embroiled me so as to put me in front of the Marquise de Pompadour, a grand pristine canvas by Boucher, with the exquisite innuendo of the Royal mistress’ little mules, the blue acme of oil painting, I felt the pang in my chest although my idea of the historic character did not wake any enthusiasm, so it must have been the painter, him who had shown Miss O’Murphy teasing her divine right Master as a periwinkle —I had been exhilarated to learn she died of very old age, after three widowhoods. He bantered there had been a von Speck in Versailles at the time, as depraved as all of them.
The light was ethereal and would imprint in my memory the pagan frenzy that Fayelle had told me about after her fine escapade to Antwerp with Kate, Lauritz was amused they had fled Sylt together, he asked me to bring Fayelle to his bed, I asked him if he would not better accommodate both her and Annabelle, they made a courtly pair of genteel harlots, if he would; I had lent myself with them, a few times, and I did not despair to bring Cyprien to draw them in pretty situations; at coffee break, I told him about the defaced portrait and the rebirth we had devised, he said he might like to buy such a near forgery, I should mark him as an option; I retorted that Hugo might already have made his move, he had been enthralled by the licentious poses of Sarah’s and bought most of them, bar one to be hung in my bedroom.
This second tour of a truly regal collection, after the limitless carnal throes of the night, skimmed away unessential views that I felt my mind wouldn’t foster long. Lauritz promised he would have all the related books delivered to my place.
We fiddled with one another under our coats on the way to the airport, he was hard as a pick-axe and he made me drenched, I told him how I valued to be able to entrust him, he retorted he would cheat on that, I said I knew that. His jet was on the lookout, we boarded like thieves on the run. He joshed in German with the two men team who turned to me meaningfully and shook hands, casually; I grabbed I was not the first party girl to fly in the von Speck big bird. He showed me to the last row of seats, the sunset gilded the snowfields around the track, he had already unleashed my belt when we ascended in pursuit of the sun. He had pushed down the armrests and pulled my trousers and trunks, he said he relished seeing my arse aside, amidst my shirt tails, he tried in vain to bugger me but then he went all his length into my vagina and I climaxed before him.

 

Sarah says:

We had been in bed watching Christian Petzold’s “Jericho”, only to melt for Nina Hoss, when I heard voices afar and I guessed Cecile was back from Munich. I was wearing a cotton flannel pyjama printed of teal and indigo paisley as I found Cecile in a white boy’s shirt and periwinkle striped trunks, looking overspent. I could figure out all that she had been done to at her beautifully weary eyes, I could not help pulling her onto her bed, she mumbled she needed a shower, but I was already sniffing of sperm inside her trunk so she let me do the dirty.
On my part, the week had begun soft, I was beginning to miss Kate, the devilish sisters were all the talk at Philippe’s and slept the rest of their time. Only last night Hugo made me sleep in his bed and I woke up smelling of blue roses in fumes of opium, my nether petals soothed and balmy, he had said I had been otherworldly and he showed me photographs.
Cecile had liked to retell me her episode with our Celtic Alpha wolf and flaunted the tributes he had bestowed her, in the suit-bags hanging in her closet, I was proud of her, I promised to take her with me to Florence, even on Melchior’s wings, if she liked it kinkier. She made me gush once or twice, joshing that she had had her fill with hard dicks.
In the morning, she had reclothed me with my pyjama —buttoned in the wrong holes— she had made her coffee and found the yellow boxes of Venetian Baicoli sent by Annachiara, her friend “mondana” we all wished to know, I said I would suggest to Hugo to invite her so we could feast of her, Cecile said she was worth it and Hugo knew it.
They had unclothed Cecile who stood on Fayelle’s lap, dipping her biscuits with dexterity, as much as the loving little whore did in her vulva.
They spoke of Cyprien’s work but kept it for Cecile to discover, they scattered to dress and go, I fetched an oversized grege tracksuit embroidered FATALE in red caps across the chest, thick Norvegian raw wool socks and I resented Kate’s absence when I climbed up to the studio. After hours of chasing the gossamers of my inspiration on varied subjectiles, helped in that by the long loop of music from Soma FM —I had noticed that played very low, Rusty Hodges’ choice of ambient pieces aroused a mental reflex counterpoint most useful at building the profitable isolation I needed— until the early winter dusk chased me out of myself with the idea of that new guest in the high coves with Beryl and Natalia. My two minds quarrelled around a pot of Taiwanese “Oriental Beauty” Oolong tea, one that is transfigured by the cicadas on its leaves (Queen Victoria never knew of the insects) and I called Natalia who said she had been thinking of doing the same, so as to introduce their new wonder Apolline to me, and yes, they should have done that before. In my reconciled mood, I invited them for a welcoming dinner.
Beryl had been gallivanting around town for two days, Natalia brought their attractive new catch, a tall, slender, slicked reed-blond haired, lissome creature with pale blue eyes and thatch-coloured lashes and brows, a wide smile and a thin nose in a narrow face, she looked straight at me. she wore a long-sleeve body-hugging short dress of textured oatmeal-coloured cotton. She had those long hands and feet, white braided ribbed tights, low grege sneakers.
Natalia was siding her close, they smelled of a reminiscence of lime trees in bloom, honeysuckle in the dew, something candidly childish, but their gazes slanted. With a light sigh, Natalia grabbed my waistband, we were all three in our intimacy circle and Apolline said to my face she was a trans woman, nothing unbearable to me, they had been a few in my lakeshore high school. I hugged her welcome, her chest felt frail, she was emotional, Natalia said she had told her I would not shy away.
The three others came back in good wits, aroused to see a new face. Lifting my brows at only Apolline’s attention, I sought permission to introduce her knowingly as whom she was, she mutely entrusted me to, pouting. It induced a round of curiosity, Apolline having asserted that she would like being a “she”, though we already had a “they” in our hearts. As the table was set up for dinner, she said she didn’t mind spilling off her marbles, not that much more bizarre than anyone, in sum.
Head-on, she announced that she had been born an ordinary boy, and she had not undergone surgery which would disgust her. Only she had steadily insisted, since kindergarten days, on being treated as a girl, and called Apolline whereas she had been called Apollinaire by her loving father. Growing up had been easy as long as no one would frisk her in her slip, she truly was a pretty blonde feminine child.

Aged eight, her frail little lie —in her view— was uncovered and denounced, retold to school parents and outright unlawfully forbidden, causing her to gradually depress, lose her friends and her will to live on. She was expelled from her school, her parents could not afford, or did not know of, schools like mine, where she would have chosen her transition unbeknown to all others than my good Prof. Achenbach and Dr Selen Bonte.
Apolline had had to consult and convince battalions of psychiatrists, each their own chapel, and judges, amongst whom some let out disparaging comments of her. By then, she had learned on the web the medical necessities of a successful transition, she feared the onset of her dreaded hormones, it was some race to demonstrate before the decision-making panels that she knew, sometimes more than they did, all the life-engaging consequences of what she wanted to be allowed to do.
She had been twelve when she gratefully received the first injections and implant, she knew that it would last for her life, but one of the doctors she met once told her that it is, willy nilly, the case for many persons in life. Her fight, at an age when you expect kids to follow the herd, be it in a shambolic way, had strained the nerves of her parents, sent them to all savours of therapy, and eventually broke their marriage, her mother moving out with her brother, who had despised and bullied her —so we were both daddy’s girls.
She obtained a new birth certificate, under the name ” Apollinaire aka Apolline” and the mention of the sex she lived in. She had won the race against an unfit nature, her penis regressed to an angel’s size and the testicles remained embryonic. Nonetheless, she had always touched herself and kept erecting her fiddly toy with pleasure. At fourteen, she sensed her first orgasm with a few drops of happiness. In the course of her self-taught study of her situation, she had explored the professed possibilities of reassignment surgery, and she had been terrified. She had thought, after all, that millions of gay men led a satisfying life without an imitation vagina, she would try it that way, only it would be longer than she had foreseen to only dare fabricate a discourse towards a partner she would desire, most boys are sexual idiots, not to mention uncommon nurtures. It was much easier to stay with girls, of whom a vast majority are stealthily gay at heart and more prone to accept her exceptional conformation, anyhow, truly sweet to play with.
Her fate seemed to be settled, unlike the ordeal that our two last floor imps had endured —they both showed a massive crush for Natalia’s friend— but her father died in his car, they said he had had a stroke while driving and crashed into a truck. Her brother had been beyond all limits of moral filthiness, forcing her out of the family apartment to sell it, embezzling her so that she could merely afford a shady bedsit.
Apolline didn’t own many credentials, she spoke good English and was fluent in computer tricks, like so many, nowadays. She knew she possessed that eerie beauty people like her may develop, she was a success on Instagram and tik-tok; that had been where Victor had eventually been tipped-off by one of his stooges to find her, and made her a true functional party-girl, teaching her to shag with grace.
Beryl, who had long been the house fairy at Victor’s and spared of his nasty traits and mood swings, mostly caused by his drug habits, had fallen for Apolline, during some of the orgies Victor still paid her to come to —Beryl is a superlative slut— and she did not like his manners around his new trans toy, hence her being with us, eyeing me —if I read right.
We ate mushroom pies, cinnamon butternut squash and pecans, figs and frangipane tart, Apolline loved the elderberries kombucha, she said that Natalia had vaunted our lifeways, I seized her hand and told her she had only seen the least of them. Cecile, still swayed by her debaucheries in the snow, had listened to the heartfelt confession of that beautiful sylphid at the hands of Natalia, she wondered if no one had ever abused that ethereal being? and Apolline heard, she retorted one could have called what happened to her at Victor’s abuse, or not. With Natalia’s nods, I told her what girls like me did and were done to in the ogre’s lair, and possibly again, if he finally succeeded at making proper amends to someone he had most unwantedly raped, and thus, later, had defaced him in all manners, depriving him of the largest part of his wealth, Apolline remained wide-eyed, Natalia had not revealed the great Victor chastisement.
As an angel flew across the room, Cecile announced that Cyprien had begun drawing the new face of the maimed portrait, and it would be some common ancestor of both Fayelle and Annabelle. Besides, Cecile had devilishly manoeuvered, while underlayers dried, to bring shy Cyprien to draw the two nymphs enlaced, naked and aroused. I turned to Apolline and summarised

I jumped on the ready-found pretext of asking Apolline if she would accept to sit for Cyprien au naturel, or if I should lead her to the dance? Cecile, as the foxy fast-learner, jumped in too, offering that it could now take place in her new ground-floor workshop. To Apolline, these were hot air, but she smiled and I made a carnivorous jolt to a kiss, only my lips, a few more nanoseconds than any butterfly would dare, a clutch in her soul.
As a wise growing-up reed, Natalia had first chosen Kate as mistress, gliding, once in a free night, undetected, in her side of the bed, learning to harness her whims long before it would become avowable to do so. She had of all times owned the keys and codes of all stages in the castle, and thus teased with her tight little butt anyone that could. Thence, she had intuited the career this angel, fallen of Victor’s waning winds, would accomplish amongst our tribe, all the more now that a sure-fire guide in nonbinary issues, in the person of Cynthia, dwelled in the bang midst of the realm. However, as in all the good Faerie plays, existed unseen trails of passion that Natalia excelled at running, she was then and now threading me in Apolline’s fate, she pushed her onto me.
Seen so close-up, her face radiated like the new Grandiflora in the secret garden, the misty swan at the reed shore, lively and playful, though, fully aware of my greedy thirst for her I had known in a mere flutter of wings. And my hand was creeping up her skirt.
As she was pulling a chair on my other side, Cecile was holding back her breath, sliding a hand under the fleece so as to remind me she had not told me all, yet, before I flew worshipping a new windfall angel, she would fly along.
We were sat as naughty schoolgirls caught in the cramps of a stealth courting in the classroom, I shrugged and took them by the hand to our grand ever-elating bed, throwing a wink at Natalia, who followed. In a heartbeat, I threw the two younglings together and began to pluck them bare, feasting my eyes at Apolline’s legs while Natalia preened Cecile’s heavenly wings.
There it stood straight, an early clear drop at the tiny tip of its rosy hat. I took all liberty to gulp it like a trembling dummy, while Cecile was tackling down the angel’s wings onto the bed and fooling in her mouth like a puppy. Natalia chose rather licking Cecile’s arse while it was offered up, Apolline shook in sobs as she gushed a spurt in my throat, the taste of the wildflowers’ sap we innocently tried while told not to.
Her belly was tight, satiny, I knew where to poke with my tongue to give her quivers, she finally lay back at our whims, she had won.
Natalia wasn’t done with my own returning recruit, and it was to her liking. She told Cecile, mezzo voce, all the perverted kindness she fostered for her —while demonstrating her innate talents to bring girls to surrender. After her whim was contented, she played with Cecile’s mousy nipples, bantering about the perdition appointments she might bring her along to, but Cecile retorted with her naughtiest exploits and promised she would introduce Natalia to Lauriz in such a manner. I was, by all means, moved to see them appreciate each other, moreover when Cecile invited Natalia downstairs and they ran half-naked to it.
The two rooftop doves had fled, as they did, so Apolline was all mine, faultlessly feminine, with that inoffensive flesh toy and a sensitive bumhole. Her narrow hips did certainly not evoke maternity, but neither did mine, her skin was heavenly smooth and had been nourished by her hostesses, she smelled of all the lickings we had done to her and an afterthought of linden.
She had been told of Cynthia and also Delf, I answered all the questions, even the ones I guessed hovered in her mind. I let her figure that our house was not only a bawdy house of sorts, even if everyone in it would unfailingly hit on her, with manners. I did not elude, either, that she would encounter, randomly, all aspects and sizes of valiant dicks at her disposal and will, I assured her none boorish individual had ever had the keys to step in and bother any of our pretty arses. Of course, I knew that she would overwhelm Hugo as soon as I would tell him. The way I narrated the way all of us had ended in the hive as it grew made her marvel, I sensed she was ready to move in and I played demonstrating all the possible traps and dangers, endlessly till we yawned our heads off and she dozed out in my arms.

Morning coffee evoked the blessed young times, the school refectory and a wealth of dreamy faces, the birth of my passion for French toast —even a cossack had shared with me the last morsels in the plate. It felt Cecile had somewhat tamed the House Fairy, now both were standing at the ready and twiddled each other’s hands, they had made a good night.
Cecile said she would love to introduce Apolline to Cyprien, if she agreed, in the evening, in the workshop downstairs. I had lent her a golden dawn landscape kimono, she had wanted to wear her hidey knickers, Natalia, in her street runner outfit, boyfriend jeans, black cashmere turtle neck in a Venetian red wool hooded parka, black Chelsea boots, and a black and gold striped messenger bag, said in my ear it was Prof (…) day —she looked so innocent.
The heather pixies, all eyes for Apolline whom they saw beaming, were ready for the last day on Cyprien’s sofa and demonstrated to the next shy sitter how well-behaved he had been. Apolline chose to follow my taste, more for my pretty eyes, whatsoever, she loved the toasts with Danish raspberry jelly.
I was smitten, I helped her dare stare at me when she recalled her fears, growing up on the wrong track, muzzling her wants and penchants. She agreed that one good thing would be to meet Cynthia; as a means to split from her natural course, she had acquired reasonably fluent English, I trusted the savoir-faire of Cynthia who already had an ongoing relation to Delf.
Before I invited my new crush to the studio, Kate barged in, a few pounds leaner, in a sage green Donegal tweed suit, William Morris printed silk twill opened shirt, two-tones ankle boots, verdigris wide lapels trench, her “debauch me, would you?” smile over her cup. Wherever she was coming from, she was amazed by our guest, so as I had to hold Apolline’s hand in a manner that she would grasp we had slept together and she was only shied.
I made the presentations as candidly as it would fly, and I just warned that she would hear pretty risqué tales from my dear companion, she smirked, wasn’t it what she longed for? Anna Louise and Simon —a major chunk to swallow for Apolline upfront, just to show her there are so many available sideways— had gone together to Verbier for a week of skiing, Kate had declined, her mischievous little sister seemed more resilient than her when she had glided down the same kind of slopes, snow or not.
As expected, Sami had driven them around to the most exclusive venues, and again Melchior. I juggled my words not to sound too off the wall but eventually came the moment to tip off Kate about the true nature of angels. She was stunned, Apolline is so faultless.
She felt unfit, there, in her worldly suit, she said she needed the loo, disappeared in the vestiary and surprised us in grand kissing, my hand in Apolline’s knickers. She had slid on a rainbow-fitted leotard and coarse-knitted legwarmers, but she showed a mindblowing pair of thighs and Apolline agreed to that. Kate was the superlative slut and she smiled like a twelve-year-old.
We climbed up to the studio, now that she had displayed her legs, Kate needed more of like a tracksuit, like me, but once we had shown our high lair, Apolline felt au contraire and dropped her kimono to lay on the sofa and regale Kate’s eyes. I wouldn’t risk picking a pencil as Cyprien would, very soon, I have avoided all such training and it would be too late, also then Apolline asked permission to cover herself, anyhow, I found her a long nightgown to wear under the kimono, she remained barefoot.
I brewed some dark Keemun, I knew full well we wouldn’t even try to work, so we chatted, we did not lie about our lifeways, all her young fears. Kate eventually crept at her feet and began to feel her legs the way she quested permission for in the light blue gaze. Once the creased linen was hiked up, she coquetted with the tiny master at such an adorable tune that I could not remain seated but crawled to her feet and warmed them with my lips.
We spent the best of the day on the red sofa, in different fashions; she loved to lick a pussy while being feasted upon herself, she asked and again if it was for real, we retold her that she was as worthy as any of the angels in the choir, and most of all —because Natalia had been her shepherd— the house fairy was the most trustworthy slut in Paris.
Later, we dressed her in an open black bodystocking and a black chiselled velvet mid-length vest, so she could perturb who she wanted with a sight of her toy. I asked her to smell me and say if I needed a fresher outfit, they both did thoroughly and begged me not to change my girly scent.

 

Cecile says:

My return to painstaking Bach in the enchanted forest restored some balance in my soul. After the thorough washing off the Romantic errs, a web of crevasses let the under-layers be showing, thus I should fill them with meagre gesso before reconnecting the motive with Restauro colours which will not darken in time. Firstly, then, Cyprien gave me a tiny steel cutting spatula and showed me how to make sure the edges of the genuine scales of paint stuck to the back layers. Despite the cosmic steadiness of Bach galaxies, the task meant a huge chore, so he assured me that my work would be paid by the hour, to what I could not help grinning at the irony of comparison with the harvest I had made lately, simply laying on my back. Cyprien came up with a non-descript cardboard box and took out a weird looking contraption that revealed to be a pair of magnifiers with a tiny focussed lamp, to be worn like spectacles. I checked in a hand mirror that hung to the easel and effectively, this thing made me look weird. He said the battery was to last a certain time, so then I would make some coffee, plug the thingy into the mains and rest until the pinpoint light turned green again.
All the while, the two nude heather pixies had spied and whispered, the inexorable flow of the piano keeping them happy, all the more now that Cyprien paid them a normal fee for sitting. Camille had bought the lesbian drawings and was asking for more. Effectively, the magnifiers helped close into the work with less effort, I was surprised when the light waned off. As we all took a tea and coffee break, as Cyprien fetched ornate boxes of crisp speculoos, thus asking me about my recent vision of the delicious Netherlands, I felt drawn to Fayelle’s heart-shaped bottoms and casually fondled her in front of Annabelle who winked.
There would be a friendly gathering in the new workshop, Sarah —and whoever she wished— was managing the subsistence, in style. Gauthier took pride in showing me he had grasped my gestalt, as he called that, thus every element he had brought into that space spoused my want, I even shagged him inside the perfect cubbyhole he had designed for my intimacy, some others kept watch upon that door.
It was softly sensuous to walk barefoot upon the warm polished concrete floor, as long as I would not scatter scraps and splinters of whatever material redemption, just like a two-doors chest, an Austrian wonder of Dagobert Peche, mistakenly over-varnished, currently awaiting under a padded cloth slipcover along the far wall.
My devilish wavy copper mane associate —I saw everyone in the realm let him mingle lust and work at no damage, besides, we owned equal shares— boasted some elegant, timeless functional furniture he said the idea of me working in there had inspired his quest. Around a heavy cast-iron, oak-top table I could gather three Aeron chairs and a few antique wrought-iron battlefield chairs for visitors. On the off-chance, my workshop wouldn’t cast a straightforward Vulcan attitude, there was a deep, maroon mohair velvet, scrolled armrest sofa that had already here greeted a few bare arses, and a military folding wire-bed with a thick wool mattress and comfy quilted indienne plaids.
Wooden easels and drawing tables showed that I did not intend to be working alone, but I thought it would take time before I would hire anyone. Under the bays stood large chests of thin drawers for flat storage. For one night were displayed the treats Sarah had ordered, a tall gilt samovar I did not know, and bottles of different soft drinks in a large silver cooler.
Kate, Sarah and the adorable newbie Apolline had done the catering service with A&S, Hugo came early and was thrilled to tell me that Annachiara would attend, I thanked him for all the books he had delivered to me, and, while he grazed my thigh, I got him aroused with my adventures in the Munich snow, I agreed to end the evening with them in Hugo’s sheets; we shared appreciations on the new wonder, Natalia had warned him. Meanwhile, Sarah showed a white-heated passion for Apolline, vaunting her to Kate.
I had the utter honour of a casual visit by Michelle and Delf, lightly dressed in slim-fit embroidered dawn petal silk satin pyjamas, the Aviatrix was overjoyed with her investment and begged, up close, that I visit her any night and Delf would be with us. They discovered Apolline and were obviously stunned, Delf wouldn’t let go of the prodigy’s hand, like smelling her up as a rare peony. As they —a tad of genderqueer semantics occurred— had always won hearts and souls, such as lately with disarmed Dagmar, they captivated a twirl in Apolline’s soul and went on vaunting the guidance of Cynthia’s, whom they hoped would show up at such a distinguished party in her backyard. Delf knew that I overheard.
My Viking flew in, more aloof than ever but almost demonstrative around me, which earned me round eyes from Kate and Fayelle who had been devising another escapade, to Bruges, it seemed.

It is an easy penchant for alpha males to exchange about their collections, their horses and their mistresses, these two couldn’t talk about cars, I felt wet as Lauritz and Hugo affected not to weigh me up together, as would Sarah say, bitches’ pride. Along with Michelle, they had offered me this superclass venue, possibly much sounder than my timely freshness, hadn’t they?
Cyprien, from under his fuzzy eyebrows, lapped up everyone’s words, such was his thankfulness for a new existence. I assured him he could have all the pretty creatures he dared not yet fully stare at on his settee, in the baroque cloud of Bach. He ran to literally bow down to Camille when she walked in along with a stellar couple of Fanny and Dagmar, this one in a night-blue gleamy pantsuit open on her honey-gold chest, her smile even more disarming than we knew, Fanny at her side in a frilled white shirt and wool white tights and flat white patent Maryjanes. They ran to Kate and ended all three bouncing in the camp bed like toddlers. Camille seized me to walk around the place, said she was proud she had trusted me. In front of the Desiderio, she properly hit on me and said she would be alone home the next day evening, she knew I were in Hugo’s that night, she asked me how it felt to be in high demand —in that sort of way— and promised she would tell me of her growing-up poor, too.
Gauthier, Philippe, and also Theo that I did not know, took a stroll at the same time as Cynthia walked in, wearing a dull violet velvet pantsuit and owls embroidered slippers, coveting Kate and letting her introduce Apolline to her, while Delf had seized her arm. Theo joined, too, blushing as a schoolboy. Sarah had explained Cynthia to me, and indeed she was fascinating like a natural alpha female, I felt nude when she gave me the friendly neighbourly talk, and more, I understood how Kate had been at her whims for years and went all at sea when she left. Cynthia listened to Delf carefully, who held Apolline’s hand, then eventually gave her a long stare while she promised to listen to her upstairs very soon.
Philippe had been captured by Kate, she made him give angelic smiles with probably lewd proposals. Gauthier posed as the trusted feal to Lauritz, and I was one to know, on my life. I was so proud to be his whore and Hugo’s, whoever had been watching me through the eyes of the crow-mask genie.
Natalia, Beryl and their minders, Cossacks for Sarah, showed in and Apolline beamed, Natalia wore black ankle boots, black smooth leggings, and a deep purple glittery silk perfecto-cut jacket on her bare baby breasts. She was another one I wanted to throw myself at, I had this fantasy that Sarah could sell me to her. She overtly made out with Apolline who did not wish for more.
How was I the lady of the house? Once the significant adults had left, I begged Sarah to suggest the meeting was over, she retorted she would, only if I took her along with me to Hugo’s, so I rolled her the Frenchiest of all kisses, and those who had their minds and more set on each other would be welcome two stages up to ease out. Hugo said later he had seen Camille walk out with Cynthia and it looked fine.
Lauritz had grasped at once that I would not be available, but he exchanged a word with Beryl and Natalia and they fled together. Delf spent all her best magic to entrap Apolline to TRÆVIX palace, along with Dagmar and Fanny. Kate seemed ready to face together the Cossacks plus the gay squires, along with the heather fairies.
Hugo liked me in Sarah’s arms, it would not hurt our Venetian spell, and he told Sarah who was stripping me bare.

 

 

 

Sarah says:

We stayed at the Galileo Grand Hotel by the river Arno, the transport had been smooth, I was proud that Camille had let me keep my promise by lending us the SEVEN STREAMS wings, and thrilled that I would own Cecile all to myself for a few days. She was eager to encounter materially the acme of humanist art, she had grown bored of religious iconography, as desirable as Virgin Maries be and troubling the San Sebastians.
She had been wearing adjusted violet velvet jeans, a deep purple high-waisted crew collar alpaca jumper —a tribute by one of her sponsors— and the black Perfecto I had offered her not so long after I crushed for her. Nowadays, she walked in black calf Jodhpur boots, well broken in, with warm parme cashmere socks in them, soon abandoned under an armchair.
I had worn a night blue silk velvet pantsuit with a fitted jacket and spiked lapels, a bright cobalt silk-twill shirt she had liked to fondle during the flight under the keen eyes of the blonde flight attendant who knew me. I had chosen navy blue buffalo leather Chelsea boots.
We ordered linguines with fungi porcini and zucchini in cashew cream, frozen nougat, and the ginger lemonade they proposed and proved to be witty with our meal.
Mischievous as she likes to become in posh hotels —I have been retold so, by her lovers— she already was in her ample black satin pyjama jacket and shorts, lustful at least, when the waiter pushed in the dinner cart, and she wouldn’t have known he be so young and jaunty, she almost blushed but folded up one foot on the cushion and caught his eye briefly. Of course, nothing else could happen, I gave the boy his tip, with a grin that meant there might be a follow-up, eventually.
I went to call her funny names and snog her over the backrest. The food was up to the house’s reputation. Meanwhile, under the table, she gently pushed her foot between my thighs and mumbled I should pull off my trousers, which I did, staring at her, and my travel knickers. I kept my shirt on, spring was still young, I needed some cover on my neck and shoulders, but I showed her my body.
She mused that she felt aroused but lazy, asked if I ever tried to hire a prostitute in Italy, as I knew she had, along with Hugo, done in Venice? I told her that I had thought, when Kate had been hit on by Fanny in the fitting room of her shop, that it had been something of the kind; the follow-on had demonstrated it had not, at least it had turned differently. She questioned me about Fanny’s story, she said it gave her shivers, so we went into the spacious bed. She renounced ordering coffee as she would, we wanted to jump up early. Nonetheless, she was enthralled with Fanny’s redemption, not avoiding the weird implicit arousing of an angel raised in slavery, the consequent massacre, and the brilliant wisdom she now thence radiated. I explained all of Camille’s dedication, by one who had survived an ordeal, and the skills of a Dr Méant —our long nights waiting outside his double-door that Fanny ended to cry her life out.
Cecile was clutched to my imaginary wings, she said she would probably need a Dr Méant, too, but her story was even heavier to unearth, she asked me If I would accept to become an accomplice after-the-fact with her? I was chilled, she still looked that same cheeky-angel self she could distance herself by, but her black eyes gleamed under the bangs, fierce.
I tried to soothe her nerves kissing her nose’s tip, but she awaited an answer, thus I cuddled her up and asked her how dire was her secret so she mumbled she had killed someone. I was dumbfounded, I would never have seen anything like that coming, through my affection for Cecile, the scaffolding babe, the nymphet in the boyfriend jeans.
In the enthralling smell of her now sweaty hair, I tried to get a grip back on my galloping soul, I wondered aloud where this started, telling her I would stop her if I could not cope with the tale. She was the little girl who wouldn’t cry, she could barely breathe amidst a logorrhea of terror, humping my chest with her forehead, all the way to the bottom of that fateful ladder. She did not say.
I lulled her into the idea to sleep on what she had confusingly let out and that I was unquestioning with her, one of ours, then on. I small-talked about the cubbyhole kid and promised I would shag her amidst her magazines, whenever she would want.
In the morning, the smell of Italian coffee and some rustling warned me not to barge into the salon, I spied her, in her pyjamas top, making out with the waiter, dick in the wind, but he was already fighting away; she was of all seduction, a slut princess whom I took already full pride at satisfying, there on the armrest.
Of course, afterwards, she quested my eyes, but I paid attention to signal mutely that I approved of her present misconduct, moreover I had not been scared off by all she had rambled, in the bed last night, only that it could wait until tonight. In the small galley, there was a kettle and a Salam teapot for me to brew some tea I had brought along in my bag.

As a rule, I would normally wait at least ten minutes infusion before I find the proper aromas in my Darjeeling, chosen for me by Elizabeth, in her trustworthy counter on rue du Bac, she sells each year the utter SFTGFOP grades of the first flush in the winning garden. I had time to pull my sinner into the shower and beg her to pee between my thighs, with a girly quiver.
The weather was clear but chilly, I wrapped myself in a black thick double-breasted silk trench, her lambskin jacket did not cover her gracious butt. She made a founded remark on the ugliness of the other bank; when the sidewalk became too narrow for us to walk side by side, we leaned on the parapet in a stubborn kiss, only to be whistled at by some passing bel Ragazzo.
I let Cecile know that I had once whored one Liselotte’s patron who thus bestowed me a highly symbolic grant, with the promise of privileged access to many sought-after venues, like the Uffizi, for one. She shamed me envious when I showed some QR code on my telephone to the guard standing at the back door of the illustrious fortress. I joshed that she might make her way into the Opificio delle Pietre dure in the same manner, leaving to later the explanation of what it would be.
I cornered her in the elevator, warning her to brace herself for what was about to happen to her. Italy owns half of our world’s heritage, I mean ours like the immemorial confluence of bygone realms in Egypt, Mesopotamia, Greece, Rome seen as the whole of the Mediterranean. Tant pis for those who wouldn’t fit, my father once showed me the Treasure Of Sutton Hoo, in the British Museum to tell me how deep he had felt related to its otherworldly beauty, but then, my international education according to most European languages —the dominant ones— have eventually adeemed the heteroclite legacies in my imaginarium, even if nevertheless I would crave bringing Cecile to Andalusia for another honeymoon.
There and now, she would face another cornerstone, one even direr than Hugo’s Venice, the audacious pledge of a resplendent miscreant family, the deadly impious Medici, who became stealth rulers of France and let us the core of what begot the splendour of Renaissance, in the face of the Catholic Church.
Just like all of us have known, she was underwhelmed in the long dark corridor of what remained an office building, one that Napoleon’s goons had not come around to tear down. Her delicious little chin began to unclutch open along in the salons on the side, although she mocked at all the once more unavoidable religious madness, I sensed she was first hooked by the scandalously lustful “Charity” by Salviati, which subject fits so willingly the frame that one owns her already, famished of that offered breast while she looks elsewhere, she couldn’t help sniff the varnish, only to trigger the alarm and need to woo the guard, blushing.
She was stunned by the prowess of drawing and composition of Paolo Uccelo’s panel of San Romano, like an elegantly synthetic theatrical parade, with the insolence of the white horse’s butthole.
I allowed myself to call her attention to Artemisia Gentileschi’s bloody Judith —because I relished telling her the story of a truly extraordinary woman— so as to watch moods fly across her forehead, like flocks of clouds in the moonlight, her eerie gaze afar. She had always had this arousing exophoria, like the indelible aftermath of an otherworldly ecstasy, or the trace of unremittable suffering, whenas it was merely a catchy trait of her spell.
Although —much like me— she wouldn’t buy into iconology, moreover religious, she swiftly took notice that on the wide nativity by Filippino Lippi, black Balthasar was hidden along one edge, she said she liked Balthasar since she saw him, dressed in a white robe, by Hieronymus Bosch, in a magazine. I teased her if she had ever shagged a black man, be him a King or not, she sniggered no, thus I retorted I would arrange that at Philippe’s on our way home.
Her lovely mind had set sail away from her last night angst, I kept coddling her —because I liked it, and I figured it helped her. The real pangs of emotion began with Leonardo’s keen angels, the one holding the robes of a near immodest Christ being baptized by his pal, in another sensuous balderdash no one ever dared to impose on my blue mind, the other telling Maria she’s been impregnated by holy whomever, like many single mothers in dire times, I would believe this Gabriel make me pregnant by the mere spell of his gaze, wouldn’t I? Cecile sneered no more, she sensed the properly legerdemain brush moves of a wondrous adolescent mastery. She had long worshipped the Virgin and Saint Anne, and the Virgin With The Rocks in her Louvres days, after she had read some inspiring article by a Gilbert Lascault in her magazines. I let myself rave about the three feet of the Virgin and her sister, she kissed me with a sacrilegious aftertaste.

She owned up to having overlooked the Virgin in Munich, she had had her doubts as to her face, her somewhat mean eyes, compared to the angelos here. I wasn’t inquiring, she had overjoyed me with her speed romance and shopping in the snow, I loved Lauritz’s chivalry, even Cynthia condoned his Porsche whirrings, sometimes.
Past some wealth of unique masterpieces worthy of a few more lifetimes’ dedications, we entered the Botticelli room, foreseeably awestruck. My own most recent visit had been a school trip when I had been already smitten with Kate, to what she would not respond. I had acted the “beau ténébreux” at no avail and missed, like most of us young game, the marvels around us, with not so much help from our lazy-minded chaperones —it had nonetheless brought me in the bed of a curly-black-haired who had properly broken my loins for most of one night, nothing to brag about, I would have longed to watch the Faerie Queen be done to in the same manner.
Now, Cecile was pulling me around like her puppet and I did not dislike that, I smelled the flowers of her neck, licked the lobes of her ears, she remained fascinated, and when we reached “the Allegory Of Spring” she swooned out on me, so I carried her to a bench. She cried softly, I cried too, any self-conscience of us waned, nobody sniggered. She rested her head down over her arm, upon my lap, staring at the legendary scene. Sobs would surge again, she was overwhelmed. Visitors shied off, mute, I spent tissues wiping her redded face and eyes, she was beautiful, I did not feel dumb.
I walked her all the way to the sunny terrace where she recovered her breath and smiled, then in the nearby cafeteria, she found a double espresso and cookies to dunk. Then she needed the loo and let me come with her, I wanked her good and she shook her tensions off, she was too spent to succeed with me, I finished myself with my nose in her neck. We agreed to come back the next morning, they had been waiting for centuries. Strolling in churches while bantering carnal inventions felt inspiring.
We walked to Santa Maria Del Fiore, but half the world was queuing at its doors, so I remembered a sensuous address nearby, the crypt-like shop of Aqua Flor, so as to flutter some whims. Wherever he came from, the middle-aged attendant who greeted us incarnated the witty Florentine style, all the more when he guessed we came from Paris. He read very well in our relationship and abided by our manners and glances. From the top of my head, I told him I recalled hints of perfumes around the famous Florentine iris, for my girlfriend Cecile. So there it went, in style. He ushered us to a pair of posh leather armchairs but did not blink that we sat both in one, we might have not been the firsts. Like a magician, he begged for Cecile’s fine hand only to rub it with a fingertip of something and sniff, just like Hugo would have, to intuit some bases of my lover’s skin. After the bout of weeping an hour ago, the soft-spoken man could have, at some tenuous signs, fancied that I was trying to make amends for some crisis of sorts, I let out that we had just seen the Botticellis and Cecile hinted a stare from under the bangs. Then, judging upon the finish of our garments that indicated such dedicated handiwork, he handed us paper test strips with drops of the restricted collection, while explaining the long process of extracting the scent of iris, from the roots, after three years of maturation and three other years of drying, then extraction by means of solvents, making the absolute of iris one of the most precious, thus expensive, materia prima of perfumery. Cecile, holding the thin white paper strip that a tenth of a drop had suffused, was about to capsize again. The attendant took a seat and stared at me, warning this —he was pointing with a paper strip— would be the most expensive perfume ever, unavailable in the trade. Enough for me to bid, I could smell it in Cecile’s collar, these carnal emanations that her modest look had nonetheless hinted upon our first encounter, whenas she had smelled of candid Cologne. In fear of Hugo’s sanction upon a folly well above my competence, the scent of it twirling on my soul, I tried to haggle that he would give the formula with the extract, he then smiled and agreed, but said no one could fabricate the scent nowadays, any manner. Besides, I could only buy utter concentration. The price was that of flawless diamonds Cecile would barely wear, anyhow. The flask was a nondescript dark amber professional cylinder with an octagon stopper sealed in a kidskin. The label read “Ultime d’Iris, 1947”. The man wrote by hand a lengthy esoteric formula, dated and signed as I popped out a sober black plastic card. He handed to Cecile a travel-size spray in a cream velvet pouch embroidered with a Florentine lily, telling her tenderly no more than one touch, ever.
I asked what he thought of my own skin, he turned up my wrist and bent over me, I thought he was about to sniff in my neck, but he didn’t.

A tad euphoric, he went fetch another blank phial containing an opalescent liquid, dipped paper strips in, handed them to us, and asked Cecile what she found in it, for me. Cypress, leather, quince, gardenia, jasmine, it was like a velvety silver-white flower found on a windy cliff, I was flattered, and it said sex, vice and ironed linens; like nightly jasmine in the boxwood alcoves at a forbidden rendez-vous. I had to acquiesce at this tour de force, this time the iris had been masked, I had to pay dear, too, with pride. I signed a voucher so as my extravagances be delivered, and the mephistophelian alchemist only had eyes for Cecile, who was being lost in a rain of flowers.
Out of a whirlwind I had wished and would hover in her soul forever, in the Medici potted garden, the Hesperides were in bloom, too, behind the tall walls of the Palazzo Medici-Riccardi, we found there a tranquil corner to kiss and nose at each other; unbuckling her belt, I asked her to spray one note on her lower belly, I did likewise, so then after our games, we could illuminate the wants of those who eyed us so keenly.
We agreed that the palazzo has not been built as a graceful venue for soft-power entertainment, but more as a fortress in a swashbuckler city at war with its neighbour —the most gracious Sienna— but I knew some of it’s inside, though not as enthralling as the morning swoon, was worthy of some awe, would brand Cecile’s soul-searching with one more indubitable hallmark, what she wanted.
And no emotional accelerando would play, like a distant premonition of some Eroica first assault notes, nowadays one enters this bygone nerve centre through its most astounding marvel and, I warned my near-panting iris girl, might as well reverse the course of one’s steps. We didn’t, of course, but then we feigned a jaded sway of our hips and returned to the Gozzoli chapel of the rich Magi.
The day was still young, pale sunlight grazed the market outside of the sombre San Lorenzo I was keeping for later, now, an affable woman sold yellow biscotti in glassine paper, I needed no injunction to purchase a couple of bags, they smelled fresh of lemon and almonds, we sat in a common café so she would order a double espresso. I didn’t try to ask for tea, they made me a rich enough cioccolata to myself dip the cookies. As I had unlocked my telephone, I noticed a message from some Italian name. a Dottore Flavio di Lucca writing he had seen my name and number in reference to Prof. Elsigno, who had thought we might meet if I had time. I googled the inviter, he happened to be a notable middle-aged, slim, smiling type in the Florentine art milieu, and the two of us would not risk dear at meeting him. Thus I answered candidly that it might be an honour to meet him next evening, we were to leave the day after. He proposed to join him on the ground floor of the Uffizi and decide which place to go for dinner, I accepted, once I told him our frugal preferences —I had never inquired the actual tastes of Cecile’s, she retorted she had long fed herself with bread, coffee, and whatever, but since she had known me she liked what I ate, as long as I let her dunk some biscuits, sometimes— he laughed and said that Florence was a city of eateries, of any obediences.
Cecile went to the toilets, hinting not to follow her, I called Liselotte about Prof. E. and she remembered how slutty I had behaved for him;, I sure would be in his books, in purple ink. She asked about my last crush, I told her how heartfully sensitive she had been, in my word she wasn’t a one-trick pony.
That had been a hard work’s day, she dived face down upon the bed, expecting me to unclothe her and massage her dainty loins, she owned all rights to such treatment, even if she dozed out about it. I took my time to tidy our clothes on hangers and crept at her side, breathing her air.
The shower was steamy and whippy, we used honeysuckle orange lather, she saw crowds of Renaissance looks in the phosphenes caused by the hot streams upon her lids. The marshmallow colour terry robes were deliciously oversized. We ordered Walnut stuffed artichokes, hummus and funghi porcini farfalle, Napoletano rice pudding filled with candied fruit, along with a fresh carafe of the bittersweet almond water the barman downstairs used in his cocktails.
Just as I would expect, the waiter was our previously noted admirer, and the look he gave to my gradually opening robe gave me permission to reach for his fly and feel decisive want, Cecile had grabbed the manoeuvre and sat upon the backrest of an armchair, letting him glance at her little quim.
Our meals were under covers, I figured he could allow himself an impromptu, be it some fore note to a worthier shag later in the evening, or not, what would have been taken weren’t to be claimed for, his choice. The robes fell, I lowered his pants, he sported a proud standard. I felt he was ogling Cecile’s all-offered crotch and thus I brought him to her. To me, watching her get threaded, at the ready, in my arms, in that cavalier position, was the utmost reward after a day of attending her first bloomings in so many manners.

She washed in the bidet like a sparrow in a puddle, sat in front of her plate, and now she was crying mutely; in a slip of the tongue, she muttered that had been the way she had shamed herself for years, at his hands, and she had been coming, unabashedly. I played footsie under the table, she did not refuse, I joshed that I would go to hell with her if she let me.
I told her to eat, firstly, the food was light-hearted and she had been hungry, I was showing her she could take up all she wished of my time to alleviate her soul, so long as she would lend me all I wished of her skin. I am crucially not a therapist, only have I often helped broken beings who merely see me listen to the telling of their inner deadlocks, so as to untie the morbid old bonds. I am fully aware that I can only help those I love, probably carnally, and in a social liveability —moreover, I could not deal with the addictions I shied away from since long ago— also, I think I can tell when some hardwired practice is needed, I used one with Prof. Achenbach (one of the few I did never tried to shag) and I have seen probing redemptions all around me.
Hence, it was my sketchy opening to any confession she wished to offload upon my light head and thank the laisser-faire of her upbringing, she had never ingrained the mephitic concept of confession, between the whatever courageous ideals of most of her overworked masters and the chaotic hot air in her random magazine, she would pretty soon, if not already, hold her own wind on her boat.
Yes she had put an end to a life of abuse, and seen the house around her cubbyhole crumble rightfully, the whole perimeter around the great incinerator was poisoned, anyhow —she would carry the concealed angst of dioxin her whole life— but then, were we safer in the heart of the heart of a first magnitude source of microparticles?
Meanwhile, the City of Florence had since long forbidden auto traffic, the chilly wind had waned down the Arno river, and a tiny swish in the salon meant that our Scaramouche liked to fandango. I psst out to call him, or not if it wasn’t him, a curly young head glanced past the dark bedroom’s doorframe, “Vieni qui!” needed I to say.
He was indeed smitten with Cecile, but she read that I craved a good shag of the horn I was blowing, thus she threaded me herself with it, laying on my back, then straddled me so he could lick her all his fill. He was young and plentiful, no sooner had he gorged my grateful vagina than I handed him into my tighter hole, by surprise, so as he humped me even deeper for an outright spend, but soon unsheathed at the benefit of the even tighter gape he had furiously been poking his tongue in Cecile’s arse, and she shouted rage.
After all these expenses, he collapsed, in sweats, so we cleaned him like puppies and the room smelled of licking, the heady scent of assumed vice. His name was Ermelino, his body was silky tawny and his face lighter, he did not shave a feminine dash of a moustache, he sported pectoral and abdominal muscles and a full grown-up Italian cazzo with weighty furry balls. He must have been pursued around the muted corridors of this lavish hotel, where dilettanti like us take easily their whims for granted, but he did not behave like your post coïtum fugitive, so, after a refreshing glass of his own orgeat, he let himself be done the treats of the French, till he was taken into Cecile’s zealous bumhole once more, backwards so I could lap her dizzy clitoris and tasty outpours.
The next morning, she would have wanted to return, first thing, to Botticelli, but since we had this appointment there before dinner, I proposed one or two things before, the frescoes in Santa Maria Novella, and after a coffee dip pause, the stupefying Medici Chapels in San Lorenzo and the Michelangelo Sacristy. She was stretching like a merry kitten, we had played in the shower and perfumed our bellies, we walked in sparkling light chatting about fandango.
Inside the wide nave of Santa Maria Novella, on the simple slabs pavement, some children were left to themselves, we bought a leaflet to sort out the many painters who adorned many peripheral chapels, but I sensed she had pulled the lay curtain and was about to commiserate with the poor artists who had had to execute the religulously lame stories for the priests.
She said nought; a nondescript imbecile tried to sermonise us in Italian about our supposedly immodest attitude, I only retorted he had a crippled mind and I dawdled nonchalantly with my lover towards outside; she did not need to know what he had rambled about. Across the grand place, we found a comely terrace where they did not seem to reprove pretty women, be them arm in arm. An older waiter grasped exactly what I wished for Cecile, with almond biscotti, and even made me some black Scotland tea in a Sheffield pot.

Whatever a useless old fart had made of us, she was all classy in style, with a black silk crepe pantsuit with satin lapels and cuffs, see-through black round neck shirt, black veil stockings and black patent leather round-toed oxfords. She had been mulling over her coffee, she wondered mezzo-voce if she had disappointed me, I swore straight to her eyes it had never crossed my mind, I was the one responsible, she had been kind enough to trust me and I vowed we would have a better day on, I took her hand.
I had been fostering this vision of the Basilica di San Lorenzo in the heydays of our family travels, on a Saturday night we, miscreants, wouldn’t pay attention that it was holy Saturday, thus the church resounded with choirboys chants in the shivering light of candles. The huge gilded portal behind the master altar had been widely opened towards the Princes’ Chapel where an abundance of white flowers sprays adorned the Medici sarcophagus. The scent of all this wealth and the harmonies attuned in the high vaults at that moment had almost let me leak in my knickers, hence run to some shadow to pull off the white knickers, under the keen eye of an innocent older Christian nearby who probably took it as an omen. This would be the kind of stories she craved to hear from me, thus although she believed all that I retold of Michelangelo’s preterhuman genius, she preferred my kiss with my hand on her chest to a round of extrapolations on visibly unachieved ambitions.
As it turned out to be all the more a mischievous sacrilegious escapade, she explained to me, with her hand in my pants, that she wasn’t ready to confront these high spheres of metaphysics, it would break her. If ever she was met with any such matter, she would run to Hugo, Gauthier, or those patrons of mine she would reward of the same currency I did. She had felt driven to the Desiderio dreamt Venice, and seemingly to the best avail. It had revealed to her the magical scope of her long-simmering desire, she begged me to cut corners as for the high-wigs of art history she knew I did not abide with.
I was exhilarated by her unfettered aplomb, I had swiped aside her fringe and her lopsided gaze aroused me more, I told her I could have brought her back to our room, but it would shuffle my conscience about her. Only she did not need to wittingly learn anything there, only let stream the visuals in whatever part of her memory, she would find they would remain in wait. As we wandered disorderly, then, I told her what I had read of the visit by Mark Rothko in these premises, the series of eerie maroon canvases it had inspired, far-fetched echoes of the strictly balanced architecture of white and grey lineature —she didn’t need to know of Rothko unless a proper show be set, like the one our most desirable herd had been drawn to by sweet teacher Tudor Weiss in the holy times, Cecile envied these memories of mine. I floated the promise to take her to London, she found that sexy, she had read a rich article about Turner in a magazine, the painter made her cry, too.
So, there were moments when we would be alone in the lower sacristy, and she had understood it was an all-unfinished work, neither the settings nor the sculptures had been achieved by their most-prolific originator, thus giving leeway to generations of exegetes and rhetoricians, such as a few I had whored myself to, at the devilish advice of Liselotte, she would see some aftermath of this later on that evening, I warned her.
Anywise, she longed to run back to her painterly crush, I saw her beat the pavement like an unnerved colt, I would have craved to abuse of that for favours, but I could obtain all I wanted, couldn’t I? The day was still bright when we ran towards the holy room.
I teased her to cast a crumb of mind at Cellini’s Medusa head, she step-sided for a second, but put it off for later, she had built up a withdrawal, of sorts. We checked in through the back door and took a lift up to the perfect floor. Now she would have seemed to perambulate aimlessly, savouring her steps to ecstasy. She allowed me to let her snuggle her back onto me, like some still dance before the Spring panel. She said one could unleash one’s fantasies here candidly, whatever Zephyr sang to Flora, whoever had impregnated all the seemingly pregnant tall dancers, and Primavera herself, it made for a jolly polyamorist hymn of profane praise, long before our liberated times. I told her that history had it that perfect visions like this caused a horrendous reaction at the time, and many Botticelli paintings were burned on injunctions of a mad monk Savonarola. She frowned, she did not want to know, she kissed me backwards.

An irresistible soft tone voice murmured a compliment in French near us and it was indeed meant for us, Flavio di Luca stood one step beside us, we had been flagged in his computer. He was a gentlemanly curly black-haired, fair-skinned, eager-eyed, young Tuscan, I couldn’t help giving my hand to that he kissed like we were in his home, weren’t we? And he kept Cecile’s all the while I introduced her, as I guessed he knew all the best about me. He wore a double-breasted, misty grey flannel suit, a dull rose shirt and a scale-pattern silver tie.
As I see it happen oftentimes, he was captivated by the dark squinty gaze overshadowed by black curls, he listened to my pushy credentials for my obvious girlfriend, that I held clutched at my side, now,, and he nodded at the names of Gauthier and Cyprien, who had deigned to associate with her, after a most demonstrative work at the von Speck hotel he didn’t know of. He seized the matter to boast his closeness to the Opificio delle Pietre Dure, which pertained to the same Medici foundation as the Uffizi.
Laying what I read as fishing nets, he let Cecile guess he could facilitate all manners of sponsoring, if need be, with the Opificio, in any synergy with the French National Heritage networks. A senior museum attendant in his polyester slate-blue suit had passed to signal that the premises were closing down to visitors.
Hearing how violently Cecile had reacted to the presence of the actual paintings of Botticelli’s, Flavio retold he had broken in tears in front of the “Uffizi Madonna” by Filippo Lippi, and as we had missed it in our tour, he led us to it. We had to concede that our quasi-phobia for all things religulous might have made us run too fast, the portrait was spellbinding, erotic enticing, although the sprogs look like retired clerks. Cecile listened carefully to all the technical processes they had implemented for the conservation of the panel, as he was nonchalantly sniffing her scent, watching for my gaze.
There were some swift wolfly glances, now he was like on the hunt, weighing what of truth amounted about us in the comments Prof. E. had let and seemed to arouse him. At the time I had been introduced, Liselotte had played procuress, I sensed that now then I should induce some frankly libertine manoeuvre to break the ice, so I reached for the glitzy zipper-puller of my dreamy girlfriend and lowered it entirely, then slid my hand in, showing Flavio how docile she rested her head in my neck, letting him the way free as I seized Cecile’s graceful chin to kiss her.
We followed him to his own office in the mostly deserted building, a scarcely furnished, tall ceiling room behind doubled doors. To make clear that he was a bonafide member of the same whatever circle as us, he took out of his wallet the black card and inserted it in the slot at the side of his keyboard, to make appear an elaborate blue rosace on his screen, inscribed “Bienvenue” in a circle, the same screen that lit up when we tested our own same cards, thus the games were opened.
After we had slid back our glossy black vade mecums into our slim lady wallets and into the invisible pockets of our underarms, I was half seated upon his desk, holding Cecile backwards, her fly blooming, she held her head tilted in my neck, available, I was playing with her nipples. With only an innocent murmur, Flavio floated his hand up the thighs and unclutched an easy belt jewel clip that let the trousers blossom in two mauve satin leaves around the bare fruit of Cecile’s quiet vulva. He quested both our mouths and asked if we would follow him to the Cellini Palace Hotel close by.
Having kissed almost ceremoniously Cecile’s quim, he closed her outfit with the dedication of an art expert, then he led us through many corridors, across one street, into a coded backdoor of a high-end hotel. A keen-styled grizzled fit man in a sharp cut black uniform with golden trims looked at me like he had seen me before —but they do that, don’t they? Plus, I would be merely flattered— as Flavio held him another plastic card to scan.
On the noble floors, we entered a private entry to an impressive suite, first, a tall ceiling of blackened beams and joists lit by a Chinese full-room-length paper dragon lantern. The walls of textured mat vermilion, framed in blackened weathered wood, rested on high skirtings of the same. One high bottle-bottoms stained-glass window, out of reach in a corner projected chimaeras. Two deep couches, black leather frames and alternate puffy liquorice and cream coloured cushions faced each other around a large padded black leather ottoman, were encompassing a large yellow polished battered copper irregular disk with a vertical suture-like crevice in its midst, just like the top of a giant cranium. End tables were made of black hardwood inlaid with checkered bone marquetry.
A young, eager eye, black-maned waiter, in a spotless white livery, brought a copper tray bearing deep red amaretto drink, then plates of oven-hot finger-food.

Flavio let us sit side by side, on the other couch, he looked at me freeing Cecile genteel bust of her jacket, the light shirt drawing shadows of her smooth muscles and breasts, one could tell she was a physical operator, as dainty it be. Since her heart confession, I sensed a boundless trust from her, and the need to be dolled up, a fetish I had learned to love since long, in the scented nooks of Paradise.
Still wearing my fuzzy dark-grey-carmine silk tweed two-piece suit, I knelt to unshoe her and play, and I felt Flavio’s hand on my butt and my trousers sliding down. I let him, as I fetched a wet kiss on Cecile’s lips. It is a flawed legend to speak of birdlike appetite since birds actually eat a lot more than I and Cecile do, moreover when it’s time to fulfil a Cavaliere’s wants. With a flurry of swishes and moans, we all finished au naturel upon the graphic cushions, Flavio was totally the type to be watched at, in the slim grace of a classic musculature but the true amplitude of a tensed up penis, not the miserable weewee that crowds of virgins applaud on a famed David.
He relished watching us cuddle up with each other like astray cousins, intuited that Cecile would comply with crude orders he might utter in the right tone of urgency, he told her to accept his dripping glans through her lips, then insensibly further and on as she movingly played abandon, whenas I had seen her the night before gulp in another proud sabre.
At that moment, Flavio, who kept all of his superb in the nude, glanced over us and mused aloud if we would accept another greenhorn stallion in our game, that would be an apple in my basket since he, himself would unfailingly shag my most abiding partner very soon. I retorted he must have had some idea, so he laughed that the young waiter was still at the door, probably as tense as a mooring rope and safe as a newborn, tested.
Bruno didn’t wait for anyone to unclothe him, he smelled of lemony Cologne and was groomed as a bride. At once I sensed that he would be a trifle more than a mere abettor to Flavio, who, while he was deep in Cecile’s cunt, took pleasure to guide the boy’s maddened dick to my nasty mouth. I am some fairly trained slut, despite any candid looks I might be deemed for, so it was a mere petty game to confiscate the toyboy and ignite his loins in my own right.
He was a decent-minded playboy, once I enlaced him inside my widely parted thighs, he queried my eyes and ventured half a smile, so I knew I could give him all the leeway a courtesan would not. I wasn’t that older than him, but I could respect a truthful set of mutual elation he could live by, come what may, it seemed he wasn’t boarded on the wrong boat, as to that.
Flavio summoned all to the grand bed in the next room, so we could mingle closer, both had discharged a first merry load, my bumhole was drooling thus, and I had not been too surprised to discover the full array of sexual toiletries in the bathroom, Bruno had eventually buggered me at no damage, he wasn’t so much of a debutant. Now Flavio craved to watch him satisfy Cecile.
The room was also red, and dark, except for an opportune chandelier above the bed —lamps don’t set fire anymore— hanging in the pleats of the bold striped liquorice-and-cream hanging around the canopy, above the same satin sheets and same colours checkered pillows.
I asked Cecile to let herself be done another round and I knew she would swoon in awe as a new mouth seized on hers, then travelled greedily down to her womb and flourished vulva. Flavio had casually poked a tongue in Bruno’s bald butt-crack, once Cecile was ensheathed again, I gave my wet petals to her tongue. Then, seeing that his minion went prettily deep into her at no end, he upturned me so as I kiss her beloved mouth and he shag alternately my willing holes.
Once we recovered our wits, and Bruno was all eyes for Cecile, we dipped into a common bath in a sarcophagus-shaped basin, in a
neroli yellow and white jasmine scent as little innocent as the Vatican banner, and Flavio was profusely grateful, expansive with wishes to see us again and help Cecile earn all the credit she would in Florence. Bruno then stood at attention again, but Cecile had given all, only a weathered slut like myself could endure one last cartridge through the lather.

All-powerful he be in the city, Flavio wouldn’t shy walking two French damsels back to their hotel, but it was at my arm that Cecile clung, modestly. He promised to send heaps of documentation and to open the database for Cecile, and I sure knew he would. Now that he had let us in the know of all his carnal tastes, I ventured I might suggest a visit by our friend Theo, a genteel, congenial intersex Australian writer who would excel on the matter of Florence in the Grand Tour days. My plea, and my telling that I had let Theo play all he wanted of me, interested Flavio. He sent us up to our sleep in the mute of night, begging that we return, with a tad more glances on Cecile’s side.
Back in our room, we were in love with each other, we disrobed and hugged in rounds. Then she was hungry, we ordered coffee, biscotti, panettone and a bottle of Ferrarelle. Little did we foresee who would drive our trolley, and he was all smiles, like a sure gainer. We were dancing one foot another like a pair of mischievous damsels, but I wouldn’t have the heart to beat him cold since we had been slutty enough to use him the night before, so then I dropped my robe like your casual tart, not knowing what my companion felt like —she had just been more than honoured by two dedicated swordsmen— and I reached for his belt buckle as he mouthed my well-trained lips. My intention was to drain him properly, like a faultless whore, so I sat down on my heels and freed his cock at attention. Nevertheless, he wanted at least to ogle shy Cecile, so in a one-finger grab he unleashed her robe belt and he pulled her close while helping my nape in the pumping. Thankfully, his gun was still on the first perkiness that night, thus he offloaded a mouthful before I would even start to bore, and I let him as clean as a baby, telling him it had been a windfall to have him; rightfully soothed, he understood it had been a farewell treat, so he let Cecile dunk enormous shreds of panettone in her coffee.
On the pillow, she said I still smelled of hints of semen, and it made her feel like a happy little harlot, with me. Then, in a weightless lapse, it was an orderly morning of telephone accommodations, tea much too dark, Cecile’s eyes through her bushy bangs, the taste of her almond biscuits and coffee in her kisses. A silent black berline was allowed to take us away to the airport, she wore plum silk velvet jeans and a nympheas fluid jersey crop top, she thanked me for the staple in her heart, I knew that a truckload of books in many languages had already been dispatched to her room, we all know that. I teased her that she would droop under all the demands to accompany her to Florence, but she retorted that, to her, Botticelli would always smell of me that day, when I had gathered her, swooning, in my arms. It was said in a voice that broke my tears, only one Ayla Naveen had branded my soul that way, I began to retell her story to Cecile, who made me promise I would let her know my little Swiss whore.

Kate says:

Sarah was so proud of her trip to Florence with Cecile, it wouldn’t be long before all of us feel the urge to go, too, and woo the irresistible Cavaliere, are we not sluts?
Meanwhile, our transangel Appoline was overjoyed after a night next door with my devoted Cynthia, who had impeccably taken up the Parisian pace, polished her French and sorted out a social life. Her latest book, called “Cherubino’s slipper” was actively being translated to French under Hugo’s supervision and Theo’s mediation, programs were being recorded for the French public radio.
We had a genteel conspiracy dinner in Cynthia’s ethereal aviary where I was the only plain female libertine, with benefits. Remained to procure Appoline with the psychological help she claimed, the nearest already saw Fayelle in therapy, she wouldn’t foster a friend of hers, and I had not personally broken properly the ice with her.
I found it amusing that Theo and she became plausible lovers, unabashedly even in my bed so as I participated, at Natalia’s awe when she surprised us. My over-the-mills sister had soon crossed many lines that I would not condone, like, for one, getting drunk and sputter hate speech, thus, as much fun it had been fucking with two siblings at once, I put a stop and she went cruising with the wrong crowds I had since long reneged, Oh, Sarah!
Whatever went, now I felt out of step towards Cecile who aroused me as well. I had sensed that she could smell me fine, I had the hunch she was a submissive tramp, with a beautiful soul, though, that my slut Sarah had sniffed out at once. Cecile had relished being pimped richly by Lauritz, more than he ever did of me, I invited her on a random journey with Hector.
I felt I should put Sarah in the confidence, so I told her my whim in bed, while everyone was romancing elsewhere. She read me fine, like she always did when I opened up to her, she told me more about Cecile’s craving to let be done, once she had set her trust in someone, she would be a born prostitute, but she had chosen where to moor her skiff. Sarah protested she was no one to grant permission, but she assured me I would share heaps of pleasure going out with Cecile in Hector’s car.
I chose we go nude in traditional Uzbek man’s black velvet richly embroidered in gold, lined in the smooth caress of padded black silk velvet; as for myself, the same manner of thick chapan man’s coat in plum velvet embroidered of silver arabesques, also lined in black padded velvet. Black stay-up stockings can be a hassle if one were to walk or dance, but they are the only elegant wear of legs willing to part at a whim. She had strass knots patent leather court slippers lustfully fit for her slender feet Sarah worshipped, I slipped in silver round-toed ballerines, we made-out gently, so as to make sure we could act as dignified prossies in Hectorland.
Slate blue velvet on the plump rear seats of life-size cars flatters so much more the raw skin of the butts which wallow upon them. She smelled of some English perversion of Florentine iris, Hector was instantly spellbound, as he sat on the other side of my so innocent-looking comrade. He would not long miss that it sufficed to let his hand glide up to meet the warm promise.
I knew the chauffeur, too, of boundless memories. The car was a deepest-black varnished long body berline, certainly not one to be missed. It smoothed away along the river Seine, the Concorde place up to the Arch of Triumph in the moment of the balance of all lights against the dusk, and down along a side road of the Avenue Foch. Not was it uncanny to fathom why the two stooges had steered under these winds, the puppetmaster craved to stare at this new lamb in the throes, under the greedy awe of the mad wankers.
In the filtered glow of the passenger’s lights, I wondered if it was her weird diet or else stealthy gymnastics that gave her that slim belly, not that the comparison shame my own, but she would show the two rows of ticklish abs muscles we all have grown a taste for. We necked like a pair of swans, I made her pump on Hector’s dick… and it was time already to move under the police blinking lights, to the dismay of many a good family man caught in the act of grabbing a chunk of free lust.
We headed through the Bois de Boulogne and westerly, to one of these secluded, timeless neighbourhoods that smelled of lime trees in bloom. The unavoidable portal was signalled with two dim lamp posts, Hector operated the doors from his telephone, and the wooded property was shielded behind man-height banks planted of evergreens and rhododendrons, and enough sunken space for a dozen cars was almost filled with luxury cars when we parked. Hector said we should have some fun, the chauffeur followed us in, through glazes doors, a dark mirror-walled entry leading to the counter where we all showed our credentials and gave up our coats and telephones.

It was warm in there, dark with here and there a dash of polished bronze, it smelled of benzoin, frankincense and myrrh, expensive sweats and fluids; subdued music gave me the idea that Miles Davis’ team of A Silent Way still waiting for him, biding their time ad-lib. The black thick-pile carpeting made walking a game, Cecile snugging at my side. Our minders had kept on their tuxedos and patent leather loafers but Hector had his hands on our butts.
A true blonde sylph swayed her narrow hips before me, pinched one of Cecile’s nipples and asked if the girl was mine, I retorted she would have to lick my bum before she could play with her, so she laughed and pushed us upside down in a loveseat she had already aimed at and showed us how to perform like a purebred bitch. I had to concede and my bride was drawn away after she kissed me farewell. Still, I followed with Hector’s hand gaining clout in my bum crack.
The depraved blonde brought smirking Cecile to an arm-span red copper plate on the ground, with sundry attendance around, mostly half-shagging, and fetched a considerable cat o’ nine lives while two other nude bitches held her by the arms, jittering. At the first strokes across her rumps, I wetted like a schoolgirl at the parade, to my dismay, but then soon I ran to put myself in harm’s way, clutched at Cecile’s back, amidst bolsters of laughs and cheers to the whip. When the tormentor was spent, we both shone with red imprints and kissed out of our minds while three black dancers began anointing us with the soothing oil that they were dripping with themselves, their pulsating cocks pricked up. Cecile muttered that her womb was beating like a drum, I felt I was hardily penetrated, the splendid men began the hokey pokey gang alternately, driving us on edge, eventually gushing at the crowd’s applause. Seeing us so defenceless, at the ready, men with different calibres and lengths swarmed upon us on the slippery warm metal, unflinching, two or three at a time. It was the cock-pit of gold-diggers, our now naked minder Hector fending off the unwelcome brutes.
I must have swooned at some extremity, I woke up in Cecile’s arms, in the midst of a pearly grey plush bed, my nether parts purring, my anus supple as a glove. We were fresh and smooth, we smelled of that sacred lotus I had dreamt before; holding Cecile, I was wondering what had actually happened to us, she laughed that we had for good been ragged, tagged, bagged, and shagged Navy-style and we had liked it.
Our chauffeur, who showed desirably lusty feet, brought a tray with pastries and drinks to our taste, and uncovered the massive knocker I had already experienced in our expeditions; if he had not been one of our assailants, he would certainly claim his reward in the same currency, and I would certainly not neglect the safeguard they brought to sluts of our precious kind. Besides, as I revelled up close to Cecile’s dainty face, I knew we very well could fuck another army.
Something in the play was missing, and the fact that our rightfully called bodyguards had not yet arrogated our mouths kept me on watch, until, of course, Louis came out of the shades in one of his signature Victorian silk robes, dark purple printed with black thistles, black padded satin shawl lapels, he sat with us, watching us eat and drink, caressing Cecile’s foot he had never seen.
As the two olive-skin stooges kept standing aside from the bed, their boss vaunted our unmatched grace at being devastated, he asked Cecile where she came from, she preferred to tell she was a stray orphan that Sarah had singled out on a scaffolding, which was the funny truth anyhow. Louis had known of her escapade to Venice, and Hugo had vaunted the talents of Annachiara whom he thought of inviting to Paris, did Cecile actually hire her?
The roué aesthete wanted to sniff our martyrised innards before he asked the tray be taken and that his flunkeys help themselves of us right there before him and no sooner had he given the orders than Hector seized Cecile’s nape and let her amuse him with curlicues of her tongue while the hunky chauffeur ensnared me so well as to readily hump on my bumhole he knew would require not more than his spit to let slide even a burly cosh like his own, taking time to feel me roll my loins, kiss him backwards like a mermaid, knead the desire that had been on the verge of completion since he had had to watch us being ravaged utmostly; he gushed to the farthest of my shivering innards, arched against my basin, and I dripped along our clutched thighs in yet another maddening crisis. Cecile had been capsised legs in the air, Louis’ dick into her throat, Hector’s drill all the way deep inside her genteel anus, moaning at each of the ultimate humpings they gave, wanking her tiny nerves till she gushed over her belly while both abettors invaded her insides.

Louis told his stud horses to fetch towels behind the headboard, he did not want us to wash, but to keep smelling of all our animal juices, whatever the whim be, I had known some of the most fantasmatic bathrooms in his Parisian hotel, and moreover, once the excesses licked clean, I too relished the lewd smells of sweats and juices, only here then I needed to piss elsewhere than in the midst of the bed.
The master took my hand and ushered us —Cecile would have a leak, too— to a white marble cubic shower room with an elegant bowl near the door, but he asked us to piss over him as he lay on the floor, that we did, crouching face to face holding hands, to the last drop, but the indefatigable debaucher requested the most of vice, he told his two servants to urinate fully into our arses to further the game another round. It was a dizzying sensation to defecate all the warm liquid out of our bowels upon the pale skin of Louis, and he admitted we all then needed a shower. They wiped us tenderly in every nook and led us back to the bed, embraced, her tight little tummy slightly gurgling, making me banter that I would not bet we be out of the woods, so far. And foreseeably, while Louis niggled Cecile’s candid face and mouth anew with a half-baked willie, the other two had rekindled their guns with clear intentions, since all boundaries had been joked off and lubed in, only physical pain or collapse would have sagged the want. Hector was already halfway back in Cecile’s vagina this time as she pumped back stamina from Hugo’s glory, having not budged from my sideways pose, I was enjoying the stubborn strain into my relaxed arse by the silent one who panted in my neck, I turned my head to suck on his febrile tongue as he pressed the root of his balls in my bum crack and hurled his glans in my sensitive guts.
One last saxophone lucubrated his loaded genius from a muted alcove as we straddled over indecent sleepers and gathered our coats, on faltering hips. Our loyal chauffeur rolled glistening eyes, the car felt like a ghost ship through the blue mists of dawn.
At home, someone had displayed a new tin of Venetian baicoli near a bouquet of dark Baccara roses. Endlessly lascivious, Cecile persisted in making some coffee as I helped her stand with my hands on her satiny breasts, from her back.

Cecile says:

Kate was all enamoured of me in the surreal scent of roses and coffee, she tried a biscuit, as I do, in my cup, so as to show me she still wasn’t overspent, and she did not let a chip sink. I wanted her to sleep with me, in my usual room, and Appoline was already there, dreaming of angels, her minute spur erected like the last joke to our epic journey. Kate had fetched some herb-smelling ointment for our hustled and bustled lady parts that almost made me come again when she applied it thoroughly in. Eventually, we collapsed on each side of our elusive cherub, her toy-like pee-wee in my hand.
Through the cross motive of the metal plate through the partition of my stealth cubbyhole, from the folded comforter I lay on, I have the vision of a world of trouser flies and women’s undergarments, dirty shenanigans and shabby dogs sniffing me out. Once in a while, I see a woman bend upon a man’s dick and suck while I feel her glance at me with swaying eyes. They all smell of filth and smoke, hot mop and coffee, semen of when he lets me run from the cellar or the toilet, with the cruddy face of his sick content. They have walled up many of the houses in the neighbourhood, I have to walk much further to buy bread for my empty-stare father, but I like that, I had better continue all the way to Paris if the police wouldn’t find me. I read in a magazine that evil people hunt for brats like myself to enslave them, and it has made me touch myself, I had better do the slave for thieves than be used on a toilet seat by my smelly uncle. Now they have torn down most of the streets around, I have seen the plain of rubbles in the moonlight. I hear my father say he will never concede his property, and he says the construction teams are good clients. Now then I pee and poop in a bucket since they chased me in the corridor to tear off my jeans, just like the other pig. My mother will never listen when she hurries me for school, buttering my rusks and pouring a bowl of coffee for me she has done herself on the stove because she won’t use the machine. When I try to tell her what happens to me in the windowless maze of their hovel, she frowns and shakes her head, what has she done to the good Lord? At school, for six hours and the canteen hour, I mimic the children who smell of fancy soaps and wear branded sneakers, watching the whereabouts of the guarding adult to avoid being cornered by bigger boys, they all want their hands down in my jeans, my mother never allowed me to wear two knickers, what has she done to the good Lord. I was in Mister Estival’s class for two years, he smelled of mint and lavender, even about his fly which was often right under our noses. He never touched me other than a funny scratching on my hair when he read that I had understood some remark. Sometimes, I had a fantasy of being Mister Estival’s slave, with a collar and a leash as I had seen in those magazines my mother kept under the counter and were sold in garish wrappers. Contrary to most pupils, I loved dictations and the following explanations the next morning, the good teacher was imprinting our foolish minds with indelible language and moral tricks that, for me, never wore off. Mister Estival was savvy enough not to let me stand out as his pet.
I woke up to the superlative prowess of Kate’s lips and tongue upon my labia, still touchy from Louis’ and his guests’ stampede of us, she wanted to query my pardon for having thrown me to the wolfpack, that was why I told her my dream, naked at the breakfast table when Natalia barged in and pulled a chair next to mine. Rather than pinching my tits, like I knew she would have, she grazed my body like one would a child, I understood that she was so fully aware of her privileges, daughter of a housemaid but under propitious stars, devilish little mistress in Kate’s bed, an expensive courtesan at her own account, she was overwhelmed to see me as I was, and she knew the easiest part of my life. She wore a snazzy gold watch, it was time to run to school, not only did she was shagging the professors, but she attended classes.
Kate had been crying about my past, I welcomed her downstairs where Richter set us on track. She had slid on mist-grey ribbed icebreaker leggings, with no undies, and an oversized lichen-green cowl neckline sweater, she wore grey suede Egyptians. She was proud of the pile of books I had received from Florence, she almost raped me softly guessing how we had made the Cavaliere’s head spin, thus it was a nicer tale to give her the urges to wank me there on the table, and she was not surprised by what Sarah had made me do.
There were a few lavish albums on Botticelli, she was amazed when I told her of my total entrancement in front of the actual paintings, my fainting into Sarah’s arms she envied so much —Richter couldn’t save me that one time.

Sarah says:

I had received a tin-sounding call from in-flight Michelle wondering about Appoline, who had not followed them on a brief New York trip. I wouldn’t know where the Cherubino had been, I promised to call when she would come up. All I knew was that things had gotten interesting between the transgirl and Cynthia, there would occur no further inquiry as to where she perched and whom she cuddled, she smelled like an almond and honey baby, her gazes rounded up.
She liked the pair of the Heather Fairies who let her cuddle under their wings —or more. That morning, they had decided Annabelle would read Marcel Schwob’s “The Wooden Star” that we all knew already, only Appoline began to sniffle and cry after a few pages, urging Annabelle to continue and muffing her cries in the plaid. She had been barefoot in slippers, I crawled down to kiss them, it soothed her just like my father had said about myself, in the days of verdigris steeples and grey-vested crows.
James announced himself, the all-incestuous adoptive father of Annabelle’s after the ordeal she had lived in Glasgow’s slums, he has been rare lately, not leaving his Montmartre hideout, but he was overjoyed his blond fairy had nested amongst us, he had always vowed utter trust in Hugo. I knew he loved to seat in the studio, in the red armchair he had himself bought, but then slanky Apolline was resting on it, with her slender feet at my whim. James ignored the trans nature of that new candid angel, and the thick fleece of the misty blue tracksuit let only guess some timid breasts. Apoline did not play queer, after stretching all her length, she squarely told in James’ stare that she was trans, from always. James joshed it certainly be no inconvenient to him, by what he could see, and he winked at me massaging her feet. She briefly hiked up her sweater so he could ogle her perfectly smooth bust and a pair of timid breasts that made James whistle like a London cabbie. He took his ease on the red sofa —another gift of his— keeping care of not hustling Annabelle who read upon her folded legs. Now he craved literally to see what it was of Apolline, and it would be no hard guess she would abide by his want, so she stood candidly in her own light, soon erect as a street brat, for the awe of the old artist who muttered they would have hidden such delights until our blessed times. He hurt his coquetry in pulling out his spectacles to admire the smoothest skin on Appoline’s belly, and couldn’t help fiddle pizzicato to hear some falsetto laughs, he flew on cloud nine.
When I sat back in my chair, she ran to sit on me, she was light as a cat. Candid children still believed they would board for Holy Land when a twist of fate brought Delf, as casual as they would be at home, happened at our door, begging for pardon. They wore an overwashed rose tracksuit and no shoes, their feet delightedly small on the rug. Proud of her incident, not in the least bothered to find Appoline naked on my lap, they walked up and cuddled up on her companion’s shoulder, explaining mezzo-voce that since Appoline had not been flying along with them, they had decided neither to go.
Meanwhile, Annabelle had lost sight of the children’s crusade, of course, there we had two disarming souls, one rested au naturel upon me, not insensibly, the other rocking my swivel chair for pardon. I took pretext of the loo to abandon the place, and when I came back, I went to sit by James, who accepted a brief update on Delf’s essentials while reckoning it had been a while since he last smell me.
Delf knew how to unroll the futon behind the sofa, a tribute to their main lover, would they know? Annabelle cried when she discovered she had all along read the heartwrenching story of the little children’s death, vowed to the mirage of a deep-sea Jerusalem, by the will of evil-minded humanity. Fayelle should console her and reap a scattered swag of James’ kisses on her nape and everywhere else.
Thus, pretending to be engrossed in my work, I reckoned It might still be time to tell Liselotte I would tout de suite avail my person to a skilled shaft, I needed some dick. Unnoticeable, I covered my work, screwed my colour phials, and tiptoed downstairs. Yes, Liselotte figured my heartbeats, she craved to feel me such, slutty and fool-hardy. She gave me thirty minutes to ready my hide.
First reassurance, the car was long-body and new, silver sheen and silent, the leather seats night-blue, the rear windows shaded; it glided eastward through Cecile’s desert, further in wooded lands in the middle of which we attained a finely wrought portal higher than the cavalier with a feather in his hat.
I had donned a luxuriously fluttering oversized shirt dress of azurite and teal ribbed twill, in biais with loose wrists, already opened til my navel. I had had time to paint my nails navy black, and clutched on my neck a cobalt crystal choker —Liselotte had ordered me never to wear my expensive jujus on these random occasions. Shimmering sapphire silk stockings held up to stripe bands alone, my thighs slim enough not to let them slip down; matched patent opera pumps with grosgrain knots were eventually making of me the kind of game Liselotte sold, at a price.

The chauffeur, of whom I had not seen the eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, operated the doors with his telephone and drove at a walking speed through a “Capability” manner of a park, a meandering road leading from a viewpoint to the next in the headlights’ beams, meeting sundry enlightened animal eyes, visibly used to the encounters. I lowered the pane so as a heady forest scent wrapped me over, stronger than the souvenir of a Florentine cellar my nose would no longer discern on my own skin, only on my elbow’s vein.
The seemingly vast estate had to have been something midway between an abbey and a folly desert in the manner of the Hellfire Club, of Sir Francis Dashwood. We passed posterns and walled alleyways, unterminated gable corners, all mindfully draped with climbing roses and wisterias, amidst the untouched clutters of wilderness, statues in candid immodesty in their exact rendition of ideal nudity, bar the size of manhoods. Random lamposts dispensed a timid mauve light at inconspicuous places.
Standing on an open, disorderly slabbed space, a tall black man awaited, in a high-collared deep purple velvet cape, Cossack-style dancing boots with maroon lapels, and a fitted black livery. At a stone throw behind him raised large apparatus walls of what should have been the stronghold, some towers remaining solid, one hatted with a bartizan, against the moonrise.
The chauffeur had run to my door and kept his hand on my doorknob until I looked up to let it open, lighting my path from under. The tall usher saluted me by my name as the car whispered away. He was holding his telephone up to me, so I could see Liselotte smiling her best manipulative way, but I had asked, hadn’t I? She told me to untie the last buttons, she had bet —with whom?— that I wore nothing, and her cameraman showed her top to bottom. I wasn’t even wet, yet, she simply said that I should trust and indulge the whole household, that of a dignified connoisseur she had long pondered to have me delivered to, as she had herself been guest many times, since middle school. She recommended Balthasar, I understood It would be he, who smiled at me as he shut the conversation. And once he had slid the phone into an inner pocket, he seized my chin and pulled me against him with a delicious wet kiss. Already in the core of the matter, my mischievous mind recalled the conversation Cecile and I had had in Florence about Balthasar, so I titillated myself with the fantasy of my slutty kitten grappling with this sculptural being.
Once he had, under the laughs of the local gang of owls, tested my complete willingness to whore smartly, he led me to the mostly ruins where a few windows gleamed goldenly behind uneven stained glass. Before we reached the door, there was another predictable waypoint atop the marble octopus on the pillar at the edge of the perron stairs, my feet gathered upon the tentacles, my quim flaunted to the Royal staff I had unleashed from his trunks. Liselotte, in her sous-entendu, had been right. My anus was kissing the smooth skull the size of a watermelon, my tuppence between the protruding eyes of the undersea ghost, Balthazar, holding my waist safe, sheathed a long heated penis in my offered entrails, like the best recollection of my back-stables carnal ventures, with the same whirl of abandon and the echoes of Ayla’s laughter calling me a whore. In the best of all omens, we christened in unison the predisposed figure; I asked if he would wish I cleaned the mess on his staff.
He considered me with awe, showering me with chosen compliments, calling me appraising names, vaunting my boyish figure and my taunting docility. He fiddled on a lit keypad by a low arched door and pushed. A whiff of warm, scented air, blew my dress around my hips, I walked in like a little soldier.
A long corridor ended in the dark, the black polished floor scattered with antique runner rugs, dissimilar wall faces of ashlar stone, brick, and timber frames succeeded randomly like an immemorial street, under an uneven beams ceiling. It smelled of sandalwood, copal, and leather soap like in a rich, noxious saddlery, with a hint of fresh hay.
He told me that I wouldn’t want to wear anything that hide my desirable features, down to my feet, to which he relished the finely varnished toenails, how in the hell do girls find the time? He tidied all my belongings in a closet, embraced me more and walked me into the maze.

As he knew he would remain a conduit, a well-provided one, at that, Balthasar led me grudgingly forward, his dick still jolted upon my belly as he offered me the skill of his lips, but we reached a taller arched door between two Venetian lanterns on staffs, made of the ribbed glass Hugo had said made my eyes sparkle, at San Rocco.
The room was convoluted and labyrinthine, arch-knowledgeably panelled of dark polished wood, draped at the whim with dark yellow brocade and all the operatic trimmings, bobbles and silk ropes, the full swell of brothel lyricism, a Ziegfeld set for me to star in, Balthazar drumming upon my bum.
It reminded me of the Speck grand salon, Cecile had confided to me —Cecile would always confide all to me— the place had served as a licentious hive to the needs of the occupying German special services. With attention not to form any symmetry, russet velvet bed-settees with back-rests offered sundry invites to lay on, for an elegant crew in all stages of untidiness. In the clearer spot, a richly unbuttoned player eyed me invitingly while a nude blondish nymph pumped him lazily, who happened to be sweet Fæbian Elsterwelt, a random recruit of Liselotte’s, famed in all the most expensive bawdy palaces of Imperial memory, whose history —she is merely my age— gives me honeysuckle roses in my womb, a bonafide courtesan on par with my dear Ayla.
The music seemed to unfurl as a top hifi of Robin Guthrie and Harold Budd, resting her befuddled partner, she jumped up to my neck for a slow sarabande that earned a few applause. At once, she knew what I had let myself be done to, she named the perpetrator at the taste of my quim. She drew me aside to a crooked recess leading to the wet room, lovingly tiled of disparate potsherds, slabbed of veined black marble.
Yes, Liselotte had brought her back from the eastern cattle farms to these healthier altitudes, this one she suspected belonged to Victor, Kate’s old mighty paramour, unwittingly disgraced after he tentatively raped Michelle, the Aviator in our firmament, since. But Fæbian, while wanking me in a basin of tepid fragrances, wanted to hear from me that I shared her vices, I asserted it had been a chance I did not hold shop of my arse full time, we laughed and I soiled the waters, at her hand.
The suitor she had only half-served had not drawn a conclusion, thus he awaited, fully undressed, dick in hand. He must have been some horseman, he manoeuvred my weight so that I straddled him as he wished, skewered to the hilt, as he told Fæbian to deploy her tongue twirls in my arse and his balls. Since he had refrained, it didn’t take long, my hip swivelling helping, for him to gush a good swig into my vagina, with hearty growls.
Hence, I had been enthroned a most valid lightweight slut, and like in a marigot the crocodiles, rascals in arms raised from all sides, with manners. A smooth voice, I believed that of he who had taken a turn into my drippy vagina, asked permission to bugger me; judging on his easy allure, I retorted him to help himself, that he did properly, for my unabashed contentment and cheers from Fæbian, who was afforded the same on her part.
It had been a fixture of Victor’s parties to mingle plain bourgeois with mischievous hedonists like us, nowadays I would suspect that he use the setup to compromise his acquaintances. Half of the onlookers still wore their evening garbs, men in dark silk suits, their likely wives in long gowns, acting horribly self-conscious. When I had enough of being outright used and I coaxed Fæbian to the wet room, and she revelled like a toddler in a puddle, we devised to go pervert all these babes in the woods.
Devilish and refreshed, we returned as three obvious taxi boys were bringing large silver platters of hors-d’oeuvre, hence the amateurs overcame their sideration and moved even so remotely, allowing me to come and sit next to a palatable peacock-green shantung sheath-dress ginger bride in her twenties who blushed at my naughty face and couldn’t help sniffing my scent.
I entangled her in small talk, for the relish of her fiancé who couldn’t have denied being bulgingly aroused. I knew where the zipper of her backless gown was, and she must have complied with her beau’s whim not to wear much else. She had dawn gold eyes and natural flaming lashes. Turning towards her, I parted my thighs, offering a sight of my bare labia, so I knew she had been a dormitory queen not so long ago. Around us, ice was being broken under liberal flows of champagne, and a tray of black mirror bore lines of a blue powder I recognised well. I got hold of her hand, her name was Percy, they lived in London and they had disembarked from the Eurostar in the afternoon. Scenes were heating up around us, Fæbian’s arse was being licked thoroughly by a still fully dressed white-skinned brunette, Percy could not imagine a tomboy like me she had seen buggered thrice on the same bench as she sat on would let her alone.

Fiddling with her fine tapered fingers and iridescent-painted real nails, guessing a forlorn society girl on the verge of high-flying prostitution, my preferred kind of relish since my paradise school years. I told her there would not be rape in any manner, but she could verily enjoy the time of her life, unbeknown to her parents, under my greedy watch, and my hand was sneaking in her thighs, she wore no undies.
She rolled helpless eyes, like allowing me all the leeway I craved, her dress fell silently, and her owner had freed an honourable dick that spersed clear drops of impatience while we whirled our tongues like true comrades.
I called, so as her precious gown be taken care of, Balthazar winked an approval of what Percy now showed, her thin golden sandals as the only costume of the perfect whore she was becoming, I revelled telling her that, and she blushed wonderfully. She wouldn’t be the first white goose I would help spread her wings, and I do it for mere pleasure, don’t I?
I felt she needed to be called by all the names of her precious features, beginning with the rose petal of a tongue I forced her to pull for me, and showed her to frolic with upon the glans of her overjoyed fiancé I had told to disrobe since he would not leave. She had visibly not been schooled in fellatio, firstly, I had to demonstrate that liquid dripping from the little slit was not disgusting and merely tasted like tears, she blushed again when I told her to lick my eyes.
She should keep in mind that male want is more instantly ruthless, so we should quench this one before we could frolic together or whatever? She was a fast learner, as fast as I had made her fall for me, She was horrified to watch me swallow the sabre to the hilt, but, all vices having suffused in her veins, she succeeded to withstand until he gushed in deep, then obey my order to gulp it all. Her mouth tasted like all the perverted little games I had ever known, my first had been that fisherman’s son, in his rowboat at Christiansø.
He had understood that he should go mingle with the genteel crew of which most love paths had now become available; I fostered the fantasy to watch Percy being buggered by Balthazar —if we could rekindle him and his prodigious spear. We amused our desacralised mouths with candied fruit, she said she had never, at twenty-two, been part of an orgy, at least with men, for she had been raised in a girls-only school, and I could tell by the way she made me come at the tip of her tongue.
She was one of the country-house milieu, her father had been a known barrister before being swept in a society scandal and taking his own life inside the family vault where he was found years later; he hadn’t been a beloved father, he had constantly slid his hands on her while masturbating in his handkerchief. Her mother had come from a rich traders’ family, had despised her father ever since she had been born, rinsed her teeth with vodka and slept around in musician circles, she had died of an overdose of Oxycodone the previous year.
Upon these happenstances, she had learned she had better refuse her inheritance that was crippled with debts and shame anyhow. She had been fostered in the custody of an old uncle who lived in a listed manor near Guildford and did not wait longer than a week to start to mislay his hands in her knickers, telling her he knew how good a girl she had been to her father.
Her current “fiancé” was the son of that uncle —who had one day lost his balance on the top step of his antique stairs— Rycroft was a cokehead trader for the City, rich enough to buy her things, but not liberal enough to pay her way to college. As I had witnessed, he had not inherited all the family vices, she said his foremost fantasy consisted in shagging her nude in the vintage Jaguar he owned before a troupe of voyeurs, to which I agreed I could do that, too.
A sniffling blond cavalier rested a kind hand upon my shoulder as we talked, with astutely sorted compliments and the soft pressure of his dick on my bum crack. I read she would hold me while the boy I did not see but she gazed on smiling would shag me, I complied, lifting my leg and arching my back. He pushed on my rear pleated corolla, I had to tell him to fetch the Swiss Navy before he could navigate my innards. Percy was aroused, now, all the more that it seemed she had unloaded some hefty confessions upon my heart. Baltazar happened to pass by, he grasped perfectly what my stare meant, and Percy saw me. In her posture, she would only need to gather one leg forward, so as to ease the way to her coochie, wouldn’t she?
She begged him not to force his way through the blind hibiscus, he tried to demonstrate some skill at that but it wouldn’t yield a tad ease in. Then he began rubbing his glans along her runny slit and the song became touching, guiding him to the wall of her womb, looking at me with naughty pride.

I nodded so Balthazar would listen to what I whispered in his ear, that we would leave, now, and Fæbian with me if she wanted. Percy’s ear was close and she heard. She begged that I took her with me, at any cost, she would be my bitch. Little did need so much, I breathed that she grabbed her dress and run to the corridor; I walked to an overspent Fæbian and asked if she needed a lift, she was too glad to join me, she did not ask about Percy, Balthazar led the way, we took our attires in the closet and walked into the dawn light, no one had followed us; the tall silky athlete waved his hand. The car was here in a matter of minutes, two and a half whores in the smell of their turpitudes, I wasn’t even sure of Percy’s age.
We woke in the heart of Paris at daybreak, I held Percy’s hand like in an elopement, she gathered her skirts high to climb the stairs, and Fæbian whistled of admiration. Upstairs, the grand bed was deserted, I brewed some oolong tea and invited them to some fun in the shower. Percy was thrilled with all she saw, she cried with joy; I dared her to piss down my legs like I was doing to her.
On the pillow, in the scent of Britton broom flower I had sprayed her with, she wouldn’t sleep anymore, she said it must hide some trap, we all were too lovely to be true. I had revelled in her melodrama, there she lay nude in my arms, I felt compelled to avow I cracked oftentimes for lovely young fairies, but I knew not of any who regretted it. I had an idea that Cecile, or Camille, would willingly care for Percy. All she should know was that she had met some darn lucky brats clad with privilege, but it wouldn’t go the same way for Fæbian, who slept now, and who had been sold to dire prostitution, at an age when you would merely think of candy boys. Her skin was heavenly smooth, I lulled her out into her own slumbers.
Hours later, finding us three loosely enlaced in bed, two bodies unknown to her, Cecile was Intrigued, possibly annoyed for no avowable reason. She dropped her tracksuit and slid alongside Percy whom she couldn’t help begin to fondle at no end, daintily enough not to wake her, or me: that is what she confessed after I understood what was being played before my sleepy eyes, and relished.
She had felt a pinch —as if I had recanted what I had given before— she regretted it, but all the demonstrations she offered to Percy served more her own lust anyhow. I proposed the whip, we did our breakfast lucubrating on the sadomasochistic procedures she would have to submit herself to, and Percy, with a disarming class accent, was not last to refine the tortures.
The tutelary spirit that ran our humdrum routine for us had provided the necessities of French toast, including vanilla sugar. Cecile, the worthy pupil of my greedy soul, fell outright for Percy, just like I had, and that made Fæbian joyous and gourmand, with blueberry jam.
There would be no reading in the studio that day, a new boarder being potentially a whole library of emotions, and they seemed to flock to my basket, this season.
Cecile had fetched for her a famously oversized lichen-green cashmere sweater dress in which Percy could smell of another girl, she didn’t need more, she showed lean child feet, I would obsess, thus I condoned some Novegian socks. She might ask for underwear, later.
Then Cecile felt the call of duty, Hugo had made delivered sublime pieces of Viennese Hoffman furniture in a sad state of decay, hoping she would return their glory. Since their Venetian escapade, they seemed to spin the same vein of camaraderie as Hugo and I had cultivated for years; she was a true soul-mate, she would crave Percy’s tight hips to the point that she would offer them to Lauritz, so as to look at them.
The heather fairies had been invited to James’ homely lair on the Montmartre’s heights, it would be time for wisterias over the balconies, their scent entwined to that of wild roses. Annabelle would probably crush on pale orphan Percy and feel the urge to bring her to Daddy.
That said novice let Fæbian spin her cruel and arousing tale, in the same casually lustful attitude they had met along with. The pair composed academic groups across our decidedly indispensable red sofa. A whispering low Soma FM loop in our speakers did like recast all of Fæbian’s sufferings to the past, where she pleasantly distanced herself, except for the loss of her sister.
As I would have guessed, with skilled fingertips up and down her legs, Percy fancied a rakish lifestyle, and she would soon be served —if she would. By the bye, Liselotte called, she had had some complaint by a frustrated British gentleman who accused me of abducting his bride. I would deny nought, the truth was that I had been enthralled by a desperate English rose who had deliberately jumped in our car and was presently making out with beautiful Fæbian, and that, Liselotte would know some about.

Hugo wanted to see this new windfall of mine right away, he invited us three, he hadn’t seen Fæbian in aeons, for dinner. I talked Percy into preparing her wits for the idea of being presented to that bustling herd of libertines, no leash, no bonds whatsoever. Our munificent guest had wished to greet us “as we were”, that is as scantily dressed as we liked. There hung a collection of pyjamas in the closets, Percy shone in Kate’s Liberty’s centennial jade Hera peacock silk jersey print pyjama, trimmed with almond green piping, lapelled legs and open fly like a boy’s, I refrained my ardours, not to crease the gleam on her puffed pubis, as of yet.
In the overflow of rare fabrics the house’s Neapolitan tailor has constantly stuffed our camphor-wood coffers with —to say our Gianni, whom, after having dressed Hugo for most of their lives, took a fancy for us girls, who knows at whomever’s expense— Fæbian was vamping us, hips swayed atop her swanky legs, twidling mindlessly her candid tits. I pulled that bias-cut washed crepe, misty jade Chinese two-piece —at one pull of the string the trousers would fall upon her slender feet.
I draped myself in the constellation-printed night blue satin daddy’s pyjama with white piping, in which I swayed like a high Cary Grant. We all smelled of timid Cologne soap, it might amuse the naughty cabalist on the noble floor to guess a fragrance for each of our skins, in playful intimacy.
We painted our nails of carmine, emerald, and onyx like jujus to play with. Percy smelled of her excitement, she took my hand as we silently climbed down the carpeted stairs.
In a light whiff of benzoin, Hugo greeted us in an ample maroon brocade robe, accepted a provocative smooch from Fæbian who worshipped him since he had helped her recover her inheritance, thus one could feel a stiff dick inside the creases when I let him discover the blushing rose I held at my side. I had known he would snap at the sound of her voice, and I played the mistress of vices selling the new novice to an eminence, making her fuddle as I unbuttoned her chest slower than her would-be predator’s hands —and Hugo had long ago done Kate out of the same silk, if a dick remembers.
He was thankful, I threw my left arm over his shoulder as he begged for my tongue, sliding his hand between our two quims, finding Percy’s wet labia through the convenient slit in the silk. He led us to the grand salon peopled by a wealth of white peonies in antique silver buckets, illuminated by tall candles in silver candelabras. The feast lay on the low table, little mounds of crusty little nibbles, bite-sized pies, wreaths of fruit, all in all, frugal for damsels. Tall Venetian goblets and ewers stood upon convoluted ornaments, fruit slices, and leaves floating in the lemonade. The gilt samovar throned upon a side table with little chirpings, circled by enamelled tea-glasses.
As a house girl of this fantasmatic emporium, still holding my pupil in immodest attire at my side on the divan, I could foresee the moment when I should help clear the table to lay one of us with some cushions upon it to be shagged, at least.
He was in no such hurry, but he denuded Fæbian —if only to demonstrate for Percy that he knew how to treat young whores— and after he sprayed her with Amalfi moods, he gave her stylish cunnilingus soon crowned with gold laurels, before conniving with her to help him untidy the lilies of the English valley. All of us wanted a part in that manner of a feast, Percy turned her pouty mouth to mine, so as not to see the few of her covers being pulled. Against the rich motives of the fine rug, she appeared snowy virginal, he seized her foot, winking at me in my craving, but for the moment being, I relished the posture of holding her at their whims. While Fæbian maddened the rosy tits, she drove the right hand to her own blooming labia, and at this, a proper boarding schoolgirl knew to comply as well as a runaway tramp.
Putting her on top of me, I spread my thighs so as she did such, Hugo had dropped his robe and stood at attention to thread the pearl, while Fæbian had crept down the divan to reach our all-innocent brooklets from under, holding Hugo’s dick towards a newer well of shivers, I felt a cunning tongue in my own anus, thus I spread wider.
I fiddled both nipples to hasten the crisis in my weightless passenger, Fæbian, her tongue still harassing my arse, had reached a hand on the British button and was annoying the cavalier’s bumhole. Dream-likely, I enjoyed sensing the girl’s quivers along with mine and Hugo’s long gush. Fæbian jumped upon my face to ask for a reward, thus, I took pride to show I did as well as Hugo and she would not deny it.
He had carried his prey upon the other couch, and the insatiable Fæbian was cleaning their semen soaked privates, she raised to his ear, embraced an overspent Percy girl with her eyes swaying, hence offering her loins for a turn. He buggered the pleated wink with all the vigour she had just only pumped back in it. So inspired, I reached for the more or less virginal arse of my novice, only to feel if she might respond to my nasty fingertips. I wetted my fingers in her quim and tested the shy one, I wasn’t that surprised to be able to slide in two straight ones, then, as she spread her thighs, masturbate the silly pink arse all my want, eventually feeling a gentle tepid flow I did my best to lick, while Hugo filled in Fæbian’s.

After I woke, I could still smell the Amalfi terraces, as a mere metaphor, because I never went there (our stay in Naples had been a disaster of thunderstorms and wet jeans, so I had collected my intentions so as to sneak into the teacher’s bed, earning sniggers of the group and a vague sensation in my bum crack).
I could hear Fæbian and Percy reckoning last night’s party, laughing like blue tits in a fountain. I had cooked a golden mound of French bread, I longed to eye some dainty navels on fresh bellies, I was soon fulfilled. Unsurprisingly, Hugo texted me to let my line open for him, he wanted to thank me for the delicious encounter, I offered to let him talk to the ginger bird.
More or less discreet and to show that she could have a private talk with the Lord of the house, I invited Fæbian on my lap, she wore no more of anything than I, they had played already, she was excited to meet Liselotte after a while of roaming astray.
When Percy hung up, Hugo had made of her a blushing debutante again, despite all that she had agreed to, which meant bliss, in itself. He had invited her for a few days to Capri, in a princely villa, alone. I couldn’t help burst into laughter, but I refrained before she was vexed, that she deserved not. I grabbed her arm and pulled her against us, Fæbian enlacing her waist, I said casually that we might be a gang of perfumed fools, we were fools of our word; I had foreseen Hugo’s move, because that is what he does, but she could read me that he would keep all the promises he would do to her, as he had to all of us.
Fæbian retold how they had stayed in the Alpina in Gstaad like father and daughter, but she had chased amongst the waiters, it is so easy when the suite is large enough and the tips unforgettable. She said her own father had gone to Gstadt, and it had sounded like the moon to her, Fæbian laughed that it was, indeed, the moon. She had worked on these Swiss planets, as an expensive escort, but she had missed people like us, and she earned enough at Liselotte’s addresses, now that her saviour had secured some homely nest for her.
Hence, from a near marriage she had sharply escaped from, sweet lustful Percy was taking conscience she was also casually discussing prostitution for real, and that coloured her cheeks desirably. Having brewed another pot of Darjeeling, I told the story of Ayla, instinctively circling my bare wrist, the braided bracelet had long gone, I had not known when. All tears being drunk, I was certain my Far had wanted to save her, pay for her pension, and he probably had. I ought to return alone to Lausanne and Zurich, or possibly was I alone thinking, I would pull Ayla in the broom closet, for free.
Kate burst laughing, discovering our trio naked at the table, and jolted at the sight of a new pearly mouth that talked, with the Received Pronunciation, of smutty insanities. Just like me, she fell for her instantly, not that Fæbian’s lurid stare would not bustle her lower waist, either. Taking place, almost disrobing candidly, she awaited a presentation, squinting her grey eyes that missed a few hours of sleep. Faultlessly, she poured all her goodwill upon the coppery-rye little head she could guess had played rich with us and maybe more. She was enthralled with the idea that Percy was an actual runaway, and we had partied in Hugo’s salon. She relished hearing that in the proper tone of a Chelsea girl.
Eventually, as much in the raw as us, she affected to make out with me and to scold me on the number of damsels I had ensnared in my debauchery, lately, and went on easily with Percy in all manners of welcome.
Gauthier texted that he would like to have a word with us, about some project for the following season. I retorted that he could find us in the best apparel if he ran up for tea. He was here in the minute, kissing hands with demigod grace, granting Percy a mirabulous smile as he unflinchingly sat next to Fæbian and her, accepting a glass of tea.
His worshipped mother ran a costume workshop in the family château of Chevillon, along with many east-European seamstresses, such it had happened. He had always desired to let us see that wonderland he had been raised in, and chased from by his father who had discovered his unconventional sex cravings —the brute rotted in hell since— after he vowed his delicate son to the hands of the dirty fathers of the Catholic cult, who later reaped all reasons to regret it.
A grand pretext was that mom’s dream factory could use us as living dummies for a still undisclosed production they had been given arch-poetic style indications for and an undisputed budget.
It all sounded like rhapsodies, all the more that we knew what professional clout Gauthier had gained over the years, we managed dates, it even let Percy damn herself in the Capri escapade, Gauthier liked that.

Visibly regretting to part from Percy’s company, Gauthier ran to sort out some stuff with Cecile downstairs, Kate later sniggered about the kind of stuff the two might happen to be sorting, she wished she could help. I could tell she was mulling over a plan to get to rape Cecile upon some back seat or in a leather-clad dungeon.
At midday, the heather fairies landed back from James’s retreat with bouquets and pastries. Annabelle was awestruck by the new all-British maiden, with whom she gently lay the truth of her origins before she dared graze a blushing nipple. We cleared the place and climbed upstairs while the cleaning lady would see after our rooms.
All banters ran on the necessity of a new settee, of sorts, since I could not help lure beauties to our Epicurean court. The matter should be submitted to Gauthier, so one of us should have to reward the coppery-maned knight in whatever way he chose, shouldn’t she?
Liselotte found us and looked overjoyed to see Percy amidst her abductors, she approved of the manoeuvre, she predicted a blooming success to the pretty feet I was cajoling. We unrolled the decided roué Michelle’s futon and the blue thistle maidens went to fetch cushions in their perch. Our Queen bee demanded a taste of the blushing debutante, and she knew to make that feel more of what she gave than what she took, she had manners.
Liselotte was impressed by Gauthier, who wasn’t actually one of her practices, but she begged us to ask him to invite her to his chateau gathering, it should be some event, indeed. Then Cecile appeared with a big panettone in its box, she avowed she had had a good share of dick for the afternoon, she had lured Gauthier into her secret closet, and she, too was excited by the projected theatrical orgy. She was all in shapeless knit grege cashmere, barefoot, I invited her on my lap and l mislaid my hands into the creases, her neck smelled of the licks the greedy fox had made, she whispered she was taking me out that night.
Warned on a little piece of paper, Kate measured at once that she had leeway to lay her hands on Percy. When she saw her prey going to the loo, she jumped after her and the shuffles I heard told of soft sharings. I went so well that Fayelle, after she knocked, prefered to go pee upstairs. Liselotte was teaching Fæbian a sweet lesson.
Cecile wore a priceless workman’s watch, it gave her authority to order us out, first downstairs to the wardrobe, she said it would be chic and sluttish, silk jersey split high on the hips, silk stockings and no underwear. She chose a scale pattern of indigo and fir, I went for azurite and obsidian, we drew a dash of eyeliner, sprinkled our quims with our fetish scents, put on patent court slippers, hid our magic cards where to, and ran.
There was a bouncer at the hotel von Speck’s door, but he opened for us on sight. From the porch, it smelled of white sage, sandalwood, and frankincense, all the splendid light fittings Cecile had worked on were dimmed down as we climbed up the crimson carpet to meet Lauritz in black silk frock and white collarless shirt, a wide unfeigned smile, he was all different from the Porsche bragger and I knew he would shag me again.
He claimed we were the first guests in his Parisian sleazy lair, although magnificent it shone, and at least a dozen guests in evening attire eyed us, I took Cecile by the waist and kissed her, I knew the place was a bawdy house. Lauritz laughed and put a hand on my butt so as to feel I was nude. Between us, he said his guests all hoped to fuck us, but it was our call, as we knew.
Most stood up to be presented, Cecile was introduced as the restorer of the artworks, I was an artist friend. I jolted when faint music began hovering from a dark corner of the salon, because none other than Malo played such sensuous mélopée on her soul-reaching cello. Lauritz had known it would move me, and as I explained to Cecile who Malo was, he was sliding his fingers into my bum crack, unfazed.
A sharp-looking couple had been introduced as von Herfen and I had heard that name in my family circles, but they did not flinch to mine, and as she was being translated, the lady was already fondling me some, making me her whore, and she wasn’t ugly. I meandered away and drew Cecile to see Malo who, as usual, was in the nude, still slender and shapely. She beamed at me so that I could hear it in her chords, she looked up at Cecile and I showed her we were lovers, too.
Then Cecile went behind Malo and caressed her neck and shoulders, gathering the hair that had flown to her face, and Malo smiled.
On a side table by the electric fireplace, restored in its radiant orange glow, reigned a monumental silver samovar with a deep blue glazed teapot on its top, Lauritz pulled me near to serve me a cup of true Russian blend of oolong, dried citrus peels, cloves and cinnamon, addictive enough to fill my bladder, for the amateurs.

The music ended, and Lauritz showed Malo and her timid pallor in the centre of the wall-to-wall cubist design rug to gather some polite applause. She invited Cecile to her arms, turned a while then found the unique zipper of her dress that slowly fell around their feet and there was another round of applause when they kissed.
Out of a real-looking bakelite and chrome jukebox came muted slow jazz to what the girls began dancing while Lauritz picked up Cecile’s dress and gave it to a white-tie waiter. Distinguished gents came forward to invite the nude dancers aside, I was gently seized by the rump and led beautifully, hands sliding in any slit of my convenient gown —until I had to lose it.
A few of the elegant wives were invited, rid of their expensive togs piece by piece, beautiful obedient fillies, fantasies of the whip, they would take the brunt of the beastly surge when their junkers would unleash. I had seen Cecile withstand heavy hordes, but I felt sensitive for her slender frame.
One of the up-straight ladies retrieved me politely from an already bulging partner, she asked me in German if I liked women and was stunned that I responded, asking me if I was Swiss. I said I was Danish, she asked if we were prostitutes, I said we were amateurs, friends of Lauritz’ she muttered she was a whore, too, and kissed me full mouth, then told me to disrobe her.
She had been wearing a hand-finished foulard print silk twill the colours of brook-pebbles, no bra, and a straight, trout-grey fishbone tweed skirt, a black Brazilian, hold-up slate-grey stockings, and grey suede pumps, round-toed, mid-heels. Once she was bare-arsed, she became a lot more troubling, and she thanked me for my stare. I told her I needed the loo, like any school pal, and she followed me to the new dull-gold mosaic wet room, with only one closed cabin at the far end. One wall was a full-height stream. I asked her if she wanted me to pee for her, she said yes, rolled her stockings, got down on all fours and told me to piss in her crack, which I did. Behind the fountain wall was a shower room, she told me to get rid of my stockings and follow her there. A man had been there, apparently wanking for us, naked. He greeted us but she didn’t pay attention, she wanted me tight against her as she began to leak, she smelled of freshly mowed hay. The man enlaced us and stubbornly pushed a bent-up dick in my bum crack until I conceded my quim, wet more by the incongruity of the situation than proper arousal, and my German called me names and insults so I understood I had been set up and I laughed to their faces, waited patiently and spit she was not game. After a shower, I wiped myself and returned to the party, not even snitching on them. Lauritz grabbed me kindly and licked my neck from behind, asking me if I had been shagged already, I retorted not really. Pawing my belly he said he loved, he drew me into a dark corridor to a small room with screens. I acted as if I did not know that they had found the double walls of the house, which wasn’t, after all, a big surprise. Only now he had revamped the whole machinery and it was anew very reprehensible and dangerous; venues like Philippe’s or the Panopticon did not tape the clients, these were Gestapo means, he was risking his life and ours, who were these people having fun with Cecile and Malo? he was disheartened, I helped him unplug the boxes and said we were leaving, I was totally sorry. Had he spied on Cecile the whole time? It would take hard work if I ever was to trust him again, and nonetheless, here I stood in a secret room at his mercy?
It took me some time to gather Cecile, Malo and some decency, they were scared to watch me doing, but we returned safely and I could not think of a wiser person than Hugo, whom I must have frightened, he had found some way to lure Percy into his bed.
It was a total urgency, but I excluded to poison the conscience of those who knew nought, hence I invented that Malo —Hugo was bemused to see her there— would entertain Percy for two hours in a faraway post of Hugo’s realm while we conferred secretly on grave matters. Malo was overjoyed with such a windfall, Percy was already a trifle light-headed by the pleasure she had garnered from Hugo that night, she let be drawn, making Cecile envious. I read that, I swore she would lay her in her magazine cubbyhole, very soon.
Otherwise, Hugo was dismayed, Lauritz had lacked a grain of common sense and he had his neck in the knot. Hugo summoned, as kindly as the hour allowed, Gauthier who bore responsibilities, albeit I would have sworn he never had these keys and had no reasons to sound those walls, that all had been built at the extreme expense by the secret police and it had remained unnoticed for some seventy years.
Cecile retold what Lauritz had shown her, the archives of a blackmail industry, years of unbeknownst pornography that could explain details of modern history. At least, Cecile had seen nought that would relate to the massacres of the time, there were only explicit scenes of the kind Hugo kept in his albums, on high-quality prints.
Hugo declared he felt compelled to open up on the matter with higher-ups of his knowledge, thus he would meet with Lauritz on neutral grounds, before he saw the special services ring his doorbell. He had keys to Cecile’s workshop, and she needed to work there these days, I offered that we stay with her as a watch. She decided her work would wait, she would remain in her room and study, she had received a whole course of the Opificio Delle Pietre Dure, honest!
when I went to free the tender recluses, I found them asleep enlaced, I only tucked them in, with a little pang in my chest.
Hugo was tired, Cecile yawned on Gauthier’s lap, I was furious. We climbed back up to Cecile’s bed, I watched Gauthier shag her with feeling —before I dozed out.

In the morning, Gauthier had left a note on the breakfast table that he ran like a hare. Cecile was making her pot of coffee last, transcribing the text of her course to french, through three windows on her screen, she was fresh as a Lippo Lippi, although Malo showed purple circles to her eyes.
I brewed tea, I wouldn’t cook french toast for myself, Cecile had drowned a pack of speculoos, I felt frustrated. I dived under the table to capture a pair of vivacious feet out of nordic socks, she kinda giggled and let me have them. Even my Far had been able, in heavenly times, to crawl for my own feet, nowadays he would have them after coffee in posh restaurants, ones in which you have real life-space. Malo had long been amused by my feet shenanigans and she herself knew the power her own had when she played, even if she offered her whole body behind the cello.
I had probably pissed Lauritz direly, but I felt at peace. In earnest, since my pals and I had long been frequenters of online porn, the eventuality of finding ourselves caught had loomed in the places where we knew, it was game, that the mirrors had two ways. In venues like Philippe’s and its peripherals, we had inferred that the lightings were too low, and the stakes too steep to allow spy tricks, besides, players like Sami or Hector knew better than the defunct vice squads and had demonstrated a savoir-faire against human trafficking.
I set myself with my sister’s feet between my thighs on my chair while I sipped my tea. I read the text messages. Gauthier had had the locks seriously changed on the workshop’s doors, he sent them up. Lauritz admitted a full exploration of his property by the French National Archives, he had rid of all tentative equipment he might have fiddled with, he contemplated a donation of the documents in the secret cabinets.
Cecile received a phone call from Cyprien who had found himself locked out, he had returned to his other bank. When a noticeable new maid with a short fringe hairdo knocked at the door to give us new keys, we all agreed to set camp down there. Now Kate enslaved herself to Percy who showed no signs of tiring from it, she too, was reviving the best of dormitory behaviours.
Liselotte had not fled, she had caught up with her special protégée Fæbian, they showed up like wet puppies and famish, so I could barely refuse to bake for them —Liselotte knew that— she groped my butt, complimenting its firmness, like any cowboy. She scented there was a wolf somewhere, so she pursued her groping of me, until I let out that she would know soon, I gave her my mouth to seal the promise.
As the French say, Lauritz had felt the wind of the bullet, he did not show up, nor did he write to Cecile whom I knew he loved deeply, beyond their inventiveness. Gauthier had designed Cecile’s workshop like a Victorian Emporium, and every piece of furniture had wheels to be pushed aside by necessity. Now, there were lustful pairs on all the settees and armchairs that ordinarily felt like available antiques for would-be customers.
Cecile there had a true Italian espresso machine capable of big cups. She had grown under such a contraption, it was what had remained of her father whom she wouldn’t have been able to tell the colour of his eyes. There also stood a sophisticated kettle with temperature control, because she had taken note of my recommendations, and I would root for her eternally, for that. She insisted that we saved the used leaves and dregs in a special bin, so she could mix her compost in hopes of growing some plants on the tiny border of the shady yard, she did not avow what else she would throw in the compost bin.
Her sound system, from the ceiling, was copied on that of Cyprien and she happened to also play Bach marathons, she had been a brilliant learner and, as a matter-of-fact still was, of the late bloomer sensuous draughtsman. She had been for something in his revelation, Camille also had cast some spell, they had never slept together, whatever poses she had shown him, but there hereafter existed a sacred bond between them.
While the flock attended to their genteel lifeways, with sundry manners of immodesty, upon a sublime collection of hand-darned Indiennes from Hugo’s coffers, I stood near Cecile, watching her work on a small bonheur-du-jour of Joseph Hoffman’s, with inlays of bronze and ivory, that had suffered for years in the soot and grease of a mechanics workshop. She stood in the very attitude I had first seen her, wearing the same tough gloves, her sharp obsidian eyes through the bramble of her fringe, I was so proud.
In a long sigh, she tilted back the Aeron chair, pulled out her gloves and reached for me, telling me to come. She pulled me to the corridor that led to a storage room on the left, her cubby-hole on the right, and the wet room at the end. She whispered she needed to pee, which I understood as she wanted to do silly.

We were looked at when we dared come out, Cecile offered a candid smile, I must have looked like a naughty brat, I could still smell the carnal fire in her armpits and she had made me climax just like Ayla in the times. As my playmate returned to the ghost from Vienna, Kate pushed me and slid a hand in my track pants, so as to taste me, I told her to do such with the new pearl thus she did.
Appoline and Delf had looked for us, Appoline wore shorts that made her legs sylphic, she sat across me on the big cushion and I could twiddle her weenie all she liked. Cecile saw us with the perplexed grin she turned on our non-binary pets, I had told her to try and fuck in their ways, she stubbornly resisted. She liked Cynthia’s style, but she wouldn’t ask for clarification either. It might be a soft cure to see me do the way I liked it. Apolline had become a willowy gazelle since she had lived at the TRÆVIX palace and seriously worked her languages in the iridescent mist of Delf, and they made furious parties upon the Queen’s futons, even when a hunky lawyer flew in from over the rainbow. Apolline said I smelled of lilac, it had been the dew on Cecile’s chest when she recovered her breath, Appoline lay her ear to listen to my Danish heart.
For not any excuse, Michelle was throwing a party and her cook awaited for the green light. There would be most of the hive, if we could trace Lizon, for one. Our futon Aviatrix had become so immensely rich that she could easily keep away the social quagmire and revel with her unclassifiable soul sisters in ethereal games, keeping at hand the numbers of some faithful Cossacks, like a born lady.
Our side of the privileged menagerie enthused to what I sensed as a counterbalance to the sad Lauritz’ faux pas, and most as another unforeseen windfall upon the Faerie. Perhaps the tutelary mothers had then heard of new gems in our pond.

Sergei Belitski and Yaguil Roustang, our best-appointed “Cossacks” —albeit no one, bar Kate, knew of my ancient strawbale propensity and, once, toleration of the whip before a stiff shagging— had decided we should no longer grant them a comparison with the mythic light cavalry of the Don region, as was currently the case by a despicable herd of thugs in martyred Ukraine; otherly, the moniker of Hussars might resound as less tainted, albeit they would know we did not condone drunks.
This be told because that prancing avant-garde already kissed the feet and path of the house pets when we barged en masse in the perfumed salons of the cyber-aviatrix. The ultimate florist had just only finished peopling the pervasive army of antique silver buckets with springtime blessings that Gauthier’s flock of bohemians in fresh, vivid coloured tracksuits and no shoes gambolled proudly upon Michelle’s soft rugs, debating eagerly on Appoline’s gender, un-deterring their bids at cuddling such a sylphic pair of legs, whatever the reward at their midst.
Camille had entered with her now inseparable four men detail through a lesser door, letting two of them, hired scrum pillars, in the ground floor service den to watch TV or possibly follow Kate to one of the attics rooms, later. She instantly fell, too, for Appoline thus Delf showed her pride, but Camille’s mastery went beyond thieving anyone’s passion, if she craved the newbie, she would share all of her blessings; besides, she approved of Michelle’s affection and she respected Delf’s dainty thinking, much like the whole colony.
Fanny and Dagmar made a stellar couple, as well in their posh school as in their exclusive gym factory. Fanny’s therapist had helped find a proper colleague to let Dagmar detangle her bruised soul’s threads, all of these vital stations situated at walking distance of the attic I had lived happily in before Hugo lured me into the castle. Dagmar wore an ample white silk twill double-breasted unstructured blazer trimmed with navy piping, over the matched hemmed shorts, and no shoes. Her pal had cut her hair public school style, she sported nifty ears, and a platinum choker with sculpted emeralds and rubies. She walked obviously nude in a thinly knit, wavy patterned, opalescent coloured fluid short dress, no shoes either, but the recall of her necklace at her ankle. In the windy cleavage of Dagmar’s swayed three strands of hawthorn white pearls, so too on her ankle.
I could read Camille’s motherly pride as the whispers blew in the angels’ wake, and my plexus beamed at the confidence that none other than a few of us would ever know their silent secrets. I was thrilled when they sat against my wings and spoke together so I heard not much but slid my eager hands. We could talk in proper English, they both smelled of powdery white orchid, with a hint of sun blast ozone on Fanny, and an apostrophe of dragée in Dagmar’s neck.
Kate ran to Fanny’s feet and cried, again, like each time she saw her Venetian orphan, reviving her fateful heart in the fitting booth.
There were high-pitched praises when Marie, who had been away long, giving birth to whom revealed to be a boy, no, his name was Ariel. My fear, thinking of her, beyond sending flowers and fruit baskets, had been futilely the unredeemable bodily damages, Marie was a natural earthly girl, a perpetual adolescent right on her feet, unwary of her grace. She had shunned us when her belly had rounded extraordinarily, I had seen my mother’s stretch marks, and heard her reproaches. Now Marie was doing a handstand in the middle of the room, so as her moss-green ribbed tank-dress fell over her face, and she exhibited the slickest belly and thighs, only a tad girlier hips, as yummy as ever. As I dared caress her bald quim, she confided that she had been wonderfully coached and attended, holding my fingers to feel she had not needed to be cut, she had trusted all along the elasticity of her hide. The two blonde rescapees at my sides, while Marie was monkeying on my lap, had been caught unaware and stared, ill at ease, not knowing whom or what. At the first words, they froze, and then it took Marie’s sleight of hand to convince them they would not have to participate in some unsavoury ploy they’d rather leave alone! Marie demonstrated it had not defused her wants by unbuckling Dagmar’s belt to inhale the mood of her crotch.
Then Marie noticed some semblance of a house girl, barefoot in a thick black tracksuit and she wanted to get to know her.
I joshed she was the new wizard in our undergrowths and a terrific amorous for those who pleased her, she lived amidst us, if Marie would. Cecile had been mulling over Lauritz’ misbehaving, she missed him and his whimsical jaunts, but Marie knew nought of the current affairs, she deployed her spells for a new desirable maiden and it earned her smiles, in that place, with us across the room, Marie could not be evil.

Against the lavish dawn gradient on the wall of the landscape room, a new picture in a rich renaissance frame, sculpted of acanthus leaves, was hung, it was the revived portrait on which Cecile had laboured and Cyprien inscribed a dexterous chimaera of both faces of Annabella and Fayelle, one could see either of them. Nought of the subterfuge showed, Cyprien’s hand near mimicked the rendering of Filippo Lippi, it could have been one of these bride portraits a rich family sent beforehand to a rich suitor —who cared that in this real case the affair had probably turned ugly?
It allowed me to congratulate Cecile in front of Marie, who became all the more of a fawner while I knew she mostly craved for my little sister’s pants. Not that it would be any inconvenience, I would love it if I could help. I let them close together, Cecile’s navel winked.
Fæbian and Lizon did not wait long to show off as luxury tramps, Lizon merely wore a black pinstripe blazer and jewellery. At one ear, a supple Art Deco platinum pendant with a big engraved emerald, framed in a symmetrical pattern of lesser square diamonds, at her gracile neck a choker of the same vein, square emeralds encased in lines of small square diamonds, also at her ankle a fine line of alternate emeralds and diamonds —it might have been said that nobody would wear any shoes. Fæbian also went practically nude already, in a loose off-white shantung shirt scattered with gold thread embroidered bees, her chest ran with fine gold chains and jewel bees, at her wrist and ankle, little sundry crowds of gold charms. These two, smitten with each other, half-seated on a settee, kindling the stares of the male crew at other than their jewellery.
To make a difference, Natalia donned sumptuous manly black pyjamas in satin with tie-manner strips of yellow and red, she had slimmed down, she showed style as a high-end lady of the night, Liselotte was utterly proud of her and Beryl. Even if Camille seems to have delayed her sideline plan of a Gallery in New York, she keeps Natalia in her books, whatever she schemes.
Being our closest neighbour —and for good reason— would not forfend Hugo to come upon us with the unforeseen. He appeared with, at his arm, some jailbait of a find, it seemed, till Cecile saw her and ran to her. he had vaunted Annachiara as the most expensive whim Hugo had allowed her during their Venetian fling, she had been lyrical, but that subject, in the flesh, shone beyond words reach. That was the Grecian honeytrap bee blonde herself, laying her unassuming sunny grey gaze upon our chosen court, in the pride of the reward she already had wired to her account, for our benefit, I supposed. She wore a shapeless misty-blue knit shawl-collar short cardigan dress and half-thigh pale grey stockings letting some sleek skin be craved, candid round-toed grey suede slippers. Cecile became animated over her gift, everyone kept them in the corner of their eyes, Hugo whispered in my ear that he already had his money’s worth, and he groped me watching at the nymphets on the settee. He wore a richly gold embroidered deep cobalt Kaftan over a white collarless wild silk shirt and white Casimir trousers, white stockings and embroidered blue slippers, like on the funny Louvre’s military sculptures, his fall-front let admire an appropriate erection that I flattered with a feathery hand.
Sufficed of one outstanding new gem on display to bustle the harmony of our grand Diwan, and Annachiara’s belly grazed by Cecile’s maroon lacquered nails set a fervour moment that drew me behind Cecile to uncover her bottoms as she kissed her genteel harlot. Someone went to apprise Michelle of some lovely event in her own salon, and indeed she was charmed, and sat at the Venetian’s feet, watching the curly kitten lap at a tiny cunt with relish. A round of blessings spun from all those who had a sight of Annachiara’s bumhole. Easygoing with her thighs spread, casually boasting her worth, she chattered in Cecile’s ear, causing smirks to raise and soon after, a subtle signal at Erik’s attention and the unabashed cuddling to his trousers, Annachiara had longed for a first-ever black-skinned player, and he lay between the two available sluts, his well-known staff at order. Michelle had remained at their feet and helped pull Erik’s jeans, shorts, and socks. Annachiara gave him a glutton kiss, mumbling a “vieni dentro di me” he needed not to translate otherly than hurl his pride at the Venetian dinky quim and let it glide in slowly, also sensing Her Majesty’s very incarnate tongue upon his balls and his virgin hole.
Cecile was proud of her own puttana’s depravity, altogether reckoning how profitable she would turn her days among the Parisian society. I saw Hector rounding his eyes upon the scene, I decided he might be of help with my fiery womb, he showed me he agreed with that, but the night was young, regardless of the hostess’ whimsical prelude.

The round palladium-leaf clad dinner table in the pearly Jinju Lee room had been scattered with a crowd of low-glowing free-standing lamps, possibly in the shape of silver sea-bed creatures bearing sundry coloured glass bulbs seemingly ligatured in metallic strips, hovering above platters of freshly baked finger-food, fancy coloured verrines, and carbon-consuming exotic fruit. The satiny white chairs had been pulled around silvery-dressed lesser round tables beyond the three grey velvet sofas, each holding a small tree-like chandelier of the same vein as the little ones.
In her boxed solitary gardens, Jinju Lee, unfazed, muttered so low that no one heard. The smells brought most of us, except the queen bee’s posse in their ecstasies. Kate had called her sister, who had somewhat shunned our gentle tribe, possibly not daring enough to her taste, and she was standing a trifle flabbergasted by the turn she saw things unfurling in a bedazzling luxury. Their couple again aroused the Hussars and Anna Louise had not much to let fall to show them what they craved, her abs muscles showed Kate the work she had to catch up on the torture machines, I promised myself to put her at it.
Yaguil had long known my appreciation of his sinewy arched legs, such as I might have lent him a whip to lash my lecherous rump. i confided this to Hector who already held me unclothed in a warm shady corner of the grisaille salon opposite the dining room, he mutely agreed to a three-play, not that he would covet a boy’s arse as Hugo would certainly indulge in Yaguil’s tight hips and tense dick, furthermore while buggering me. Hector remained your garden-variety cissexual, relishing fine male anatomy when they would use or serve his feminine affections, and he said he had always lusted after my tomboyish frame ever since he had made me pee for Louis that first night, and possessed me over his boss’ body. My hussar had no restraint at letting me toy with his sabre along with Hector’s, his kiss lulled my brains silly and my quim runny, I was lightweight enough to stand up between them duly assailed both ways, still lost in the hussar’s stubborn kiss, and Hugo happened to be watching us.
Our acrobatics, with the convenience of an armchair backrest to lay high my foot, did not cramp my ability to climax like a worldly lady and Lizon, who had seen half of the manoeuvre, to come to sniff our outpours, only to reap Hugo’s stiffened rod into her obliging petals ring, hung at my shoulders; she still smelled of some idea of angelica and sang like a doe.
The bathroom stood across the hall, we ran and met Michelle and her Rhinemaidens, all three as dripping as us. Michelle was not fully acquainted with Lizon, but with the rich soap lather helping, she diverted her hands into yet another whore’s easy beats and found she liked her whore gaze, although she had lived unfazed amidst us. Lizon grasped Cecile’s submissive penchant, then, while buggering her with her fist, took notice of my care for her and she knew why she trusted me. Annachiara stood on top of her world, her legs parted like a wired kid, her labia in bloom in the running streams.
Though it would certainly not be the train of ordinary for the house staff, they kept the same professional smile as ever, gratifying me of a Ms Sarah on occasion, not restraining their stares at eye level. A coffee pot was brought to Ms Cecile, with a plate of Baicoli, and Michelle and Lizon kept fondling her
Upon the couch of his exploits, Erik had almost dozed out, I wanted to hear his confidences on Michelle’s uncommon laisser-faire, thus I earned that by cleaning his black dick thoroughly in my mouth, and he confided it had gone like shagging a fragile little girl, making him all the more stiff and dangerous, but the other two had cheered her into vice, like mistresses sluts, pinching her nipples and wanking her anus, then his discharged had triggered her beautiful crisis, of what she was all proud. She had been as sweet as an apple bloom in a bright spell, he wished he would have her a whole night. He had been right, Michelle had vanished, as per usual.
There was a second service, it was late when Gauthier, Philippe and Theo came up. A dedicated waiter brought a new teapot on the samovar, I wanted to play water games with Natalia, who had retold me a trick she had been doing with her headmaster, I forced her to drink, and she was never more arousing than when she was spent already. Fæbian overheard us and made Natalia lean on her to dance to the ethereal low music as she misled her hands under the elastic belt.
Dagmar and Fanny, inseparable, had captured Percy who wasn’t the most elusive prey around, although she blushed at the sight of immodest pussies. Their prey had shown up in an English green man’s pyjama and the fly wouldn’t shut, for starters. the two mischievous angels knew they became the focus of a few greedy males, but they played as if Percy would be shagged first.

Having spied out, in impeccable style, that Percy was British, the so hunky Mulder I swore would take me before morning joined in with the girls, his eyes on the slit in the satin, and the quality of the fabric was such that nought of the sleek perfection of the body it lined was erased. Fanny had long overridden Camille’s hindrance as to her access in Mathew’s trousers, it amused her to watch him sabre an even younger filly than herself, Dagmar let him see her arsehole, tentatively, and the cunning lawyer couldn’t figure that it wasn’t done on purpose. He probably thought that some rich have better pastimes than others he knew. He deliberately stripped down, showing a dignified penis that frightened none in the trio, but began to fascinate Theo, who stood nearby and tightened his thighs cutely. Our icon of a quarterback, with manners, seized just what I would have —as I had approached and I held Dagmar’s cheek upon my quim, tinkering in her hair as she smiled— Percy’s nervous feet with deep-green lacquered nails, and he unequivocally sucked them, while it was still Natalia’s hand in the silky slit.
I pulled away Dagmar’s blazer and threw it on an armchair, while her shorts bloomed open by themselves and there was a puff of sacred lotus. She tilted her head back for a kiss and I wished there was some hussar to shag her in my arms. Mathews’ colleague, a brown-skinned metrosexual professional who had not said a word, caught my widened stare at him, as in “what are you waiting for”? He was a lawyer, he wondered if I was asking him in —he had a smooth, well-educated voice, Dagmar and I were nude— I told him “yes, please”.
Fanny had helped slide the silk away, and pulled hers over her boyish head.
Now, our all-American studs were puzzled, but I gently suggested my Latino applicant give as much pleasure as he could to my blond sister because she was a very obedient slut and it made her beautiful when she stretched her thighs and wetted her lips like that, adding gestures to my talking. He quipped that my labia, too, was wet; I retorted I would be all the more aroused to watch her be shagged by a New World athlete, thus I lay her on my crossed legs and gave her a long thorough kiss while he licked her, first.
Meanwhile, Mathew humped in Percy’s womb at a stubborn pace and Fanny straddled her face to make her service her pussy like a good Brit boarder who moreover wanked her bumhole with two fingers, hence showing her good education. In no time she was splashed over with scented flows, and also gushed into her other end with thick American semen.
Dagmar makes a soft muted moan when she climaxes —a reminder of her perverted upbringing as a child prostitute in secretive venues— and I speak nonsense to her as if to help her from a convulsion, until she wakes back and smiles at Mathew who presses her in a wild embrace. I graze his superb back and I wish he humped me too.
We did not dither showing our dripping hides across the salons, to reach the warm cascades in the shower room, our boys rekindling their cloakroom virile manners and stamina, I marshalled his never-ending pride into my slippery bumhole while crashing a whimpering Dagmar upon my heart, and the warmth of the flows is untiring, too.
Randomly, the precious battery-operated lamps waned, and no one tried to revive some light upon the sumptuous debauchery scenes, only the garden cast a dubious dusk upon the satiated desires. Black silk ghosts gathered the scattered porcelains and crystals, renewed the ewers and the soul of the samovar, no more coffee was needed by Cecile who slept aside of Camille and Marie. Dagmar and Fanny had gently fled, Kate, Anna Louise, and the heather fairies had lured the brigade of hussars upstairs.
Hugo had recommended that Annachiara spoke to me, I did not fathom if he wanted me to charm her, but that was what she did to me. Liselotte, whom I liked better undressed and fresh from the shower —like she showed after she had ridden the waiters— joined us with some frank opinions about society life as we were groping the loveliest Venetian courtesan for free. Letting us toy with her finest features, she nonetheless claimed she would return to her soaked jewel casket and wait for our visits there.

When the three of us woke in Cecile’s bed, yawning happy, Annachiara took fright of the enormous black polished beak at our feet, and I made Cecile explain what it was, and why it had been shut. Be it because we had frolicked in the raw most of the night, we shivered out of the covers, so I brought them in the vestiary where they chose some rags, Annachiara raved on cashmere leggings, swearing it was better than masturbation, Cecile remained bare-arsed in a parme, vague wide-knit unspun wool cocoon and gathered her feet on her chair while Annachiara was moved to see her and her coffee, just like she had known her in a Gran Canale palazzo. I had donned lush turquoise silk satin pyjamas that smelled of Jicky from some long-gone orgy, I supposed, and Annachiara did not miss that.
Our new laguna marvel indeed was befuddled by Lauritz’s blunder if it had been just that. Firstly she was fascinated by the tale of some vice archaeology in the very core of Paris, her who was living in a somewhat eternal brothel, always sheltered in the crimson brocades of the catholic utmost swindle.
For her comfort, Hugo had booked a first-class cabin for her in the night coach train that night, she had come to hate airlines and endless waits in hideous venues and their brand shops. She would board her cabin, tease the conductor if he was comely, browse the web, chat with unknown and eventually wank watching schoolgirls do the nasty for tokens before the hubbub of the train would lull her out.
Cecile had been right about her adorable little whore’s legs and feet, I ended up taking hold of them as she relished the year’s best Darjeeling, before we slipped in thick wool socks to run down to the workshop, where I would abuse —was it for free?— of her precious skin on a velvet couch.
Cecile had been commissioned about a chic Wiener Werkstäte bonheur-du-jour designed by Dagobert Peche and rudely defaced by all kinds of sticky chemicals and paints. While we were disputing which of us was the sluttier, she was hidden in her whites, mask, goggles, and gloves trying means to clean her baby. Suddenly, there was a cry behind the mask, and, at the tip of tweezers, she showed us a plate of half-gleaming metal inlaid with pebbles. She was jumping in her boots, she brought the object to a workbench, fetched a number of skull-labelled containers and began trying one after the other till another cry meant she had the proper solvent, showing us to stay away.
She took her find, half stuck on some dirty paper, the container, and walked to the door opposite her secret cubby-hole, where she pulled a burlap cover from over a bulky extractor hood and she hit a few buttons, triggering a howling note. Inside this draft, she resumed the clearing of a sumptuous Secession brooch, a gold rectangle inlaid with tumbled precious stones, sapphires, opals and moonstones, it was a most stylish pledge of wit, it bore many hallmarks on the reverse, when she shut off the extractor, she was crying.
She was almost out of breath, she took off all of her armour, she was in black shorts, tee-shirt, and socks, I pulled her on the couch and kissed her all over, she had sweated, I was enthralled, and Annachiara mocked me but was the same. Cecile held her trove like a child girl, she said she wanted me to have it, so it was my turn to cry.
The bonheur-du-jour belonged to Hugo, it was honest to call him. He didn’t waste time, he was overwhelmed, too, when he heard the whole incident. He told us to come with him to check for the hallmarks in the books, it was the proper series to attest it would be a design by Joseph Hoffmann, and he put it in my hand, just saying I deserved all my gifts, and Cecile, who was delightfully almost nude, cuddled up to me and we cried, along with the loveliest puttana of Venice.
Kate had followed the fairies to the heights where James reigned, we organised a dinner at Hugo’s and soon lost all our vestures, albeit it would be beyond time to fan the embers again, but anyhow Annachiara had to dress up for travel. We promised to visit her at home, it was a heartache to release her dainty feet.
Once we had seen her in the car, Hugo wanted us in his bed, look at us lick our souls out, bugger our magician Cecile with her feet high in the air.

 

Kate says:

It had a mellow taste of days gone by, when some invincible spell called youth was unswervingly bending fate to my undeserved advantage, attiring my egotistical soul of vain seductions like the blown glass trifles in the Xmas tree. If I summarise, before Sarah’s godsent —what a father she had been blessed with— superego took fancy of my pants, I had lived a free-for-all rakehell at Victor’s whim, attuned with the sloppy spendings of my German art-school complacency.
I will never know if Victor had been given heads-up about me that night when he showed me what impeccable whore I was, when, from the scented leathers of his luxury car, he had ordered me to exhibit my gleaming cunt for the voyeurs of deserted back alleys as a prelude to a blue powder fueled fuck frenzy, of what I scarcely remembered when I woke in that same luxurious bed enlaced with the same elusive Beryl girl.
She was healing my pleasure holes, it was what I resented all through the unforeseen after-party she had drawn me to, and certainly not unwillingly, and joshed that she had been paid a hefty loot for her intervention, and besides, she had been fucked as much as I.
I needed to clear up my mind with Sarah, as to my allegiance to Michelle’s web as far as her politics were implied, but not the intimacy of my vices, that she had never wished for. Since our once private perch had become a fluttery hive, at any moment, I summoned my blue-soul saviour in possibly triple entendre terms in Hugo’s lair, since, after all, he somewhat owned us.
After the TRÆVIX gathering, he had taken Marie who had behaved as much a crafty slut as before —he smirked saying this— picking our own togs one by one, because his prodigious intuition had led him to grab that it would be some flesh and soul matter. He wore a white long linen shirt under a variegated Silkroad kaftan. I made my confession the sleaziest way — as I sensed it— and Sarah knew where in my womb I was still pulsing. Kneading my lower belly, she was granting me the worst insults with a greedy smile. As a manner of expiation, I had to swallow thoroughly Hugo’s morning gush, and Sarah tasted that it had flushed away.
She matter-of-factly dropped that we should pay a visit to the alpha nerd —if only to massage her feet, Hugo approved warmly, telling Sarah she was a motherly soul. Lightly dressed, we moused our way to the sanctum sanctorum and found Appoline in a mere tee-shirt, catching the best of a sun-ray on the grand salon carpet, she kindly told them that Michelle would sleep and they should text on the private channel. We sat crossed-legged close to her, I noticed her weenie was erected, then. At her demand, a tray with perfect tea in a purple clay pot and shortcakes was brought, eventually, she lay back on me to get wanked and sucked by us. She weighted nought, Sarah had seized her lean feet and kneaded every bone to them, ever so gently, like she would have done to the Pavlova.
In the sun, a tiny down shone on her thighs, she moaned how happy she was in this palace. Delf trotted in, still a tad fuddled, overjoyed to find her companion abandoned at my hands, thus she straddled us so as her funny willie grazed Appoline’s and I took both in my hand. Not breaking the good mood, I said I wished to have a word with Michelle, I was told she was in the bathroom, after a morning exercise. It wasn’t forbidden to walk up.
She stood in the wide-raining shower, singing in proper Spanish “Por Siempre Tú”, in tune, out of her mind. I desvetirse promptly and joined her, holding her face to the rain, she sang on. When the song ended, she shut the water and smiled, I wouldn’t say for sure she cried. She let me wipe us softly, she only let that someone had taught her Xtina Aguilera’s song. She begged for a true deep kiss, she was all sensuous, then she said she knew where I had been and she wouldn’t hold it against me, fuck no; she liked my slutty ways, she pulled me onto the futon in her monitors’ room, the lights blinkered as she gushed to my face for my better relief.

 

Cecile says:

I sensed this whirly grace in my plexus, being able to give out, right away, a treasure I had just only unwrapped, at the tip of my knife, to the very person that had freed me, upon the unauspicious manners I had composed of myself, no questions asked. It simply went to show a token of my worth in the world she had availed to me, and she had owned up to me —in my whites.
With all due consideration, the exceptional find went, on Hugo’s advice, to the jeweller so as to be refurbished and secured, but nonetheless, my gesture had struck home. Now then, another gravitational gesture had reached me, and I needed Sarah to help me gather my wits about it.
Mid-morning, before I had decided to end my cosy propitious morning ceremonies, UPS men assailed my door, in charge of what they called a hefty parcel to my very name, no identifiable provenance in my knowledge, I let them roll it to the workshop and signed the receipt.
That neat wooden box, of the kind they use to pack artworks, weighted more than I do, I was impressed, It had been secure with screws, no nails. There would be an orderly sequence to unscrew the boards, I came armed with a fully charged battery screwdriver. Indeed it had been encased like a high-valued item, with pads of thick felt in every nook and a double box, I was becoming nervous, like unpacking a bomb of some sort.
Eventually, I found myself gazing at a massive lingam stone of polished fine porphyry, not as high as myself seated crosslegged, and an envelope bearing a red gryphon looking west holding a sword, the Speck family crest. Inside, a simple white card inscribed “my bad, I miss you, Lauritz”. I called Sarah to tell her, she came down, barefoot in a thistle-blue tracksuit, ready to capsize me over the couch. She was charmed by the gesture, caressed the stone in awe, tried it upon her cheek, then pushed me back in the cushions, hugged me, with her hand inside my pants, and questioned me about my spell on Lauritz.
Later, Hugo conceded that, besides a considerable bid on our bond, he acknowledged his blunder, thus I should follow my hunch, as it was readable I wished not to lose Lauritz and his long drift erotic intrigues, and asked Sarah to help me mend that weird relationship, as she had done before, to start with.
We devised a new set of keys in a small ebrù covered Italian box, sealed it in a cardboard envelope and sent it to the Quai d’Anjou by currier, then waited, in the cubby hole. Fifty-four minutes later, an answer arrived in the guise of a small scented violet bouquet begging me to tell an hour, so we decided dinner time. There was some heavy-duty cart available, we tipped the stone over a folded cover on it, heavy as a century of remorse, then pushed it to the lift that claimed to support five people, Sarah let me go with my stone, then she was already at the door upstairs and I licked her sweats like a puppy.
The deep-red lingam matched happily with the grand crow and all the beacons of my higher room, we fornicated again amidst the creases of frosty percale like otters in the snow, in case anyone watched through the eyes of the homunculus in the wide-open mask. Sarah was she who had given me to my master, she would again, and take part, Princess of the crimson crows I had seen in her dreams.
We set table downstairs just like Gauthier, my ever inspired home designer, had foreseen, upon a big red sun printed on some Indian cotton hanging. They delivered pies and salad, with a few bottles of kombucha, nothing harsher for a repentance ambush with two self-avowed sluts he knew through and through.
Lauritz bantered with a childish expression as if the keys had worked by chance, then, having read our faces, he showed relief and fell in an armchair, contemplating our bare feet. Sarah was nude in an indigo Boro coat that would open anytime, I was overwrapped in a gigantic misty knit sweater below which only my feet crept, I could see he was instantly aroused by us, our smiles did not refute our welcome.
At a somewhat lousy patting of the cushion, he reached for our feet and accepted a pillow on the floor, and that made for a touching scene after all.
I initiated the talking, Sarah was not supposed to be in the know of the Speck house secrets. When she knew, we were both nude at Lauritz’s convenience and I helped him disrobe like the good wife, Sarah arranged to be shagged first, such I liked. We all had a festive round in the wet room, he wanted us to pee in his mouth, then eventually he buggered me standing against Sarah.
Clutching me at his wing all during dinner on the bench, he elaborated on his mistake, I recalled how excited we had been when rummaging through the lewd archives of the brothel; he invited Sarah to make a visit next evening, if she would, of course, she would.

He had merely collapsed unresponsive after his last release into my arse, I had dragged myself to a last wash-up, Sarah hardly breathed in the pillow, I gently turned her up and wiped her nose like a baby, she smiled from whatever skies she flew. Lauritz unconsciously enwrapped me, we slept a whole season.
In the morning, I was lying snug deep under the covers, alone, not yet driven to move up, intrigued by some purplish rounded bollard further left of the grand bird soul. My dream had been of playing off-ground tag in a vast yard at once Desiderio and tall industrial chimneys, boys would touch me when they caught me.
Then, as I needed the loo, the gracious reality reenacted and I smiled at the thought of how Lauritz was a genteel swordsman, thus my plexus bloomed. I slid in a jersey gown and went for coffee and cookies, my stash was deep on the higher shelf, everybody knew that. I felt blissful, my knight of debauchery was redeemed, and Sarah would lend a flighty rump at our nightly games.
As I meditated idly upon the tiny black round mirror where I dared my cookies, I smelled of some orange and lavender, a cute childish Cologne that made me raise my eyes on Percy, standing at the table as if she had been called for punishment, which was exactly what she inspired me, before I embraced her waist and kissed her navel.
Grazing my foot with a timid toe, she begged for some of my coffee, I retorted I couldn’t see how I would not oblige such a pretty maiden, sliding a feathery finger at her candid quim, she could also steal of my biscuits, if she dared dip.
I had made her good-humoured, she went on playing footsie, trying to guess what I had been doing, till I told her so as she wowed. Nobody had slept with her, but she wouldn’t say. We went on to compare playing with men or women. We compared those we had shagged with, revealing we were pretty sluts, weren’t we? She told me to take off my gown because she liked to watch, and I parted my legs high, for her.
Since she had nothing better to do, I kept her along, telling her I would have to leave her at dinner time. We masturbated in the shower, her bumhole was gentle and tight, I told her she would make a lot of money with that, she blushed. I told her most of the girls in the house weren’t actually prostitutes, but money poured on them like windfall because of their easy manners, obviously, no need to blush.
The idea came that she would make a pretty innocent model for Cyprien, who had not known why the workshop stayed closed. She liked the idea, I told her he would give her a share of the sale, and I was certain she would sell easily. I called Cyprien and gave him a summary while the damsel gave me her tongue.
Before my teacher arrived, I covered the sofa with a dull violet velvet drape and tried to install her so she could rest for a long pose, and it was not easy not to succumb to her teases, she was a playful teen and now that she had found a kindly shelter, she was letting her whimsical self whirl, and I profited, hoping it would, some way or another, befit the draughtsman.
She liked the workshop, she liked Bach, she liked me. I lent her an aquamarine terry robe to prance around waiting for Cyprien who did not drag on, kissed me like an apple and admired what I showed him of Percy, that is the whole of her. He agreed with my set-up of her, nude reclined upon the mid-value colour, asked me to gently tousle her hair —while she was making me wet my labia, as if he did not see her.
He asked her to let the music talk to her, not him, he must have liked her face, then, I did not see, I turned my back to keep working on the bonheur-du-jour of Dagobert Peche, scraping the layers of whatever muck stuck on the lacquer and the mother-of-pearl inlays, a bone paper-knife did the trick, but it was demanding; I forgot that other quiet scene, for the better of us all.
Then Percy rightfully asked for a pee pause, I wouldn’t miss that occasion —Sarah has given me such tastes— my white overalls’ fly opens all the way along my crotch so as to let me do my business without unclothing, Percy was aroused to know I wore no undies, it reminded her of school shenanigans.
I made some coffee, Cyprien appreciated my espressos. It was a Brandenburg Concertos moment, I had come seat beside Percy. She teased Cyprien that I was nude in my whites, and thus began lowering the zipper, which I let her do casually; when she reached my pubis, she parted the edges so as to expose me, at what Cyprien jolted and said she froze, grabbing his pad and pencil to try and catch the scene, not stopping my country damsel from tickling my tits mischievously. He mumbled he would love to make that a painting, a manner of a modern days conversation piece, it let me foresee many returns of Percy unzipping my whites, I smiled.

Indeed, the sketches were promising, I fawned Cyprien in hopes he might teach me drawing, I was reckoning my school training had been wanting; he agreed, evasively. Otherly, I was keeping in mind our evening of shady perversion and bygone espionage and more suggestive black-and-white photography than modern porn. Yet, given the moral crisis of Lauritz’s nonchalance or not, and the erotic benefits Sarah and I cunningly expected at the denouement, it would be out of the matter to bring my candid tinker fairy ring her bell at our bedside.
I floated the idea that Cyprien could take her to dinner at Agnete & Sanne’s understated shop, nearby, if he would walk her home safely. In any case, that befitted both, so I called to book a table. I had still no clue about Cyprien’s sexual attitudes, he would never even graze the back of my hand, whenas many others would already be in my pants. At worse, Percy would end the evening chatting online with a virtual suitor, whatever bed she chose up there.
Sarah was expecting some arousing voyage into the disreputable archaeologies, she made us groom ourselves like worldly whores, I was already wet like a beast while we painted our nails black or night. I had only never worn garters, I found that so kinky with silk stockings, it set up my slinky blink like a promise. I wondered what would Cyprien do of such a sight, in the array of the satin linings, suggestively underlined by a pair of patent leather court pumps?
Sarah had donned a Borealis Iceland blue silk panne fluid dress lined in steel black satin, I poked my tongue into her bumhole as she invented the sleaziest of insults for me. She chose for me a one-strap glistening silk jersey mini dress, flush with the edge of my stockings, obviously to show my thighs she would always praise, all the more without knickers, we were en route to the brothel, weren’t we?
Like in the movies, we wrapped ourselves in girted black trenches as we climbed in the car, the driver gave us a nod of approval. On Quai D’Anjou, the codes were still valid, we snuck in like nosy little whores. The lights were kept low, warm, cosy. Lauritz was walking down the master stairs, in fitted black silk and no tie, his constant grin as he took my hand to kiss me on the stairs, then he held us both by the waist and put a lick in Sarah’s neck.
We crashed like mischievous teens in the glazed chestnut mohair armchairs, not wary of what he readily saw of our legs, no incident had happened. I was proud, in the dimmed glimmer, to sense life in the majestic salon, no wonder then that it had enticed all manners of laisser-faire by presumably genteel personalities, I had given my scale in the rescue, it had earned me Sarah’s unfettered affection.
Lauritz ordered our savoury bites, some petit-fours, tea and coffee. He drank Crystal Champagne from a silver cooler. He explained all the good he thought of Hugo, the flair he had demonstrated to the resolution of the incident. I could tell Sarah drinking his words out of his mouth. Hugo had been utmost envious of the photo collection, but had admitted it stay, as a black crystal on this island, like a long-life radioactive leftover, under the von Speck discretion —and relish too, so it might happen, as we very well knew.
There was no need for visual curiosas to enkindle our wombs, we were already in full bloom, legs spread like stranded puppets, and Lauritz liked the taste of my sister. Half-undone, we followed the great alpha to the treasure room, where the fatidic binders had begun to be piled, with cryptic numbers on each. A bed was large enough for full-fledged parties, it was fitted with russet velvet, it had in times been covered with furs as the photos showed.
From my consumption of old cinema magazines, I could show some acquaintance with many faces that were exposed there, in lustful attitudes, along with sundry men in diverse attitudes and vestures, most of them keeping the socks-holders as a last token of civilisation. No doubt a talent like Hugo’s might ramble some crusty intrigues from the sequences that the nine-hundred frames military cameras could electrically shoot gave the course of the predictable events. It was obvious that the women knew they were captured on film, most were trained actresses, most had steered clear of the liberation bustle, unlike the helpless prostitutes that some despicable louts had publicly shaved for the worth of a stupid example.
In the limits of male domination, the whole range of turpitudes had been recorded, some guests entertained multiple partners or shared the same woman, some girls appeared to be quite young and obedient, in a few scenes, a syringe was used to inject liquids in different veins, concealed or not, causing some ecstatic poses or morbid abandon at the whim of the john.

My damning pale-skin mentor was beautifully aroused, she smelled of rainy ferns and winked at His Lordship’s bulgy fly. As to me, who had already carnally voyaged on these vicious depictions, with his maddened spur deep in me, I had not been expecting a straight tailwind course that night either, and the behaviour of the young houseboy who was then bringing a tray-table with more coffee and tea made me give a stare at Lauritz’s eyes to read that he was at his games again. I found composure licking my sister’s quim, as she was licking his dick out of the black silk.
He said he had opened the armoured door to the photographic lab in the cellar, sufficiently dry and cool to have kept all the original negatives and more. He led us, unclothed and at ease, to a concealed spiral staircase behind a plain door behind that of a bathroom corridor, which must have had been built from the beginning in that weird house, said I to its current owner who shut my mouth in one of his aristocratic kisses.
The whole maze was squeaky clean and healthy, not rot nor saltpetre, it was all gamely to graze one another in the flickering beam of Lauritz’s serious flashlight; he kept his willie out at Sarah’s hand, he would kiss me when she was sucking him. That confined space into finely adjusted stones smelled of our sweats and ardours, like animals in a burrow.
We attained a landing before a half-rusted door inscribed “Achtung Gefahr” in white stencilled letters. Lauritz took a set of flat keys in his pocket and, after he read on them, turned them successively in the recessed slot in the side of the door that swung heavily under his push, with not much of a noise.
He probably had rewired the lighting in place, he lit up four white glass globes hanging from the ceiling, beside the red ones. It did not feel like a torture chamber, it was a workplace with bare walls, even if there were traces that pictures had once been pinned. There were other doors, from inside, and possibly corridors and cells. He opened a walk-in closet with plenty of shelves, boxes and flasks predictable in a photo lab, I was shivering in my cubby-hole mood, I cuddled up to Sarah with lustful intentions that Lauritz sussed out, pinching her twiddleberries against my chest as he pushed his spear against her unprepared frowned rosace.
After a pleasant scuffle, he went on the visit and fetched a wooden box at the far end that he brought upon the work table, he had the small key on his ring. In there were other binders of imitation black leather and cloth corners, a well-documented style of stationery, with undecipherable handwritten gothic labels, now then I felt like one of these prostitutes shown upstairs, he chose one of the binders, neat with inner flaps, it contained views of this house’s main floor salons peopled of either formally dressed or merely jewelled crowds, the arrogant fauna of a full-fledged brothel in evening uniforms and bespoke apparel, many faces I had seen in much less gallant situations.
Lauritz said he had searched for the photographer’s name to no avail. He could tell, otherwise, that we both, born long after the end of the universal ordeal, were frankly aroused by the situations exposed, Sarah had found some richly clad platinum blond matron with her hand between the thighs of a young beauty eye swayed, she added that it could possibly have been her grandmother or some of the shameful side of her name.
The mute servant had found us, he held his faithful tray, lay it on the table and began groping my backside, casually. He was dark-haired, crew cut and close shave, dark-rimmed brandy-brown iris, he kissed like a girl, I wouldn’t even think of not letting him, It had been so with Lauritz, he craved me in others’ arms, Sarah, too, liked me slut. It would be torture for my well-hung German trouper because we went on exploring the detailed letter-sized glossy prints and he was waiting that I unclothe him, till he was ardent enough to bugger me standing, the clear dripping of impatience helping him in. Sarah, in turn, was honoured such, bending over the Third Reich follies —that I thought as an insult to the persons she had evoked before— and we climaxed in concert like a pair of fool headed whores.
Sarah spoke in German with my still hard cavalier, she craved him too, I knew that like always, his name was Arno, he came from Hamburg and “worked” part-time for Lauritz while studying French in immersion, which made us laugh and gave Sarah enough of a diversion to rush for his genteel cock that she sucked unabashedly while Lauritz tilted me back over free space on the table to revel into my inundated vagina, he thanked me for being his little whore, I retorted he wasn’t my pimp.

 

Sarah says:

The next morning, I woke up with Percy between my legs, in Cecile’s bed, under the eyes of Homunculus I persisted not to consider hostile, whatsoever happened in this bed not be deemed reprehensible, if ever delectable to whoever would watch. I concentrated on the puppy’s rage and let her have a victory, she tasted like my juices all over, I told her I loved her all the more so for that. Even if I would wonder telling her our nightly explorations, she had one of her own, possibly.
When Cyprien had taken her to the restaurant, she had become a little bored of posing, albeit she liked Cecile’s tracklists and she had serendipitously started the series of Shostakovich’s symphonies, triggering a farandole of imagery in the shrubberies of her idle mind, much like the phantasmagories of cannabis, said she.
He had seemed joyous to make her talk of all her mishaps and evasions, she had awaited he do something in the least carnal, he had been ogling her in the nude most of the day, she had ended mystified, he had walked her back at ten o’clock, seemingly not aware of her unease, telling her he would not be early, next.
I relished cajoling her, we went and did nasty things under the shower, she had touches of laughter like branches of blooming hawthorn in a sunny morning, she called me a magician, I offered her a wreath of foolish names, I filled up her sweet box with compliments, telling her to remember them on rainy days, she said she liked the rain.
If Cecile had been there, Percy would have drunk sweetened coffee, but she asked me for some of my tea and made me retell the legend of tea and Robert Fortune stealing the trees from China. She properly made me blush about my French toasts, I decided to look into Cyprien’s too polite attitude, was it the secret of such good work that he made?
Cecile had been too hot, she had changed for a near-distressed tee-shirt that made me crave her boyish breasts, slim jeans covered in wash-resistant paint stains, battered opera kid gloves, I found her all the sexier than ever. In her smile gleamed the waters of our night, in a sumptuous rebuttal of her raggedy togs. I kissed Cyprien on the cheeks if only to smell him, and it was a distinguished Cologne with a peppery note. I kept my hands on Percy who wore an easy lichen green tracksuit and nothing else.
Under Cecile’s amused glimpses, I prepared a sitting background on a black gold-dotted quilt thrown upon the sofa. Percy became elated at the idea of posing in my arms, we meandered on each other to find a settled balance, I dared ask Cyprien if my hand should rest, like that, near Cecile’s pubis, he engaged in the comparison of the erotic tension we could suggest, i.e. the Venus Of Urbino. He went on matter-of-factly praising the fashion, among our tribe of girls, to wax so carefully, he would hate to draw fuzzy hair —has hair remained on parts of the human body for some visual wisdom? Thus what with the beard? My right hand kept grazing Cecile’s lower belly, not covering her labia.
So then, it was patent that Cyprien was a sound spirit, that he properly saw the erotic finesse amidst all our debaucheries, but he kept unflinching respect towards free will. He eventually grasped Percy’s quizzical when he did not engage in seducing her, and that made him laugh. He then explained that he had been raised in a bonafide naturist family, hence he could abstract all libido from social interaction, and he had overall succeeded, until Camille had sent Cecile in his workshop, with her seducing cohorts.
Ever since my first art classes, I had been asked to pose, probably because of my easiness with nudity, sans doute in the same vein as Cyprien had avowed, my summers on Denmark sands had been happily unclothed, until my ill-fated brother dashed a full stop to my puberty metamorphosis, so thinly close to killing me. Thinking, my Far had been the brilliant soothsayer, during the enchanted parenthesis of us two in magical London town, he had devised an army of blue helmets on a safeguarded lakeshore, oh, my, whom would I take with me to Switzerland, this time?
Cecile had made coffee and tea, Cyprien poured creamer and sugar under our amazed eyes, Cecile dipped, Percy had sunk her ship and tried to salvage delicious spongy crumbs, I wondered why Cecile had learned all the science of perfect tea, was it only for me?
At a tiny message of my fingers in her palm, Percy followed me stealthily in the bathroom where I sat on the bowl and asked her to straddle me and let go of her pee, maddening her English mouth upon mine, my spinning mind already devising some escapade with her, somewhere.

Gauthier relished feeling the lifestyle he had greatly endeavoured in for Cecile’s envision and spell. Although he remained the undetermined playboy, she had trapped a shred of his soul inside her cubby-hole, but he revelled watching her shag his pretty assistant Philippe. He brought a pouch of Italian biscotti from Bartolomeo’s that were a convenient pretext for more coffee and tea —then again, someone had snitched that the afternoon favourite was the “Oriental Beauty” brewed in a different Yixing teapot, or was Cecile in love with me?
Nonetheless, Gauthier came to sit against Percy and tousled her hair because copper heads have their ways, breaking the pose. This time, it was Cecile who winked me to the middle door, for whatever whim. It was easy, I was stark naked and I had simmered in Percy’s scents, she pushed me into the magazine closet and gave me salacious names, a delicious reverse of her otherwise submissive attitude, but we had been together in the confidence of the lewdest stables of a bygone past, she could play a Cossack for me, we came fastly.
They all smirked, and dipped, and now Gauthier had disrobed and reclined like an Etruscan holding his willing captive, Cyprien had played their game, the only risk was that our bright knight’s spear rest so near to his preferred sheath. I could not hear what he whispered in the petal conch of the prairie princess, but they held still for the following hour. I did not ask permission to steal away Cecile’s shoes and socks as I crouched down at her feet, she kept burnishing the dainty details of the bonheur-du-jour.
I casually drew near Cyprien’s shoulder to gather an impression of what he made of a tall gracile boy like a ballet principal courting a gracious hopeful, had it ever existed. The sketch was mindful, and just as sexy as it be, I could frame it for our walls, inspiring. I was letting myself lean on Cyprien’s back when he decided his drawing had reached its impression, thus he rested the pad and, unnoticed, held my bare hip and bottom like it would not be the first time he touched anyone of us, allowing me to respond in sliding a hand in his shirt’s collar, so slowly as not to break the spell. When he stood up, I followed his move and found myself looking at his face, telling him low in my best candid tone that he had been touching me, for my pride. Had he ever seen my eyes, actually? I kissed him properly, as I knew the couple on the sofa was releasing its tension and shagged gently, Percy offering herself backwards.
Soon, Cyprien caressed my neck, shoulders, and somewhat agitated chest, taking a soothing voice to shower me with elaborate compliments, so as to mean, even if he slid his hand onto my impeccably smooth quim, that nothing further such would happen, then.
It had only been pleasant, Cecile had peeped the last of it, she made noise and walked to the private door leaned upon it, with her hand on the knob, until I grasp to join her, leaving the fastest pencil of both banks staring at a copper-speckled pair coupling slow. Cecile would not believe I had not plotted the affair, I was as wet as an Olivia Rodrigo fan.
When we came back, Cyprien had gone and the airy deer was still buggering the innocent damsel across the galaxy, we joined. It had been Gauthier who had chosen the sofa, it had withstood.
While they freshened, we ordered this and that of the truffle pies and the chestnuts turbans they could still regale us with at this hour. Percy, as much overspent her fierce dancer had left her, gazed nonetheless lovingly at Cecile peeling off her work rags, and this one was responding like a crystal glass full of sweet bubbles.
I was twiddling Gauthier’s marrot, to no avail as of yet; he sat up and querying our eyes around, proposed his idea of a grand artistic gathering at his family’s château, where his mother ran a costume workshop since his father had died. It was no more than an hour from Paris, a brigade of mostly Eastern-European seamstresses lived all over the place, they might like to improvise a charivari with all our gracious Parisian silhouettes, wouldn’t we?
He knew the current production set would be cleared in two weeks’ time, we conspired to warn all members of our octopus so as to make the grand design happen; I remembered the delicious stories Gauthier had recalled of his mother’s enchanted realm, before his father go nuclear finding his son in bed with a boy.
This time the sofa held fast with a party of four listening to our emotional piper retelling his bustling holidays in richly scented neverland, passing the fall from grace and the hard-learned evil tricks of an endless boarding school with no more escapes —there had been casualties, not his angelic side. Percy smelled of warm hay and Cecile licked the ardent traces of the games she had been played onto, describing aloud what unleashed mental imagery she scented in the rose creases.

Given that neither Camille nor Michelle, along with their multi-faceted details, would miss Gauthier’s grand midsummer folly, it had been warned that the château, which was surrounded by moats, would nonetheless be under siege by security all the while. I assumed it only meant more surveillance cameras and a few hunky lads whom to tip in kind.
It had happened so that while I had been enthralled with mine, Kate and the heather nymphs had rented a car —only Kate had a licence— to see Brugge for two days, and now Fayelle cultivated a passion for Flemish art, the fresh air of Gerard David, the miraculous cities afar, the motherly greeneries of blessed innocence.
They had slept, all but innocently, in Flemish overstuffed featherbeds and the scent of wild roses, they were back in the studio and Annabelle was barelegged. They enthused at the news of a midsummer carnival in an authentic château, at the mercy of a brigade of savvy seamstresses, and asked if all of the genteel tribe would be invited. It made no doubt the Lord of the Manor intended to lodge the whole cohort in the twenty-seven bedrooms available.
Some whiffs of candour about my previous raves with the disarming Percy had rung some tiny tinker bells in my daydream, I believed late morning would be an appropriate schedule to solicit Ayla for a yawning conversation. I went down to our bed and plugged my phone into the big video. My forever pet girl from school set no sham to answer me from her bed and show me the fluid line of her hips, she was alone in the dull rose percale battlefield of her bed —she boasted she had just lately rekindled the ardours of one of the cores of Swiss capitalism, but then also Switzerland owns the soul of pharmaceutical potency, doesn’t it?
She owned up that Esther, her own pet partner, had tentatively left her for some wealthy arrangement on account of a German client who had wanted her available in Gstadt, where he made her dwell in a posh salon as an expensive escort where he would come smell her when she was spent, before they went to the bathroom together. The john was rich and genteel, she had sensed an easy manner to feather her nest, Ayla had rooted for the princely caprice, she even had visited Esther as a client, unbeknownst to her sponsor, and found the conveniences of the deal palatable.
As always, Ayla was drawing me to her shores of gilded depravity, and I let her. She responded unblinkingly to Gauthier’s proposal, once she grasped there would be no other code of conduct than that we had always followed, then we reminded each other of the scent of May -roses in the boxwoods, where the willing little imps would await us.
Back in the studio, as no reading was going on, I felt inspired by Ayla’s tale, and our two redeemed tramps liked that.
Fayelle soon returned to the kindly dazzled dream of an art-filled beguinage, she had uncovered the plenty of books on Flemish Renaissance on our shelves, I only hitched up Annabelle’s skirts some more to get tipsy in the whiff of rainy hay.
Kate wore jade-green velvet slippers, but no knickers, she asked if I would also call Julia, among my school buddies, she had a vivid memory of her mad twin nephews who had so vibrantly exhausted us on our first New-York tour together. I could only leave a message and wait for the clock to turn.
Annabelle and I were rolling on the rug, I suggested we let the studious ones at their studies and find a bed downstairs, we crept out like mice, through the veilings of our window, dainty notes of wisteria whirled in the mellow light, we devised how to lure a hunky pair of hussars to our knees, and more.

 

Kate says:

I must confess to that while I dishevelled my foolhardy family ties in different venues, beyond the Parisian looking glass, I had envied Sarah’s ability to succumb to an outright infatuation upon a whim and make it flourish. And Cecile had even subjugated Lauritz in the manner I —who had all my life flirted with that Sylt playboy as a mere pastime, entwined into my incestuous passion— wouldn’t even have considered feasible. This lanky loner in her inconsiderable vestures had revealed a true charmer that Sarah, and Camille, had singled out and groomed.
Fayelle herself had relished long shags upon the Porsche hood under the Schleswig-Holstein moon —and she craved for Cecile in the nude, but who wouldn’t? We had someway fled Sylt that one time, and found a deep affection in the carnal scents of a puffed-up Flemish comforter in Antwerp, with the promise of tender returns.
Hence, we now had rented a glimmering blue Tesla car —only I had a licence— en route to Brugge, in the fruitful vein of Fayelle’s studies in the Flemish Renaissance, along with her now permanent relationship with Annabelle that I sensed as a windfall, these two escapee whores being ethereal lovemakers, true to the drawings Cyprien had made of them. After we had fun with the driving tutorial, I felt confident in safe mode, Fayelle’s head on my lap, Annabelle sleeping against her convenient bag, I could plug into our Tidal favourite playlists, and the sound was crisp.
It would be freeway all the way, flat and bleak beetroot land with the sun on our back, but I wouldn’t dare yet the autopilot. My booty imps smelled of Cotswold hedges, Fayelle wore no undies. I had booked a suite at “L’Oiseau Bleu” (sic) and let them not wonder how many beds would be populated. The diamond pattern stained windows opened over the waters of a historical canal, and the car could recharge and sleep safely.
Annabelle found a vegan café not far from us under the odd name “The Caribou”, a tall blond boyish fine waitress told us the first owner of the place had been a Canadian girl, then laughed like a schoolgirl. They made, among other things, refined poke bowls with the produce of their own garden and hydroponic greenhouses. We were impressed, she was too, all the more that I think Annabelle was already grazing her calf with the top of her bare foot.
In the days before, James had not spared us his psychoanalytic of the arts, to what Annabelle, perforce, would finely smirk, the fundamentals of art having somewhat waned in the academic circles she endured willy nilly. Thus, while I relished trading a bite of rhubarb and almond pie for Fayelle’s whip cream strawberries, the touching Glasgow thistle fairy was gently garnering a rendez-vous with our waitress who did not shy in the least. I wasn’t displeased thinking I would undoubtedly allow myself to ogle that nymph au naturel. I sensed that Fayelle second-guessed me, and we began playing footsie with each other while making eyes at our wily Scot enchantress.
Annabelle wished to devour her prey on her own; she had held her hand since she had appeared, lively, in the small pathway beyond the café. There was a young crowd in the car-free streets, the engaging Erasmus backpackers, but we wouldn’t waste time unnecessarily. Once in the chintz-frilled apartment that smelled of the potpourris and pomanders that the hosts had concealed in bibelots everywhere, Annabelle ushered her ballerina into the dusk-lit bedroom and closed the door behind her, ever so smoothly. I kept a vision of a slim tapered ankle in the laces of a barefoot sandal, the whiffle of a flared fuzzy-print skirt. I pulled amused Fayelle into the deep-buttoned vieux-rose satin loveseat and freed her out of her misty frost fern green foliage printed poplin shirt dress.
At the golden tip of dawn, Fayelle had turned her back on me, I could gaze at her little whore’s bottom under the lush down comforter and fantasise of all the times I had seen it worshipped in so many ways. Yet, I envied whom Sarah had gathered in the prairie of innocence —for all I knew— and watched bloom into lust, unfazed, adulated by all.
Hadn’t I been served beautifully with a Fanny unexpected in a Venetian fitting room, and then? For years, wasn’t I whom Natalia slid alongside, at her delightful whim? It was due time to shrug at my complacent self and kiss the palladium-clad cranium of my still-sleeping blond curled axolotl.
As I sat peeing in the bowl, it took me a pair of seconds to fathom whose thighs I fondled under a short vague sleeping shirt, I almost apologised looking up to that one Gwen, smiling at the situation. I nosed in her crotch, she smelled of fresh birch wood and orange blossom, I did not ask permission, but she took my head and said she, too, needed…
As I stood stark to her nose, she poked her tongue onto my lower belly to make me wriggle, she was your burly Friesian lass, and she knew to handle sluts like myself, I kissed her good day.

Annabelle was overjoyed to see Gwen and I hand play impudently, Fayelle wouldn’t keep quiet either, the hostess had not flinched when asked for a supplementary cup. I had been churning my phrases inside out so as to come to know if this bright maiden there had been expecting some manner of an extra tip from us, and she eventually owned up that it would be what she did with some men. We had a good laugh and forced her to take what she protested was more than she usually got, so we warned her she was booked again for the next night.
The heather fairies were beginning to let her know of their bygone fate when, checking on my telephone, I saw a flagged message from Sarah and opened it. She said Beryl had just told her that Victor had died of an overdose, they had found him on the floor of his Chaillot control room, now the pathologists said that a blue powder in a bejewelled snuffbox contained some deadly Fentanyl mixed with cocaine and oxycodone.
I had not felt the need to dress, but so then I was seized by shivers of cold, visions of these boxes of Victor’s and tiny gold spoons kept me from articulating sensible thoughts. I eventually read that the girls were catching fright, thus, after I swathed myself in a tracksuit and wool socks, I retold them of my high rolling liaison with the sexiest powerhorse I had happened to near, potentially at a deadly cost, insofar as Sarah just hardly saved my hide —that be a very long yarn to spin, if ever, wouldn’t it?
Live, Sarah added that there was some emotional hubbub across TRÆVIX territory and annexes, Mathew’s team had been called in addition to the crews beyond Michelle’s walls, the world had quivered. When the forensic teams visited Victor’s realm, Beryl’s mother had opened all doors of the maze, to the great fright of the officers who had never heard of such a fortress across from the Eiffel Tower.
The computer wizards brought to the sanctum sanctorum —after it had been made clear there wouldn’t remain a single microdot of a trace on the grounded copper surfaces— found the mega-machine totally silent, empty, any cloud connection idle, which comported either with suicide or a murder. In the morning when Beryl was called up by her mother, who lived inside the building, all the access codes to the cyber-mill where Michelle had been a galley slave before the night we exfiltrated —so to speak— her away from being raped by Victor, had been nulled.
Delf had called for me, then asked Sarah to take care of Appoline and herself, as long as Michelle would remain transfixed before her flickering screens, talking weird tongues with Melchior in her headset, too tense to accept caresses. Now they had gathered in Cecile’s lair, too agitated to pose for Cyprien who filled sketchbooks with furtive notations of all of them.
Aeons afar from a potential cyber war raging at home, a young sun bathed our pedestrian mind-soothing travel to the timeless tranquillity of the Groeningenmuseum, while I updated them on what Sarah just said. Neither Annabelle nor Fayelle had lived through the ascent of our darling Aviator, they would hardly believe that whom they knew as a tight-arsed, honey-smooth fairy be the worldly warrior I said she be. Annabelle succumbed to a chocolate emporium and bought a pouch of damn-fine pralines that made me crave a Belgian drip coffee at a lazy terrace.
Fayelle has been aroused by Gwen’s light-hearted walk of life, and a tad frustrated to see her hogged away by Annabelle, she would want revenge, but she also took pride in rekindling the connection we had enjoyed before apropos the tranquil humanism behind the Flemish Renaissance art, once liberated of the Spanish who had had definitely nothing to do around there.
Nonetheless, the girls had both sensed that the news from Paris had resounded far beyond my attitude, thus as we walked along the canal in the magic scent of lime trees, I began to reminisce the best of what Victor had done of me, with a nonpareil flair for smut and, till an acme of absurd, the inspiration for a deathwish. My two dear tramp-hearted damsels, whose short frocks swayed in the wind followed my yarn with smirks up to the disaster of my fall from horse in the Berlin rubbles and a botched attempt in a psychiatric dry dock.
Annabelle joshed at my metaphors, she knew how Sarah had pulled me back home after the rabbit Professor had clicked back my clock, and how then she had taken the place I had shunned in Hugo’s bed, whenas I had been posing in the raw for his camera, wearing the jewels of his collection, thus teasing whomever buyers he might have. Yes, I concurred Victor had made of me as much a whore as some rakehells had done cheaply of my lovely mates.
Mostly thanks to Camille, who had been Sarah’s mentor while I wasted my hide for some tiny spoons of a blue powder, I had thence let Hugo tilt back up my extravagant lifeways, so much so that I had thrown myself again, sometimes, into Victor’s snakepit, bringing along Sarah, at a fair reward.

This Groningen should be the best venue anywhere to show artworks in, and apart from the unneeded frankly-coloured wall coverings, the visit would unfurl fluently, Fayelle holding my hand, Annabelle stroking her butt under the vague layers of chiffon, a token of her pride about the night’s win. I was set to abide by their couple’s arrangements I had seen thrive in our garden since Fayelle’s accident. James had relished their candid tale and that they were following our steps, Sarah and I. He also had come up with new arguments for Fayelle not to let be impressed with yet another display of religious ardour in the sumptuous panels we strolled along by, thus she had been lectured in James’ psychoanalytic art criticism, she acted just like a seasoned academic and stopped only at what gave her that pang of emotion in the plexus she had begun to discern apart from the banal scan of what another new painting tells.
Adrift from whatever intentions had brought us up to madiæval quaint, I became noticing that nonchalant bushy dark red-haired, spreckled-faced Erasmus boy who seemed like leveraging his free pass to culture venues to cruise for some company —I couldn’t tell either wind he sailed. My own team currently gabbled more about Gwen’s lithe features than the limpidity of light in Gerard David, thus, I strolled by the gingerbread goliard easily enough so that he could have shunted me out with a smirk, without prejudice. He smelled of one of those outlandish Jermyn street scents, leastways in my frustrated mind —Fayelle, dissatisfied to watch her soulmate revel in the bosom of the candid new harlotee, had merely half-heartedly lulled me out the night before— for I very soon learned that he was no Brit but Dane, from Nordschleswig, I made him laugh with what I talked of Sylt dialect.
He sported a sleek chin, a straight narrow nose and strikingly long lashes on black inscrutable eyes, he was no more boylike than my own Sarah. I displayed my crush before he could wonder, my clothes, my watch and necklace showed enough I was no hostel tramp like so many roam our good old Europe year long, he paid attention to me.
As a manner of a dare in front of my interested buddies, after a less than subtle stare in his direction, I dawdled with that dubious smirk to the restroom where I pretended to blow my nose. I sensed the euphoric shudder when I saw him wander in the mirror, in one and a half steps back from the powdering console, I bustled him softly, earning a muffled mumbling, enough to reach for the door with the male icon on it, it wouldn’t matter if I was seen in there.
In the outworldly smell of the maniacally clean toilet, I nosed right into his shirt collar, his dainty complexion letting me expect the genteel penis he let me dig out of his soft maroon corduroy slack and fresh undershorts.
I had been wearing a light teal fuzzy print cotton twill hi-waist flared tank dress under a cloud blue poplin boy shirt, he was swift to steal my lichen green shorty and the rest, I stepped one foot upon the bowl’s lid, I was dewy already. Like a trained slut, I whispered through his acajou buckles that I would lend him my mouth, if he cared, and thus I sat, legs parted upon the lacquered wood and played with his steadfast dick, properly fit to soon reach my willing throat without hurdles.
He smelled of lavender soap, down here, and textile softener, with a hint of morning sweats, he fucked my face tenderly and did not warn when he gushed in deep, I sucked fiercely so as to swallow all and make him stagger on his legs. My right hand had succeeded at doing a jolly climax while he would not wane inside my mouth, I decided he could spend his proud youth in whichever of my other holes he wished, hence I stood up and showed him my bum, legs apart, my vagina was so easy to sheathe in, I rolled my hips to abet his drive, he had all the stamina I craved for, I clutched the walls to withstand his ardour, it went as long as could hope for, thunder rolling in my womb, we had not spoken three words.
There had been a manly voice on the other side of the door, I made use of a whole roll of paper towel to wipe off my soiled crotch, we frankly smiled as we tidied each other’s clothes, he said his name was Finlan.

Most predictably, not only did my buddies roll eyes at us but sniffed out the lustful scent of our escapade. Sotto voce, they showered us with lewd allusions, dragging on Finlan into their cute familiarity in a way to make him suss how intimate we were. He did not lose his cool, even when Anabelle overtly clutched to his wing and took her seediest Glaswegian tones to woo him, only to let him glance the misty rose of her complexion through her opportune cleavage.
Finlan von Blåskove —that Danish ancestry would make for a new angel on Sarah’s terrace— willingly agreed to our libertinage and we re-tuned our violins to the more expected discretion in a museum. He had known all of the masterpieces herein, enough to contemplate writing a thesis on the secret teachings in the artists’ guilds before the Powers That Be ripped them off their privileges and prerogatives. He had been there mostly to ascertain his predilection for Gerard David, about whom he said he would relish in disproving E. Panowsky, the Warburg all too copious art exegete I could never read, resting myself in the wisdom of Gombrich, Panowsky’s Nemesis.
Since it had been upon Fayelle’s whim —our precious tin-head full of axolotls— in the wake of our Antwerp escapade that we had driven out here, she felt she ought to appropriate all of Finlan’s attention, deploying a wealth of larimar gazes, eventually seizing his elbow. As we allowed them aside, Annabelle asked how it had gone in the locked toilet, thus I fanned her wants like a good comrade, vaunting exactly what I still sensed in my womb.
At a few steps walk, we chose a terrace on a canal, the waters looked fresh and clean, and sundry barks filled with tourists slid by. They made us sparkling lemonade with strawberries in it, we ordered omelettes and fries. I waited for the moment when the axolotl fairy would bid for her turn, it wasn’t long before she went to the restrooms; I seized Finlan’s finely cured hand so as to mean all the good I felt that he go catch up with my genteel buddy, for he was bound to serve as many of us we liked.
Sporting her cunning smile, Annabelle knew I would watch her pour ketchup over her fries, she only floated that it had been her only food as a defiled puppy and she couldn’t yet heal the core of her wounds. Meanwhile, she was playing footsie with me, out of her sandals, and she was quite a gifted slut. From inside her vest, her telephone growled, one of the listed allowed-through numbers, it was James calling on video and he liked what he saw. He asked her to show me and dared me to hitch up my dress as he guessed I wore nought. He was proud to show the creamy white wisterias around him, filtering the sunlight as he sat in his ornate wicker chair on the wooden gallery of his Parisian hideaway. She spoke to him lovingly, letting him guess of her night with Gwen, in mezzo voce metaphors because a family with two nosy blond heads had taken place at the table next to ours. I could not have told which genre these cute children were, my eyes wandered to their shorts and the elder’s parted thighs, only to let me see a pure white hem and no more; I woke and then saw Fayelle, languidly meandering through the scattered white furniture, returning to her cold fries upon which she burst her egg yolks, she sighed as she sprinkled some salt, and realised she was being videoed and peeped on by two pairs of periwinkle eyes. She too stole a glance between the smooth legs, the parents being totally absorbed in reading different guides, she garnered a mischievous grin, and then Finlan strolled by and sat so as to block the sight to the blond imps; he shared kind gazes, with a new feather in his cap. James asked to see that new squire, owning that we never wasted time, and addressed Finlan in his most courteous received pronunciation of English. After he vaunted all of us shamefully, he asserted the boy should follow us to Paris, for he had just met the finest tribe he ever would, and there were more, provided he wouldn’t shy off our pansexual penchants. Finlan admitted he was fiercely tempted, and James retorted money was not an issue.
I had a hunch that our Tesla would be packed, all the more that I had scented that our little whore Gwen would gladly embark on our ship, too. Finlan asked for a stroke of microwaves on his chips, another witty waitress told him eggs did not withstand that, but they could give the whole a turn in the frying pan, and he liked that.
Later, on the walk to the old hospital to see the Memlings, it became all too obvious that Annabelle claimed her turn, in the finely threaded English she, a street slapper child, had learned from James, retold the sexiest of her shady upbringing to the dainty aristocrat, who revelled hearing that. They walked arm in arm, she nosed in the collar of his shirt; Fayelle held my hand, sisterly.

When our hard-working waitress cleared our white-dressed table for dessert, I couldn’t help getting to know she had lost her panties and she was in bloom. She smelled of iris douche and sperm, which made me fiercely horny but she had more passes to give, as I saw, while Finlan stroke Fayelle’s well-known brooklet under the table cloth while he kept confessing to his forbidden decadent shenanigans; and the servant’s daughter had one of her own, now, ready to learn, once he would bury his ghostly parents.
After I punched my code for truly fine dining and all the gratuities thereupon, we left and waited for Gwen in the delicious moonlit pathway where Finlan let himself be raped more than one way. When Gwen joined us eventually, she was holding a rounded duffle bag and declared that she would be coming with us, wouldn’t she? She owed nothing to the restaurant owners, and not any hard feelings, anyway. It behoved me to welcome yet another dove to the cote, then, as I hugged our so depravedly smelling loot, a boyish tone in my back asked if we also had room for one as lean as he was, while I felt a dainty hand on my bum; he took hold of the derisory possessions of our somewhat artless alley cat, so as to free her hands while we loosely flirted our way to our room.
Obviously, these two desirable tramps had loved each other for some while, and we would relish watching them shag each other like stray cats. Gwen had some girly tits, just enough to be sucked on, and Finlan’s crack wasn’t so bushy that I couldn’t exert a proper rim job to his rosy bud.
Merely unflustered, she had, in her day, already withstood a brigade of hungry cocks, and now she was hacking our train unleashing her own throes with Finlan for true; I reckoned it smelled like a honey trap, indeed, but the pair was startingly appealing, I foresaw a sensation in all the alcoves of our libertine convent, the thrust of passion when Sarah would steal Gwen’s socks and fondle her long lean feet.
She had refused all the money I handed her, she asked me for thrills, and she was at it. Our Erasmus squire did not sweat his act, but he sheathed his blade to the hilt with devotion, and again; I asked permission to send a few heated photos to Sarah.
I had forbidden Gwen from washing after he had splurted deep in her loins, she smelled of wet garden soil and freshly crushed roots, to my exacerbated mind at least, but nevertheless, she woke me not long later for she said her bumhole itched, thus we had a little more fun in the bathroom. The rest of the band were all rounded like a litter of puppies, with fleshy lips to kiss, Finlan smelled of fruit like my own brother.
We woke late, we had cancelled any last-minute visits, and the day was powdery golden, with a breath of the nearby seashore. I went to fetch the Tesla, Finlan roared at the sight of it. I claimed Gwen at my side, they fitted quaintly on the back seat. I could not notice much underwear —either— about them. We drove to Finlan’s hostel and Annabelle went to help him pack his case and a guitar. We joshed it might have been a poor idea, but soon Gwen and I were leaning backwards, chatting face to the casually wide parted thighs of Fayelle who explained to the newcomer how whorish we all were and had been.
Prettily recovered from her altogether harassing workday —so would it have felt, to me— Gwen enthused about telling her harrowing personal story to an all-loving audience, though it took her a while to understand what was so unusual in her perception of our group. She had simply never travelled inside an electric car, and this one was the epitome of one; she was overjoyed, all the more that my hand was free to go at my whim.
She was no more than twenty, I was apprehensive about hearing another tear-pulling tale like those of Dagmar’s or Delffan, but I would not shun the role of leading the Good Samaritans, even if the lone Saxon’s fly was already unzipped. Gwen had been born in a near-anarchist Dutch hippies commune in the southwest of France, on land tentatively reclaimed from military drills. not even worthy for sheep breeding, only rich with seasonal mushrooms, when the supposed grownups weren’t too high to move out to go fight for them.
As far as she remembered, the only vital activity they complied with was mendicity, besides peddling pills in raves and orgies where she was eventually sold too, which at least earned her some grooming and nice hair at her mother’s hand. She had been lucky enough not to reach puberty and menarche before the age of sixteen, thus she had soon grown tall enough to fight and run if needed. As we could see, she sported square shoulders, timid breasts, and big feet I had already singled out. Her mother OD’ed on ecstasy from a bad batch, no one would think of that, it happened in a backlot of a squatted barn, and she had been gang-raped on the spot by the very scumbags who had poisoned her mom.
She had run, like a rat, until some country boy saw her nude in a river and behaved humanly. He went to his home and brought back some approximate-fitting boy’s clothing of his big brother, even the socks and shoes fit.

His name was Martin, dirty-blond hair, sparrow-brown eyes, and freckles. He wouldn’t smile. He also brought a comb he washed in the river before he fought her fuzzy mane; it lasted hours. He tried to know where she came from and if she ran away from something, somebody. She said the least so as to make him understand she was on the lam. He had grasped she wouldn’t like him to grope her, besides, she was all boy-like, but he was all the more interested. He took her along the brook to a small dilapidated mill he told her was his lair on rainy days. The place smelled of rotten straw, an owl family had been shitting from high in the beams for ages, and one was glaring at them. Seeing Gwen frightened by the bird’s fixed eyes, Martin slid a hand under the sweatshirt and grazed her tummy, she let him a few seconds too long, so he smiled and pulled his young dick out, gently forcing her down to suck. She had been doing that so many times at her mother’s will that this one seemed clean and easy, she made him come in a couple of minutes flat and pumped him dry and clean. When she stood back up, he seized her head and wanted to smell her mouth.
He cleared the litter in the corner of the single room where the hard-beaten soil was dry, away from the bird’s mess, they went to steal armfuls of the hay drying in the fields, she still remembered the scent, rich and heady, in which the birds’ dejections became a redolent note. Martin never attempted to rape her, but he inevitably succeeded at disrobing her and making her spread her thighs while sucking him, he wouldn’t know how to carnally reward her, she did not ask for anything, and she wouldn’t even masturbate. All he did was fondle her slits with wet fingers.
It was a blessed season, Martin brought thick honey bread his mother made in the farm oven, and enough dried figs and nuts to feed her. He had to go to school, but he came to the mill every free minute till dinner time; when he hadn’t had his daily treat, he escaped in the night to come and force-filled her mouth as he revelled. On free days, he also brought comic magazines he had scavenged here and there, he stole clothes for her, he liked her in boys’ briefs while they decyphered nonsensical tales, inasmuch as she had learned reading from an honest wanderlust pipe-head, in the quieter days of the commune, before all the pills nightmare took over.
It was doomed to end. She had told Martin that a kindly dog came silently visiting now and then. When she described the brown-speckled dog and its aloof attitude, Martin went scared. He did not say, but only a few days later, the huntsman who had followed his dog kicked the bodged-up door open, pointing his shotgun at her and ordering her to disrobe and lie down. She had known worse, she obeyed in full knowledge of what the boor wanted. He told her to take his dick out, still holding the shotgun, and then stand on all fours. As she felt he pressed upon her dry pussy and couldn’t make his way, the mayhem burst, the huntsman fell aside her, the dog barked and fled, and when she turned back, Martin’s face was torn away by the gunshot the evil bastard had triggered in the last jolt before his own death. Martin still held the rock he had shattered the skull with. As she collected her clothes in sideration, the dog was howling, the owl flapped its wings, and the smell of powder made her cry.
She knew the river would meet a bridge somewhere, a road. Martin had cut her hair short, she looked like a boy; no one saw her walking that night before she reached a parking lot on the freeway.
She did not need to make faces to hook up a man, she chose a clean Spaniard en route back home before he let her in the cabin, he wanted to check she was the girl she pretended, and so what she would agree to do for the price of her trip. He used her properly in any possible way on the cabin bunk, he took her to the showers, and to the restaurants. She forgot the horrible sight she had left behind.
He drove all the way to Marbella, she came to like how he treated her, the smell of his skin, of his dick. He relished the way she sucked him clean while he drove, but moreover, he craved her bumhole in the lather of a shower. He did not give a thought that the colleagues thought he was a faggot who had abducted a boy whore, he liked it like that.
He had tried to grasp who and what she was, he convinced himself she was some random stray kid and thus he began to mull on her fate. He could not keep her longer in his cabin, but he was totally smitten with her ways, her skin, and her silence. Hence, he matter-of-factly explained to her that she would work for him in a snug bordello he knew well while he would drive his deliveries to Germany and back, each week. She did not argue, he had been a blameless lover and paid attention that she came, too; moreover, what did she know?

Madame Estefania was a steadfast character, clear-skinned, with straight black hair with a bang and a swift jay glare. She met Gwen and her driver, whom she then learned was called Leandro, in her kitchen at the back of a big white townhouse, poured some coffee, displayed cookies on a plate and asked Gwen to unclothe entirely.
Once she had fondled all creases of the pale blond body, she took Gwen upon her lap and casually wanked her while sniffing her armpit, hiking up her own skirt to avoid any dripping from the little slut she liked right away. She made her come easily and turned to Leandro, telling him that was certainly a valuable bait although she would have to sell her in private appointments because Gwen was too obviously underage and no fake passport would trick any cop.
Leandro had thus stated he did not want any money in the deal, only he would have her on his leave days every week at some address or in his cabin. Madame Estefania then took Gwen to a perfumed room and astounded her with her skills. Later, a manicure and a hairdresser made the stray cat look even more like a well-bred tomboy, and everyone took a tender toll off her mouth and lady bits, anyhow.
A greying lady took her in a chauffeured car to different shops where they provided ambiguous attires and white cotton undies, no dresses or skirts, but quite a few rich jersey tracksuits so easily pulled down.
She could choose a dozen different pairs of sneakers because they wane so fast in the want of perverts. The bag of socks alone weighed more than a day’s crop of mushrooms.
She lived upstairs in the house of the man who drove her to her appointments in something like a cab. He had a wife who brought her meals and coffee. She discovered television. There was a telephone but it was a private line. Every day, at first once, then twice or three times and more, she was told what to wear and smell, and Alfonso drove her to some posh villa and waited for her.
She should comply with all whims of that new cosmopolitan breed of customers, and she knew that when she accepted the whip there would be a better reward, although she reckoned that the figures Madame Estefania kept of her gains might as well be a pure delusion, with what however she had already repaid her expensive wardrobe, and she had receipts.
The first time Leandro had picked her up in his bobtail he had been wowed by her candy green tracksuit and pristine white thick-soled sneakers, he had driven to some backyard he knew not far and relished pulling down the elastic belt of her pants to kiss the freshly waxed pubis and crack. That evening he came in every hole and again in her mouth before they dozed in their sweats on the bunk.
He also had a miserable room inside the garage they had been parked behind, meagerly furnished but with a king-size bed and a vast shower room. She was starving and she smelled bad, he called an Uber’eats and ordered all she liked, but before the delivery came he buggered her in the lather under the shower.
He could not tire of her body, nor of the tales of all she had let her customers do her, she enjoyed making his eyes glimmer until he would shag her, making sure she flowed like a beast.

 

Gwen recalls:

On the whole, given the ancient lifeways that I tried not to remember, the new schedule seemed all the most liveable, and I loved my wardrobe and the lazy downtimes. Soon, there was some patronage of old boys in pristine white hilltop villas with crystalline pools who played with my body and did not ask much for their own carnal needs. One, however, paid all the extras to have me terrorised, chained and whipped so as to piss on the marks and make me shriek in his cellar. Madame insisted that I returned because the bastard was supposedly making me rich.
One lived in a stunning rose marble vaulted lair with an infinite pool, half-encroached inside a grand ballroom, where he threw lavish parties for his cronies with some waterfowl my kind in any genre for them to play with, and they did.
Now and again, Madame summoned me to her private apartments; she relished grooming my body by herself, cutting my hair and polishing my nails. I saw her doctor, who quietly drew some phials of my blood, asked me to piss in a plastic cup, and nevertheless buggered me over my mistress’ body; he found no sign of puberty happening to me and told me I might altogether avoid it because I was so desirable like that. She took me to a dentist who undressed me before I lay on his chair; he liked my teeth, thus he made me suck his dick while both of them wanked me.
Madame relentlessly taught me precepts to preserve the windfall capital of beauty nature had granted me, her main stresses were about smoking and drinking alcohol, she would always sniff my breath and check the white of my eyes, before spanking me out of joy. She avoided the lecture on drugs, for I already knew longer than she did on the matter.
After a few feasts in Leandro’s cabin and his dark lair, he ceased his visits and Madame claimed she knew null of his fate, he had not given any whereabouts nor a phone number. It was a bitter reckoning, he had treated me heartily but I sussed he had merely sold me to traffic.
Apart from the visits with Madame, who now took pleasure to have me shagged by the riffraff of her staff so as to lick me over once they were done, my schedule became busier, such as I could not finish an episode of Downtown Abbey before I should clean, lube, and perfume my arse before I went back to Wonderland.
One day at noon, while it seemed the entire country was napping, I ran again. I carried a sage green backpack that made me look like any schoolgirl, some change of clothes and a stash of bills, given by some of my contented johns, sewn in the hem of my sweatshirt. I knew that walking downwards would lead me to the seashore.
There, a crowd of foreigners avid for sunburns did not abide by the Spanish timeline, I bought a funny hat and began cruising by, keeping in the shadows. I had manners, I had been raised a harlot and I could tell where the action was. After a few misfires, I was gently accosted by a slender Asian man in a fine off-white suit and a Panama hat who believed I was a boy until he slid his manicured hand in my briefs, in his air-conditioned panoramic suite at a nearby palace hotel. He spoke in a weirdly tinkling French but I understood he craved my body and asked for my price. Madame had once let out some figures, for comparison, thus while he was trying to pull my clothes and lick my neck, I whispered the right number so he fetched the notes and looked in my eyes while my trousers went down.
He smelled of dry Martini —like in my mom’s missed last words— with lemon peel and an olive. Closer, a hint of some balmy wax I had found on some sportsmen, a massage oil of sorts. His dick was slimmer than most I had had to endure, like Leandro’s truncheon, but firmly tense against my belly as he kissed me with mad hunger. I had no restraint to let him plunge it deep into my throat and hump my skull in style, I fantasised he was a dancer when at the acme of his rhythm he thrust all his length and ejaculated in a sequence of jolts, caring that I gulp it all thoroughly, joyous of my skills.
He confiscated all my clothing and dumped them in the laundry basket, bar the fat hem I kept in sight. then he asked if I would like to pee; it had been hot and I felt dry as a brick. He smirked and called out for a bucket of tea. He held me constantly, repeating he would not let me go, we would sail on his boat to the Côte d’Azur and I was thinking it was what I would have hoped for.
I did not have time to go hide when the waiter brought the tea, he ogled me for the obvious pride of my client, Toshi, who took time to tip the waiter so that he could take a good glance at my bare pussy —who can tell a girl’s age nowadays? After he poured light green tea into porcelain cups, Toshi seized my feet and detailed them at the tip of his fingers, complimenting the care they showed, then asking me to knead his balls with my toes. The tea was only perfectly warm and smooth, I knew why he forced me to drink more. He said his boat was moored in Alcantara but he had hoped he would find beauty for hire, just like me; he wasn’t set on genre, only the age and the figure, besides, I offered a promising slit to sheathe in.

Toshi wouldn’t be the first one to play water games with me, while he kept vaunting a mirific journey he would take me on along the Mediterranean coast, at his unfazed expense, I was holding back my bladder and he knew it. He led me to a truly grand expansive bathroom with a walk-in shower where he lay down, begging me to pee all over him at first. It must have been the tea, my urine smelled of fresh-cut hay and fennel; he licked my labia as I filled his mouth, he laughed and gurgled. When I ran dry of tepid gold, he asked me to straddle upon his stiff spur, to what I easily shaped my vagina, and churned like in a game while he pissed in.
I know not if all of you tried this one Finlan’s wee-wee, but to me, he gives the same exhilaration of being an easy carnal bilboquet, doesn’t he, sluts who have been in his brief since I have been here telling of my exploits? Did you know I was the one who sent this genteel offspring of legendary British Steel after you?
Then he kept his playful pace until he gushed in thick blobs against the wall of my womb, holding my face to read my gaze. My nether parts were tense with elation, no one had ever done such acrobatics inside me, he wanted to know I was unhurt and still willing, hence I answered his deep kisses like a queen of sluts.
We then slept enlaced upon an immense bed, until the loud flutter of wings felt on my face, the owl of the abandoned mill with Martin’s shattered face, one eye dangling at me in the fumes of gun powder, only the dainty hand of Toshi’s trying to chase my fear. Already stiff again, he was dripping clear cum on my lips, waiting for my tongue to lick it, so I was soon at it, suckling in half conscience, back in my new part playing, swallowing a bitter swig.
I discovered the transcendent luxury of five stars shacks, mainly the utmost ease of room service, when Toshi never inquire about the time when he ordered salads to my taste, eggs Benedict on warm buns, nude under the lavender-smelling damask napkin. And word had undoubtedly been circulated about some new pet in Mr Toshi’s apartment, thus I soon guessed what awaited my pretty queer silhouette.
In what felt like the middle of that night, a fleet of foot Moroccan boy pushed in a trolley bearing rice pudding and fruit salad, my favourites. He had been gazing at me like a daring raptor, he showed manly nipples under the thin white jacket. In a dash, Toshi grazed him from the back, his penis taut, as it seemed the boy was acquainted with it, slid a tight roll of money in his hand while he soughed a brief word to his ear.
The boy, he was called Issa, came collectedly sit next to me and grabbed my nape to kiss me dumb, so I had nothing better to do than undo one by one the buttons of his uniform, which he eased off with care and rested at the end of the sofa, while Toshi was slowly wanking with marcasite eyes —my mother had some ageless brooch with such eager little stones on it.
Once I had taken care of the rest of his work outfit, I murmured that he was a handsome warrior and showed him the skill of my mouth while he pushed open my thighs as I knelt over him. Unfailingly, as Issa went on shagging down my throat, I felt the stubborn push into my bumhole which surrendered easily.
Issa smelled of bitter almond and seaweed, he was clean as a bride, I did not give him choice but to spurt his load into my hard sucking throat, in long overwhelmed sobs that triggered Toshi’s crisis deep into my loins. My head upon Issa’s chest, I remained in want, Toshi, to whom I granted full avail of my holes, did not yet earn me climax from the back, he was aware of that. So then from where we stood, only Issa could help my greedy innards, thus I choked in again his young full-fledged morsel in the hope his youth would saddle me back and it sure did.
As I lay spent aside on the cushion, I watched Toshi help my beautiful stud clothe back, all the while groping what he would, visibly envious of the intimate parts I thought he was certainly not the only one in the hotel to call for. Most of the top-notch brigade of waiters became to know and use me as seconds, but then it was a dream of a lifeway, far above what Estefania had trapped me in.
The ship had been christened Tara, Toshi gave me a new, expensive, almond-green tracksuit embroidered with the name so we went to see her harboured nearby in the small port where she stood out. I understood she was a fifty meters unit with a crew of twelve among whom were three women, I asked Toshi if that meant I would have to serve ten dicks all the while? He retorted it would be up to me, did I complain? He loved me whore, don’t you?

We weighed anchor the next morning, face to the sun. The all-white and chrome vessel cruised quietly, Toshi stripped me but showed me the closet where my bag and a lot more wares were piled, in my own bathroom, the one on the port side, Toshi only used his for poop. The master bed was worth its name, it rested upon stabilisers and felt like the luxury cars I had been shagged in.
The captain, a burly greek sea dog called Demis asked to see my passport as the law obliged. I took Toshi aside in our cabin and eventually explained that I had no identity at all and did not know when and where I had been born. He looked a tad crossed, but as I sat on the bed, arched back on my extended arms, under the subdued light of the shades, he melted down once more for the skin of my flat chest and my tiny nipples, so he capsized me and he forgot all else.
I did not know what Toshi had told the captain, but that one groped me as often as the rest of the crew, women included. He had encouraged me to misbehave as much as I would, preferably not in the crew quarters, there were enough guest cabins to fool in, since there were no other guests than I, and then run back to him dirty and drippy, for his relish. it would not be otherwise advisable to party openly as he had me do in the hotel.
Hence, sailors, waiters, and cooks seemed on the watch for my arse most of their time, at my whim. It was the way I had been raised, anyhow, used and abused by whoever was not too high to rape me. Did I tell you I am a miracle?
There was a smell of pepper and clove in the captain’s carré, and he sported a round-headed spear I would swear I never saw limp. He repeated I had fallen from another world, and once he had humped me a good once or twice, he let me sit on the master seat and told me stories of the countries he had visited.
The others were young Ukrainians or Lithuanians, the cook was Greek and made my salads and rice. Toshi spent hours with his computer in the master cabin, he was thrilled when he could smell and feel that I had been used in every way like a mop. He would then let me doze out in my grime and eventually woke me with the poker in my arse, then he would pamper me like a doll. We all know what a proper whore likes.
However, when we approached Cartagena, an impressive roaring boat of the Servicio Maritimo De La Guardia Civil came alongside and saw me first thing, bare as a lily. When they blew the siren and I felt the engines quiet, I realised I had probably better cover myself some, and stay in our cabin. Two officers had climbed aboard, and after thirty minutes they asked about me, so one sailor asked me to show up and it went from bad to worse until they decided to take me on land, so there I was, with my backpack and a fistful of money that Toshi gave me —a lot, actually— in a big roaring speedboat with soldiers in black uniforms who smelled of Spanish soap and mint.
They berthed in some fenced-out harbour and ushered me into a bright white building where I had to unravel, in French, my non-life, undress again for a uniformed redhead woman, and because I carried strictly not any document pertaining to my identity, pose for photographs, give my set of prints, and, last but not least, a swab of saliva for DNA testing.
Everybody was kind and forthcoming, the woman who had, nonetheless, fingered my arse, told me approximately that prostitution was not forbidden in Spain beyond eighteen —I said nought. I was taken upstairs to a spacious and clear room, with a military-looking table and chairs, a single bed, and a television on the wall. There was a prison-type bathroom with metal bowl and sink, and a walk-in shower, I was in jail.
No sooner had I begun to try and operate the TV than a young plain-clothed man knocked and introduced himself, in flawless French, as a social worker for minors. He was comely, he smelled of lavender and his smile showed splendid teeth, I tried on him all my bag of tricks, but he remained aloof and complacent, he took a cute little notebook from an inside pocket and twiddled a two-cents ballpoint, listening to my rave, unfazed with my apparent incoherences.
We had a delicious lunch together, fish and rice in a tomato sauce, the redhead woman officer of my arse brought a pot of coffee and gave me the eye. My confessor Sebastian still pushed me in my tales, weirder and weirder, and he checked that I was not lost in the woods, I could tell the growing emotional tension in his voice.
When my prefered redhead came again, he asked her to stay with me for he did not want to let me alone. Others took turns during my sleep, I forgot to think of them, it was my no life over again, the owl let me sleep in my expensive tracksuit.
You should not cry, Kate, it is me in your car, and you pretty well know I am still in one piece and we are driving to your faerie home, do you prefer that I kick off my shoes?

Sebastian and his red-haired cohort only began to believe my double Dutch and, in all modesty, to love my ways. while keeping on grilling me again in front of a voice recorder which he said could listen to me a whole day through, they had pulled out chairs under a canopy beside the captaincy and provided me with anise green spandex shorts and crop top I would not wear all the time. I had become the monkey of the barracks, lightly dressed, I knew I possessed more than their attention. I even pushed my luck so as to make my arse-searcher clip my toenails, we had intimacy, hadn’t we?
However, I wasn’t let foreseeing my return aboard Tara, and they said that Toshi had somewhat disappeared. Two French plain cloth officers, or whatever, arrived one afternoon, sweating under the killer sun. I hated their manners at once, in that they considered me from all their self-importance, unaware I could tilt their judgement with only a sleight of my legs. They dropped their jackets, pulled their sleeves up, accepted some coffee, and fetched the binders in their satchels.
Now it was me listening, and Sebastian kept on the lookout for any expression on my face he had become in love with. These two uptight fellow countrymen were teaching me who I was, better than I had ever known. I had been born sixteen years ago in Dordrecht in the Netherlands, my name was Gwen van der Molen; my mother had been found dead of a drug overdose in the south of France, Nobody knew I existed before my DNA matched hers and the Dutch unearthed a single mention of me in their birth ledgers, my father was said unknown.
Then, they had put me at the crime scene in the mill where two men had been found dead with a dog howling mad. Sebastian was flabbergasted, there was a lot more to my tale, but I had not been lying. The dictaphones spawned up again. I asked for lemonade.
As you can tell, I become a true chatterbox once anyone caught my trust. I did not conceal Madame Estefania’s traffic, although I could not have said where she operated.
Nonetheless, I claimed I had been with Toshi of my own free will, and was happy, at that —I could not, in all likelihood, begin to plead to a gathering of judiciaries that, with due manners, I liked being a whore and there wouldn’t remain a slim chance I would ever do otherwise, since I had been raised so.
My precise explanation of the tragedy in the ruined mill moved all the cops whom I felt were all ogling my floating tee-shirt, wondering if they had suddenly turned paedophiles, my search specialist did not.
The French declared that I wouldn’t be further inquired about and thus be handed over to the Dutch, who appeared two days later, apparently more interested in the boats than in me. They spoke good French, on their flight they had listened to the recording of my seemingly already famous memoirs among the services. They let me think that, once I had complied with my legal situation’s chores, I might eventually ask a judge to emancipate me, which did not mean I could go back straight to my ordinary trade before the age of eighteen, but the two hunky Friesians obviously infringed my privacy zone as they spoke to me. One of them went as far as grazing my thigh as I stared at him in the next seat on the plane, nothing very new to me.
I sensed a zest of admiration in the eyes of my Spanish interlocutors, and moreover a touch of despair in my dear ginger rapist’s eyes, hasta la vista, they say, I showed her she was forgiven.
I was driven to a boring brick venue that happened to be some sort of orphanage for special needs children, mind you, and to hell if there were, in there. I was put in a first examination room, with willow-green lacquered walls and light-minded iron garden furniture and a comfy single bed. there were two grillage windows that reflected on a polished lino floor. I joshed to myself that it was another prison cell made pretty for my kind of monster, whenas I had spent the better of last months in five stars luxury. I saw the tiny cameras watching me, I was tempted to strip for them, but I reckoned it would happen anyhow.
A young lad in jeans, sneakers, and a multicolour sweatshirt crept in as I was contemplating a wood patch afar in a greenfield. The Spanish sun felt so long gone. A mild voice with an accent was asking me if I did not feel the cold with my bare feet on the floor, he wouldn’t the first to look at them. As he lay a slim brown binder on the round table, I went to sit cross-legged on the bed, he asked if I wanted coffee or something, I felt like creamed sweet coffee, and thus he called for that on his telephone.
He said he was Kees, a psychiatrist in charge of my most unusual case, but there was no reason to get anxious, he, too, had listened to my tales and he showed he was altogether impressed. He decidedly liked my feet.

One help in a marsh-green smock she read in my eyes that I instantly saw she wore nothing under, pushed in a trolley bearing, mind you, a set of blue decorated earthenware, plus slices of a rich sponge cake.
I came to sit next to Kees, not across the round table, and casually dared to woo him, because that is what I do, right?
He did not lose composure, he said I was fiercely desirable when I cropped up my feet on my seat and wriggled my toes, it would make a pretty scene on the watch cameras. Nevertheless, I made sure he saw me through the open bathroom door when I pulled down my trousers to pee, he learned I wore no knickers.
Unfazed, he taught me I had grandparents, reputed pharmacists in the city of s’Hertogenbosch (Duke’s wood), and they had been informed about my existence, of what they had never known until then. I sure wasn’t thrilled anyhow, the family had never been in my categories, but Kees took a funny attitude to tell me there was no legal way I could avoid seeing my grandmother, then he could not help but seize my foot, hence I puffed myself up in victory.
Doctors in white coats were puzzled about meI let them auscultate whatever they would, as long as they kept manners, even, of course, about my nether parts, after they had discovered I had never yet reached puberty although I told them I had always led a full-fledged sex life, and I looked like it, through the conversations. They could not reach any conclusions, they made me promise I would have my blood drawn twice a year for research, but I did not myself believe I would.
My grandmother came over to meet me; she was a tall and slim elegant woman who could not help going emotional, so much I resembled her lost daughter. She, for one, had not listened to my recordings, I let her hold my hands over the table, and, knowing full well that it would be taped, I served her a gentle version of my novel, watching out for the moments when she might crack up, but she was a woman of the world, she grasped full well that I had been a slapper all along, just like she had known that my mother had pillaged her father’s pharmacy since middle school. She owned up to me that through the hell I had grown in I was some kind of a girl indeed. As she darted loving eyes on me, I suddenly pulled my tracksuit off and tiptoed around to show my all valuable hide, before she embraced me wholeheartedly. She smelled of that jasmine and rose magic and her breasts felt like doves as I sat on her lap. Her name was Jacobine.
I was granted a big television with plenty of French-speaking channels, on warmer days I relished lazing nude watching any kind of program and Kees did not shy seeing me so, even when I could tell of his obvious erection, he wrote down the random raves that I threaded about my usual life, I avoided the bad memories and the rapes, I vaunted my skills as an off-limits little harlot.
The system assigned me to dwell with my grandparents, but my grandfather, after he came to the judge’s chambers, refused to have me around his house and store, so he rented a quaint apartment Jacobine had chosen for me on the top floor of an old Dutch house on a lively old street. Being law offices, the lower floors were empty at night, there was no risk I could trouble anyone’s peace. I was given my first ID card and my first bank account where they had the surprise to see me bring at the counter a pouch of crumpled notes for a nonetheless hefty sum, Toshi had not been mean to me. My grandparents would feed my account, and so would the state, but I should be seen by Kees twice a month and check with the city hospital about my so unique case. I learned to master a smartphone, I am still at it.
I attended courses in Dutch, reawakening old memories, my early commune had been peopled with Dutch hippies and rapists, I found in my brains and mouth the funny twists of the language. As expected, at the first visit by Kees, about noontime in my cosy mess, I ensnared him into my unmade bed and deployed my skills so as to leave him to sleep in my arms at dinner-time and go again at it after a Chinese meal. The next morning he was gone, I was certain he would return, I was such a windfall to him and his career, as it seemed.
Kees never elaborated on what the doctors had observed in my nonpareil clockwork and chemical signature, nor would they do before my coming of age. All in all, I am merely a lucky intersexed whore, if you will, and don’t you laugh, in the back seat, I am very happy.
Kees was a tranquil companion, he did not mind my shagging around, he always warned, so as no one would be there in his place when he came to frolic with me. Eventually, once, he bumped into my grandma on his way out; she knew all about our affair and menaced him to go tell upwards if it did not stop at once. After two weeks I received a call from a woman who said she had arranged to follow suit in Kees’ work. I never saw her.

Meanwhile, in the biochemical realm, I had grasped that a good part of my allowance depended on true blood deliveries in the hospital where a surly woman with a thick braid took pride in bleeding out a few phials every two weeks, so be it. But I, a captive rapted on a millionaire’s yacht, resented being manhandled like a lab monkey, whoring my blood to some abstruse research in what I wouldn’t even bear my name.
Nevertheless, I could live leisurely and go shopping in Antwerp or Amsterdam, let my hair grow, ride my bike, and learn hypertext subtleties with my Tinder hotshots, and online games that taught me cyberenglish. Mellow smelling clubbers visited my bed, of lustful repute, until some truly gifted shagger began infatuating about me and elaborating on fantasies I had let spin in my bedtime rants. His life plan would begin with pimping me in a club he owned with upstairs bunks for innumerable romps with his fellow immigrant jockeys.
Irfan was a second-generation immigrant exceptionally endowed with sexual stamina, and though he could see I kept fooling around unabashedly, he smelled of rose laurel and oud, his potent spear and balls were thoroughly bald, and he could rummage through my innards for hours and again. He strained to reach my limits while he ferreted all over my life. I could very well enjoy a full-fledged gang-bang to the stubborn sound of darbuka and oud, but I guessed he was fomenting to selling my arse every day, no less.
He misfired when he began trying to stealthily hook me on apache — fentanyl— so then I was arrested after the first flagged blood test I did in my routine that Irfan had overlooked, and therefore I collapsed morally, that was the very pest that had killed my mother. I snitched, wholeheartedly, and was locked in a padded cell —a tad overkill, but I sweetened the purge by shagging the warden, a sign that my addiction would soon wane.
They tended to believe my good faith, as they were keeping months of records of my blood checks.
I was encouraged to move on to Antwerp, where I became of age, and took a job as a chambermaid, with all benefits, if you will, then on to Bruges, where I expected to get hits amongst the younger Erasmus travellers, wasn’t I right?

 

Sarah says:

Kate had, unusually, texted that they would arrive, with some surprise we might not want to miss. Cecile and I had been watching again Ghost In The Shell – Innocence, on Kate’s and my bed, au naturel, with mutual liberties. Therefore, when shuffling sounds warned us of their happening, we found ourselves nude in front of young attractive strangers, neither of us uncomfortable, however.
Kate and the heather fairies relished the high-strung moment, I posed so as to enlace Cecile and sway my hips to that unfazed gangly tomboy who showed none but a tender invite that hinted she was a playgirl. She sported thick wavy short reed-fair hair, parted on the side, dawn-grey eyes, sand-golden skin. She stood square shoulders, and flaunted flat breasts, I joshed she was the perfect daughter of Kate and me, she enlaced me, while her companion, a boyish cherry red-haired speckled Saxon was already hitting on a willing Cecile. She wore jeans shorts and a multicolour striped teeshirt that I pulled over her head while she unbuttoned her fly herself. Kate had moved near and asked me about the surprise, who smelled of some violet gingerbread.
Whiffs of Kenji Kawaï’s soundtrack still snuck calling from the bedroom door, but Cecile was already gently pumping her half-denuded squire on a sofa, Annabelle profiting from her exposed bum, thus we all feasted on one another across the facing sofas. I was stricken with the golden down on Gwen’s pubic mons, so she bantered that puberty had spared her, therefore, she remained a baby, with a full-fledged vagina, if I would. I retorted she would meet a few other spared angels in our genteel hive, also a world-renowned expert on the matter, herself a genderqueer marvel.
We ordered what A&S offered of their random inspiration in pies, Gwen was impressed knowledgeably, having served the kind of meals for months, she nibbled artfully, aware of my craving for her silky chest.
Cecile and Finlan escaped first, the lithesome maidens, obviously still under Gwen’s spell, excused themselves soon after, leaving us to strip bare Kate, who, arguing she needed a shower, pulled us to the bathroom. Gwen had shily said she needed to pee, we begged her to flow along our legs, it smelled of treaded wild weeds, and she said she would be our thing.
They soon dozed out, and I revelled in a half-sleeping beauty, she had sinewy long feet, and I craved to hear her tale, later. However, the next morning, as she spooned plum marmalade on my French toasts, wearing a peacock-coloured, fine knit jersey oversized jumper, a call from downstairs taught me that some greedy landlord had had wind of our nonpareil new recruits, in clear, Hugo begged me to visit him with any of them, through his shutters the air from the garden was utmost sensuous with the scent of magnolias.
My own teal blue silk jersey nightshirt was no more scandalous, I grabbed Gwen’s hand and led her down the carpeted stairs, she still wondered where she had wound up, on a landing, I stole a deep kiss from her sweetened mouth, and joshed we were to see the filthy libertine who owned the castle and us in it.
When I hitched up her wear amidst the mirific decor of the salon, she candidly rolled her eyes while Hugo stood awestruck. I hugged her from the back and licked her neck, we both smelled a faint hint of geranium-orange from the shower. So then, she pulled her cards and began to woo the man in an ecru linen robe, whom she saw was erected like a connoisseur.
He seized her finely smile and asked her if she was for hire, she did not flinch, held his dick in the open and asked where he might have heard such a rime? He kissed her fondly, then said he loved pretty young harlots, ask me.
He wanted to luxuriate at that moment when one learns the spell of a living treasure, I knew he would relish in watching me pimp her for him, while he held her feet and asked her to spin her tale. I had grabbed that it would be a long, complicated one, but Hugo convinced her that he was no inquisitor and he had listened to horrendous stories from fragile damsels whom he still befriended at their whim. I floated the idea that I could leave them to cavort upon the priceless silks, I reckoned that she had confronted multitudes of such patrons, and I could entrust my life to this one; so as their dialogue led closer to the need for some deeper bed, I ran up and found Cecile and Finlan in the scent of coffee. He wore some silk pyjamas she had fetched in our wardrobe, I secretly betted I would fastly see him greet me.
I made no efforts to conceal my bare arse under my shirt’s hem. To me, because it seemed he had had a delicious night with Cecile he barely knew, he dared ask if we were all prostitutes. I answered I was, of unneeded, amused to trade myself or others for money, but it remained mere debauchery, and Cecile approved. There he stood at attention, and as I wanked him, out of the trousers, he went on telling us of Gwen’s miseries, begging that we did not squash her with our outlandish lifestyle.

Cecile invited her appreciated date to her workshop, harlot or not, there was a sixteenth-century portrait belonging to Hugo that awaited intensive care downstairs. I cleared their table and made more Puttabong tea, then attempted a call to those splendidly redeemed victims that Camille kept in her orb. Dagmar said that Fanny was out on duty, at a meeting for her college application, Natalia had flagged the way, which I sussed out what it could mean. We both laughed.
She sounded calm and collected, she drifted to French, as a manner to let me think she was still my girl, still on course, and I figured of her long legs in the giant sweater. She agreed it would be a good idea to meet Gwen, all the more so as Fanny and she gained some food for thought by helping survivors.
We did not avoid the evocation of the obvious charm Gwen had me transfixed at once with, and Dagmar bantered that if any, I certainly was not an easy target, was I? Hence, she was fiercely baited and agreed to come over for a bite at sunset, I was certain Kate had already advertised the news to Cynthia and the TRÆVIX lambkins. Finlan might feel ostracised, but I reckoned that Cecile would bloom over him.
The Thistle sisters joined me later in the studio, we did a convent of engrossed admirers, even if Fayelle was a tad jealous about Finlan’s rapture in Cecile’s cobweb. Eventually, Annabelle read us a novella of her own, “Glistening Pavements In Stockbridge” in her chiselled crystal pronunciation; I cried, and Fayelle hid her face inside the art books she had fetched on our shelves about all the works we had shunned in Bruge the days before.
The A&S girls sent pies, salads, eggs, and cumin buns, Apolline and Delf were firsts, disappointed not to see Gwen, whom Hugo baulked at releasing yet, before she agreed to fly away with him for an exotic escapade.
Kate and Cynthia smelled of ardours and heed, our self-conscious neighbour half-dressed in a thick maroon satin pyjama trimmed with a tin grey piping, abalone buttons, no shoes, the epitome of the triumphant courtesan, at the antipodes of the Doctoral gravitas she donned in social life. Appoline wore an overprinted ultramarine blue Tana Lawn cotton trapeze tank dress edged with three rows of white biais at the hem and the square neckline, anyone saw her white ribbed cotton jersey knickers, and anyone ogled her legs. At a wink, Cynthia asked her to the far end, in one of the bedrooms, we did not notice when they came back, the same serene lips on their beaming faces.
Gwen rushed in, fresh as a may tree and was soon bare and free except for a new row of faceted aquamarine stones chocking her lithe neck. When Delf saw her, she crouched at her feet and begged for a kiss.
As Kate was recounting how they had randomly sat in that chic restaurant in Bruge, Gwen seized the word and looked straight in Cynthia’s eye while improvising a tale of a wanderlust orphan turned prostitute, pertinently starting to stroke Cynthia’s knee. Kate grazed the pale naked rounded bum, wondering if only a hunch had led Gwen to her all-time mistress.
Cecile candidly misbehaved with Finlan’s fly, as Fayelle came over to them on the trail of what might have happened during the trip back, the only true boy aboard revelled in the situation, I set my watch on him, whatever time I would find fit.
Natalia had the brilliant hunch to bring along her minders, she knelt to kiss Kate, mostly to ogle how Cynthia was properly shagging a new nymphet to her taste, then calling Fanny out to give her good news on her application earlier in the day; she finely added that someone had suggested to see them together, after a pause, Fanny laughed, she too would have to comply to the fetishes of an old don, but if Natalia had survived through that, so would she, and retell funny episodes of the Parisian elite.
In a Cossack-turned-Mameluk moment, I grabbed Erik by the crotch and warned him joshingly I would give him more than he wished for, he whispered in my ear they both had only just shagged Natalia silly, thus he needed some rekindling, but he sneakered a hand so as to wank me like a true slut tamer.
Gauthier had sussed some event was roaring at our floor, he barged in with lovely Philippe whom Annabelle raptured in a whim, well aware that he would not shun a dawn fairy in tremours. Gauthier singled out the new Saxon Baronet and, come what may, his own camaraderie with Cecile allowing, crouched by for a little chat as she held Finlan’s dick up. She aptly knew her associate’s talents and leanings, thus she wasn’t too surprised watching him gulp the stiff elegant cock she still held in hand, she poked her tongue into the boy’s mouth while Gauthier was pulling his jeans and the rest down.

Erik had said he needed the loo, I read that as an invite, why would he say? I threw away my shirt and helped him disrobe entirely before ushering him into our shower and I kissed him until I felt jolts of warm piss on my thighs, then I sat down and asked him to piss on me all over, it smelled horsey and vile. A girly voice behind him asked what the hell we were doing, it was Gwen who squinted yer eyes and smirked, I asked her if ever she had a leak for me, too. She swiftly skirted our lewd scene, spread her thighs and parted her labia to let flow a straight gush to my face, I opened my mouth, to her great rejoice, she tasted vicious and salty. Then, spitting her waters, I grabbed her and forced her down on all fours, then peed on her own face, while Erick tried his severe shaft against her wet quim. She moaned as he humped against her entrails, I slid down to embrace her and share our disgusting tongues, she quivered a few times before he brimmed her tiny slit with gooey splatters.
We needed an all-over shampoo, Gwen liked the Geranium orange scent, she scrubbed my hair, stared me in the eyes and murmured she understood what the girls had said about me.
In the morning, there were four of us in our grand bed, Cynthia held Gwen between Kate and me, I went to brew some morning Darjeeling. It was already mild enough not to wear anything, my feet upon the table, for I had not been hungry. My telephone rang, somewhere in the room, it had slippered under the sofa, it rang again, Percy wanted to visit, she wouldn’t say where she had been lately. She showed up at the inner door, she smelled of gold and lilies, she was pale as a cloud and wore a dawn-rose sheer gathered dress and gilded sandals, a clumsy patched grand bag at her shoulder.
She relished seeing me in the raw, said she, waiting for me to strip her. She said she had been to places I knew, at Melchior’s whim, and just only now disembarked from a black berline at our doorstep. Drinking tea, she mused she had all along felt like a slapper, even if her meagre bank account had swollen beyond reason, and I knew why.
Rycroft had eventually shunned her, claiming he could no longer looker at her otherly than a mere whore. She reckoned wisely that he had not put up to see her allow her own debauchery, letting him stand in second while others connived in my ardours. During what recalled like a world trip, she had morally thrown her cotillions to the shrubs and exulted like a murmuration of multicolour starlings like never otherwise. She begged me to pinch her dainty arm to prove she was awake, I pinched her nifty clit all the same.
Kate had singled out the voice, she tiptoed out and closed the bedroom door, she hugged and kissed yet another immigrant, still only half woken, my prefered sight of her.
I told Percy that we had garnered yet another two wonder tramps, on the opposite slope she came from, for one, a sylphic stray kitten Kate had literally bought in Flanders, and a fellow aristocrat in disarray, though he be outright handsome and well-spoken, both of them versed into polyamorous eroticism, as she might guess.
Apropos, a limber genie in smooth pale amber skin had heard me and crept to Kate’s wing, cheekily giving the eye to the young newcomer, rushing out again to the loo in a cute manoeuvre to let be seen her apple bottom.
Cecile and Finlan had probably run downstairs, I could figure him languorously exposed on the sitting couch while she ostinato scrubbed dirt at the tip of her swabs, a mask on her face, Cyprien keeping at once an eye on her working and the nude body of a Saxon wanderer, all under the perfect climes of the Well Tempered Clavier.
Cynthia shuffled in, her sumptuous pyjama buttoned Monday with Tuesday, thus Gwen, in the mood of their night, went unscramble the proper order, and, by the way, titillated the purplish nipples, which made me touch my own and Percy suckle on them.
Kate was still so close to Cynthia that I might envy their manners, —although Percy was petting me amorously— she candidly enquired if Cynthia would look into Gwen’s files that would seem to sit right in her field of competence, and there I was learning a slight hint to the hidden miracle of the Dutch tomboy. Cynthia said that Gwen had told her of having been the subject matter of a medical study, and there Gwen intervened to lift out any confidentiality on her case she was sooner proud of. Cynthia pondered that there might be a chance to access the Dutch archives through Gwen’s healthcare number, though she be no longer a minor —if need be, she could be declared in France as an au-pair, if we would. In the meantime, if, in all likelihood, she participated in our Black Card watch, Cynthia could specify and fund which analyses be done.
But overall, from what she had resented heart to heart in their delicious fling, no hard feeling would linger between them two, Cynthia invited Gwen on the next day evening to a tour of her professional venues and apartment, although she be afraid that it would turn up as another delicious date, wouldn’t it?

Those who knew demanded that I make French toasts, I paraded in the cooking apron with my bum naked like in a brothel scene. Cynthia loved that and the toasts which I had laced with soft raisins, but she had duties to attend to, beyond our walls. Gwen cuddled Kate, asking for a stroll in our best-loved Paris, I claimed it was a terrific idea, all the more that the weather appeared to smile.
I dolled her up in a short cornflower blue tank dress, buttercup yellow knickers and assorted low sneakers, I donned a variegated jersey crop top, jean boyfriend shorts, white briefs and denim blue flat strap sandals. We managed to smell British cologne. Kate was the impression of a seagull, wearing all white, oversized cotton poplin shirt, tight cotton twill shorts and Egyptian Birkenstocks, and jasmine, helichrysum and neroli as a muslin veil to her Panama hat.
Percy had followed the Glaswegian light-skirts downstairs stairs in the hope to find Master Finlan sitting loosely for Cyprien, besides, she also had a keen eye for Cecile.
Gwen had not kept her crystalline aquamarine brooklet gift clutched to her neck, I gave her a thin gold chain holding a blue opal in a gold oval ring, thus Kate gave her another gold chain binding a gold-mounted quartz pebble enclosing fine lines of black tourmaline, like a pause captured in a beloved song.
We ran our shops, and everyone knew what to think of the impish tomboy we paid her whims for. She kept some of her street clouts, she amused us by telling which of the gents she might have chatted up, and for what kind of reward. At a terrace, we explained why we would not cruise our vices on the sidewalks, albeit we avowed it would bring a heap of pleasurable thrills, and apropos, we booked an appointment that evening with the lab, for Gwen obviously needed a black card as ours, that we showed her.
Born into a near-dumpster and further crushed by near-dead junkies, she nonetheless had a natural flair for the most expensive shops, and for shoes anyway, she sized the same as us. She discovered some almond-green deerskin one-button Maryjanes, emerald green Mexican round-toed ankle boots, and teal green preppy loafers, because she said we missed some of the colour green, for what she had seen.
We promise we would do good as to the underwear, because we might also have ideas from the john’s point of relish, though we let her buy cute cotton for her cute sassy arse.
She had been used to give blood and all the biotech pandemonium. The lab already had received requests from Cynthia for a full 3D scan of her innards, that, she had never seen yet. She agreed that all the exam reports be sent to Cynthia’s office, once more and she liked her new doctor. As always, there was a mix of lustful anticipation with us who knew the realm of the Hellfire Circle, whatever it was called, and of undeniable wisdom in preventing early mishaps in our bodily contraption, whatever one call it.
Gwen warned our usual gynaecologist of what he would discover beyond her labia, and she needed not any contraception because she would never pass puberty, as weird as it be. The expert looked into it, switched on her ultrasound scan, splattered some gooey gel over Gwen’s pubis, and explored a whole new world. She smirked in half-dismay, only to listen to an otherworldly description of the life of a survivor child prostitute. She mentioned that, if ever Gwen be minor, now then she would be bound to refer to the judiciary. she sighed when she read Gwen’s cards, and when she learned that the Dutch files would be shared with Cynthia’s office.
We waited for an hour or so in the tan and beige lounge of the practice, Gwen across Kate’s lap, her tapered legs over the armrest. Then the chief Doctor ushered us into the control room, gave Gwen her apparently blank card with a number on it, and said she would be looking forward to hearing about such an exceptional nature of hers, Gwen stuttered her vague agreement, clutching to Kate’s side, then we fled.
Hence she had been vetted to fly unfettered into the citadel of all whims. It was a mellow French dusk, I suggested we went right away to the Palais-Royal, and show her our own “Garden Of Delights”. Once she had enthused to a full-fledged debauchery night, I knew Sami’s number by heart to book a table at Philippe’s. I joshed it bore no bound to a high-tech corporation where she came from. I only told her our Philippe was cousin to the King Louis the sixteenth, owner of the Palais-Royal, a sworn libertine, who had promoted this finest estate in Paris she was about to see, managing a realm of concealed pathways and stairs leading to sundry of venues used as a thriving luxury brothel —clandestine or not— ever since, with one single exception during the Commune de Paris.

Sami knew we would not invite any fast fling into the most concealed empire he kept watch over, and no one had ever spilt the marbles far enough to unsettle the course of a trade as subtle as that of diamonds. There had been attempts, bouts of malfeasance in retaliation for insoluble shameful defeats, so to speak, but none had ever scratched the invisible glass dome under which a suave self-abiding republic sighs under dark heated vaults. The property of the upper venues since the construction of the new estate on park grounds had, naturally or not, followed a course of discretion in the Morroco briefcases of powerful notarial firms. Notably, the loyalty amongst members of such a republic had relied on the infrangible philosophy governing the interactions between duly consenting adults, attested by the constant updating of the access card. There had obviously blown a wind of panic at the onset of the AIDS infection, the organisation had shut off for a few years, time to acquire dependable testing apparatus, by the way, expanded to any kind of STD or pandemic. Lately, tests screened also for deadly drugs like opioids and strong amphetamines, bar recreative substances most patrons dealt with for themselves. Very few cases of distress had had to be rushed to a medical structure.
I had texted Cecile and Hugo about our plan, and they both cheered. When we entered the restaurant, Sami was already sitting at the bar, and two of us could read the awe in his gaze, trying not as yet to detail our new fairy pet’s features, by the bye more seasoned than he would ever figure.
He ushered us into one of the decor tents in the main dining room, only one other tent was peopled by a pair of starlet types who granted us the eye so as they knew we would soon carouse together when their patron arrive, Gwen breathed that they were floozies, just like her. Sami came back with a waiter who carried a tray with three salad bowls livened up with sundry coloured capucines. Visibly, the other two were vexed not to have received any such sort of amuse-bouche, Gwen naturally swayed her head to invite them on, like buddies. They barely spoke any known language, but seen up close, they shamed our flowers for freshness and they smelled of expensive scents. Gwen appropriated them with street flair, sliding a hand under the younger one’s crimson jersey skirt, sharing a yellow and maroon capucine on their lips.
Sami was now bringing ornate glasses filled with whirling streams of ice cream, sprinkled with crystallized violets and candy vermicelli, an order of the little featherbrained wonders one could figure feed on desserts. They fled like a pair of bluetits holding sherbets when some oriental gentleman in a night blue silk tuxedo stood at attention before the deserted tent where they touched down on the rounded banquette. Gwen repressed a gulp and backed upon the velvet, murmuring “Toshi” in a breath, then wiggled so as to turn her back to the other table, waffling a random comment on our sweet-and-sour salads.
It wouldn’t provoke any fuss that Gwen encountered the high flier patron the Guardia Civil had recaptured her from, she seemed to overall reckon there remained no hard feelings about an overall pleasurable cruise. Only that Mr Toshi might foster a grudge about what he figured Gwen had retold the authorities, she concluded he had known little of her, anyhow.
The sweet creams had half-melted, at the bottom of the glasses, when they left behind the known jungle decor screen. I told Gwen that was the way we would follow, too, and thus she possibly would meet again Mr Toshi, still amateur of her tight little bum, but we would chaperone her in any case. Kate had heard the full array of Mr Toshi’s misbehaving, he probably was currently on the same kind of binge, which only meant Gwen had a chance to gambol anew with him, and a pair of sweet-tasting bluetits with fake passports.
Sami came to sit along with us, and he was enthralled with Gwen, telling Kate and me that we were acute hunters, too, around hedges’ pretty sparrows. Yes, Mr Toshi had been a recent regular, and he mainly brought very young wildfowl he relished to see been ragged with pleasure, but he knew how to soothe them. Of recurring concern was that his little tramps were always only very recently adults, with printer-fresh passports, but they had always been vetted legit.
He turned to Gwen, giving her a feel of his renowned sleight, only grazing her arm with the back of his wing, I could tell the black dupion silk of his trousers was already tense with want.

Our customary puppeteer was altogether brought to boiling point and humbled by the youth and angelic spell of our little toy whore, thus he played three-cushion billiard, no sooner had we passed the threshold of the velvet maze than he was shoving his shaft into my throat in some corner, watching Kate hitch up Gwen’s easy dress to her boyish nipples at arms’ reach of Sami. She showed of not being any babe in the woods, neither, so he grabbed her nape and poked his tongue in her mouth, then helped me up and pushed us, Gwen at the tip of his drippy glans, along the corridors and stairs.
As he had done with us when Hugo had shown us the fatidic door, of long memory, after we disrobed in some sort of low vaulted sacristy, Sami pushed us to the voyeur lounge, first. Since we were keeping with her and enkindled her lust in the muffed atmosphere of vaulted crimson velvet —and the gardenia cry of abandon— she was more than available, when we passed the first opportune banquette, to ensheathe a full-length circumcised ardour in her unfettered vagina. Kate knew to madden her pinpoint nipples, I suckled her toes, just like I had been taught at school, she pumped for Sami’s relish and gulped the first load of heady semen, in bliss.
We licked her clean, now she smelled of utter lechery, the wilder scent of saliva on the skin, I lapped up her downy armpits. Along the dark viewing gallery, through the She was not intrigued seeing, through the framed two-way mirrors, half-dressed or nude women taking lewd poses on undone beds, or else giving all flavours of intercourse to men in their shirts and socks, she had done that herself, albeit not in such sumptuous decors.
Sami led us to one window to watch our two icecream lickers sharing a masterful dildo butt to butt, while being shagged in their throats by two sinewy sailors, under the eager eyes of Toshi, entirely nude, his kindly remembered by Gwen, his stiff dick in hand; and she said the baby dolls would next unmistakably be buggered doggy in boisterous turns of comparison, while kissing each other; the Japanese master was predictable, he was a constant wanker.
After the convulsive ending went remarkably simultaneously, the executioners were frankly sent away and the breathless playthings collapsed with one another, dripping out in an obscene manner, under the heated cheers of Toshi, still taut like an army flagstaff. Sami held me at my bumhole, Kate and Gwen kissed like a Hieronymus Bosch, and we were pushed on down to the hammam room.
The two Finno-Ugric sisters were already babbling under the abundant rain of the shower in a black slate alcove, Toshi, happier than ever, opened rounded eyes —as much as his oriental style allowed— when discovering Gwen, all smiles, his abducted muse. Unfazed, she muttered a few tentatively Japanese words and went to kneel at his feet; Nippon dicks are better fitted to be fully gulped, the Mikado, who had revelled in frustrating his envy, could not vanquish the skill of our savvy whore and soon hurled his load into the dedicated mouth that had just lately been trained, and so she knew he would die in bliss, she swallowed every gooey lump of it. Her victim seized her up in his arms and tasted his own in her mouth, but he certainly found no other scent than her candid tongue, he bore her to the large marble basin, sibling to that of Madame de Montespan, filled with orange blossom scented waters.
Mr Toshi was overjoyed with all of us, Sami had slipped away as the excellent conduit he was, he could count we would allow him plenty of other chances to relish Gwen’s minute arse. Toshi, while his entourage had now enriched, took a fancy to me, as I was freely devouring the smiling sisters’ quims; he grazed my bum cheeks and poked his tongue into my willing rosette, I wouldn’t have expected that he bugger me like so, he fitted in the easy manner, I helped him of all my slutty skills.
He asked for an orgy room and available extras, a tall, silky black daredevil with a tilted-up howitzer came and seized Gwen away to another tour of velvet corridors that ended in a round, vaulted, padded pit under a large black mirror beyond which we could rest assured a random audience would appreciate our debauchery rounds. Three other well-oiled black Abyssinians, all remarkably endowed, rushed in breathing heavily, so as it would end like an open bar party backstage at a hard-rock concert mayhem, none of us was spared, we ended drenched of sperm and lubricant, dismembered and dumbfounded, extinct.
I woke up in one of Sami’s berlines, Gwen cuddling up to me, Kate smiling like Xanadu, at our long-deserted street door. We smelled of jasmine and ocean dew, we slept like forgotten lullabies.

That would be a well-deserved wasted day, but the maddened tribes must have massaged our spent remains with magic hands, most of them being fully trained, professional dancers with manners. Stretching our spines, though not as easy as Gwen bantered, was not so painful, after a few steps.
A copious armful of yellow roses had been delivered in a gilt bucket with a simple card handwritten in Japanese. No one could suss how Toshi had known —unless Sami be wooed or bribed— where Gwen was hidden. She was not afraid in the least; the roses exhaled a cloud of lust, the stealth brigade that moves things over around us, here, had brought them upstairs. Also, a large purple-lacquered paper box with a famous monogram ingrained contained a harlequin abundance of macarons and pastries, such that I called Cecile and the thistle sisters for help. Everybody knew we had been mischievous till morning, Cecile had heard us go to bed stumbling, they smelled us and unabashedly fondled Gwen, who giggled. They measured the breadth of our unrepentant misdeeds by the magnificence of the bouquet of “Golden Celebration” roses, so said Annabelle —with internet wisdom. We had to retell our night, everybody wanted to court Gwen, and, as a matter of fact, everybody did.
Finlan, who had just taken a break from a sitting session, was visibly excited at the evocation of such a bawdy place as Philippe’s, thus Kate took pity, or, as drunkards say, she needed a hair of the wolf that bit her, she duly sucked the rosy pale dick of our cherry-red haired squire.
Halfway in a black macaron, Fayelle frowned that I wouldn’t chaperone her through Paris as I had with Liseron, or now a tinker-bell so pretty she scratches glass only looking at it. Everybody cheered, Fayelle wore a loose-knit cashmere morning camisole and her breasts smelled of bitter almond and orange blossom. She was right, I had been shied off by the unfathomable gaze of the axolotl while she lay with her smaller shaved head bandaged, though the imperious surgeon, whose sight made my womb melt, said she was home-free, had he known where that was. Before her collapse, she had feared a split conscience and wished to tell a professional soul-mender, who had sussed the symptom of a stroke in the making. Solicited by the powerfuls in our entourage, the Faculty had spent time gaining the certainty her mishap wouldn’t repeat, but Fayelle, while she bonded with James’ reclaimed little tramp, had begun knitting her truth with a sworn psychiatrist who certainly wouldn’t want to hear the extent of a Parisian cavalcade as some of us, and Liseron, revelled in.
Cecile, pressed to return to her work, came to hug Fayelle and told her not to dive into cold waters, to what Fayelle dared her to come with her visit the axolotls in the Jardin Des Plantes.
By courier, we then received the VIP documentation for Gauthier’s event at the Belvedere in Viena, with a heartfelt handwritten card asking us not to attend the worldly inauguration where Hugo would confront a herd of outlandish bigots. However, he would gladly treat all of us in the suites of the Hotel Sacher, if only to visit the Secession Pavilion, once the foam and chores settle. Hence it would be a caravan like a corps de ballet on tour, already in the know, Camille texted she had booked a whole platform inside the hotel, with terraces, there would be like twenty-one beds, and the new Bombardier jet could accommodate nineteen of us. Michelle had been undecided, the aftermaths of Victor’s death were shaking the grounds and metaphorically warned off a consequential tsunami. She and her pet imps loved Gauthier, thus they might fly their own wings, eventually.
It struck me that Kate had not found a moment to tell me that Victor had died. She had been able to show me into her ex’s realm, but she kept a diamond-hard secret in what had been their relationship before she had fled to Berlin and ended in the nuthouse. She only confided that they had found him on his command room floor, with extravagant levels of deadly substances in his system and no visible injection marks whatsoever, but we knew he usually did that under his tongue. More blasting was that all of his data had been irremediably erased, even the FBI were baffled, if ever. I kept mouthwatering memories, to say the least, of the expenditures at his hand, until that night when he had morally trespassed a red, red line.
I slid my hand to Fayelle’s coochie and whispered she would have some action, already, in Vienna, plus a moment before Klimt’s Kiss. Annabelle joshed we might very well capture another waitress floozie, Josephine Muntzenbacher awaited us in a Sacher’s corridor, I retorted that Bambi always made me cry.

It had been a longtime pet project of Gauthier’s, ever since school days; he would have preferred to conquer a more potent venue, the likes of Versailles or Blenheim, but the clock had run and now he had all the support he needed to properly implement his vision, be it in a truly gracious setting, not in the least evocative of the imperial might that built it. A cohort of dedicated Chinese craftsmen had constructed gigantic models of chain sequences that would look like they burst out from the ground here and there and burrow back in further. On the presentation photograph, each link was as high as him, covered in rust and decay like a titanic war’s remnants.
Gauthier rested sybilline and quizzical about his show’s meaning, he knew the visual counterpoint would operate, whatsoever; we knew that his glorious stature would make for prime public relations, one might dedicate a heartbeat to the thought of what Victor would have resented in the Belvedere Park.
The said afternoon, a motorcade of three silent berlines took away most of us and our bags; Hugo had been ahead; Cecile and Finlan flew with Lauritz, and Michelle with her protegees was still uncertain. Gwen met Fanny and Dagmar in Camille’s car, she wooed them right away, just like she had pocketed Kate and the heather imps at the restaurant in Brugge. Cynthia was ushered by Apolline into Camille’s car.
It was a new aeroplane, bigger and white, Liselotte had succeeded to be on the guest list, probably through Natalia who radiated and devoured Gwen with greedy stares. Fæbian and Lizon had achieved the proper spoiled preppy look, I was all aroused, they had thinned like Konstanz socialites.
Fæbian and I fitted snug into one of the manly-sized seats, we wore about the same manner of travel outfit, rich sportswear with loose waistbands, she gathered up her feet in pristine white sneaker socks, and I wiggled out to face her, she smelled of vanilla gardenia cologne like a rich college slut.
At one time in the two-hours flight, Natalia crouched before us and nibbled at Fæbian’s feet. She had cut her hazel hair short with the nape high, she wore a fitted caramel tank top and tight mauve dupion silk jeans, bare feet; she too looked expensive; more than once, she candidly nosed Fæbian’s crotch; I was proud of them.
It took a fleet of black passenger vans to bring us all to the centre of Vienna, and a couple of Sacher red bellboys to load the baggage trolleys. Neither Kate nor I knew whom to tip, good for them, it was Gauthier’s opening, we couldn’t be mean.
Just as I had figured, we plunged into a world of schmalzy opulence, something like a Radetsky Imperial Brothel that gave me urges to play around in the nude. Fæbian sensed I was wired so that it would be fun to keep with me, and we had some mutual catch-up to do. She roared when I unfolded my hanger bag and that she saw my parade outfits. Like a true high-flyer escort, she had, for her part, brought wise clean-cut, bespoke cocktail suits; fortunately, she could spice her game by showing a tad too much of her splendidly worked out sinewy body, and so would I.
Natalia had already donned a rounded hemmed high-waisted sequined jacket in dark motley efflorescence patterns, that set off her navel like a gem on a cloud above the crimson shantung fitted indecent trousers uncovering her slender feet in gilded thin straps flat sandals, she said Hugo and Gianni had masterminded her looks —at a price.
Kate would be nude in a flowing, gleaming, Missoni round neckline, half-length sleeves short dress, and maroon patent flat pumps; she had pulled out a Liberty set of fire opals and gold jewellery, princess necklace and wide bracelet, one only encased oval stone dangling at her left ear. Gwen couldn’t take her eyes off her.
Kate and I had connived to dress up the miracle tramp of Flanders who purred like a kitten. She would wear a smooth ironed white poplin shirt covered with white embroidered festoons and foliages like one would tell of a liturgical vesture, I had found this in the coffers of my family home in Copenhagen — had been shagged a few happy times wearing it— it reached almost to the knees, it was gathered by a mother-of-pearl plates belt. It only hid fitted shorts of shimmering white silk panne velvet, just like you would think. at her ear, the other opal stone, she couldn’t possibly wear her aquamarines together with it. She was proud to wear white grosgrain flat pumps, she was devilishly yummy.
And Gwen had not slipped off the sharp eye of Liselotte, who looked like a Weimar Berlin provocateur, in a shifted checkers satin jacket dress over a black silk bodysuit and knee-high cavalier boots —I suspected the crotch was very loosely stitched. She wore ultramarine eyeshadow and some powder, she smelled of tuberose, coumarin, frankincense and lewd desires, Gwen let herself be done, clutched to Kate’s wing, so Liselotte blessed them; at her neck, a delirious band of jet black shards and a smoothly perverted blue vein beat.

The domain was closing to the public, and we were greeted at the grand gates by the copper-headed knight himself, in a sharp peacock blue silk cady suit and a blue gardenia at his lapel. No sooner had he come forward to press hands than I had sussed out the hunky security detail around us, many of whom I had had the advantage of practising carnally, at Melchior’s estates.
The installation was displayed on the Belvedere Lake, The segments of the giant chain surging from the water and burrowing aside in the lawn, giving an impression of enormous weight and yellowing rust and decay.
On a dressed round table, a braided blonde-haired waitress attended a majestic silver samovar with its ornate teapot on top, she handed me and Fæbian glasses in silver holders, and I joshed that it might be risky to try and play games later.
Camille had joined her mighty associate Melchior in a circle of chairs, so he could ogle her new protégée, Dagmar, and Fanny, they pretended to contemplate the chained garden they had probably financed. The two girls wore fluttering chalk-blue linen short dresses, to their fun, one could figure all they kept under the veils, but we all knew Fanny was off-limits.
Predictably, a heavy, black, silent limousine stopped at the gate and Delf, in a cream and gold-striped silk adjusted suit, without a shirt, white socks in white patent opera pumps, led her bestie Apolline in a periwinkle short layered dress with bell sleeves, over frill white satin pantaloons, light blue suede ankle-strap sandals, this true-crime of a pair followed by the golden blonde Aviator in a double-breasted sunflower yellow smoking jacket with satin lapels and not much else than gold flat ankle boots, a golden telephone dangling at her wrist. Behind the thick glasses, it was obvious that she relished her entrée, for a few of us, she would always keep the smile she displayed when she raised from behind the red sofa, mostly to go pee, at the mercy of any of us in the bathroom. An unexpected band of black grosgrain across her lapel seemed to salute Victor, she would be the only one.
The sleek black silk hunks managed the cars queue with obvious authority on the avenue, next, out of a long German carriage trotted my girl Cecile, in a black silk twill with big crimson dots, waistless ruffled minidress opened to the navel, black veil tights, and black patent round-toed ballerines with a crimson knot; She sported a new set choker and bracelet of ruby cabochons. She had dressed up her ember-haired fancy squire with a black and red tartan short jacket, black silk trousers, shirt and bowtie, and black Chelseas. They were closely followed by Lauritz, crisp black in a checker-textured alpaca mix slim fit suit and a blue diamonds printed scarf-twill shirt closed with a lazuli blue bowtie, he wore black patent oxfords. She cast the gaze of an unrepentant overspent floozie, she nodded at me playfully, there were no cameras, no pauses.
Next, I felt a pang of emotion before I read through the obscured windows. Hugo had invited Ayla, and also Annachiara, as an effect of having made them meet, and considerably more, in Venice, unbeknown to me, whom he found to be smitten elsewhere, for one.
She was terrific, indecent, nude in a blouse of a transparent black veil, woven of sundry purple tartan stripes, frilled at the neck and the wrists, under a grey mauve shuffled sequined vest, her devilish hips tight in black Tussah silk trousers, black satin low pumps with three straps.
We hugged emotionally, we cried for Hugo’s relish, and she opened my shirt to let trickle on my neck, Annachiara brought tissues, they smelled of a garden with tree peonies, datura angels, wisterias and boxwoods, Hugo took my arm and led us to the restrooms. Ayla was all pride to show the others the disarray she had caused me like she always had. We dared not yet do more than pee on each other’s fingers, like mischievous brats, and Annachiara laughed.
Ayla was a perfect girl in her world, she fawned on Gauthier about his work, letting him read she had more arrows in her quiver, if ever. She sussed that she could waylay him about letting her see the Klimt inside the castle, he grinned at us and muttered that he could tell which of the guards to bribe, in-kind.
It was a pair of beer-belly bulky boys, readily amused to see rich fillies like us, Ayla easily coaxed them they would do all they liked of us if they took us to The Kiss, we needed not to be left alone, they could watch one another, and the light was still high enough. The chief told us which door to go to and wait, at the far end of the restrooms, no one would wonder what we did again in the restrooms.
When the door was unlocked, we were pulled into a dark corridor, and there were already more than two of them, but it was too late. Anyhow, obviously thinking we wouldn’t mind a little extra work, they hurried us into service pathways and stairs, until we stood before Klimt’s masterpiece.

It was time to pay upfront and they were five eager strapping lads releasing warm wooden spears, I liked that, I addressed the chief and asked what he wanted best. He seized me by my arms, sat me on the guard’s chair and told me to suck. Another had seen Ayla’s tits ants wanted more, she preferred to tell them she would disrobe, rather than her clothes be torn. As I pumped hard, keeping an eye on The Kiss, she earned some admiration and promised they would all drain their dicks. Annachiara already had a spear deep between her bum cheeks and she wiggled, taking a rest on the wall, so as her bull gushed first, followed by the next. My john forced into my throat and discharged, overjoyed to feel I swallowed all his load. The second one was thinner and long, he played easily and came fast.
All in all, so to speak, we served the seven dwarfs with all due compliments, in front of the most revered painting in Vienna. We took our time, the last of our pals in his seat watching us dress back, trampling splurting condoms so he had to fetch a broom and a mop, we found it funny, he had no idea. On the way back, he wanted to finger my arse for a minute, I let him do.
Gauthier’s eyes sparkled, he smelled us and said he was proud of us, moreover when he learned we had done the whole brigade. We spoke about Klimt. He commanded that we go to the Secession Pavilion almost first thing in the morning and misbehave in the Beethoven cellar.
Then he said Theo had arrived with Florenz Marc and had been enthralled by Gwen who spoke in innuendo poetry with Cynthia. True was that she was a walking Klimt character, strikingly swaying her hips to everyone’s eyes. Ayla asked me to introduce her. For the time being, I saw the Doctor torn as to which kind of curiosity to foster towards the white Flanders damsel whom she had already scrutinised in and out. I tentatively foresaw what sort of curveball towards Kate’s field would help keep the play sane, mostly for Gwen who had only just emerged into paradise. That one sensed I was pondering on her fate, she smiled at me and Ayla read that at the speed of the squirrel.
Liselotte had paid deferent homage to all the present mighties she had at least once catered to, and now she was bantering about the rich tableau Michelle and her composed together in contrasting colours. She couldn’t tame the fierce sex appeal of The Aviator on which most of us had bruised our wings. For the moment, Michelle kept a swift eye on the slender Hilliard Saxon and she reckoned not being alone at that watch. Her own firefly brigade of light-handed immaturity was currently bringing counterpoint to the massive volume of the rings, childishly talking with their hands, bright innocent subjects amidst the heavy drama. In an ellipse, she learned what she needed about the candid boy who seemed not to grasp all the events that had brought him there, and thus she sussed what he was interested in her. Shooting arrows from behind her crystal lenses, she fetched a slim golden telephone and called up her car.
Liselotte stood bewitched by what she had just seen happen and noticed that Delf was now answering a call, shimmying playfully. She would never comprehend the unquestionable bond that had built between the airy magician and the most spectacular mastermind she ever knew of, all she had succeeded in had been to watch Delf display her dainty nonpareil anatomy, but at that, there wasn’t a party where she wouldn’t do it. She had once succeeded at licking the small chimaera, but she had soon been shunned away, whimsically. Before Apolline moved in with Delf at Michelle’s, she had had a few light romps and boasted the glory of having gulped a drop of harmless jubilation which tasted like tears. For herself, Liselotte craved an expansive male the likes of Melchior’s unfazed security hunks, like I had retold her we had entertained at Mustique. She envied our escapades at the tycoon’s whim, but she held another part in the theatre.
While Florenz and Hugo probably traded insiders’ confidences, Theo flirted with Apolline, in conversation with Cynthia, his mentor. Natalia and Kate overtly wooed the security six-footers, enlaced so as to let be foreseen a joint venture. Ayla drew Annachiara along when Melchior left the scene with nods to all, they rushed into a long black chrome kind of Maybach preceded and followed by the squad. I could tell Natalia and Kate had made later appointments.
Cecile had designs on Gwen and Finlan, for the greater craving of the licentious overlord she abode to serve, in a mutual understanding I still had my share in, come what may.
Albeit I had gleaned a good serving of turpitude earlier, all hail to Klimt, I was in a needy mood when I began ogling the samovar girl, whose elusive glances had strewed a few embers in my shrubs that began to smell of fever. She was a young, tall, slender, Mediterranean dark-haired soft-mannered maiden, with long sleek strands gathered in a ponytail.

She was collecting used cups in wooden crates beside the table, I could tell of her firm rounded bums each time she bent. A little voice inside asked me if I weren’t a mere predator, by any chance? I remained close by the table so that when she saw me again, looking up from her chores, she smiled like despondently and I asked her name, half-candidly. She did not draw herself up and nobody was looking, she said matter-of-factly Loredana, she came from Moldova but she was Romanian; she spoke proper Middle-Bavarian at first but we drifted to French that she spoke frankly with the kindly rolled R.
When the crockery was tidied and the spectacular samovar was muffed out, she remained idle, hips swayed, her black eyes reading my mouth. I dared ask if she would like money to go out with me, I offered the figure Kate had said she paid Gwen on the first night; I received a swift slash of her black stare then she asked if I stayed at the Sacher, I reached for her hand then told her my name and number, warning that most of the party would be there, too but I did not care to attend dinner, we would order room service, wouldn’t we? We shared our numbers, she would be free at six.
Once she had gone with her boss, and I read in a gaze she gave me what manner of a boss that was, I returned to the party that was about to disband. Kate came up and watched me in the eye, asking if I had just dated the tea maid. I retold her the truth, including the price she had inspired me to offer, for the same agreement. She congratulated me, bantering that she bid the same herself for the next night, unless I plan to adopt a new filly in my stables. Unsurprisingly, Fæbian also had fathomed my moves from around the corner of her eye and came up to ask for her name, telling me she would have no future in these kinds of locations where any runaway from Hungary scored for the price of a Macdo and she knew the subject; she begged me to let her into my bed with the newbie, I understood I would have to let things happen, as long as it went smooth, and Fæbian knew better than me, as the seasoned whore in a clandestine smuggler shack as she had been, right off after she ran from her Swiss convent. I easily convinced myself that Loredan would relish my suave-mannered siblings just like I did.
As I went lauding the inventor of what would be a formidable set for a Richard Strauss opera, he said that it had been exactly what his mother had said when she had visited with her brigade of theatre fairies, so as so he was pondering on the possibility to transport the decor to their château, sprouting out of the moat. In my protestation of affection for him, he hugged me to whisper in my ear pipe that I should pay attention to the tea maid because he had sussed out that the butler manager at the hotel was her pimp.
At six, I stood on that lush kind of lookout, nude in a plush grey hotel robe, when she knocked. I almost did not recognise her, with big dark glasses, a night-blue scarf over her head, a black silk trench, stockings and flats. She was amused but kept her cool as she bustled me back in and pushed me against the closed door. She mumbled asking if that was what I had asked for? She had luscious lips and no make-up, I licked them animally, crudely, greedily, as she had inspired me.
She unbound my robe and I discovered there was nothing else under her trench, lined with deep purple satin. At her neck, a violet Morrocan leather collar offered a black metal ring big enough to hold her with. She smelled of Sissi’s garden in Corfu, at the hour of the white Nicotiana, under the orange trees, and the irrepressible waft I was already wanking out of her shadowy vulva.
She kneaded all my muscles, creases and nooks, she finger-fucked me like a professional and I took revenge in her shy bumhole that I made surrender. She kept saying she loved me, a tad beyond what I had paid for, then she was about to cry for real. I gathered her lush strands of hair and answered that, anyway, morrow night I would be gone, wouldn’t I?
I ordered lemonade, and a trolley of what the house is world-famous for; she kept hidden while I regaled the waiter with the best half of my anatomy, out of the hastily thrown robe, I tipped him royally —he could have fucked me right away, I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be my bitch’s owner, by the manner his gazes swayed. She confirmed.
I looked at her as she pecked at the outlandish chocolate torte and the other delights she knew too well. She said it was not because I had given her more money than anyone before, I knew she had been ogling me since I had commented about the tea she had been serving. She would do anything for me if I took her away from this place, she would go hustling if it were for me.
As if to help me think it over, I recognised the knock on the door, Fæbian wore only a loose colour-changing Missoni jersey lounge dress, barefoot. I called Loredana, who appeared shyly out of the dressing-room.

As the true cunning alleycat she was, Fæbian reclined on the puffed-rich pillows, her tapered feet towards where Loredana should sit, that she did, unfazed, after a glance of approval from me, I relished that mock clout on my girls. But to Fæbian’s surprise, the dark-eyed floozie began caressing her feet, with some talent, and slide up under the dress. Fæbian moaned with admiration, asking in Middle German where she might have come from; Loredana answered in French, casting an interrogative glare.
Fæbian listened silently, stroking the caramel-latte-toned skin, preciously sleek and already warmed in our heated clinch. Insofar as a shred of truth existed in the wastelands she had escaped from, she had been born in a truck, at a refugee camp, and her mother had vanished, so had said one old man who had brought her to a UNHCR station. She had unwittingly been considered a Roma, although it meant nought with regard to a famished newborn. At two, she had survived a meningitis epidemic and was transported to various structures in Eastern Europe where she had received decent pre-schooling, then to an orphanage in Slovakia where dedicated women saw to her proper multilingual primary education. Then she had been adopted by a well-to-do Slovakian couple of pharmacists in Bratislava who sent her to a Catholic school where she rebelled against what she resented as outdated obscurantism and a single language she barely understood. In the home, life very soon turned sour, the man gradually besotted her who had grown up beyond her real age, and his wife, who, aware of her husband’s shenanigans, began calling the girl all the names hate gives to Roma people in the rags of the Austrian Empire, and obsessed on finding cold-blooded vexations she could inflict her.
Since long terrorized by the outer world, she wouldn’t know whom to complain to, her mandatory experience of confession to the school chaplain having resulted in worse, and her first lessons in fellatio, under a heap of even worst insults breathed in her ear. The pharmacist knew of it all, the priest was regularly invited for dinner and her adopter ordered me not to wear knickers while she sat at the table hearing double talk about the concerns Roma populations caused to the country.
The pharmacist was a despicable dastard, he began paying her for his abuses and giving her pills to block puberty, although I had not yet seen my periods, he also drugged her, in a rear storage shack, so she would let herself be done in every manner. She had firstly mulled over the poisoning of the trio, then she discovered that Vienna was near Bratislava. She invented that the police had asked her for some ID, and said she should carry one because of all the Roms in town.
She was barely fifteen when she went to withdraw the little laminated card bearing the name she had been bearing through all systems because she had not yet been fully adopted, and chances were she would never be.
Her plan did well, having stashed most of the money she had earned whoring with the pharmacist in different creases of her jeans and coat, she had gone in the morning and watched upon the cars near a hotel, with Austrian plates, found one decent customer about to board in a recent car, and asked boldly if he would take her to Vienna. She realised too late that he had taken her for an underage prostitute and thus he drove to a retired place in the forest and raped her.
This man happened to be Juergen, head butler at the Sacher, he lived in a pretty house with a vast garden in the suburbs. He had relished what he had taken with her, he drove straight into his garage and took her to a basement room like a prison cell, just as if he had awaited her. He ripped her off everything, saying she would only need towels to clean her arse, from now on. The windows had been occulted with glass blocks, she could tell day from night, but she had lost her timeline.
He groomed her thoroughly into endless prostitution, taking pleasure in washing her, styling her hair, clipping her nails, waxing her crotch when her hair grew, and teaching her to wear a pear-shaped dildo in her arse, and do an enema when asked. A television screen could only show some twenty porn channels, lighting was concealed in a cornice at the top of the walls and the colour could be changed. It was always warm and she had not even a sheet to cover herself.
Once, a man she did not know woke her and used her a few times, insulting her while he recovered, then on she became a full-time toy, although she console herself that it wasn’t worse than what she had lived before, she used lubricant and forgot.
One morning, her abductor told her that she was now of age to work openly as a prostitute in the hotel where he was a head butler. She would pretend to be a chambermaid, bringing coffee or drinks where he would tell her and comply with any request by the clients. He was keeping her ID, she would give him all the tip money she would get and satisfy all whims of his superiors.

He began bringing her clothes, stockings, and shoes, but no underwear. He opened an adjoining room to hers to make her do her tricks in a more mundane venue, with some furniture. He affixed metal mirrors in the bathroom so she could look at herself but not break them. With ordinary television programs, she recovered a time schedule in pace with day and night. She could reckon she had to shag three or four johns per day, willy-nilly, plus Juergen who prefered when she smelled of having been copiously jizzed on.
He began another level in her training, adding chosen compliments to his lewd insults, showing her what was desirable about her and why, spending time at making her reach as many orgasms as he could. He brought plenty of sex toys, a Sybian and a fuck machine, strapping her upon the bench until she passed out. He organised parties where she served a few insatiable studs at once, but most of all, he made her like doing that sort of life when all she ever had to do was to open up her innards to anonymous dicks.
She started in the hotel as a night chambermaid, in the luxurious corridors and the back passages of the gigantic hotel. All the chain of command abused her, and then she was called to sumptuous suites where her only service was to present a fresh-smelling cunt and a clean arsehole. She never saw money but Juergen took her to exclusive shops for her shoes, her clothes and the best silk stockings. When he heard about Gauthier’s event, they said that mighty patrons would attend, hence putting her at the samovar stand where I had hit on her.
She was exhausted, now, and Fæbian had formed her decision, she would come with us, ID or not. She could not tire of the splendid mouth, she bantered that one of her regulars had been a good dentist and she was brought to his practice by night, in a truck, so he would put her under for hours in the chair and do all he wanted, including to treat her teeth.
I shuffled in my phone and decided that Camille would be the best person to call for the present course of affairs. She roared laughing when I explained I wanted to extract a young slapper from the trap she was entangled in. I didn’t know who Camille was with, but she demanded a video of my catch, and so then, having recognised the samovar girl, she assured me she was on it by all her means, Lauredana would be in Paris safe next morrow.
We had a capriccio night, our find wanted more of our own epics, she had never spoken with another harlot, in life. In the morning, Kate and Gwen came at breakfast time with all the props to make a dirty-blond tourist out of a Roma beauty. Gwen loved her, and for a reason. Two of the black silk men, the kind I would offer myself to any time, joined and watched us shower and dress up, they were not only armed. I was sure they had known all of us since long, as the French say.
We would not skedaddle like rabbits so as to cause a commotion, we endowed one of the impressive hunks to embody a fiancé for Lauredana —renamed Mara, her own idea— with the licence to act thus in every manner, which he played so well. From a side door, two cars ran off to the unmissable Secession Pavilion, and then Mara would never be seen in Vienna again for years.
Cecile and Lauritz were already listening to a gentlewoman curator who recounted the history of the unfinished frieze, Cecile was beautifully transfixed, Lauritz had gone through changes, since his mistake with the cameras in his home bawdyhouse, he had wholeheartedly befriended Hugo, who stood two steps away, watching Cecile captivated by an idea of Beethoven.
Camille had joshed that Kate and I had turned into fierce hunters lately but if she craved Gwen openly, she had missed the samovar girl, Kate had dressed her in a verdigris Liberty waistless, layered, short dress of her’s, light grey Egyptian sandals and a loose-knit ash-white cashmere shawl; behind her Hollywood shades and a puff of honeysuckle Cologne, she was impossible to spot.
Mara had null idea where and what we had come to, but she could tell all about the sturdy gallant who held her; he was dedicated enough to snog her two or three convincing long ones. I might plead his cause with his hierarchy to let him unwind some of the perceptible tension, once in the clear.
The thistle sisters were all too lovely with their chins up, they accepted the invitation by Cecile to join, eventually, the curator spoke for a much larger audience and it lasted a good hour longer, for her benefit. As of me, the throes of unleashed Belvedere guards had imprinted a dizzy spell of Klimt’s own cherubic soul, I still felt the dance of water serpents in my womb.
Aboard the aeroplane, Camille stole my samovar nymph, undid the disguise and fell in love with a Gipsy princess who had never boarded a plane before, her long Egyptian eyes queried mine for directions, so I showed her that Camille was a perfect sister, I did not let her guess she owned the whole flying bandwagon, too, and also her black silk panther.

Camille always remained my long-time mistress and never failed the remembrance of my days in her timeless attic; also was she unflinching as to her wants, all the more so now that she held near-infinite might. She told my right mind that we would sleep with Mara in her bed, not ours.
I had seen that before, the Gipsy rose knew not any composure to live by, therefrom. Another black silk man had given her back her ID and a fat stash of money, she stood nude in a vast remote apartment with two lovingly attentive women. Camille only wished that I kept taming Mara’s soul, and she counted on days of articulate conversations with Fanny and Dagmar, possibly Dr Meant, if he would, to rekindle a still young bloom of a mind.
Ms Stern’s domain had now then taken on a pace akin to a Cecil B Demille production, outworldly yet liveable for whom she decided.
The collation was brought on a silver tray by her black silk security, I jump to ask about the assumed fiancé we had used, and Mara shyly nosed in my neck. Camille grasped a gossamer link in my little whore’s affects and liked to be recalled of her past, by me, of all the sluts she had nurtured with unfailing love. She rested her cheek upon Mara’s belly and said Bernhardt would be hers all she would like.
Fanny and Dagmar touched down at my side upon the rich taupe mohair velvet cushion and playfully unclothed each other so as not to mismatch our tableau, overjoyed to share their toyish graces with a newbie whose becoming had shared much of their own, they were bringing heaps of comforting memories, they craved the dark slant of Mara’s inwards gaze, they revived the gems of spring through the frost, suddenly, we spoke a mad cornucopia of all European tongues, with crystalline fits of laughter that made Camille cry.
When Mara asked for the loo, I was faster to seize her fingers and lead her to the midst of the lavish dark gold wavy mosaic water room, hugged her tight and ordered her to pee on me, so I saw her eyes sway aside in a small abandon as I felt the warm strains down my thighs, in the overwhelming scent of boxwoods, and I let flow myself, carrying my samovar princess away to Saint Loup.

Certainly, Camille and her nixes wouldn’t let us cavort all alone. and anyone could afford a dance with a soul in need, couldn’t they? she had all the more to hear of the pair’s yarns, the good society of our redeemed alley cats who peed on us in the tepid rain. It felt a ritual, under the new escapee name of Mara, she owned a life to unchain as much of her soul as any, and sing to my own snow angels if she would.
They helped her wash the long lush strands of black hair, Fanny bantered that it must be a constant hurdle in daily life, before owning to that it was the least an expensive lady for hire should mind, in a way, but, tossing around her short bob in the shower rain, she added that she knew a snappy scissors’ artist who had bought all of her own mane once, and she never regretted because it let her run faster. While rinsing, she held the ponytail in her hand, we all sighted her dainty little ears, and then Camille shushed us saying Mara could afford long braids if she would.
We wetted quite a few towels dolling ourselves. We sat upon the convenient rattan causeuse and chair so as to pretend to groom she did not need, she retold that Juergen did that every night, all the more when she had served clients and still smelled of effusions. We tried so many and more fragrances on her, she prefered a classic, timeless, priceless idea of an iris lost in the foggy mountains of my own nordic shores, with calls of purple gillyflower, that cried out it had been done for her skin and gave her the flair of a costly prostitute.
On Camille’s grand bed, we left none province of her holy land rest, and all of us were so savvy at turning a lady senseless, we had to reckon Jurgen had supremely well broken her in, so far beyond the care of a samovar, we had stolen a gem.
I woke up alone in the Imperial bed, contented with my high-flying dreams amidst the pinnacles of Drømmeborg, greeted by the crimson ravens’ salutes, a gipsy gamine with dangling braids swirling in my back as she clutched at my wings. As I shuffled along the corridor to the breakfast room, I met that of our minders who had remembered me with wit. Nude as a picture, I stood before him and looked up to him until he dared come near and kiss me. He smelled of bay leaf, just like all of them when I had dared them in the coral stone cellar, a rekindling of my laundry room expenses in Saint Loup dormitory basements. His trousers and shorts slid down swiftly, I knew what to find, he was dripping clear drops, I pulled him back to his boss’ bed and let him slay me through like I deserved, with style. I didn’t suss the mocking notes among the merry Carillion my ears invented, then it was Camille’s laughter as she joined our sweet tussle. She whispered in my ear that she loved to watch me be humped and the big strong man actually did. When he let go of his rage and semen, he doggedly kept his staff rested against my womb wall, as I asked for more. Then he waned off and slipped out of me. Camille thanked him, casually, he grabbed his things and ran to the bathroom.
As I lay face down, she kept her face close to mine, saying she always had loved this unabashed candour of mine, that these porcelain blue eyes of mine, snug under my straight black brows had ever been a lucky charm to her, and the outlandish bawdy yarns of my schooldays.
In the kitchen, around the solid round Thonet table, their gracefully rounded arses visible through the bentwood of the chairs, the trio of born-sluts exchanged the ignominious fortuities of their respective fates, astray German terms in Dagmar’s episodes making Mara snigger.
My mistress and I acted casually, I brewed tea in the big Yixing dragon pot and in the yellow one with a braided string holding the lid, it would be a special vintage of Oriental Beauty Oolong Taiwan leaves, courier-sent by Melchior, a blessing for such an idle day. She fetched bags of lemon cookies to fill a turned burr wood bowl for the windfall doves to peck on.
She drew me to an aerated willow green moiré silk boudoir with a newly upholstered Paul Iribe “spiral” set of chairs in meerschaum-white art deco brocade that struck my self-conscience as to not seat my sleazy arse on them. She burst in laughters and boasted she would lick me clean as a rose, if I knelt backwards and spread open to her greedy tongue.
Since Fanny and Dagmar had moved next door in their own dovecote, Camille had missed a younger pet maiden, and she had fallen for the samovar girl as soon as they had been seated on the plane, I certainly knew what she meant, and she kept stroking my blooming cunt. However, she thought that, as had been the case with others of our self-interested redemptions of astray prostitutes, Hugo should first assess the core damages and put words on the wounds, metaphorically clamp the spiritual loopholes left by misery, see to refer to professional help, if any, although we know ordinary shrinks rarely care for prostitutes, whose money would be taboo.

So, Hugo had ordered the charivari of Italian verdure, salads and pies, offhandedly displayed upon the red hardwood platter resting on a life-size wooden sculpture of three crouching nymphs intertwined, in all anatomic details and à la Carpeaux gleeful smiles, a tour de force of digital modelling, the three girls had been scanned in less than two hours, while the five axes milling machine had been burrowing into an enormous block of lime tree wood glued solid. She had had to dismount one of her windows to have the piece brought in place, fortunately, it weighed less than it looked. The chairs, too, were weightless gilt aluminium cast reproduction Greek Klismos. Surreptitiously, Camille dressed Hugo in a long off-white flax robe and Egyptian sandals, although there was a contest of affection, Mara had read through me that he was there for her, and thus she wooed him and was proud to see her success.
Hugo speaks scholar German, so he grasped most of Mara’s Presburgerish talk mix, she had not really chatted with any real person since her days at the pharmacy, and her catholic school teaching was like locked in a different box she shied from. Like an archaeologist brushing off the dust from a precious artefact, Hugo reached for what could be deemed the truth of Mara’s origin, casually fondling her thighs while Dagmar licked the clear drops of his want. There was the example of Fanny —a chosen name, too— and the manner she had been granted a made-up certificate of birth and then on. Would Mara like to own an undisputable European identity, and live, like Fanny had, as an au pair with Camille, go to school and have all the fun she would?
She gulped uneasily, she did not find the question that knotted her guts, and our friendliness did not help. Fanny had a light beam, putting frankly on the table the prostitution thing, so as to swear to Mara nobody would sell her anymore to anyone, unless she asked for it, like we all did, per mere vice, or not. Come what may, she might very well meet some hunky lad and decide to root a family with him, or else a woman, who knew? We would then reckon we had had a good time with her and she had gone her way.
Of course, these were fairy tales to her —had she ever known one— but she couldn’t overlook all the knock-solid evidence of all the new wealth around her. When Dagmar eventually gulped in Hugo’s discharge, he took her on his lap and I pulled my samovar princess to a low waned-rose velvet side sofa, willing and ready to answer each and any of her doubts.
Her black eyes were inescapable, I depicted myself as your poster privilege brat, and she never had enough of my far, couldn’t stomach that he never abused further than kneading my feet, didn’t he? On the other hand, she did not feel such horror in that my brother had raped me, drunk; she had merely never had to cope with anything else but rape, herself, she reckoned, and she fostered only faint notions of what a brother was.
Fanny had a crush on her, she came on the other side and boasted about her own original quagmire, and the work one accomplishes in therapy to overcome the poisons of memory. For the night, all Mara needed was a demonstration of her worth in boundless cuddles. I turned to Hugo and offered to be his slave till morning, we dressed only enough to let the taxi driver see the road.
Although Dagmar had treated him as an archbishop, he remained frustrated not having Mara for a few days; he wanted her in his pandemonium, and he had elaborated a character of the concealed Sacher escort, like any of us, he had been smitten by the Egyptian black eyes. Finally, he asked me if I would take a dose of a narcotic so he could play with my absentee body. I was tired, and I trusted him that much.
The next day, I woke smelling of lotus and iris and mystical balsams, shagged to a happy pulp. Not inopportunely, the culprit was locked up somewhere in his labyrinth. I crossed Lena in her kitchen, who firstly took a good eye on my bare body, then hugged me tight; she had always been there.
Upstairs, Kate was mulling over her phone and a cup of tea gone cold, she wore a neatly ironed oversize white poplin shirt and no undies. She smiled greedily when I retold what Hugo had done to me, it gave her thrills but she saw me as the indestructible tomboy. I explained it brought back none of my brother’s wrongdoing and retold her what Mara had thought of them. She seized my foolberries and said that no one could figure what shame I had been hurled to, in the foggy sands, bleeding. Mara would have to put up with her own dragons if any, all we knew was a Gypsy princess’ stolen life, and we craved of her.

Ayla had slept at TRÆVIX palace, intoxicated by luxury, enthralled by Michelle’s security detail, cheered at by the two non-binary pearls when she scattered herself in the boys’ wild off-duty whims. Upon her princely futon, the Aviatrix herself had relished the heady scents of the carnal gambols on her feet, she had afterwards let Ayla kiss her true eyes in the raining shower, they had peed on each other’s feet. Ayla had woken to the sight of Michelle operating her worldwide controls standing on her head, and now she was invited to New York in the SEVEN STREAMS penthouse. We laughed at Michelle’s sudden vagaries, but we knew Ayla was worthy of it, we told her she had no idea of the lifestyle the two associates sustained along with Melchior in New York, and I told her of the terrible twins of Julia’s, worth a week length by themselves. Besides, I knew she would hook up clubmen in heat ready to bankroll her tight little bum, had she ever met the consortium’s lawyer and his goons? She liked my tea, she casually fondled Kate’s peachy quim and said she was available.
The gang of fruity-smelling nymphets barged in from the city Sun. I did not fathom who was the slender-necked Louise Brooks, nor did Kate and Ayla who were making out lazy on the couch. Natalia had been called to rescue but could not help the decision to cut Mara’s thick hair spectacularly.
La new girl wore a light mauve jersey tank dress with navy hem bands, a sugar-wired Natalia made her whirl by the tip of her fingers, then pulled down the dress, Mara flaunted timid breasts, her skin cinnamon latte smooth as raw clay. Ayla had twigged out a sister and relished the natural hip sway, I bet she was thinking of a price for that she saw. They had found the perfect matching tennis shoes, but I needed to cuddle the feet. Her crotch smelled of vanilla tonka marzipan, I was the first to taste it.
They had brought bags of candied fruit cookies from Delaplace and told us the tall lady boss still reigned in her faux-marble counter, they also said that a blond attendant had arrived from some flourished province with a head-turning alto voice, Maya laughed when she sat on my lap, she was my girl, I licked her neck.
Natalia joshed she was impatient to show another new bomb to the highly intellectual clients she entertained at home. I claimed I had first say and we had an appointment for the first check-up that evening, hence I explained to the Sacher maid what the black card I fetched was, and the network of vetted suitors it would recommend her to. All that, she grasped swiftly, she undoubtedly was some savvy harlot.
Alya had a sweet tooth for Natalia’s candy, she offered to go along with her, that was a devilish deal, I swore I wanted a full report. She texted something and soon had a funny answer.
Mara was turning my black blank card with a pensive gaze, she was only now acknowledging I was as much of a prostitute as she had been, however, remained to substantiate I did not feed some manner of a pimp, au contraire. I decided we would christen her new vademecum of lust no later than that night, and Kate was in with us. Camille bantered that sluts will be sluts and Mara had codes. Fanny was still barred from proper prostitution, she had still harrowing conversations with Dr Méant who feared they had not yet cleared all of her mental minefields. However, they would relish listening to Mara’s report of Fantasyland that at least Dagmar had experimented.
We went to the usual practice together with Kate and unclothed entirely for the habitual swift palpation Mara never had had. She commented that the operator was gifted with the needle, Juergen had not been that dainty with her baby veins. I explained we did the test every month or so, and so did our would-be partners, I had never known of any incident or contamination. We made fun of the speculum, just like schoolgirls, breathed deep when the nurse took a smear of our wombs, and then she was in for some ultrasound and she did not know what it was, she was impressed to see what the operator told her was her live organs, in bluish grey, then in colours, she obviously was in full health. Kate and I didn’t need that for now. We dressed and sat in a salon waiting for more, as a proper contraceptive solution for Mara. As she sat on my lap, I made her feel the tiny implant under the skin of my inner arm, we vaunted the comfort of a two-year solution which was monitored by our regular checkups. Anyhow, the gynaecologist would see Mara alone and make sure she did a personal educated choice.
One hour or so later, after we hit on a lovely redhead nurse who ignored nought of our lustful lifeways, for good reason —we traded our numbers— Mara received her shiny card with one golden number on it. My want was to show her, without prejudice, our best amusement house, in the most elegant estate in Paris. We needed no further sartorial attention, we walked across the pedestrian bridge.

The Jardin Des Tuileries was still open and crowded with naughty strollers who took us for what we were, Mara said Juergen had made her cruise many times and bring the johns in a parked van to ogle her and get sucked under the concealed cameras; she was raped sometimes and the boor was plundered before he ended, in front of her who made some comedy.
She liked the Palais Royal under the waning skies, we showed ourselves at Philippe’s and asked for Sami, who had been called out, I could guess what for. An Alexandre then ushered us to the painted mirrors-clad room, not our usual but quiet and elegant. He spoke chastised French, stood straight-up in a black silk three-piece suit, a lilac pale shirt and matching tie, he bore black curls combed back. He saw us crush on him but he was all eyes for Mara who played shy cunningly. He grasped that we were on a visit tour but he asked for our cards, noticing one was sparling new.
As we fussed about a dinner, Alexandre proposed to bring an Imperial rice pudding and let us play with it. Indeed it was a rich creamy moulded mound rife with candied fruit, the recipe from the Sultan’s harem, an odalisk dream. As we refused alcohol, he brought pitchers of orange blossom orgeat. I joshed they didn’t have a samovar and a slave attendant. Kate muttered there probably were keen eyes behind the crackled mirrors some who had seen us numerous times in all postures but Mara never, hence the whole labyrinth must be buzzing about the Gypsy Princess and her slender wrists and ankles, the sunglasses having kept her eyes concealed.
We took some childish tease to announce what she was about to witness into these walls, unbeknown to the bustling Parisian populace, a thorough parade of the worldly debauchery, all the consented turpitudes of leisurely libertines, so much more enlightening than any kind of sports. Money was expended, obviously, though so much more sensibly than in gambling, for the profit of the highest talents in harlotry. Here, mothers sold their daughters in the first bloom, uncles auctioned their prized nieces, and college sluts cashed in for their sparkling smiles, just like the shrewd shop attendants who had enough of sweating their day in cheap underwear in their nylon smocks for some miserable paycheck, and saw no future marrying some beer belching lad who would beat them when they would have enough of his despicable dick, raise children who would become the only wealth of their sad lives, provided they did not sink into an addiction or another.
There, there, we had not come to sell her like her Austrian boor had tutored her to bend in, we were her johns, still, from an inside pocket I fetched the same money I had first paid her and told her to pocket it, to mark the line of reality, and I slid a hand under a dress I had worn too, she wore no knickers.
I had sensed her inner clockwork tick when she had reckoned she was my bitch, again, and thus also Kate’s. Those who were peeping on us now, not impossibly in the higher circles of the Club, must have relished her deferent attitude then, and the marks of lasciviousness in a well-trained for-hire girl.
We had time, she was bent on my shoulder and her skirt was almost hitched-up, my and Kate’s hands grazing her thighs, serving her some promises she had probably heard before, avowing we were actually the biggest whores in that place, and there was no going back, but we would watch out that, from then on, she owned her own self, like the genteel floozies she had seen at home, and all those we had adopted, whatever vices she would indulge in, bar threatening her life.
When Alexandre returned, with apologies —but I was certain, having known the routines for years, that he, and whomever, had appreciated the kind lecturing of our young newbie— he smirked seeing she had lost her shoes and her undies, like he would see so much more soon. Mara’s shoes in hand, we followed him through a turnstile of antique doors in one of those warm corridors where he suddenly cornered us three to steal a frank kiss on Mara’s pouting mouth, then asked her in broken German if she was there to get shagged, like us. She had a whirling move of her neck and said, in French: “gently”. He laughed and made her giggle pecking behind her ear, while he was lifting the whole dress off and kneading her buttcheeks. Not willing to rest beholden, my hands found his considerable prick and freed it with fierce envy to suck it. Kate was in love with Mara’s toy breasts.
He pushed us ahead towards one of the narrow spiral staircases that climb through all the main walls and told us to go down into a round vaulted room thickly carpeted with crimson wool, lit feebly with a line running at the base of the walls, it smelled of an old-time potpourri, cinnamon, benzoin, and roses. He turned to Mara, fingered her open quim, told her she was soaked with desire and that he craved humping in, that he did as we were cuddling her.

She spread open wide inflight, moaning for some mindless drilling of her tight entrails by the trigger-happy stud she hadn’t seen less than two hours ago but who had scented her wants as much as ours. And she uttered a litany of heartfelt “Jawolhs!” and “Jas!” on each thrust of her practised pelvis so much so I came to doubt of being the best fucker around.
And she was learned in exulting unfettered or was it that our welcome opening had struck all the right chords in her best song? Alexandre’s juice tasted of elderberry, out of Mara’s blooming coochie, and Kate was sucking clean a worthy stand-in for Sami’s flesh gun.
And now we could see that a becoming young lad in some simple creased off-white pyjama and no shoes, brawny yet svelte, had trailed us and carried all our abandoned wares, with meticulous care, albeit not avoiding one glance of our frolics, hence our course down to this plush dungeon had been sneakily scripted, regardless of my promises of remaining inconsequential. However, Mara enjoyed heedlessly the expense, Alexandre having pulled her up in his arms, she was kissing him avidly while I saw her drip like a beast.
The next room was one of the baths, with a round middle basin of green marble, sized for an orgy, already peopled by sundry nudities obviously ready to play. He carried his greedy catch till under a generous shower of tepid water under which we had nought better to do than kissing, too, as ever, Kate whispered that she had been a tad more cautious as to Gwen’s, so I confessed that here my intentions had been overridden and my samovar princess was a hell of a happy whore, would she teach us of a subterranean realm underneath the Hofburg?
The discreet gofer was back, hands-free, nothing more to pick up from us, only that my sassy womb itched. He was still beardless, with the lashes of a girl to his madder-brown eyes, a straight wise nose, a most appetising mouth with perfect teeth, he must have been hand-picked by the likes of Sami who is as pushy about male trainees as he is for the part-time nymphs. Letting him stare at my insolent smile, I deftly rummaged through his light vesture and found the mere riband that held up his trousers. The orderly at attention belied the smooth adolescent face, and so did the playful set of balls, I asked him if he would partner us, Kate untying his shirt buttons downwards. He had been well educated, he pouted his mouth to mine and the kiss was worthy of my best elations, I could smell a hint of my roses and boxwoods shadows, I loved him for that.
Nude, he was flawless and groomed to perfection, we all slid into the waters on the polished stones. With help from my soul-sister, his young staff went steady to the hilt into my greedy vagina at the whim of our weightless bodies, one onlooker making his move along to ask for Kate’s permission for her arse that she graciously offered to the offence while she continued gleaning love all over our faces. Once the ranks were broken, it became free for all and thus I soon felt another stubborn push on my pleated intimacy while the intruder growled in my ear that he had done me quite a few times before, I only had to spread a mite wider and he loved me, I swam so as to keep the Botticelli in due place, he would be all the more massaged to completion, which burst no sooner than he understood what went on in me.
Mara and Alexandre dipped in another group of the whirled cauldron, and Mara was stolen away by stooges of Poseidon, out of her depth in the centre of turmoil, soon refloated with a spur in her bumhole and ready for more. A face of a mermaid that came to help her afloat surged amidst my merry bustle, Seresine! a regular water lily of these wells, a gracious full-time libertine, well-bred with some conversation and suave fragrances, she would ensnare a young Mara in her realm.
My opposite humpers gushed almost simultaneously, tightening their clench till I passed out, briefly, while Kate panted and Mara was heaved out by Seresine towards a padded mat on dry grounds and cunningly cuddled.
The arabesques that cum drew in the waters slowly drifted to the drains, a scent of freshly crushed weeds, a longtime precursor of that of boxwoods for me —Kate would tell of dune creases— I went to claim my little sister harlotee, and by chance, Seresine did not speak German.
Seresine conceded to my manner of ownership of a treasure I had stolen from her pimp and who had now justly demonstrated her talents, she understood —we liked each other kindly— that Mara was not for sale by me or by anyone but herself. I went on fiddling with her toes, Seresine poked her tongue all over her face and twirled her hair into a Greek mane, she kept fawning me as if Mara grasped her words.
In the wee hours, we let be driven home, I kissed Kate and I took Mara with me to the first floor, we went tiptoeing into Hugo’s grand bed, where he would find us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hugo says:

For months, Gauthier had been sweating at night over this grand friendship masquerade at his mother’s dream factory. He had come into being among us with opportune synchronicity during that diversionary visit the girls and I expended to the predictably inane Biennale in Venice. Kate, then, sleepwalked under the formidable influence of good Prof. Schubert’s hypnosis, Sarah on the lookout for drift symptoms, Camille proud of both of them.
There had existed a perspective of mutual attention in their schooldays, the polyamorous flair of the copper-headed knight and his slender bearing cast him a tad ahead of times and right into tomboy Sarah’s leanings, thus reflected also upon our evasive fairy, whom she had long craved, while she dwelled in Camille’s bed. Patient Sarah, little did we know then, which lifestyle Kate had indulged inside Victor’s pandemonium.
His father gone, like a draft on grey dust, however not escaping thus Gautier’s grudge, his mother sent him to Berkley, California, in hopes he shake the French provincial crust. At the time we crossed him in the Venice Biennale’s eatery, he had landed an otherworldly position in Valparaiso, Chile, though it seemed more romantic than anything.
No sooner had he shared Kate and Sarah’s bed than I felt free to fondle, wank and suck his treasure in the burgundy silk robe.
While he prolonged his stay with us, enthralled by the games I stirred up in my own house, asking him to oversee the workings necessary so as to offer a dignified installation for my resident artists’ mistresses, he learned that Valparaiso had burned with most of his earthly possessions, and seemingly his sentimental bonds or hopes there.
I introduced him to the elusive Melchior —who had heard me sing— so then on he could afford a proper standing, although as a private address he prized the den he had shaped up under our roof, next to other favourites’ dwellings, such as whom had grown to be the house fairy, only daughter of Lena, my Ukrainian all-time housekeeper, Natalia whose lively presence could surge anytime but never at contretemps (I relished discerning her hidden in the shadows peeping unabashedly on whatever was happening in my bed). His first grand amour, Donovan, son of one of his mother’s British seamstresses, had visited often and then set the track for a career in Edinburgh.
After they inherited the cumbersome château amidst its moat, he took over a total work-up to re-make it his mother’s home and workshop. At the time when Gautier’s father had blown all his fuses finding him in bed with Donovan who had just given him his first ejaculations, she had moved out her whole operation of costume design for theatre and films to a large disused farm elsewhere, and not talked again to her husband till his death.
Nowadays, the grand attics of the two wings remaining of the ageless building, in one corner of the vast paved square yard, contained one the proper sewing workshop, the other the fitting stage, lit on all sides with dormer windows, provided with all the necessary utility and comfort rooms.
The main floor, on a restored rustic layout, can’t lodge many private bedrooms, thus allowing a gentle barrack lifestyle and indefinite shenanigans, all the more that there exists only one common shower room in each wing, with some aligned washbasins on one side.
Gauthier, still inhabited by the elating efflorescence of his childhood summertimes, together with the cosmopolitan colony of the seamstress ladies’ brood finally speaking with their hands, had spent care and attention to comfort mostly granted by lots of space, if not privacy. And he had learned from Sarah the kind of polyamorous laisser-faire she had revelled in at her singular boarding school in Switzerland, while Gauthier willy-nilly learned the deadly games of hypocrisy with the so-called good fathers and the confession game.
Nonetheless, he had been able to arrange twenty-some formal additional guests’ apartments in the old commons on the other sides of the yard, and the old bare-walls chapel provided a small theatre for companies.
In the parc, where one walked in across two bridges at a right angle from the yard sides, furthered on by lime trees alleys, Gauthier had overindulged his mother with a collection of follies and gazebos, some new, some reclaimed, and a rounded swimming pool, where a pond had once been. A family of gardeners lived on the far end of the outer wall. Gauthier told me he had yet said nought to Sarah about a remaining box trees grove amidst which he had transported a two-floors cottage with external stairs up to a pokey but snug lovenest, we tried bets as to with whom she might elope in there. Most anyone in the suave crew, had he said.

After the miscreant but dignified agapes in Vienna, I had sussed that Sarah needed some favour from me, and I had made her pay upfront — not that she should regret any— that being only to vet her last crush on a higher tier than she could have, the little prostitute she had asked the power that be to help steal from her pimp showing deep moral loopholes, or not.
I had heard the same manner of demand from Camille about the fair imp Gwen, so, being altogether a dependable friend and a major debaucher, I conveyed both sweet hirelings to my perfumed lair, to cavort, obviously, and to test if a voyage in my company would meet their favour? A faraway, lazy sojourn with only the sun, my dick, and my brain to care for, not even jet lag in Seychelles, a most private parenthesis to spill whatever beans, pebbles, or embers they would, hopefully, to help them sort their fate.
Both of them had been sold like sidewalk puppies and albeit had apparently not derailed, if carnal beauty means —as I tend to believe— superior wisdom of being, although it may kill all the same. On a hunch, I pushed the envelope a tad further and offered a fee, just like I would to Ayla or Annachiara, I am a trustworthy client, and so it worked, for now, giving us time to rewind our clocks gently.
After I handed the fresh notes in two envelopes, I took all the time to watch them dither like blue tits on your plate, so I told them all they should do, little by little, to disrobe each other, like the puppeteer with invisible strings, they let me do.
Incidentally, I was glad to inform Ms Mara Lupu she would detain a first new passport once she meets our good Samaritan friend from the secret services who had procured one for Fanny, he would be all too happy to meet her at morrow lunchtime, right here. I had agreed to meet casually one of his correspondents on the islands, also, she might help by retelling her already bustled course at the hands of her abusers, Camille and anyone they chose could help her, and Fanny would certainly oblige.
Mara could not frankly buy up my tales as news, but Gwen explained where she had been coming from, so as to give credit to our clout. And anyhow she would have to feed her fingerprints into the network, by the way.
They enlaced like baby otters and kicked at my fiddling their toes. Mara showed faultless laser-sleek legs and pubis, purring at my compliments but reckoning it was the result of Juergen’s fetish, and she also had had to pay his friend dermatologist in kind, a reason why he had been so thorough, like the dentist.
Gwen liked to banter about not growing hair elsewhere than on her skull, she is such an easy wonder, she is the wild rose that grew amidst a heap of rubbish, in spite of it all. She said the man called Kees gave her a yen for exact language, then he was sacked for having slept with her, who was his patient in the State’s custody. No one listened that she needed him. He disappeared.
They kept clinging to each other, like dreamy castaways, unaware that I could desire their lanky pair, although my crinkled shirt in the open kaftan let see considerable interest. Neither did they manifest for food that lay a little further on the table. the moment should have been filmed, with subtitles, like an uncompromising art manifesto.
In those few days, Mara had gained over Lauredana the free swirls of the neck and up-chin poses, with lovely self-conscious fringe sways, nought of the underbearing gazes by the samovar odalisk Sarah could have afforded so easily. She gave us a hilarious rendition of the confession of a naughty little girl to a drooly priest, although she knew none of Pierre Louÿs’, yet. She, too, owned the correct language albeit it had been laced with the poison of bigotted education at a time when she nonetheless had to endure the apothecary’s vices and experiments —quite a few times, she had fainted in the classroom after he had drugged her the night before, therefore he had restricted his practice to Saturdays, causing her to sleepwalk at Sunday Mass. Later, when Juergen injected sleep-inducing poisons into her veins, she began to like it, like so when he sold her to his buddy the dentist, who left her clean and light-headed after an afternoon of she did not know what, but her smile was stellar. She feared being a hardwired toxicomaniac, though not properly an addict. Gwen too, by the time she was the Marbella Lolita, had been drugged for vice a few times, she had liked the wakening dreams, except when her bumhole had been inconveniently busted, but overall she wouldn’t ask for more of that.
With my achingly hard dick in hand, I was figuring my own ghostly nights with Sarah smiling to the angels, or at the crimson crows of Jægersborg Dyrehave.

Next dawn, they held each other like featherweight cubs, like not breathing at all, serene. The willow-green silk quilt I had thrown upon them was still in place. Null hurry, the car would await downstairs in an hour, Mara responded to my foot massage, Sarah had converted me to total foot adoration, fine, slender apparatus that shoes seldom did justice to, although I surprise myself leering at tennis sneakers, simple pervasive ones, those Kate and Sarah always had shared, designed to perfection a century ago, when I meet gangs of school kids on our narrow sidewalks —the invention of invisible socks has heightened the seduction, uncovering the essential Achile’s tendon.
Gwen preferred coffee and dipped in it her toasts, overloaded in mirabelles jam, Mara tasted my tea in my cup and liked it, wandering a hand to my dick, at the risk of killing me, making Gwen snigger.
They would travel very light, having been told they would gambol in the nude most of the time. For the flight, Sarah had dressed Mara in a simpler-than-that-you-die burgundy jersey t-dress and for Gwen, an oversize white mostly unbuttoned cotton shirt. They had stuffed a haphazard change of clothes in their backpacks, I carried a much more considerable suitcase.
Our friend in the not-so-secret services, a great admirer of Fanny’s since her evasion to here, was again smitten by rescuees on our shores. He already knew most there was to know, he only needed Mara’s prints to seal the biometrics in the passport chip and lay the transparent film on the main page. He had brought a compact case with him, he connected the computer in it to our wifi and scanned Mara’s fingertips, keeping her hand a tad longer and she let him. He warned her that this passport would raise eyebrows at most controls, particularly if she went to America, but at worst it would mean one or two hours of checking. The girls had not really taken the time to slip on underwear, and now, the officer could see it, he blushed, they apologised, he looked up to me and he fled.
On the slate-blue backseat of the berline, they still held hands, face to face, eyes in eyes, to continue their savoury tales of forbidden exploits of which none raised vital alarm as to their further becoming, not that I would be blasé of more depraved courtesan stories, they are my miscreant gospel of sorts, all the more when uttered by candid voices. I listened, with dedication, any means of recording, even a pencil, would ruin the magic flow, if need be, in the end, it would be the highly specialised task of a professional to help them sift through their own bright souls.
Mara came again about her new passport, it felt magic, she hadn’t even known her birth date before. Gwen told her not to worry, they had told her everything about her, too. At the boarding desk, they also noted that the passport was brand new, but the computer confirmed it was valid, a car took us to a Falcon, it would be a ten hours flight.
I wore a limestone white silk and flax suit and braided leather oxfords, I would soon change that for radical off-white djellabah and babouches, such is the luxury of flying private.
We had a blonde Lithuanian attendant, Canadian pilot and copilot much in the taste of my excited gremlins who had kicked off their sneakers before we rolled to the runway. They smelled of the same seashore Cologne they had ferreted in my cabinets, a tad rosier on Mara who stole me a wet kiss the attendant did not see.
We came to obey and strap down on our seats while we reached fifty thousand feet and my two imps were exhilarated by the blaring light, we would soon cross the Mediterranean and then the Sahara, what a lovely planet.
We were offered decent tea and coffee, lemon cookies and shortbread, but the skinny imps weren’t interested. Mara cuddled up along my side and Gwen along with Mara, who continued to unspin her eerie clew of a life; she, too, would have now to assess where it had once started to pull.
We needed comparisons, I asked Gwen to show her Dutch passport, and I pulled out mine. Although she kept vague memories of an errant misery as a manhandled little thing, she had once learned where and when to prune off the dead scales of bygone palm leaves, whatever they had been, just like a long-stray sheep would be sheared off the overgrown wool —Both of them had seen that video on youtube with some hunch of Deja Vu.
We mingled unabashedly on the double seat, the attendant had retired to her booth. Gwen dared read my passport, which boringly stated that I was born where I currently live, and I should say the same of my whole ancestry since the great Revolution when all the christening archives were burned —a rare quality as such, did I banter with my hand on Mara’s thigh, considering that Paris has grown from 500 000 inhabitants in 1790 to 11 million today. I served them a considerably romanced biography of mine, justifying my apparent ascendancy and wealth, avowing it be a condition one is born in.

In case it would trouble them, I protested my strong belief in culture as opposed to nature, as in I wouldn’t think I would have done better than them in the situation they grew up in, and as far as I could tell, they had managed to glean enough seeds as to flourish, just like Lady Hamilton hitting London’s pavement at thirteen; the hen mothers in the coop would help them learn and grow up, just as the others of their delightful kind they had already met.
One by one, I retold them what I felt I could of each of the radiant boarders. They were fascinated by Michelle so I told them she would be the most elusive of all, to what Gwen bantered she had slept with her and it had been all tenderness, I was stunned.
Camille would deserve a ten-pound novel to herself, Mara said that Sarah had given her to Camille but she loved the manner Sarah loved her. I tried to disentangle these wires, starting with Sarah’s character —letting Mara sway her gazes all she would— the tomboy daughter of a high-ranking UN diplomat who had, since her suckling and crying age, been the only one shushing her by twiddling her tiny feet and he unabashedly still did nowadays, assuming the incestuous grace it showed, even in the posh restaurants he took her to. From misty Denmark, she had moved at six to all-sunny New York City, to live on the fantasy-rich terraces of Tudor City, between the glass curtain of the UN and the steampunk ghost of the ConEd dead east River plant. It had been an unreal epoch of VIP venues and terrorised bodyguards, dance lessons and highly monitored teaching with cosmopolitan pupils, the fairytale version of the latchkey child, with unexpected Sunday brunches at the Met.
Then she had been awfully betrayed to the core of her soul. With her brother, they went to Denmark in the summer, cousins had a grand house on the Jutland coast, she was the youngest of the tribe of teens. One morning, she had woken with the worst hangover, nude in the cold sand, blood tracks on her thighs, in the wild behind the property. She snuck back inside, washed and cried endlessly. It had not taken long before her boorish brother, fifteen months her elder, showed by mocking her that he had been there all along watching and using her too, with details. He had always fostered hellish jealousy towards his father’s flaunted pet girl, he hated her said porcelain-blue eyes, he wished he had killed her. Without snitching, not showing she was suffering in every manner, she obtained to be sent back home, like a whim spoiled brats have. She spent the rest of the summer watching the old power plant being torn down. It wouldn’t be before next year’s spring break, her disquieted father having taken her to a grand London week, that she retold the sad affair of why she was disturbed. For months, her dad had understood she was troubled, though her mother had nil concern about her since her birth —that had been complicated. He had been mulling over a solution, hinted by some colleagues, so, between a hilarious luncheon at Simpson’s and opera dance, he announced she would board at the creative lake shore house of Saint Loup —no hyphen— a ball-kick away from the many agencies of the UN in Geneva, thus he would meet her even more than in New York, and this is where she learned the core of her magic, you will find.
She carried an impressive portfolio when she joined, on a grossly outdated idea, the Paris Beaux-Arts and met the Franco-German northern fairy Kate, as unabashedly libertine as herself, was it revealed. She had been steadily incestuous with her brother Simon and was fondly in love with Cynthia you have met, a poster figure of middlesex pride, who recently settled a much-needed French non-binary research office in the midst of our labyrinthine walls, as it happened, after Michelle found some precious affection near Delf, the stray nonbinary found by Kate in a worldly orgy, somewhere rich.
My two scruffy companions had moved to the same side, so as to keep fondling each other while I interminably sketched a frame of what magical garden they seemed to have set foot in, more ways than any, if they pleased. They learned that many of our daily shipmates had been rescuees in their sore lives, we entertained stooges to bring us amendable human wrecks, provided their case would not rather pertain to a hospital that we are not.
Mara asked more questions about all the palatable characters she had had the leisure to leer on from behind her samovar, with her hard-learned sense of lustful affairs. I did not pursue naming names, but I thought I was elaborate enough to let her feel that I depicted genuine sad fates turned as blooming as she could see. And I swore there would not be any other manner of penance or cult-abiding hotchpotch, no one ever more owned either their bodies and minds, even if Mara craved to belong to Sarah as helpless as she had to her pimp.

Gwen knew more of life’s reality than Mara, only just out of her shackles, but she relished the obedient dedication of her kisses and canoodlings, she kept nosing in her neck to sniff her girly soul. She asked just aptly about the unnamed fellowship of black cards. No one would know for sure who had pulled the strings, it had existed in the times of proper brothels, when Royal Princes and sundry Lordships had feared mainly syphilis for which no cure existed, but an appetite for all available lust raged all the same. In London, a Hellfire club provided very young virgins in derisory hope they would not have been tainted yet, which alas was rarely the case as to the poor population entrapped in prostitution. A century later, an even worse curse spawned out of the jungle in the middle of the enchanted parenthesis science had bestowed on humanity and spread helplessly.
Hence, while personal computers accomplished their universal copulation, and Roland Moreno fathered the now ubiquitous intelligent plastic card, some among us sussed we should promote a universal shield against all sorts of health menaces and furthermore constitute an efficient tool for preventive medicine, copied by some Swiss health insurances.
Isn’t it worth the quick blood test to thence be allowed to cavort freely through the warm corridors at Philippe’s?
According to an ante request, we were served vegetarian delicacies, bar some eggs and cheese to concoct a thick asparagus and cheese pie. I frankly knew not what these slender animals had been fed before they come to graze on our grounds, but they confirmed they liked our ordinary, in puny shares. They went to pee together, I heard giggles.
They needed to know my compliment on every person in the Court, and it was indeed a princely amusement to show them where our fantasy peerage had been salvaged from, as selflessly on my part as I could, in the situation I revelled in, aboard a private plane with two irresistibly unkempt courtesans. Nevertheless, I did not rest in my self-assigned damage assessment mission.
Firstly, to let them do their trade here frankly and I do mine, no fuss and no sham promises, neither Kate nor Sarah had been out to collect fresh meat, these two had called for help, out of the mash of their situations, I would see to it —and Camille wanted to adopt another damaged sparrow.
Now, Mara’s taut abdominal belt moved me, and more, as Gwen remarked, who had hitched up her buddy’s dress, leaned over to suck my willy like someone who did it since she had been walking. Out there, the desert continued endlessly.

 

Sarah says:

They had returned from the heaven of flying foxes, one of the most gracious animals on earth, And they had already been invited to the glamour golds of TRÆVIX, meaning that I found my samovar nymph without even a mere kerchief on her skin in the arms of Apolline and Delf on a grand salon sofa, lights muted. The scene enchanted Camille and Hugo across the room, she handed me to sit by her, repeating that she stole my little whore. I retorted I knew of means to turn Mara into a delightfully crying captive, just like she had done with me, in times; she made sure I did not wear knickers under my casual powder-blue tracksuit.
To my mundane questions, Hugo made harebrained answers that I decrypted as altogether serene foreseeings, just as in my own hunch. I crept on the carpet to my prisoner’s feet and licked like a puppy to her moanings. Gwen had been somewhere happy with Michelle who held her at the waist, she wore one of my grandfather’s shirts, with a blue-crowned monogram on the chest, Michelle was apparently nude in a gleamy dusk-yellow jersey lounge gown.
Cecile and Finlan arrived, smiling, a few steps from each other, he wore black twill jeans, a black silk polka dots shirt and new black chelseas, she had played with the boy, obviously. Gwen ran to hug him, and so he liked to feel her in the simple shirt, she introduced him to Michelle, who did not shun his eyes, either. Kate followed, with Fayelle and Annabelle, for once showing her dainty legs out of sage-green-crepe adjusted shorts I craved to put my hands on. None of them wore shoes, Fayelle went bare in a white Bansky love rat printed tee-shirt, and Kate also showed almost all under a much more expensive variegated zigzag jersey silk minidress —all her nails iridescent mauve. The trio looked like they went partying. Kate pushed Finlan onto a sofa and caressed his neck, sniffing whatever Cecile had left in his hair, then begged for a real kiss while her hand grazed his fly.
Cecile wore indecently wide black silk taffeta shorts under an ironed white poplin oversize shirt, Camille called her over and capsized her over, she smelled of magnolia.
Gauthier and Natalia, having sussed another legs-in-the-air gathering, had conveyed men-at-arms, and indeed I needed a cock to dance on. Fulgence had always feared I shunned him; in a head sway, I invited him to look at the new damsel who showed her licked bumhole, but I seized his dick at once and meandered so as he couldn’t avoid shagging me while we shared sucking Mara’s arse.
Camille knew, because he told her these sorts of confidences, that Cecile liked Gauthier’s lance and the way he used it, so while they embraced, she lowered the shorts in an obvious manner for the copper-headed knight to poke his tongue and make it swagger sideways until he felt like hurling his staff into the perfect rosette, which he did at Cecile’s puff and pant pace.
The momentum was quietly building, our two new fillies at ease with their much-deserved vogue, myself thoroughly humped to the hilt. However, in a glimpse, I caught a wisp of fondness in a not-unknown gaze and the familiar black silk livery, all the more reason to arch my rump to my present genteel assailant, so as to kindle the returning lansquenet.
So thus I guessed —after a vibrant wave short-circuited my brains for a scrap of eternal and gush in unison with Fulgence, showing him we could partner just as well as the Czarina and her Cossacks, with both hands he twisted my neck to give me a full mouth of friendship— that our ewe lambs and their shepherd would have flown back from the islands in an almighty company, so as the leering eagle-eye Mirebalais attested? I took my newly appointed trusted operator to the convenient shower room, I told him he had never before shagged me so well; he had started to lick my face over in the tepid stream when I felt another stiff diddle easing its way into my prized bunghole, he smelled of bay rum and Mustique, Fulgence hugged me tight so as I could let myself be done in a dream.
Melchior sat at the far end of the round table in the silver room, opposite the double door, at peace with Jinju Lee’s millimetric dramaturgy, tasting fruits déguisés from La Mamounia in the blinking light of English silver candelabras. Gwen and Mara, aloof, shared a seat next to him and he beckoned me to grant him a kiss while he was making sure I had been as loose as a beast with a little boy’s frimousse; he hummed at his fingertips then he poured some deep-ruby cherry juice in a high-footed Venetian goblet for me, made me sit on his lap and asked me who was that sinewy stud, there, who seemed to love me so dearly?

His Undisputed High Handedness has made achieved the furnishings in the buildings next to the TRÆVIX palace, with concealed access, which gives him latitude to appear in a floor-long marigold yellow silk damask dressing gown, white pique waistcoat, white bridge tights in yellow velvet slippers. In this Grand Siècle attire, he could at once tell me to lend my mouth, only to let me show how docile I was to him, he could have clasped me a chain and collar, he did not gush in my throat, he bestowed me a tender kiss, asked me to button him back up, and left, leaving his goons at their ardours.
In the grisaille salon, in a misty chiaroscuro, Dagmar was very much in demand, her long tapered legs thrown apart and her mouth ploughed into masterfully by the goon she, too, knew. I knelt so as to reach her pink pearl and twiddle it with two soaked fingers, she sang like an inspired blackbird. Once she was copiously sparged and smelly, I embraced her all the more, leading her for another shower, she couldn’t see through the spillage of semen; I closed the door, and in my arms, she gave to the German language all the tender notes you wouldn’t expect. Later, Mara knocked, she was whom I wanted to enrapt with us to one of the attic rooms, to prattle till extinction.

 

Kate says:

I could tell Cynthia Had set her mind to private exultation, that rose gold sequined short dress allowed less of her usual body language — legs parted in indiscernible trousers, like a teamster in the Hollywood sun. She was trying to find some middle-of-the-road seduction with Apolline, of whom she had already spilt her bag of secrets with due tact, when I rolled up on her lap with my laughing Bruges’ purchase clutched in my arms.
Apolline and Gwen had already flirted beyond banalities, and I knew Cynthia was bound to hear the dainty monkey who had jumped on my back on our Flanders track. Gwen offered her lips, and then asked her if she would buy the whole orphan for a tender while; without releasing my neck. I saw fire in Cynthia’s gaze, as heated as it had always been, and revelled in watching her deploy fluffy tenderness like clouds in golden dawn, knowing full well that a bereft young soul was on the alert deep in the concealed blue pit of her immemorial misery. She offered a trade, unabashedly hovering in Gwen’s eyes, bantering she was as expensive as the most ravishing fugitive, be her in the wings of an all-time accomplice, and she couldn’t help her hand graze up the smooth thigh.
After the Grand Sorcerer had dubbed the two new fresh faces and showed Sarah to his master cock —and so she obliged— the party spalled insensibly, Michelle had borrowed away the black cherry curls, Sarah vanished to German woodlands, and whoever had shown no knickers could thus greet Melchior’s brigade.
By the time we attained the bottom landing of the lift to Cynthia’s eyrie, both our blooming harlots had yielded all veils and it smelled like the blessing of rain on Amrum Island, of sacred memory. Cynthia’s white apartment needed no lighting; there must have been a full moon over Paris; she swiftly slid off her dress, and tapped on her phone so music welled up around us, I knew what, and she must have been smitten by my godsend monkey, because it was that Elgar’s concerto played by Jacqueline Du Pré, like an endless lament in a black and white film on the cliffs of sorrow —the lanky child she danced with might soon weep in her neck.
Looking elsewhere, Apolline murmured she needed to pee and I pursued her for nasty games. After she sat on my lap and peed on my crotch, I pushed her down into the shower to piss on her face and in her mouth, we were so dirty that our hearts beat like tumbling avalanches upon each other as we kissed. She pushed me to the nearby bed, her tiny spur pridefully offered to my tremulous fioriture. Legs wide spread, she looked as sleek as a grand dove, but she spurted like a boy and I knew she let genteel squires thread in her willing little knot. In return, she spent a garland of tongue artistry on all my wet frills, saying I, too, brandished a savoury pink pearl. She was lovingly stubborn, she made me gush on her mouth and then, gleefully tilted up my legs and buggered me with a proud smirk on her face. Her armpits smelled of warm laundry and more than a girl, she pulled me to the shower, in the lather of neroli and lavender, I sodomised her with my two fingers.
In the morning, Gwen had joined us and nested between us, Cynthia worked early. I was happy to find them both, we took the elevator all the way down, and then the other one to our den; they knew my fingerprints.
Soon, Sarah beamed up with her samovar goddess; there had been a confederacy of hireling vaginas, in a garret of the all-mighty, and then all their clothes had disappeared. I retold her I had found a hunch of her recurring laundry scents —when I listened to her sensuous remembrances— nested in Gwen’s armpit sweats, and thus that one shimmied on her chair, owning one of Sarah’s intimate fantasies as hinted in the permanent subconscious of her soul-sister, she proudly let Sarah nose into her armpit, as Mara tasted the other. Sarah could not confirm, only she liked what went to her head and promised mysteriously to take her visit her old school at night, then she put herself at brewing tea for all. There weren’t ingredients to fry French toasts, but someone had thoughtfully brought a tin of Danish cookies, which triggered one of those cheery synchronicities that made Cecile appear, who never sank a cookie in her coffee. On the doorstep, she looked like a Melancholy by Francesco Hayez, her morning clothes still on her arm, but she was only numb from an overspent night. Finlan’s scruffy wet garnet ringlets unfurled in her neck as she let him clutch on her, still hungry for her blueberry scents.
She charged the snarly black chrome coffee machine we had bought mostly to be able to leer at her perfect arse while she operated, thus I was fulfilled, and Apolline couldn’t help feel wowed, too. Inside the rather large biscuits tin box laid a row of these “cat-tongues” she naturally considered hers to dip, and she did, as we affected to gaze around, until we, intimates, burst in laughter and love. Sarah moved to her and said she tasted like her admiral uncle’s prefered chocolates.

Gauthier and Natalia barged in together smelling of the same Cologne shower that told all of us what they had just done, and when she sat on my lap, I found her quim was wet as the morning dew. She had elated the copper angel, Sarah grazed his sensitised crotch in a gesture of covetousness. He announced that the Mercedes motorcade would carry us away the next day but one, just like a worldly fashion event, the château extravaganza would eventually happen, a whole province and a fleet of luxury coaches had been put on alert like for some star-studded production event; locals were told of some media shenanigan, they were long used to Ms de Joux’ —she no longer used her husband’s patronym— spectaculars.
Gauthier beamed like a choir boy before Xmas —and he knew about that, he had once been wearing the tantalising alb— and Natalia was proud of him. He protested that the superlative venues that SEVEN STREAMS had been instating into most adjacent buildings around Michelle’s lair hampered his prized filial endeavour, until the idea of participating in a grand play-doll frenzy —the reverse of a de Bestegui costume ball, in which our scrumptious cast would only be dressed up at the end, for their eyes, and else— sparked throughout the high social spheres like a midsummer epiphany; His Higher Might had also leered upon some new attendances at Michelle’s last gathering to date.
Gwen was musing in aloofness, her daintily tapered hand seized a cat tongue in the tin box and unabashedly dipped it in Cecile’s cup, swiftly enough to bring it whole to her mouth, and smile at Cecile, her nipples stiffened. Cecile dreamily pushed the cup a tad towards the reedy-blond trespasser, inviting her to her workshop so that she could pose for Cyprien’s sketches, she needed not to dress, did she? Moreover, Finlan and her could pair any way they pleased on the sofa, daring to the artist’s pencil swiftness. Cecile would play Eric Satie’s dewy laces and work at reviving some allegoric scene one could read as a heavenly brothel full of nude nymphets strolling on thin-vaulted galleries along with tamed wolves and lions; the length-of-an-arm horizontal panel seemingly dated from the early Renaissance, Camille had not wished to let it undergo all the forensic appraisings before Cecile revive it.
Gwen stretched her folded wings, so as to beg for kisses on her tits, showing thus she would abide any whim of Cecile’s, musing she wanted to ogle them fuck for the show, hence Cecile said she would buy Cyprien’s rendition of the scenes, half the price due to them, unabashed harlots. We all laughed that it was only fair, hadn’t I bought Gwen myself for a start?
Gauthier gone to attend to whatever magic he was currently providing his potent sponsors, before leaving Paris; Cecile pushing the lovebirds out to her den, Natalia now attempted to woo Mara out of Sarah’s caresses, overjoyed to let me witness her guile; once she grabbed the hand of the eloped hotel mouse, she proposed to take her along to her own wealthy patrons, in a manner to line their pockets while they played together. Sarah agreed it would make to provide for good bawdy tales, acknowledging that Natalia had grown into a master slut and Mara would prosper in that companionship, to what Natalia devoured Mara’s mouth, then taped her code on her telephone and spoke to someone, staring in Mara’s black eyes.
I remembered the times when the house genie would sneak into our bed and fondle me in my half-wake, I told Sarah it made me shamefully proud and she retorted that Natalia and Beryl had built their lives fully aware, including of the unconditional support they nurtured in their intimate garden.
Tea had perfused through both of us like in a carnal clepsydra, we needed no words to run to the shower and pee ourselves like naughty brats, I let myself weep on all the distrust I had vowed erst to my unfettered Tomboy; she listened to my poor rant and gave me one of her sharp blue porcelain gazes.
Natalia owned our wardrobe, legitimately, since she had grown up into our sizes, thus she had dressed up her cohort and herself like posh debutantes. Years of persistent coaching under Juergen’s whip had given Mara sumptuous loins and a straight back; she wore clothes like a true fitting model. She wore one of Sarah’s double-breasted blazer dresses, with silk velvet lapels, letting her show most of her nudity and a mere patch of peach satin. She had shoed flat opera pumps in black patent leather. Her cavalier had always had a weakness for Sarah’s mock military attire like Danish fanfare uniforms or this black cadet dress coat trimmed with red tubing Gianni had lined with crimson satin she closed with only one of the gold buttons over her slim bareness; she wouldn’t have found other than flat-heeled shoes, such as these black split-vamp court shoes. All in all, they looked like expensive floozies, with no other visible makeup than a dash of blush and a touch of mascara; it cringed in my womb and I decided we should go out to perdition, too.

 

Sarah says:

Natalia called for a car, and they fled. I ran at Kate’s throat and beseeched we go somewhere to trash ourselves, too. Apolline said she would better move back to TRÆVIX, along with her kin, but first, inevitably, Kate and I teamed up to make sure she spurt to our faces, after what we all smelled of her bittersweet angelica scent and we lathered our enkindled bodies in the shower with the wildest intentions. She went in a mere tee shirt she found that smelled good.
Hector went ballistic at my demand; he asked for thirty minutes to sound some trumpets around, and he made sure we be ready to roll fast, I said we were in high spirits.
Like naughty sprogs on a sugar rush, we knew we had called for the furthest of adventures, but there would always be a lavish backseat to bring us home timely and in good nick. Natalia’s boldness had aroused me, I wanted to overbid wearing our supersized heavy silk men’s pyjamas with an outrageously sensual feel under the hand of beasts. Kate, in silvery fluid satin, blessed herself with Hugo’s bespoke quintessential fragrance he had once concocted for her redemption starting from a stash of ambergris he owned, purchased in an auction from a fisherman in the Baltic who had found the bloc floating adrift. With the idea of our lost fairy’s grey gaze, he had constructed a misty vault of white fragrances, dewy lotus, dreamt irises, and sambac jasmine harvested on the Nile shores; she would embalm till the last of the night’s paramours.
In my wide-legged star-spangled night-blue suit and slippers, I had sprayed myself with a blue fantasy of gardenia, tuberose and violet in an invisible casket of sacred sandal, enough to turn a sworn bodyguard into a savage plunderer —at the tilt of my coming of age, I had played enough on the verge of these deadly games before my own brother betrayed me, at that.
Before anyone returned, we sneaked out to where the big black cloud kept its cool, Hector greeted us in the backseat with restless hands; at every red light, the chauffeur fiddled with the rearview mirror. We headed south, he had the time to unclothe us; he had not been wearing much more himself; he ordered me to spread wide, so that Kate could savour my quim while he buggered me already upon the disposable cushion for lubricant stains, and I knew I had called the right number.
The chauffeur had not muttered a sound, but the car was stopped in a dark spot; he opened the door on Kate’s side, asked her to present her behind, and since he was the same black stooge as ever, I could not glimpse at what he was pushing into her bumhole, only did I remember it was serious. I could only console my poor sister who had, however, seen it coming.
Now the whole car smelled of beastly lechery when we reached a high portal at the end of a road, posted with military-style warnings, that lit up when we stopped near. The chauffeur called, identified us, and soon the metal frame doors slid sideways to open the way. In the headlights unfurled tight wilderness of thicket under tall trees but the road was cleared. It followed a deepening dell and the air freshened, but Hector held us clenched.
The road ended at a roundabout under an overhang before which a new plain grey metal door was lit; it opened inwards and the car rolled to an underground parking space where half a dozen glistening black clouds like ours rested, a crowd of tiny coloured lamps blinking randomly in their shady insides. It vaguely smelled of fresh paintwork but the air was smooth through our loose silks, Hector revelled in making us prance around like models in a salon.
Though the light was subdued, we surmised that they were watching us and why. Hector had been there before, he led us to some sort of red-carpeted porch before bronze-coloured doors with a judas lens; they produced a pneumatic sound when they recessed aside, opening the way to a succession of easy stairways. Now the walls dug out in the rock were plane, sleek limestone, stark bare above the red carpeting.
On the first landing awaited a gracious nude young girl, leaning sideways, an elbow resting on a small Carlo Bugatti desk, her unabashed little arse resting on the small matching chair, an eye on a slim laptop, the other in my open shirt. She gently asked to see our Club cards, and that we entrust her with all our threads, shoes, and whatever belongings bar the jewellery. When Hector and Kate’s bugger abided to the demand, she approvingly smirked at the size of their weenies that she could smell had been ours a moment away. She grabbed our silks, showed that she knew where the wallets hid and turned towards the recess where to hang them, with Hector’s hand on her bum. She beckoned us towards the next flight of stairs, then allowed Hector to embrace her for real; I could have done that, too, but my hustled innards kept me still, I asked for the loo, and she led us to a fully fitted bathroom, to the greedy satisfaction of our minders who remained with her. When we were finished, she was moaning between the two.

Her name was Trine; she said her shift would be over in an hour, and nothing barred her from making herself available; on that, she returned to her desk where she was watching the security cameras. She was teenage-blond with sage-green eyes and alabaster skin. She obviously did not waste all of her life underground as a white endive sprout, but she was creamed-honey pale and smelled of sunny fresh hay.
Kate enlaced me, joshing it felt like we were already in the bedroom. A little further, sundry vague twirling shapes began to raise hither, and tither from the plain surface of the stone, which began to make us figure the whole space had been carved out from the centre of the staircase, with the formal intention to extricate in the foreground the carnal mayhem we now contemplated in furious details, some uninhibited version of Jean Delville’s “Treasures Of Satan” once Satan had deserted our candid souls.
The railing unfurled a daring counterpoint, from an austere row of square forged rungs, progressively to waves of swirls and swirlier, entwined with gilded acanthus leaves, then diving embraces of polished bronze naiads, their course flaring out amongst the spiralling flight of fornicating angels in a murmuration of golden feathers.
From the last landing, one penetrated a distraught undergrowth in The Twilight Of The Gods, not only did the elfin creatures fly in grace, but they also precisely copulate in fervour, whatever apparent sex or age; never such a saraband could be publicly visited without causing dire turmoil.
The walls were losing plumb, following the carnal tremours that hurtled around, but our minders retrieved inspiration to exacerbate their wants as it felt appropriate. The chauffeur, who smelled of heated vanilla, tonka, coumarin and bay leaf, made me feel the inexorable might of his grip as he brought me down on the floor, thus I parted my thighs to let him plough kindly in my soaked coochie, staring at his happy smile amidst the shameless pandemonium. I heard the long moans of Kate being thoroughly reamed by Hector, and I discovered that our beloved patron Louis, half-covered by a gold embroidered royal blue kaftan relished what he saw, so as he teased Kate’s frenzied mouth with his dripping glans.
Unabashed of having been caught with their fingers in the cake, the two trusted lieutenants finished us the best as we could, then led us to the master host who sniffed us en connoisseur and asked us not to wash yet. He was proud to read the amazement on our faces.
While handling me like a Royal masseur, he explained, for once, the extravagance of the venue. He had once bought the property with the forest that had long been hunting grounds for unimaginative heirs of some kind, but where we two had a few times been sweet game at his parties. Though it was situated an hour from Paris or so —depending on impatient rushes along the way, had it not? it had sheltered this utterly achieved grotesque for a century, far too licentious in what it depicted to be seen by the many, or even tolerated by the law. The author had been a renowned sculptor, a partner of Toulouse Lautrec and Rodin, but altogether enthralled in glorifying pornography on a level with the grandiose hypocrisy of triumphant industrial decor. Born rich, he inherited the domain where he had known the abandoned quarries since the holy times when they had sheltered the lustful shenanigans with cousins of all sexes. At age twenty-seven, seized by rage, he hired quarrymen to begin clearing the volumes and roughing out the staircase. The experts confirmed that it was a thick bank of the best Lutetian limestone, though not of extensive surface —which had to have stopped its exploitation some time but inferred none of his growing interest to it.
As he pleasantly narrated one more of his befuddling tales, Louis had pulled me towards the cushioned confident seat that stood in the middle of the crooked corridor and made me lay upon him before I could notice whose other pair of caring hands were on my buttcheeks, giving way to a well-prepared dick in my complacent arse. Louis relished reading my face while his stooge worked me harder and deeper, he complimented me when I felt the splurt into my innards, and he carried me to a small grotto where he watched me shower and expel the effluents in a toilet bowl after he had playfully inserted the tepid orange blossom water hose inside.
When he brought me back to the party, as he owned me, Kate was in the throes of being blithely shared by a squad of well-hung minions exchanging colourful comments as they switched holes, leaving her properly inundated and spent as they all ran to where we came from.
Louis ushered me further towards a wider clearing, like the fantasy of a ballroom under the roots of a giant tree, where more ardent crews pointed their tongues as an invite and rolled eyes when I lay along Louis, my thighs parted as he had just asked.
Nosing at my temples and my ears, he went on with the legend of this Artaman de Sternfeld who had engulfed his life so totally into these mirabulous rooms that none trace of him and his cohorts was ever found when it became patent that the estate had been abandoned.

Louis smelled of balsam; and Tuscan cypresses when the early sun tingles on San Miniato of the Dead, the soul of the white giaggiole on an old man’s skin, a present of his unfettered abettor Hugo —in all their passions astray— I wished the greedy herd let me read the ceiling for a while. He beckoned at a thin cinnamon-skinned imp who featherily blessed my thinnest skins with unguents, as in an innocent little game, in a childhood brooklet.
Kate joined us only just powdered of Violet Insolence, she had had her fill of rag doll style abandon, we could have fallen asleep, then. Louis cajoled us, sniggered that we had called for what we had been served, and he had not even started himself yet.
When he felt our nerves be untangled, he took us further into the enchanted burrows. In an oval cul-de-sac, a long bank of greenish velvet pads mimicked the moss in a winter forest, upon which our old-time acquaintance Sérésine de Chalandin entertained a good scrummage of burly rumps, at variance with the high relief Grecian-inspired scenes that overflew them, depicting young boys serving in all manners their elders. Sérésine, from where she was afloat, suddenly singled me out, remembering our mutual niceties amidst Philippe’s steams. She let the pestle she had in her mouth go, smiled and in a rump twirl she was up, covered in gooey streams, seizing my hand, running to the immaculate silver mosaic shell of a much more recent shower recess. She had thinned, her breasts had vanished and I raved about that; she was a tad feverish and when she turned to Kate, I reconned signs I had read on her before she had fled to Berlin. Seresine was beseeching that we take her along with us and she would do anything we wished, her roommate Soline had died in her bath, she was on the pavement and Sami had told her she could not camp in Philippe’s.
After a complicit wink, Kate and I began to question and twiddle her mind and body; she avowed taking drugs, but none that we, ourselves, would not indulge hither and tither. Louis too knew that stray kitten, and he led us all to a comfy recess where we could abuse her at her will, her sorrow had aroused him and so he buggered her while we coddled all the rest, and then he decided we take care of her.
Before we ask Hector to drive us back, Louis wanted to show us some daunting place at the far end of the subterranean emporium, the last corridor that ended in a mass of rubble; chances were that the preterhuman genius of Artaman de Sternfeld was buried in there. Louis asked us to bring Seresine to Gauthier’s gathering, and also Trine, if we had a taste for her, she should not spend her whole youth in a mushroom grove.
Hector still harboured enough impetus for his lickerish routine, and he coveted Seresine’s pale carnal lacework from the front seat. After he typed on his phone, he told Adel, the chauffeur, where to go, so we soon glided silently in some park alley, in the overwhelming scent of lime trees in bloom, and we stopped on a high terrace under a thin moon crescent. Luxury cars don’t even hum nowadays, but they had found us and wanked in a circle around the muted lights in our cabin so they could watch Hector, who had tilted his backrest, conscientiously ravage all manners of Seresine in our arms, until the windows were blurred with goo. On the way to our home, she had to swallow Adel’s load, and I relished seeing her comply. It was far in the blue hours, but we took time for a cup of tea and a whole box of calissons. Seresine looked spent, to say the least, but she was still beautiful, I wouldn’t want to let her free rein before I was certain she did not suffer any addiction; I had hidden all her meagre wares and she did not try to close the bathroom door.
I wanted to know if she had been brought to the grottoes by Louis or his men, but she said she had been with Cachou, a friend of Sami’s who had been the talk at Philippe’s and The Panopticon although —or because— she had been still sixteen, in truth. Her slanting topaz eyes had teased us quite a few times at random society rallies, Louis knew what he did handing her to our whim.
Kate had had it over her head with my inquiries about whom was a card-carrying bona fide slut, said she as she repossessed our catch by the waist, asking her what tree she had fallen from.

 

Seresine recounts:

Indeed, it had been Louis’ plotting so as to hurling me into your arms, he’s a long-time patron of mine, and so is he of yours, thus when you granted him a sudden night of his whims, and I had been crying at his feet for days since Cachou’s death, he figured that you would enrol me in your most desirable troupe, as Hector told, right? I supposed I offer palatable enough creds for Mr Renart’s grand orgy?
I was born an arrow-stroke from here, in a Faubourg decadent stronghold none of my kin could afford to heat, was I told, since the abolition of primogeniture in 1849, as if it had procured any good to me, who had three elder brothers. Therefore, those whom my mere existence depended on, besides counting their worthless innumerable escutcheon quarterings —I could show you my family’s as a prize-winning widow’s patchwork quilt— having lost their lands on the green baizes of the Palais-Royal or the lime-ash of the race tracks, petrified in the timeless taboos of the Salic Law, began to discount the memorabilia of their coffers shamefully, in total ignorance since none of them had been properly schooled anyhow. See?
Anyhow, as a girl, and my mother only fifteen at my birth, I was given away to the conspiracy of religious cultists that still haunt some pathological lineages like many in my name family have enough bad taste to pertain. I have no remembrance other than meagre organ music before the age of six when my elder uncle Cloridan brought me back to Paris and sent me to day school, taken care of by some distant cousin. I would have thought I was a normal child amongst others of my kind, learning to write with a steel quill, reciting the counting rhymes and pronouncing so-called prayers in a language no one seemed to know, moreover, it wouldn’t have been worthy of my name to ask questions. I wore good clothes from nondescript stores and was escorted to school by one of the big girls who took malice at telling me weird tales she said happened in the streets when no one looked on. For what it was worth, I was a good pupil.
Our house was sombre and dirty, no one accepted to work for a disparaged crew who would not keep their word to the personnel. Uncle Cloridan was as much of a drunk as the rest of them, the older ones had died in sores and moans at the far end of the nightly corridors, I had seen the coffins pulled away, I had stayed dumb in the church where I never confessed any manner of sin in the strange contraptions where I had been learned to go and kneel every other week —and I knew what could happen in there, girls in my class let be done things under their skirts and into their mouths, all with some dirty pride that I envied because I died of boredom. That was all I cared for at my grandparent’s funerals, while a black crowd knelt and coughed around the long box covered with flowers.
Time and again, Cloridan came into my desolated bedroom, when I was reading children’s books from another century, wearing my tracksuit printed with stylised animals in a candy green prairie. He smelled of rum and cigars, he had washed-out blue eyes in heavy rims, bushy white eyebrows and sideburns, he still had all his teeth the colour of a small ivory statue of a nude Chinese woman I kept behind a drawer of my antiquated desk.
He must have been a good hunter, I never heard him come, he was sitting there, caressing my feet, drinking rum from a pocket flask, making me smell the evil of it, and, stealthily, pouring a few drops on a sugar lump me made me suckle. I took a taste of it, the house was altogether muffed, his hands strayed in the warmth of me, in the course of one season he had me undressed and willing, drunk like a quail, would have said my despicable father.
It had been a few years, the confessional sluts still tried to draw me into their vices, I did not tell them what I was up to myself, but I learned from them how to let the bastard take his pleasure at a lesser price in the lesser hole he craved all the more, anyhow.
I could invite some of them on Wednesdays and Saturdays, so, inevitably, it ended with fingers in my holes by all manners, and I learned to wank and come.
Cloridan, who had nothing better to do, came to know what games we played in the quiet. Once he spied on the amount and nature of secrets we shared, he snuck in, unannounced, sat on the bed where he must have seen our games, and casually twiddled with Cachou’s feet. I had pulled down my hoodie, under which he knew I no longer wore knickers, and I was in the position I had when Cachou had licked me. He was all amused, he asked her if she liked to play with my feet, nibble them or lick them, while his hand was creeping up her jeans and found the buttons undone. In a swift hocus-pocus, he left her bare arsed while he pushed her nose to where it had been between my legs. Then he pulled out the sugar lumps, and he made us drunk, our legs parted and up, so as to tickle our pleated buds. He asked Cachou to poke and drool in mine like she had not yet done, and then he buggered me softly and long.

Then, in six months, both my parents died. My father had never seen a doctor, the one who came with the police diagnosed pancreatic cancer, the crowd could not enter whole for his funeral, the box drooped under the flowers, and some purple eminence bored us with historical nonsense. One of my brothers bustled his ear like a secret serviceman, the other one had not been able to make it from California. Cloridan de Chalendin —and of many other bygone places— played well enough head of the family, he was buggering his niece almost every night, and also many of the well-bred classmates she brought to him to teach them immemorial manners.
My mother, once her maternity duties accomplished unintendedly from the tender age of fifteen, had long retired from reality, were it the disputable one she was moving into, had long slept with her practitioner in exchange for magic pills, like many housewives, until she eventually blurred the notion of a tolerable dose. The little church was only half peopled but the mound of flowers hid her smaller box entirely. No purple queen for her, but a woman came up and sang old music that made everybody cry and I passed out in Cloridan’s arms.
The estate rested on the four of us, and my brothers had the bitter surprise to find me not on their side, whenas they had organised a swindle to cut me out. Cloridan retorted that he was marrying me, which in our crackpot universe seemed feasible, I had reached fifteen and some, meanwhile.
On a cold November night, The whole house burned and the rest of my so-called family was found among the ashes. Cloridan’s silver overlay flask bottle had melted over his hip bone, I could never drink alcohol ever since and that was what I loved with you, to start with.
Money was made out of the property, I was placed in trusteeship and Louis told me it had been done properly; I reap enough to be able to spit in anyone’s eye and for the munificence, I can sell my arse rather well, what do you think?
Up to now, since we carry the same vade mecum, we crossed paths in the same venues, procured around by the same so to speak masterminds, I bothered Liselotte a number of times to send me on your tracks but it seemed more and more elusive. Does Hector always exhibit you to this gang of voyeurs? That was creepy, wasn’t it?
And so, what about Cachou, you may ask? She was the sweetest of friends, since we had been sharing sugar lumps. The name had been bestowed by her father, because of her round black eyes set in her pale dreamy face, and she liked it, she flaunted it. Firstly, she met sleazy types with money who took their kicks torturing her, she would need a week to heal but she showed me her stash of money with a horrible smirk. Then, these scumbags wanted her stoned, like dead stoned, thus injected Morphine in her vagina and I did not know that before it was too late, Sami told me she was out of the Circle, no longer checking up on her health constants, she was out of his reach, he couldn’t deal with an addict, bar having her locked in a detoxication clinic, but if she had repeatedly experienced substance euphoria mixed with moral and sexual masochism, we could no longer pull her out of the drain, she would have me die with her. Once in a while, she would crash in our pad, some of her gang had fallen, dead or worse, she gulped handfuls of downers and slept, only to wake up in tremours, begged me to paint her face, and run again to perdition. I would be left crying, dumbfounded, and crashed with the guilt that before she joined me, and my perverted uncle, on my bed, she had been a candid little elf, and hence I had lured her into that trash, with my extravagant outworldly realm of nowhere names and sugar cubes. Good thing, however, that the police treated me harshly after I had to call them to see Cachou cold dead, her eyes wide open, her dainty neck stained with dried vomit. Unlike what you see in fictions, there was no attorney, no cup of anything, I wore my old tracksuit and my flipflops and zilch, I was thoroughly searched by a boor who sported a hard-on and made me suck like his whore. Eventually, some righteous soul figured that there was a human being, obviously not an addict in withdrawal, for whom not any paperwork had been filled, who sat prostrated in a blind cell with a bottle of water and a stinking bucket. This man —he wore a clean blue striped shirt and smelled of Cologne— called the medical emergency ward that sent an ambulance to fetch me and he then entrusted me with women doctors and nurses who, after a brief talk, first conducted a rape test, at my utter fright of becoming a cop snitch, but that doctor had faithful hands and gazes, she persuaded me that I would see later if I saw fit to complain. As she lent me a telephone, I could not think of any wiser than Louis’ number to recount my worries in the voicemail, and thus, two hours later, after I had been lovingly washed and preened and given fresh white pyjamas, a young, astute attorney introduced himself on Louis’ behalf and fell instantly smitten with my feet.

His name was Ariel Kahn, and he was fine-mannered by all means, he instantly upturned me back to the real slut I am at heart. He asked me what I wanted as clothes and shoes and called for express delivery of an almond green tracksuit and white thick-sole sneakers. Amongst the hospital ambience, I did not care about showing him my butt and all, or did I? he kept smiling while he switched on a tiny recorder to hear my story, afresh, and he knew all about the functioning of junkies, his cornflower blue eyes astray over my brand new white socks.
In the cab to my place, he said that Louis had sent help to clean whatever the police had made of it, thus I was not returning to a hell place. I really tried all my tricks to entrap him in my pants, but he saw me come from leagues afar. Once in our actually tidied nest, all I could obtain was to make him knead my toes.
The next morning, Louis sent a chauffeur to help me move to a basement hideaway in his mansion while he torpedoed the services that had mistreated me. He said the boors had all been reassigned in such fancy places as Montluçon, then he consoled me in a lilac velvet padded boudoir and made me avow my crush on his young lawyer, promising me that I would shag him before long, then he buggered me finer than Cloridan. He said as long as my checkups remain attuned, they would react and cover all my moves, whatsoever; what he had heard from Ariel’s interview had convinced him, so he shagged me long.
Ariel had been amongst my courtiers in the grottoes, but well-fed and groomed, I had outlasted a good many of them plus him, if only to put my lineage to shame, wouldn’t I? Louis had tipped me to pay attention to you two, that you would become my life raft, after the grand country hoopla you will, please, take me to. Like a methodical whore, I accepted to join Ariel at the Intercontinental on Thursdays, provided I dressed like a full-fledged secretary, meaning like a class escort.

 

Sarah says:

I had texted a clear message to Gauthier asking him to welcome yet another stray filly from our loitering at Louis’, so I wasn’t surprised to hear someone like him making out with our recruit in our very bed. By the way, Louis had already beaten the drum in praise of Seresine, in case we missed that she was answerable to him, come what may. Gauthier had reckoned these manners a tad contorted, and took a crush as virulent as ours for the ultimate blood of the Chalendins —and other bygone names.
The caravan was set to move at the end of the morning, I explained to Seresine that she needed no sartorial worries, who knew what costume she might end up in. Together, we packed a bag of knickers, stockings, and shoes in different styles, from our limitless wardrobe. She showed adorable feet my size. I gave her a travel spray of Highgate Cedar that she fell for, and transported me instantly in some rainy box trees.
Our all-new silent black minivans were stationed on both accesses of the colony, and the burly black chauffeurs sympathised with the whingers in the queue, all the more when they saw who were embarking. Then we swished away in a breeze. On my left, everyone could relish the immodesty of my new fancy in whites, a long-tails pînstripe poplin shirt and trunks wide enough to flutter in the wind. Cecile was the fastest to introduce herself on the other side, her pointed nipples under a night blue jersey shirt dress, she let the yet smooth road judders help her skilled hand on Seresine’s thigh while introducing herself as a stray suburbanite I had abducted when she was underage and willing. She wore slate blue grosgrain flat-heeled bottines, striped low silk socks and nothing much else, they liked each other. She still depended on me emotionally. I let out that Seresine was mourning her best friend, despite appearance, thus all thorns vanished from the roses and Cecile took her head in her neck.
Camille and Liselotte’s same black transports had joined ours near the Porte D’Orléans, we were all impressive when we reached the toll booths. Gauthier texted a hallelujah to the whole school.
To the visible great pride of Cecile, Seresine soon dozed on her chest. The tinting of the windows, though it did not affect outside colours, rendered a cinematic ambience, like a meditative Wim Wenders movie. In a lustful conspiracy, we let ourselves grope Seresine at the border of her dream, and she smiled childishly, parting her thighs little by little.
Our shiny black convoy stopped at a service area, although it wouldn’t need to refuel but most of our cute bladders needed to extol. Seresine frowned, grazed the hand on her quim and reckoned she too, needed the loo. However, the queue was ridiculous, thus I casually led my two fillies and showed them to pee standing, holding aside my loose trunks and we laughed, as we would have for the relish of the Cossacks, behind the hay shed, as they titillated my butt cheeks with the long whip. Gwen joined us, she was capable of a long jet, she ogled Seresine like the cat a mouse, and Kate and I winked at each other. Mara had been sleeping in Gwen’s scent of wildflowers and ginger, she grabbed her from the back and sulked, then couldn’t resist pulling her shirt, spreading her legs and pissing towards me. My gang of salvaged floozies.
For the second stage, I found myself in the centre, Seresine was captivated by the wheatfields, and I was getting krunk on Cecile’s scent, just like the first time in her overalls. I did not need to ask if she was happy. Suddenly, she showed something in the fast lane, and it was a 911 passing, quietly. I grabbed that she had prefered to smell me with my new orphan, she gave me a low-eyelids gaze and all it let be hoped.
The road led straight down to a bridge over the moat. From the portal, on both sides of the alley, tall convoluted sculptures of giant flowers set Gauthier’s signature with grace. The reclaimed chains from Vienna had been disposed at the park’s far end, on the edge of the woodland, one end like sealed into the prairie. Our convoy rolled at a walking pace in the cobbled yard to corral in the shadow of the main building, before a line of dressed tables, and Gauthier had run to bring Mara in front of the samovar he had bought from Sacher’s —after the turmoil had settled. A young crew-cut blond boy was attending the gleaming contraption, now; Mara wasn’t long to learn he was Czech, they spoke fast, they laughed, and he was a real success with the tea. I saw the sparkle of tears in Mara’s eyes. The sly black 911 purred to align itself with the none less black pachyderms.
The battalions of seamstresses in white smocks flowed out of every door and wanted to hug every one of us, it was a grand brouhaha. Apart from the towers at every corner, the château offered the gregarious overall of a somewhat bigger farmhouse, and with no ostentatious stances on the lintels, it felt overall breathable  —the stairs felt quiet to climb. We were vaguely oriented towards possible sleeping quarters, Gauthier had attested to our utter sociability, and the place regularly saw troupes of merry entertainers.

The bathrooms were scarce but vast and pristine clean; the whole layout attested that it had been drawn for some kind of school at one time, hence my arousal, there should be a laundry room somewhere. I remembered Gauthier’s unfortunate adventures in the showers; it smelled of Annabelle’s Faerie, like rainy days heathers and lavender.
We tentatively elected residence in a Regence style wood-panelled cream room with four double beds ready to accommodate our best expectations.
Once our menial stuff gathered in the tall wardrobe, we heard that the hosts would love to show us the workshop upstairs. It was a whole space, lit on three sides, under an impressive timber work in cracked oak trunks that had been cut in the days of the Black Death epidemic, and gave refuge to a colony of cats who looked down on us, for now. Half a dozen ping-pong-sized tables and as many sparkling sewing machines lined the panelled walls covered with pinned notes and memos, sketches, photos, and samples. But it felt everything had been sorted, cleaned, checked.
Gauthier’s mother, Adeline Mérigny, Could possibly never disavow her son, so flagrant was the physical kinship; same flouncy mane of golden dawn curls, fragile speckled skin a tad thinner than her son’s, letting show through some shady veins in her open cleavage. She smelled of sunny camomile, blond pipe tobacco, and the box tree where a climbing rose bloomed, she let me nuzzle in her neck like we had been frolicsome schoolgirls. then she stared at me with a happy grin, her espresso black eyes as if stealing mine, she said that when Gauthier spoke of me he called me the blue tomboy, and thus she couldn’t help kissing me as a lover would.
Therefore, it happened we were left in peace, and Cecile had pulled Seresine away to a storage room in the other wing, so Kate took hold of Mara and Gwen and found a convenient sofa bed for hand games. Seeing all that, the team of seamstresses ladies must have concluded that it would be the usual follies, and thus began to woo anyone to their taste amongst the new fillies, in all the tongues imaginable.
Gauthier supervened with fine laughter, singing that it had been bound to happen and the night wasn’t even sure, yet. He was with Ayla and Annachiara, whom Hugo had transported in his own carriage, and were merely dressed in ribbons; Adeline could no better than surrender to the crafty little courtesans who claimed me as game and offered her to share me on a table; they smelled of obvious hanky-panky, they had frisked out somewhere in the forest on the way, Hugo had invited Sami to drive them.
A majestic Phantom IV with yellow flanks brought Theo, who had subjugated Finlan, whose shirt had slipped out of his trousers, and had lent him a flimsy Bordeaux shantung suit and patent ankle boots. Under acclaims, a white refrigerated truck stopped behind the dark fleet and two lively girls in white light livery that I made out as A&S Danish students began to bring out so many boxes that Gauthier asked to see the delivery slip and then did the gesture of a large bow towards a few culprits. I regretted one of the delivery girls, but they should return their truck; I spoke to her in my faded vernacular, I grasped she was in a couple with the other one, but after I tipped her insanely, she said she was Anja, and wrote her number on a piece of cardboard, then smiled the way I had fallen for. Adeline had totally sussed my trick, she casually fondled my butt, breathing in my neck that her son had not overstated his description of me, anywise, and it tickled.
Now Louis’ grand barge of a car approached in silence, driven by Hector, mind you, with another drop-dead surprise aboard, such as a new skinny British tramp, dressed like a Kpop miniature with a short sequined purplish blue variegated tank dress and matched ankle boots. She was as tall as me and sported an angled bob hairdo of natural tobacco-blond hair, my lips drifted in her neck to let me sniff an expensive miracle of roses and jasmine, radically at odds with her formulaic look; she wore no undies, Hector winked at me; her name was Josephine, I was beginning to feel dizzy, I invited her to the samovar, on the off-chance.
We were joined by Cecile, who had been given a terrific black Borsalino that fit her like my old signature hats in my schooldays, in exchange for letting one of the seamstresses make sure she did not wear panties. She clenched Seresine and said that this girl needed me, so matter-of-factly that she blushed, thus I took her and smelled the craved scent of licks in her neck. Cecile remained so as to show she wasn’t crossed, along with the fanciful contraption, Gauthier had obviously bought the tea recipe, too.
Adeline showed that she relished my two bosom buddies, all the more Seresine whom she began to figure in all manners of costumes, but currently, rather none, did I taunt her; she agreed but I kept a hand on my sugar-lump girl before it melt.

Oddly, children’s laughs burst in the yard, Marie had agreed to bring her only-just-walking critter, Gauthier had reassured her that there would be a safe nursery for the few offsprings of the tribe, away from the libertines, atop a wild prairie, with see-saws, swings, and a multicoloured merry-go-round —only an adult could make it run. A fourth walkway led to this Fantasy Land, all beribboned and flourished, but in the meantime, the brood was let free in the building, the stairs were benign, and anyway, all the exciting food and drinks were displayed on low tables in the smaller dining room downstairs. It appeared that Marie had not mingled with so many willing graces lately, she was eager to know what was fine to know about every newbie she wooed around. Eventually, she owned up to Gauthier that she felt relieved not to carry her artillery, as he had demanded.
As our own transports were driven to the shade of the old empty barn in the opposite corner of the yard, at the far end of the long commons where our minders were supposed to sleep, the fourth being the site of a sturdy dovecote, all the white dwellers distraught in wide circles around the towers.
Now the children were testing the echo from the château to the prairie and dared naughty and naughtier with fits of laughter. The lowering sun was mellowing, two more familiar long cars as stealthy as submarines glided in, the second one already to the right towards the parking space. I began to rejoice in my buddies’ ears that there might be a lot of ghosts in the shadows, no moon was forecast.
Thus, Annalouise had outbid her sister and she was spectacular when she climbed out of the silky carriage like Audrey Hepburn; she had slimmed, wore a zigzag silk jersey short dress and no more undies than most of us. She was followed by cheerful acquaintances of our transatlantic follies, Melchior’s pair of china Brits, Branwell and Bloom, in pure Savile row colonial see-thru rags, she singled out Cecile, she was smelling of one of these Olde English cerebral concoctions my Far had paid me once and had made of me a bomb in the laundry cellars; not telling, I was dreaming of pushing Bloom through the steamy hanging sheets towards the herds of stiff boys, she read that in my eyes and rushed to my mouth.
Then, something was happening, Melchior walked to us and asked for Seresine’s hand in a way that made me suss that he remembered her for a good reason, it was brief, but I called her a slut and she kissed me shut.
Liselotte was in a trance, she was watching Cecile with hunger, she came up to me, slid a hand into my unbuttoned dress and began to evoke the early times when she whored me to deranged teachers, bantering for Cecile, I retorted that I would go again but it had been a piece of work for her. She turned to Cecile and wondered if it were greed or vice, Cecile said low she might try it for vice, like me, and then she moved on to go test her English with Bloom who had been giving her the eye.
Natalia and Beryl were wired and bright-eyed, both had graduated with flying colours, Natalia bantered in aparté that it had been the matter of two or three loin thrusts —at what Cecile refuted and swore Natalia taught her aplenty in art history, in earnest. Hugo had bestowed Lena a raise in thanks for her daughter who had been humbled and had cried. Like most of Victor’s personnel, Beryl’s mom had been left distraught and destitute, but our perfumed barons had soon hired them in their houses, thus she took care of Michelle’s, now, which was not lacking in morbid salt, so to speak.
Therefore, the two straight arrows were first to lure a trio of black-suited idle drivers to a round pointed-roof, old-style glazed gazebo, aglow in a rose garden across the moat. They had been wearing sheeny silk jersey dresses, peacock blue and trout green —well-earned presents on their aforesaid loins. Natalia asserted her blazing age by wearing brand new teal sneakers and low socks to set off her ankles, Beryl had chosen monogram embroidered deep purple velvet slippers I craved to see her nude with.
Dagmar had been met by a courteous thirtyish seamstress who did that German sounded soft, and her hands mindful, thus she followed her somewhere cosy and she was kissed thoroughly on the first stairs landing.
The TRÆVIX gang, all white and gold, Michelle in brocade mini-shorts, adjusted jacket open on her flimsy-skinned allusive breasts, patent gold flats; Delf willowy nude in a short metal gold mesh tunic and Greek sandals —word had been passed not to offend our non-binary beauties. Apolline sported long legs out of an oversized dark gold poplin shirt printed with muddled black cabalistic signs, her sylphic feet holding the simplest of gilded K-Jac sandals, I could have followed them in the park, there was a mock-rustic temple amidst a box tree grove gone wild near a little pond and a weeping willow, I might want to mislead one of the sculptural black chauffeurs to there once night had settled.

The civilised gathering had set sail under the eerie ghost chandeliers entangled with strands of crystal beads and chiselled shreds of chiffon, sewn by a swarm of spiders on acid, haunting the faded-painted beams of their feeble glimmer. Gauthier had measured up along with his mother’s team in the summer following his father’s passing, then on, they had decided that the dust would remain up there, as a genuine accessory.
Malo stood before the main fireplace closed by a painting depicting some crowded round theatre seen from a height, another youth exploit of Gauthier’s that recalled the mystic carnivals of Leonora Carrington’s and thence had decided his application for the Beaux-Arts. She had stunned the whole staff when her burgundy faille robe had fallen and she had enlaced the cello, the priceless instrument Melchior had endowed her with.
Long strands of dark purple hair flowed down upon her willowy features, she had burnt all of her kiddy-fat, she must have been working out with diligence, she smile at me and ogled the new lasses I sat with.
The last amber shards of dusk slashed across the wind-swept salon through the open windows, setting Malo amidst a glittering draft. She was in a mood, she twiddled her cunning capriccio with pauses as to pretend to retune, then juggling with motives like the dreamy sails of the chandelier. Then she became enthralled with the small impish tyke who was seated on Hector’s lap and showed her a tiny conch. It was one of her modi, if I may, to clasp her soul to the expressions of a lovable face and try her talent to elate her moods. Hector showed nought bar the embers in his black eyes, but he was nicely wanking the young Eastender who, by all means, had caught up with Malo’s game and was enjoying her life.
Some shrill laughter from the nursery mingled with those of the busy swallows on the moat to festoon around our dainty minstrel’s effusions, and as per usual, Hector would revel on his master’s account, should he manage to let him watch the preludes.
In a mouse-grey loveseat, Camille, in a lichen green silk twill short shirt dress, bias cut and already spread open, was nosing through Gwen’s curls, while the redeemed angel of the low countries let her gaze dance to Malo’s prodigy, and grazing the breasts that never were. Crouched at her feet, the heather fairies hummed in the spells of Bruges, elated.
The glittery TRÆVIX gang, like a flight of tits at a friendly window sill, held still, homely naked, sharing graces with each other, making a sweet case of Apolline’s tiny panties. Not once did the Aviator glance at her telephone.
My two high-flyer courtesan wayfarers had nested undressed in Hugo’s wing, Annachiara had been bedazzled by Malo’s whole stance and displayed the tension of one who will never forget. Ayla, who still stealthily took me as a witness of her guile, deployed a wealth of affection to vaunt her Venetian cousin to her superlative patron Melchior, whom she had kept in some sort of telepathic fast-dial since Hugo had brought him to Zurich to rescue her bosom buddy Esther, maimed in her hospital bed — and Swiss hospitals know best— all the way out now to her grand terrasse in Lugano, next to the Paradiso, thirty minutes from the airport.
Lison indulged a most unkempt Mr Mulder, one of the happiest lawyers in New York City, whose priceless Cologne was frying her brains. She had kept on black silk stockings held up by voodoo spell, her dainty nails were lacquered black, her nightly-pale face untouched bar a line of Mascara but she inspired our debutantes with her evocative lilac shadows under her weary eyes, she gave off the whole persona of a Weimar poison, she had been a season of my soul, I still craved to help her be shagged by a hunky quarterback.
A carnal shudder let in those flagrant deserters who had been cavorting in the rose garden, Malo raised an eye on them and smiled with complicity, and I heard that her music had meandered down from her brains into her womb, only because Natalia was dancing still.
The perceptible landscape quieted, the children had gathered for dinner, the swallows had flown back to the cornices, and a forsaken dog cried afar in the nearby village. Hither and thither amongst us, Adeline and her team were enthused by the nude cellist’s magic, in front of a deliberate tableau of free-reeling debauchery with a smile. When Malo lifted her bow overhead to signal the end of the rampancy, the faraway dog changed its tune, barking idly, asking for more.

Adeline’s all-star crew remained befuddled before her son’s nonpareil conspiracy, thus dared not touch, as of yet, a windfall of dancing fairies in light-headed profligacy. While I could have read that Malo was threading musical analogies to what she was sensing only in Josephine’s eyes, she had entwined every soul listening, including that of the hovering dog.
These delicate mothers, with their crafty fingers and their hardy rumps, tried to reckon the coordinates of our exuberant galaxy as to the domification of all the artistic expressions they had had to fray with to now. They spoke many levels of pidgin English, a new manner of Yiddish pudding laced with urban spices.
Gauthier was prouder of this secret gathering he had engineered than he had shown at the worldly toast at the Belvedere, but he eventually avowed that Donovan should have been with us and hadn’t called, he would be driving a Tesla. It was not before Cecile and I yearningly conjured his chakras that his soulmate tiptoed in, he had waited for the music to end.
In the shadow of a towering silk bouquet styled with the little irons, Lauritz had taken cover with some sylphic blonde shape that intrigued me for a while, until I was seized by the unmatched grace of a shoulder roll, just like another creature who had been seating, midway of a chimerical staircase, at a doll’s Bugatti desk. I had known all along that Trine would reappear someway, I wasn’t crestfallen to see her at the hands of the 911 knight —She wouldn’t regret it, in earnest, I advised Cecile to fawn with her main shareholder and his new tinker belle wonder, for she came from a realm so otherworldly as she would damn herself for a trip in it.
Malo had gone put her instrument to rest, I jostled our way to push Cecile in her arms, and she was just in the mood to enlace an unknown low-gaze sulker in an open dark dress. I explained hastily this was a new inhabitant of Hugo’s hive, a blushing artist of many crafts, thus Malo pulled her softly to the adjacent room, where she had noted a convenient bed to engage in some mostly mute conversation. I sat with them, I still loved to watch Cecile be torched in desire.

 

Liselotte says:

That would be the best ever festival I would have attended, methinks, in the arms of a brown-skinned warrior who lured me to this attic where the drivers and else had found shelter. I heard nearby his fellow men laughing under running water, it wouldn’t be the call of indomitable lust rather than the need to wash my smelly self, but eventually, I found both. The two buddies had been mutually lathering up their considerable erections, and there I walked in, like a white rabbit; thus they helped me, heads and tails, with manners, and then it went as if Rita Tushingham had found her way into the WMCA, after all.
After they had all —I wouldn’t count— drained their balls, they lay me on the high table and gave me the most efficient massage and smile, the party was going on.
Coffee and food would be at the far corner of the square yard, all we had found were toothbrushes in personal wrappings.
The yard was utterly invaded by silent machines on wheels setting up inflatable and deployable colourful sculptures, hither and neither, under the command of a flamboyant Gauthier, whose silken larimar-blue pyjamas flapped in the breeze.
He bowed at the beauty of our crew and congratulated me for my visible nonchalance, all of them?
They were like pieces of some giant chess board gone afoul, a delegation of the “Garden Of Delights” with Makonde trolls, brought folded on flatbed lorries and pumped-up like butterflies out of the chrysalis.
Silver bells and chimes on the children’s walkway announced a troupe of haphazardly multicoloured imps, overjoyed with the becoming of the inoffensive giants. The hammering of ladles on iron pans called the gluttons of pancakes in their dedicated eatery. They brought their charged plates outside and sat at the foot of the castle wall to feast their eyes, too, with the parading contraptions.
The lifting equipment had returned to their lorries stationed outside of the domain, the bulky black blank carriages brought back the mighties who had slept elsewhere.
Gauthier had asked, rightfully, that while the children wandered among us, we covered lightly, thus we were lent lounge robes of washed tammy cloth, slit to the hip, that made us look like vestals —whenas the merry sprogs made no manner exposing whatever showed through their funny accoutrements, free to them, they would very soon return to their amusement farm.
Bonds achieved in the glow of night still showed around the steaming samovar, Sarah would appear even more available in a dishevelled white linen frilled costume shirt and white kidskin one strap flats she must have brought to woo all of us; she told me I should ask on the second floor to be done foppish like herself because there would be workmen around. Adeline seized the small of my back and ushered me up to the workshop where some air flowed through the blinds. She proposed an Empire white déshabillé with a ruched breast and funny bishop sleeves, then fondled me in it, just only for show. She tried me on carmine red velvet slippers, so as I felt like a true Palais – Royal Madam.
I had never seen enough of Cecile, it had been like her Hanseatic Lord had shied me aside, while he had not even raised a brow on me. Both were fresh out of the shower, Cecile held Mara like a pet gazelle, at once I fancied a purple deerskin collar with a leash to it, Mara gave me a drawling low-lid gaze such as I could never afford —unless I stole it.
A blonde Jana in a taupe ribbed-knit tank dress, with long arms and deft hands, helped them hesitate between Daddy’s pyjama top and Lady Hamilton’s négligé to eventually settle with a wide-lapels night-shirt à la Katherine Hepburn on Cecile and a Pucci-print silk lounge robe so much in the salon mood for Mara who accepted all my fawning to her.
Cecile was hungry, Ronald Searl-style garden furniture had appeared in the shade, she asked for coffee while the kind samovar boy prepared Russian tea for the rest of us. I had never attended the dipping of the cat-tongues biscuits that seemingly had been disposed there only for Cecile; Lauritz, in a slim ultramarine silk outfit, trousers and shirt with Berber blue sandals, exchanged winks with Sarah of what Cecile did not miss any —and she allowed Mara to try one dip and lose.
I pulled one of those wire chairs next to Sarah, she smelled like the lime tree in bloom in my old country, with mayweed —and the leather straps of a whip, she had been so long to abide. I pinched one of her twaddleberries, only to watch her legendary porcelain blue eyes unflinching in the pain, whatever the reward she would inflict on me later.

 

Adeline says:

Earnestly, I should be crashed of humility hosting such an influential Areopagus, Gauthier had mainly described all his lady friends, all of them of breathtakingly fine-tuned elegance, be them naked as the Water Babies, gosh. But moreover, I sensed hi-voltage surrounding the house when their sponsors affected not watching on their telephones. The most impressive was that slim blonde wearing thick glasses and golden locks, tenderly patient with her genderless pet friends while you can see sparkles at her fingertips and in her absent stare. Gauthier told me that she’s not disgusted with having plain binary sex, but she has an elfish intimacy mainly with Delf, and thus all the lost souls they have fallen for. I had a soothing time trying shirts on Delf and Apolline after they unleashed their pretty mouths wild over me, as a dare. Delf let me see that she owned a miniature of both worlds, a rarity that had made her life miserable until she followed Kate and Sarah in a heartbeat. Apolline had been fished out of a poisoned pond by Hector, a well-hung scout with a soul in Louis’ household.
Delf never saw a true reason not to show her body, but she admitted that she should respect the peace of Gauthier’s staff putting the final touches to the sculptures in the yard, where they longed to return, thus she wrapped a tad of her sylphic silhouette into a powder blue fairy-tale-ish festoon collared nightshirt that barely covered her bum anyway, and since they would remain together, I thought that Apolline did fine in an old man’s shirt with long tails we had tinted mild Naples yellow, without collar nor buttons; they liked the harmony, we found pairs of coral red dancing slippers that made them look like anything but wise, Gauthier had warned me it could be an experience, indeed.
The stately carriages of those who had rented more private residences elsewhere in the land for the night returned with informal company thinly clad and bejewelled for some. They paraded in disbanded troupes between the colourful figures that dwarfed them funnily.
Louis donned a cream linen suit and braided leather slippers and was preceded by Hector hand in hand with Dagmar and Gwen, thin lines of diamonds at their ankles and wrists, half-yawning in azure white linon blouses hardly skimming their petty modesties. They traded jokes in their broken Germanic sabir that made Mara snigger and join them, it was a playground of temptations, too late for the last two craftsmen at work who couldn’t believe their eyes. They jumped to Gauthier’s neck in all candour.
One would have said that the fierce-looking black coupe driven by the Hanseatic Prince was a two-seater, but now, unhooded, it cradled not only that little Meissen maid Trine, but also the two sisters compatriot of Lauritz, merely in tee-shirts of his own, as their only sartorial effort, thus the light of the sun glared at the apple-round buttcheeks, and the last craftsmen no longer work at all.
I knew of Kate’s affairs as much as those of Sarah’s, but it was weird to watch the sisters play unfazed together, taunted by this new acquaintance Lauritz was enthralled with. They all visibly had overspent their night, he cosied himself into a pile of clean sheets and watched how I fondled these perfect bodies, neglecting, for now, all ideas as to dress them; they smelled of expensive toiletries, and they must have played with Trine so easily, I was light-headed.
She was in her prime glory, moulded in a dream of Canova’s, the curves of her legs so essential, her ankles so finely tapered. The unassuming dawn-rose Princesse satin chemise caught even more of the eye and Lauritz was overjoyed. During his visits, Gauthier had spelt out the rites and bonds that had knitted together since they had patched their acquaintances in the magic Venetian breeze; I had none of the avoidance after-thoughts I happened to choke on when, working with theatre or film troupes, I witnessed rampant sexual coercion towards younglings. In the aparté of the fittings with often fragile little does, our motivated all-women team heard repulsive confidences and apply themselves, no strings attached, to demonstrating that a variable dose of flaunted lesbian tendencies in the victim affected the self-assurance of many male predators —at the risk of their reputation in the eye of producers and directors, all of them crazed for fresh meat.
In any case, Trine let out that she had been ferreted out on the web whoring for tokens to the benefit of her also participating high-school boyfriend. One of Louis’ duteous entourage had paid for some in-person encounter and spooked the debutant pimp out. She said she had nowhere she wanted to return to, only she preferred to whore at her own account, and it was what Louis afforded her, altogether, like for most of the other fillies she had been seeing in the club, and everybody knew that Hector fucked like an inextinguishable virtuoso, didn’t they? I did not, but the three of them concurred.

 

Sarah says:

Who knows where James had found this new leaf-green Tesla? I had not taken notice of his comely hobgoblins missing, either, but that is what they do, ain’t it? Now they let their fuzziness of MacDonald-MacKintosh muslin deliberately flutter over their bums, they offered the most candid of a smile, they smelled of Ylang-Ylang in Victoria street, peaty comfort stove in the oak-clad hearth, a wet chickadee that stirs up its wings in the rain under your nose. When she was in my arms, I never could help trace Fayelle’s eyes’ moves, watching for the axolotl fault, and she knew I was doing that and let me, as in amorous gameplay, graze the metal plate under her hair.
Marie had dressed little Gustav in the appropriate strawberry red bloomer and shirt, green sandalettes like pretty little sepals; she had slept in the midst of the young dreams’ conservatory, after the pell-mell kittens’ toilet, in the scent of green fruit. They stared up at the gleeful parade, dancing and prancing almost nude before they spotted a table beside ours, covered with fresh rolls and bites to their taste, and jugs of hot cocoa; apart from fries or macaroni gratin, it was godly food to them, we all smiled like an audience at Slava Polunin’s. It goes without saying that, whatever our attires and postures, we did not offer comparable interest to them, rightfully, and they needed not to witness what they guessed we would do next, so, after the remnants of their angelic lunch had been arranged in baskets to go, they followed the lead of their pretty nanny to head back, by the long way around the château, to the crystal greenhouse, singing the gobbledygook song they had invented. I searched for Ayla’s eyes somewhere, they were fiery bright.
Josephine had begged for a cup of cocoa, it had been deemed legit by the gang in cotton shorts, and then our gazes had clicked, she had offered a taste and I had retorted I would better pluck it from her lips, thus it had been a game to lure her towards the garden. No sooner had we crossed the footbridge the children had only just passed than she spilt her candid beans for me. She had been born in Gibraltar, to an underage prostitute from Liverpool who had boarded a ship carrying lorries for the military, not knowing she was pregnant, yet. She had been a success among sailors who found her bump pleasurable. Josephine had been entrusted to Shandie, a mellowed woman who was too old to pick up any sailor other than dead drunk and broke anymore, then eventually she had been auctioned on the day of her twelfth birthday, in a posh clandestine casino, for a mirabilious sum, to a well-heeled gentleman who had her transported in a coffin aboard his yacht and towards the realm of ever-blue waters.
Before that, her well-being had soon been the doing of a sleazy retired Navy chaplain she called Digby, for better or worse. She spoke bachelor-worth English in received pronunciation, also clunky Spanish and French, a pretty achievement considering that the old bastard had kept his finely manicured hands very privately about her most of the time. The old whore had no sooner reckoned that the cumbersome brat of whom the mother had forgotten her existence would bring her a windfall retirement benefit for so long as she condoned the unconsecrated manners of the defrocked priest; besides, she had known so much worse all her life, the old blighter never attempted at Josephine’s physical virginity, only did he groom her to offer her mouth once in a while.
She said that Digby smelled good, even inside the tweed of his fly when she obeyed to lick his inoffensive privates until he spurt the salty bitter filth Shandie had ordered her not to spit back, under the menace of spending the night naked in the narrow closet with the only company of a rusty bucket. She yielded to the dressage without major damages, Digby’s crafty perversity and Shandie’s disabused obedience led her to be able to read aloud Don Quixote, intelligibly, straddling her master’s knees without underwear, as much with the letters of Fanny Hill or the Marquis de Sade, whom Digby taught her to tame with any due pinch of salt over an angel’s wing.
Traces of an ancient physic garden, now then subverted with esoteric roses, and where subtly disrupted alignments of scrawny dwarf box trees had perverted some centennial design. Further on, mossy stumps attested to some elegant park alleys where an all and sundry thicket concealed the ghostly pavilion Gauthier had had restored into its powdery green patina amidst an overgrown bosque of vigorous box trees, where I led my candid confidant. Beyond an improbably plush carpet lawn, a jewel-box pond mirrored a treasure of multicoloured damsel flies teasing a few koi carps. Josephine decided we go swimming among them.

Between a reformed prostitute and an irreligious priest, she had been pampered as a pageant rose, a porcelain figure in the Grand Duke’s Green Chamber. For reasons that fogged her reflection, Digby moved aside now and then to allow visits by lavishly clad visitors of sundry ages, always under Shandie’s close supervision. They would not, in their affected tongues, ask for all she had been accustomed to grant her evil padre, but nevertheless, they touched her, in the altogether, with glints in their eyes. Her future owner was among them.
Putting aside the feverish comments of the men of sartorial excellence Shandie was selling her spectacle to, more or less like a rare stage phenomenon, she had long reckoned that she ought to be of higher beauty, and while she acted like such, the adulation seemed to worsen. One of her admirers once let out that he had flown half the world at the thought of her feet he was then supremely caressing.
Would it be of having known what was imminent, she was told Digby had been found properly dead on the way to his home, and her nails had been polished with dedication.
Still inwardly dejected by grief, she had, some late evening, been decked out in a short, waistless yellow cotton twill dress, printed with butterflies, white cotton socks in patent Maryjanes, wrapped in a navy schoolgirl trench, and led hastily to some nondescript venue with many private backrooms where she was, without palavers, simply stripped down and perched upon a game table.
A striking man, with prolific coppery whiskers, in a mustard yellow three-piece suit had shouted a hideous description of her, and at once begun to hurl numbers in the face of the gentlemen whom she recognised as her visitors and thus did not frighten her. Even through the eloquent schooling fondled onto her by Digby’s perfect hands, she remained dumb for any category in which to understand what was happening other than the Marquis de Sade; she did not even know when the sale was actually finished, only that eventually it was not the worst of the villains that told her to dress back and follow him.
Even eerily amongst the koï carps and the water lilies, she was reviving with vivid details the subdued violence she had been submitted to, let implied the further episodes had blunted the shards.
She drilled the stare of her gold-starry myosotis eyes into mine, asking unflinchingly if I would foster a little tramp like her, so as Melchior had devised that she would thrive next to us. Hence, I had been played, but that game remained worthwhile, earnestly.
As if Gauthier had read me forth, there were cushioned loveseats in the pool house and smoothly wrapped towels to cavort with. Having felt the ping in my eager stare, Josephine reclined defencelessly and mused if I would accept to know more of her miniature fate.
She had hated Shandie’s smirk once the sale was concluded, but the resentment was long bygone. Trevor had held her hand down the sleazy streets to a big white automobile driven by a Sikh giant with a night-blue turban, to the pier where a speedboat waited for them and nobody, anywhere, showed the slightest inquisitive gesture about the wrongdoers they probably were. She had enjoyed feeling the thrust of the massive engines while he had held her like a forlorn cygnet. They had reached alongside an overbearing white ship and climbed into a side stairway, helped by a pristine white-clad sailor.
From that minute, a world she had figured in the words of the dying old scoundrel who manhandled her of all memory, and all the chosen magical authors he had induced in her soul, from the secretive limewashed backroom she had been pampered in, blew up into a truthful reality she could readily palpate, like the soft skin of the banquette she had been seated upon.
His name was Bram, he smelled as good as the pomander Shandie kept with her keys, and the gin she sniffed in the black glass bottle but never drank; Josephine let him kiss whatever he had a whim for, as he had done before in the secrecy of her dungeon. He knew any tidbit about her and the diet that had made her what she was, and Shandie was some cook, too. He gave the ship’s cook a copy of Shandie’s notebook.
He did not allow himself more than Digby had upon Josephine’s gracile body, and she knew perfectly what to expect, eventually. Only did he ask her to reach her best of carnal exultation, be it with her own self or his many manners of kissing her. She had never been what imbeciles call a virgin, Digby had long enjoyed watching her insert Venetian glass dildos of sundry dimensions into her holy slits, inasmuch as she enjoyed. Unscathed altogether, she knew to play the epitome of a well-heeled courtesan, notwithstanding her lack of any identity whatsoever.
And Bram had ambitions with her. As she gambolled around the floating palace, in all immodesty, like a priceless pet animal, she took a taste at moving wide, as the dancers Bram had shown her on the novelty of a video screen.

She had a natural eye on herself, there were mirrors everywhere aboard she liked, and she discovered a full-fledged gym room with some sort of resident coach who fell smitten at the second he saw her in the altogether, making Bram warn him of limited approval to his coaching, he wasn’t to use her, she was to use him; he specified she should not grow thicker but tighter, as the dancers they had already talked about.
Haphazardly, a doctor saw her in detail, saw her privately and told her what Bram wished for her, thus she agreed to receive a hormonal implant in order to avoid puberty momentarily, with the side effect of letting her grow taller, eventually. She saw a dentist, too, in the middle of the blue realm she lived in, and he was satisfied, he said it must have been her frugal diet, the smile was perfect and he discovered no cavities; he foresaw no complicated growth, but he swiftly pulled what was going to fall anyway.
Telling me these, she kept staring at my eyes as if someone had disapproved of the implant or else, thus I made her feel mine and told her what it did. She had already seen our gynaecologist who had asked to see her again as soon as her blood tests be complete.
We could have remained till night if only there had been some tea fountain, we moved back. She had lived on in the blue realm, not knowing where, but it had been her life, and now she had a global connection, and subscriptions to any magazine she wished. The coach could make her spine twirl with ecstasy without needing what she granted Bram, other crew members smelled good enough to lick her in front of her owner. The Captains, one each trimester, did not mingle in the private quarters, they slept with stewardesses they had helped hire and kept aloof when she was present.
One day, Bram had told her that she was invited to the north, to attend representations of the Nederlands Dans Theater, the very best troupe in the world, said he. Now she owned a European passport and a name. She was Josephine Shandy, born anonymously at Saint Bernard Hospital in Gibraltar, entrusted to a Miranda Shandy. Her address was Bram’s in Monaco, but she would be French. Furthermore, she learned that Bram had endowed her with a trust fund.
From Malta, they flew to Den Haag, and certainly because Bram had been a notable contributor, an intern in the communication office let them sneak into the gallery overlooking the rehearsal venues. She had been overwhelmed by the devastating intensity of the work, all the more when later she lived through the transcendence of the stage, the music, and the lights. She was enthused and crushed altogether, all three nights she had drenched all the kerchiefs. She had met the fate that she would always live beyond the glass wall where Digby had given her a realm of words.
She was weeping in my neck, I felt the trickling all the way down my belly, and the roses around us kept mute. from the pavilion where they had cavorted, Natalia hailed us joyfully before reading her mistake, she could never resist a girl crying, even less a pretty one, she embraced us, and I told her Josephine would live with us and her angst told her she would be alone forever. Natalia knew better than argue with angst, thus she hugged and kissed the weepy kid away from me, telling her to let flow and the whole castle was a privileged refuge of wistful loners, a confederacy of beauties fallen from whatever nests she ought to know personally.
Since my sojourn with the holly wolf, I had been confirmed that soul-mending is a full-time occupation, the wise man in the tower had convinced me, all the while letting a chance to the fruitful shenanigans he was aware of in the tiny republic, down to the steamy laundry rooms.
I rested assured that Josephine would find some trustworthy bedfellows ready to let her tell her life, she was so uniquely lovely.
However, a hunch seized me that I needed to bring it up to Malo. What if, in all due camaraderie, they tried to entwine the “ultrarabesques” of the cello improvisations with those engrained in Josephine’s slender joints and wings at the loving hand of the blue realm’s dance master?
While Natalia gave her all the unfettered attention she needed, not hiding anything of her own lifestyle, I found Malo in one ravaged bed with one from Gauthier’s teams who, incidentally, did not look down on me. As he groped me in Spanish, I spilt my intuition for Malo whose hair almost covered the whole of her face, but she agreed to try, mainly for the beauty of Josephine’s, if Gauthier lent them a clean venue for a few hours, it wouldn’t imply much, anyhow, other than she, also, might cuddle the forlorn sparrow.
Gauthier, as always responding to my half-murmured request, floated the idea of the desacralised chapel on the far angle of the yard, near the parking barn, which offered a listed floor of varnished tiles, and possibly a choir loft over the entrance. Malo agreed to play, casually, and see what happened if I brought Josephine in a light-hearted mood.

Den Haag was where Josephine had met Melchior, an acquaintance of Bram’s, and there had been more to it than dance enthusiasm, like she had found herself the nexus of a new principality under more diverse skies, unto her début amidst our eager gazes. While she was lulled by a truly enthralled Natalia, Melchior sent for me in our most genteel terms, and I would not pretend I had not foreseen it.
Cuddling me like an old-time lover, he heard me in short about Josephine, and he was overjoyed with my attitude towards her; he asked that I keep him posted about the encounter with Malo whom he loved dearly, too.
By the time the three nymphs had sorted Josephine’s dormant desires and got drunk on her skin, the chapel had been cleared and washed, thus it smelled of eerie industrial heavens when we brought her to the fresh venue lit by a purple and gold stained-glass high bay. Malo chose to play from the raised balcony when she saw a chair on it with a cushion. The walls were bare mortar, the ceiling a plain wooden vault, no faith had dared ornate the venue, bar a remarkably intact cream and ochre varnished ceramic tiles floor which led to thinking no real crowds had trampled on it.
Our darling liked that instantly. She heard Malo tune herself into the modest echo and launch a few ribbons all the nearer into a closed space, then fly subdued tones in the mood of a crying soul. All nude again and firmly posed on the immemorial ground, she launched herself in a bustled counterpoint of the presage she went by inasmuch Malo’s skilful bow had found an incarnation.
We had crouched along the foot of the wall, in silence, as if the miracle could never end other than the collapse of a higher flight. Yes, it was two solitudes in rare harmonics, but Josephine had found a response to her angst and her coach was vindicated.
Then, in a few chords perceived by my own gold starry blue Undine I just only met, the playful cadenza collapsed gently till Josephine rested her tousled hair upon her crossed feet, crying her bliss. She smelled of honey and lust, she was as wet as an open fig.
Malo had run down the concealed stairway down to the main floor, she was trembling, she dared seize Josephine’s head and drink her tears, she said she had just married her. Natalia ran for some much-needed lemonade, Fanny was elated and could barely speak. Gauthier was ashamed to have missed the event we raved about, he called for a heap of cushions to be aligned along the walls, and he begged the two prodigies for more of their magic with all the crowds assembled.
I knew to keep a promise with Melchior, he could feel my heart frenzied by what I tried to report to him, he hoped they would improvise another poem of their manner later in the day, but he could not figure sitting on the floor.
Gauthier confided the mirific pair that there existed a ravishing small dwelling atop the stairs Malo had climbed to the balcony, if they would, and thus the two slinked out leaving us to our heated laudations.
The samovar was back and filled up, also a special footed cake plate for a round of langue-de-chat biscuits. Incidentally, once a first fright shrugged away, a family of cats now deigned to graze our suave legs, the brave youngest to jump onto our laps for kisses.
The ethereal duet was all the talk around the dressed-up tables, Michelle and the TRÆVIX brigade wriggled in eager questioning, had it happened in a heartbeat? Had youngish Josephine been a trained dancer? Had I lured her into the box trees bosque?
All smiles in their convenient shalwar kameez, Hugo and Louis praised Melchior’s last windfall in the flesh trove, explaining to Dagmar and Fanny that there was another nowhere born wonder amongst us, beyond our firewalls, mind you!
There was a muffed cry, Cecile had lost one langue-de-chat into her cup of coffee, and it was now a blob of sag she hardly could shovel off with a spoon —she laughed lightly when she noticed I observed the event.
Kate and bis had befriended a big hazel dog that she called Kaiser and he seemed to answer. It turned out to be more of a “Fichu” because that’s what he had looked like a few years back when the ladies had ended picking him up on a roadside. Since then, he had thrived like endlessly thanking providence. He was a good ladies’ dog, it smelled of straw and stables, I dared call him Cossack, he turned a funny gaze on me.
Melchior beckoned me to sit at his side —meaning he already had his manicured hand on my thigh— to up me about Josephine whom he admired, like all of us and more. He said that she did not know Bram was dead, at the time she had been enthralled by the Nederlands Dans Theater and Melchior had met her, Bram had decided to skip the last shredded length of his altogether mirific existence, asking his long-time peer to swear he look after Josephine in her total candour. Melchior had seen only some educated peacefulness for her to be entrusted with the due manners of our kindly confraternity.

Bram had been found in a different room than that he had boarded with Josephine in Den Haag, lying on the floor on a carpet of his, a purple kerchief upon his face, he had been cold already when the hotel management called the police, nothing contradicted the constatation of suicide, and nobody knew of any legal bond to Josephine; he was kept unbeknownst to her in the morgue until the judge decided of the required cremation and the ashes be released in the blue realm.
Melchior had been transfixed by the promise he had made. Under the spell of a walking miracle, he had to learn her peculiar idiosyncrasy to let her allow him to tell her the share of the truth she needed, or the whole if she asked. She was the sole heir of an arch-complex fortune and Melchior would be her tutor until she reached twenty-five, she began weeping when he told her the ship was hers, it was called Undine, registered in Gibraltar. Nought would she know she could probably afford a whole fleet to herself?
Melchior liked me, he had shagged me umpteen times and revelled in my lewd tales, he had not touched Josephine further than a fatherly caress of her feet or hands; he had noted our connivance in the box trees bosque. He wanted me to sway her desires toward mental structures such as playing some musical instrument, a substantial practice of piano, for instance, with the right teacher, would help her sort her priorities. Nonetheless —now he frankly fondled my thigh— he rested assured that Hugo and his unfettered manner of listening and the cosmopolitan connivance of that colony of ours would procure a propitious rooting, for mutual benefits.
I agreed so much so that he rested his face upon my heartbeats, and he murmured that I go wait in his car. I wouldn’t argue such a suggestion of his, thus I nonchalantly reached the sumptuous carriage in the corner after the chapel, already refreshed, which a well-known chauffeur drove then ever so slowly to go pick up Melchior. He ordered him to drive to that place they knew. I caught a gaze in the rear-view mirror I had already seen on Mustique. I made it all the simpler to wallow upon his boss as he wished, my legs wide parted and my mouth turned over playing licks.
In a short while, the gliding vessel entered another park, still adorned with its noble high-crown oak trees, under which the car shushed to a stop. It did not affright a herd of deer nearby, but it gave me a stunt of déjà-vu such as Melchior feared for me. In my first bustling childhood, I lived in Taarbæk, minutes from Copenhagen along the Øresund strait. Our little community spread between the shallow waters and the railway track, and then beyond was the seemingly limitless natural park of Jægersborg Dyrehave, where my Far drove us sometimes for picnics and ballgames. There was a free-roaming deer herd, too, that I had not been allowed to approach, whenas they looked at me in utter friendliness. I loved when my far explained things to me, whatever they were, but suddenly my whole childish mental construction of my proud Kingdom of Denmark collapsed in me when I understood that these gracious animals I wished I imitate were allowed there with the sole intention that our Queen would kill them from afar while horse-riding, and cook them in their blood and some wine to feast with strangers. It had been a bitter row of despair, my Far had to lay me in the car and knead my little feet under the smirk of my brother. I had wiped out that scene until that day but I did not tell Melchior. He asked me if I would let Jerzy use me for pleasure while he would watch us for his own?
The boy had already come over to sit at my side and he grabbed my neck in a mighty hand to fiercely kiss my mouth while Melchior slinked out to reach the passenger seat and leaned back on his elbow so as to look, cock in hand. Nought that I wouldn’t have expected amongst the old man’s whims, and his faire-valoir smelled of Burlington cologne at his expense. Not only that blend of Connolly leather and Posillipo Hesperides reminded me of a ballet of great white cockatoos over a sun-baked swimming pool, but also impromptu elopements among the many venues pertaining to the unfettered richness of our best friend. Subservient to his fantasies, and not the by-the-yard whipping cliché, I felt as much of a whore as the priceless Odalisque.
Oftentimes, this Jerzy boy had vaunted my tomboy bum and my smooth white skin, as he was stretching my throat by constant little thrusts, to keep more stamina to hump my other holes as long as his boss needed, he turned my bottom to him and made me part my thighs, so then I felt the delicate kneading of my blooming cunt and my risky arse, probably helped with lubricant.
It was a balmy afternoon, and the spotted fawns grew less and less wary of the boisterous beasts in the black shiny cloud. Melchior said I should proceed to an enema on the lawn and pulled out a black rubber pear ready to use swiftly near the rear wheel, and pee with a smile.

As I climbed back in, my crack fresh and wet, I saw that Melchior had tilted his seat back, so as to grab my arm and lead my mouth to his penis that had thrived some, thus I found myself in a convenient angle to gulp it to the hilt, while Jerzy rooted far into my loins with the utmost consideration, I lay effortless at their whim. A piece of windy music in the shades of Vaughn Williams twirled from the car’s system like a chiffon scarf in the mellow light, Melchior, hardening, would soon embitter my throat briefly while his Cossack would arch his rump in a few last shared thursts we would remember.
The window had stayed lowered, a few candid does were risking glances, reminding me of some cunning little brats in the garden of Eden. As my day had bloomed, I could serve many more, thus Melchior ordered us back to the Château, and applied himself at licking me as clean as a kitten, but I smelled of crushed hay and my arse dripped, I snuck to the commons’ shower room, as if I knew not it was lads’ territory.
The room was clad with purplish slate and the floor of teak slats offered a perfect wet orgy venue and had but one access. The rallying cry had been swift, no sooner had I offered my face to the flows than a panting hunker ensnared me upon his soapy dick, thus I could only ask him and his pals to do me whatever but softly. The next pushed me to the wall and hummed as he pissed inside my arse then let me gush before buggering me. I couldn’t tell how many used me, Hector found me breathless. He inquired if they had forced me thus, I retorted they wouldn’t, would they? As he kept looking for unfortunate bruises and massaged me back in shape with festoons of lather, he confided he had only just before been cornered by Gwen and Dagmar, otherwise, he would have relished in me thus devastated. I recalled my first night at Louis’ when he had poured some far too suave tea with glints in his eyes, I said I would love to bring along Gwen under the golden rotunda.
There would be some event amongst the battalion of sculptures now then towering in the dark while the round tables had been dressed in white and loaded with pyramids of finger food, pitchers of kombucha and mere water. The samovar boy wore a fresh new livery, ready to let himself hustled.
One of the young apprentice seamstresses had been sent to dandify my mere silhouette, I knew right away that I would grope her as much as she would. She fetched one ample twill blouse printed of multicoloured stripes with a high jabot collar around which I let all flow, refusing all manners of trousers or shorts, enticing her beyond the silks on me. She did not yet speak any known language but she kissed the most educated way.
Gauthier had been asking for me, he approved of my flimsy costume and gratified my knees, saying that I smelled of the boy’s showers. He had prideful news, my father would attend the evening, despite all the preventions Gauthier had suggested, only to hear that he had long known of my ways of life, and they would not overstay a welcome.
It was a “they”, thus he travelled with someone who had been my first proper girlfriend, Elsie and I watching Edison being torn down, my hand down her jeans, she smelled of a cinnamon roll, then.
Far was all white-haired, now, my undisputed hero. He had found a posh silver convertible and a resplendent trophy mistress in a fresh silver-blue United Nations tracksuit and sneakers. She had slimmed, I wished she wore nothing under the jersey. She was instantly grabbed away by her sweet neighbours who had not seen her in aeons, she could not avoid Lison’s hand in her pants, and as I had bet, she wore no undies.
Letting my bare feet on a dignified old man’s lap, for him to knead gently, I was instantly some kind of a curiosity success, but the rumour ran, so then there would be some envy for my father. He was amused to learn that Gauthier had bought this samovar from the Sacher, he had attended the official opening, one when mitzy young sluts did not elope in the Klimt rooms to get shagged. He had been touched by the invitation, he liked Gauthier.
He sat next to the seemingly old fogeys who happened to behave at that time, although next to Hugo, Trine had not much covered herself. Of all the sluts around, it behoved me to make decent conversation with my diplomat father, half an hour after having been ravaged by so many stooges in the waterfalls. Hugo beckoned my way and breathed in my ear that I smelled wonderful, then, still embracing Trine’s frail shoulders, he asked my Far about the Belvedere chains, teaching him that they had momentarily been transported to this park, and in morrow, another leg of the celebration should happen in their midst. Far said they had been lodged in a guest apartment in the more trivial corner, with a view of the pampered orchard, where pears were now then shielded into colourful crystal paper sachets. Hugo asserted he was a faithful client for these pears, at what I could not help seeing some innuendo.
The silver chimes and playful bells of the infants’ realm footbridge announced the disarming parade of the dainty souls who shouldn’t miss the imminent show. I explained to Far where these children came from and how they lived off limits of a sometimes dissolute lifestyle in the caravanserai, we weren’t the only ones to berth, year long. I promised we would pay them a visit. Adeline had had tense negotiations with the social services, there had been rumours and even drone photographs showing naked ceremonies in the yard and the adult prairie the children couldn’t have seen. Anyhow, nudity as such wouldn’t constitute abuse, as Far had seen in Saint Loup.

As he found the samovar blend exquisite, Far inquired in his mellifluous manner about the new faces among us —as if his gazes did not hover lower, too. Again twiddling my toes to ecstasy, he relished the mostly true tales Hugo adorned the finely debutantes with, leapfrogging over the sordid stuff Far was savvy enough to guess. When Elsie came back, I could tell she had been happily naughty, and she gave the eye to Trine who made her sit at her side. She had lost her tracksuit for a layered ancient nightgown through which I could read her darker nipples, she couldn’t help sniff in Trine’s neck and close her eyes, she gathered up her bare feet on the cushion and winked at my Far.
Except for the running garlands of tiny lamps, all lights had faded. Some clicks and screeches warned us of some mighty wattage in speakers I had not seen, probably concealed in the sculptures. But then a very thin mist of harmonies raised as far as some lonely jetliner, in the last gradient of dusk, Venus and Mars wooed the slightest of crescents, ghostly chords gradually emanated from the sculptures in synchrony with randomly pulsing lights, at the antipodes of the techno trance.
One grave undetermined character began to perambulate between the high figures, wearing an upper-tier mask prolonged by long, bent artificial feathers, white and gold. The body was entirely clad with scarab-like gleaming plaques making the waist and joints appear thin. Transparent wings floated in its steps in echoes, in the midst of the whirl of sounds, a cluster of pizzicati festooned each and any move. New creatures, most certainly feminine as we could see into the jiggling bouquet each of them presented, began a farandole around the Golden Phoenix, to the hearty amusement of children, and purplish blue glittery, ruby red, malachite green, droll damsels as the ones which danced over the moat.
It was the opposite of ballet when one realised that the symphonic texture was commanded by the moves, not the dance to a score. It lasted only just enough to an apotheosis of holograms and laser beams projected from the roofs, and a mist of rose hid the escape of the troupe. The coloured figures continued to flicker ad libitum, I knew a few of us that could have gotten high talking to them, Gwen was bewitched, Far mumbled that she was outworldly, I had not noticed that she wore nought.
The children were wired, they wanted strawberry lemonade, and they danced still with their belly butterflies. Gauthier spoke in the system, to give the names of the musician, Markus Wolke and Bruna Solstikke, the builder of the figures and the electronics in them Oskar Fleisch, the costumes and the dancing by the residents of Chevillon’s château. He invited us to restore ourselves, after what he would lead us elsewhere.
Gwen is a born seductress, nothing of my Far’s attention to her had escaped her cunning mind, she asked, with a wink, if she could sit on my lap, thus she enlaced me. When she learned whom I was entertaining, she gasped, so outworldly the reality of a father felt to her, hence I laboured at presenting her origins without lying, letting Far himself speak of Fanny, whom Gwen admired rightfully. I joshed that my father was not so often confronted by pretty nude girls so up close, but I kept her tight and waved at Delph to bring her a shirt that never came.
By the time we were invited to cross the yard to reach the chapel, Gwen had charmed Elsie, too, with her indefinite personality, and Fayelle joined, so as to protect her little tramp sister. Cushions had been displayed around the room at the base of the walls, bar a few armchairs for the elderly, a boy gave a last sweep-up once everyone was set and still. muted projectors lit the vault, one aimed at a spot on the balcony where Malo appeared in her total smile. Gauthier stood at the little door through which Josephine appeared, as nude as we had seen her before and smiling inwards. She walked to the centre of the nave and waited. Gwen was transfixed, people were packed under the balcony.
Malo dived on us with a long straight bow cry, and then, like she would have held her dancer by the hand, she gave her all the arguments to calligraph her poem in our defenceless brains. A night with Malo had only quieted her heart, secured her ankles, and freed her spine to attune with her intuition, Gwen, my Far and I cried.
An owl, who certainly knew the place better than anyone, flew in all silently like an ultimate omen, rested in an absent saint niche, and Josephine, untroubled, invented more tendrils to clutch on fading notes, astounding to the final note when she kept one leg easily as vertical as the obelisk, then collapsed into a ball of sobs. There was a stupor, Gauthier leapt with the robe he had readied and wrapped the two artists together on their way out. The owl fled, vexed.
No one tried to hide the tears, and again, I had to tell my Far that Josephine was another nobody, nowhere person with an irresistible pull.

In the morning, the whole troupe was literally shaken by a throbbing rumble that grew out of nowhere, only visible were yellow construction machinery on the wide prairie aside from the rose garden. And the roar descended from the sky in sharp rhythm, a huge helicopter was holding down a golden sphere of metal blades and rods to the three socles built there that we had not paid attention to. The kind of articulated arms on wheels seized the three feet, guided them to their bolts and a workman caught a rope that unclutched the main hook so that the helicopter winded up the cable and flew out of sight and ears before many were out of the fluff of sleep.
That was big, three or four storeys high, not that much cumbersome on the prairie now that the machines left. The band of pyjama children had just had one of their founding emotions, they invented words that did not exist for songs that did not rhyme, they were exhilarated. Soon, the whole scantily-clad colony stood along the moat, contemplating the big ball that would soon be invested by birds.
Gauthier was ecstatic, he hugged Philippe who had engineered the operation from the industrial site where it had been assembled, Gauthier wouldn’t have risked ruining durably the prairie whenas the tracks of the wide tires would have disappeared in a matter of weeks. It was the season for hay, they would flatten the grounds. The ball was already rising on its feet, a person should be walking free under it. The intricacy made it impracticable for monkeys. When the rainbow flag flapped along with the European stars, we all applauded while Melchior and the other nobilities arrived on the bridge. Far was all in white linen, Elsie periwinkle blue, bare legs. Both long regulars of the United Nations palaces felt compelled to allude to the Woodrow Wilson Sphere I had myself greatly admired in the Ariana park when Far drove me back to school in the official limousines. That one here was only windy, whirly, unceremonious. The flight of doves dared hover around it, they would soon constitute its main pollution, wouldn’t they?
That made for a hefty heap to discuss with coffee or tea. Cecile had visibly unleashed with a couple of hunkers for Lauritz’s best concluding outcome, as my reptilian fantasy smelled it as he subtly grazed my quim. He mused I might help him choose some flowers and stuff in the little town of Joigny, a twenty minutes ride, and just only the thought made him stiff in the black silk of his jeans. Cecile gave me a mute nudge but did not lose her cookie. To eventually appear in town, I thought I needed a longer dress, no knickers. The ladies fetched me a blue and blue Pucci print knee-long shirtdress perfect for a pretend bride and one-strap white suede sandals. In cruise mode, the 911 could growl quietly. No sooner had we been on the high road than he strived to release the five last buttons on my dress, and it was a childish kind of dare to show myself undone in an open cabriolet. Someone must have told him where to fork off to find some fresh undergrowth, the engine whispered out. It came to my mind that Cecile had so much overspent herself the night before that he had dozed out, anyhow he was hardwood and he smelled of citrus, sandalwood, and the healthy workman’s sweat, I peeled him off. Against the initial odds, he was a good idea of a genuine gentleman, and he loved our prodigious apprentice as we had settled for in the whirling lights of the bateaux-mouches when she was merely a virgin ready to play.
I wouldn’t be bragging on my talents but he gushed in my throat in minutes, thus I reckoned Cecile had been busy. I swallowed thoroughly, he was not the kind to be turned off by his own jizz, he gulped my mouth and told me to masturbate as he poked two wet fingers into my arse, I knew Cecile did that to anyone, too.
We had not soaked our clothes, he had Porsche towels that smelled of gin and tonic, then he localised the garden store we needed. We filled two caddies with cut flowers that had grown very far away. Once all that fulfilled, we did not fight to foot the bill, although my cards be at order in an inner pocket.
A young well-dressed stroller girl had smiled at our unusual goings-on, I had a hunch I could ask her which pastry shop we could spend our next shopping spree in, now then. She did not hesitate and named Ferdinand. We were already looking like a carnival float but she was happy to climb on to show us the way, and her knickers also. Leaning on my elbow, I ogled her in the wind, she was a natural beauty, with no makeup, and perfect teeth, she was wooing us, nothing wrong when I touched her knee. We bought everything that did not seem too corrosive, and boxes of chocolates to the rim of the trunk. There I could wield my card.
As one would think I would, I asked her name, she said Charlotte and blushed, then, having sussed we were from Chevillon, she asked if we could give her a lift to a horse-riding club nearby and that woke dragonflies in my womb.

We also bought fresh cans of elderberry lemonade they catered to afternoon parties. Charlotte, in a black ribbed tank dress and black sneakers, gave me stares like a mocking brat. When I offered her a can, she let me catch her hand with a glint in her toffee brown eyes; as she drank my hand slid up and she offered more to it. Lauritz was a tad dumbfounded that I might actually be recruiting a new tramp to our party, he sniggered when he heard me ask if Charlotte knew of somewhere neat we could go talk to ourselves. With the same kind of stares-from-under that Cecile had regaled me with at our first dates, and resurfaced when she sussed I knew she had been nasty.
Charlotte had smooth thighs, and hair to her quim, she immediately told me that shaving was incompatible with horse riding, I laughed and she helped me steal her knickers I smelled and lend to Lauritz.
We reached a silent clearing with a shallow brook bejewelled with colourful damsel flies. When she said she needed to pee, I refused and told her she would wet me like a gentle slut. She had a fluted laugh and pull her dress over, she showed rosy areolas on my kind of flat chest I complimented before she could foster the ghost of a doubt. Even barer than she, I lay on the small sand shore and spread my thighs open, telling her to piss on my coochie, which she did while Lauritz pulled his dick to her face if she would suck one.
She sucked like a touching debutante, mostly savouring the glans, I pulled Lauritz’s trousers so we could handle the whole affair; she was stunned to watch me swallow the stem deep in my throat, but I assured her she wasn’t forced to perform this before she fancied so, she was already so seductive by the way she looked. I begged for a kiss, thus I knew Lauritz would shag her like a pleasant beastie on her fours. Her kiss turned into moans such as I feared she had been a virgin,As assiduously prescribed by the intangible court manners prevailing in this unapparent principality, just like I should know fitted, Charlotte was currently cavorting legs up in the transcendent lights of Corfou, being dubbed by our munificent suzerain’s bon Plaisir. Only that one doe-eyed debutante had so shrewdly wooed me, out of the blue thickets, that I sensed the stitches of jealousy all over my heart as I imagined her revelling as smoothly in Greece as I had hovered in Venice with the utmost whim of a young prostitute in our bed.
Except for our soft-shoed waitstaff —one becomes fastly accustomed to the silent flight of the tidying bees— the crooked-layout palace where the god crow has seen me felt deserted. Sarah was en route to Lausanne along with Michelle and her angels; regardless of his relationship with her schoolmate Elsie, she needed that her dad knead her toes again, as a token of her privileges. I had not dared ask her why she constantly called him “far”, whereas it be the last word of her bygone Danish infancy —I cannot myself recall a small name for my father, nor any tender glares the kind Sarah unabashedly begs from her near-incestuous godlike dad.
My impermanent beau Lauritz had flown to Sylt, along with the bedevilled sisters and Gwen, to what I complicitly approved, knowing the richness of her dreams intimately, Kate and Bis would dance in the moonlight.
Lazing out of a maze orgy dream set in my old rubble landscapes, I could still smell a hint of the hasheesh and jasmine perfume of the hunk who had superbly ridden me thrice in Sami’s car, at the end of a chase through the subterranean corridors of, possibly, the Lithuanian residence. Back home, I had merely spattered mild water at my quim and rinsed my bowels like a spent prostitute.
I showered in orange blossom I donned one of my over-washed lichen-green tracksuits and slid into my already paint-splattered woven-straw slippers, there was some exciting novelty in the workshop, in the case of an unknown study for Girodet’s “Sleep Of Endymion”, that lascivious magnet of a painting for the fairies of Theo’s kind. It had been fodder for some impromptu together when the ravishing lesser panel had been delivered, he had invited me to his jewel-case-like apartment next to Gauthier’s —it had been a mellow interlude, and he was proud I spoke of sweet returns, at his whim.
My days-work then was only at the cleaning start. As usual, layers of weird varnishes had been laid upon the painting that had been transferred from some millboard onto rough linen later on, as Cyprien had determined.
But when I barged in, straight to my coffee machines, Cyprien, already busy on his drawing pad, nodded funnily at me, and I could hunch some skulduggery going on. I had not yet seen, behind a screen, some unknown nude model posing on the sofa covered with an Indienne shawl.
She was stunningly lovely, and obviously so young as to shy me on guard. I couldn’t begin to figure out how she had happened to sit there, and I was mesmerised by the neat pile of her folded jeans, shirt, and hoodie, on which rested faultless wide-belted knickers just as to taunt me. She had been wearing black platform Chuck Taylors and colourful pink and green socks sat twisted upon them. She showed slender ankles and feet, and the nails had been lacquered black, like those of her hands.
Matter-of-factly, I sat down with my pot of coffee and my cookies, letting them work, soon enough I would be granted a plausible explanation. I affected not to stare at her, but each time our eyes met I granted her my best candid smile, it was obvious she needed to talk to me.
And suddenly truth dawned on me with the name “Emeline”! Weren’t she Charlotte’s younger sister, by any chance? She jumped up, ooh my! She was everything as gracious as her sister, same obsidian brown stare I could not fend off in the queue, and she sat on my lap to steal my cookies.
She was flat as a boy, her belly tight and sleek, she smelled of cut hay and animal fear, she had been on the lam. Cyprien cleared his throat and said casually that he had found her waiting on the sidewalk at the door, and she knew quite a lot about me and everyone around, so he had let her in and rave at all she saw, so much so that it had not been harsh tactics to let her disrobe after she admired the drawings of her sister in other graces’ hands.
I grasped another cup for her, and made myself comfortable for her butt, she was wet as a brook. She threw an arm over my neck, so I kissed and licked her armpit, making her blush. Yes, Charlotte had known all along that she would be abandoning Emeline as the sole victim of their despicable father, thus she had schemed the whole escapade, head fast, come what might, if we did not shelter them, they would hustle around, and it wouldn’t be worse than where they came from.
Of course, she had not been supposed to spill the beans for me, but I kindled some charms I learned from Sarah. but she cried no and begged him to shag her on.
Now it felt awkward as if she had let us overplay her dare, not really the bold slut we might have thought. I created some diversion by splashing around with the brooklet’s icy waters that tasted pure. I asked boldly if we had gone too far, too quick? She sighed, said no, also that she had known we were like so, people of the château, the talk of the local youth, somehow. She had wooed us as soon as she had read our manners, the car, Lauritz’s high allure.
See, the daughter of a village butcher, dream-fed by TV and abused by her father whose hands were bloated by the constant manipulation of blood, she had first sought a new life as a horse-groom at this new club, only to reckon that she would carry perpetual wheelbarrows of manure, scarcely be allowed to ride dentists wives’ neglected Holsteiners, and whatsoever be abused at whim in the straw bales by the club owner because she was cute in her spandex. She cried.
There, there, we had another case on our laps, a heart-wrenching miscast we rightfully deserved to help resolve eventually. I offered a game. I would give her money, as in prostitution, not cheap. She would be my servant for the next three days, I meant sexually, nothing worse than what we just did, and I would have her talk with strays just like her, making sure her club owner would take her back if she decided.
Yes, indeed, she had always felt she was too beautiful for the shitty kind of existence she had been misplaced in, but that did not make her different from most of the narcissistic brats her age. Only, by my long-time vice in extorting confessions of my many flings, I could tell a born courtesan, unflinching to any class struggle. Charlotte avowed her abusers had found her remarkably wet, to her shame, and she would put that sluttiness to good use.
She had heard legends about the Château, not really Adeline’s crew who were hard-working people, but the troupes who came every now and then to fit their stage costumes. It had happened that they loaned horses and, being around, she would be jostled over by some actor or self-important property man, only to be frankly ignored the next day.
Back at the château in all fervours, I told Charlotte to follow me and act as my servant. We helped arrange the bouquets, she had a taste. We sheltered the sweets before the lovely critters see them. Everyone wondered about Charlotte, Hector was jealous of his statutory prerogatives but drooled of craving. I beckoned Annabelle and Fayelle our way and locked ourselves in the propitious top room of a tower. In a wink, all of us were in the raw and the new wonder let herself be commented standing on the bed. Holding her as my bitch, I retold in short her somewhat banal story, letting her know that except a few privileged kids like me, everyone around had a past of abuse, neglect, and prostitution. Once on tracks, I let them trade misery tales and tender manners, with those heather fairies, it wouldn’t be the grooming of another young courtesan, although they wouldn’t leave a nook of her skin unlicked.

I looked for Camille to get advice. She was with Trine in the roses gazebo, doing their toenails. She said she had heard the gossip, she asked if I was that smitten. I told her I had unwittingly found my hand trapped in the honeypot, but the savour was shattering, and I twiddled Trine’s nipples till she closed her eyes. Since I played paying her, I might lend her a little so that she would let her in a situation of selling her hide for real. But at this time, the mellow fairies should have convinced her to follow me whatever the risk and Cecile would no sooner trap her in her shack. Trine had agreed to nest at least for a season in Camille’s bed, be there as many hunky lawyers to bribe at her mistress’ whim. Her nails were sage green, Camille told her to go fetch a tanned security boy, she was on the list of their premiums.
I looked for Hugo, I was told he was in hiding with Malo and Josephine, I esteemed myself beyond discretion whatever they might be plotting.
Suddenly, I noticed Far’s car gone, Adeline told me they had taken the French leave, and he had left an envelope for me, it was a blue leather-clad box encasing a line of sapphires the size of my ankle, I clipped it on, thus showing my bum crack to Adeline who grazed a finger along it. She whistled and murmured I was some spoiled kid, she then spoke of Charlotte, she would have liked to know how I had found her, an adorable little slut who had been turning around the troupes there hopelessly like a bee. She thought she was a kind dreamer mistreated by the man’s world she was in with no other outcome than squander her youth in bars and on street corners; couldn’t we take her with us?
Fayelle had carried upstairs a tray with tea and cakes.
Hugo and Malo, longtime accomplices, were madly engrossed with Josephine but they let me lap at whatever I craved, thus I nibbled at her dainty long toes that smelled of a lotus unguent they had earned in their prowess. Again, Josephine asked me if I was fondly enamoured to the point of wishing her well —as Melchior did for her. I couldn’t give her a spiel her, of all our redeemed orphans, I told her I had found myself struck at the idea of sending back Charlotte shovel the manure with the vain image of having had it off for an hour with aristocrats in a priceless car, a sunny day by the brook. Josephine seized my face and kissed my tears, she said for all she knew I could afford Charlotte’s life what may come. If need be, the 911 knight and I would go fetch her things and say bye to the horses. Hugo would be impatient to travel with such a poetic new niece.
The tables had been carried to the lawn before the rose garden, Markus and Bruna would make the sphere sing. On the walkway, someone grabbed me from behind so tight that my shirt left me bare-arsed. Charlotte wanted a public wet kiss, most people had not yet seen her, my little country whore. She said the girls had sworn I never failed my word. Kate and Bis —as it was a fashion to call Annalouise— embraced us and sniffed Charlotte’s head, bantering she smelled like a baby squirrel, just what I needed. Hands were dared all over while my florist hookup stared in my eyes in fervour. Kate said she envied me, sliding a naughty hand and bringing it to our noses. Our table was heatedly disputed, Charlotte wanted the heather fairies —now she knew all it meant— and I wanted Malo and Josephine, hence I could not avoid Hugo, of course.
As Charlotte clung to my hand like the child she mostly still yet was, Delf jumped on my lap and forced her to smile, predicting she would never have seen anyone like him&she, then she obtained a languorous kiss she deemed promising. Now Charlotte measured by how far the local gossip missed The truth about the château. Everyone wanted a whiff of her, Camille, Michelle and all. I told Lauritz to sit in the second row, he was the only one to have shagged her for good, wasn’t he?
A circle of potent searchlights blazed upon the metal sphere, a nest of spinning laser beams in all colours had been installed inside and a number of randomly-shaped screens twirled, showing swift glimpses of eyes and faces. Ghostly holograms hovered in concentric layers of pinpoint glitter. Once more disturbed in their sleep, the flights of doves added a frantic turn of flapping flashes.
Bumbling along the pathway on the shore from their little province, the funny band of younglings floated mid-awe mid fright, they soon found loving arms to hug them, a bushy-fringe slim kitten made her way on Charlotte’s bosom, not caring she was as good as nude.
Then, clusters of chords seemed to fly in swarms, followed by the birds no one could have counted on, like whirling opalescent veins that threaded in one’s eager brains like auroras in a frosted forest. Gradually, like the heartbeats of a waking stallion, a motive of deep bass chords emanated from cobalt blue hologram clouds in wobbling rotation.

I couldn’t help painstakingly fondle my young neighbour’s feet as she rounded peridot green eyes to the never seen extravaganza, ready to surrender hands-up at the least of hiccups like one does with baby fawns. It was manifest these two knew each other well, I reckoned they had met at the horse-riding club, thus I eased my embrace so as to let her insinuate herself at will between us, she gave me a glance of intelligence, her feet were all animated. Charlotte called her Daina, her mother came from Lithuania.
I had no idea how such ample sounds could originate from a somewhat disembodied structure, one expects the wrapping bass tones out of fat resonators. But Gauthier’s overall design was so intricate that a properly attuned acoustic horn might meander through the pandemonium so as to deliver the volcanic growl. Gauthier said that the wizard was Oskar, heedful to every whim Bruna and Markus might twiddle up with.
The herd of deer, as socially tamed as those who had recently seen me doing the nasty, comprehended that this monster was not evil, if boisterous —there was no hunting on the five hundred acres of estate. Gradually, the edges of the prairie became haunted with floating golden stares.
The musicians had parked their command car backwards a hundred feet away opposite us, so we could see a heap of flickering black boxes behind them as they tapped on the keyboards before them, all behind fumed glass
With the echo of the château’s facade, they began to let twirl evolutive loops into the same scheme as the visual swashes, all was clean, swift, and crisp, There must have been a fierce wattage in the wires.
The sensation went crescendo, little Daina had jumped on her feet dancing, everybody was on edge, Josephine danced on the grass, and the owl, again, glided through the crystalline beams to go perch in one of the towering oak trees.
It lasted the perfect lapse of a princely capriccio, and it ended like a blaze of impalpable kindling, resting in the silent glow of a random wonder. Nanny Dora counted heads to corral back the beloved younglings after a last round-up near the machine.
Markus and Bruna, and Oskar, walked to us and Gauthier led them to His Munificence whose smile declined, for once, any carnivorous afterthought. It was clear the whole production was his, and thus after another free show of good manners towards the village population, the helicopter would haul the stonking contraption to some other worthy arena. Markus and Bruna fostered high hopes.
We were told that some crank boozer had done some fuss at the gates about Charlotte he claimed was his. He was eventually brought back to his stables and cuffed in a stall to sober up. Charlotte took place with me in the first car to head back to Paris. A few of our merry crew remained around sundry unmade beds, Cecile wanted to observe certain sophisticated techniques the highly skilled seamstresses used, thus she unexpectedly befriended Florenz who was impressed by her connections at the Pietre Dure institute, she could never have hoped for a better introduction to such an important collector.
Malo was frankly besotted with her new companion. If only by their own will, they would have dwelled indefinitely in the chapel, but Melchior, who revealed an unexpected savvy for ballet, or had sent a video of the duet to a dance master in Den Haag, forbade that they continued to damage Josephine’s ankles on a tiled floor. He promised they would have the disposal of a real dance floor in Paris in less than three months, in the meantime, he supposed that the hayloft over the parking barn could be arranged, if Adeline and Gauthier permitted, and hence it was done swiftly like an exciting challenge for Gauthier’s teams, supplementary beam work freed more than enough space for one soloist practice on floating boards in a matter of weeks. For Adeline, it was some new gem to her crown, important people begged for the privilege to see the new girls’ work —and their physique. In Paris, what might have been a garage next to one of the new acquisitions of SEVEN STREAMS on the rue de Verneuil, a vast covered yard without any pillars could even host private shows because it had sundry exits. Needless to say, Camille was all in, she had always sensed a cry of solitude in Malo’s performances, beyond art’s sake. Now, whatever would give, both women’s souls had thrived a notch, notwithstanding the Gibraltar angel might be flying higher than any of us was seeing.
Michelle had fled not long after the apotheosis, along with her own cohort of angels, and the pair Gwen and Finlan she had found a liking to frolic with. Liselotte enjoyed some quality time away from her ardent network, recommending those on the list to the high-standard venues for their money. One of her current gimmicks would be to sell the two sisters’ ensemble, and she sussed whom to; in the meantime, she had seen them unbound in the showers with the off-shift security team of seven hunky men.

 

Gauthier says:

The little Indians’ tribe deemed our productions successful and the audience funny to bear with, Dora told me. The wisest one bantered that she had cuddled with Sarah and touched her navel because they wore nothing, then the anthems had raised to the stars and she had felt like dancing.
The next performances with the inhabitants might seed more down-to-earth interrogations, the château did not yield many benefits to the community, nor jobs, only some taxes that did not sound as bright as our kinds of music. We had no prospect of growth further than my mother’s workshop which remained in high demand because she had hired skilled foreigners she wouldn’t have found on site and they had formed a talented company.
In intelligence with the municipality, I would serve them premium food and wine, after they would have had time to inspect the outer buildings and ask them not to divulge what they had seen of these privately commissioned productions they might recognise one day on TV. To expect more would be begging for trouble. And for instance, the rightful escape of young Charlotte, for the little that would be recounted at the watering holes, might foster a toxic grudge beyond the merit of the case, it might be worth asking Hector’s acquaintances to exert stealthily damage control, one way or another.
As for that day, in a cute manner of the ides of summer, we proposed some deliberately analogue chamber music in the far pavilion, a raised square wooden architecture amidst a carpet of ivy, glazed all around —we had had to afford stained glass with coloured cabochons after we noticed the many birds that coshed themselves dead on plain glass. I bore great pride in the copper pagoda roof that was gradually turning softly green. From the château, the way through the patch of woodland that separated the realm of the imps was paved clean with pebbles and led to a raised wooden pathway, step by step up to the pavilion porch.
None of our guests knew the musicians, and they would play behind lattice and silk screens, a piano, a cello, and a violin; they had accessed through a service portal, they wouldn’t even know there was a château and a private midsummer extravaganza. They had become known for their smooth rendition of long rêveries of Morton Feldman, thus they were given carte blanche for a day-long practice at their whim and a samovar of the best blend towering on a buffet table. Philippe had tipped them about the gloves-off kind of behaviours that would expend in the other corners of the salon in the wilderness, altogether the screens existed mainly for their own safeguard, though it wouldn’t be prohibited to risk a peek at some perfectly lawful human deportments.
For once, Malo wouldn’t play, other than Josephine’s ethereal harp of legs and feet who could mutely dance on the white-painted floorboards upon the rich silences of Feldman’s she had attuned to.
James had dawdled a tad with his daughters, he relished the smell of a countryside new to him, without the background hum of civilisation. The heather fairies had devised to lure two maintenance operators — young men we had vetted thus— to one of the guests’ rooms and play mummies and daddies till dawn, the boys still slept, but James couldn’t quench his thirst for smutty details, they knew the song.
Kate and Bis had been tipped off to uncover the pool, beyond the moat and the carefully trimmed hornbeam hedgerows at the far end of the orchards, towards the old XIXth century common road to Paris, skirted along with thick rows of evergreens —in itself this pool and surroundings cost three months of gardener’s care yearly. Thus, along with Lizon and two proud stalwarts, they tiptoed into the imaginary swashes that Josephine was arousing through the musical galaxies of Feldman. They understood a framed sign showing a struck-out eye at the edge of the screen hiding the musicians. All around Josephine’s playground —and she accepted Kate’s enlace en passant— were laid out primrose green flowery chintz adorned American armchairs with proper arms and heads rests for those nasty poses, the heavy padding muting off all squeaks from the seats’ structures. Annalouise smirked at the schmaltzy kitsch gilded samovar but the tea was cromulent and she soon dozed out while accepting a fervent licking by one of the suitors.
Ayla was putting on a terrific show in nought more than an ivory crepe dinner jacket with satin lapels, keeping Fæbian nude on a white suede leash and collar, affecting to lease her to anyone while Dagmar’s camisole, lily-white lace and veronicas’ winks over her bum, let herself wallow over the considerable dick of an angel-face athlete, gradually parting her long tapered legs at his whim.
I was painfully stiff in my sage green twill low-waist, but what had come to obsess me then was Josephine’s firm bum, and I knew she was no virgin anyhow. She had then knelt like a damselfly on Malo’s lap, they stared in each other’s souls. Daring upon our long friendship, I questioned Malo’s eyes as my hand slid down Josephine’s crack and she tilted her head so as to allow us to go burrow into the next armchair.

Once upon a windfall, I may have carried a pocket blister of lube, not then, and it is ill-bred to force in a ballerina’s pleated rosette, whenas her quim is in bloom. She had deftly peeled me off, then threw one leg aside on the rest so as I could sheathe in deliciously little by little, blessed with these drops of bliss, she wasn’t lying to her pleasure, and one go wasn’t the end of my want.
As she began to wonder if all we would have were napkins and wild verdure, I carried her down a narrow staircase down to a full-fledged service bunker I am proud of, all tiled in variegated deep green varnished earthenware, and also no one had to wonder where the musicians had vanished to during the more than longer pauses, there was another stairway in their corner.
In my caprice, it had always been a daytime bawdy house, and the musicians’ hideout came while visiting a few remaining casinos in Venice where musicians were nested behind latticework. Josephine was overjoyed to dance in the tepid flows, gathering water in her hands to rinse her merry cleft afresh.
Halfway in the vestibule between the two stairways, we were confronted by two of the musicians who, showing by the gaping flies of their jeans, had been making out, standing. Everybody sniggered gently, the girl, a short natural teen blonde with amber-glowing eyes, wooed Josephine so as she dared slide a hand in her pants, confident of her spell for these few minutes. They had known me as the hirer, the boy, whose perse eyes had before drawn me to a sofa in my offices, relished the sudden intrigue, both of us fanning on the girls’ whim until I whispered a rendez-vous at dusk.
While we returned to Malo, the piano breathed solo to three hands as I would figure the concealed shenanigans, but the grace of Feldman’s still hovered amongst the libertines, in the four corners of the drawing room —so to speak. Cecile came holding along some shy trainee wearing the merest of a petal-pink t-shirt dress and white double-strap flat sandals; herself allured nonchalantly in an imbalanced grey piqué mock dinner jacket with spiked lapels and a hammered gold spiral brooch in the Calder manner, plainly no knickers.
The baby was one of my mom’s brood, earnestly learning couture and manners; Cecile probably had had to scheme daintily to be let to stray a girl to this end of the park. That novice was not without recalling Cecile herself, ferreted out by Sarah of her thick overalls, fireproof gloves, and security mask and helmet, I hadn’t noticed her myself, did I? —Sarah once said it had been the swaying of loins in the dedication of her minute endeavour, but Sarah will go to the throat of any clean-smelling youth, as she just had done at a florist shop, ooh, Sarah— her name was Rachel Contilly, she looked at my reviving dick blushing.
Cecile made her sit aside, chasing strands of hair around her face. She quietly told the terrified dove to let be, nought would be done to her unasked for, and no meant no, utterly. The pale dress had already slid up a notch on Rachel’s tapered thighs, the uncovering had already been clearly assented, and Cecile meandered from under with her own hips to make Rachel offer a better sight of her animality, at what she was helped by Josephine, in all played innocence, then up and up till over the head and a perfect kiss, undoubtedly Rachel owned practice with girls. Malo had unbuckled the sandals and twiddled her toes with her tongue, a couple of aroused hunks came to show their sympathy and one earned a dedicated fellation by Malo while another shagged Cecile’s gleaming quim, so Rachel floated in the middle of new smells for her; Josephine did not let go of her, as she could feel the thumps on her labia. She sported valiant little pointed nipples that made her head spin, I asked her if she would let me thread her with manners and she mumbled yes, I repeated my question halfway in and the answer was a hum.
With all the sundry discharges beginning to stick on our bodies, there was a migration of every dirty culprit to the steam of the shower room, hence our two beginners began, in clouds of lather, to let abuse themselves. I was, at the least, spent, but I helped Kate withstand a harsh upright buggering, then bumped in the yellow-topaz glare of our musician so we danced, laughing that I had reached my content for the night, yet I fancied that, with the proper dedication, she still might have delighted a jolly troupe of suitors; we talked frankly, she was curious about our crew, all I crafted out to tell her was in order to lure her in the cobweb and make her life easier. They lived around Paris, They could give concerts in rich venues I knew well, at the price they had appreciated for that matinee on my estate, with the same highly appraised immorality, couldn’t they? She feared a slippery slope to mere whoredom and I did not disabuse her indeed; we danced more and kissed, she was groped by many passers-by in my arms, and she liked it. She had my numbers, and she ran. the name was Robin.

 

Cecile says:

Adeline’s team had been proud to let us descry the nitty-gritty of their trade, just like I would greet them into my lair. They maintained sundry weaving looms of yesteryears, and they could spin any odd idea of material into timeless textures, bearing the wordplays in the pits of angst, albeit, Adeline finely reckoned, theatre resonates all the starker through nude actors, just figure Vladimir and Estragon in the bare truth of their bodies? Just so, fifty years after the stir of Beck and Melina’s Living Theatre, inasmuch also ones had put on stage haunted mute puppets for a cosmic Bunraku, Adeline took on the dare of some transfigurative rags as a means for the proper mental distance between street level and the skies’ limits.
She was obviously heated, her son had overbid so much on the worldly chessboard that she hastened to border her own vocabulary, to me who took in all the valid endeavour of their impassioned kind — and understood mostly that she had a crush on me.
Into some fresh old linen on a bouncing mattress, she was skilled for hitching my rags and poking her tongue onto my lower belly, causing tremours in my womb. Seamstresses of her flock passed casually by, grazing my legs like they would a piece of precious cloth, giving me names that made me feel all the more a slut to the savoir-faire of their chief. She laughed that I wetted the bed.
Community baths seemed a fixture of this mill of souls, bar for children who remained among themselves with nannies until puberty, at least, and I was quieted about individual integrity, most of them boarded comprehensive middle schools but hurried back to the château for holidays, some bringing on buddies. I recalled Sarah’s description of her lakeshore paradise, also she had listened to my miserable laments in my magazine shack where nowadays I liked to shag Gauthier, too. Dawdling in the running waters, I told Adeline all the love we had for her son, what we did with him at his princely whims, she said that meeting with Kate and Sarah had offered him the stepping stone to the rainbow —afresh from the ashes of Valparaiso— and Hugo had furthered the best connections for his talent.
No sooner had I thrown on a pinstripe coal-grey vest upon that lopsided kind of formal shirt than some cute envoy in black silk begged me to follow him to meet Mr M., as I wished. We all did it, as we all climbed in the 911 express. He had not been sleeping at the château, it was no longer his age, but I sussed there had been limousine shuttles, all in the atmosphere of my magazine fantasies.
Not unexpectedly, the chauffeur, who smelled of Posilippo, asked me to sit next to him, and since the silent machine seemed to drive itself, his free hand soon grazed my thigh so I whored to him already, as he liked, but he did not park anywhere until we entered the property Melchior had rented.
The hunky boy showed me to a lattice arbour where his master was sprinkling sugar on a bowl of raspberries and beckoned me to sit by his side. Another stud who could hardly deny his arousal lay a silver tray holding a steaming moka coffee maker, a saucer with lemon peels, and a plate of langues de chat. He could tell I was undoubtedly titillated and furthermore aroused by his attention to my mannerisms, I spread aside my leg, I wore neither shoes nor undies, and he made his stare caressing while I felt the driver’s hand in my neck thus I kissed it.
Melchior was rumpled in a silk gold yellow kaftan open on a long linen kameez hiked up to his stiff penis as he would revel watching someone like me serviced by his bulls. As he stole my simple outfit, I had time to relish the outlandish coffee they had concocted for me —and dip some biscuits in it. Melchior even slid down on his knees to be able to suck on my toes, the second boy had disrobed, too, letting shimmer a cinnamon skin and a sturdy staff.
Melchior told me to pull my tongue and twirled it with his, while a cushion was shoved under my rump and my legs tilted up, so as my already greedy holes be licked by these famished beasts. He asked for me to be upturned so that I would suck him while the boys would thread alternately in my holes and I became their dripping pommel horse, seeing under my eyelids the same old hurling menagerie I had grown to enjoy since the terror times in the cellar, then they both discharged in my entrails and Melchior made sure I did not lose a drop of his own gush.
The two servants ran with their togs and their master turned me up, covered in semen and smelly but he liked that, he licked my face clean and kissed me, felicitating me for the trust I had given to Sarah and the long way I had come since. He asked me to watch for Josephine who soon would settle at a stone’s throw from my workshop. I told him she could set camp in my shop, and Cyprien would see it as an honour to draw her if she would stand a pose. We went for a bath together, it smelled of ylang-ylang and lotus, he told me to have an enema in the bowl nearby.

In the yard, the giant pawns kept showing erratic signs of life waiting for the rain; Oskar Fleisch, once having profited from his craftsmanship’s edge to get to manhandle my quim —and he is handsome enough to entice me to retort the manoeuvre— avowed nonchalantly that it is easier to fabricate an animated contraption that spins the soul of onlookers than a successfully emotional steady sculpture, in earnest. Thus, he had used me tactfully and taught me more than he thought.
The Grand Master was obnoxiously on the phone, I noticed pretty silhouettes moving in the first-floor salon, I hoped it could be Dagmar. She newly wore a low-choker necklace of misty opals that befitted her like dew on a lily, I pondered but she did not snitch who had offered her the lively stones. On a high-back vaned rose velvet sofa, a fluid chit-chat went in German between Ayla Naveen and Fæbian Elsterwert, Lizon hazy-eyed at their feet, Fæbian wore a line of aquamarines at her ankle. They looked like a Gerda Wegener painting I saw at Lauritz’s.
I pulled Dagmar to a mole grey loveseat, I craved her accent in French, she said I smelled of having fucked and stripped me, that seeing Lizon came over and sat on a pouffe, I asked her if she found I smelled semen, she nodded and gave me the eye. Dagmar had seized my neck and kissed me deeply, asking that I not wash; Lizon licked her way to my coochie, I felt slutty and I parted my thighs.
Later, a pair of chasing hunky minders heard sighs from the open window, they saw not us but the German courtesans’ heels over heads with themselves and figured they could help. Looking at their curled-up truncheons, I had a fleeting wondering of whom chose them, and my womb remembered the thumps it had relished moments before. The two Swiss damsels pranced legs-up towards the laughing matadores who accepted the bait of their toes, however not playing for time at brandishing their penis on the right spot, they needed some kind of KY, Lizon knew where it was, she was only too pleased to help and glide fingers in the sluts’ arses, she also gained some in hers. Dagmar and I joined the group, she threw one of her long legs onto the backrest so as to give her quim to drink at Ayla’s hungry mouth, and I crouched down to reach whatever hole between Lizon’s bum cheeks, she smelled of burned toffee.
The hardy musketeers made no prisoner in their assault, tooling in the supple hips to the hilt till the juices spilt free in the scent of utter animality and they all collapsed. I suddenly mulled over a scheme with Dagmar and Lauritz in some of the lewdest dungeons of Paris.
Then, it would be villagers’ night, Gauthier let us guess that it would request a whole different set of boules, so to speak.
Bar Marie, because Gustave was the little Prince of the nursery having the time of his promising life, we all hopped in our cars and I lured Dagmar into the 911 front seat, putting her ethereal pair of legs right under the nose of Lauritz’s. She wore an oversized navy blue blazer trimmed with a double white grosgrain line, and white ribbed jersey knickers.
I had my hand in her collar gap twiddling her opals, he tried to compliment her but didn’t find the fitting words and went on in his smooth kind of German he had capsized me with from the start, and Sarah agreed. He craved her, and she soon held free his honourable staff in hand. He suggested that in forty minutes we would reach the Fontainebleau forest, so then she did not suck too deep and took time to offer me her mouth now and again.
With instinct —and the help of Google maps— he reached a quiet spot on an offset byway smelling of pinewood and soon after the engine stopped we heard birds chirp and nothing else. Her knickers had disappeared, and she looked amused, I helped her out of her blazer as he nibbled at her titties, making her meander in her seat. That car had never been a true love nest, but, at the risk of crashing me behind his reclined seat, she managed to straddle him properly and let me kiss her as she panted of his thumps.
He was joyous, he said he was driving the two best lovemakers he knew he lead us to a grand terrace restaurant before the Palace’s entrance where we made some impression, not only Dagmar and her legs, but also me, in my low-cut purplish-black jersey tank dress flush to my quim, Lauritz in fit jeans and black silk shirt looked like a high-roller, all the more that he wore gator boots, he owned the two best sluts of the day, and it wasn’t over. Meanwhile, following our bucolic romp in the woods, he offered us the disposition of a bathroom in the hotel, with bath salts and thick towels, that was clout.
Those few days basking in the easy drive of unbridled pulsions had triggered in him the stum of throwing an open night in the von Speck mansion on Quai d’Anjou, no more permanent video that he knew of. We began calling over and letting Sarah order fine provisions. It made Gauthier half-hearted to hear about that, but he was bound on duty.

The river Seine was rose-gold under a lace-veiled sky, Dagmar had lost her knickers, but I knew where it was. Udo Wenzell, the maître d’hotel, was a long-time servant of the family, but also a sexual accomplice of Lauritz’s whose age he was, greeted us with a finely drawn approval on his narrow face.
In a sensuous way, I belonged to the place, Lauritz was my light-handed master forever, but he had never baulked at giving me rein on my own fate, he relished craving Dagmar suddenly before me, I had loved her at once.
If he had not transported his usual detail to Chevillon, here, they stood at attention, ogling our easy thighs on the mohair seats. Sarah and her new flame Charlotte were first to rush up, and they were holding hands like lost kids. The young tramp was still petrified by the audacity she had pulled, and she blushed in front of Lauritz who frankly hugged her, groping her bum like a chum. She wore a Tana Lawn, “sunset impressions” waistless gathered dress, prettily creased, powder blue knickers, and Egyptian sandals of the same. Visibly, Sarah had bewitched her and she was proud to push her against my belly, like taunting me. Symbol of her entry into the herd, her mons pubis was newly smooth. Sarah winked at me that I take her aside.
I knew of a boudoir where I could bustle her into a peach-cream Ruhlmann loveseat, the imprint of the venue was such that she asked me where we were. While conquering her buttons one by one, I took evil pleasure in explaining what a brothel had been, or still was, and absent-faced strangers were beginning to pass by, eying our uncovered legs. With many pinches of salt, I bantered that I had learned being a prostitute with Lauritz, a rich man who wouldn’t trade me for a living, like many of our friends had been subjected to. When I reached the waistband of her knickers to pull it away, I knew her coochie would be soaked, thus I made her blush explaining many sensitive personalities fostered a fantasy of enslavement, even an abused little urchin like me had wanked at harem tales I found in rubbish magazines. While wanking softly her wet slit in front of a waiter who had already passed twice, I asked her if she twigged that Sarah had given her away for me to use, just like you want your bosom buddy to listen to a piece of music that took over your mind.
She enjoyed her fright so visibly that I took her to the magnificent gold and bluish wavy mosaics bathroom before she peed on the carpet, and then enlaced her in the gold basin until it flowed upon my feet, like Sarah had taught me with girls, thus she almost passed out. She needed to recoup her wits, I made her laugh telling her that next time she would piss in my mouth.
The foliage’s shadows still roamed across the grand dim-lit room where I had manicured almost every glittery shard, against one of the tall windows, Lauritz’s eyes showed me that nothing had since waned of our first debaucheries along the Seine.
All our togs had been tucked away in some closet, and richly pulsing layered harmonies hovered out of the embedded speakers, I beguiled her to show herself nude like me at the buffet table, thus she couldn’t help laughing when her eyes met Sarah’s, who was also fondling Seresine who blushed as well when Charlotte eyed her, I foresaw our bliss at watching these two indulge each other.
I had a hunch that Hugo had come, on the one hand, to cease a row with Lauritz, and on the other, to relish on the new hesitant fillies he knew full well would soon visit his own salons all alone. Meanwhile, in an ecru flax kameez with gold buttons, he stood besotted between the two novices in their best suit. Just like an actual client of the house, he was already grazing Charlotte’s waist, as if he would enquire for some idea of a price, and I played the role of the procuress. I told Charlotte who he was, and that I lived and worked inside his prestigious venues, like most of the graces she could see arriving and gazing out on her. Sarah drew all of us away to a wavy sofa and sat the girls next to one another so that they had to embrace not to look dumb. For our relish, they began chatting about how Charlotte was feeling like a whore, thus Seresine wondered if she had ever been sold ever, and I jumped in claiming Charlotte was just an amateur being toyed with by me, and nonetheless, she sat pretty nudely receiving the baisemain of strangers in silk suits.
Lauritz ushered us to the warped mirror-clad elevator that merely showed the pallor of our skins, up to the convenience rooms, and let himself fall over the burgundy padded silk bed, staring at Charlotte’s little face while opening his fly. She had had a grasp of the game since the stop off in the woods, she bent over for new cajoling with her pouty mouth, but soon he grabbed her chin and stared at her kindly, asking if she would, right then, agree to pocket a hefty sum of real money —the figure gave her quivers— to let a fine vetted gentleman play with the whole of her body?

It went without saying that I would remain with her and participate in her first round of whoring, just like Sarah was probably at work along with Seresine. She moaned and asked me if I really was a prostitute? I laughed and retorted it had long been too late to ask, but I was a reputed skilled salvager of art wrecks at well-earned prices, but it was my pleasure to sell my own beauty as long as it was worth, hadn’t she felt bewitched by Ayla’s glances, her who had been a whore since high school?
Purportedly an Ambassador, the mid-sized, mid-aged mild-mannered man who entered the room without knocking after Lauritz had left smelled of a sophisticated blend of Hesperides and sacred woods, he must have been ginger before his hair fell, he wore a tactile malachite-green silk velvet jacket he rested on a chair backrest before he sat with us, only asking that Charlotte parted her thighs wide. I sensed a small pang at being somewhat demoted to mere sidekick so matter-of-factly, whistling in a queer question.
His Excellency wished to suckle on the already visible juices on our nymphet’s labia, I took a welcomed initiative denuding his butt and legs, leaving on his long-tails shirt, where had I learned that important gents do not want to frolic in complete nudity? It had not been in my magazines.
Her moan was utterly exquisite, I did not have heaps of effort to churn up on the straight slim penis in its shaw of tweedy tow, I sucked on it till it sprung up. Then he slid in, straight to the hilt, and I smiled watching a newly bloomed bona fide trollop at her song. The merry fancier was a fast shooter but had more shots in his balls, once he was soaked with goo, he attacked stubbornly the frowned terrified pleated rosette with barbaric enthusiasm. I knew I could find better lube in the bedside table’s drawer, I massaged duly the key and the lock and thus Charlotte attuned her moans sharper, wriggling her hips and sending her feet haywire. One favour I had learned somewhere between Philippe’s and the Panopticon, I risked a slippery finger in His Grace’s arsehole, tentatively, to the rapid effect of the stiffening of his loins and a second deep gush still not appeasing and the plea to continue buggering him.
When he finally bit the bedspread in bliss, Charlotte was shamefully dripping along her thighs and I licked her clean like a bitch before I made her sniff my lips. The three of us manhandled each other and then he deigned to hand-fuck me to some release. He said he wanted us again in two weeks, and he might bring an acquaintance of his, I said it might happen, he left a fat roll of money, as a tip, said he as I tied his bowtie and grazed his half-asleep johnny.
A boy-maid entered not long after, holding a fresh plum-coloured bedspread, he did not restrain from eying us all the way down to our feet, he said joyously he would groom them for free, he said we made him hard, and he fled. Lauritz entered a moment after to visit his dirty whores, we had been heatedly making out; he wanted to nuzzle in our bum cracks and smell fresh vice. He gave us a fat mauve envelope and I let Charlotte evaluate how much it contained, browsing the banknotes.
He sat Charlotte on his lap, her thighs did not try to close; he floated like a funny suggestion that there was another customer all heated at the idea of hiring two maidens who had already spent most of their day with their holes flush with semen, so to speak vulgarly. The reward would be the same.
I had known this already, at Lauritz’s hand, but watching our stable girl mulling over further steps of her own debauchery was making me wet, and her too. Then her silence had half-talked and now she had to say clearly that she was ready for another john, with me.
No great skill was required to guess that the next slender gentleman was some bigwig in an authority function, a high cop or a general. He wore tweed and a complicated gold watch, his shoes were artistically polished. He left us standing, groping randomly, fingering and sniffing. I had a little more success with that one but he wanted me to do all things to Charlotte, who revelled as such.
He asked her to kneel and “free the crow”, which rather looked like a vulture, while he twirled his tongue in my mouth, holding my nape firmly. Then he undressed methodically, telling Charlotte to untie his Oxfords, she lowered down to smell his feet so he said he relished that. No sooner were we all nude than he commanded me on all fours on the bed, he had seen the discreet bottle of lube on the bedside table. I was gently supple but he took pleasure at smearing my backside, and then Charlotte’s too.
He sported a stocky curled-up stake, for what I felt when he decided to hump me with it, I sensed being stretched like in my days as a virgin when that reviled bastard had used me, a mixed painful and enraging sensation that I might very well have wallowed in, and which now turned into radiating pleasure in my womb by dint of deadly regularity. There was a streak of warm hurls into my entrails that I howled at while I squirted on his balls in a gigantic release before I collapsed along Charlotte who begged for a kiss. I saw my victor’s stare, and I granted him a wholehearted smile, he winked back, but he was bound on a dare and seized Charlotte’s haunches with a horseman’s resolve, making her feel his dominance until she danced to his will, then be kissed by his glans her surrendered anus of an overspent day.
She would never have fantasised about what extent of depravity lay in the dark of my eyes when she had wooed me and then gullibly followed my lead, but I kept undoubted —because Lauritz and Sarah had also given me the runaround— that she would never regret the horses’ manure in her young life.
Nevertheless, she had some buoyant colonel stiff upon her popular bunghole and not ready to concede. I read in his eyes the playful pride of having buggered two fresh harlots to completion in a row and vaunt it to his circle of clubmen in the vapours of hard liquor, hadn’t I spied on such banters from my hidey-hole in our family’s smoky hole?
As he had done with me —minutes away, these pills weren’t placebos— he forced open the tiny ring and lodged a frightening length of determination, to-ing and fro-ing while I peckled her tits to distract her self-will into more lechery until the bramble on his balls came to tickle her, and I told her she lastly withheld the whole manhood of the galliard. He sniggered and retorted that she would bless him with her pleasure tears just like I had, and thus began to hump in deep and extend his move along her womb, bringing her to respond, release and squeeze, till she once again unleashed all waters and hells to his damned fortitude, said he.
He spread himself across the bed and recovered, eyes closed, while we kneaded our innards sluts innards mutually. I asked her if it had been painful, and she breathed in my ear it had been harsh and enjoyable altogether, with an explosion like she had never resented before, at the end, thus she was still all febrile.
The cavalier had heard that, and so he took Charlotte’s hands, kissed them and thanked us, saying we were so better than many whores he had used. Then he tilted his legs over his head and told us to lick him clean, Charlotte’s tongue into his furry arsehole that did not smell worse that mine. He began to moan and fucked my mouth as deep as it would, two or three fingers in each of our vaginas, deftly tormenting our clits, forcing us to squirt again.
We would die by him, but he reached his fill, so he led us to the bath and while it filled, he looked for something he swore would be here somewhere, an enema pear, indeed, with clean nozzles wrapped in plastic, thus he saluted the high standard of the house —I could have told where to look, but he was fun to look at. Charlotte had done it before, but still shied somewhat, thus I injected some perfumed bath water into her evanescent hole she let gush out with funny noises into the toilet bowl for the General’s relish, he wanted to do me, saying I owned an angelic stealthy little hole, nought did he know I had killed someone for it.
We dressed him, he required to have a last glance at Charlotte’s re-frowned rosette while she knotted his shoelaces. The tip was considerable, he demanded we be there again for him the week next, and he clicked his heels, funnily.
Lauritz had remained on the lookout, he contemplated the battlefield of the bed. He wouldn’t dare check on our quims and arses, but we showed him thoroughly that the storm had spared us, anyhow, whatever the fears he fostered for the French army, we laughed, the boy maid whistle at our damages, but he mumbled that everything washes, except the blood of treason —he was a student actor.
Another envelope was as fat as expected, I read that she was already hooked on money, thus when our goodwill procurer saw us bright-eyed anew, he proposed the eventuality of another round before calling it a night, Charlotte could remain home in my bed all morrow day, couldn’t she? Shame made her all the more tempting, and she was once more wetting her labia. She nosed into my lap and muttered ‘OK, I suppose it could go on forever, couldn’t it?”
The bed cover was dark yellow this time, and the client was an older man with a crown of white hair, a sparse full beard, and rimless spectacles. He smelled of a strange cloying waxy scent that recalled a privet bush on my way to school or an almond soap they did not use in the café’s toilets. He must have been some religious cheat, I would better not know, his hands were transparently clean and all over our pubis and arses, he took some time before asking in some sort of exotic accent to lend him our mouths to kiss, which he did vertiginously, showing us he wasn’t without resources.
He wore a thin black broadcloth three-piece suit and shining gum soles shoes, in no time we hung his togs with no creases, leaving him to decide with his shirt. He craved Charlotte and pinched her chin to make her look up.

All of a sudden, there was a long thick pintle showing out between the shirt tails, and what he growled must have meant that I suck it, so limited would be the choices between a nude nymph and a fierce phallus. It was not as blunt as the Marshall’s, but longer, with loose balls and fewer white hair; he made me grasp that I gulp the whole of the length while he fluttered kissing all over Charlotte’s face, and I did such brilliant fellatio that he so soon gushed in my rear throat, trembling on his knees as I gulped his soul.
Rambling on in his yakety-yak, he pushed Charlotte to the edge of the bed and beckoned me to straddle her mouth, pinching my tits with some skills, Charlotte was all too greedy to oblige on my clitoris and make me sway in bliss. He liked what we did, and also made me hold back up Charlotte’s ankles so as her glistening twinkle be at a height to play into.
He flaunted an expensive white smile as he wanked the blooming cunny with the tip of his glans, then he sheathed it in one go as a sword through a heart with the gaiety of a fairground jester, and now he must have been uttering a nasty sort of litany I had better not comprehend. I would not refrain from drooling all over Charlotte’s cunning little mouth, she did wriggle her slight pelvis at the stokes of his poker, he gave the cherubs an ardent spiel, and the prodigy of their synchronicity gushed out for the umpteenth time of her night, she was a born slapper indeed.
When he took off his shirt, a tighter body than his face might have let one expect appeared, he was some reverse scammer, I figured him shaven and he was all the more doable, naughty me. He pushed us to the bathroom and asked us to sit in the golden basin so as to pee on us at great recourse of babbly recitations, his piss smelled of rain on debris, he eventually took hold of the shower head and stepped in amidst us two, in the steam. There was a bottle of perfumed soap on a ledge, he used it profusely on us, with a partialness for Charlotte, and no sooner did his dick hardened anew than he assaulted her lesser rosette and rooted in her back ways, thus I embraced her, kissed an wanked her to help as she be impaled in incantations in whatever name’s behalf.
He left us squeaky-washed of any traces of his semen, as in a mad ritual, and demanded our help in dressing him up, then confounded in abstruse palavers grazing and kissing our faces, he had a different fluted tone towards me, that I took as the gratitude for my patience if there had been, whores have their pride, haven’t they? There was no tip this once.
We laughed tiredly and swore there would be none more that night, the last one had been cinematic and ebullient. I made her avow that if whoring was only that bad, she agreed to consider, all the more with me; I confided that a solo would be more perfidious on her soul and she could always find an eager mind to listen to her recount, anyhow, a house like Lauritz’s was sterling safe, wouldn’t she also figure he had spied on our games all along?
It happened that our tip was clipped onto our envelope, as if whatever proscription forbade our imprecator to exchange other than his fluids with us. It was ginormous for candid casual floozies like us. Lauritz tried kindly to keep us along, avowed that himself had used and abused of some novel beauty he would let us acquaint with soon, but nonetheless, I succeeded at reviving his Hanseatic pillar, bestowing the honour of the last mouthful to my beloved sidekick.
Our loot was too big for our stealthy pockets, and our tribe’s fashion diktats forbade the use of handbags, all the more when it was to go get shagged by rich men, thus Lauritz gave me some leftover silk kerchief to wrap our payday when we took a car home, that Charlotte did not yet know.
It wouldn’t be that it be late, but we had almost worked, in earnest. She had sleep-walked across the sumptuosity of Lauritz’s grandeur, I had to wake her to let her follow me to my perch and the sacrosanct apartment where I felt at home, including the apparition of an unclothed Sarah von Kettelær who grasped she would only garner the tales of our debauchery, so envious that it wouldn’t have been her, driving Charlotte through vice, and arousing the maddening mauve rings to her eyes. She brewed some woody oolong tea and listened, grasping any occasion to slide her hands upon us, stripping us bare. She was overjoyed that Lauritz had established his venue amongst the staples of Paris’ depravity, she craved chaperoning Charlotte on another merry night.
Yes, the stable girl —she bantered on her version of life in the straw bales that let her part charlotte’s thighs a tad wider— was most welcome in paradise, Sarah would introduce her to our superlative landlord, and yes, she would have to visit all the rooms in the hive at his whims, as we all had more than once.

 

Sarah says:

Beyond the golden bond she fostered towards Lauritz, Cecile was still my thing, but I could not deny her the precedence regarding a wildflower she had ferreted out herself in the proper shop, and thus the three of us cuddled up in her bed, before the amazed god crow. Despite the fact they did not smell of all the lechery they had sold on some luxury bedding, I resented that Charlotte was still in mental tremors, thus I recalled the many younglings that had drifted to my shores morally distraught in the midst of paradise. I took hold of her feet, tapered, slender feet, cold as the moon, and I played with all of my heart’s content, spending all the unspoken skills I had garnered my whole life long until I was certain she was fast asleep with a serene face.
Late in the morning, as I was preparing French brioche toasts, Kate barged in, a trifle divagating but smiling like a Khmer virgin. She and her sister had been at the Speck’s —after I had lured Seresine back into our bed where she still slept— and been in high demand together. Firstly, for a ridiculous amount that had me whistle, the President of a German länder had asked them to play out his fantasies and she had immediately indulged in the savours of her younger self in the flesh as slutty as her. The Head of State had drained his honourable balls into each of their fine receptacles, she said he tasted fruity and a superlative stamina pill, but there had been sundry other more sizable dicks to impress her in the course of their numbers.
At the breakfast table, she was arousing me like old times, all the more after the recounts of the night, I undressed her, she, at least, smelled of profound debauchery richly perfumed over, she retorted my quim still smelled like a little girl’s.
Then it was a day of merry harlots, Kate had ogled the pretty stables girl in the many parties at Chevillon, she soon pulled down the track pants that Cecile had given her and purred on Charlotte’s belly that cried for food —since Chevillon she had barely eaten raw sperm— so Kate easily stole the pants and inebriated her mad mind with the scent inside, I asked her to share; Cecile said to her crush who was eating my toasts bare arsed not to take fright, we were otherwise genteel persons.
Back from the bathroom, still holding the trousers, Kate returned to the table where I was overjoyed Charlotte wear trousers no more, and asked for the girl’s wrist where she clasped a bracelet of cornflower blue opals she had had in her casket since ever, and Charlotte wept wholeheartedly in Cecile’s arms, turning an overwhelmed little face to Kate; my feet searched hers on the rug and we played.
Natalia found the scene most lovable, she fetched a cup and filled the kettle for me, she wore a big man’s sweatshirt and nothing else, which ravished Kate who made her smell out Charlotte’s pants. Natalia too had been at Speck’s, later in the night, and was picked up instantly by some platinum geek who carried his coke in his belt buckle. That said, he had not failed at more carnal games and she had not fried her neurons, there had been pieces of advice that Beryl had taught her when they whored illegally at Victor’s. Further on, less and less clothed in Lauritz’s gorgeous salon, she had barely had time to catch a bite each time she was asked upstairs, to the loud sound of money, possibly.
Offering to take Charlotte on her lap —and instantly sliding her hands to her tit— she recounted the performances of Lauritz’s acquaintances with her, including the most elegant princely lout who had doubled the stake for the right to piss in her arse and watch her releasing over the bowl, then, that done, buggered her honourably and made her eventually climax with his tongue. Moreover, she too had the satisfaction to a taste of Lauritz’s spurt out.
The conversation was high-spirited, and I floated the idea that we propose dinner at Hugo’s, he would be overjoyed and besides, he did not know his new boarder. They all agreed, and Cecile asked for Charlotte’s pants and they ran downstairs, where she was impatient to show her delightful mayflower where she worked and on what.
Seresine showed up late in a distressed teamster tank top we had not worn for aeons and smelled of jasmine and roses perfectly. She had not overspent herself other than in dreams. Natalia also craved her, and she wanted to sell her to some of Liselotte’s patrons with deep wallets, or in a pair at Speck’s, now. Seresine had heard most of the exploits, and of course, she was as go as a Thunderbird; all it took was to do the boss if it had not happened already —he was a skilled lovemaker, I should tell— and I could chaperone her, too.

Certainly not a matter for Tatler’s, but a romp of high-negligé afar from social entrapments, a conspiracy of garden-variety damsels upon the rare carpets shy from any shoes, or else. Not that we would hurtle down the stairs au naturel, like a herd of mustangs fillies, the Prince had had an eye upon all of us, bar my wildflower, indeed, but we ought to perambulate like high-house boarders, near at hand, what better than the cat’s pyjamas, then? Some shun the trousers, though.
For my relish, Charlotte kept clutched at my wings —if I may— in the thin double-breasted black satin silk jacket trimmed with bright rainbow piping, and a blue fire opal pinned to a black velvet dog collar achieved the damn lethal look, not to mention her thighs as pale as dawn. Nonetheless, our rack of lewd silks was generous, and Seresine prefered to let flap a petal-pale chemise upon her lesser chest while the festooned hem barely hid the crease of her apricot; she won a thin gold chain withholding a rose sapphire encased in a gold lozenge.
Cecile chose a prune princess satin wide-legged pyjama with a boy’s open fly, she wore a so precious Hoffman jewel plate on a wide purple velvet band at her gracile neck, and we all knew what she kept hiding under the shadows; she had found the same colour for her nails, she kept gazing fondly at her little trainee.
Kate never missed an occasion to float a kimono —but only with an occidental-minded narrow belt readily undone at a whim— that one was patched like a Paul Klee landscape through what she would have walked as a fairy in a stained glass window, resplendent as a sun shard, wooing my maidens. She would give me hunches of sanctity —if only to instantly wallow into blasphemy.
Deep crimson dahlias in silver buckets, bushes of tiny crystal white lights, Malo in a fluid silver lamé gown holding close her pristine bare new partner sporting a choker, a bracelet, and an anklet of lustful little pearls, her nails of nacreous purple, Hugo stood proud in a spiritedly colourful Uzbek Kaftan and a long white crepe shirt, holding tight Natalia as she deserves, in a finely knit variegated silk short dress and the most oxymoronic thick padded red leather gold-hobnailed contention collar and bracelets, to an edgy and wantonly effect —she knew how to whip our blood, didn’t she?
And so, the laid-back father figure flanked by his beloved putative daughter in the utterly suggestive of apparels embraced Charlotte ready to pass out, so overwhelmed by such rampancy of touchable sensuality, so much so that she sensed then the inevitable stiffness of male ardour against her lower belly, while I kept our romance warm with a hand from behind slid in her jacket, at her tits.
Kate and I were hustled aside by the courtesan fairy who taunted us with her new toys, she joshed that we should never guess who cared to bind her so, Cecile retorted that there was a convenient workbench in her shop. We drew her upon the plump cushions to grant her sheer success, she smelled of honeysuckle and as I guessed, she concealed the matching red belt low on her nude narrow hips; she would have driven the Doge to the Gallows.
By a cunning manoeuvre of that irresistible strapped-up libertine, they also expected hunky entertainers the likes of her faithful minders Fulgence and Eric, Sergei my straw bales itch, and a bunch of ever-ready pawns in Sami’s games, all vetted and certified, the mere idea of that made me wet.
Hugo winked me away so he could cuddle Charlotte to some appeasement, while manly voices saluted Natalia’s attire at the door she had opened to her court of playground buddies led by her black and white faithful minders. She gave much of her person, but no one had survived trying to subjugate her. In the merry-go-round of that friendship, Fulgence had earned important kudos, and licence to shag her often enough for his self-esteem; it was a convenient boy’s arrangement he shared with Erik in all goodwill.
Hugo sussed that Charlotte was even more helpless than the previous little alley cats and nurtured the venom of deep angst, thus he took her to the cosy high-back loveseat and listened to her story, a kind hand through her fly.
Like one who owns a knack for making kittens purr, Fulgence had taken hold of Josephine and couldn’t believe his luck; I suspected Malo would relish seeing her little partner dance upon a hunk’s win pole; she could improvise on that, too. Now Erik could not help his hands away from her rumps so finely designed and she stirred their nerves with her low-toned gobbledygook. Fulgence unclothed without releasing her gracile features, she seized his jolting shaft as if it were hers. They fell upon the cushion next to Cecile who smiled opportunely at Erik and his considerable manhood —it is a wonder to watch her switch from a moody character to an amenable avatar when she sees an easy shag at hand.

Now, she was worthy of a Klimt, all the more at the hands of our sinewy black apostle who rummaged about the silk all over her tickled body and slid it away. Cecile is one to bear witness to the mercifulness of my schooling her, if need be. She let him drink his soul full at her trembling brooklet, her ankle bore another Viennese glory jewellery as I licked her foot.
Sergei squinted as he sniffed at my crotch; it had been long since I let him play me, and I liked to watch him release his frustration —he would easily rant that I should be his— but I took my time unbuttoning his shirt and trousers, he smelled beautifully of cut hay and poplar leaves, his sweat intriguing enough to produce all together a bond in my soul, I wanted mindlessly that he whip me, that he did not do but let me foresee a ransacking of my arse, in honour to my bygone Cossack, or would I borrow Hugo’s flogging toys?
In the kitchen, they tied me face down at the four legs of the work table; Natalia had told them where to find the vicious tools. They were all nude and fit, then; I first received a stiff long one into my throat, then I heard Sergei’s sharp accent as he lashed my rump and my crotch; Natalia was being buggered holding the backrest of a chair, and I must have screamed to my well-deserved fantasy. Then, they upturned me across the lesser side, Sergei steel-taut into my tight rosette, Nathan and Sven taking turns in my throat to murder while paddling my chest and pubis.
Natalia knew all of the nasty routines, and once they all had spurted their venom, she pointed at the sturdy hanging hook that had terrified her as a child and roamed in Hugo’s while her mother tidied the house; at twelve, one night, she had looked on a lewd scene right there that had made her unwittingly pee on the floor, and flee back to her bed to masturbate. No question had been raised, and she had seen the seeming victim other times be done other nasty things to, at ease; all these had occurred not long before she began sneaking into our bed to make out with us.
they tied our wrists together and ordered us to kiss and rub on one another while they pulled up the rope, then Sergei began with the lunge whip as we turned desperately. I had never smelled fear so pungent, I gave Natalia a spirited kiss. Once unbound, the Asar hunk sat upon the table and told me to hop on his dick, far enough on the edge to let Sergei bugger me in the goo I had been drooling. On the other end, Natalia was treated the same.
I felt inflamed and spent in the running waters of the shower room; fortunately, Natalia who had probably fantasised deeply on cruel eroticism long before someone gave her The Story Of O to read, also knew where to fetch the balsam for our hides, and yes, she eventually avowed she had learned all with the Master himself.
Back in the salon, Hugo had gone with Charlotte to see the giant moths’ room, Fulgence and Erik improvised with Malo and Josephine and, at our scent, asked where the bathroom was. Cecile rounded her eyes at the marks on our bodies; her caresses were vividly arousing, —again— she straddled me wide open in hopes one of the brutes would use her, and so it was a Djahbil that sheathed a terrific circumcised cock into her impatient bumhole, not without some painful labour but she did not demand lube and then he gradually trickled some of his own and discharged long twice like there would be no tomorrow; she collapsed over me.
Once it seemed everybody had satiated with carnal exultations and was smelling of Hugo’s flowery soap, we began paying attention to what hid under napkins in porcelain presenters on a side table, to compose joujou plates of golden crust bites to feed our stamina anew. Hugo returned with a dreamy Charlotte wearing a new bracelet of multicolour stones between lines of black onyx. She was horrified with the lash marks all over me, but Hugo, reading Natalia’s foxy gaze, sussed out the glints in the bandits’ eyes, thus fetched another medicine bottle for Charlotte to soothe us. Cecile was mocking and bantered that we were still wallowing in blissful pains; I saw in her slant stare that she knew full well our act, nonetheless, Charlotte’s hands were waking serpents in my underbelly. It was implied she would remain among us, and in such order, Melchior had been promised completion of the new extension at a near date. In the meantime, Cecile claimed Charlotte for herself and Josephine was invited to the attic of TRÆVIX by the elfish little school whose caresses had been otherworldly. Hugo took care of Natalia, I understood he was who had offered the rich harness to his house fairy, thus I laughed and winked at Charlotte.
Kate and Seresine shunned food, Kate envied my unabashed wantonness, thus she set her sight on her neighbours who still responded to the glances on their dicks. Seresine too could swagger off a rounded backside in an elicit overture. That was how they demonstrated their greedy lustfulness —and Kate in her three holes.

That morning after, Seresine smelled of girly sweats and potpourri and lay deeply slumbered, thus I budged at a snail’s pace, reviving nettle stings all over my body. After peeing, I looked over the damage, not knowing if I should curse the Cossack or call him for more. Natalia dawdled about already in the kitchen, in a nifty drab bluish nightshirt over her own whiplashes. We sniggered vaguely as there was some perverted thrill in fanning each other’s gratuitous pains; she devoured my mouth a wicked while then asked for some of my tea; sucking her fingers, she snitched that we were both wet, indeed.
The “Hey Bulldog” jingle of my telephone cried from the couch, and I felt a funny pang when I read it was Sergei calling —his name was in my repertory, but he had never called. He was asking matter-of-factly if we would open the back door to him, no pun.
He was as fresh as a Barragan thistle; he smelled of lavender liquorice; I cringed when he hugged me, but all the same, I had let him shag me twice in a row not long ago! I had thrown on a loose tee shirt but he had the nerve to pull it off to watch about his brash deeds and he said we would be better off in the raw. He had brought a bottle of Peru Balsam, so he told me to sit in reverse and let him.
But then His Cossack manner of massage was a whole different blessing than what he had inflicted afore, and Natalia was meowing of bliss, too. After he made sure neither of us would be allergic to the product, he manhandled us amicably —so to speak— to end at least the bad greying of our priceless skins. It earned him a morning glory fellatio by the savviest Natalia, and the smell of it was bearable. Sergei joshed that he had been troubled that a girl like me could indulge in sadic practices; he had known all along for Natalia who sold that extra, too —and he held her quim in quiet connivance.
The balsam had made me fluffily numb; Charlotte’s inauguration was altogether to be remembered as a sensuous feast; I recounted why Sergei had embodied these rough manners in the louche penchants of my mind, The Cossack legend, my flareups of accepted debasement in the school’s stables, the smell of straw and horse manure, the lunging whip in front of the exposed stooges, the sleazy gossip in my back earning me heated propositions, Natalia amused herself with my candour.
Sergei went on to his day with a proud badge of master whip, I told Natalia there should be feasible to set a proper dungeon in our undergrounds, and she laughed her head off at the idea, rubbing her tapered muscles and offering me her back for more.
Seresine came up and volunteered to apply more of the stuff, telling me that watching us in the pains had made her squirt; she bantered that if Sergei had such a balsam, she would beg for a thorough walloping, too.
They all had interesting meetings to run to; Natalia borrowed a mottled short, fitted, jersey dress with a wide scoop neckline and three-forth sleeves that I had worn —not long— to one of Sami’s invitations; navy blue ankle boots and crotchless cloudy tights achieved a high-class trull outfit, said I, she had dashed a chink of mascara, blush, and lip gloss. She would be richer before dawn.
Kate and Seresine would be on stage at Philippe’s. Kate in a thigh-long, spiked-lapels, double-breasted dinner jacket, one side clad in strass, black plain pull-ups and no knickers, black patent man’s court pumps, Seresine looked all thin in a black mohair oversized jumper dress, all nude in black ballet flats. They did not know whom they were awaited by.
Cecile had probably ensnared the newbie into her magazines’ cubbyhole, the heather fairies owed some fantasy time to James in his Montmartre garden. I felt somewhat disowned, a backlash to my overpouring night. I brewed more tea, pulled my legs up on the table and browsed a decoration magazine.
Then I had some hunch and I called Ayla, not knowing where she perched. She answered swiftly, in her taunting kind of tone. She was in Paris, at the Keppel; her patron had left her in his rented suite. I figured her naked wallowed in the finest percale, the white linon veils flying in the open window. She grilled me about what I had not told of my night, as tenacious as a vixen until I let it all out and she drooled of envy at the other end. It was not a choice, she ordered me to come to her room, saying a classy whore like me would not regret it.
Having witnessed some of the best hustlers I know pillaging my vestiary, I craved putting on a rich garb, but not one to cause a breach of the peace at a palace’s reception. Ayla would strip me anyhow, but at street level, I thought that a night-blue wild silk three-piece suit, no shirt, and black Jodhpur boots, would cut it to my Copenhagen blue eyes and my tousled black curls; I added four strands of seed pearls stitched to a narrow ultramarine blue velvet choker.
The taxi dropped me at the Keppel’s porch, the bellboy cast an interested glance. I pranced like any privileged youngling.

I suddenly twigged I had no room number, the concierge was already eying me up. I came to the desk, he was one of those steel-core executive types that incite me to incestuous apartés. Grey-eyed and silver-fox-haired, in a bespoke black and grey three-piece uniform, he beckoned me towards a door on the side labelled “office”. It was a small muffled hideout with a blond-veneered desk, a chair and a rounded sofa. On the desk were a laptop and a few peripherals plugged into it. From inside, he ushered me in, about reading my card, he said in a smooth cosmopolitan tone he had probably kept from a Swiss professional school, the black card, smiled he.
Ayla had entrapped me, thus it couldn’t go so wrong, I fetched my card and handed it to the naughty daddy who slid it in the reader and smiled, calling me Miss Kettelær. Then he told me to pull down my trousers like a good girl, grabbing the slim silver buckle of my belt. I remained casual, pulled the zip down and let the pants fall. He told me to unshoe, for he loved feet, and turn around to show my butt. He growled he wished he would have time someday, but he had already let his pants down and sported a classy rod; he smelled of manly English Cologne; holding me by one arm, he unbuttoned my vest and grazed my sensitive chest, complimenting me for the whip his connoisseur’s eye guessed, a greedy grin at his mouth.
Then, frowning slightly, he ordered me to sit on the sofa with my legs parted and suck him as professionally as I knew, while he tousled my hair and fiddled with my ears. He had likely been in some kind of penance, and the all-cunning Ayla had shunned the little door, thus he soon gushed in my throat, repressing a moan, and I cleaned all, like a worldly damsel.
I slid back my trousers and shut my vest, but he knelt, thanking me heatedly and asking that I let him cuddle my feet a few minutes; then he pulled up my socks himself and buckled my boots —he was surprised by the maker’s name— then he helped me up and kissed me lustily, musing aloud that I wasn’t a professional, was I? He gave me his card, telling me that I could, then on, from any hotel in the world, call for help using his name. He gave me a strong mint lozenge, and I sniggered; he checked me all over like a little soldier and I ran to the 127.
Ayla greeted me with glints in her eyes, and she sniffed me up and sussed that I had sucked the concierge, so she laughed and bantered that she owed me one? Yes, she had since long tipped Albert in kind, and yes, she had sent me into his trap, was it not what good buddies do? She stripped me bare and capsised me across the grand bed to lick me too, and gave me a stylish climax in the pillows.
It was afternoon but she ordered tea and pastries. I did not flinch when the waiter stood dumb watching me while pushing the cart, then it dawned I was nude and he was not —as of yet— some partner; I excused myself but I did not hide in the sheets, eventually, he smiled at my cheekiness, Ayla appeared in a terry robe and read the situation that made her snigger; she asked when the boy’s shift ended, he blushed and went.
She said she had invited some old acquaintances of the show business and I might make it giddier if I dressed back as dashingly as she had seen me come. She said Albert must have loved my boots. She called for a maid to fluff up the bed, and before she gave her a note, she casually slid her hand up her skirt as if to show me they had caroused before; the maid was a fine Latin slender youth with bright coffee-black eyes and a thickly black muff, she smelled of gingerbread and licked my lips like a puppy.
Four well-to-do gents in black suits and Mexican boots knocked soon after our menial laisser-aller. They behaved like family but treated us right away like rear-seat cousins in a Johnny Lee Hooker song. Ayla said they had all been in business with her father and thus had paid her for tricks before her mother had tried to send her to boarding school. They laughed. One who wore a ponytail grabbed me and sat me on his lap in a large armchair, I had seen his face. He smelled spicy and wild; his sinewy hand under my vest fanned quivers when he asked me my name and I invented naughty spiel for him, to the amusement of Ayla who was already being manhandled by two cowboys.
I suddenly remembered having seen the culprits in a random television show, three guitars and a drum, the “Shambolic Cluster Few” some kids worshipped in Saint Loup, I was at the hands of their leader and he was neither drunk nor high, only Ayla’s dad had shattered the sound barrier, in a flight to Los Angeles, and she had learned that in someone’s magazine. Now she was a rich escort, and she had hooked them four, one by one, with no hard feelings, only to make sure no one fostered any misgiving about her bastard dad.
Not only did she was shagging them at no rebate, but she funnelled spooky ideas for their new songs; it gave her relief from her banker patrons. That one was Merph, he was already gently fiddling with my zipper’s pull tab.

He told me I made him think of Katie Sketch, singer of “The Organ” band from Seattle, for whom he had been wanking desperately because she was a lesbian stray cat and no one could ever tell him where to approach her anyhow. He showered me with compliments and kissed every inch he peeled about me.
Yes, I had been likened to Katie Sketch before, mostly by girls and it had been sweet, although it had not been so unquestioned to live wayward sexuality in our schooldays. Anyhow, this rock star had pinpointed a button of my pride, thus I lifted all barriers to his wants,
and inevitably his bandmates’.
He called on a slender guy called Slice and told him the Katie Sketch thing to what he retorted that at least I did not shun dicks, apparently, but he bent to lick my arse with likeable ardour, asking if I would also take in their mighty rods. Merph did not let me speak; he kissed like a frantic schoolboy, I only stretched out my thighs more conveniently for his mate. I entrusted my life with Ayla as to the safety of our games, and I suppose that is how disasters may occur, but then, dicks to the wind and pampered like schoolgirls, I had not seen them booze, snort, or drop any pills, even blue ones. Notwithstanding, at the edge of letting Slice bugger me, I took a breath to ask Ayla in French about the condoms, if any? She laughed and excused herself; the group had long been card-carriers and clean; all I needed was lube and he would find some in the bedside table’s drawer.
Slice was the drummer, with a remarkable stick, at that; he began pushing his beat steadily against my frowned rosette till I responded to it and was shagged more and more, tightly squeezed in Melch’s arms and kissed in a drooling whirl; then he meandered to hold me on top and lodge me a barbaric organ on top of his buddy’s beat.
Ayla acclaimed my recklessness while she was samely being rummaged through by two rock-hard frenzies.
The bodies were gainly tanned and healthy; she had hand-picked the chosen ones, and although I wouldn’t change my mind about pop soup, I should admit it smelled savorier than it seemed. I dived into swashes of orgastic streams just like Ayla had always dared me to, long before she be of age. One of her sister-humpers showed a cinnamon-toffee brown butt and shoved her long slidings into her vibrato ring, all that he had sublimated onstage for dishevelled kids hurling at their lethal sound system.
After a finicky shower and a remarkably wise pastry snack with tea, coffee, and hot cocoa, they demanded we show them our lesbian talents, and they were served. Ayla had found to kindle their carnal greed some previous times with the tales of our school shenanigans, now they wanted to watch our live pornography, and I understood that, too. They snapped after she fucked me with her lubed foot, so we changed pairs onto the bed, and Merph begged for more of Katie Sketch’s mouth while I was skewered both ends again.
They left a fat bundle of notes as to which Ayla congratulated me, for they had already paid their fare; I avowed it would recall an arousing pass to have shared money with her, but I earnestly did not need it; I was amply supported otherwise. She sniggered, revealing that since my mighty friends had intervened at Esther’s bedside, she still whored only for Melchior’s fantasies, and he provided, as he does. We laughed like naughty brats and finished the plates, then she announced there would be another john, if I would.
I did not know better; we freshened up our muzzles and dressed up like candid gallivanters; this one would relish in every button released; she handed me bland cotton knickers to make it feel real, but I argued it would show through the silk if I teased him from behind. She donned a silly sage green Liberty shirt dress in which she knew how to flash her knickers. No one could have told of our shambolic interview; she called for service; it was the same maid; she made me lick her to completion on the sofa once the bed was made.
Six knocks were hit; I went to the door and opened it to some tweedy accountant type with greyish blond sideburns and moustache that blushed looking at my neck as if I had stolen his grandma’s pearls; as a well-bred whore, I gently tilted my head to invite him in, and Ayla fluted a “welcome M. Reemtsma” and told him not to bother about me for I was a premium.
He smelled jasmine, clove and bergamot, a tad more daring than he looked; he cast a second glance on me —down to my trousers— with faded-blue eyes, and I smiled as casually as a house girl when he stared at my vest’s faceted jet buttons; I did not pull aside, playing absent-mindedness, until he touched them. Then the nasty brat entered the candy store.
He was German, well-built and altogether shy; his shoes told he was rich; he sat on the sofa letting us guess his erection. Ayla asked if he wanted some collation, and he agreed on some smoked salmon with fennel salad, I also asked for bagels with clotted cream and Morello-cherry jam, it amused Ayla —there’s nothing high-end palaces won’t do for an expensive clientèle like us.

He liked my shoes, too. Ayla was overjoyed to see him smitten with my style, she must have tamed him long ago; she beckoned me to sit beside him and uncrossed her legs in the cabriolet chair. There was a bottle of Vinho Verde for him, and another of Kombucha.
Ayla had kept her finely contoured legs for she must seriously work out and run, her thighs slightly hollowed near her crotch; she bore no trace of fat —and neither do I. Her fresh white knickers aroused me too, albeit I had seen her being ravaged an hour before —lust is a language. The name was Elbert, she called him El, proved dexterity with the melted butter on the blinis, the salmon, and some fennel on top. He kept a napkin on his knee but nothing ever fell.
Then he watched me and Ayla smear the heavy cream on the bagels and pile the black cherries on; he profited that I was jammed up eating to risk a hand on my chest and I let him do, thus he began to skilfully unbutton the vest down, every time grazing my timid breasts and reaching for my pointed berries.
When I was done with my play meal, he pushed me backwards on the cushions and daintily unwrapped my body, telling Ayla that her friend was likeable indeed. He asked me to quit my jacket but stopped me when I seized my belt buckle. She had come to sit by his side and smooth-talk to him that I was a true Princess in secret debauchery, that I wholly belonged to his whim for the next few hours, and he could observe that I had been harshly chastised the night before. She kept her knickers in view; his eyes swayed sideways, like a fright.
He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves; he pernicketily unset Ayla’s dress buttons to stare at her most useless white bralette; she’s as flat as me. He crouched down at my feet, doing justice to my London Jodhpurs and their snazzy straps, then smelling my socks and feet, raving upon my night-blue lacquered toenails. He agreed I had princess’ ankles. He crept up to my fly, swiftly unbuckled and unzipped my trousers, nosed on the fresh new cotton of my panties then freed my legs entirely, smelling at my crotch like a puppy; I pulled up my legs to let him graze the whole province; he eventually grasped the waistband to slide off the panties and begin kissing some of my perinea, then poking a pointed tongue all along the rims of my holy holes.
Ayla moved sides to disrobe him, he sported a tense shaft in a thick bush of darker curls. She gulped in his glans and rolled her tongue on it while he burrowed his deep in me with fervour. Shaking himself off, he wallowed in the cushions and told me to straddle him in reverse, and to Ayla that she lubricate my bumhole, so as she would eat all her want of my quim. He was strong; he supported my loins properly as I arched back and met his mouth. He remained sunk deep and wriggled about in my innards while Ayla savoured timeless memories and I gushed to her face, my convulsions triggering a long crisis of my mount who coughed out his bliss.
He watched Ayla lapping at my holes, and then ordered me to serve her a reward; I knew all about her clit, thus it doubled down my dedication to her fully deployed orgasm for M. El’s awe.
He knew she would return to Zürich, but he inquired about having me again, thus I wrote down the address of Speck’s he couldn’t have yet known, a top-notch card-vetted venue, and I would say his personal visit card would suffice to let him in, he might call me for a visit, and more.
I told Ayla she could have un at Speck’s, so she promised she would put herself in sight there someday soon. El had read his priceless timepiece, we helped him clothe; he fetched a money clip in his jacket and deposited a handful on a plate; enlacing me, he said we had been enthralling, and we smelled classy; he loved my princely bumhole.
Ayla would be awaited early at Le Bourget, I walked out with that pocketful of banknotes, plus she had transferred my fee to my account. I joined her in the last shower and cleared my arse with the enema pear, then sprayed some out of an expensive perfume sample that seemed appropriate to woo a cab driver anyhow.
Downstairs, the lobby was deserted, except for the reception desk where my cosmopolitan minder jumped to open the side door with a wolfish smile. I could have reneged on what I had been all day, but I had already relished so much of myself whoring about that I did not baulk to yield another time.
He did not light up the little room, getting to my belt while he breathed up in my neck; he mumbled I smelled vice, his dick was hard of all the waiting; I mused how many concierges Ayla had ever done. He acted febrile, I had to demand lube for he raged upon my cleaned anus. He fumbled about in the desk’s drawer and brought up the appropriate Swiss Navy. He was a lesser bugger than my latter one, and he was fast; all I thought was that I would carry his semen home, then.

Late morning, Charlotte and Cecile ferreted me out in our bed, into a tangle of the comforter, my butt apparently in the air, so I sense a rose leaf gently offered for free. I didn’t dress, I dragged to the kitchen and brewed some tea. They had brought fresh cinnamon rolls. I was spent, but nevertheless hungry. They wore casual tracksuits and sneakers.
Charlotte grazed my back strangely —what had she known of my whipping galore? Apropos, Fulgence had left a litany of unread messages, I called him in case he would be idle, and he said he would come running.
My two fillies appreciated the seeming clodhopper who had taken a while to reveal himself likeable, as for myself until he shagged me carefully with his considerable prick and also when he kept Natalia safe in college, not abusing the privilege it earned him with her. Charlotte shied from telling about the swarms of fireflies the sight of his dong unleashed in her womb.
I had begun recounting my exploits as a high-flier whore —Charlotte was all wet figuring us manhandled by the Shambolic crew— when Fulgence arrived with a family-size kugelhopf from the Alsatian bakery on the boulevard. He savoured what he saw and moaned at finding me bare, merely a tad rosy. He also grasped he could kiss the girls on their cinnamon mouths, keeping Charlotte for last, somewhat longer.
He had known the Shambolic Cluster Few and remembered lousy wordplays, he grabbed my underbelly at the thought that I had fucked them all the day before; he was already hard. He saw my hand in Charlotte’s pants; Upon a glance, he followed her when she went to the loo, and the bed wasn’t far.
Cecile told me they had been to the Panopticon and had set the house on fire, as I had just seen Charlotte, she had contented at least a lucky dozen swashbucklers just like herself did; I called her near and pulled her pants down, her bumhole felt supple and willing but we pulled the thumbs up and we discussed which studio we would move to. In the bedroom, a bird was singing.
The eventuality of a later romp in the cubbyhole drew me to follow her downstairs, once I had slid on a supersized periwinkle grey tracksuit, socks and tennis shoes. Cyprien was seated in his work chair, his mind evaporated in the well-tempered clouds, reviewing a batch of his sensitive sketches. Cecile was setting the lights upon a new Flemish school earthly paradise with sundry fauna and a gracile goddess arms up, feeding doves at her fingertips; I could have bet the ravishing deity was most entirely Cecile’s hand, possibly helped by Cyprien who had taught almost all of her talent and still did not touch her, knowing full well what glorious slut she was.
After a while, the wildflower and her faun came hurtling and smelled of Cecile’s orange blossom shower gel. Charlotte was serene; I slid a hand upon Fulgence’s fly and knew he could reboot anytime. Cyprien went overjoyed seeing the youngling whom he craved to draw; he steered a conversation towards having her sit for him; I grasped I could help in proposing we sit in a couple and thus she agreed and hugged me. The room was warm enough, I began to unclothe her, she had not yet sussed we would sit nudes. Fulgence had seized an opportunity to palpate my hide closer, he did a little more around my arse, I gave him a mouthwatering kiss. Cyprien touched my breasts and asked me if I had been running through the woods, I laughed but he was making my nipples quiver. He asked me to lay aslant across the sofa, arranging cushions to ensure I wouldn’t have cramps; he also risked a hand to my quim for no reason and felt me wet, of course. Charlotte would lean against me a little lower, so as not to hide my face, my upper hand cupping her pubis. He asked us to stare straight at him. He was visibly transfixed by Charlotte’s grace. Standing still and making myself soft as a bag of clouds, I gleaned the sweet shudders of her youth —like Ayla in the laundry cellars. The music unfurled unshakably, I did the naughty girl and I chatted in her ears, unheard by the self-absorbed craftspeople. Fulgence had found refuge out of frame, wedged in cushions against a sofa foot, cuddling our feet until he dozed out.
When Cyprien broke the spell, the Flemish goddess looked like she was singing, and Cecile decided she could wait until morning. We kissed Fulgence awake and he thanked us for the dream he had done upon our feet. Cyprien gone to his asserted solitude, Cecile proposed we all sneak into Michelle’s realm through the subterranean pathway, to show Charlotte further flamboyance and make her come together again with TRÆVIX birds she had been charmed to acquaint with. Cecile texted according to protocol and we climbed down the rabbit hole. The gym room, the pool, and the tower pit, all in the dramatic spotlights, made Charlotte gawk in awe, and she needed not to see beyond the iron hatch in the tower wall.
Delf had been all too happy to come and meet us at the armoured gate. She was merely covered in dawn-gold satin shorts and camisole thus I couldn’t help my hands, so she giggled lightly. She trotted in precious white socks. She said there were plenty of lovely pixies around the cyber fairy, nowadays, and Dagmar slept in her bed; she knew we were there, but we also knew she couldn’t steal time on the web.
She had also called on Fanny, Mara, and also Natalia, who could bring on her hunky suitors, possibly.
In the landscape salon, under gilt-framed oval glass bubbles, three antique Chinese elaborate ornaments made out of kingfisher feathers against a purple-black velvet background, like eerie black holes through the serene painted skies, a poisonous menace warded off in beauty, highly forbidden.
Charlotte let herself at Delf’s whims and wandering hands under the fleece of her tracksuit. Apolline tiptoed in, an ash-grey oversized unspun wool jumper upon her tricky bloomer panties, and she kissed Fulgence open mouth.
I had sussed that Charlotte craved for Dagmar at the first minutes in Chevillon, but as she did not speak German, she had felt shunned; it had been a misgiving, and now the tall slinky blonde was laying her wide butterfly-blue eyes on her and stuttered nice thoughts to her, in French. However, Dagmar had been hunting for Fulgence on whom Natalia had thrown her at her great relish. Now it was Michelle’s fancy to watch them make love at her feet on her spread-out futon, and she might mingle after the ending to lick spunk; Charlotte would have liked to join.
Natalia, who had all access by some right of birth, arrived with a trio of the chosen crew she had already teased like embers. Charlotte, cuddling upon my bosom, asked me if there would be flogging so I swore no, albeit I let her graze my still aroused nether belly; I advised her to try a round with Delf’s cunning little spur, or even she paired merrily with Apolline —if asked— I had enjoyed all that before. Charlotte pulled a kindly tongue towards Delf, who jumped on her and dragged her away to some cosy hidey-hole.
As a romantic couple, Malo and Josephine snuck into the salon and sat down on a cushion, it had been arranged that they would await the finishing of Melchior’s proposed venue in Michelle’s home; besides, Michelle had an eye for Josephine and Malo wouldn’t take umbrage. The little mouse from Gibraltar might be in for a career along with our loner cellist. She wore a Greek-like layered chiffon tunic with a gold foliage belt, bare-legged. I did not resist crouching at her so slender feet and suckling her toes as if to inspire her dance genie.
Someone was helping my track pants to slide down; I played not to inquire who, I was available. I did not guess boy or girl or else until the tongue gave way to a slippery thingy I helped all the way into my vagina, throwing a leg up and finding out a perfect stranger in an open red and black lumberjack shirt, smiling of all his teeth, humping me gently, thus I angled a little better so as he could reach the bottom of my womb. The scene aroused my dancer who lifted her short skirt, exposed her labia and began masturbating as I licked her toes greedily and rolled my haunches to the assaulter; it was furious and short, so I spilt a gush on the rug, elated, making him spurt in deep. I had a hunch that his buddies had been on the lookout as I was too offered up, then a second brute, thinner and longer plunged into his pal’s drooling, to feel I could still squeeze him jolly tight and give him shivers. Josephine had slid forth to make me lick her bloom, which triggered my new climax and the boy’s jizz spurt.
I did not query for another one; for all I had sensed they were young and they would come again, once I could read their faces. I ran to the bathroom squeezing my vagina rim, it dripped all over the shower floor and I laughed, moreover when I felt hands on my ribs and a rod upon my bumhole. With the stream in my face, I bent and pushed upon the wall to give him some abutment to bugger me, which he did in style, two shots.
Natalia confessed to having sent them after me; when Delf had called they were together in bed and she knew they were on the verge of a spurt, and it only took a few more minutes. they were the cream of her suitors, she had tested them in the lesser levels at Philippe, thus we risked nought, bar a solid shag and again.
Charlotte begged me to take her to Michelle’s room, she was enthralled to watch Dagmar be done the nasty as I had just done, and she had two fingers in my clean arse. Apolline was teaching her being to one of my jolly assaulters, demanding he suck her lesser dicky hard and promising her back hatch; the boy seemed to appreciate her between worlds smell.
Holding Charlotte’s hand to avoid her tripping on the stairs as she rolled her eyes in all directions, incredulous she be that the house and all belonged to a girl younger than me. The upper venues were dim-lit; it would all become the playground for Natalia’s guys.

But Charlotte was overly stunned at the sight of Michelle’s command room, the six hi-res screens floating before the giant console, and she had devised a space-age crane-mounted armchair that swivelled and roamed so as to reach any spot on the augmented keyboard, itself articulated on command. A gamer’s ultimate orthopaedic extension, and yet, its user for most of the clock-run remained slim and gracile, same as the day I had dragged her away from her maddened boss Victor for whom she cracked fortune-churning codes until he tried to rape her for good in our presence. It had been from a hideout behind our red sofa in our studio that she had mentally broken her chrysalide and become the daredevil in the wires and fibre optics, monitoring lightspeed trading in New York from this mind-candy doll’s house, in synergy with Camille’s SEVEN STREAMS corporation and the devoted support from the pervasive network of Melchior. Michelle’s indispensable Aviator gold-rimmed spectacles and her slight feet I had pampered, out of her hideout, made her a living legend with incomparable whims, but to the outer world an under-the-radars ghost of unforeseeable might.
A gracious flesh-and-bones anime icon, albeit she had never watched an anime in her life, a preterhuman autist blonde whom I could nevertheless bring to orgasm, and revelled in watching two beautiful friends shagging upon her wayfarer bed under her supple mobile seat. Newbie Charlotte was only flabbergasted, and unpredictable Michelle read that and invited her on her lap, onto the ultimate geek throne.
Charlotte was candid enough to let Michelle feel she could fondle her easily while showing her innocent tricks on her über-machine
I knew full well, for she had been like my patient all the time she had dwelled in our studio like a pet, that she was more aware of others than it looked, only she carried inside that supplementary array of neurons that she plugged stealthily into the mighties’ shenanigans with her blond philosophy. Hence it would be totally benign to let them frolic on the Aviator’s articulated throne.
Then, on the floor, Fulgence collapsed in bliss, Dagmar extended her unending arms, and I chased quivers with my nose on her belly, Michelle’s flannel sheets were soaked, but I knew she often slept in her tilted chair, in a fleece tracksuit and cashmere socks. Now then, we all gathered in Michelle’s bathroom where she dared show her unspectacled face in the shower, and she was lovely, and I remembered discussing eye surgery with her, she thought her case was not appropriate enough, it would make me cry. Only her lovers would know the immature charm of her face, she could swim with glasses on.
She said kind words to Charlotte and Invited her to stay with them in her house, attended to as a princess or left unbothered at her liking, time for Hugo to fit a proper dwelling for her, but she answered that she would be living with Cecile, on our side, only that they might mouse their way through the tunnel to join them, like now.
We had marrons glacés with vanilla ice cream, and chocolate shakes on the round, buttoned, frozen-rose mohair velvet round settee supporting a marble sculpture of a disrobing nymph by Carrier-Belleuse at its centre, under a grand cloudlike chandelier of gilded bronze foliages and illuminated white trifles of linen, surrounded by sundry pedestal trays in fine metalwork and micromosaics figuring Arcadia. The walls were painted in cool grey faux marble slanted veins seven black japanned round armorial shields hung in stark contrast, and the tall window was dressed in silver grey moire. The fitted ash-grey carpet was orgiastically thick in a pattern of acanth leaves swirls.
Charlotte laid siege to Dagmar who gleamed with lust after the brazen romp she had shown. Her long legs were blessed with impalpable golden down, she had sat legs crossed, and Charlotte was of yet too shy to graze other than an arm, it was fine thus. Michelle sniffed up Fulgence as if he had not lathered up as we all, but when he turned to her, she licked his lips like a puppy as an explicit invite.
I sat on the other side of Dagmar and broke it that Charlotte was smitten by her and almost distraught about it because she was only the wildflower girl, nought worse, was there? We laughed, and Dagmar offered her lips, and I felt I should climb downstairs and lure a waiter astray.
He was from Sri Lanka, and his name was Ranji; his skin was coffee black and his traits thin. He must have been lesser than twenty, he wore the black silk wool collarless livery that let see a wisp of a violet shirt at the neckline and the wrists, Gauthier had swayed the choice. He wore patent leather loafers. I followed him back to the office and cornered him in the vestibule, offering him money to let himself be done, and he nodded, amused.
He was already stiff as a reed; he wore trunks, and that made it easy to free the black puppet of his trousers. He relished my pale hide, he was ready.
Then I knew of an ancillary daybed in a vestibule behind the vestiary where he would feel better at ease to get laid by one of the guests He smelled of tobacco leaf, vanilla, and rum in a classy blend he might not have bought himself, his skin was sleek as a sabre, he bent me back and rummaged about my navel in playful swashes. Keeping me at hand, he fetched a large blue towel that he spread out on the single bed as a reflex of preservation that made me agree that lust could be dirty. He laid me down and covered me under a fresh blue sheet, starting to give me the creeps, only to rejoin me in the twilight, rekindled and gushy, all in double Dutch about not being seen by the wraith of his mother, but he liked me so much that I fornicate with him. Indeed he made me return to the blessed days of sneaky hugs in storerooms, and he was so febrile that my womb was stirred before my mind knew, in an endless gush that raptured my soul.
So much so that when I recovered my breath, and he was grasping the sheet that had slid, I could see on his back a large tattoo of a dancing Ganesh on his dark skin. Something did that I grabbed his waist and cuddled the God Ganesh. When he monkeyed out of my clasp, he said I liked the god, thus he needed no more sheet, then plunged again into my blooming yoni.
I awoke in the dim light of the closet, the blue sheet covering me up, not any clue how long I had dozed out. I sleepwalked to the nearby bathroom, peed and else, then rejoiced in the never waning tepid streams and the scents of a luxurious house in generous flasks.
It was dawn, a sleazy colourless one, and everyone had fled. I slid into my long abandoned tracksuit and snuck to the underground path and mechanically tamed the security routines. I was overspent.
When I prepared to collapse into our bed, three people lay there entwined movingly, Kate, Gwen, and Finlan who exposed his languid prick that smelled of a girly rose. I went to Cecile’s bedroom and found her with Charlotte in deep silence, thus I unclothed fast and cuddled the other side of Charlotte, to oblivion.
It would be familiar queerness to find a dancing elephant on my terrace of the angels, yeah yeah yeahs style, and the fourth of July’s fireworks, damn you. Again, the crimson crows in Busby Berkley’s crowns around the fabulous mind of His Divine Lightness. A chorus line of silver mice rang ballabile around the pudgy feet of the most fluent abilitator on the frustrated planet waving his fiddling hands up when The Giant Rat Of Sumatra gripped my shoulders setting to bugger me, a smile on his sharp face, his black vaselined hair parted on the side in lovelocks. One of the mice snuck through a suture of my skull to reach my soul’s bell ropes and peal reason that I was, in earnest, being buggered.
Sergei had nosed around the house, fresh as a Ukrainian cavalier, all mimsy as the Borogoves. When I ended teasling my nerves, I kissed him on his pointed nose and ran to the bathroom. He had disappeared with his crop.
Hence there was no one left after my thorough grooming. I fetched red cashmere socks and put on my raw cotton tracksuit to climb upstairs to the studio. I resented having forsaken my research a tad too long going to the dogs and selling my body astray. Kate was seated in a vague tunic of variegated zigzag jersey and leggings, she scolded me about my laisser aller with the Zaporozhian Cossacks, I retorted we all have penchants. Fayelle had propitiously reacquainted herself with the hefty book of Cortazar’s short stories, and she bantered there had still been no more axolotls, but she shied off our mirrors. Annabelle had brought fat cushions to sit on the floor, with her lichen-green layered gown sprawled around her like the waters of a fountain; she was browsing a large album on Renaissance mannerists.
I brewed the largest pot of Formosa oolong, for everyone was thirsty, and then I chose some blank drawing board, Cortazar was sipping from the silver bombilla.

 

Cecile says:

Are we not pets to one another, at the end of the day? I am so proud of my find, just like Sarah is proud of me, and so on Kate and Gwen and all the gang with Michelle.
There would possibly happen some recess in our frenzy, no sooner had Charlotte hustled us in a cash line than she had become as debauched as most of us, staring at money trickling down her pretty apron pocket. Lauritz owned me to a knack for not spoiling a windfall, thus he had been game and complained of nought, at the end of the day; me neither, Sarah turned me into the profiteering onlooker I always was, unbeknownst, and fortunate still to lure chosen passers-by into my cubbyhole, as I indulged it with Gauthier, such a fine sword, all professional considerations put apart.
It is notable that none of the fairies onboard have siblings. Charlotte has a little sister Emeline, but she would not let me see her, she says she’s too young, but then, doesn’t she let her in the same mire she escaped from? At twelve, her father did to her what I suffered in the cellar, and so the matter is that the lout owns her, with all the might of the law. I keep mulling over a dire conspiracy to free Emeline, would we not dare? I fancy we could send that child to Sarah’s paradise school, I bet I could afford that, she once joshed that most of her schoolmates carried fake IDs for one reason or the other.
It was a comely idle day in the Workshop mood that Cyprien had relished to help; whatever happened under his eyes remained in connivance, be it lustful or not, as long as the music played over our chit-chats. The polished and heated floor made the damsels lose their shoes nicely. There was a silvery ring at the door nobody ever used, and it was Josephine in some puffy almond-green tracksuit and dance slippers, dishevelled as she would have fallen from the bus, sleepy. Charlotte ran to her and embraced her, then proposed all sorts of morning treats we might have. It made Gibraltar sunny.
Malo had been called to an inescapable performance and had sent her to me, knowing I was assiduous at my craft and Josephine had a bend for Charlotte. Richter hovered in an eerie light, and Cyprien unveiled his mellifluous voice to ask them to unclothe for him. Of course, Josephine had done so her whole life, she revealed her Thorwaldsean behind with grace so as Charlotte’s underbelly quivered, obviously, at the idea of a long, long hug with the young dancer. Cyprien installed them on the sofa, in a black padded velvet quilt: my seat swivelled, and I was enthralled watching the obsessive draughtsman set his models like live porcelain, thus I needed to go and sniff them together.
Something droll arose, some Bach prelude, in the vast genius of the Kantor, gave Josephine restlessness in her tapered legs, so I had to warn her she should not try to dance on our hard floor, but I promised she would practice with all the angels in Leipzig when her floorboards would have been laid. I switched to the ambient soundscapes of Jon Hassell, instead, and thus, poised cosily as they were, they could very well doze out, and Cyprien would be fine with that, too.
Gwen had weaved in, not ringing or anything audible, as you walk in on a started movie, barefoot. She crouched at Cyprien’s side, hugging her knees; she wore pale hues leggings and no panties, a loose, hazy blue jumper that left one shoulder entirely bare. I wondered if she had already been drawn, too. Swapping hands with the pencil, Cyprien caressed the short blond hair and slid down calmly to the tits in his absent-minded manner. Another stray nymph that knew nought of any family ever and carries an invented ID, I would kill for her.
When Cyprien offered a pause, They all ran to the bathroom, and Gwen lost her togs. Then I made coffee for everyone and sacrificed a box of langues de chats, Josephine never drowned any. Touching them like pups, Charlotte would ask them tales of their previous lives; all she had to offer as such were repeated sad rapes she wouldn’t even fight against, I myself only bragged about Lauritz’s steamy inventions, Gwen craved a boat ride on the Seine, thus, in a kiss —she’s a peach to kiss— I assured her I wouldn’t mind if she wooed Lauritz enough to let him embark her.
After my Flemish earthly paradise that would stir up a heated auction next year in London, I was onto an arms-span wide panel Hugo had bought depicting a feast outside an Italian Renaissance palazzo, full of minute details in the garlands and the trophies, and moreover, a crowd of courtesans in festive garbs, one of my specialities for I gave them expressions.
Unfailingly, Cyprien invited them three to pose gracefully entwined, with Gwen turned so as to show her rounded bum. They stood behind me, I heard them babble like the whorehouse’s mice. I devised an evening at Lauritz’s.

I assured them no one beat them as couch-baits in all of Paris’s select clubs. It had been Lauritz’s compliment when I announced our considered raid. He advised us not to show up before ten. Thence began the propitiatory sartorial spree, I craved to play doll.
The easy way would be to dress the mermaids with some rework of His Majesty’s New Clothes, but the grandeur of the venue, —to which I would forever belong since my metamorphosis from chrysalide to imago by the grace of Princess von K. in the shards of that sunburst sculpture — deserved the requisite expense of a sultry masquerade in warp and weft magic.
We all went now and then to the beauty salon at whomever’s account, and Charlotte had discovered what a well-tuned laser does to young skins, and I wouldn’t dare begin to compare one another. Inside the slipcovers in our mistresses’ vestiary, in the evening department, we ferreted out a big brand’s iridescent black sequined one-button dinner jacket that made Gwen look like a Las Vegas swindler, she also pulled hold-up veil stockings; she smelled of black datura. A purple silk faille shirt-dress shimmered onto Josephine’s thin features down to her upper thighs in whiffs of violet and iris; A shorter than short indigo silk jersey tee dress embroidered in full width of three vermillion passant leopards heralded Charlotte’s foolhardy brazenness in her narrow hips fired up by rose rose roses as in the song. I found myself a blurry pigeon-heart, zigzag-knit, supple cardigan that couldn’t stay shut over my bareness long; I gave off the fragrance of a powdery camelia, a gift of Lauritz’s. There were also plenty of pairs of pumps, all more or less shiny black, flat, and as sassy as we needed, it was some game to mary them back. We wrapped up in trenches not to cause the cabby a stroke.
I suspected the doorman to make us wait a tad longer, unable to tell which of the four he’d rather entrap. On the majestic flight of stairs, Charlotte and Gwen held hands, the butler waited at the landing and was particularly attentive to me. He said Mr von Speck would arrive later in the night.
As a good idea, the red glowing resistors had been lit in the fireplace, before which two nude sylphides warmed; they were Kate and her sister teasing an audience all in sundry savoir-faire by the Armani boys. Through the heady synthesis of all scents aggravated by towering bouquets of lilies in tall Bacchantes vases by Lalique, our gang stirred attention, and this wouldn’t be any worldly gathering, would it?
Two dozen people did not overcrowd that room, mostly men in near-black with gleaming shoes. I felt aroused that worldly ladies sat along with call girls, some shying, some rolling eyes to my pubis, most mere spouses of lecherous clients. In the taxi, we had conspired on the amount they should ask for the usual ninety minutes feature, and sodomy would be double extra. At any bedhead, they would find a panic button, and anytime, they might be looked upon, for Lauritz’s pleasure, even if he had sworn there wouldn’t be any recordings. Once in the house, they had better move around in the nude, the butler would take good care of their few belongings.
No sooner into the salon, a grizzling old man in a burgundy silk velvet dinner jacket caught Josephine’s hand at once and did not let her reach the buffet; a younger, slimmer cavalier took Gwen by the waist, so as her jacket opened on her nethers when he gave her a Martini kiss, and then he drew her to the elevator.
Arm in arm, Charlotte and I joined the lustful sisters who told us they rested a while after the rumbustious romp they had just had. They did not look wasted, Anna Louise grabbed Charlotte and pulled her dress up, bending her backwards in the red gleam. A ginger sportsman type cupped her head and asked for a kiss, then danced with her, away, in her turn.
Kate and I were exchanging rich mouthfuls of sisterly vice when a lean slick-haired brit in hound-tooth night-blue velvet asked to play with the real sisters, thus I turned away and met the eyes of a young black man in a purplish black silk suit with assorted shirt; he winked, I lifted a brow —I craved a black man— I mimicked a question, and he showed yes, thus, with my cardigan sliding from my shoulders, I rolled gaits to him. He coveted my body around, pulled the vest down and frankly fingered my arse crack, as an appetiser, said he in my neck as he held me backwards to sniff his fingers. My price seemed right, and he said I might deserve more.
He owned a sinewy body and silky smooth skin, bar a dire scar from the shoulder to the opposite hip, he said shily it had been a machete stroke when he was nine, he wasn’t too sure I would let him shag me now that I saw this, but I took hold of his sizeable shlong and let him read my eyes. His head was shaven, but his crotch was woolly soft, he smelled of an expensive tour de force of spices and sacred woods, I let him force my throat even beyond my secret victim ever did. He was fierce but assured, he gushed abundantly down to my stomach, and I did not belch.
That room was all clad in black lacquered panels adorned with round gold embossed geometrically patterned medallions the size of a hand span. The gold-leafed, rounded-edged ceiling was lit all around with a concealed lamps line, one of the famous metal and glass luminous sculptures I had laboured on burst its crystal clouds and shards of sundry crepuscular coloured pressed glass in the centre of the gold dazzle, all lights dimmed down to a faint gleam. The deep pile carpeting was designed with crossed lines of black running calligraphic swashes over a crimson background. The square bed was dominated by the half-circle relief of the golden rising sun. In each corner at the bedhead side stood gilt bronze sculptures of nubile chained slaves rested on ebony veneered plinths. Two gilded Paul Iribe armchairs were upholstered in black mohair velvet
The bathroom was of gold mosaic in full with repeated patterns from the bedroom’s panelling medallions, in black; the built-in tub was black enamel as the pedestal sink, the bidet and the toilet bowl, and all the fittings were golden; the floor was Portoro black and gold marble.
Whenas his brain cells had been a mite eased up in my mouth, he kind of smoothed me spread upon the black stitched satin of the bed, legs wide apart, and began feasting on my quim so skilfully as to enkindle the swarms in my womb, I did not retain splashing at his face, and he smiled proudly. As if my carnal runoff had inebriated his bewildered mind, he sprung up with his flesh bludgeon beating against his scar and buried it in one go in the depth of my soaked vagina, then humped hard upon the neck of my uterus. I had known dicks of all calibres, but that one made me beg that he rather bugger me, for free, before he tore anything essential, at what he gracefully obliged, stroking more on my womb from beyond the soft wall, reviving the squirting frenzy, my feet flapping high in the golden light. He grunted breathlessly as he nailed me down in the bed padding all the while he was gushing into my innards, between us, it was fluid rampancy of warm odorous discharge, we valiantly spoiled the rich satin with no restrain.
As I sat watering my holes clean while the bath filled up, he was kindly eager to know if he had contented me, I told him that by the breadth of my fluxes, he could certainly not doubt that he had spilt my jug —so to speak— That made him laugh as he walked into the lather.
When I went back down to the salon, only dressed in a dash of magnolia, the second wave of libertines had left the dinners or theatres of their busy social life, and as I saw Charlotte in a far corner, I snaked through the now bustling crowd, aware of all the palpations that would earn me. Charlotte hugged me like a buoy, she was a tad flummoxed. Her john had not been so rude, but he had forced her to walk around the room on all fours, pretending to be a bitch licking his arse as he sat in an armchair before buggering her a few times and making her clean his soiled dick. He had left her with a pretty bundle of cash and his card, with the hand-written mention “tuesdays”. That had not particularly amused her, although I viciously confirmed that she was still wet.
Holding her tight, for the obvious relish of some guests, I confessed to being aroused by her little tale, a typical rich man’s whim she could have refused, and she dared not yet avow some part of her had savoured. She remained silent and nosed for a kiss she found. Already an old bushy-brows clubman in formal attire had softly seized her arm, and I watched her go.
Deliberately flying hand to hand to the buffet table where the waiter eyed me with improbable hopes, I found myself cornered by a spectacular couple. As I tried to gulp a chocolate bouchée I had just picked up, they began fingering my both sides, with a telling savoir faire.
She was a splendid, faultless, thirtyish dark blue eyed german trophy wife of sorts —albeit one never knows, she might have been as much of a whore as I— wearing a crew neck, mid-thigh, three-fourth sleeves, buttoned down couture teal-and-jay silk tweed dress, and the cropped vest trimmed with a mint-and-sapphire braid that felt like millions when I slid my hand inside, having sussed she was nude under it.
He nodded so as to lead us out to the elevator, the butler gave him a key card and stared at me pointedly, then down on my pubis, so I knew I would have to tip him and which manner.
Her natural chestnut-rich hair was craftily tied in a loose bun, all her body was laser sleek, she smelled like the Jardin Des Plantes’ Robinea when it blooms in June, She let me unclothe her like a submissive maid. Then he took my wrist and showed me to do him the same.
We were in a large terracotta red room with waxed walls under a lacquered turquoise ceiling where hung a large stained glass shield I had once hand-scoured with a toothbrush, I let her push me down on the bed and poke her tongue anywhere she wished. As she stood over me, he took hold of her narrow hips and shagged her bluntly, seemingly showering her with insults, as for the few dirty German words Dagmar and Fæbian had taught me. I had repeated them to Lauritz who was aroused to hear them in my French accent.
She loved the game, her quim was dripping wet, I found her clit, he was hurling in her back hatch like a rodeo buff I had seen in a magazine, and she climaxed a few times, searching for my mouth to kiss. When she collapsed aside, he pulled me up and turned me to my knees so I would be on level to be served in my turn, he sure was some horseshow stud and loosened as I had just been I accepted his German sceptre like a genteel toy, but he couldn’t help insulting me as well. She repaid me in kind, she was a gifted wanker, a real player, they insisted that I cry out my orgasm, again.
He called for drinks, champagne and, oddly, bottles of mineral water, but he displayed self-control. As the wife and myself were kindly masturbating each other on the bed, a seemingly Levantine boy with combed black curls and almond-shaped eyes in white livery pushed a cart in with the dewy silver cooler and the clinking crystal glasses. He did not flinch seeing two indecent beauties splaying their quims at him. Moreover, the wife left me to go woo him and slide a hand under his jacket and assail his fly. Being what he was and where he was, he pocketed the money handed to him and let be stripped, he showed a proud circumcised cock.
But she made herself understood that he should come frolic with us on the bed and more specifically bugger me in her arms. Meanwhile, the diligent husband served drinks and insisted we were thirsty, I refused the champagne; it was a routine even a young amateur like me had been played with before, he was looking to make us piss.
My Lebanese partner was dedicated and the wife, between tumblers of icy Italian water, fooled around my busy body, sipping the tears from my eyes. My arse offered high, wallowed, arms spread, at the whim of a beautiful sleek dick, my only aim was to climax all the more and hear whatever gibberish she was lulling my ears with as a hymn to my accomplished whorishness. But the Levantine stallion was so young that his drippy staff still shuddered and so he spared me to go spear my elegant client who awaited no better and begged in her rocky accent to insult her like a smelling corpse, that I did, in the vocabulary of the most flowery comics —I sensed strange twirls in my dispossessed mind.
The husband was all the more enthralled. He called the party in the bathroom, a Sienna red marble-clad blind room with a gold leaf ceiling and assorted bidet, toilet bowl, and pedestal sink; at the door, a recess sheltered towels the colour of the room. I sussed it was a specially required set. Diverse polished teak benches and stools allowed devising some frantic watersports, indeed. He lay back on one bench and told me to pee in his authoritative mouth, while he did into his wife’s anus. I let go mu flow while he twiddled my nipples, and then he ordered me to take his place and receive her arse’s contents, and that was mostly disgusting thus I vomited while she also pissed over my face.
Foreseeing the rough weather, the wise Levantine had fled, I kept him in mind. Now the Husband was showering us all with warm water, filling our holes with an enema hose and watching us pour on each other, continuing his funny obscene vocabulary. I suspected he was some tough nut executive in need of decompensation, and I would need a good bowl of sweet rice cream to cure my washed-out bowels. Downstairs, I had this weird taste in my mouth and I kind of grossly washed it off with peach kombucha, then a good many fruit petits fours. I had to run a few more times to expel remnants of clear water. Late birds had gathered, and more of the ladies had their skirts indecently pulled up, some in arrogant allure, others in adorable shame; those who dared had slender legs to show. I had seen scenes like that in those magazines my mother sold under the counter.
Josephine was dancing on the spot a fluid improvisation upon a sourdine of “Kind Of Blue” by Miles and friends, that gem Lauritz liked to play in the 911 when he craved for me. Two or three connoisseurs had thrown money in a silver bowl next to her feet. Eyes rolled up, she was trying to follow not what notes were played, but those, crucial ones, that weren’t. When at last she singled me out, she ran to my arms.
A middle-aged gent in slightly chiselled blue-black silk velvet elegantly bent to pick the silver bowl and handed it to Josephine who wouldn’t dare touch the bills, so I rolled them together for her to stash them in her locker. The obsidian-brown-eyed Cavalier then ushered us to the lift foyer, with a swift halt at the vestiary. He held a key card, he kissed her most greedily; I admitted I would play secondarily, and it fitted me, my bumhole felt like an open hatch.
That room was all wood, in dark rich walnut in pervasive coffered woodwork, floor to ceiling, and a mere three small stained glass windows. The fitted carpeting was deep, textured, indigo wool, the grand bed thrown over with rich duck blue velvet so as many large cushions.
It was the ultimate seafarer magic lantern, lit up by an array of small brass-mounted streaked glass dome lamps in each of the ceiling’s coffers. Two big yew green Chesterfield armchairs could each accommodate the three of us. Here and there, precious tortoiseshell frames contained early daguerreotypes of whorehouse scenes in devilish precision, one of the filles bore not much hair on her pubis; as we bent to see what exactly she was being done to, the client seized Josephine’s lesser breasts and turned a kind compliment on her dancing; as the tone was truthful, she candidly bantered that she would be a professional dancer and she would soon have her own practice floor. and I concurred with that.
He thought he had hired a pair of mythos, and it was for the best. Otherwise, he found us arousing, gracile, immature, and easy-going sexually. He said he did not meet girls of our kind in the houses he honoured of his patronage. That earned him to experience yet another gift of a Gibraltar monkey about the sneaky art of splitting a fly open, and wank it rock solid in no time. Meanwhile, I straddled his mouth to make him suck on my clit, and he finished untying his neck to provide a proper job as I knelt upon the backrest. Soon, Josephine, albeit raised as a sucker, yearned for the real shag and climbed on behind me for a pole dance of her manner. Her late owner the waterman, as well as discerning her singular ability to express her soul in bodily moves, had taught her the many ways of containing a male’s penis into her vagina for mutual pleasure; aboard the grand white ship, she had trained in both graces like a temple priestess, obviously not as a slave, although she could play that, too.
He cast a strong aura, a palpable vibration of carnal nature, and thus we all climaxed simultaneously at the top of our breaths. tumbling down to the sides of his furry ribcage, putting him in good humour. However, he then stood up, jib mast in the wind, and with a grin, pressed on some detail in the woodwork, to the effect of the nearby panel sliding aside, revealing a gleaming panoply of corporal torture tools, all polished and oiled to serve. Firstly, he rolled out an elaborate pillory on four extending feet and showed me to lay my wrists and neck in the leather padded split apertures, only to batten the heavy jaw down, entrapping me and ordering Josephine to buckle tight my ankles to part my legs open. I felt his dick in my butt cleft as he manoeuvred cranks and pulleys to bring my arse to the precise position. It was a game, he told Josephine to anoint my holes and try them with her genteel fists. He kept massaging my loins and legs, I felt licentious. He buggered me kindly, Josephine playing with his balls. He went all his length and ejaculated with little jumps.
I heard voices, and in the corner of my eye I discerned Josephine unclothing one boy in a white livery and sucking him hard, next he shagged me stiffly, a basin had been pulled between my feet, and weird goo dripped down making bubbles. It was no big surprise, these pretty bellboys probably saw fascinating animals being willingly shagged all day long while they sheltered a fierce erection in their trunks. Sure enough, as I meowed to the generous jolts of one stag, a new one niggled my mouth with his trousers’ puppet, so I gulped it, like a good functioning machine, resting thus in my unfettered release as long as my legs would withstand.
I had a glimpse of Josephine wallowing upon the captain’s whiffletree at another stag’s whim probably tidying his wears away from damage before he politely humped in her blooming efflorescence.
Most men are shortlived, soon the bed was bestrewed with spent lurchers, and Josephine came running to my rescue, whenas I could have enjoyed a few more, once kindled, who knows? We snuck into the bathroom, a warm polished teakwood parlor with brass hydrotherapy contraptions we played with, and I had to tell her away from me when I sensed I was about to smell lesser than funny, for a while, on the toilet bowl. She laughed her head off in the far corner.
In the trickling of water, the captain’s dick cuddled off in the black fur of his lower belly. He was candidly caring about the wellness of our intimacies, so much so that he dipped an extra one into Josephine’s blind eye, in my arms, under the streams.
All that money was honey on our pride, and we remained mint as the virgins we had never been, but that was enough, and we did not return to the bustling salon, dressing up and stashing our gains in discreet pockets. The butler, who was more than helping us look happy, to the point he obtained a quick fellatio —part of his function had been to watch us go do it to others with smiles— said that Charlotte had purportedly been sleeping in the little room after the vestiary —although the staff would have access— and our short-haired blond tomboy friend followed Herr Lauritz to his private apartments. We went to collect Charlotte and fled.
At home, Sarah had only just been back from some excesses of her own, she smelled of yellow broom flowers, and the lassitude of her gaze aroused me. She begged us to let her sleep with us. I lulled her with details of my whorishness.

 

Sarah says:

My Far had always sprinkled cinnamon on French toasts; Mom, who was thin as a movie debutante, shunned the treat Far would only be here to cook once or twice a year, why I craved them for, however thin my appetite.
My night had been one of those snug and slow embraces girls let go, in Camille’s familiar bed, with Trine and her tiny hips. I had sussed that I could not stay over, Camille was never again the easygoing bohemian courtesan cum art dealer who had taught me the Parisian arcanes, and profited from my innocent catches. Anyhow, on my way out, I had met her head lawyer Mathew who had a convertible sofa in his resident office and thus he had offered me what girls can’t.
Now Cecile had snuck out downstairs to dip cookies in black coffee, read art magazines and listen to Bach, long before anyone would dare trouble the mirror of her soul.
Charlotte had donned the same crumpled tracksuit I could not help rummage in. Her toothpaste tasted of liquorice, she had barely combed her hair. I seated her on my lap and let her arouse me with what they had let themselves be done. I asked her if she would rather do a whore; she answered that she had not tried to flee when all the hirelings had succeeded one another at fucking her and making her shamefully climax. I bantered that shame would be a mere operative in her ego’s algebra, as long as she remained her own and not a cut of meat on a butcher’s stall. She ate most of my breakfast.
I sensed I needed to work, that day, reader or not; she said she would go downstairs and tell Cecile, then come and do whatever with me. When Hugo wandered by, musing, I had a hunch he would invite Charlotte on some romantic journey, thus she followed him right away, there was no schedule to Corfu, and she carried no luggage

 

 

Cecile says:

As assiduously prescribed by the intangible courtly manners prevailing in this unapparent principality, just like I should know fitted, Charlotte was currently cavorting legs up in the transcendent lights of Corfou, being dubbed by our munificent suzerain’s bon Plaisir. Only that one doe-eyed debutante had so shrewdly wooed me, out of the blue thickets, that I sensed the stitches of jealousy all over my heart as I imagined her revelling as smoothly in Greece as I had hovered in Venice with the utmost whim of a young prostitute in our bed.
Except for our soft-shoed waitstaff —one becomes fastly accustomed to the silent flight of the tidying bees— the crooked-layout palace where the god crow has seen me felt deserted. Sarah was en route to Lausanne along with Michelle and her angels; regardless of his relationship with her schoolmate Elsie, she needed her dad to knead her toes again, as a token of her privileges. I had not dared ask her why she constantly called him “far”, whereas it be the last word of her bygone Danish infancies —I cannot myself recall a small name for my father, nor any tender glares the kind Sarah unabashedly begs from her near-incestuous godlike dad.
My impermanent beau Lauritz had flown to Sylt, along with the bedevilled sisters and Gwen, to what I complicitly approved, knowing the richness of her dreams intimately, Kate and Bis would dance in the moonlight.
Lazing out of a maze orgy dream set in my old rubble landscapes, I could still smell a hint of the hasheesh and jasmine perfume of the hunk who had superbly ridden me thrice in Sami’s car, at the end of a chase through the subterranean corridors of, possibly, the Lithuanian residence. Back home, I had merely spattered mild water at my quim and rinsed my bowels like a spent prostitute.
I showered in orange blossom I donned one of my over-washed lichen-green tracksuits and slid into my already paint-splattered woven-straw slippers, there was some exciting novelty in the workshop, in the case of an unknown study for Girodet’s “Sleep Of Endymion”, that lascivious magnet of a painting for the fairies of Theo’s kind. It had been fodder for some impromptu together when the ravishing lesser panel had been delivered, he had invited me to his jewel-case-like apartment next to Gauthier’s —it had been a mellow interlude, and he was proud I spoke of sweet returns, at his whim.
My days-work then was only at the cleaning start. As usual, layers of weird varnishes had been laid upon the painting that had been transferred from some millboard onto rough linen later on, as Cyprien had determined.
But when I barged in, straight to my coffee machines, Cyprien, already busy on his drawing pad, nodded funnily at me, and I could hunch some skulduggery going on. I had not yet seen, behind a screen, some unknown nude model posing on the sofa covered with an Indienne shawl.
She was stunningly lovely, and obviously so young as to shy me on guard. I couldn’t begin to figure out how she had happened to sit there, and I was mesmerised by the neat pile of her folded jeans, shirt, and hoodie, on which rested faultless wide-belted knickers just as to taunt me. She had been wearing black platform Chuck Taylors and colourful pink and green socks sat twisted upon them. She showed slender ankles and feet, and the nails had been lacquered black, like those of her hands.
Matter-of-factly, I sat down with my pot of coffee and my cookies, letting them work; soon enough I would be granted a plausible explanation. I affected not to stare at her, but each time our eyes met I granted her my best candid smile, it was obvious she needed to talk to me.
And suddenly truth dawned on me with the name “Emeline”! Weren’t she Charlotte’s younger sister, by any chance? She jumped up, ooh my! She was everything as gracious as her sister, same obsidian brown stare I could not fend off in the queue, and she sat on my lap to steal my cookies.
She was flat as a boy, her belly tight and sleek, and she smelled of cut hay and animal fear, she had been on the lam. Cyprien cleared his throat and said casually that he had found her waiting on the sidewalk at the door, and that she knew quite a lot about me and everyone around, so he had let her in and rave at all she saw, so much so that it had not been harsh tactics to let her disrobe after she admired the drawings of her sister in other graces’ hands.
I grasped another cup for her, and made myself comfortable for her butt, she was wet as a brook. She threw an arm over my neck, so I kissed and licked her armpit, making her blush. Yes, Charlotte had known all along that she would be abandoning Emeline as the sole victim of their despicable father, thus she had schemed the whole escapade, head fast, come what might, if we did not shelter them, they would hustle around, and it wouldn’t be worse than where they came from.
Of course, she had not been supposed to spill the beans for me, but I had kindled some charms I learned from Sarah.
She cried to herself, now. Helpless to foresee what confusion she might have caused. Clenching my wings upon her, I made her feel safe. Thus rills of tears meandered into my collar. Across the room, Cyprien’s grey stare awaited an outcome, slightly distraught probably because he had apparently taken advantage of a stray kid.
From the high-hung speakers, Richter hammered on the Kantor’s transcendent rhetoric that bore most of our karmic days, I followed suit, drank out Emeline’s tears and lucubrated that, as of now, she was working legitimately as a model for Cyprien’s studies, and I named a first-rate fee that would give her enough pocket money and an idea of self-worth. Cyprien breathed and came over to set her up daintily for another session, she visibly agreed to be handled. When he returned to his chair, she kept staring at me, not fully convinced her ordeal was over, her eyes bright for having wept. However, as it became sure that she would tell her bruised little life, I lowered the music to the level of a friendly whisper, in a wish to avoid the sharp-edged silence of my sound-proofed rooms, and that worked.
Their mother was a nature girl raised by her grandparents who had confessed to being pregnant well beyond the limit when it would have been available to avoid an inconvenient birthing and thus found herself married at sixteen with soon two baby girls before she become twenty. The father was the hard-working village butcher and had been reputed to fornicate like a mad dog all over the place —other schoolgirls had luckily found themselves the proper pill in due time. He was a testosterone-filled hunk, and many a bored slut relished wallowing upon the blood-stained stalls legs up.
Both girls had been the reedy, tall, fast-running type, warned off by their mother about their father’s randy pulsions. Then, one early winter morning, she had been found dead at a roadside minutes from the village, her head crushed; the suitcase with her belongings ripped open in the nearby ditch; the gendarmes concluded to an accident while she apparently had fled home. No one talked to the girls, the great-grandparents had been long gone.
The father made no comments either, he hired an elderly widow, Mrs Gideon, to manage his household and return to her place once dinner was served. By villager’s standards, he was a well-to-do citizen, he owned a furnished sitting room and used it, with a wide-screen television in front of a deep sofa, and that was where he wanted his girls in their flimsy stretch velvet pyjamas.
Emeline is three years younger than Charlotte, who taught her to sleep away as soon as he forced them to sit beside him in the smell of his cheap cologne and pastis, his sweatpants already below the gauge line. And while the crappiest programs unfurled with boxed laughs, she had seen all of the obscene fantasies her elder went through, slowly pulling down her pants on the coffee table for him to masturbate watching her butt, then kneeling between his parted legs to suck him till he spurted on her face, she had watched all of this between her lashes before his hands had begun creeping up her own legs, whatever Charlotte attempted with her own tricks to save her, he was a free-reined swine in the pigsty of glittery primetime television.
He sneakily began to make Charlotte drink pastis so that she could no longer defend her brooklet and the bottom hole he obsessed with. She saw the game change when he started using Charlotte and showing her how slutty she was, wet as a split fig.
One day, Charlotte, who had dropped school to attend horse at a club, had been picked up on the road by one of the Chevillon château ladies who had understood she was hitting on her and drove to a dark alley. Charlotte had let go of her knickers, the woman was infinitely cautious and made her talk while caressing her like silk. They met again secretly, the father anyhow too busy from dawn to dusk to inquire of her whereabouts. They exulted for a few months in the far pavilion of the park, where the car could be hidden. The lady knew that Gauthier’s grand party could be Charlotte’s decisive runaway, and nothing harmful could happen to her, in that realm. She had kept hidden in a coachman’s shack above the garages, ready to dash in Chloe’s car as soon as they learned where Lauritz and I went to buy flowers.
Remained the snag that Emeline was a minor and her father relished keeping her ready on his sleazy sofa, and all the gendarmes were longtime pals of his. Awaiting for some aperture beyond the château’s moat, but Chloe shied from scheming a risky elopement that could harm the whole community, Charlotte hatched a plan to ask Sami or Hector to drive her and abduct her, any of them would crave that. Alternately, she had caught the eye before of a young delivery boy who drove weekly to Paris with crates of wine and her father’s meats, she bet he would agree to be rewarded in kind. One morning, she hopped in the van with her backpack, he was already stiff as wood.
Antoine was no more than twenty, black short-haired and pale brown-eyed. He smiled all the time. He did not head to the highway but deliberately took the old route so that he could stop whenever he felt, like three times in the sundry old forests to shag her with enough manners not to make her regret.
From the top of her head, she had told him she would meet someone at the Deux Magots —she had never visited Paris— then asked for his mobile number, saying she had deactivated hers out of fear of being tracked. Before she had run, Charlotte had texted all she knew of names and numbers, but the fortress seemed secured behind keypads and cameras, so she crouched down against my street portal and waited, helpless.
Night would come, and the police would ask questions, her ID showed her faraway address, they knew about runaway girls. Then happened the most foreseeable event in that place, that of two alluring bohemians came to speak to her, one black and one sunbleached, both utterly engaging. Fulgence had sat down close to her and sussed who she might be, none of the vagrant kids Liselotte helped out in her own way.
Because all the names they named had been said by Charlotte, and mostly mine, she trusted them up to their apartments, apologising firstly for the scent Fulgence found in her neck and did not fear to identify. He showed her the bathroom and watched her undress, casually seated on the toilet. He had a forthright voice when he told her he would never rape anyone, in earnest. And then he lavished her with compliments, explaining how, being an artist, he had looked at gazillions of butts and legs thus he could tell she was a success already and he would compare when she returned from Corfou.
Erik had been cooking pasta, and Fulgence had gently rubbed her dry, acknowledging how young she should be, albeit she looked soul-stirring in one of his clean tee-shirts, said he, and Erik, who shunned to watch, concurred.
They listened to the horrifying tale of the butcher’s daughters and swore that he would never touch them again. They explained how most of the boarders were momentarily absent, bar Cecile whom she would meet in the morning. They drank coffee with Italian biscotti while Fulgence caressed her legs on his lap from across the table; missing proper words, Erik chose to brush her tousled hair with loving hands.
There she stood, morally spent, thrice vigorously shagged along the way, at the mercy of two athletic hunks the dicks of whom she could tell in their sweatpants, and nothing more than friendly rubs happened, only just the promise something might happen someday. She had slept without dreams on the convertible in the living room and had been woken by a seducing tomboy who said her two minders had left her to care for Emeline, what she did, pulling off her pants and hugging her under the quilt while she drank the ready brewed coffee. That was Natalia, the house fairy who craved Emeline’s flat chest, promising she would bring her to Cecile, only after she would have come in her mouth.
Besides I was instantly smitten by an even more gracile nymphet so resembling my Charlotte, I had to agree with Cyprien’s stares, we were flabbergasted, there was presently no one we could turn to, except trouble the amorists in Corfou. After many kiss-and-tickles, oh my, what had happened! I settled us two, nude, on the teal satin of my bed and called Hugo on Skype. He was in a silk grey robe with padded lapels I knew well, and it took him minutes to understand what he saw, then Charlotte appeared, and she burst into cries and sobs.
Emeline clenched at my wing, I gave a resume of events that confirmed all that Hugo already knew. He blessed the prudence we had all demonstrated, and yes, Emeline could legally pose for me, at a fee. Her telephone should remain gutted, and Fulgence should burn it, with hopes Emeline had deactivated everything before leaving her father’s home.
Supreme weapon, Charlotte had stolen some flashcards containing porn videos their father had made them do with him, it was obvious the bastard had overstepped all self-awareness, not to mention the death of the girls’ mother. Hugo decreed that a proper emissary should go and stick his muzzle in the heaps of evidence, making him understand that he would never see his daughters again.
Only to alleviate the mood after these harsh sentences, Emeline retold the twists and turns of her arrival at the citadel. We all laughed frankly, and Hugo offered her a warm welcome —she looked so desirable upon the satin— and claimed he was so proud of everybody for our attitudes. He promised Emeline a new life with fabulous escales; he was hugging Charlotte whose pyjama had flown away, and they reassured one another that the ordeal was over.
Weeks later, after an abnormally long absence of the village butcher, he was eventually found hung in the cold room, amongst the carcasses. In the backyard, a bonfire had destroyed a heap of digital memory supports. His daughters did not attend the cremation, they bear a new name, and they renounced their heritage.

 

Sarah says:

As I enjoyed the first lengthy leak of that auspicious solitary day on our toilet, as per usual, I checked what meant a few of those inane ringtones that might have snuck through my dreams. A sequence of messages kept me seated until my own smell felt incongruous.
charbool@****.com: ” My sweet young sister Emeline has fled from our dad’s trap. She destroyed her phone before leaving. She has your names, numbers, and address but knows zilch about Paris. Would you please stand on the lookout for her? Love.
hugo@****.hugo: Emeline is young and helpless, keep a keen eye on our street doors, she looks very much like her sister. I warn Hector and Gauthier’s team.
rotor@****.boum: We found a stray kitten shivering at Cecile’s door, and it was Charlotte’s baby sister Emeline. Erik and I were stunned, but we kept our wits, she ate our spaghetti and showed us her legs all above board. She’s one to die for. This morning, Natalia showed her to Cecile’s. Undisputed love to all.
cecicile@****.eu: Cyprien found Emeline waiting at the workshop and tamed her so as to eventually ask her to pose for him. He is so convincingly inoffensive, and she is as foolhardy as Charlotte, one should say. For the rest of the day, she told me all they endured with their bastardly father. We need to shield them from his claws. I keep her on my shoulder. Love all of you.
gauthierrenart@****.renart: The two bedrooms flat under the new bedrooms will be finished next week. Cecile, will you keep the younglings with you until then? Stay wise, we love you.
charbool@****.com: Help me not dissolve into tears while babbling with a wounded angel, can we come upstairs to see you?
My answer was swift and short, they caught me bare-arsed in my crumpled dawn-blue night shirt, Emeline said in my neck that I smelled love before I could take a look at her. Understandably, after having lulled the baby in her bed all night, Cecile was kind of transfixed.
The fugitive knew for sure that she had reached the right address, she stared at me like I had seen squads of wide-eyed newbies do in a lakeshore canteen —long ago. She did not shy away from my impertinent grazings, I couldn’t help reaching for her sleek chest. Since her admirably brave escape, she obviously had had to retell her and her sister’s ordeal that Charlotte had shunned to reveal out of fear. Now she needed a binge of what looked like our fairy tale. That behoved me rightfully.
Once tea and coffee were brewed, and a pile of golden French toasts crumbled on a plate —Emeline was frankly famished, but soon enough replete, smilingly. No doubt she asked who I was, casually groping my thigh when I came near to pour some coffee
My own story is all glorious and my birth aristocratic, if I avoid all that led my Far —she needed a tip-off, there— to send me to the green pastures of the Helvetic Confederation, in Saint Loup, a free-minded privileged institution peopled with cosmopolitan offsprings unfit for intensive farming, most from diplomatic families at nearby Geneva’s UN pole, and under secret services watch. Emeline was frozen scared, it was like listening to TV guests from outer space until I broke the spell telling her I had never shagged so many beautifully happy people in my life, all in goodwill.
My number on my coming to Paris and the beaux-Arts school was fine-tuned, and funny, and she already had her hand between my thighs, and so had I. That brought us to our bed which smelled like a may field after the rain. She eventually confessed to having fostered a taste for pussy after she was forced into it by their father; I bantered that we all would expel him from her cravings.
When she turned to Cecile, there was some veil of unease, I felt compelled to josh out in provocative innuendos, not knowing what she would dare say. She took Emeline off my grasp and hugged her tight, crying she was a survivor, too. It was a story in shreds, but three times she leashed out that she was a murderer, unrepentant for sure. Scenes of the beer-stench cellar floated like maddened bats.
I was cuddling as many toes as I could catch, I felt I should defuse the hatred she lashed at herself by telling how I had randomly come to woo her, visiting the work site at a friend’s house, ogling her emerging from the goggles, the yellow helmet, the yellow overalls and the thick safety boots, and I had not been in the least disabused of the vision I had seen of her, down to her dainty feet that had smelled of wet wool.
I sensed somewhat that the shards she had stumbled upon ever and again since the time of her gloomy secret would erode like the sea-glass pebbles at each tide, thus we cried on each other.
When we woke up entwined, dusk had won outside of the window blinds, and we smelled of tears, saliva, and else like in a Baudelaire song. I did not want to move, but Cecile needed the loo, so we ended up under the shower, Emeline all titillated that we could stand three in the flow; I asked her to pee on my feet, and so she did.

The heather fairies had been expecting me all day in the studio upstairs, thus they mused in and crept on the rug at our bedside to hear the tales of the newfound nymphet with tears in their eyes, such depth did they know the truth of them. How could I help them share at length and elaborate on their martyrdom, that was windfall therapy, the elders had a feel for that, and our bed is large.
The two wise hunks came to the news, and so did Natalia before running to one of her edifying appointments in town. Neither one of the boys could hide their thrust, Fayelle bravely unleashed the dragon in Fulgence’s pants and began to offer lip service while Emeline snapped back her legs at the sight of his erection. She took refuge in Cecile’s arms, whispering that the butcher’s dick was a fraction of that, not to speak of the black rod Annabelle put her gentle self to play with, in solidarity.
I was dripping, I would have felt like sharing a few humps of Erik’s, but I woke to the necessity of ordering dinner before they closed. Cecile and I shared glances about Emeline being stuck in self-conscience, no longer watching the romps at her feet. I beckoned them onto the kitchen, cajoling both casually; Sanne grasped exactly what she should send and proposed she had a whole beautiful black cherries clafouti if we wished. All that while, Emeline waved under the strokings, still in fear of waking up sorry.
Although I would certainly have relished to force them to remain naked, I pushed them towards our cloakroom, I had the whim to watch Emeline quiver into cashmere, as I had seen all girls do. I fetched the priceless knit jumper dress with the sloping cowl neckline, the colour of coffee custard, that Kate had had a whim for while being wooed by one of those Liselotte’s patrons Emeline didn’t need to know of, yet.
It was entertaining to let her dance in that wearable sensation of being, and I clasped a thin band of lapis lazuli and gold plaques at her gracile neck, with the little sister at her wrist, affirming playfully she could keep all of that for my pleasure. Cecile held her through the thick knit, nosing in the wavy collar, bantering she might as well love her sulking in her flannel pyjamas as she had seen in the butcher’s videos, it had been her at the hands of a sick fool, and there was no curse to let guilt rot her soul. She was beholding her wrist, she cried not.
Even for trained partiers like us, the food was succulent, Emeline, newly dressed-up, had cast a perceptible spell on the delivery boy. I revelled in noting that she had known in a breath how to move in that bulky vesture, and for my own craving, she wore no shoes.
The boys, swiftly contented, did not overstay after the clafouti when the conversation with the thistle sisters bent towards explicit intimacy, Fulgence avowing he might become inappropriately aroused, garnering a round of sniggers, save for Emeline who candidly liked them for the gentleness they had shown to her since the door.
There would be bottles of kombucha and tea for when the girls’ mouths would dry up telling harsh tales, but we all needed that well of truth, and to keep Emeline at hand to help her from falling any manner. The cashmere smelt of Kate’s, she nosed in when she bent her gazes away in shame. She heard all she could bear of our faerie maidens’ bygone misery, and she told in tatters of their own unthinkable abuses.
Natalia joined the round, I could smell she had been naughty, thus I stripped her of the purplish-variegated jersey tank dress she wore with nothing under. Like all of us, she had a crush on Emeline’s feet that snuck out of the dress she had all gathered into. Natalia was aroused, and bar Emeline we all yearned for the retelling of her extravagant adventures. She asked me if she should, thus we tested shily what that very young country girl might know of worldly prostitution, and we were in for a big surprise because the butcher had also made her pretend in roles of that kind, after some videos or not, slyly grooming her for the future, after, said he, that she would have given him a baby girl to play with.
Natalia had been picked up on the boulevard in one of those new silent whale carriages, towards somewhere west in the highs of old money. As per usual, she had let the chauffeur ogle most of her, having left her skirt hitch somewhat up, she felt a whore, lightly. They had reached some subterranean garage all tiled of turquoise green ceramics with funny gilded sprinklers every meter of the ceiling. An array of ageless pristine carriages lined up the wall opposite the mirror maze of an elevator where she had been ushered in by the chauffeur who had asked her for her shoes, mere silk needlepoint slippers; those in hand, he had unabashedly fiddled her for undies she did not wear, so she grasped it would be one proxy-lewd recital for some freak at his console, thus she had adapted, the reward was considerable.
Randomly groped by Natalia who remembered when she, too, had been a spy in our bed, Emeline was already wet expecting the turpitudes our raconteur had blindly abandoned herself to.
A sturdy black man in a sleek black suit awaited on the landing and took possession of her shoes he showed her where he stowed them in a rack. He offered his arm towards a small nook where they sat on horsehair stools while her black card was read in good order; she had encountered that client before.
The premises, all greenish gold with rounded-angled wainscottings, seemed to extend indefinitely upon silk carpeting as the lackey’s hand already held her bum under her hitched dress, but that was what she was there for, wasn’t it? He drew her inside a salon in the middle of which the sole furniture was a man-sized round, buttoned green leather daybed. On each wall were dark mirrors, of which the overly ornate herds of sculpted nudities escaped their large frames. It smelled of old tobacco and hashish, like some closets at Hugo’s, he slipped down her dress and whistled of lust, then joshed as she do what she knew best. While she licked his jolting ramrod, he took care to expose her at the mirrors behind which hid the cameras, and thus she complied until he plunged his flesh tool gradually to the hilt and spurted a scented load and made her lick it clean, then took her by the hand to a round bathroom under a dome of carved gilded laurel leaves where she used a green marble bidet.
Her first servant had swanned off and, as expected, a new, Slavic-type black silk-clad one with grosgrain dance slippers, helped her wash and inject flowery waters in her bumhole, with a distant smile. He wiped her in emerald green deep terry towels and led her by the hand to another round room entirely curtained with razed purple velvet under a painted ceiling depicting a whirl of an orgy although the eye lose focus trying to elicit the action —on her back upon the square silver satin divan, she wondered if it was not her slutty want that was projecting into a tricky maelstrom. From the cornices hung down articulated cameras, some on travelling rails just like in a TV studio, she would be a pornstar, only the client had no right to diffuse her performance. As the blond hunk pranced around her, she couldn’t fathom where the room lighting came from. Nude and glabrous, bar his hair and beard like a bronze warrior, he was most fittingly equipped and ready for what awaited Natalia anon, with almost feminine traits and squinted grey eyes like Kate’s.
Gauthier showed up with Mara, the talented Sacher’s room maid we had helped escape, too. He had been tipped by the château about Emeline’s runaway and that the butcher shop would remain closed and silent. She waved a hand vaguely and gave Gauthier a sorry smile, then Mara sat next to her and grazed her silky chest. Grasping an airwave, Gauthier crouched behind Natalia, sniffed in her nape and wondered where she had been.
Since the early times when she snuck in our bed to grope Kate, Natalia had always been a lively storyteller, moreover when it came down to debauchery, why Liselotte, amongst all, had considered her a princess? At Mara’s fond arousal —she came back to the violet room and the Slavic hero. Of course, Gauthier would have some reservations as to our newbie’s age, until he would hear what she had to tell.
Recovering her breath from the Moorish ravage, Natalia had lain in wait, amused with the rounds of the piloted cameras and the bold Narcissus who began delicately rekindle her wits in the manner a girl would have, kneading her feet kindly and all the way up to her rumps, at a steady loving pace, he was tuning her nerves like guitar strings, and she heard the false-wobbly genius of Jaco Pastorius. He seized her well-obeying head and slid his dick slowly between her blooming lips until tears shine as she choked and puffed up to let him jiggle his glans deepest while the cameras gleaned up close like eager bees.
She felt the tingle of semen hurled through her while he almost sang his release, she spilt nought, proudly. He mollycoddled her face with licky kisses, hugging her squatting, his tireless spur rummaging to find her bumhole. She could spread her thighs so wide as he burrowed in at her whim as he savoured the taste of raw vice in her mouth. She felt like the pagan metaphor of Shiva, although she knew not much better about the pervasive goddess than the figurations at Khajuraho temples, she had shunned most of the mythological studies out of her cursus, teachers in that realm smelled funny, and she was overly sought after by more modern academics.
Sweats had pearled at the hero’s sleek forehead, and his lichen-green irises swayed up while he stiffed his embrace as he discharged through into her loins and she quivered like an animal. Unlike others, he did not let go of her, either licking her face or vaunting aloud her young beauty. He carried her to another round vaulted bathroom, all clad of sundry amethyst cabochons where he roared with laughter when she couldn’t help releasing the stench that he had unwittingly stirred in her bowels, and thence he had run.
For as much as she does literature out of her womb, Natalia’s voice was that of an amused viola, thus Emeline dreamt unfazed of the Princess life, having long tamed all carnal tremors at the paws of a sad carrion boor.
Natalia smelled like a field of centifolia rose on fire and bestowed on her a symbolic clearing of her wits in a kiss on her navel, then she pulled her up, bantering she was rich but starving.
Shied Emeline warmed a plate of crusty bites for her new devotion and sat on her lap, stuttling her questions on the good there pertained to being a slut, she wasn’t such a simpleton after all. Mara woke hungry too, and she sensed camaraderie towards another younger one born abused. With Natalia’s blessing, and Emeline rejoiced to warm more nibbles from the box, Mara retold the less offensive of her childhood, warning that she had heard worse miseries from many of us around here, and thus a long vigil was foreseeable, so I went to brew some tea and coffee, Cecile clenched at my wings, groping my bum.
After the storm waned once, Gauthier embraced Mara fondly, claiming he could have taught her the relishes of treachery sluttiness as he had professed at the hands of religious hypocrites, causing damage to many tainted souls.
I knew Fayelle could not evoke the terrors of her bleak years of solitude and the dreadful outcome after Hector had exfiltrated her shabby figure, without swaying to melancholy and crying; but thus, Annabelle, the Glaswegian fairy, took her aside in her wing and then the gracile Emeline —so finely assorted with the tramp who cuddled her again— heard, with rounded eyes, all the mossy rains of Scotland that the years of patience in James’ bosom had redeemed.
Our groomsmen Fulgence and Erik had slunk off, probably at Liselotte’s beck and call —or else they knew where Severine was.
In the morning, I was alone facing the homunculus inside the God crow’s beak. It was fine, Cecile seldom slept and liked to dip her biscuits listening to Bach, who had meant a beacon in her life, alone in her workshop. Furthermore, her patrons had appraised her talents and kept her overbooked —be it in their beds also— hence the shunning of our lengthy cuddly morning conferences so as to saddle up seamlessly to work proper, once the last langue de chat savoured.
Emeline and Natalia had long pursued their confidences in the dark, now Emeline pranced in the soft tracksuit, and Natalia sleepwalked in a roomy jumper flush to her quim. I had found one of my tracksuits in Cecile’s closet, and it smelled of her like a hunch of poetry. Under the kitchen table, I asked for Emeline’s feet, she wore cashmere socks, Natalia kissed my neck and slid her hand into my pants.
Charlotte was due back mid-day, and the little sister was thrilled to show her she was safe and sound, with her. She used the elevator because she carried two heavy bags. She wore a black fedora hat, a jumble of blue slivers sprinkled dead-leaves tweed fitted jacket, ash grey flannel trousers, and dark Jodhpur boots —they had stopped over in Milan for shopping, contrary to what one might have thought. She was elated to hug her unscathed baby sister. I told her to lay her bags in the more or less vacant bedroom, anyone in the idea of sleeping there would crave sharing a few nights with Emeline. Their own apartment would be ready in some two weeks, thus substantiating the wardship of Emeline by her elder. Their father’s fate wasn’t known, yet.
Hugo was utterly keen to meet the castaway wonder in person, I advised him to bring an A&S creamy meringue lemon pie, that goes along so well with coffee, in an hour or two at Cecile’s workshop, where I sensed the sisters would already be sitting for Cyprien.

 

Gauthier says:

And it behoved gracious Philippe, on top of overseeing Josephine’s lavish dance studio, to see to the Heurteron sisters’ purported separate installation, in case of an inquiry as to the custodianship of Emeline. Remained to announce the death of their father, not so untimely once he had been shown the proofs the girls had purloined from his laptop and his camera, and this, in my intuitive quality of chatelain to whom Charlotte had, unbeknownst to me, brought her miseries, would be my duty to tell them.
It appeared direst to fulfil when I discovered them sitting for Cyprien, side by side nude in Cecile’s workshop’s sofa, as it would have seemed so natural, their likeness a subject matter per se. Sarah brewed tea and coffee, her worn track pants resting at the tip of her narrow hips; thus, I slid my hands in, down south, while I breathed in her ear my need to speak to the girls alone. She continued to graze my erection with her bum while she mused a plan.
She then snuck behind Cyprien and scribbled a note she let him read while she stroked his back. Next, as I traded my best compliments with the sisters, Sarah wooed Cecile so as to lure her to the delicious back rooms. Cyprien, stretching his back, said he would be out for a quarter of an hour.
Like too glad to let me view their worthy natural, the girls eased into the cushions, Emeline forth in Charlotte’s arms, one foot on the carpet, well aware I could tell she was wet. At the second that I avowed I had asked the others to leave for a moment, they knew what this would be about. Their father had bantered off doing so in the past when Charlotte baulked at his crazy demands, and they knew where he would be. Charlotte said they would not cry, except for themselves. They promised to slave in any manner for me, if I accepted to go to the notary in their names and refuse the inheritance, I could not refuse, but I would ask an attorney to sort things regarding Emeline’s statute.
Cyprien brought back a box of pretty Mont-Blancs from Milica’s, on Saint Louis island, pastry purveyor for the Speck club, a favourite of Cecile’s since the time when Sarah had discovered her, working at restoring the grand salon’s precious decor, Quai d’Anjou, before she dated the owner and later, now and then fulfilled the rich patrons’ whims.
Charlotte fetched her telephone to show me some of the exhibitions their father had trained them to, it was flabbergasting, the man was repulsive. She said she had dozens somewhere in a free cloud. Emeline, who fed me bites of sugar-frosted chestnut vermicelli, said half-sadly that she had barbecued her telephone before escaping; I was happy, gripping her tight little belly, to teach her that she would have a new one with the same number and possibly the same data. She was elated, she smelled like a baby fawn in the May flowers. My concealed erection under her freely wriggling bum was all encumbered in self-conscience, Dr Kinsey.
There were a dozen worldly gatherings in town where I could safely show my face and glean the seeds of future cultural shenanigans, thus I called Philippe to see if he would be in it with me, and no, I did not want him to come down in the workshop, he might have felt sorry in love to see young Emeline.

 

Cecile says:

Charlotte was wired knowing the slate was wiped clear as to them, and the whole village wished nought less than auction the butcher’s shop to a new owner, might he feed them his daughters, too. Our own metaphorical orchard earned a new branch bearing fruit.
In his peculiar spirit, Cyprien did not wish to engram anymore of his models’ misery, he mumbled some abstruse excuse, and fled, as he most often did. The four of us chose to move upstairs; I carried the half-empty boxes, Sarah took Charlotte’s togs and shoes, and Emeline slid into the crumpled tracksuit.
Before Sarah ordered dinner, she had a message, and she asked around if we agreed to let tough Cossacks ogle our little sister? Emeline wanted to know better, Sarah explained about Sergei, whom she said smelled of straw, and Emeline knew about Fulgence, didn’t she?
I bantered that I would even shag their horses, the news of the day had aroused me, and with one knee on my chair’s edge, Emeline had lost her pants.
Dinner arrived, in the black boy’s warmer bag, a mushroom puff pastry pie, then, in the cooler bag, a mesclun salad and its pouch of balsamic dressing. Sarah would have sure as hell tipped him in kind, but it wasn’t so timely, was it? He smiled at her note, all the while captivated by the unfitted belt of Emeline’s pants.
From the inner door that he knew how to open, Fulgence showed up with the brightest of smiles, his fresh white shirt sleeves rolled up, chest to the wind, and bare feet; Sarah openly grabbed hold of his crotch telling him to hold off with the minor kitten, and he retorted she had already seen all of him. Sergei squinted his green eyes, he wore a dull brown silk snakeskin printed jacket and lightweight black jeans, with no shoes either.
Both had wet hair and smooth chins like eager fiancés fresh out of the bathroom, they smelled classy German Cologne and British lavender. As if fronting for the alpha males, Charlotte had pulled Emeline onto her lap, but the pants had not much come up, she was showing her lower belly as if wittingly. I told the guys the mean truth, but they read on the babes’ faces how nought of a big deal it was. Fulgence crouched down to them and kissed Emeline’s fidgety feet, asking her if she was happy, she sniffed a yes. Serguei squatted in front of Sarah, both hands in her sweatshirt.
Sensing a bubble of intimacy, the girls craved retelling their weird life, more or less like veterans unaware of mental scars. Now Fulgence was cuddling my feet, Emeline went to the loo, and came back merely wearing a pair of black hold-ups, embracing me so as to put her coochie under his nose, shutting my mouth with a minty kiss. Not one to be outdone, Charlotte pulled her simple clothes, saying it wouldn’t be because they had wrongly been made sluts that thus they should bear the guilt, however.
Spoilt by so many choices spread upon the couch, Fulgence did not shun Emeline’s brooklet, lapping clear drops of innocence at the source, causing a lustful torsion of her slender loins. My own tormentor had never enkindled such graceful embers, only Sarah and then Lauritz had fanned the shy embers of my magazine soul, so to speak. It was such a delight to feel the boy’s humpings through her convulsed body, her armpit smell of elderberry.
Everyone caught in the buoyancy of an orgy, we chained in frantic mouth- to-quim till the relentless rod of a Cossack in Sarah’s butthole while she served Charlotte’s blooming geranium. Later in the bathroom, Emeline begged Sergei to piss in her mouth, she was unbridled as a little wolf cub, I thought to myself she would be a stir in the neighbourhood.
In the morning, Natalia stood knelt in a corner of the bed overjoyed with the scene of four graces entangled. When a hint of conscience came to hover upon our thicket of caresses, she announced that we were expected to visit Josephine’s new playground for the varnish was set. Not yet, claimed the younger of us, unbuttoning the house fairy.
Sarah had kept hidden a pack of biscuits for tea that the two country maidens heartily disputed with me, before sprinkling lots of sugar on Sarah’s loving toasts. Natalia was smitten with Emeline, and Sarah was reliving her bygone schooldays.
The only pixie to have been born on the site, Natalia was, then, the best guide to navigate the passageways and subterranean corridors networking the realms of our geography. Holding close to the new boarders, she twirled along in Emeline’s rounded eyes, tapping the security codes on the armoured doors. The gym room did a big impression with all the machines we kept in shape on, they tried most of them, and we helped manually, all in laughter.
There was a new quarter I had not seen yet, through the latest extension of TRÆVIX, humming and air-conditioned, through which we attained a flight of stairs up to a landing next to a spacious light-bathed venue we could see through a glazed door.
It smelled of paint and all chemicals of newness, but Gauthier told us it all was harmless and water-based. The four sphere speakers hung at the corners of the ceiling an electronic syncopated capriccio for the bodily calligraphy of one, a skinny marvel in an invisible leotard, briefly commented by a coach in purple body tights.
She stopped in front of us, quit her dancing hieratic smile and made funny faces, singling Emeline first who did not find her voice, thus telling her to kick her sneakers and go dancing with her, and somehow it worked, soon enough Emeline gave us a thoughtful pantomime stark naked, her clothes beautifully thrown across the floor. The coach encouraged her, complimenting her steady feet. It was moving to see her respond to Josephine’s moves, the butcher had not crashed her soul.

The floorboards were off-white like the whole room, and the wall of mirrors doubled the view depth beyond the double work barre. One side wall was clad with pleated matched shaved velvet, the opposite with tough padded cloth, and the last in bleached poplar boards, under which ran a wool velvet banquette. The ceiling was a Romantic adjunction of glazed metalwork under which a new sleek layer of glass panes had recently been extended to isolate the room. When the music had died, the silence had been impressive, then our own voices had been pleasantly distinct.
It seemed Emeline had easily hitched a new heart at her invisible sleeve, be it that of a whore like her, they hugged and began a languorous pas de deux that stunned all of us. I grabbed Charlotte to follow them, but the best we knew was a long wet kiss, just like I saw Sarah and Natalia. Gauthier told the coach that he would undoubtedly see a lot of our kind time and again, he joshed it was a factory of angels.
The pair of wildflowers paused, keeping hands, telling mutually who they were point blank, Josephine using words she did not fully weigh, like the star she was. She told Emeline of her bond to Malo, she was certain she, too, would clock to the free cello, and thus they would do miracle shows. I thought they would, indeed. The coach saw no inconvenience, and neither would Melchior.
Gauthier had told the TRÆVIX imps of our novelties, and the fluttery genderfluid flock had been eager to meet the newcomers; they appeared behind the glazed door in the same laisser-aller kind of outfits as we wore, cotton fleece and jersey tights, smelling of bluebells and hawthorn, bare feet. None of the holy tribe risked crossing any hot shots from upstairs —to that end, we should go to Philippe’s or lately to Speck’s— and the waitstaff remained on our side.
Delf and her protégés, Apolline, and Gwen, back from a whiff of Sylt —Michelle had taken her new crush Trine to Lausanne— crept silently near us while the coach called for a reprise to the sound of a live recording of Bill Evans’ trio he bet the pixies had never heard, though he knew that Josephine had trained on cool jazz aboard her late owner’s boat. The all-cerebral attitude of the great musician inclined the two dancers into the most spontaneous en-dehors walkings and mirrored whirls to each other before they amused one another with all the figures their young joints allowed, far in the unplayed notes of the score. Josephine was leading, and Emeline guessed her every next move, out of love.
Delf couldn’t stand quiet very long, she jumped in like a firefly, offering frills to the duet, aerial on her dainty feet. The coach had stepped back and was doing the motion of silent applause with a keen smile; then, the music stopped, and Josephine playfully slowed their moves down to an embrace which sight made me, by reflex, breathe into Charlotte’s neck for a scent of her agitation.
We all clapped, and Sarah jumped for a chance to stroke one or the other in the heat of inspiration, Delf had soon taken hold of Emeline who let her do it, stretching her spine back in her embrace. The coach pointed out compliments on the steadiness of the feet, the freedom of the hips, and the invention of the arms and the hands, the port de tête. There was no remark to his enthusiasm, he said he hoped Emeline would join the further sessions, and that was what Josephine wanted to hear; she drew her partners to the adjoining spacious changing room and shower, where they later told me they had the surprise to see Delf’s pretty stiff spur and revelation, but the little devil owned a gracious savoir-faire not to scare two gentle accomplished harlots on such a petty matter, they went rather jiggy under the flows, for what we could hear. When they reappeared, all cheerful, they sported brand-new marshmallow-coloured tracksuits.
Gauthier, overjoyed, had awaited to announce another massive surprise. In a matter of weeks, right under that dance floor, would be a swimming pool, for all of us to splash around, courtesy of Michelle who had modelled out the buildings, just like she did the rest of the world. Had we ever only noticed the comings and goings of trucks in the street? The copper-gleaming mane of our preferred knight shook out a sprinkle of stars above us, and unaware of the coach’s startled stare, Sarah seized his dick through his trousers.
Delf invited everybody to their grand apartments for lunch. Behind the armoured glass, the exascale supercomputers unflinchingly flickered in the silent shade, I played footsie with Charlotte in every corner of the pathway, she was speechless, she had flown through such wonderments that she cuddled in my neck praying not to wake up. Her little sister was in the hands of Delf and Josephine, it was so obvious she had let Delf have whatever whim they had with her in the perfumed lather. Gauthier had scooted off, and Sarah kept her hands in Gwen’s pants, along with Apolline and her magic trinket.

 

Sarah says:

The pearly silver banquet room, where the Jinju Lee stripped women felt like they just moved before you looked at them, seemed wider to our more private company. The coach had followed us, as we deduced he held accreditation, and he cajoled Emeline’s legs and ankles while she frolicked with Josephine, exchanging horror tales of their respective upbringing. I kept close to them on the loveseat, fondling Josephine’s butt.
The coach wondered about Emeline’s assurance and steadfastness upon her feet, whatever the virevolte she invented into her corporeal sequence, whereas Josephine had trained, for her owner’s relish, with a dance master aboard the ship, before she was bequeathed to whom we knew.
Thus Emeline straightened a tad, not leaving Josephine’s embrace, and retold their direst story, in their reviled father’s den, they would be put up the table amidst his buddies, that is, most of the ruling males of the village, and strip-dance naked for them. Charlotte was appaled that her baby sister would tell, she feared it would burst into such a scandal that there would be blood in the streets of the village, moreover that they be exposed as monstrous victims to rampant voyeurism, now that they had landed in Faerie land.
Oops! Emeline’s face was beyond blushing, she cried everybody here was their friend, and no one had taken advantage of her as she had feared, even Fulgence who had been so beautifully aroused. I felt compelled to reassure them none of us bore any intention of spilling these intimate beans —the coach himself spit on the carpet, the French manner of one crossing one’s heart— no more than anyone’s in our flock, and in the corner of my eye, I saw Cecile cuddling Charlotte dearly. We had better leave it to our archangel minders to clear the hornet nest definitely, hadn’t we?
We breathed an angel while the black silk waiter brought the sparkling silver samovar and coffee pot, asking who drank which around the table, totally unfazed as to signs of immodesty he might later follow suit on; he was altogether overjoyed with his situation. He brought three-tiers porcelain presenter plates, and Delf jumped at Cecile’s side to dip some lady fingers in her cup of coffee, to what Cecile retorted in gently wanking the pretty one they merely kept in their pants, pecking their dainty nose.
Then Gwen heightened her velvety timbre, looking at Emeline, wishing to soothe her and Charlotte telling her own breeding as a free-for-all toy since the age of five, and she added she had not been the only one. She kept her cool saying she did not fathom how she had survived, probably because she did not indulge in drinking or whatever her abusers consumed to become zombified as she saw them. She boasted she had killed a few of the worse by meddling with their doses while they thought they abused her as per usual; the bunch of vagrants her mother had dragged her within had buried quite a few carcasses in many secluded purlieus, with none other elegies than to piss on the ploughed rubbles, as to deter the fucking dogs to sniffing and let the nettles grow. It had happened that foxes had dug out a smelly corpse, but it had been a long-known junky, thus there were no investigations. No one had ever inquired about a little Dutch girl dragged along the roads by her sociopathic mother. She had eloped with some country kid who kept her locked in a dilapidated old water mill, so jealous he was to keep her to himself; he died when she escaped with the help of an owl. She was looking like a savage, in the boy’s jeans and tee shirt, but she had washed her hair in the river with a stone-hard dried soap she had found in the mill. She had tried to hitch-hike and had been picked up by a truck, soon again raped on the back bunk, but so attentively that she had let him do, whatever would take her far enough. She had nought like any form of ID, was as tall as her captor, but showed neither boobs nor hair nor any droplet of periods, she was already a smooth-skinned tomboy, and desirable at that.
In the happenstance of his schedule, the truck drove to Malaga, Spain. She had been liking the lovemaking the driver gave her, he installed her in a perch above his garage, with a ventilator and a coldish shower. Then he tried to prostitute her through a brothel the drivers knew —they all delivered produce across Europe— but she was abducted to serve a more lucrative clientèle. It had not been unbearable, even agreeable if she remembered where she came from, but she had begun to feel like a chained bird, whenas she reckoned she could operate on her own. Thus, one evening, she escaped her cage and went hustling near the bright-looking hotels and singled a pigeon by the shoes he wore, as rich and smitten as she might have wished for, she ended up onboard his yacht, treated as a princess. It had been altogether effortless, until the coastguards asked who she was, and the answer and my skinny blond allure left them wanting, hence my return to dry land, all the way up to my flattest place of birth, namely the Netherlands, by the conjugated magics of DNA analysis and light-fast cybercommunications.

Emeline looked her up as a fantasy hero, Gwen had once again captivated all as the little whore that could, and now Delf sat between her tapered feet she caressed as she do. For our new blessed ones, she went on, telling she was also an atypical creature, gifted with a complex hormonal dysfunction that barred her from becoming a woman, albeit she enjoyed a pretty vagina Emeline could taste anytime. After puzzling the authorities in her purported homeland, she had worked as a restaurant waitress and hustled for clients there, that was how Kate, Annabelle, and Fayelle had had a crush on her and thus brought her back as a souvenir from Bruges, which is not in the Netherlands, by the way.
Naturally, I beckoned to Gwen to take my place near Emeline, so they hugged, and Emeline cried in Gwen’s sympathetic words, there would exist no going back to misery. Apolline knew Gwen’s saga through and through. She came over to shift matters and assure the pixies that their dancing had been utterly dreamlike. She asked about Malo, who was working on a soundtrack for a film about a Swiss autistic artist with a high-tension universe, It had been an idea of my old-time teacher Tudor Weiss, I could not rule out that she had seen him on her own. She was near Neuchatel, by the lake, for a week or so, Josephine slept in the renowned attic rooms of TRÆVIX palace, pending the nth stars worth finalisation of the top floor dovecote for the duet, although I had my doubts about Malo dwelling amongst us.
And the samovar poured a strawberry-brown beverage thus Gwen agreed we needed the loo, a wild instant of hugging tight on our warm flows, the smell of box trees with that of straw bales, we felt an urge for a stables lad or two. Back to the banquet room, we made no mystery we were hunting for dick. Sergei was definitely too busy but might call us for a second wind later, Fulgence was too far, remained Philippe if Sami saw the opportunity, Speck wasn’t yet open at tea time. Emeline would stay listening to Josephine’s becoming and learning the life of middle-gender beauties between Apolline and Delf; Cecile and Charlotte came with us to an afternoon whoring with clubmen.
We donned dresses and stockings, jersey flared tank dresses, cropped jackets, and laced ankle boots, Gwen’s rounded butt winking at each step while we crossed the Tuileries, Charlotte and Cecile in longer Emo dark charm because they had already black-lacquered nails. Sami had told me a number to punch at a discreet door under the arcades, with a novelty faster check of the fingerprints inside the entrance sas.
The spiral stairs climbed up to a sombre, low-ceiling narrow corridor and Gwen had already lost her underpants; she smelled of vanilla. One of the small doors was ajar and dimly lit, in there stood two Aegyptian-type hunks in spandex shorts ready to cooly help us unclothe and tidy our things in lockers, not skimp of their keen hands, lips, tongues, their dicks still detained in the shade, they were guests handlers.
We were led through a warm, vaulted, sleek limestone ashlar warren of no fathomable layout to a sort of perfumed steam room where they injected our arses with tepid jasmine water, laughing to watch us empty ourselves out into a mosaic basin, fingering our ways with some creamy slime.
Our handlers now exhibited fierce circumcised dicks as obvious playthings for us, and Cecile wasn’t shy tasting, showing Charlotte how to behave. Gwen, because of her blonde immaturity, was spoiled and fiddled with, while I was tried through and through by proud morsels of want.
Wiped, anointed, powdered, and coiffed, we were led to a high-ceiling salon entirely clad with uneven surface mirror tiles, pressed mouldings and cornices in which we looked like pale ectoplasms. It was plain to see why the fat rolly-polly amidst the emerald-green silk velvet pile of cushions on the ornate silver parade bed would prefer not to see himself in detail.
We were all four locked in bejewelled collars chained to the client’s seat so that he could pull any of us near and lick any part of us, beginning with Gwen who played slave like a diva. Now a bustling dozen of stiffened cavaliers made me josh that in lack of Cossacks, Tatars looked as good, Gwen was stolen away swiftly and upturned upon a cushion, arse up between two feverish athletes, a third squatted so as to fill her mouth, her little hands fluttering for more. The chain at my collar was pulled so that I confronted some sullen rosy appendix and was ordered to suck, at a surprising effect, while my anus was many times visited —like they wanted all tastes from each of us.
Some of them, depleted, sat in a corner with Arabian flutes and darbukas, stirring the blood of more hungry mamelukes into the willing holes of the Royal booty, and it soon seemed all live dicks in the house had been offered free arse, circumcised or not. It turned roundly until Sami fished us out of the marigot and brought us back to the hammam, overflowing with semen, coughing, and laughing. The reward was indeed royal, only Charlotte had not foreseen that.

The long coal-grey car awaited in the rue de Montpensier, Sami climbed to the front seat and leaned back toward us, the evening was not entirely done with, Cecile knew and wasn’t anxious, she hitched her dress and parted her thighs to Sami who kissed his fingertips and winked. I told the damsels it was a game of worldly libertines showing off each others’ best catches, which we ought to belong, obviously, and I unzipped Charlotte’s last togs, as she murmured she would accept anything, should I be there; Gwen was already in the raw.
Sami’s smoke signals had been sight-read in his permanent tam-tam forum., and now, from the Place des Victoires where he rotated a few times slowly, we were followed by three or four imposing dark luxury salon cars, en route to the rich outskirts of the night. Rivoli, Concorde, Etoile, avenue Foch and the more or less deserted alleys beyond the outlandish Russian Embassy. Sami came over, and Cecile went to the front seat, she had singled out the driver from a former expedition, and she spared him some time for dropping his trousers.
Back there, Sami was panting after Gwen’s white bum and was exhilarated by her easiness, I embraced Charlotte who had noticed the crowd of wankers behind the glazings, I told her to frankly expose her buttcrack, making up that the car was armoured anyhow; the worst she risked was to fall on one of them at Philippe’s, so what?
Men in suits with their diverse manhoods out of their flies were teasing out with money, thus my unabashed little whore opened the door and grappled the notes, crouching to suck dick in an unforeseen melée. For a fistful of yellow euros, she agreed to piss for them, already blessed with smelly spurts. Finally, some lumberjack in black silk took her standing against the car before approaching flash red and blue lights put a stop to the haywire gathering, she held a fat roll of money and smelled beastly, as the car dashed off, Sami had another go in her arse as I kissed her.
I wasn’t too proud of Charlotte’s whim, one of the johns might very well have found himself there unchecked. We would have to take preventive pills. She explained she had a fetish for being used in public spaces, her father had a game with his buddies gendarmes, so he took her out in his truck, and made her do things in a dark place, be caught by the dirty patrol and be used under the flashlights; she had had a terror of uniforms, albeit a connivance for dicks. After she commonly served as live meat at the butcher’s feasts, she sussed how they had let him kill their mother, unabashed. She was proud they caused him to go hang himself amongst the carcasses.
Having listened to that, Sami passed over a box of cologne wipes so we could make one another’s kitten toilet, except for sensitive areas that needed spit on raw tissues. He asked if we would be ready for another round of follies with young dicks; not knowing, Gwen and Charlotte trusted him, Cecile and I followed, thus he tapped through his telephone files and then spoke to some “general”, for what it meant, telling he carried a troop of pretty harlots if his troops needed, answered yes to a few questions, then gave the driver an address in Neuilly, on the other side of the woods.
It was some classic French mansion behind high grates; we drove through the opening gates to reach some rounded stone steps. A straight-back butler awaited at the door of a glazed metalwork front pergola. With a fine smile, Sami said there was no need for our clothes, handing our things to the man; he also said he could not stay waiting, thus another carriage would take us back home, eventually.
General there was, indeed, horsewhip in hand behind his back, leather horseriding boots and buckskin breeches, thoughtful touches like white gloves and a moustache across a rosacea face, I felt my vagina dry up. As he strolled around to appraise our bums, we could smell the scent of olde English lavender mixed with Turkish bath Rahat Lokum made me sense he was not whom he dressed like, and moreover, he would play good tongue-in-cheek vaudeville, thus I grazed the arm of my assumed little sister, if he asked.
Sniffing up near, he could merely grasp a whiff of our turpitudes, hence he ranted that he reckoned we be rather fresh for going whoring, he admired Gwen’s flat belly and timid nipples; he slid a finger to lift Cecile’s fringe and moaned of content, telling her she looked like a Salome. He came back to me, softly teasing my butthole, he wondered where I came from, so I implored him to tell me because I was a foundling, at the doors of the Palais Des Nations in Geneva, on a day when all the CCTV went down; he retorted nought, but he tried the blinking game —and lost.
He acted altogether jolly, he pranced towards a silky red bell rope, the only coloured element in the vaulted bare stone entrance hall we had been standing on a checkered marble floor as in a cliché phantasmagoria, however warm as in a classy nunnery. We heard ringing afar, and soon a quartet of wrestlers in spandex breeches ran in barefoot, smelling fresh off the shower, all eyes on us. The general then bantered that when Sami had called proposing four young heedless alley-cats, he had grumbled to the price asked, but now he did not regret.
He ushered us to a reception hall —tapestry walls and savonnerie rugs— and made us sit on some ridiculously uncongenial conversation chairs, using his crop to make us uncross our legs. Bending on a side table, he asked each of our names and wrote them on papers he folded and dropped in a silver bowl, shuffling them at the tip of his fingers, then told his apparent sons to pick one each. Their eyes shone like Xmas morning.
Though they were all built like Greek idols, square and sinewy with tight arses, their faces went from comely for Charlotte’s, to plain awkward in the case of Emeline’s lot. Cecile inherited the curly blond with a lisp, I was granted the sad, tall, umbrageous, black-haired, cross-eyed, prominent-browed Rodin-like hulk, and my spine quivered.
The general ordered it was time to unwrap the gifts, which we bravely did in manly smells of saffron, tar and vanilla, taking hold of the proud French staffs. My given toy dripped of desire, and if that was not the Cossack acme, it deserved a go into my mouth, thus, for the nth time of the day, I played the whole brass band from bugle to Souzaphone, my jaws almost unhinged and my throat distended as to engulf an early load entirely.
With a tap of his whip, he made Charlotte turn around and hold the backrest as she showed her behind while sucking, blessing her butt with a few red lines, then wanking her arse mumbling how easy she was, then briskly lowering his pants to bugger the unflinching sinner, who was fed the bitter broth at both ends under virile moans. As she stood back up, the General forbade her to sit her drippy arse on the petit point upholstery, thus showing her the way to the restroom, joshing it wouldn’t be so bad for the rug.
At no apparent unease, Emeline was impaled on her bizarre cavalier, the General seeing what insisted she lent her butthole and rest her heels on the seat’s corners so that he could eat her blooming quim while she wriggled like under torture, telling his son to spare the seat covering.
Meanwhile, Cecile’s gallant had cheated, he lay on the carpet and made her contort, crouched around her gently threaded arse, holding her hands, biding his time, it looked as if she was in command, massaging his rod with her arse muscles, then pumping out his load and leaving him breathless, grasping her in his arms as a drowning sailor.
Even out of his boots he had asked one of his goons to help him unshoe, the elder remained fiercely styled, and furthermore, erect. In the large white and green bezel-tiled bathroom fit for a regiment, he soaked us up with a large natural sponge that smelled of coumarin like my Far’s pipe tobacco at the Østersund, we injected fresh water in each other’s holes and ran to drain in the toilet bowl. The chief was briskly tender with each of us, but he had a crush on Charlotte, and he pulled her away with him.
The little soldiers asked us to follow them down to a spacious vaulted swimming pool all tiled like the Paris Metro, in a sage green tone. No hint of chlorine, and the water tasted like pure. I dived in deep, as an otter, my foot soon grabbed by a mighty hand, fighting for my breath, then a tongue entangled with mine while a stubborn ramrod waltzed into my back hatch as they pleased. That we, ourselves, would enjoy such luxury at home rewilded me, late nights in the chlorine public pool with mandatory swimsuits, however minimal they may be, had let our enthusiasm wane. Gauthier had talked of a play pool as big as this one.
Overthere, Cecile enlaced Emeline, both on the tips of maddened dicks, restless. Ephemeral filaments of carnal expenditures drifted in churns and eddies the tritons battered with huge laughs. I washed ashore upon the rounded mosaic stairs, finally spent.
When we woke up swathed in endlessly smooth woolly plaids, the car was unmistakably parked at our door, shades down. We slowly meandered like a serpent’s nest and greeted heartily the bottles of water our minders handed to us. Most of our clothes were on hangers, Charlotte was secretly overwhelmed to feel her duly earned cash still in the stealthy pocket of her dress, and no, Sami’s goons weren’t to be tipped in that manner. We entered the lesser door and filled the elevator, we smelled like babies.
It was daytime indeed, luxury was to ignore that. I wouldn’t have found the courage to brew tea, I went to pee and invited Emeline to straddle me backwards and mix with mine. Charlotte and Cecile had regained the shelter of the Crow God.
At one time, Natalia found it strange to see us fast asleep with baby smiles and couldn’t help stripping and sliding in along Emeline, too.

Cecile felt emotionally committed to the sisters, as confusing as it might seem, and a proper kind of justice had been served; she, herself, had been daringly mentored by otherworldly amoralists —no religious quackery intended— in a rightful endeavour she owned a tad more each minute of her life. It had been a windfall for her, just like the pretty girl in the line at the garden store. And now she coddled nude sisters on her couch for Cyprien’s eyes, and the younger one waited to be called to training with the coach who would, by the way, probably finger her pretty arsehole along with Josephine, wouldn’t he? She was a slut as much as we all, not a burden mule; if she let be done, it should be a fair deal and the stakes were high, beauty isn’t cheap. Otherwise, Natalia and Fanny would coalesce in her education to make her a skilled warrior, if need be.
In my life, I never had cats —they kill squirrels— but it had become a tender routine to find the heather fairies in the studio. It had induced a blooming of sundry harmonious cushions and mats upon which to stretch their enviable loins not as shy as a computing aviatrix whose little feet waving from behind the sofa I missed, however.
Annabelle cuddled my feet as gently as my Far, but Fayelle wasn’t yet into reading anything, she asked to hear what we had done the previous night and they loved it, they sang halleluiah when I told them there would soon be a private pool under Faerie land. I promised them I would intervene with Sami So he would sell them to the General’s descent along with another pair; all the doctors had said that Fayelle’s episode was totally terminated, and anyhow they both knew better than I how to tame a bull, be it in the water. That wasn’t enough, I had to climb down from my chair and let them pull away my brand-new periwinkle tracksuit stitched lettered “Danmark” on the chest.
Kate found us, wearing no more than a long lose-knit misty green jumper, she beamed the seashore colours, but her smile remained cranky, she wallowed in her chair —which, for us, rug trolls, allowed an untiring view of her unclenched thighs— and sighed it had not been the best of trips. Anna Louise had freaked about her Paris maladjustment altogether, then properly fled to join their father to the Bahamas where he owned a Roman villa over a white sand beach in the mellowness of the trade winds. Moreover, Lauritz had been enthralled with Gwen, who had not been so impressed, thus the whole fiasco. Her mood was fully released at the news of a private swimming pool, all the more if it was to be decorated by Gauthier, and she rekindled totally at my recounting of the four sons of the General, she agreed to coalesce with the thistle sisters and whomever else so as to beg Sami to introduce them.
She asked about the Emeline prodigy, and she grunted with relish at what she heard. Fayelle meandered all the way up inside her dress, she shunned her sister’s bitter rants, they reminded each other of the golden flights they had known with Fanny, and they decided to see her. However, Lauritz was not a sore joker, said Kate.
Fanny told them she had an appointment with Dr Meant, but they were welcome to camp in his muted green velvet waiting salon during her twenty minutes or so of soulsearching, the doctor condoned what he pleasantly called a manner of the affective hinterland to their long-haul work together. He knew all of Fanny’s demeanours, and never tried a sideways opening to her; she had built a seamless stronghold in him, also offering a unique case study to his earnest research.
She would then follow them to any jazzy spot in the known galaxy. Kate was humbled by the recall of that special bond going back to a cuddly fitting room in Venice right after we had fished her out of the mad tank; she opted for a group orgy at Speck’s, if there were enough doable hunks to dance with, she craved to watch Fanny shagged elegantly, such a high-roller slut.

 

Kate says:

That was a relief, Fayelle and I would go dress up like Russian torpedoes and bring Fanny as some hot property, no underwear, in the richest privacy on the Seine’s shoreline, for mere fun. I missed my betrothal times at Victor’s, the returning dizzy spells in his otherworldly inventions, and perhaps too, the blue powder in the jewelled boxes.
I knew what thrill I cast nude in my loose black double-breasted blazer and tube knee-long skirt, strict black hold-ups and court patent leather pumps with a grosgrain nose, at my arm Fayelle in a burgundy silk faille waistless flared dress open down to the butt, prune hold-ups and ballet flats. Fanny would don a silk jersey, mish-mash blue, low-back, half-thigh, sleeveless dress, and Sahara-blue hold-ups in adorable ankle-strapped, night-blue, round-tipped, suede flats.
Obviously, we looked like gentle trulls, but we were with the band, weren’t we? I wouldn’t say if Fanny told her therapist she was going out whoring next; she had been all lascivious in the dressing room and in the taxi. I tapped the last five digits of my code on the pad at the polished lacquered portal, and the concierge greeted us on the inner steps, scanning our black cards one by one, ogling my lesser chest as he sniffed the priceless tuberose in my neck as I was bending on his desk, he did so too with my bedfellows, more so with Fanny who beamed like a princely rose.
Upstairs, the Maitre D kissed our hands and slid a hand on Fanny’s back. In a sweet huddle, we offered ourselves for a cavalcade with any number of dicks if they took us together. He sniggered finely and retorted that he reckoned that we owed him one, then ushered us to the buffet while he approached some of the clients. One silvery temples vanguard dawdled near us and murmured, in German, while grazing my elbow, that a group of his Freunde and himself were interested in knowing us better, in room two-o-one.
That must have probably been the princely suite of the Speck Parisian townhouse remodelled in the Art Deco taste of Lauritz’s ancestor Otto. Here too, Cecile had supervised and worked on refreshing the lustre of the straw marquetry walls now evenly lit from a recess in the cornice of the peacock blue ceiling on which a flock of fantasy birds scattered. It was a mixed feeling déjà-vu, this room had been an opium den, I saw Dr Schubert’s gold watch —he had been my once tour-de-force Berlin therapist— oscillating, quietly, like a Fritz Lang insert. A wall-to-wall petit point carpet of low-keyed rose and mauve aquatic chimaeras swarmed under low bronze gleam silk rest beds, disposed around a centre square one, in a perfect setting for an orgy, drug or not. Mental tremors and dark visions resurfaced from the clamours of a memory mire, I pulled Fayelle’s dress down to feel her mellow skin outside of my lucid dream recall, and then two firm manly hands gripped my ghost.
They could afford the whole evening of whatever play, even one was vaping some heady mix while wallowing across a bed, nodding at my butt. Three amateurs in black silk evening suits circled Fanny in her best chatterie attitude so as to show me she regained all of her skills as long as I, of all the sluts, assumed her such.
That German gentleman with diamond dickey buttons conceded he had had me at Victor’s in his glory days, he had no idea what slippage might have caused the fall of such a highly regarded financial stronghold, it had all probably happened online, but every bit had vaporized. Au contraire, as he grazed my nipple with the back of his soigné hand, he relished ascertaining every ion of me still thrived in the hovering light beams of the passing boats. It felt like being wooed at the school ball, and with nought of the toxics I might have indulged then, if all the windows they might have slung open once still looked up to the galaxies. I wouldn’t know if the music was real, but we danced ever more slowly, and another’s hand fondled my brooklet.
At the far corner of the satin patch, Fanny was already being enjoyed in any possible way. My main man saw Fayelle upturned onto me by a restless buggerer and marshalled us to make what we would casually do on every chance anyhow, and he knew, while he unclothed, methodically. He took my mouth while murmuring that his friend Lauritz had had the best of ideas, and he called me Kate as he buggered me smoothly.
I wouldn’t say if he were overly-gifted or if the hints of the past indulgences, whatever traces in the puffs of the pinpoint-pupils vape-sucker who licked Fayelle’s butthole ostinato without any sign of an erection, but a sizeable orgasm took hold of me like beyond my control, that emotion I had fallen for at Victor’s.
This wolfpack behaved differently from the random clubmen we sold our hide to anonymously and who fled after the shower, no scent; these kept us embraced and gave petty lustful comments while they led us to the grand-scale Byzantine-ish bathroom with golden mosaic cupolas scattered with protruding dove-sized nude blue-winged angels.
The rich lather smelled of Morrocan almonds and marshmallow, we helped each other with the enema hose, and laughed when our male teammates taunted us with their flesh tools reloaded. Back in the cuddly bedroom arena, they circled us in our most beastly poses and eventually reckoned that we three together were some entrancing sight, offering all trouble of a Hans Bellmer composition, raved my fellow countryman who wouldn’t spare my bumhole.
Fanny had repossessed me like a natural belonging, to the greater yearning of our holders, who craved mingling in our kisses and beguiled Fayelle to offer me her arse to lick, hurling their way in us any time they saw fit. I wouldn’t swear I heard music, a lentando pasticcio on a celesta in the whirlpool of my skull, like purple fumes in the glass bowl of an opium lamp. As distraught as I pirouetted in my embrace with Fanny and a frenzied schwantz deep up my entrails, I rekindled the morbid fantasies which had ended in the blow of a merciless airbag. Blurred shreds of a cardboard cavalry in the reclaimed bunkers of Berlin followed the golden swing of my father’s watch hanging at a gold chain, then a blond damsel teasing my nipples in a cuddly booth said in barbaric Italian that mio fratello was swimming in the Alster, and showed me in a mirror his face in pain.
Contrary to the first round, the clubmen rivalled in the crudest lyricism, only with even more kindness in handling our assenting carcasses, eventually gushing as a mere happenstance, my hunch of some toxic influence echoed in insinuations they let fly in Prussian. In truth, I was a happy trull and whatever the stuff it fed my exaltations.
We woke up entwined and dirty, sticky. The other twos were lighthearted, they smelled of stables, and we laughed. On a bedside ledge, a black and gold lacquer bowl contained a fat bunch of real money under an engraved card bearing the letters E. W. and the line scribbled “Für mehr”. We pampered each other at length, like at home. Before we began dressing up, the Butler showed up with tea on a cart, and he asked that we redeem our promise to him; we did not exactly remember, but it must have been easy to suss, given the state of his trousers, then. thus we stripped him bare and granted him a trio of tongues in sundry holes and spur, so since he had been in waiting, he gushed in Fanny’s unfailing throat, and she smiled: he wouldn’t say who EW was, but he might appoint any of us if we felt like his genteel manners.
We drove along with Fanny to her door and received a text she was safe, happy, and drowsy. Back home, Fayelle was in a hurry to give her best Glaswegian fairy the loot she had so gracefully earned. I found Sarah sound asleep and I cuddled my head in her bosom.

 

Sarah says:

My current straw-bales scoundrel Sergei began texting about some commitment at an equestrian club he belonged to, if I would savour a hefty reward and a heap of shagging, in restraints. The members were all trustworthy, said he, and he knew them by their names, if I feared wearing cuffs and blindfolds, being treated like the least of livestock whores, however, no durable marks. I should try and convince Natalia, whom he craved, to join.
It wasn’t a headache to enkindle the vice in our all-time night fairy, all the more with me, besides, there was enough dosh to rack. She made me feel whorish as a reformation angel in a Jesuit church, in a floating golden robe —I had horrified my Far, a free thinker, with such a comment I had made in Rome, at twelve-ish.
Anyhow, Sergei had demanded we dress as some posh executives, likely unaware of what we would be about to endure, they would not barter on the price of our togs if they were to slash them. For Natalia, we invented a rusty tweed suit with a fitted jacket, a boy’s misty-blue striped poplin shirt and Swiss navy tie, walnut-brown chelseas, periwinkle cashmere socks, and no underwear. I would go myself in a black double-breasted three-piece whipcord suit with the refinement of a Royal blue silk twill lining, a long-tails paisley printed porcelain blue shirt matching my eyes, same blue socks and black Jodhpur boots, and no underwear.
Sergei awaited at his rented limousine’s door, spry and horny, riding boots, kidskin bridge breeches, grey tweed fitted jacket and vest, and off-white side-buttoned collarless shirt. He fiddled with a crop, he was perfect. He pointed at once that Natalia’s fly was open, she’s so savvier than me. This time the driver seemed to be out of the loop as to what went on in the passenger’s seat, which did not prevent Sergei from keeping his hand in Natalia’s fly, casually.
We travelled the usual bleak northern road, towards the airports, but further to Chantilly’s forest, vaguely evocative in the headlights. Albeit acutely enthralled in Natalia’s nonchalance, Sergei would shun me neither, he relished the kind of play I had started between us, in remembrance of bygone seasons at my lakeshore paradise, including the rough shenanigans among the strawbales, merely because he bore an Eastern-European name, was slightly bandy, and squinted his eyes when aroused. Since he had been more or less one of Fulgence’s stooges, on par with his pals’ wrestling capacities, I had deemed him worthy of the legendary Zaporogue heroes —our art teacher Tudor Weiss had tried to make his discipleship in the school play the outlandish poem by Apollinaire “L’Enchanteur Pourrissant” (“The Rotting Enchanter”) at no avail, bar a heap of classroom innuendo. Both our flies had been open, and it had been easier to sneak into his otherworldly breeches feature, unseen.
Sergei called for the gates which soon opened onward to a cobbled alley skirted by sundry shrubs randomly allowed on a mowed lawn edging the woodland, here and there lamposts dispensed some timid glow in the coming dusk. This was definitely not your conventional park scape, it told for an aristocratic mindset, Sergei showed all the more pride.
It was an opulent estate of brick and white cut stone in the Anglo-Normand design, comprising different functional buildings for breeding horses, obviously. The residence displayed a will to privacy, all the ground-floor windows were dressed with sheer white rod-fixed drapery, but Sergei ushered us to the stables.
All bricks and dark wood panelling, the venue extended along a centre alley with drain furrows, some ten curious horses held out their head at our noise, and a stablewoman with a blond plait spoke to Sergei in a language he spoke, obviously about us two whom she openly leered at, then laughed. She was the sporty kind, with square shoulders in a plaid shirt, no bras, and a tight arse in classic jeans she saw me look at, nodding. She reminded me of my Julia Grant —although I had never caught her in Saint Loup’s stables. Another girl came out, holding straps and stuff, leaner, dark hair in a bun, black drilling eyes when she, too, detailed both of us, letting me hunch of some further eventualities, neither behaved like subordinates.
The saddlery smelled of leather soap, beeswax, and luxury. Serguei told us to disrobe entirely, while he seized Natalia from the back and unbuckled her belt, pulling her trousers down and preparing her butthole with a ready  arse lotion, pushing her in my arms as he buggered her under the hitched up tails of her shirt. She murmured in my ear that the Cossack girls were watching, and she wriggled more to their attention.
Once his blood pressure tamed down, Sergei called on his goon girls — a third had materialised, a soft triangle-faced lascivious cheeky teenager in jean overalls, the side of which let wiggle a murderous tiny breast. He cheered them to finish unclothe us of our human rags and girth us up fittingly for a lap of lustful favours.
It wasn’t forbidden to unclasp those fancy work attire from the brazen trio —and I had been decked out as an animal before, with high-ranking academics, mind you. They rejoiced at our willing proneness. Thus they unleashed the bagatelles, the likes of which you might witness at the ceilings of Palazzo Albrizzi in Venice, on moonless nights.
They also measured us all over, then sat me in an antique armchair with two unfolding sidely footrests, to fit me with a pair of finely waxed dragoon boots size seven. They seized the dressage whips and made me prance to see if my feet stood right, I joshed they had the taste not to fancy high heels, and I received a stinging lash for that; also, the high shaft covered the knees, in case I was told, as men do, to kneel down.
Natalia had received the inaugural service while grasped to the heavy middle table, the blond braided-haired sportsgirl laid her on the table, unbuckled her boots, kissed her socks fondly, then pulled her legs up and licked her crack clean as she moaned.; She, too, had to put on high black boots and come embrace me under pizzicati of the whips.
Our maids in waiting fetched long horsetails mounted on sturdy ebony dildos attached to red trimmed straps around the thighs, themselves clasped to a heavy belt, so as our vulva be still accessible. An array of the same straps between the belt and a padded collar should have supported our breasts, had we had any, but the graphic effect was arousing anyhow, and it earned me well-adjusted lashes by the pipsqueak blonde who liked my tiny foolberries, as to where she boasted proud tangerines that I sucked on with fervour. We also had to wear locked bracelets, with rings to them. Overall, the aesthetics of our attires remained cavalier, not vaudevillesque, bar the contortions the plugs in our arses made us show.
Our guest was utterly proud of our lustful capriccio, he had changed his sartorial attitude, in a full black silk bodystocking that let out his penis and balls, momentarily half-erect. Without a word, he clasped our wrists in our backs to our belts, made us swallow a tight gag bit, and hooked a leash to both of us while he played with his crop on our loins and butts.
His goonsels remained stark naked in boots as they stroked all they could grab of us while we were led under the amused eyes of the champion horses in the boxes next to the ones we were left in, hands tied, the bit released. We could easily press on the tap to let freshwater flow, and there was a toilet bowl in the far corner. The straw on the floor was new and smelled homely, on one side stood a tough square, heavy glazed raw linen bed and sheepskin cover and pillow. Affixed to the wooden partition, a cast-iron trough contained sundry sorts of chocolate-coated bites.
A single light bulb in the hanging lampshade shed the propitiously dim light for exactly what I foresaw of the Cossack legends. They all disappeared without a word, leaving us dumb amidst the heavy grunts of mighty animals. Natalia reckoned that was beyond any depravity she had submitted herself to, as of yet. She was still stirring her anus with the tail plug against the wall.
The all-sweet food was sumptuous, and the contortions I had to execute to gulp the pieces made me feel beastly, the same when I had to pee under my neighbour’s eyes, a grey Holsteiner male that might have also grown a taste for us, despite I would not easily allow myself to that.
After I managed to cuddle into the sheepskin and nap with the weirdest dreams, owning to Sergei some kudos, we were alerted by the noises of car doors and male voices, at the end of the alley, then some horses neighs, but nothing ensued apparently. Only a good count of minutes later did I perceive footsteps on the brick flooring that made me stare through the railings like all the other animals, a black silhouette with only a mouth, hands, and a considerable pride shaft out of his crotch.
He went to Natalia and kissed the face she would offer him, then he turned towards me, and I backed away, his mask had black goggles where I had expected to read a stare. Like one does to a horse, he spoke slightly, telling me he could not hurt me then, only a kiss. He was a good kisser. He held out a hand to stroke my neck, and down on my chest, he liked my skin.
He smelled of cannabis and sweet balsams like benzoin and incense, I shuddered when I heard him fiddle with the lock of my box; behind him, Natalia nodded her head. He unclasped my hands and kissed them, then made me spin under the lamp, whistling low. He pushed me gently upon the fur, parting my thighs wide, then pulled my tail ever so slowly to lick me furiously. Moved by my moaning, my grey neighbour began trampling along the side railings: my warm phantom craved for my well-relaxed bumhole, he kept a blister of lube that he used in my rectum and his glans, he was a savvy fucker ghost. He boasted a long, sleek beastly spear, and he mastered the drill of it.
A banal black hose dangled beside the loo hole, he dragged me there when he had finished using me, and planted the smooth end of it where he had gushed off all his might, with tepid water, bantering they do that to horses, too, but not the same hose, would they? He whispered in my ear that he was a doctor, not a butcher, and then he tickled me to make me empty my bowels in the drain.
It had been trash and sweet, and I found myself plugged and locked back in the fur, hearing hoots from Natalia’s side, I farted like a filly.
I went into a dream where I stood in a blue metalwork cage in the hermitage castle in the middle of my native Taarbæk’s grand park, and the guards, in boy scouts uniforms, relayed to shag me like rabbits whenas I only needed some water to drink. I wondered if the pralines had not been laced with something, and clumsily executed the headbutt on the faucet to make it run for a minute, and thus, I did not feel the next guest to my availed body.
He held me from behind and pushed on the button as long as I drank, pinching my troubleberries and fighting against my backside ornament with his own horn. When he faced me with imposing a full-force kiss, I reckoned he could have been the returning devil, same mask and same outfit, erect as a stag. He smelled fruitier, a British blend of quince and Virginia tobacco, nothing I had ever smelled around Sergei, a slight hint of a lusty ginger lad on a flight in Melchior’s wings? This one was indeed ginger all around his pretty balls, and breathless. I told him he could free my hands and open my arse, but if he appreciated my embrace, he would rather shag me into my blooming vagina, and that, I would relish all the more. Filled up both ways, I sensed his humping as in my devilishly precocious days, then I rekindled him in my mouth to let him win another round of bliss. He was instantly smitten with me, and he wanted to see me again, I told him to see with Sergei, but he wouldn’t know who that was; I gave him an old hotmail address, too drowsy to think better, almost certain I would never check it.
Next, a pair of terrible twins trampled at the gate, and the whole herd of horses was becoming edgy, so he left his card and went. The brothers were smaller and stocky, their dicks tense like gargoyles. They laughed all the time with shrill festoons, of banters in a very foreign language. They detailed me like puppies, making me scent dried saliva. They smelled of fiery pepper, rich patchouli, and balmy laurel, something any other man would have shunned, and probably quite rightly, but kept me even more whorish, offering my goods unabashedly to eyes I did not see, so as they plotted to take me simultaneously, for the best or the worse but I played game. They reminded me of that other pair my friend Julia had kept for Kate and me in her Central Park West Majestic apartment —amidst the family collection of American Indian poignant art collection she wanted the Metropolitan Museum to host.
They had duly pulled my tail so as to rub on one another with a smidgen of me in between, and they raved abundantly as they soiled me all over, in their Cossack vernacular. Then they considered me spent, and so did I, but they still loved me, thus they needed more, they pulled off the boots and all the harnessing away, then played with the perspired socks, and the toes to see me wriggle.
Before they, too, rinsed me with the hose, I gave them the treat of peeing for them; their waning dongs were drippy. The hanging towel had become more of a mop, but they kept me warm between them in the heavy fur, babbling like toddlers. I felt numb.
Then there was the trampling of boots and interjections of the female squadron who couldn’t, nonetheless, fend off the brothers’ feverish fingers. Natalia had been with a younger black cavalier and no longer bore her tail either; she gave me an eye-rolling glance before my twins hurled about her to rip off the accessories and bring her to me, showing us how to love each other, at what we succeded, and she whispered she had never been shagged that much before.
Further in the alley, there was some sort of horse-toilet station where we were thoroughly cleaned with the kind of spring-flower-scented soap one would barely think of with even the cutest Arabian filly. The three stable maids had unshoed and become most tender, my skinny blonde craved wanking my arsehole with the lather; it wasn’t long before we responded. Our ghostly cavaliers had vanished.
We were brought to massage tables where the favours continued with every bone and muscle till I passed out. I woke back seemingly dislocated when two of them were upturning me to do my nails in dark crimson, which made me feel loose. My wish was they try not make-up my face, but they did no more than a mite of blush, a dash of colourless lip-gloss, and not more mascara than I would have used myself; I thought they had liked our looks when we had arrived. Natalia looked like an exhausted whore with whom to further spend a trove of vices.
I had the unmistakable taste of semen in my mouth, it had not repelled the maids who had just sucked on much worse, possibly, but I was grateful to share a mug of cherry-grapefruit rinse. I noticed we all had our labia shamelessly done with dark ruby lipstick, and it forebode the rest of the night. Their unequivocal, yet smooth, mateship revealed the slutty brat I dared be; they hand-talked us towards a warm-panelled corridor thickly carpeted like a Swiss hotel; I enlaced my buddy Natalia.
That sensation of being nude and groomed amidst the snazzily dressed society of some low-ceiling bar in the murmur of a piano and the shuffling of foreign words wouldn’t fail to make us wet. We were led to sit on a fuzzy pattern rose and sage loveseat at the edge of the few steps lower centre of the rich venue. Men wore black silk lapels or boheme-chic creased flax, women showed most of their breasts under couture gowns or lace see-throughs.
Sergei showed up and raved about our stables course, he said we had earned a pretty hoard already. The maids brought a tray with tumblers of fruity kombucha and went on letting be handled at random by the clientèle. He seized my foot and cuddled it just like my Far would, but from him, it looked lustful; I opened my thighs a bit. A tall bespoke black silk diplomat type came and smooth-talked to our purported procurer, in his beard, Sergei asked if we both wanted to follow the Cossack prince to a room, lifting an incentive eyebrow.
There was a heavy vaulted door to a private apartment, parchment clad in the Jean-Michel Frank manner; it felt lush when he pressed me to the wall to kiss me avidly, then told us to love each other for him against the supple skin. He then told me to buckle restraint bracelets to Natalia’s wrists and ankles, then clasp her to chains he had made appear from the ceiling, and foldaway bolts in the floor. She was all spread out, and he showed me a thick padded collar to hang her straight. I shied, but she said to do it.
He had removed the jacket and rolled up his sleeves, he opened a concealed closet where hung the whips, and he chose a cat o’ nine tails, though not as cruel as those in the Royal Navy, the leather strands were sleek. He handed it to me, showing that I would have to flog her myself, otherly he gave me a taste of the longer lash whip. Anyhow, my will had been erred out by our bout of willing slavery, the sting he had caused me was turning to pleasure in my arse, and we were mere sluts, thus I struck Natalia’s butt, and again, to draw a web of vermillion lines, and her loins too, until she let herself hang and I ran to enlace her, receiving myself the longer lash strokes to no end. Then he circled us and took a bullwhip to mark her upfront until his arm failed.
He muttered his gibberish as he unclasped my lover and showed up a large leather bed to lay her. Still a riding crop in hand, he guided me to lick the reddened lines on her skin, then her quim he had known to reach, too. She climaxed so soon that I was taken aback, my mouth full of her liquid. Meanwhile, I felt being penetrated in my burning anus, a long, solid, unflinching spur that soothed the pain into bliss as Natalia came again.
In the nude, he was a sinewy slender hunk with a powerful sword, he smiled finely when he told us in Pidgin that we were amateurs, adding he had liked justly this. He fetched a jar of unguent and told us to work it in our skins, we should be surprised by how fast the marks would wane, and he took care of our buttholes himself.
He watched us twirl our tongues together so greedily that he forced his way again into Natalia’s bum, making it last, then asking me to straddle her so that he could poke his tongue into my holes, and I played to let him inside and squeeze until eventually, I squirted in his mouth before we heard some news from Natalia.
Yet another one who insisted that we take his monogrammed card with a handwritten number on it, along with a fat nondescript envelope. He went his way after the last finger in my butt, we climbed down, most of the guests had retired, and Sergei was offhandedly being pumped by one of the maids across a settee. He admired our whip marks, I did not brag about having done that to Natalia’s back, but I read he guessed it wasn’t all the Prince’s feat.
We sat, and I began fingering the girl as in a sweet habit. When he saw my loot, he said we would need a rucksack on our way back because he already kept for us a few of those. He added we should go buy some of the Russian girls who cruised in some Parisian venues, if we agreed to bribe some concierges or barmen, in cash or in kind, and bring them in the roundabout. All the pretty runaways in Saint Petersburg dreamt of whoring in Europe, we should do our market, what did we need money for?
The frost crackled under the limousine tires on the road back, I told the chauffeur we were in no hurry. Natalia asked me if we would go hunting. She was overjoyed with her fat share of the stash.

 

Cecile says:

Curious to hear about Cossack tales from the horse’s mouth, I looked for my fornicatrix friends in the princely bed. I was horrified by the streaks all over them, and so they yawned, but sneakily succeeded at stealing my jeans and the rest, so foolhardy had they been. I could not believe their romps in the stables, despite Natalia’s bet I would eventually call Sergei and go along with us —or a dear crush. Hadn’t I, once, been debauched enough to buy a Venetian putana to play with in Hugo’s room?
I told them the traces looked hurtful, so they dared me to rub them with cream and make them moan, Sergei had obliged with a jar of the remedy, and it smelled good. I saw them so impudently meow like kittens that I demanded they lick me in return, and they did.
As I had a grasp of it, no sooner had Natalia been dragged into a stall, in restraints, gagged and blindfolded, than a number of hands fluffed about her body, carried her apart only to be pissed onto, rinsed with warm water down to her bumhole, tilted such as to be made to gulp a dick in lieu of the gag while others took turns in her bum.
That heard in the warm-hearted cradle of the balmy privacy of my providential saviours, I could fantasise her tale as some wet dream —even in the most dejected times of my bygone doomed life had I unwillingly projected some kinds of lewd playlets involving one or another schoolmate, according to my random readings in leftover magazines or in radio evocations, whenas I was being abused daily. Sarah wanted to know what effect Natalia’s hardcore recount had on me, in case I wouldn’t need that sort of excess, but she found me properly wet, and my gaze did not shun hers.
Natalia, the splendid privileged slut fairy, was proud of her whoring exploits but not up to the plague of vanity, she let me fawn her at the tip of her toes, I knew how she had been bred up.
Left dilapidated but clean as a new-minted penny, she had been left spent on the tough bench, panting in her harness under her neighbour’s big eyes. She had been hearing Sarah’s moans beat time, it had been her damned turn. A formidable hulk, clad in a silky black body-tight, and black goggles, happened to stand looking down at her, considering the smooth waves of her restored breath. His exuberant manhood burst forth from the black silk, a rillet of clear slabber hanging at the tiny little slot.
She did not fear so much, her latter manhandlers had at the more bustled her mind than hurt her body, she was more of a slut to that, and had they not defied a real Cossack at his game? The sturdy six-footer sat down on one buttock to unclasp her restraints and fiddle with her slight breasts, speaking double Dutch but showing her to part her legs. Up close, he wasn’t so athletic, his tummy had probably grown against a directorial desk, but his main organ was impressive, however, and she perversely wanted to taste that trickle of drool.
He liked what she could do to a feverish piece of want before it became enraged, he lay down and wedged his head such as she could let him devour her crack, she relished like of having tamed the bear, and he was talented. He did not warn when he gushed half a dozen loads in her throat, but it had been part of her Sorbonne cursus to know how to gulp with grace —wasn’t it bizarre that Sarah had no such credits to retell of as to her Beaux-Arts years? She retorted she had earned her doctorate in these matters on a Swiss lakeshore, long before she rubbed elbows with the Malaquais wankers.
While she tried to clear the scent in her mouth by sucking and spewing flows of saliva, Taras Bulba allowed no truce, as demonstrated by the springiness of his spurting bat, but for altogether terrifying his attire might have been, he wasn’t fueled by the rage of rape —that I would know volumes about— but some kind of lustful sportsmanship, Sergei having extolled the unmatched profligacy of his friend courtesans. Thus he rekindled the dialogue with passionate kisses on Natalia’s nipples and lips, stubbornly enough to make her wish for the deeper giddiness her soulmates had taught her —just like Sarah had tamed me too, at Lauritz’s better profit, amidst the mish-mash of my own trash mass-market mythologies, and I felt a pang of nostalgia that spawned the urge to elope with Emeline to Italy.
Those two tramps I knew by heart, wallowed in their gossamer-threaded percale sheets, smelling like the whole enthuse of a June meadow, boasted their whip marks like trophies, and they still found bliss in their fire. I guessed they would teach me that, too.
And Natalia, sylphic as the gazelles of the Charlottenhof at Sanssouci, had danced and again on as many encores as the Tatar dared fire, until it had been time to stun him with one of the old country lullabies she wouldn’t understand, but that had suffused within her mother’s milk. we insisted, but she botched one or two lines to convince us the time had passed.
Sergei had come to see matters when the hulk stumbled out on the straw. He asked if she wanted more of the turmoil, applying dulcet salve to her tormented nether love sheaths. Sarah could be overheard again across the alley bawling insanities to excite some office wolf, thus, she had dared Sergei to bring them on.
Meanwhile, Sarah had brought a large tray with tea and coffee, a packet of biscuits — a token of sisterly love, whatever the carnal expenses she was confessing together with the house fairy.
Something like three arched-legged jockeys had circled the stained mattress where she lay mostly lethargic, but she still had the nerve to tease them into the compass of her legs. Their dark-skinned dicks only half brandished, they prattled a bit, then pulled off her boots, and carried her in the corner to piss on her together with childish sniggers —they had drunk beer— then they made her bend to the wall and present her bum to the hose and expel to the last drop before lubricating her holes again.
Now they were stiff as roots, but altogether more solicitous than she might have feared —she reckoned that what she had read about the real battleground Cossacks was less enticing than this gang’s manners— taking turns using her, eventually using her together at once. She had a longer practice than me in these expensive follies, notwithstanding whatever whims Lauritz might relish watching me participate in.
Natalia said she would turn her phone off till night and sleep before she went for a manner of a lecture at her old master’s lair, and she offered me to come along, the crackpot Don Prof. F. paid well, and besides, his daughter Elvire, who lived as a fascinating recluse, paling under black gowns that Natalia loved to hitch-up in furtive moments, was a nonpareil beauty. I retorted I might follow her, she needed not forewarn the old fool.
As Hugo’s all-time assumed daughter, Natalia swam all the easier amidst the big fish, unlike a store-shack rat like me, even if Lauritz and the gang had made me pull up my shoulders a tad. Sarah, reminding me she was my elder, groped my underbelly and encouraged me to go explore Natalia’s weird clientèle she owed to Liselotte, I might remember the utter distinction of the Pietre Dure Dottore we had served in Florence, might I not?
Natalia said she would be standing at the ready at eight, no sartorial fuss, the Prof. liked it raw anyway, except for his daughter. She ran to her perch, her clothes under her arm. Sarah put on the tracksuit that smelled of her right through my soul, I took the elevator down to my beloved workshop.
Cyprien said that I looked like I had been chased by a wolf-pack, thus I realised I was wired like a nipper, and it would remain so till I go gambol with Natalia. After another coffee pot, and a plate of these biscuits called lady-fingers, so prone to dissolve that it forced me to gather my nerves, for my honour, under Cyprien’s impish gaze. Fortunately, there was a chore of dirt-scrapping work on a painting Hugo had bought on a hunch it could depict a princely bride to be, thus I mounted a new blade on the knife, and I listened to Bach.
At seven, I asked Sarah to dress me like an intellectual whore, she retorted that I had never been more desirable than on the once she had unsnapped my yellow overalls at Lauritz’s work site. Only she could see reason in their wardrobe, bar the furtive maid who had hung back the mishandlings in their right place. I had taken a thorough shower, painted my nails the colour of the burgundy spinels on my choker, and I stood in a terry robe that she pulled aside, calling me names on the tip of my nose. She chose subtle black crotchless veil tights, grazing my thighs and complimenting my laser-sleek skin, also noting I was wet already, and we kissed like lovers. Then she fetched a scandalous pair of black silk velvet shorts scattered with silver embroidered stars she had once seen on Kristen Stewart —whom she craved as much as me amongst the magazines’ fauna— and a mirabulous double-breasted moonlight peonies printed silk velvet blazer with nightly satin lapels; she decided I wear nothing else, and I slipped in real snazzy patent leather pumps with a grosgrain bow. She said that to go out, I would wrap myself in her silk trench, one ever-needed thing I thought I should buy myself.
Natalia growled with want when she saw me so. She wore one of these priceless, tight-fitted, variegated zig-zag silk jersey dresses, flush to her bum, Futurist-patterned almond and mauve tights, under an oversized dark gold wool velvet double-breasted coat, and scarab-brown ankle boots. She told me to tie a jumble-printed silk square at my neck in case the wind raises.
So much for sartorial modesty. She retorted that she had meant a lovely newcomer like me could have sported a tee shirt and my Perfecto, in the old Don’s eyes. Sarah, whom I couldn’t help fondle below the waistband, bantered she had already devolved herself for the night at Hector’s whim, hence she only cared for rich Swiss Navy blue satin pyjamas and matched velvet slippers. She showed that I must have been as miraculous about their beaten hides as I was on age-old dirt on paintings.
In the taxi, we kept misbehaving under our coats, she smelled of a light cologne we had brought back from our trip to Florence with Sarah, frangipane, iris and ambergris from the cool vaults of Aquaflor in Florence, so as in my mind, it became the scent of what they had recounted of their sleazy Cossack theatricals, eyes wide open. She grazed my nude breasts and called my name, while the driver seemed to kvetch against lesbians.
The cobbled by-street feebly lit did not forebode the grandeur of a stately dwelling as big as the Hotel von Speck, and I was bewitched by the high bare ashlar vault hemmed in the web of shadows cast by a single bulb in a metalwork lantern. It would make me feel like a street urchin, whenas I wore a year’s salary-worth outfit. The low-angled stairs smelled of beeswax, I could have slept on the thick run rug; Paris had held back its breath.
After the staircase returned dark over our kiss on the landing, Natalia forwarned me that the doorbell, contrary to the digital pad on the street, was still not electric, thus when she pulled the knob, we heard a silvery tinkle somewhere far, would I dare say it made me wet?
Professor F., in a beige moleskin vest and kidskin slippers, opened one leaf of the tall walnut door after complicated clinkings, and his authoritative glare descended upon me while he enlaced his howbeit brilliant student. On a wink from my introducer, I began untying the belt of my trench, reading in her eyes that I should woo the bastard otherly than my plain clients, hence I properly wondered what Kristen Stewart would intuit on camera, so then I had an utterly intimate moment with the actress, swaying my shorts in pure vice.
Having hung our coats to a parrot coat rack like I wished we had one in the workshop, F. asked us to enlace along the corridor to the study room where he wanted to play. He fondled our bottoms and half-pulled my shorts down, with compliments; Natalia was unskirted, rolling down her tights as he fingered in her bumhole as he did in mine. As expected, a weird-looking girl our age was seated, unfazed, in a full-length gown sewn in that deep purple glazed fabric of southern Sahara, leaning on her elbow, barefoot on a silk rug. She bore long flat strands of dark hair and stared quietly with deep black rounded eyes. I felt the soft pang that she wanted me.
Once in the raw, Natalia knew her part, she sat still in a maroon wool velvet antique bergère, a typescript with coloured bookmarks rested on a side table near her, a crowd of primary art sculptures overlooked by four spectacular Papua masks, the whole in dramatic lighting. Himself sat in a manner of a gilded baroque pontifical chair —as the one Annachiara had wanted me to sit on in the Ca’ Rezzonico, during one of our tours with Hugo, and I did not overstep the label hanging between the armrests. I could tell a masterful erection in his trousers, and he ordered me firmly to free it and kneel upon the ravishing papal footrest, after he untied my shorts loose, and relished the sight of my quim and arse artfully set off.
He kindly asked his daughter to make tea, and coffee, for that matter. She dawdled on, still watching me ostentatiously, leaning her head. While she was bustling stuff in the depth of the apartment, I calmly obeyed and seized the valiant club amidst the fresh garments and licked of my own will the little clear drop at its tip. He grazed my cheek and begged me to suck further.
Natalia began to recite monotonously the eerie text in the typescript. F. held a tablet on which he seemed to control a video recording of Natalia’s performance with concealed cameras. Elvire brought back a loaded tray, and, surprise, I soon afterwards began to feel in my bum crack that kind of lip lap Emeline would submit me to when I didn’t forbid; my hunch was worth it, Elvire was mine.
As I did my utmost on her father’s staff, the moody daughter insensibly pulled down my tights, and I eased them off at my knees; my bum revelled in her breath. The Don smelled of a manly Cologne I had met before with Lauritz’s buddies, he muffled his pleasure moanings, probably not to record them, and I heard some stealthy rustlings from behind.
Retrieving both hands, F. tousled my hair and began fucking my throat for good, while I no longer sussed what went on in my rosette, for it might not be a tongue, playing. Natalia hiccoughed, and, as I suddenly had to gulp a nasty spoonful of donnish glue, I greeted the assumption that I was being fucked by whom almost clearly was a transwoman with a plus.
Natalia had coveted Elvire long-handedly, genderlessly, but F. weird mind-fucking had not brought wind to her sail, and most times, she had run away with her booty and joined her two minders for a rightful shag. So then, It made no real fuss if Elvire was part of the deal, with a teasing up dicklet, to boot. Socially, according to my magazine closet upbringing, it would have been deemed sick and dirty —for that matter, is JK Rawlins anything other than a successful magazine serial writer?

But, hic et nunc, in the comfy Parisian apartments where, for one, a reputed academic corrupted his prettiest student offhandedly, the fluidity of genes was a long-decided case, and Elvire had transitioned gracefully.
F. was dumbstruck when he reckoned we traded unabashedly with his atypical offspring, as for her, she beamed in pride, fondling my face as her father made me straddle his dick in reverse with the fantasy of sharing me thus with her, who came to kneel on the footstool in all papal compunction, in the distanced recitation by Natalia of the abstruse litany. It came to mind that our Fairy’s diplomas, with honours, mind you, had been dearly acquired —and hadn’t she learned the highest rhetorics in the domain of humanities?
Once the droll Pope had urbi et orbi us with a thick batch of material goods, the sylphic Elvire came with us to the all-tiled white bathroom and filled the antique tub on lion’s paws. With her hair tied up in a bun, she was all the more seraphic, Natalia and I twiddled her Sienna-coloured nipples and her dinky sparrow, smoothly girlsplaining we sheltered a few other angels like her at home, no strings attached if she dared meet them, at a mere wingbeat, with only love. We shared numbers, I was becoming a collector.
F. had overheard all of our chirrupings, on the way out, he grasped me by my elbow to an open bedroom and tilted me upon a velvety bed, watching me up close with febrile compliments, cupping my chin and licking my lips, then he begged me to spare Elvire, I was the first girl she ever fucked, she was ignited as he had never witnessed her, he entrusted us to help her thrive, and come back to his foolish ceremonies. He was wanking me again, I swore I would never wish ill on Elvire, but he was the one who had set her pretty feet in the realm of debauchery, that a libertine like me would certainly not blame or shame, but he should foresee the bustling life she would enjoy, away from him. Nonetheless, he could afford to use us any old way he could think of, it had been a pleasure to serve him.
Natalia was making out elegantly with Elvire on an old-gold settee, in the corridor, I turned to F., who couldn’t let go of me, and I whispered that we had already made Elvire a beautiful slut, hadn’t we?
It had been drizzling on the cobbled lane, it was nostalgic as a Brassaï photograph, Natalia grasped me by the waist and held her telephone ready in the other hand; she asked me bruskly if I wanted some dick, and indeed that was what F. had left me frustrated about, not that the whole shenanigan missed carnal flair, but I knew Natalia could summon snazzy hunklings to my taste, too. While waiting for the taxi, it wasn’t so chilly that she wouldn’t push me under a porch and poke her tongue inside my lips.
We rode long enough playing hot hands while watching the rain in the city lights, I had seen not long ago Cyprien restore a painting by Galien Laloue, the uncontested master of a wet Paris, and I had fantasised about all the Lorettes running for an adventure. We reached some nondescript high quarters with far views, and mostly low buildings like the rich bohemians crave.
I did not locate the Eiffel Tower, thus I could think anywhere, but Natalia led; There was a shabby grey plain door with a digit pad at the upper right corner, and she tapped a number so that we could access a narrow alleyway between ivy curtains. She held my hand, we reached a tiny garden under the yellowish halo of a lampost; Fulgence came out of the quaint pavilion with a patched-up plaster facade, cornices and strips of ceramic tiles decorated with blue motives, it was the typical mood of a Balzacian hideaway.
He was warm, in a mere tee shirt and jeans hasty outfit, he rummaged outright inside my trench as I had not yet passed the doorstep. He smelled the heady mixture of a green Cologne with the roses of the lady he had just been entwined with, his mouth was sweetish like a Rahat Loukhoum.
It was a head party, with a crowd of nude people in a fog of cannabis vape, thus we didn’t dawdle joining them after Fulgence helped us hand our togs in a room where a long-legged filly was being played by two mates. Natalia sussed that Fulgence was set on my arse, she bantered that she lent me for the while, and went cruising. They knew everyone, and I did not; it became obvious that Fulgence wanted all to see him shagging my little arse, thus I went for it, after Fulgence had warned me it was unchartered territory and I needed latex beyond oral amusements; also, there lay heaps of bottles I did not want to taste from These were scenes I had seen and masturbated to in the magazines my mother sold wrapped; I was aroused, and probably already a chink high, Natalia had once explained that the new extracts in the vapes were far more potent than they used to be and faster to groove in. I remembered sliding down to suck Fulgence’s rod and make him fuck my mouth for the second time that night, swallowing his cum like a banana shake, and being then tasted by some undifferentiated youngling.
A few prowlers, who had enquired about my name, guessed that my cavalier would need some reload to keep shagging, and thus emerged with funny-coloured dicks at the ready and candid faces I was no longer in a mind to shun; their comrades had probably not shared much of the honey in their pots, they took head-spinning turns front and behind in me like no tomorrow, it seemed, helped by the condom’s lubricant, I felt dispossessed of my entrails and frustrated of their gush until Fulgence caught me back and explained he did it bareback because he was my brother. He found me lightheaded and supplely softened, said he as he made his way in gradually to the wall of my womb, remaining still when he turned compliments, before eventually flooding my beloved wishing well.
Natalia sounded curfew, and Fulgence joined us in the taxi, we smelled of a cinnamon soap we had found in the bathroom; he was happy to be neighbours, and we kept wanking each other. When he ran to his pad, Natalia didn’t want to sleep alone —and she loved the homunculus in the throat of the God Crow. Sarah had not been back, we drank the last coffee, recapping a brave whorish night on town.

 

Sarah says:

It wasn’t much of a surprise, sleeping in the back seat of a luxury car in Louis’ garage, I knew that place, Hector had probably shunned waking me after a straining night. In need of the loo, wrapped in the baby blue, fluffy, weightless travel blanket, I found my way to the ground floor lavish vaulted refuge that smelled of otherworldly potpourri and mulled aimlessly on the toilet bowl.
Recollections of a collapsed Lizon, poor white convolvulus in the thorny undergrowth that I had been offered to chaperone in her desperate caprices, crashing back at dawn amidst the solicitous care of Louis’ angels. Then and there, I did not even feel like piecing the bygone night, I bore no more traces bar the slightly swollen rims of my play brooklet.
I smelled of a powdery iris and a fresh pond of water lilies; the grand bed was properly made, and I hid under the comforter to fly back over Slumberland. The Renaissance pinnacles of my cousin Christian the fourth had perched on the Newyorchese needles, still circled by flocks of crimson crows under the watch of the Chrysler silver eagles. In Central Park, from high, I could see long night-gown girls chasing a herd of zebras into the box trees, the red kangaroo applauding. On the Sheep Meadow, nude boys in yellow clogs pulled rainbow kites to chase quacking pelicans, beaks full of dismembered aeroplane propellers to Strawberry Fields.
I could tell Hector’s bed manners amongst any others, ever since he first served me in Louis’ outlandish realm where Camille had finely sent me. Well aware that wisdom had it that I should restore my wits in this world, he had brought some of that tea he was famous for, and frangipane croissants. It was late, even on my terms, and he was looking at me with love. He said I should go check my vitals and start a round of truvada pills because I had been at risk.
Back home, in my beloved pyjamas, the usual crime scene was deserted, I snuck a peek into the God Crow ward, the crumpled bed smelled of heavenly wilderness. I went down to the workshop and found Cecile, pünktlich at Richter’s angelic orders, scrapping dirt from an ancient panel, with the tedious pendulum of the turpentine pad to keep a vision of her precious workmanship.
I kissed Cyprien’s forehead, as usual, and he begged me to sit for him in that glorious satin suit, barefoot. Cecile paused and made coffee and tea; it would be told I would drink anyone’s tea but my own, that —morning? She had heartfully relished their paid performance night, with a twist. She warned me we might receive a visit from someone in need of that kind of attention they found in Michelle’s attics, a bona fide transwoman whose comprehensive father had, so to speak, paid me to shag, in my abilities. Natalia had recounted that nifty traffic Liselotte had concocted for her with the brainiac professor, and the many profits she had garnered by letting him use her in all manners. She might have mentioned a beautiful, albeit foggy, daughter, present in all aloofness at Prof F.’s private theatricals.
Cecile was smitten with all traits of that Elvire person who had nevertheless been man enough to bugger her unannounced with her cute little spur. I knew that gentle sort of commerce since my Swiss schooldays, I even had been bullied for a while as not a real girl myself, that until my stables’ Cossack claimed once that I was the best fuck around and he did not care for bouncy boobs. With a nod from Dr Achenbach —the resident psychologist—  I became notorious, if nowhere official, recourse for stealthy cases of sexual dysmorphia in school, not all of them in my bed.
After an hour or so into the well-tempered forest, grinding my brains to suss out what I had been doing all night, I promised I would come back in the very same outfit: I sensed a call to go visit the new territories of the Faerie, Cecile having alluded to a passion between Josephine and Emeline since the opening of the dance floor. I was proudly flattered when I saw what Cyprien had captured of my allure, it was timeless. He had a crush on my rich pyjamas; when I kissed him goodbye, he fondled me without restraints, although I knew it would never lead further.
As I meandered through the homey subterranean burrows, seemingly greeted by the host of blinking coloured points, I was in for a big surprise; not only were the two nymphets twirling in mutual smiles, but in the far corner sat our Bonnie Prince Finlan improvising on a genuine black Rhodes electric piano plugged into the sound system, an eerie rhapsody leading the light elfins like wisps of colour in a whirl of air.
They had been shopping for thin spandex leotards, of opal tints of green and mauve, their precious feet making no sound. I circled the room to come graze Finlan’s back ever so slightly; he sighed but kept the music furl and unroll. I was dumbfounded he could have kept schtum on talent this breadth, I grew worried about Malo’s return; I had always known her as open-minded as in her free-flowing musical fantasies, but now then it could rile up into some facetted drama, for better or worse.
They stopped, shoulder to shoulder, high on each other’s scent, wired and fragile. Finlan let his fingers adrift for a few seconds before looking up at me and feeling my satin. I tousled his ruddy curls and tossed my hips forth, which he grasped and then he nosed playfully into my crotch. I complimented him about the instrument, a refurbished vintage black travel box; he implied it had been a smooth comedic story between Josephine, him and Malo, who understood he had taken piano lessons, long ago —sometimes he spoke like an Irish bard— and owned that baby; a new model, a Mark Eight, was awaited. They had not yet even played their instruments together, but most of all, the fireflies loved his musical manners, and else.
We ended all in the shower, Josephine, being a trained dancer —even if that be altogether private— kept her eye on Emeline to reassure her as to which foot to dance on, so to speak, and the village butcher’s sex puppy was catching on spectacularly, all the more so that, as for vamping anyone, Emeline was up to her level, and it was her who was eventually buggered standing as we frolicked about.
Before climbing up to our home, we wanted to throw a glance at the pool under the dance room. They had been laying ultramarine and gold mosaics in the basin and the rounded edges, the design of large waves had been outlined up to the blazing golden dawn spread down from the ceiling. One Italian craftsman still at work gulped at seeing our immodestly clad nymphets, but he took an expression such as, in a workplace such as this, anything could come about, so we all greeted him, and he returned to his wet grout, undisturbed.
The black delivery boy who deserved the most tips brought a stack of food boxes held together with a red ribbon. It is matter-of-fact knowledge that most delivery boys in Paris are black. He was overawed by our small brigade, but I remembered how we had rewarded him before, thus I offhandedly reached for his fly and suggested Emeline might garner a quick taste. Finlan, whatsoever life he had led with a lighthearted prostitute —in the smile of Gwen— rounded his eyes at the scene he was seeing, furthermore when Josephine knelt to Emeline’s rescue. It was a quick and clean intermezzo; once the boy had run off, however not deprived of his real money, either, Emeline drank a highball of kombucha, just like you rinse your teeth. Finlan wanted to taste Josephine’s mouth, he had apparently not yet viewed them as proper whores.
I had a time slot to go give blood and samples at the usual clinic nearby, Emeline offered to come along; it would certainly not bother the two others to stay together during the while. Emeline was too young to carry a black card, but not to keep checking on all her health constants, it had been done in her father’s suicide’s aftermaths. She would carry a pearly card as the key to her thorough preventive health file, and the regular check-ups of contraception and STDs. That day, I was a tad anxious; thus, on the way to the clinic, I chatted about all the monitoring systems we lived with, the full extent of which she would access at eighteen. If she asked, I had been carrying a hormonal contraceptive since school, and I was delighted with the freedom it brought, but she would have a confidential interview on those matters.
Back home, Cecile and Natalia introduced all-shy Elvire, who only just then came out as a transwoman, beautifully: they hoped we would help her thrive just like we had for the carefree gang in the TRÆVIX’s paradis. Amidst our easygoing assembly, with only one dainty Brit around, she kept wrapped in a long purplish-black gown and a dried-blood colour paisley shawl, but Cecile took her off her docs and wool socks to fondle her feet.
Natalia said Elvire had lived alone with her famous teacher father, her school tutor, as it happened, and now she needed to emancipate out of her chrysalid; we had her role models, for that.
At once, she wouldn’t know where to lay her eyes amidst our tender bedlam, Cecile cajoled her and made fun of our curiosity, granting we all wanted to take her to bed. When she crouched up her legs in the settee’s corner, I could briefly see her long slender legs, nothing too sinewy such as to tell of a manly nature; she was tall indeed, but sleek and smooth, she had grown on the right side of hormones; her father, a droll grand satrap, for what I had been told, had not barred her inclination at the right moment; and she would be ripe to let us crave for her bum when the pool would be filled up.
They texted me the first conclusions of my blood tests, and there were no flags whatsoever, but because of my doubts, they wished for another draw in two days. On her side, Emeline was serene and envious of Finlan’s trousers, so much so that he let her do him, making Elvire blush. When the pies were warmed-up, as we sat around, her shawl had gone, and Cecile had popped out the front buttons one by one. She had delightful-looking skin.

Natalia had sent word to the other shore of the gardens that a birthing soul had run aground amidst our libertine family. Unavoidably, Delf and her suite came running at dessert; Apolline was overjoyed to steal from Elvire’s Monte Bianco pastry until they wiped each other’s icing sugar moustaches. Delf was beaming in parade silk gold brocade pyjamas which let guess an unabashed miniature erection; she held hands with Elvire and spilt in one go her own pearls as if to assert they hovered far above any judgmental leaning whatsoever; frankly, they were of both natures, with a preference for their feminine part, furthermore not keen on masculine hormones. They —most of the time, Delf used this pronoun for themself, not always; they assumed their whims— chose to flaunt immaturity, their pact with the Aviatrix, who was unfettered cisgender, was cosa mentale; everything at TRÆVIX was in its right place. Elvire, who felt better with the pronoun she, because it was what she affirmed, came to foster any existential angst, a team of specialised doctors and searchers, in convenient offices just beyond these walls, could listen to them in inviolable secrecy. Casting a black shard of her most irresistible stare, she mumbled that she had an analysis going on with her psychiatrist since before she obtained transitioning.
Her gown rim became available at all winds, but remained closed, at Apolline’s discretion; Cecile, who had been bestowed upon all honours in the confidence, kept her hands where she pleased. Emeline had been robbed of the headline, but she was fascinated by this play of queer personalities. For the while, she held Natalia in her dainty grip, begging her to take her along to a next shady appointment —to what Natalia retorted she would be far too costly for that.
Finlan wasn’t bulkier than me, he had sat on my lap like an Irish robin, and he smelled of gingerbread. When he jolted up to go pee, he did not bar me from following him unabashedly. All at once, I was naked in the bathroom asking him to piss on me, which wasn’t immediate because his wand was stiff up but flowed jerkily into our embrace and warmly down on our feet. He joshed he had never done that, I said I had learned at school, and he shagged me upright in the shower beam, long enough for me to join him exult. My sensation of him had coloured with the harmonies he had offered the fluttering damsels, deeming him better than a pretty tramp in Gwen’s luggage, I kept him tight in a corner of a sofa, mingling our feet.
Elvire had begun to piece up, at her newfound kindred’s request, the tatters of her becoming the shy maiden whose nightingale Apolline kept nested. Her parents had both been wunderkinder and found each other attending the Parisian secondary unsaid élite schools, then up through the peaks of utmost studies, however having befuddled those in academia who had a keen eye on them. They had married young, so as to greet a baby they would have, a little boy called Cosmo.
The couple already lived in the hotel particulier where she dwelled until then, with all the necessary help they wouldn’t even think to ask for. The young Cosmo was raised by a black wet nurse from his mother’s family properties in Martinique —Elvire still worshipped the woman and still provided for her. Then he was spoiled by very young successive Czech nurses, immune from his parents’ literary hobby horses and sundry thralls of abuse his mother sunk in, sensing that she had been spiritually mangled confronting her husband’s whims and moreover dissolved in the consumption of innumerable drugs. According to a long-lived tradition, she had been fished out of the river Seine at the Suresnes’ locks, in her white satin bride’s gown, and later, there, her ashes had been scattered beyond in the bleak waters, and his father had never spoken of his mother to Cosmo.
There had been young maidens and students to teach him languages and French, all of whom to his father’s taste and none complaining. The cook lady had a daughter his age —he later suspected she was his half-sister— thus, it was agreed that she would be schooled along with him, and they went along together most harmoniously.
Psychiatrists and paediatricians routinely overlook pre-puberty sexuality because it is easy to crash young patients’ souls for the greater quietness of parents, paving the way for any Humbert Humbert at the ready. Damiana —her mother came from the Azores— resembled Cosmo, and he wanted to be like her, bar the tiniest of details they had soon compared thoroughly. The bookcases lined the walls of most rooms and stepladders hid behind most doors for them to reach full-knowledge natural sciences volumes in which, at the same time the one on the lower scale could grope the one on top, they eventually learned what would become of them physically, and Cosmo did not like it. Simultaneously, they had ferreted out F.’s inferno library, full of sexually explicit graphic depictions on which he never identified with the male actors.
While Cosmo’s mother rarely left her bedroom in the daytime, his father did not inquire about the children, who did not venture near his private quarters, and the nannies were easy to quieten. Cosmo had begun to wear Damiana’s clothes and refused to let her hair cut.
At about seven years, Cosmo realised once that he no longer knew where Damiana stood, with a hunch. His father’s study, with all the statues in it, wasn’t even locked, and thus he saw the first of a long series of his dad’s maniacal ceremonies; Damiana was reading out loud his abstruse poetry, her jeans and knickers rolled down on her shoes, her voice totally unaffected while the old harebrained fingered her privates.
It had not lasted longer than a turn in the toilet reading the nanny’s magazine, but Cosmo blocked her behind a door to tell her he had seen it all. With the finest of smirks, she led his hand to her fly and told him to feel her, as she was drenched. She recounted that she went in the study, every once in a while, to do things and earn some money, and then she sucked him for the first time in his life.
All they knew about sexual licence came from XIXth-century treaties like Parent-Duchatelet, or worse; they were aroused, but it happened that only Damiana could whore herself, in earnest. And moreover, she began to worry her mother about the money she kept absent-mindedly in her pockets. We said first it was I who had lost a bet, but she did not quiet. She conspired stealthily with the maids and inevitably found her daughter butt-naked and bent over the desk where she read her boss’ gobbledygook. She had fumed and refused any transaction; Damiana cried, the main door slammed, and Cosmo never saw them again.
Cosmo cried for weeks, drowned in depression, and stopped eating until a nanny found some manners to console him and made him talk. Garoune was from an Armenian family, late teenage, slender with long black curly hair; she groped him, and most of all listened. She provided a heap of modern gender studies literature which fell, spot on what Damiana and he had raved on, without much knowledge. Garoune then taught him how to blackmail his father so as to make him undertake the processes, firstly blocking the coming puberty. By mere chance, his father dredged out the right psychiatrist who became his true confidant and convinced the medical referees, inasmuch as he did not foster any project of surgery, to proceed with the transition.
Altogether, F. agreed with Cosmo’s endeavour, he went as far as to grope him, bantering that he was smooth as a girl and would remain so. On the next sad day, his mother appeared against the grates of the Suresnes lock.
Garoune brought him cool togs, he began going out in girl’s attire, tilting my brows when he was heckled. he bought girls’ magazines and collected queer shoes. When he had no whore available, F. played with his willie, joshing that he could make it stiff. He mumbled that it was a girl’s willie. He asked him not to wear undies. He chose the name Elvire because of some model’s photograph in her scrap journal, and as such, he became a transwoman.
Liselotte had always been an accomplice of F. before she had sent on Natalia and her obedient little butt. She helped in the silent compromise that had been built between the father and his chrysalid offspring, who showed less of her depressed bouts after she had despised her mother’s botched departure, of which she had suffered the aftermaths, and on the other hand the unrestricted leeway she saw set in her personal becoming.
Unbeknownst to Natalia, the utmost depravity of letting Elvire attend, in apparent aloofness, the episodes with her father served as a model for her idea of a lascivious servitude, until she had allowed herself the liberating assault on Cecile and so forth till our blessed sofa where she lay, letting seen the shapely innocence of a Thorvaldsen-like ingenue, kindly mutually wanking their weenies with an akin companion such as Apolline. Nevertheless, I could also tell the pretty resonance she struck in a Bonnie Prince Finlan, for starters with real dicks, if affinity.
Natalia and Cecile felt proud of their prom debutante, the TRÆVIX fireflies were elated; they would greet the return of Queen bee with a blushing newbie. In an adjacent wing, Cynthia would revel hearing the contorted upbringing of yet another Parisian elite’s unconventional prodigy.

 

Kate says:

She had taken my bouts of Noordzee yearnings for a treasure of family bonds, I had not undeceived her, and neither had the other person she knew such as to confide her soul weekly, Cynthia —who all-professionally currently comforted her about her inborn seraphic condition. Gwen, thus cared little about a new road trip through her old battlefields, promised all her most lustrous pearls against the use of the Melchior Eagle, fully aware that the Grand Manitou would accede any such whim from her, and with good reason.
It was a grace to feel her revelling in the snug cabin that smelled of all things Guerlain. She wore a fluid three-piece blackberry silk faille velvet suit, assorted knee socks and trunks, and black platform oxfords; girl had been shopping. I was ensconced in grew unspun alpaca knit cowl neck jumper dress and leggings, white cashmere socks in Jodhpur lash boots. As she sussed that the attendant would stay with us, she sat across and unshoed me, joshing that she liked feet in moist cashmere. It was merely dusk, but we ate our collation from Désiré’s, comprising stuffed mushrooms and pine kernel risotto, marron glacés and vanilla mousse.
On Sylt, I rented a silver-ash Mercedes EQS she wanted, it was cold and windy; she said she loved being naughty in cars and opened her vest on her magnolia-white chest and sketchy baby tits I grazed with the back of one hand. I had forwarned home that we had already dined. She began to perceive that we wouldn’t be alone as much as in a hotel room, I parked the car midway, and it went deliciously silent. Unwrapping her in the feeble glow of the dashboard, I retold her how I had always known Pitter and Emma Päske in this house, and they had kept schtum like the Queen about all we had cared little to hide from their eyes, even perhaps till our incestuous relationship; only she would relish a little bit of comedy so as not to put simply kind people in an awkward position, wouldn’t she? This was not the season for FKK culture, and I wouldn’t rest assured she like the summer crowds here, other than cruising the night scene with Lauritz? We had a smooth little romp on the back seat.
Pitter had not heard us docking, but he knew a lot about electric cars because Simon did precisely that in his life now, turning all things electric, and he had lectured our long-time caretakers who had heard said there were hundreds of turbines at work in high-sea in front of Sylt. I did not shun tender moves with Gwen as I improvised on our life in Paris nowadays, as deep as our imminent swimming pool that Pitter hardly figured how they could have dug it under age-old houses, I laughed that neither did I. Gwen had sensed some gumption and no bias, and thus without telling she had been raised a disposable slut, she let show she had gotten around much more than what she looked like, at times drifting to a funny German tongue not so far from the Friesian vernacular. It must have shown that I was proud of her; her voice was clear-cut, and she wasn’t trying to flannel anyone. Emma owned a science for herbal teas, and the old Polish earthenware set was still there, reassuring, after all it had been witnessing. Well before the faintest angel could fly across the room, the old couple asked to retire to their quarters eventually, I swore our bags were only small ones, and we could bear them.
She loved my holiday room, the collection of CDs like we don’t do anymore, even boxes of old rainy days games and withered magazines; pinned to the wall, a holographic poster of Ghost In The Shell’s half-skinned Major Mokoto made her laugh, while she nodded to Radiohead’s Kid A’s icy shards.
She pulled her trousers to pee, thus indicating she wasn’t inclined to frolic as yet, the trip had been all but tiresome, this winter night was young. She asked if there would exist party clubs nearby; on the off-chance, I texted Lauritz for advice, and he retorted fast that Trine had grooved at Anatoll’s, near Braderup’s golf course; “massive sound system and lots of young Eastern European escorts available, gesundheit!”
After we took a nesh kissy cat shower, Gwen unfolded a large silk twill scarf she had, printed of hand-sized ants, to enwrap her neck, where she sprayed a dash of that Berlin Fille who dwells in Paris’ Palais Royal. She would be evening-worthy, whatever events, but I had to change for that glimmery purplish-gold jersey mini dress with sleeves and crew neck, a pair of black silk tights, and patent leather flats; Gwen reckoned that one could gleefully slide up a hand to my coochie and feel its warmth.
It was a weekday, no overflow of Hamburg mitarbeiter cars, only dilettantes’ like us —not to speak any more frankly. The doorman did not hesitate to our faces. Once passed the double doors, there was a bass thump on the chest, the amplification was fierce and faultless Gwen unleashed her scarf and wiggled her hips in one of the scarce light spots, her vest’s buttons all swiftly surrendering, but one.

Emma had heated Stollen slices and displayed Sylt honey, lingonberry and pear jam, and butter. She kept the Chinese tea my mother brought from Hamburg; our unhinged evening had made us famish; here was all we wished for; we sent a thought to Cecile as we dipped our slices of the homemade wonder.
Gwen had soon ferreted out the working girls on the dance floor, Poles and Baltic teens on the lam, Russians with wild eyes hiding from the golovorez, who did not dare business on the islands. I saw her fish out johns and follow them to whatever backroom, winking on her way. I must have been gotten at the game, thus when a Cologne-smelling silver-templed gawker inquired how much I wanted, I answered a yellow one, as Gwen had once said was her price for a blowjob, but he needed more and could afford accordingly.
Beyond the heavy curtain was a long row of open alcoves padded with burgundy velvet with leather benches in each and people in various manners of undress doing the nasty, a villeggiatura style of Philippe’s, in short, that had not existed in my teen days, with the devilish pulse of hi-energy techno.
The girls were young and willing, they smiled, for most. My trick liked every nook of my body and kissed passionately. He fired a loaded revolver of a dick and paid for each of my holes; condoms and lubricant were at our disposal in pretty gilded baskets. Gwen found me out while he was stuffing my arse, so she laughed and lay down wide open, so I could taste her tiny little cunt dripping, and that made my client explode.
She pranced as we walked to the narrow black-tiled bathroom where I gratified my customer with a complimentary thorough washing, thus he insisted on knowing our names and that we reload the next day. Gwen called me her whore; when he was gone, we decided we could score again, together this time, for the high-rollers if any. She gave me a pill she had bought from one of the tramps, who had swallowed one before her eyes; it was just garden-variety molly, and I felt it right away.
My tights were already torn —but my money was secured under my armpit— most of the girls barely hid their arses anyhow. Gwen’s fly was open, too; we danced enlaced, far behind the tempo, until a big fish bit wondering if we could deliver. He was already exhibiting a sturdy morsel that smelled of frankincense and vin brulé; little would he know I would have made him for free, at the right address. However, we had decided that if a john paid for us two, we would choose one of the damsels and make her rich.
That one had been some number of a stag, he shagged my little sister twice as I held her in my arms, then asked me to clean his pipe before he hurled it at her once more on top of me. He kept rekindling himself in our mouths; what he craved most was Gwen’s bumhole, with all necessary relief of the Swiss Navy.
And now we had won a party favour, a real flaxen blond, speedwell-blue-eyed slender tramp we had not had the guts to leave astray, just like those clickbait puppies on Instagram. She was Belarussian, but she bore nothing the likes of a real ID, and she cried all over our night tees, even Emma was moved when she grasped some shreds of sense of what she said. The name was Ksyusha, she had fled from Pinsk in truck cabins, being sold to one another until she reached Hamburg and met a fellow whore who put her into her bed and showed her prostitution 101, but not as to pimp her out, though. then she told her to do exactly what she was doing with us then.
Gwen’s heart had melted down like Chornobyl, my brain still fluttered with the party pill, I seized my phone and called Sarah in bed with yet another graceful, showing her who was across the table, asking for any advice. Both were stunned by the beauty, moreover when Gwen saw no evil in pulling off the nightshirt. I was trampling both feet in human trafficking, only for lust, wasn’t it? Sarah fetched our laptop, started a zoom and called Camille by any chance. We regrouped, and Gwen pulled off her shirt to enlace her catch under the lamp. Camille appeared in a vignette, and I let everybody sort out things I had caused while I booted my laptop and set it up. In a wink, our all-time mentor had made up her mind, admitting that we were all thinking with our wombs. She stared mutely, the two alley cats head to head, Gwen cupping Ksyusha’s tangerine breasts. Camille wore a lichen green paisley man’s shirt she had not cared to close; when she reclined against pillows she showed her teasing flat belly and her foxy cunty; she only said not to fly back in Melchior Eagle but drive through the Schengen territory. Gwen was weeping on the bare shoulder.
So, talk about some libertine trip, we had made the grade in the manner of windfall foolery, and all I was thinking was to go back to bed with Ksyusha who began to dream she had earned her freedom.

I could hardly decide my religion as to Ksyusha’s age, we were enthralled with her naturally seraphic allures, her long hands and feet, I foresaw Sarah’s giddiness, whoever she seemed to be keeping under the comforter. Admittedly, she was heavenly slender at the apex of her burgeoning, and it would be time to learn how to work out —along with Sarah, no doubt.
I did not wish to take any chance, one could have seen us with Ksyusha if she purportedly belonged to anyone. This would sound like an abduction, whatsoever. Amidst flows of attempted explanations, we all three exulted like beasts. She was dedicated, by all means; she pulled a daring tongue with liveliness and couldn’t deny she had grown up in girls’ beds, but she did not shun some pretty hard porn I showed her for a lousy test, whenas she had sold herself the same as us, to some frenzied cavaliers, at random.
I could very well restitute the car in Paris, but we had to recharge somewhere, so I proposed a stage in Antwerp where I knew a precious little hotel held by two adorable women. Besides, the Royal Beaux Arts Museum had just reopened after a long hiatus. They wouldn’t give a thought to anything I mulled, they only were elated.
I decided to costume Ksyusha as a plausible sister to Gwen, as long as she kept silent. Thus I fetched a tape measure downstairs in the laundry and noted all her sizes. She agreed to dress as Sylt’s teenager, not a club worker, with what I would find at Ralph Lauren’s in Keitum. She had enough money to buy other togs in Antwerp in the next few days.
Two hours later, my stray kittens had been served roasted apples with honey and cinnamon rolls and were listening to my best years’ playlist, cuddled up in a quilt. Ksyusha donned her whole new outfit, red and green plaid socks, knickers and beanie, black slim-fit jeans, a black wool shirt trimmed with bright red piping, black patent leather oxfords, and a knee-long black cashmere trapeze-cut coat, letting float a red cashmere scarf.
She swayed in front of the foot mirror, the wide collar made her a perfectly small head with a tall forehead under the beanie. She had this snazzy boyish cowlick on the side, she was terrific, ready to roam our shops. There was also a thick powder blue, sage green, and burgundy lines wool plaid shirt for green-eyed Gwen who wore it bare-arsed; it kept us busy till dinner.
My brother Simon had learned we stayed in Kampen, so he dropped by in the middle of the dinner and fell for my nymphets, but considered them mine, to put it simply, a previous mishap with Fayelle had served him a lesson. I did not recount our recent twists and turns, but he could plainly see a slim garçonne nude in a shirt and a kitty in a nightshirt who spoke Baltic; he drank a few highballs of fresh tap water, sat next to me and asked me to take his head in my womb.
Later, after he had finished the Stollen in a pot of hot cocoa, he heard our necessity to drive back to Paris; he explained that was a blasted trip and we couldn’t do other than drive through Hamburg, so why not visit Mutti and the swans? He won the girl’s votes, we would decide then which way to Antwerpen. Holding kindly Ksyusha’s hand, he said low that it looked like I was helping an illegal mùigrant, but he looked her in the eye and said he trusted most of what I did, so I grazed a hand upon his scars and listened to his heart.
We set sail early for Hamburg, Simon with us; he had come by train; never again would he sit in the front passenger seat. Gwen seemed a tad jealous to see him side with the splendid all-black-clad Ksyusha who knew how to pout to a man, too. Emma had been overjoyed to see us on a winter day, she gave me a bag of her tea and a pot of Sylt honey. She read all of our faces and did not ask any questions. Pitter talked of automobiles with Simon around our Mercedes.
Ksyusha had gathered her corn-blond strands in a bun and pulled the beanie to her eyes, while Simon hid her in his wing, on the Hindenburgdamm train. I plugged my phone into the neat car stereo and played Sia’s best of, I knew the lines of “Breathe” by heart and I sang my head off. Gwen remembered that back seat. There was a rosy spell over Hamburg when we reached the Alster shore and parked by our birth house. Our pretty tramps were awestruck; they stretched their muscles like dancers, that Ksyusha might very well be, as it looked; as for Gwen, she had always been so lissome.
Mutti greeted us bantering she had been well advised to send Simon to get us; she was intrigued by Ksuynia, but once she put her spectacles on she stopped asking questions; she had long seen me with pretty damsels. The garden as we saw it from the gallery, where Mutti painted in the aspic scent, still belonged to the immemorial swan family who kept the same nest by the water, inconspicuously sheltered behind ageless wood lattice panels; I always fancied that the father swan acknowledged me. Mutti fed them chopped fruit and vegetables at the edge of their domain.

We carried our bags to the upstairs rooms of our boundless infancies, Simon was in awe to see the elves run with no more bulky coats. Mutti, who was aware of our peculiar food requisitions, offered simply tea, her blend, family frantzbröchen, and stollen slices. Right away, Simon proposed a tour of the Elb river in a chic restaurant boat, so we could see the lights come up around the Elbphilharmonie and dine in the faerie of the new shoreline; the maidens were enthused —I pondered lustily about one who did a voyage in a bed on the river Seine, and I wished nought worse for our shapely nymphs, Lauritz was a Hamburg prince, mind you.
We packed a taxi down to the shore and boarded the Anita Berber under uncertain skies at Altona; I cringed that I had never thought of taking Sarah on such a nifty little cruise. In all, the glazed cabin held a dozen tables, all of them taken by pampered-up schickeria leering upon us for what we indeed were, unbeknownst to them that our father owned a hefty chunk of what they saw around. And Simon acted as if he owned the boat, mezzo-voce, eating our blondes, no beanie, alive.
Ksyusha played in my eyes, unable to speak other than sparse words, like the total foreigner she was, but Hamburg is a huge seaport, full of strangers, and she wasn’t dumb; she made a fine impression, and a moment would come when she, too, would tell her story. I would ask Fanny to find a Slavic translator at her old school.
The fine riverboat of such an evocative name sailed downstream first, along the beaches and upper-class villas, in the seldom glances of the honey sun; they offered us peach lemonade, and Simon drank Moselwein. He explained that sitting on the port side, lesser elegant for now unless we saw a Beluga take off from Airbus city, gave us first rank for the lighting up of the shoreline and the Elbphilharmonie later. We did not see a Beluga, but as I clenched Ksyusha against the glass pane, I snuck a hand into her shirt to cup her childish breast; I did not grasp what she murmured. Simon rested his hand on Gwen’s thigh.
With a sway of the neck, Ksyusha showed that she needed to stand up and go to the loo. We babbled about her, she reminded Gwen of her stray years, she insisted we take her home, she would stun us on the dance floor, Gwen said that she must have been a junior dancer. After some time, the boat had turned its course back, Ksyusha returned, smelling of Cologne soap, sat against my thigh, and looked me funny in the eye, then kissed me for good so I suss what she had done. She tasted of semen like a party whore, and I savoured it, I could also tell that Gwen had guessed it all, Simon looked away at Altona. My speedy slut also exhaled a hint of sweat in her boyish shirt when she slid her hand to her armpit and secretly showed me folded euros, with a wink of pride. She budged nil when the serious-looking professional sat back three rows from us, facing a short-haired fake blonde with bare shoulders.
Gwen had pulled out her shoe and played footsie with us, Simon looked up at me, sensing one of my shenanigans, and I concurred mutely, so as he would know later. As I could have guessed, it became Gwen’s turn, and I saw nothing, but when she returned, her front buttons were Monday-to-Tuesday, in any doubt. She winked imperceptively at Ksyusha and me, we admired the majestuous crystal ship where Fanny, Fayelle and I had shivered in the cold drafts, once, wearing nothing under our spring cotton clothes.
A sweet and sour salad with poached eggs, a plate of cheeses, and fresh poppy bread, even Simon couldn’t complain, then a Poire Belle Hélène soaked in its spiced syrup to which he asked that be added a shot of old rum, how could I be surprised, when I innocently went to the toilet, to be followed by a well-dressed swashbuckler who wondered in my ear what my fare would be for gobbling his fish rapidly, it wasn’t cheap, he wanted to finger my butthole to tickle his fancy, he seized my head when he gushed in a long spittle, and when he had re-buttoned up, I smiled thinking the kids had been smarter to do it before the meal.
There were tremours of laughter when Ksyusha gave me a long proof kiss while sneaking her hand to my quim, and Simon had finally got it, waking back to old times with his slutty sister he could never stop shagging, and watch revel in debauchery; he asked for another rum shot with his coffee.
So then it was the perfect time to climb up to my room and rip off all our clothes. Mutti was far away watching TV, and Simon only signalled we were back. He no longer knew which one to shag, our last night had been full of reminiscences and utterly private games we had always played. Now he faced three unleashed vixens who smelled of vice on his sister’s bed and licked each other every nook.
Gwen had heard of Simon’s ordeal, but Ksyusha was shied by what still remained of the scars; he sat closer with his spear tensed up, and guided her hand over his once gashed body, and then down.

In all due respect, he had a go with each of us, heads and tails, like a Napoleon; alcohol had not waned his merits; I was so proud of him. At one time, I had feared that our half-sister Anna Louise, who now lived somewhere in the Caribbean, could have tainted his soul, somewhat, but the proof was that he was still my valiant little brother of the dunes and the sea, with his untiring shaft spared from the wreck, and Ksyusha rounded her jewel eyes while he humped in her entrails.
In the morning, he had gone. We pampered each other in a lavender bath, they were as fresh as daffodils in a prairie of innocence. It was drizzling, but Gwen and I couldn’t wait to introduce our fugitive to the buzzing hive. Reasonably, Antwerp was far, even for a full-fledged Mercedes, thus we would advise, according to the battery meters. Mutti did not deceive herself about what games had been going on under our roof, most of all, she loved to know Simon and I went fine together, despite all she had lived through after the accident. She wouldn’t dare to question my driving skills, moreover an electric car; we would stop midway to recharge batteries, possibly in Munster, a big university town.
As we drove out of Hamburg towards Bremen, the drizzle started to freeze and became snow. I slowed down and pumped up the volume of the hotchpotch playlist I had copied on my phone, in Sylt. Ksyusha could perfectly scat on the imperishable “What A Feeling”, and then she was crying in Belarussian; I told her to climb over to Gwen in the back seat. Jennifer Beals is such a living icon.
The thin white wash over the Saxon landscape gave me flashes of a black-and-white Wim Wenders movie, the silent presence of two perfumed angels in my back. I knew the next track would be the murderous “Kalimankou Denkou” by a Bulgarian choir: I pulled onto the roadside.
In Munster, the car itself had located a charge station; there was one hour to kill. Ksyusha knew to say chocolate, thus some red beanie showed us the way to the Celona cafè, but she refused our kind invitation. The venue was a blond beech wood modern multi-level eatery peopled with all manners of pretty younglings; after ordering hot cocoa and cookies, they went possibly freshen up their reddened eyes. The devil clutched its claw in my womb when I noticed a slanky loner with dark curly bangs and long lashes unaffectedly gazing at me, and I let him. When my buddies came back radiant, he insisted on me; I gave him the radioactive wink and went to the toilets, which were conveniently unisex, and washed my hands. He gazed at me in the mirror, and I let him rub his jeans on my butt, then, as I wiped my hands, I turned to him for a kiss and pushed him towards the toilets doors and locked us. He sported a handy schmuck hard as wood, he smelled of spicy lavender and cannabis, I crouched and gulped his weapon to the hilt, pushing his legs apart, and soon I swallowed all of his load, clean. People were babbling close by, like they, too, would do the nasty in the next cabin, he had his hand to my quim, but I made him taste his own upon my tongue, and ran back to my chocolate. By the time I had recounted my unpaid service, it was time to hit the road. We all kissed him on the cheeks goodbye, like an old acquaintance; he took my hand and licked it, mumbling something like that he could do it, too.
Gleefully infuriated, Gwen literally undressed Ksyudha on the seat, and I was soon carrying a peep show on the slidy highway, I relished their moanings in the hushed cabin of the car, my knickers were soaked. I played heartfelt ballads by Sia. Then, after the industrious Westphalia like a book of expressionist etchings, we crossed the Rhine for the Netherlands as flat as they be. I shunned mocking our little dutch tramp, who was lulling the little imp from nowhere. It was night and big flakes when we approached Antwerp.
I had forewarned the ladies at the dainty guesthouse, they were overwhelmed seeing my new companions, they drank tea while I was driving the car to a nearby charging station. It was a matter of minutes, and Gwen had already wooed the ladies like an educated cat —that which never existed, but she smelled cuddly— holding hands with Ksyusha, whose shirt yawned candidly. The two bedrooms suite was more than enough, obviously, with opulent turn-of-the-century complete hydrotherapy and deep tubs. We helped each other splash our noonies on the bidet, Gwen had an idea to buy warm cashmere tights, so we should hurry.
Our hosts sent us to their favourite haberdashery, it was five minutes away with a cab. Henneken’s was three stories, all wood, copper and bevelled crystal, it seemed. An ageless saleswoman understood that our nethers were frozen, thus she fetched chic burgundy boxes of fine knit, doubtlessly hoping there would be some trying on —she had her eyes on Ksyusha— and she understood that price was not an issue. They carried impeccably chic knitwear we would enjoy debasing with our lustful lifestyle, weren’t we sluts?

It was damn snow outside, the cunning attendant let us see socks, panties, and undershirts in the most extravagant wools and blends. She knew she would eventually fondle Ksyusha’s dream breasts into a tight-knit vicuna and silk blend, didn’t she? I did my best to content her, soulfully, and Gwen grasped my vice, the fitting rooms became some rich brothel’s anteroom, the lady wore some of the marvels herself, and Ksyusha properly orgasmed on the stool.
The whole shebang went smoothly, we walked out inconspicuously clad in a fortune of luxury craftsmanship, and the saleswoman almost cried with gratitude, our elfin passenger purred in the warm comfort, I had no idea what I had spent. I would post the address for the whole hive, in case.
It was late, the bag was light, and my internet guide gave a trendy vegan restaurant a few blocks further, it was called Zanzi and was yet another lesbian place, as if Antwerp had suddenly come out. The waitresses wore white shirts and long black aprons; the hostess, in a black dinner suit with a rainbow dickey gave us a keen gaze and told a server that we would be seated at a round table close by, which was obviously a favour, only to keep us in better sight. We had grand salads with croutons and everything in them and a choice of elaborate dressings.
After a chestnut mousse, the hostess watched us go longingly, there was a wealth of snow, and the taxi drove at a walking pace. The grandmother did the night watch while looking at a pad with earplugs. I ran a warm bath and pulled all the rich stuff they had been prancing in and now smelled of their sweats, and Ksyusha’s crotch intoxicated us. The lather smelled of Emma Hamilton’s rose, and my two tramps weren’t sleepy in the least.
Ksyusha wondered why Gwen grew so little pubic hair and me none at all; she knew the word laser, and with my hand, I mimicked the contraption they used to destroy the hair bulbs, as for Gwen, I showed some angelic face and a smile to mean she was not concerned. But then, kissing my clenched fingers, I made her accept we love her as such, with a tiny bush and velvety legs.
I cuddled her feet, just like I imagined Sarah would do, fine long lazy feet, and I told myself she was not a dancer in the trying, lame eastern-European tradition. I cannot suffer the battalions of military-like flat-feet slaves in the Petipa ballet cult, an evil politician’s fantasy. That one had escaped the cage, anyhow, and misbehaved furiously on her savage pretty feet.
No can do, obviously, with museums and the wonder fillies, thus, after the fresh pastries and Xmas jam, we hit the high road with “OK Computer” high in the speakers, singing like creeps, crying. And, of course, it became so warm they ended up in their new sporty underwear, no shoes: three times Eminem’s “Lose Yourself”, a pee-break (no fooleries), and a hoard of Billie Eilish’s, we reached the outskirts of Charles Degaulle airport dry and clear. We returned the clean and scented car near the Arc De Triomphe and took a taxi, the driver of which they succeeded in entertaining, nonetheless.
It was a perfect schedule to land; Sarah teased out in one heck of a lounging tee shirt, Emeline libertine ingenue in white flannel pyjamas trimmed with blue piping, boy’s open fly, and Fanny in jeans and many shirts, white socks, eager to meet our catch, another fine animal out of boors’ land, one of the two white marmosets.

 

Sarah says:

It had definitely been a cross-purpose between Fulgence and the gang in the times of freewheeling wanderlust at Malaquais city, yet he definitely makes a worthy lovemaker, even on an unforeseen afternoon, frisking as we had, and I told him candid niceties under the following shower. I knew he would run to the subterranean worksites no sooner than he would be dried, and it suited my mercenary depravity.
Before he could flee, Charlotte supervened, in bloom, white pleated linen down to the calves, long bell sleeves, a fortune worth in ironing. In Hugo’s crush on her, she had heard the same lesson he had granted all of us, and there wouldn’t exist any qualms against thriving as a rose self-assured of her scent. She casually sat on Fulgence’s lap and sussed what we had just been doing, so she smooched him more sisterly and came to tickle my belly as I brewed some tea, and it was easy to rummage through my easy tracksuit, resting her head on my shoulder.
A hoard of unleashed blondes in snazzy winter sports underwear barged in, one of them totally unknown, visibly ready to jump on Fulgence, who, decidedly, was late for good, though he would not refrain from letting the stranger hug him. Gwen was wired-up and expected my reaction to their windfall living trove. It was one of those Slavic-Baltic bedazzling beings that spawn here and there in our regions at the whim of wandering genes and war crime outcomes. Although she spoke in sounds I had heard before, I grasped nought, bar the immensity of her gaze and the intensity of her wooing, moreover when Kate explained she had found her whoring at a new nightclub on Sylt; she had already alerted Hugo and Camille that this stunning young Ksyusha was somehow stateless, possibly a minor, for all we saw, and unleashed. For the while, she seemed appreciative of my Danishness, she was keenly hitting on me, and I wouldn’t shun, would I?
Fanny tiptoed in, wearing a bulky overcoat, slate-blue deep-textured geometric pattern, double-breasted with big polished wood buttons, in tight wool velvet, over a blueberry large-knit jumper with a cowl neck, Art Deco patterned cashmere leggings, ash blue ankle strap boots, thus I could tell Camille had been going shopping with her. So as to attune herself to the warming assembly, she merely kept on the leggings and a sexy white tank undershirt.
Ksyusha had been snubbed by her coat, she tried it on like a genuine model, and they seemed to understand each other better than the rest of us who leered upon their manner of idyll. Dancing with her and mingling their feet on the rug, Fanny concurred she sounded like Belarussian or whatever colony of the Slavic current through Europe, and spoke just as much of English and German, enough to work on the truck parks or bar backrooms. She couldn’t lead her to tell what sort of background she fled from, she sensed some horrible fate had struck and made her run blindly.
Fanny joshed it was just another case to sort out for Europol, provided Camille and Hugo act as guarantors with her long-time friends in the secret services; all considerations somewhat mundane, matched with the number the little runaway sister was granting her, so thus she could hardly resist kissing her.
Despite it all, I was envious of the lavishly finished undergarments they wore, reminding me of some ancient ones I had found in trunks, in our Copenhaguen attics, all far too vast for my little butt, unlike these that I couldn’t help fondling upon Ksyusha’s, as she strolled about in our gang, before our bedazzled eyes.
She gambolled with each one of us, capsised Charlotte upon Cecile’s grand bed and took fright of the Crow God. She understood vaguely there were sundry other venues in the magic castle. Kate proposed that we show her the dance studio, all the more if Josephine and Emeline were practising.
Of course, I had ogled her dainty feet, and indeed, Kate was right that she moved with a peculiar grace, up straight and supple altogether, bearing around her gazes on a magic stage. Our other ballerines weren’t there, probably at Josephine’s in another wing, but no sooner had we led her to the training floor than Kate gently jostled my elbow as Ksyusha threw herself in a motive of silent curvets that left no place for doubts; she invited Fanny, another natural, and they laughed out their hearts. Would be a time when we would watch her perform in the raw to Malo’s notes, wouldn’t there?
They didn’t sweat themselves over, everyone was hungry, and dinner had been delivered to the entry vestibule, we went to pick up the boxes and bottles.
Creamy spinach ricotta pie, sweet onions and bell pepper macaroni gratin, fancy moulded vegetable and tofu chartreuses, these with knowledgeably soft-boiled eggs, avocado mayonnaise, and sour-dough bread, not to mention wine-baked clove pears in chocolate cover, and a big jar of Old Boy Jam full of cherries, grapes and the whole shebang of fruit, all these along with fruit kombucha and tea, Ksyusha mocked, in hand-signs, our culinary penchant, she had survived on one hotdog a day!

Unsurprisingly all the smurfs in the next village gathered at our table with bewondered eyes, trying not to be caught fawning over the newcomer in her undies. And Cecile clenched Elvire in dark yellow satin pyjamas against a scantily-clad Charlotte, one who wouldn’t shy off girldicks —as it may occur, naturally or not, we all know.
We had all lit the Google translator on our phones, to try and learn a little more of Ksyusha’s story. She was the only daughter of a police officer and a schoolmistress, she had been enrolled at six in the gymnastics team, because of her filiform silhouette and elastic joints, and also the coach’s crush, a politically well-acquainted bastard who impressed her father, and abused her at the first occasion, like they always did, beyond the iron curtain. She grew up under the total ascendency of this local tyrant and earned him medals in the sports realm. She was given shady treatments and puberty blockers, and no one would even start listening to her questioning, she was too good an asset for the team. Nevertheless, her coach, who, by the way, did not frankly hurt her physically, had made enemies, political and else, hence one day, this guy cornered her heatedly for sexual favours, thus she traded a deal with him, who happened to be less disgusting physically than her usual tormentor, that she would let him do what he liked if he drove her to Warsaw.
In her life, she had habitually been shagged as a rule of sports discipline, thus one more was no big deal, nor were all those who brought her til Hamburg and Sylt where she cast her spell on Gwen and Kate because they breathed of freedom and drove a snazzy car on their own. She trusted Kate, they had made a dreamlike journey.
Natalia and her minders came later, she was as spellbound as all of us and knew more of the language, from her mother; she used that to woo our girl, all the easier that she casually slept with Fanny since long; she unbuckled her jeans and pulled off her boots, she wore boyish white cotton panties and a white merinos wool tank top, ready to team up with the Slavics.
As they do, Delf wanted to test a little tramp to die for. They wore a honey-gold silk twill asymmetrical shirt and periwinkle blue gradient leggings, no need for shoes for those who run the subterranean corridors. They embraced the stray kitten and stared at her bewildered eyes, making her feel their slight difference on the back of her hand, explaining in plain short words what they were, gleaning a kiss because they smelled good, rummaging into her pants because she cast a funny grin.
So, Ksyusha must have begun to wonder what kind of freakish society she had thrown herself into, but Natalia told her whatever quieted her and brought her to Erik’s fly to show her plain black masculinity in full strain, and she had already seen all colours of dicks; she only needed a serious slutty shagging.
I could have myself used my Cossack with dedication, but I happened to cross Apolline’s gaze, which smoothly clicked with me, and I felt I needed the loo, if she was game. she wore a plum slight chiffon waistless Woodstock gown that held with three buttons in the back, and fell down on the way; she pulled off my fleece tracksuit, and we dance enlaced in the shower space, feeling the warm trickle down our thighs. Then she flipped me around and stuck her girldick between my butt cheeks and pissed into my rosette like a mischievous street urchin, and I bent forward to ease her in deeper. After I emptied my arse, we played on in the tepid flows, and she buggered me on bravely.
Meanwhile, Erik had set camp on our bed and churned Ksyusha’s womb on top of him while Natalia wanked the princess for free. We returned to the family room with the congratulations of pixie Delf, who was helping Charlotte exult with Fulgence’s spear profoundly sunk into her, with a few fingers in her bumhole.
Cecile was only kindly making out with Elvire, still in her old gold pyjamas. From what she had recounted, the shy creature knew how to fuck a willing arse, so I sussed she had not yet participated in such a public event; I went to sit at her feet and began to slide the silk down her legs; she had utterly sleek thighs; her dicklet was a tad thicker than Apolline’s, whom, by the way, had grasped Elvire’s head over the headrest to kindly fuck her mouth, reloaded by means of the novelty. Elvire moaned in a sweet high pitch before feeding me a bitter spoonful of her cream.
I am a trustworthy comrade, I saw Cecile was unhappy, so I gathered the silk jersey of her mixed purplish long tee dress and pulled up one of her legs to reach her glistening quim I knew how to treat with both hands and tongue, while Elvire gulped another shot of Apolline’s lovely thingummy.
Ksyusha was proud and spent, she tiptoed to us to pay homage to our genderless neighbours, I dared her to suck Elvire, who cast her a doe eye while she rekindled her little straight spur. Ksyusha’s bumhole was all slidy-ho.

After such a heart-warming night, it would be Kate’s to introduce the newbie to our all-hailed landlord —means he owns us too, within these sacred walls, doesn’t he? I lent her a freshly tumbled-dried Copenhagen-blue track-suit since it seems this easy-on, easy-off outfit is the must of the season— furthermore, Hugo shouldn’t be blinded all at once by the shapely new tramp, who will seize any pretext to show her midriff, anyhow.
Kate wore a new marsh-green oversize broadly knit jumper, over light-teal swarming twirls patterned cashmere tights, and one blue, one green Chuck Taylor’s sneakers. Ksyusha went cunningly barefoot. Kate was back twenty minutes later, she said she had seen Hugo white hot and almost defenceless, a real triumph, only he might have to fetch her a passport before they fly to a glamorous spot. I retorted that Camille could do that in a heartbeat, once she saw the escapee in question.
Gwen had called Liselotte, in hopes of a juicy trick to buy rags; she was high up in the listings, and she did not wait long. Gianni had texted asking for a fitting, it would redeem us from weeks of casual. He brought a heap of handmade couture he had fancied for us from some rich house clearances he hunted tirelessly. This time he offered dresses and coats of the roaring twenties and thirties, just what we should wear at Speck’s.
I called Cecile, who deserved some sartorial finesse besides her talent. She arrived wearing her work overall, I saw Gianni’s eyes roll, so I clicked my tongue for a bit of patience before my protégée was crossed, and I unzipped her fatigues and the rest until the maestro could detail her conspicuously and thus moaned his appreciation, he bent towards me in protest that he should have trusted my taste. Cecile didn’t budge when he began fondling her, her armour was neatly folded, and she might let herself whore as she saw me do. The young apprentice he had brought, a pretty Lionetto from Naples, showed a hump in his bespoke trousers, and he blushed when Cecile looked and smiled.
There were shoes this time, wonders of bottier handiwork that fitted mostly Cecile’s longer feet, in grege silk stockings. Now she looked exactly like the girls in ancient sepia pornographic photographs in Hugo’s albums. Gianni, gay as he be, relished the bout of debauchery we played in fine stockings, and he let himself finger Kate’s bum crack, as she affected a noble pose. I was properly devilish, and I proposed that our young Cecile procure a favour to the pretty ragazzo of his, and I could see for himself, too, in a very couture capriccio. I had known Gianni’s sabre before, it was a peculiar pleasure to unbutton his old-style fly and find a seriously stiff spearhead, while Cecile, obedient little trull, gulped the boy’s stem to the roots. She was diligent and brave, he was in the full strain of his age, and he sang out his copious release she swallowed like a fat oyster, triggering Gianni’s bitter spoonful down my throat. And that was it for a gratuity.
He hugged Cecile so as to taste Lionello in her mouth, I couldn’t touch the pretty apprentice he kept behind his arm for safety. We tried on the risqué souvenirs of a foolhardy era, with the beaded tzittzits at the hems, soon spiked out like porcupines as the master picked up on the previous design with heaps of pins.
We had an enthralled audience when the heather fairies gently materialised in a whiff of Scottish scents, Gianni granted them an amicable glance and wondered if Fayelle would disrobe for him, which was all she wished for, Annabelle shying off too obviously in her fuzzy petticoats that did not trump Gianni’s eye, or ours. So Ms Fayelle, whose depressive moods had been once extricated from her graceful skull, sat as another unabashed fornicatrix in our eventual brothel squadron. And when Annabelle felt a crush on that pair of green and mauve thin chevreau escarpins, Gianni barred them unless she bared her rosy pale Scot body and slip on white stitched stockings, and thus she earned a priceless pair of harlot shoes, not so crossed to participate in our lustful little playlet; she gave hand to Gianni who made her spin upon her magic shoes, and he did not hesitate to grope her Scottish bum before suggesting some short tunic in the same hues as the escarpins. I suggested that James would relish seeing them misbehave in such outfits.
Once the maestro had folded back the precious frippery in their hanger bags, promising a fast finishing, hugging everyone but holding back on his minion boy, we remained like whores in a display salon and trifled with each other for a while, then Cecile rolled down the stockings, pulled up her socks and disappeared in the armour I had found her in to run back to her work
The highlands ladies weren’t as hurried, they had come to see if we would resume our Cortazar routine, happily, the volume was endless; Kate begged for more of the slight respite into that Scottish brooklet and the golden down.

Hugo’s whereabouts had been on file with the secret services even before Fanny’s memorable case, and outcomes. Amaury Destouches, a junior attorney in the SEVEN STREAMS galaxy escorted Ksyusha into the bland venues of state secrecy. There she met with a compatriot who translated her story to a bedazzled officer, under the enchanted eyes of Amaury. She was treated with the deference bestowed onto protected subjects, albeit she had to use a stealthily watched toilet. She complied with all anthropometrical requisitions, she was wearing the most innocent Volubilis-blue shirt, slim white jeans and new white sneakers when a bon vivant operator did high-res photographs of her, and joshed he was not allowed to ask her for more. It took two hours altogether to fabricate the same kind of passport Fanny carried, under the assumed name she agreed to of Ksyusha Mikalay, allegedly born in Birky, Ukraine, eighteen years prior. She laughed. No international appeal for a missing person had ever been posted about her whatsoever, not even on the sports networks. She also was granted an identity card. She promised she would learn French, now that a pass of diplomatic legerdemain had endowed her with a highly desirable nationality, and majority..
Once she was French, Amaury led her to Camille’s, to see her long-armed protector. It would be a celebration, her lawyers would be on their own time, for us to choose from. Meanwhile, when Fanny let us into Camille’s apartment, the new acquaintances stood en aparté in Camille’s bedroom, from where emanated unmistakable sounds. In the salon’s lighthearted cheerfulness, Mathew came up to me, took my black trench away and relished my bawdyhouse outfit. I wore, in all, a black silk double-breasted dinner jacket with one silver satin lapel, and a pair of black hold-up veil stockings in boy’s black patent-leather slippers. I knew he would ignite at once. He had smoothed down since he had shagged me after work hours in the New York grand epiphany, he was no longer the rough quarterback in a brush-cut style, and his hand went kindly between my bare thighs. In two or three questions, he knew who and what was the attraction of the day, I concurred with his eagerness.
Under a half-long purple-brown wool velvet wrap coat, Charlotte wore simplistic black silk shorts with a vague, black-on-white polka dots open shirt. Mathew’s hand told me he had felt the sweet pang, and yet he had not yet leered upon Josephine and Emeline. Our Gibraltar stray had chosen a man’s forest-green satin pyjama top trimmed with silver piping and matching trunks and velvet slippers; the very young back-shop dancer showed all of her legs in a Twiggy-style banded powder-blue jersey mini dress and blue one-strap flat sandals.
It was the moment to help our American hunk who couldn’t hide some bodily emotion at the sight of our latest recruits. I was already immodestly exposed, they came to me like little lambs, Charlotte enlaced her sister like she was selling her, they all knew that music by heart. Probably because she was more fluent in English, and she had lowered the waistband of her shorts so as to show her flat midriff, Josephine won the pride of being fondled by the all-American square-jawed bloke who knew where the guest rooms were.
Left idle morally, Amaury nonetheless had moved Kate, who could do for an educated junior lawyer and thus soon had had her hand in his fly. The oversized flat arms-rests of the mohair club chairs offered propitious practicability for lewd games; hitched up to her breast, her marsh-green veils ran down to the rug as she offered her blooming quim to the young servant.
Gwen in cornflower blue and Dagmar in one of her signature unspun large knit jumper dresses that set off her endless legs had a tender bout together before they would trade dicks later. Cecile had dared bring Elvire in maroon satin pyjamas; I grabbed the young girl’s feet like the promise we would sometime exult together, Cecile was finely wanking me, too.
Liselotte arrived, in a deconstructed black and white spiked multi-collar textured satin blouse and tight black twill skirt half-concealing white boxers; she would always look like the demonic procuress we still loved; she had her hands on Trine, dressed in a short white draped crepe tunic with half-sleeves, hemmed with gold bands. She sported a Greek gold wedding crown, she smiled like a Fellini extra, Liselotte had probably sold her to an army last night.
Camille returned, visibly nude in a mauve and green floating feathers motive printed silk-georgette robe attached by a single knot, holding the movingly naked little aurora princess. There was a slight pause, and waiters brought drinks and pyramids of finger food, also, it was the season fashion, a towering gilded samovar. The young waiters tried to arch their backs not to let the desire protrude under their vests; as he served me a glass, I winked at the one who had shagged me before.

Framed by four of the well-known black suits I had acquainted with a few times, His Major Elusiveness appeared in a malachite green silk moiré costume, matched grosgrain court pumps, and a seven-carat bezel-mount green diamond ring, mind you. Passing me by, he held my lapel and grazed my skin with the diamond, saying he had almost missed me, he smelled of cypress and wisteria, thus he confided he would take some of us to his Como Lake villa and licked my lips.
Melchior sat on a loveseat with the choir of redeemed souls singing grace at his side, and he earned larks and lazzi speaking what Ksyusha called trazianka language, wallowing upon him when answering his questions. He called on one of his detail, who was some educated hunk from the Vilnius region, and leered at this nymphet he might well have known on the gymnastics mats; they bantered, and he grasped her foot; they sang some obviously smutty rhyme. She was at the top of her game, between the King and his own obedient roughneck whom he incited offhandedly to couple with her while she drilled in Melchior’s tiny pupils. She was as finely trained as her sister whores, Trine was enthralled, so thus she let herself be gently ravaged by another one of the black-clad coryphées, brazenly gleaning her own bouquet of obscene compliments in plain sight.
As per usual, Hugo had snuck in at the cathartic moment of rewilding prowesses, he stood in a midnight blue silver-dots stitched silk crepe knee-long Sherwani, into which Kate was lending a hand, slowly, after he had unrobed her; eyes wide, they raved about the new tramps.
Unobtrusively, Finlan fondled the keys and knobs of a glaring-new Prophet 10 synthesizer plugged into Camille’s state-of-the-art sound system through an array of glittering toys; his muse Gwen was already bent upon his joystick, thus showing her free bum crack at the edge of the bench, too lasciviously for Kate not to crouch down and lick, leaving Hugo with a protruding boom pole.
I wooed Charlotte to come up with me for another glass of tea while the waiter still kept on watch. She knew my want was to make her water my feet in the nearby bathroom, whoever liked to join our childish little romp. That did not misfire, while we relished the tiny abandon of peeing ourselves like some first graders unleashed, I could feel the jolting spurts all over my back, as of the rutting deer in the clearing. The shower head was wide and generous, we soon found ourselves dancing in tropical rain with balky stakes in our soapy bumholes, I even was granted a second serving by one I had hardly tamed on Mustique Island., where his boss had once enchanted a party of us. Their hot pestles remained tautened as they helped with the plushiest towels, they planned a threesome with Cecile, whose distanced gaze was an aphrodisiac to them; they felt like loaded brutes, I did not let go of my curly whizkid, they would have to mind with me along in their romp.
Since the old days when I had dwelled in that house’s attic, I had caroused in every bedroom, for Camille’s relish, and she ever had the last drop of mine. The layout was as contorted as a Venetian brothel; still holding Cecile’s hand, I lured them to a small staircase that led to a purplish nest, nothing much more than a bed and a toilet, like a Pullman pleasure cabin, and I knew where to fetch the Swiss Navy. On the baby-cheek-soft cushions, I embraced her tight as a bag of gold, to the liking of my old mate, who splurged on lube in both of us, as a frenzied start, while the other forced his dick into our gathered mouths, then they locked upon our ideal enlace, each one side deep into a complying hole the monkey’s burette.
Not bragging, our cavaliers became slightly overspent, although genial they remained to us in the following ablutions, inasmuch as letting us know their names, Francelin and Armand, of best manners. We returned to the gathering, Her Grace the Aviatrix had flown back, with her court, already cuddling Elvire, half bedraggled at her side, and told us we smelled of honey candies. Cecile showed pride in her protégée and couldn’t help taking her nightingale in her mouth, en passant.
Of what he let be seen of his person, our multiversal tycoon had tanned in the Bahamas and revelled amongst his new private ballet. Although the dance master had not yet auditioned Emeline’s pretty bum, she was then obviously earning some imperishable attention in the court, abounded with unfettered tenderness from her comrades. In my experience, prettiness and looseness wouldn’t in every instance make the bed for the bliss, all the more that most of these little tramps had thrived in the direst of mucks before one of the Hellfire club fell seasonally in love with them, hence bonding their budding fate, whichever way the weathercock turn to.

Michelle and her impish detail had heard aboard the TRÆVIX wings, back from New York, about a spirited round-up in Camille’s velvety lair; they craved Ksyusha, and no one would forbid them to go cavort with her, be it upon the Emperor’s lap, and they did. They had gone pillaging vintage stores in the Lower East Side, Delf wore a two-size bigger basketball jersey, number thirteen purple with orange trimmings, over tight-fit maroon shorts; she had been wearing a big patched navy blue and maroon Letterman jacket; she had also lost her black platform ankle boots. They had passed a gang of snazzy high schoolers, so thus Delf had had a whim to shave her head, which a Tribeca barber obliged, selling her a beanie for the first day. Dagmar had better keep her slanky charm in a boyfriend’s jeans, a shorter black leather biker jacket over a white cropped tee shirt, and black leather basketball shoes. Trine had found herself an honest imitation Mary Quant’s dull-yellow and black wide-striped mini dress, and much-needed opaque black wool tights in black suede flat Maryjanes.
Michelle kept her taste for narcissus-white with gold accents, she did not shop vintage either, and she had trusted me with Gianni, who adored her dainty stature and the total offhandedness with which she let him handle her. He made her shantung cigarette trousers worthy of Audrey Hepburn, and fitted jackets lined with princess satin; her bootmaker was in London and kept a model of her feet in hardwood; she also ordered whimsically from Stubbs and Wooton. However, she spent most of her time in a mere track-suit she let some of us pull off.
Nonchalantly, the legal staff had stepped back some. Unlike most of the pretty animals that were frolicking in apparent absent-mindedness, they felt the weight of the present powers, who owned them throughout their souls. Nude as the dawn, I meandered unnoticed to bring Trine with Mathew towards a convenient backstage nook lit with polished copper sconces, enough to let a hunky American quarterback admire a true Parisian Lorette in the raw, for free. I helped peel off the silky bespoke suit, Trine played already with the tautened flesh that I told her had used me not so long ago. As he got rid of his shirt and trunks, we rolled on the black velvet bed, her bottom arched on top of me at an edge for him to plough her at once as I snaked up to give her my quim to lick. She had a crush on Mathew, and I had made it so easy that they climaxed together effortlessly. I knew where the lube was in a little gold-veneered drawer. I crawled so as to sip up all that gushed through her lips, and helped the ever-sturdy pole thrush into that creaseless hole I had seen stretched a few times before, miss receptionist. This time he alternated between her butthole and my mouth until I crept under so as to offer my own arse, too, while I hugged the breathless little slut.
In the collapse of our frantic scrum, Trine cuddled at Mathew’s well-strung neck as I rinsed swiftly and sprayed some boyish Cologne before returning to the samovar. Cecile had not shunned the assaults of courtesy by one of the twins in Michelle’s detail —although no one would know how many billions she weighed in earnest, it had been a while since she wouldn’t move around without a flock of well-paid hunks in sight. Thus Elvire remained somewhat forsaken amidst the scramble, merely dishevelled in her silks. She wooed me so that I recounted what I had been doing of my charms and thus let me wank her pretty cock robin, under the cover of her satin trousers. Liselotte, who had not only overheard my telling but grasped the interesting particularity of this new shrinking violet amidst the most unabashed debauchery, thus engaged Elvire to let herself live up to that chosen fate of hers, button by button in our arms. I had known from Cecile that she could be a dedicated lovemaker with a girl, but what about a grown man, cissy beauty? Only her own longing would bring her to let be used the way I did most of the time, and she showed her to insert a pair of wetted fingers in my offered rosette, so as to observe that no damage had been caused by my already debauched evening. Liselotte, too, had a crush, in her supremely vicious manner, she revelled at the fantasy of selling this seraphic beauty to the very peers of her father, unbeknownst to all but herself, what a sublime literature!
It should be admitted that, as in Apolline’s case, and others, there was delectation in watching nature be duped on its course to scramble what it had brought to perfection —as if ageing was not tragic enough in itself. Liselotte had a degree in Greek poetry before she joined us at the Malaquais follies.
I wished I had had a leash to clutch to Elvire’s slender neck at my whim, then, when I made her parade, nude at last, towards the Samovar behind which the boy became restless. He dared not look at my swan companion, although there was so little visible difference with me, altogether.

His name was Enis, and he had come over in his mother’s womb, from dire times in Bosnia, but had always been French. We couldn’t care less as I pulled down his trousers to free a straight, circumcised dick already drooling little sticky pearls, which amused Elvire kneeling like me, and she made no manners licking the staff, thus I dared finger her back hatch I found more willing, in the shadowy boudoir next to Camille’s downstairs office where I had led them after finding all the upstairs beds inhabited. Camille would earn a night-vision video of our exploits, in any case.
In the dark, Enis was much less hetero-minded than he would claim publicly, and Elvire confessed her liking to be buggered, if ever so softly as daddy had done. As she was gulping a first serving of the boy’s sap, I had poked my tongue as deep in her as I would have any bona fide slut in the house. The Bosniak was young, and certainly not blasé of tight little bottoms as ours, thus seeing Elvire ready on all fours and rump arched, he rushed to her rear and amused his glans onto daddy’s plaything, entering with grace —as if he had trained so forever. I crept down so that my mouth reached Elvire’s toy, which brought her to the bed’s edge, stretching out her arse against the boy’s full thumps, titillating the gates of my throat as she suckled on my clit with fervour.
After our windfall stallion —Camille was overall supremely acquainted with the likes of Sami and others— decided he took a fantasy in my own wishing wells, honouring my coochie of a burning salvo, he returned to the angel’s entrails, from under, so as I could lick everybody’s frantic appendages and eat the whole custard from the jar.
In the foamy shower that we took together, once Enis left us like a thief, she buggered me gently as Cecile had retold, she definitely was one of us.
Afterwards, the limousine had been on the wait to bring us all to our side of the hive, a TRÆVIX transport had carried away Michelle and her pixies, Trine she had a fancy for, and the dancers. We waited for Kate, and everyone in the car wanted a kiss with Elvire. Mara, our first-ever samovar maid, sat on my lap, and she didn’t wear much; she wanted to know how it had gone with the boy and the angel Natalia had told her about. She, herself, had been party-shared by more than two hunks together, with manners; we joshed in private about the enemas we had done, and why Camille’s palace was more than a deluxe bordello. Our chauffeur had to make way for an impressive unmarked Sedan in which all the black detail rushed in swift order, not letting be seen if Melchior raptured anyone. Kate eventually unearthed her left shoe and jumped aboard; she smelled of bitter almonds and fresh linen, she was overspent and proud of it. In the lift, I had time to burrow my hand between Charlotte’s thighs, she smelled of juniper berries like a London Eastender, she pulled me to Cecile’s bed, and we dozed all three like puppies.
Unsurprisingly, I woke up to the dull dawn light in Charlotte’s arms, and I could feel her sleep in abandon; Cecile had fled to work, but party girls like us had a licence to dawdle in bed, hadn’t we? She began kissing my neck and babbled while searching under my shirt, I opened my thighs for her and then I sensed a hunch that the light was not right. It was snowing. I escaped her hug and ran to the window to pull up the blinds. There it was, one hand thickness of white oblivion upon every detail of the real world, and light fluffs flew softly, indolently.
We stood shivering, dumbfounded until I jolted and dragged her to the vestiary to dress us warmly, oversize knit jumper, leggings and wool socks, it felt so rich to tickle each other in thick cashmere. She begged for French toast and jam. In the garden, the trees kept the fragile lacework that despaired the birds, I sensed Charlotte recalled shreds of her wasted infancy, I sat next to her and let her weep all over me.
Kate slouched by, still in her night tee, and saw the windows uncovered, so he went fetch a used long padded cotton robe printed of Merry Melodies characters, and floppy variegated stripes leg-warmers, bare-arsed. She smelled of bygone foolishness, I slid a hand into the robe, and she into Charlotte’s collar.
Upstairs, the Heather Fairies had again unrolled Michelle’s futon, with the glorious smell of Geranium-Orange floating in the studio. They both sneezed like little toddlers with runny noses, muffled up together against a big cushion, drinking hot cinnamon lemonade, thankful we did not turn on the big lights. for the while, I could work with my luminous magnifiers and Charlotte at my feet. The Thistle sisters had felt unfit the previous night, now they regretted not seeing Mathew and all the gang. We had exciting twists and turns to tell, and soon they enticed Charlotte to join them on the bed. There was no reading that one time, only lustful talk and moaning, and Cortazar loved that, too.

 

Kate says:

Long away, it had been snowy winter on Sylt when Simon and I were told that Uncle Achim would not come and sing with us, and Mutti remained days on end locked in our parents’ room. Eltje, the old caretaker in those days, had made us pile on our warm underwear and sent us to the eerie land of the frozen sun. There would be no more sing-along with Achim, he had cast his car to a tree. Snow remained ominous in my soul, although it caused Simon’s beautiful elation.
Sarah worships snow, she hears the angel’s choirs through the white curtain, she had almost flown from their Tudor city terrace on a blizzard night, her father had kneaded her frozen feet for hours on end, and made her rekindle her wits with Charlie Chaplin and warm honey lemonade, under his fatherly wing and the woolly robe she says smelled of Denmark.
Charlotte revelled in the bosom of the two Scot roses, she was inebriated by some skilled lesbian distillations and the otherworldly playlist of our usual web radio station. But dusk was already gilding the peaks of the Gare d’Orsay, I longed to walk in the crisp new powder at Sarah’s arm, she would be inspired and people my empty mind.
There were bags of wintersports attires on the top shelves, and I relished the buttoned fly on Charlotte’s long johns, but there was to hurry down to the footbridge and see the projectors of the tourists’ boats roam upon the sprinkled coat. Cecile, who had belatedly seen the feast, joined us out and scolded Sarah for not telling her sooner.
It was actually such a festive event, for a poetic crew like us, that we saw the TRÆVIX angels in a guarded delegation reaching the museum esplanade, and then Cecile ran to a well-known black cabriolet stationed on the quay, and leave with it. I thought of times when sundry power rides had come pick me, and sometimes Sarah, too, towards the fantasies of a limitless lover who made the snow turn blue.
Sarah had given us three pairs of Swiss rubber shoe covers which were useful on the footbridge. The spectacle of the trees on the shores was still intact and became wondrous when the first sightseeing boat sailed by under our standpoint, the pixies were wired like babies at the Xmas windows.
Charlotte asked for kisses between Sarah and me, I floated the idea she might like to go to the Palais Royal —that she did not know yet—with us, as the sniffing fairies went back with the TRÆVIX band, not that two seasoned dollies wouldn’t live up to their past, but they still somehow feared they might meet wandering axolotls.
We had time to warn our debutante what kind of wanton manners she might find at Philippe’s, with us; she retorted she would do anything to our tastes, and we promised to keep her in sight all along. Sami awaited us since my warning, and he ushered us stealthily to a pearly Pompadour boudoir where he suggested that we wouldn’t fit in properly with our sports outfits, thus he jumped at Charlotte’s zippers and disrobed her in no time, raving about how thin she was, actually, and groping her as if he owned her as much as he owned us.
It was a low vaulted entresol, muffled and warm, decorated with sage green and flesh pink swags in nascent dawn, thickly carpeted as for corps à corps. Under a murmuration of fireflies, a rococo dining set was ready for us four, and a young lackey I had contented a few times before brought an ornate silver tureen which smelled of exotic herbs; as he stood at order, Charlotte kept looking at his off-white satin breeches where some impatience let be seen.
He served the clear esoteric potage in which floated opalescent fish and frogs, that kind of soup one makes for a reticent child. I trusted full well the aphrodisiac virtues of Philippe’s cuisine, and Sami knew our tribe’s food choices. Another dark curly-haired, smooth-faced servant who looked like an ambiguous Cecile, with the same dainty hands, nails lacquered black, brought footed silver plates bearing marzipan knickknacks and crystalised fruit; altogether a true libertine supper.
We helped Charlotte retell the best of her education, while she relished sipping her soup from a vermeil spoon, so as everyone there know she was of null manner a virgin. As Sami daintily grazed her inner thigh, she candidly let them part open, as slowly as he solicited, while Sarah undid the three buttons on the shiest boy’s breeches and let us ogle the prettiest immature-ish, although arrogant, dick, under a timid lock of dark hair.
It was fitting in the unwritten house rules to let Sami play with Charlotte, besides, I liked the elder footsoldier whose toy weapon bulged out in his own breeches, in need of at least my charitable hand. I grasped what must have been the games of these two younglings by the glance the younger lay on the stiff nozzle I was licking, and I thought of hiring the kid to play with Elvire if Michelle let her out of her bed.
Obviously, behind her naive gaze, Charlotte had been knowing battalions of hard cocks ever, and thus she fetched Sami’s dong unflinchingly, rubbing its circumcised glans skilfully with the clear drops that poured. He was pretty soon out of his spandexes, a starker presence in vanilla-toned skin and dry-shaped muscles, hair combed back in a flurry of raven curls. He wanted her to eat her soup, so he made her sit on his lap, her thighs parted, so he humped her clit as she gulped the last creatures in the magic pond. And she gloated as she let in the pulsing crank up her womb, insensibly, undauntedly. After all, it seemed the supreme betrayal by the two sisters redeemed the skanky bestiality of a whole village, so they might let a bank be built on the site of the bygone meat shop; there wasn’t even a tumb, up there in the cemetery, to shame them, not even a family name for lively Charlotte who had bought flowers in Joigny.
Sarah was wallowing in Fragonardesques romance postures with her ambiguous sweetheart, she looked more of a tomboy than ever, her Canova legs entwined with his, enthralled in some emanation I couldn’t sense from my side, where I knelt before the jolting stem of my brave galliard who ended thumping down my throat to send some company to the magic frogs.
The rapscallion and I rolled out on the high-pile carpet, so that he could repay me for my courtesy, shoving his tongue into my petals nearly as brilliantly as Natalia would. Then he slid along my back and buggered me easily, so much he had slabbered on me, and asked that I arch upon his root-stock.
Two gentlemen in silky black evening suits had supervened and considered our figures, palpating whatever they took a whim on like connoisseurs in a cabinet, and especially Charlotte mounted upon Sami’s —they hailed him namely— well-known pole. One helped my head up as I wiggled my hips furiously at the jolts of the carnal bilboquet, I had an idea he had made me before.
One would linger by the nevertheless candid scene of Sarah with her boy, he wondered whose marotte this was, wanking the proud johnny, calling her name before stealing a long kiss from her. He offered to follow them, but Charlotte begged for the loo, and her thighs dripped. There was a fully black mosaic tiled round water-room wild gilded basin and bowl, altogether dedicated to liquid entertainments, for that matter, no sooner had Charlotte seated on the toilet bowl than our two amateurs unzipped their flies and pissed all over her with cheers, and Sami hugged me to let a warm flow down my legs, and so Sarah with her lover.
The merry goers hung their luxury threads to the hangers by the entry and joined in a generous lukewarm shower; Charlotte was asked to frolic with my previous hunk, Sarah and her catamite still enthralled the now notably endowed admirer who fiddled with both of them, Sami had no better than humping my arse standing as I took hold of a safety handrail.
After so many expeditions into Philippe’s realm, I still couldn’t tell where we headed, once clean, dry, and perfumed — sweet bergamot and benzoin, for all I could tell— vaulted ashlar stone, with a shoulder-high polished wood skirting panel, and smooth maroon carpeting. No more than warm nightlights, as fit for all discreet backstage shenanigans. I did not know, nor need I to know, whose hands were groping me at every turn, whose mouth invaded mine.
We reached an even stranger gallery, with staggered rows of dark wood partitions randomly engraved with clumsy souvenir initials, parting the dark alcoves of sundry secrets. A stucco-sculpted cornice along one side of the ceiling led to think there might have existed a bigger aborted project, such as a ballroom.
As we progressed in the labyrinthine suite of most intimate scenes, any of which we might readily join; here, long strands of ginger running gleam, there, easy garcon allure, an inspired shaven topiary or a brazen buzz cut; and lasers had thrived upon leisurely hides, candid slits at whim, and winking rosebuds. Many drank bubble crystal from dewy flasks in silver buckets, or chased dragon tails on coloured mirror trays, all quivering in the scent of debauchery. —as for me, I let the white horses of Berlin cavort beyond the looking glass, and Hector had fled.
Some pretty face resting on the hand of some odalisk being lazily buggered sideways caught my attention; wouldn’t it be, of all the regulars we had encountered amongst the well-patronized clubs, namely the blue-blooded Seresine de Chalendin —who had hitched up her skirts for petty change behind the nightly confessionals,  sexually submitted by her dubious brother, thus become the most lovable of courtesans—  swaying her hips with that nonchalant gaze, she invited us to her company, which appeared not to bother the old bull using her collectedly, already ogling my lower belly.
Still welded to her love puppy’s indefatigable mouth, she tilted back on the theatrical velvet at Seresine’s feet, to open wide the way to her bumhole for the arrogant youth of her playboy; the old fucker lent a hand to help her to hold her legs high up. I knelt on one leg, so as to bend down and kiss our accomplice while my cavalier reprised into my arse. Charlotte had not waited to go and lick all she could between Seresine’s legs she parted wider, and low groans announced the crisis as the seemingly old fogey thumped into her to the hilt. Charlotte herself had received a masterful spur in her tiny rosette, and she panted upon the quim in bloom, which suddenly squirted holy water to her face while the patriarch gushed his master load. For a second round, Sarah had rolled upon the boy and whirled her haunches around his elegant staff, now inside her bijou slit.
Seresine asked for a taste of Charlotte’s mouth that swilled with her own pleasure, but her quiet tormentor seized the frail neck and savoured the juices all over the pretty face before asking her to pull her tongue he suckled greedily, asking Seresine to participate.
In lieu of lunch, my tamer, who had been overflowing in my entrails, arranged to offer my dripping anus for Seresine while he ordered me to clean his dripping penis. Our right-out filth inspired Sarah to devote herself to Charlotte’s running bottom hole and show her to the boy, who found himself engulped hungrily by whom had generously filled her. Seeing him simply roll his eyes, I had a hunch Sarah would bring him back home, for Hugo’s relish as well. When Sami sussed that Sarah was eloping with the dandy young squire, he only suggested he was worthy of a tip; Mathurin had been hustling on the street when he had found him.
Our catch told us he would meet us outside when he had put on his street outfit, and Sarah was thrilled, oversized sheepskin bomber jacket, black cigarette jeans, snazzy black Chelseas, and a fun vintage white and Windows 95 logo tee shirt.
It had been snowing again, our steps were squeaking, and Paris was muffed Sami had called for a big cab, and Mathurin let Sarah devour his bloomy lips; Charlotte had her hand in his pants, too. He was a wayfarer, thus he did not fear finding himself in our bohemian lair; I sussed that Sami had enticed him to try us, as he had easily earned money letting us use him kindly, he wouldn’t be the first, and Sami trusted us on his life.
Mathurin Marleaux boasted black lacquered toenails, too, he stood quaintly laid back, hips swayed upon the peacock Windsor chair, an elbow upon the armrest, naked like all of us again, while Sarah cut the rhubarb and custard tart he wondered about. He avoided retelling his young life by asking about us, and Charlotte revelled in spinning her ordeal, to his visible disbelief —bar a fierce erection— although Sarah asserted she said only the tip of the truth.
Toying with his restless dick, Sarah raved about her most privileged upbringing, her connivance with the Tudor Angels and her taste for polyamorous shenanigans in the boxwood shadows; then she threaded a romance about me, so sweet I couldn’t deny it made me wet.
He was the youngest son of some military big cheese and his pill-popping trophy wife, thus he had grown up in sundry European capitals; he had been usually personally referred to, by his parents, as a cumbersome case, although they wouldn’t think of sending him to a Swiss college where Sarah could have taught him manners.
His mother loved him beyond reason, terrorising everyone about his person, although he felt himself a somewhat bland personality. It happened they would live in Rome for a year or so, at the time of his puberty.
They dwelled in a statutory ochre villa in the Aventino; he attended the distinctive Lycee Chateaubriand, where he would be driven to and from every weekday, dressed as a poster boy, lean, aloof and glib like an Oscar Wilde creature. He read Balzac and Julien Gracq, on and off.
The Villa comprised a caretaker, Signora Alvise, who had a son, Sebastiano, a few years older than Mathurin, a seductive scoundrel who spoke Roman French and did shady business in luxury cars, as it seemed. Although he wouldn’t have anything to do in the masters’ apartments, he took a fancy to the new mother’s boy with the most elusive parents whatsoever. He wooed the young master, who eventually let him into his bedroom, and, like inevitably, into his pants.
They had a balmy season of febrile hot-handed games, Sebastian was a lot savvier as to pleasures and taught him all bitchy manners of the timeless Roman debauchery; he showed him around the outworldly graces of the Catholic swindle all the way to the Villa d’Este or the gardens of Ninfa at the wisterias bloom; he would drive different cars with fancy plates, and find romantic hideouts to undress and make smooth love.
One day, unexpectedly, he had greeted a passenger in the back seat, near the Villa Borghese, a manicured middle-aged man who smelled of liturgic ointments —the Marleaux family had been functionally catholic, although Mathurin knew zilch of the catechism. Fondling him as usual, Sebastian had told him to go and sit next to the passenger, with a fishy grin, and Mathurin had slid seamlessly into prostitution, let availing the suave-smelling stranger of his girly skin and spurting a spoonful of sin down his throat. He had sensed the grip of an exquisite perversion when Sebastian, who had been out dawdling nearby, had asked afterwards for the money the monsignor had coughed up, and then he shagged him while calling him a rich slut. From then on, all rides with Sebastian led to such customers, some of them regulars.
Mathurin sniggered, remembering these days, and the uncanny sort of clout his shameful secret gave him towards his classmates, particularly those who shunned sports activities. He happened to be invited to some well-off homes, where boys or girls casually offered a way into their designer jeans, they all smelled sinfully expensive.
The charivari of carnal drift had ended abruptly when the secret services that vetted his father’s security brought up photographs of Mathurin scoring a few tricks inside stolen vehicles driven by Sebastian, who had been arrested, then turned undercover agent.
Mathurin was escorted by two officers —that he couldn’t charm— to a French military facility on some rocky island where embarrassing deviant cases like his were kept. There he soon became the disposable bitch of the most dangerous of the boarders.
Soon enough, one of the servicemen who guarded the facility fell in love with him, despite the radical crew cut they had inflicted on his cute little mug. They fled together with the help of an abettor on a small boat, with whom he was shared soon after. They drove to Paris, where they began earning their money prostituting. Sami found him at some party after his deliverer had been caught, and Mathurin was in a mood to confide. In the wee hours, Sami had been kind all along, thus he followed him to his perch under Philippe’s roofs, where life was easy, and Sami did not pressure him in any manner, only to doll him up and paint his nails. All research had shown Mathurin was not sought after by his family; his health reckoning turned up pristine, and he was knowingly granted a black card, so he began exploring the corridors of the Palais Royal, and he liked it so as it gave Sami the hunch we might adopt a boy, for once.

Cecile says:

Lauritz ad wished to take me to one of his cousin’s housewarming in the Paris region, in a restored watermill. It had been snowing since dusk, no sooner had we driven past the main ring road than I was sitting again naked half-turned to him. Only then did I collect all the weird novelties I had overlooked; the car wasn’t the spry one I had known him in, and that common Porsche sound was gone, I felt dumb to realise this one must be electrical, with all the design refinement of the brand, the alertness of the driving response, but no gear stick, neat and silent in the white landscape of still unspoilt snow.

He mocked me, asked me to part my thighs wide, and wanked me, in lieu of twiddling his toy ride. Once arrived, he told me to remain naked in my long black wool velvet duffle coat and black Derby high boots he had ordered bespoke for me in London after they had scanned my legs in Paris. After the doorman ushered us in and I handed him my coat, he was proud to hold me by the waist and hear the acclaim as for my perfect bum cheeks.
A small crowd had gathered already in the vast pillared reception room divided into sundry sitting areas with the same buttoned deep maroon leather sofas, armchairs, and ottomans, upon an impressive collection of Persian rugs. The far end opened a space for dancing between a pair of massive Klipschorns where a few younglings in different manners of unclothing danced to the syncopes of the genuine disco beat; in this state Lauritz had put me, I could have enjoyed running near the mighty bass speakers, but my boots would have cramped my moves, thus I quietly remained at his arm, being frankly offered to the appraising of his surprisingly many kindred, unabashedly incestuous.
The walls showed enormous blocks of sandstone in their base, diminishing upwardly. The inner structures were a green-wood framework with many reminders of the flour milling contraptions elegantly underlined in the carpentry. As they fondled me one after the other, as they would have in any of the clubs Lauritz took me to, I affected to consider an impressive collection of German Expressionist paintings depicting the provocative allure of The Weimar era shady society. The owner of the venue, Eitel von Rosch, took me for a tour of the pictures, gradually taking hold of my sensitive patches with delicate hands.
He was ash-blond mid-long-haired, with marsh-grey eyes, taller than me; he walked en-dehors like a dancer and spoke scholarly French with the same hint of Prussian as Lauritz’; he smelled of Italian Cologne, as no surprise. He had been made aware of my specialism and appraised it, along with his fingertips in my butt crack. He proudly retold how his grandfather had rescued his collection of so-called degenerate art by glueing posters with wallpaper paste upon them, then stashing them in the attics of a family manor the mad wolves would shy from. Decades later, as his own father lived in Capri, he had found the treasure and washed away the protection with lukewarm water, then brought them to his French properties. He wanted to show me in expertise a few damaged pieces from the collection that had been in a bombed part of the mansion, I had a hunch it wouldn’t be the only thing he wanted me to assess on, given the outfit I sported.
Giddying me with genuine knowledge of that now much sought-after era, besides, the intensive fondling he had been granted leeway for by his cousin, so to speak. He led me to a side redoubled door that isolated a private study, in which were displayed three man-height paintings on easels, showing some ugly blemishes. Tilting me over into a soft suede maroon sofa, he asked me if I would agree to try my skills to revive these historical pieces. For as much as I could answer through his kisses, I told him I needed advice from my associate, first.
He had been warned of my high-fledged tariff, but he only thought of my body by then. He pulled me up with attention and led me to some small door, where he pushed me into a pitch-dark closet, shutting us in. It sure wouldn’t be the first time Lauritz would lend me to some of his cohorts, I let this one relish on me blindly, passive like a wreck, just what he asked.
As he left me dwindling after a master bugger assault, I detected a narrow velvety sort of bed to stretch my spent loins and pull off my boots. What I had expected happened, I felt the door open, and some man jumped in after me, tenderly, babbling in German. I did not defend myself, and he took his pleasure in all of my alleys, unfailingly, as I was softening like a soaked blanket, a forlorn medusa.
The third one was naked, with a considerable spear, he must have been French by all the names he gave me, and he woke my womb so as it gushed out like a beast; I told him how good it had been, but he had already left, and a Floris kind of aesthete was already palpating to find my mouth and make me taste of his long dick. This febrile bastard was amply endowed and young, he honoured each of my pleasurable brooklets, avidly, then ran like the contented fox. I felt all the dirtier, gungy. When that door opened again, I wasn’t game anymore. Fortunately, it happened to be Lauritz who carried me to a suave bath in a camp Berliner modernist ceramic decor of black and white geometry with warm yellow accents. There was amply room for two in the built-in tub, he was harder than ever.
The cousin saw us again, he had changed his outfit to black silk velvet on a yellow shirt and vest, and he wore fine patent leather Chelseas. Mostly all of his guests had undressed, and they smiled at me; Lauritz told me casually that all the ladies had known once the dark closet, some asked for more, as their smiles confirmed.
A curly blond girl in her heydays came by and sat close at my side opposite Lauritz’ who introduced her as his cousin, wife of Eitel, Cornelia, née von Rundstrom. She offered the smile of dazzling blue eyes, she slid a gentle hand between my thighs and left it there, saying we should be friends, in her abrasive manner of French.
She groped my distressed womb before we went dancing among the herd of graceful animals, none of whom seemed a week older than I, and though I wouldn’t be trained at the moves they did, the rhythm caught me and reset the pulse of my entrails. Clumsily as a chimp, I imitated the sways and swirls of the hips, Cornelia showed me to cast my feet high and invent mad signals with my arms so I wouldn’t look like a wiggling stump, she was so enthralling that under the icy blue of her eyes —not the sapphire sparks of Sarah’s, infixed in a wealth of black lashes— I sensed my soul whirling down from the worshipped pinnacles of baroque heights, in infinite transgression attuned with all that I just had let myself be inflicted. Cornelia flaunted her candidly honed smile, the kind I had wondered about in gossip magazines.
She was then deftly lassoed by a sturdy six-footer who bent her rump backwards under a vigorous embrace and launched her across the convenient padded ottoman, parting her golden thighs so as to devour her jewel slits, and she reached out for a kiss.
A world later, I had been sleeping in Lauritz’s cloud, except for a brief childish enjoyment of pissing in the roadside snow. His Lordship had been so fulfilled of me, and I had earned beyond trust with his cousin’s renowned collection that I would end up associated with German art history, more than any scholar could ever hint, the dark closet was soundproof.
Once home, the snow was hardening with frost, I ran up to the apartment in need of warm coffee. All doors closed, the Bialetti wouldn’t wake anyone, and I knew where Sarah kept a tin of biscuits for me. I went to sheathe the shoe trees in my soaked boots thus I noticed there were two people entwined in my bed, that was the best of omens, meanwhile, I could sense my labia kissing the seat pad, and I did not sink any of my langues de chat.
They were fast asleep, Charlotte clenched to a lover I did not know, a cousin of Sarah’s, by the speckled face and shoulder, little did I know more when I went under along the smooth back, and my hand found very much of a boy, indeed, with a true-to-life dick that responded to my soft handling. I just simply approved and lay as close as I knew to the nightly visitor. he smelled of English tobacco, those made ugly cartons in the secure closet where my mother kept them, and cherry bitter.

 

Sarah says:

Be it the deep winter depression, I woke up feeling suffused with inner poisons, I tip-toed to go piss, and I slipped on cotton leggings and a shirt to go down and sweat my budding angst in the gym room. Apolline was already on the bike to the sound of K-pop, said she gleefully; I tuned the big upright cardio and joined the bleached blond boys in their cavalcades on the screen. Thankfully, I was soon enough drenched and rinsed out of my nightly evils, and thus I pulled my threads off and pursued the course in the raw, to Apolline’s cheers. At length, the room smelled of beastly sweats, and we ran to play in the shower. She was jollily aroused, with her diddle toy up and willing enough to bugger my amused bumhole under the falling streams, as she thanked me, I joshed about what I had let be done a few hours ago, she called me the most camouflaged slut of them all.
After she thanked me at the tip of her tongue, I mused aloud about the new cissy boy we had garnered, and she might relish, on her girly side. The TRÆVIX gang had already played fine with Finlan, Gwen’s mate, but now he lived most time with the dancers. I told her they would soon mingle together in the new pool, she retorted she loved to fornicate in the water.
Under the promise of fresh pastries and juices from A&S that I ordered with her, she followed me upstairs. Cecile had not yet fled to her workshop, she showed mauve rings under her eyes, but I could tell she was entranced by Mathurin, who held Charlotte on his lap. There was a box of French biscuits I did not remember having kept. I understood she was negotiating for the pair to come and sit for Cyprien.
As I introduced Apolline as a transwoman, Mathurin asked what it meant, thus she came and rubbed like a kitten upon his arm, and Charlotte soon had a proud willie in hand to kiss and share. He understood Apolline was no transvestite like many he had known in the wild.
By the time we had brewed tea and coffee, they delivered warm cinnamon rolls and marzipan croissants. It was fun to watch Apolline woo a boy. Cecile sat upon me, she smelled of no perfume but a hint of carnal fever; as the others shared kinky details that would probably end in a sofa, Kate dawdled by in one of those loose-knit jumpers, almond-green, hardly covering her bum —she must have reluctantly emerged from a peaceful dream upon Gwen’s shoulder.
We had a visit by Ksiusha and Emeline, soon chasing crumbs on a wet fingertip in the empty plates, all excited that the swimming pool was to be filled up that day. Cecile shrugged off the mellow laze tone of the comfort gathering, she wanted to elope with Mathurin in hopes the Berliner canvases be delivered as promised; she almost induced me into a guilt trip for my lagging to climb up to the studio.
Kate and I went up, the snow on the roofs under the yellowish muck of dark clouds belittled us, so we took refuge in the table lamps orbs, to the sound of some Prophet 6 genius from the Tidal cloud. Kate had been on a creative pause, she wouldn’t know which kind of support to vow herself, not a thin concern if that meant weeks.
For whatever reason, the Heather Fairies had felt the cold in their perch, thus they begged us for asylum and cuddles in the name of Cortazar’s tutelary soul. Fayelle wore the full-body cashmere armour, I jumped up to rip off her grey, yellow, and pink socks and cuddle her pink-painted nails feet, crouched on the rug beside Annabelle whose hands and muzzle were burrowed into the fluffy wools.
At the end of the day, Gauthier told the dancers that the swimming pool was all set. Those of the technicians who attended the first dive hardly believed their eyes. Yes, the venue had seemed outlandishly spectacular ultramarine iridescent glass mosaic basin under the shimmering golden vault, and the state-of-the-art odourless purification installation they had considered a bit farfetched justified itself when the holy flock began to corral in, under their popping eyes; they did much more checks than foreseen, Gauthier did not shoo them out.
In less than an hour, most of our nymphs in Paris came running in urgency, and the TRÆVIX squad brought delicacies on butler trays and set up the samovar.
At one end of the room, a corridor led to gold-spreckled blue cloakrooms, showers, and toilets. All along, on a wider ledge of polished teak wood, rest beds had doubtlessly been intended otherly than sunbathing. Ksyusha was fluid as a silver trout, I chased her after with all kinds of nordic names, and she laughed her head off.
Michelle showed her tight little bottom, for once, and lost her spectacles that Delff took pride diving for, before Trine realised. I thought of goggles for my Aviatrix, who had such a hazy gaze in her true bare eyes. She asked me how I liked the new TRÆVIX folly, I told her it was such a sensuous privilege. She said it was one of Gautier’s architectural tour de force, then, with her spectacles back in place, she invited me upstairs, along with Trine.

 

Cecile says:

I couldn’t have told if that redolent gigolo Mathurin was high on Percocet or merely good-natured; I helped him undress before Apolline, and he found the perfect pose on their own and let be lulled in Richter’s crystal well-tempered soul. I had not warned him about our musical colours, he must have been kind of befogged, but he wouldn’t say, Apolline’s spell and silky breast were enough of a reality.
Keeping nix on his low teak director’s chair, Cyprien had not yet seized the drawing pad nor the pencils. Glancing over his attitude, it dawned on me that he was enthralled with the boy in the mid-gender fairy’s arms. I wished that would somehow wake him —or else he was just expecting the models to doze out.
I had been retouching a small panel in the Flemish manner that Camille had asked me to rekindle; it depicted some flight to Egypt, I supposed, in the usual luxuriant greenery, but here and there stood marble feminine divinities; these weren’t by the same hand, we decided to sex-up the goddesses, thus I had begun to slenderise them and erase most of the useless veils that had been overpainted. Furthermore, in damnation, I arranged the group of pilgrims so they would no more lead a baby boy but a common strapped burden on the mule’s back. Cyprien bestowed on me the skilful forger diploma.
There was sudden hustle at the street porch, one could not simply use a door phone intercom; I saw on my telephone what the buzz was, they were delivering a wardrobe-size crate, already the Berliner canvases, it gave me quivers in my loins. I opened the big double door so a flippant hunk in red overalls could pull his trolley in the entry and debark the crate along the wall, mansplaining there was nothing more he would do because his truck was blocking the street. He leered at me as I was some house girl, he smelled of sawdust, like the one the maid sprinkled on the tiles in my father’s joint. Unfazed, I knew I could count on sweet muscles with Natalia’s resident minders; I signed the voucher and showed the oaf the door, little did he know he could have been profiting of the magazine room.
I would have guessed Fulgence would run for my help, and it flattered me. He had all the tools we needed, including this I sensed when we kissed in the store room; I couldn’t believe my big sisters had shunned the boy at one time, and the brave lewdness of the Weimar paintings inspired him to treat me like his willing whore.
So, when we returned from the shower and sat for either coffee, tea, with cookies, Fulgence sniffed up the new boy like a pretty asset, and since he had pleasantly shagged Apolline before, he made no fuss groping her new date, as it seemed; I read out Cyprien’s proxy relish in watching our polyamorous hero hustling the ambiguous pair, I couldn’t tell if he was erect.
Fulgence then told us that the whole village was in the new pool, and thus we all packed up for the day, our unbinary marvels promising more days of sitting for Cyprien’s keen eyes. I teased Fulgence as to come back and draw, whatever it mean.
As always, Gauthier’s teams of priceless Italian magicians had trussed together this old subterranean venue into a well of shimmering lights and lukewarm abandon. The virtual gazette of Eden had trumpeted the event, Camille and her court had just disrobed, thus while Fulgence, who had merely excited my want, pursued other flavours, I was drawn to Dagmar’s long Mannerist legs, and she did not deter me the faintest. Her hair was longer, with a strand combed across her forehead, giving her a smaller boyish face until the water swashes twirled it all in a seraphic corona. She was raving in mid-French, now that Fanny had tutored her, and if she still mingled her words, she had found the right pitch. As we embraced out of our depth, Apolline came clutch to her from behind, trying to force her bum with her insolent jack, to what Dagmar spread herself more open at the risk of sinking us all, and only laughs must have kept us afloat as they shagged. Then someone turned on the flow pump, and we drifted away; they kept entwined on the other end, while I found it a good idea to swim —yes, there had been seasons when our class went to the pool, and I had been stealthily fondled in the scent of chlorine. My leisurely side crawl was all it took to keep me still, while Sarah made a point to go slam the ledge, and again.
Hugo had moseyed down, at the news of a paradisiacal underground, and was smitten with our new boy wonder he began wooing at once, and we all cheered on the sly. Mathurin let be handled and followed his complacent leaning, up to His Lordship’s upstairs rooms, as it seemed. Charlotte swam to me with bright eyes, pinching my nipple and mumbling that the pretty squire would stay with us, natch; I retorted that Sami knew an army of vetted jacks of any trade if she would, but she should come along to Speck’s with me, first, to appraise her naughty skills.

I knew I had not been first trying to lure the primrose customer to the rich men’s cathouse. Sarah had let allude about sundry manners of gleaning heaps of fluent money with a girl’s arse, and the sooner, the better, all due legal. And pillow talk had bonded her unabashed soul. Thus she asked me to show her at Speck’s.
She was my size in all, and, inconspicuously, my closets had crowded with evergreen fashions. While threading shivers upon her skin in the flipside mirrors, I let her try on a low cleavage dark tricksy-patterned silk jersey most provocative gown, which I knew would slide down in a breeze, and slippers in the same stuff, voilà. I added a four-strand black pearls choker and bracelet to make her look like the candid harlot she was —these were a loving gift from Sarah.
I donned this iridescent black sequined mini dress to play hide and seek with my hold-up stockings, and black patent leather flats with white gold square buckles. A striking black leather dog collar with white gold buckle and ring conferred me superior courtesan status —it came from the highest-end maroquinerie in Paris, a tribute from Lauritz”s, who owned the leash.
Our depilation was up-to-date. We chose a long black silk duster for her and a black grosgrain trench for me; it was out of the matter to walk in the snow; the service car brought us to the clean-swept access to the impressive Mars-purple lacquered door. The concierge knew me, and he looked up to Charlotte with much yen, all the more when she showed him her back, down to her bum crack. I took her hand, and I could hear a mute breath in the conversations as we strolled upon the spectacular carpet. No sooner had we reached the bubbles’ corner than one of my keen previous clients jumped at our help and asked me if my friend and I would share a moment, along with an associate of his. Charlotte did not have time to sip champagne; I led her insensibly towards the elevator doors, and there were envious glances on the way.
My little country maiden had already been living the dissolute walk of life she had expected with me. Still, I relished the visible shiver she had when the silver-haired gentleman in a black velvet dinner jacket pressed her against the copper wall and licked he neck as she could feel all of his vigour upon her underbelly; as I enjoyed the same zeal on my side, I winked at her before the tiny bell rang.
The room was lacquered in oxblood red; I once had helped rekindle that suggestive colour and the ebony accents; the gilded copper lightings showed sundry stylised dancers in the Rudolf Belling manner, framed in openwork shattered windows I had all dismounted to bring them to the gilding workshop. I be damned if I had known I would whore myself in these walls one fine day!
They were Americans, Brian and Larry —most probably assumed names— they felt like big-time officers: their shoes were a tad too thick for high-rollers in a top-notch clandestine brothel.
Nevertheless, it went smoothly. One took out his telephone to plug it into the available sound system, and his playlist had attended college: for want of JSB, they liked cool jazz and cool rock, so thus our dresses fell down with no fear. They smelled impeccably clean, just like the TRÆVIX legal squad, sharp as Tom Ford; they swapped our kisses with each other immediately.
The room offered a large black plush bed —thick as animal fur and easier to clean— to wallow in all venality. They had ordered drinks, bottles of Champagne, peach Kombucha, and wild cherry juice; the waiter couldn’t hold his eyes, thus they invited him to stay, and that made a difference, in that although that young footman dwelled amidst a whirl of turpitudes, he wasn’t in want of stamina when they unclothed him in a craftily plotted plan.
Our clients kept on their Egyptian cotton shirts, but stripped the unfazed player down to his socks, and all of his attire showed an expense above average, I sussed he wasn’t a hard-working jack; his arrogant beakhead smelled of mulled wine when he shoved it to my throat, letting me breathe through his bramble of hairs. When I finished gulping his first load, I saw the whole set watching my face, and Charlotte licked the spillovers; Larry —whoever of the two— drifted down to my bum crease to poke his tongue into my customary rosebud, it wouldn’t take long before we sensed the humps and drills as the pair bantered in a shag contest; only the Brian bloke, spearing Charlotte’s angelic arse to the hilt, ordered the recovering cadet to grant him of the same, with help from the Swiss Navy phial he showed him. I would never have thought this possible, in my rather short courtesan career, but after all, why set boundaries to somewhat harmless shenanigans?

Tito, the delicate waiter, wheezed out as he arched his loins, easing out a second serving of merciless youth, not too long before Charlotte and I were filled up with seasoned wisdom. I groaned, but my pleasure had waned; still, my mind quivered of the salacious game, and she was, at that, savvier than me; the wad of Euro notes had been thick enough.
They tipped the boy and asked him to bring back raspberry sherbets. The way they helped us wash in the Rojo Alicante marble water room suggested the play wasn’t over, and justly, Brian was suckling my ear lobe, telling me that he damnedly wanted to see me climax, and flattering me with a chaplet of dirty names. He said he would double our loot if I let go for him, and he added finely that Lauritz was some jammy bugger. That he would taunt me with harlotry arguments woke snakes in my lower belly, and sweet Charlotte had all overheard. I kept mum, graciously.
Back to the bedroom, the bedspread had been changed, and on a side tray awaited blushing raspberries upon pink snow, in footed crystal cups. As we sipped the tiny blessings from Bertillon, they rootled again about our crotches, wriggled in our vaginas with dogged hooked fingers on our deep triggers to force our inescapable climax and trickling squirts. He mocked me that he forced my surrender, I laughed back that he was welcome indeed, and thus he grouched I should be served well, grabbing hold of my haunches to let me impale myself on top of him and inviting his cohort to join in the back. Charlotte saw no better than to sit upon my servant’s mouth and let me poke her rosette with my tongue.
Altogether, these L&B characters behaved forthrightly, once we had granted signs of utmost abandon, they ultimately spruced themselves back up, handed us the loot to share, and set forth with elegance; I couldn’t tell which body of the American State they belonged to. Thus we allowed ourselves a thorough Garofano Limoncello bath, and my flower sister was blooming for another round, possibly. We redressed, I told her to keep the whole stash of unused notes, and we dawdled back to the perdition salon.
Lauritz caught us on the landing and felicitated our escapee warmly, asking if we would entertain one of his influential friends, noting that we did not wear undies. Herr Hubscher had been sipping Armagnac from a crystal balloon in a mole-brown armchair with wide armrests. Lauritz introduced us as a famous pair of unaffiliated spooks, thus he beckoned both to sit at hand, enkindled by Charlotte’s smooth thighs he grazed as soon as he gave her the bubble of scents to hold. She was savvy enough not to drink any, but she inhaled the spirit before passing it on to me.
Having inquired about our goodwill in thorny French, he arose calmly and seized Charlotte’s elbow as we returned to the elevator. No sooner had the doors closed than he hitched up her dress and admired the flat belly.
He was a greying sportsman in a smooth windowpane-patterned Donegal tweed three-piece double-breasted suit lined with pure purple satin, he smelled of antique paper and talc, sandalwood ashes and sunburnt hay; I mused he would topple Sarah for free. He found the zipper, and there she was again, all available in the softened light. The room was clad with brushed-silver ferns —I had spent weeks rekindling the palladium-gilded copper leaves, fantasising like a schoolgirl, before Sarah had pushed me into the owner’s bed— and lit with silver-mounted frost glass birds in flight; the grand bed was tucked with sheen grey plush, the window was concealed behind a sliding panel.
While he devoured charlotte’s neck, I unbuttoned his fly to let a vigorous Uboot breathe. He kept revelling over the fresh muzzle of my girl, frenzied that he had found such a venue in a civilised country; with his other hand, he seized me and grasped he could simply pull down the shoulder straps to denude me. He grabbed my nape gently, pulled me to my knees and lead my face to his swaggering staff I dutifully gulped whatever his whim, and then he sighed roughly and tilted us all upon the bed. He hurried me to prepare Charlotte’s lesser hole, which I did, fetching the Swiss Navy in a silver-lined headrest drawer, and I might as well do myself the favour, in case. As he buggered the primrose damsel face down on the bed, he ordered me to offer myself at her mouth, since we paired so obviously; it wasn’t long before he gushed in deep the tight little entrails, hence now he told me to suck out the dripping semen from her loosened arse, we had done this before, and he relished our smuttiness.
He, too, was in the loop, thus he called for tea and niceties while we refreshed in the opus incertum mirror tiles-clad bathroom, and Charlotte asserted to me she was still having fun. Unabashedly, Herr H. had been wanking the young crew-cut blond sailor who had brought the tray knowingly, and he told us to unclothe him daintily. His clothes were as fresh and clean as a bridegroom’s, and Mr Jonson jolted in furor. He was one and a half sizes bigger than the master, as I sucked him welcome, and he reached for my hard nipples to pinch. Then Herr H. told him to lay on his back and me to empale upon the young pole, which I obliged, not without some doggedness, but wholeheartedly. He told Charlotte to make me lick her clit while he bonked me in tune with the boy. It ran like a well-oiled machine, and I had time to feel him shoot twice in my loins, her spurt a few loads in my face before His Lordschaft moaned a long cry as he instilled me a seed of his kind.
It smelled bestial, I lay spent like a straw doll, the proud client served tea, and the boy licked Charlotte anywhere he could, before grabbing the money he had earned; I winked at him while he fixed his bow tie.

 

Sarah says:

When Hector called, I was justly mulling over such an idea as to let some hazardous waters bear my metaphors adrift in one of his zephyr carriages, possibly in some licentious company, and for that, the evening had been fertile; Dagmar had captured shaded-eyed Mara, so they retold in German their twists and turns, entwined on a rest bed. Hector reckoned three was perfect, whatever game we would play. We ran upstairs to dress up.
Although she still wouldn’t own a closet to call her own, Dagmar loved to rummage through possible rags to wear —while I couldn’t tire kneading her bare bum cheeks as she tried on threads. On one hand, it would be some lecherous stampede Hector’s style, on the other hand, it had kept snowing like an Andersen tale, thus we should go for wools, shouldn’t we? I never had enough of Dagmar’s body swathed in Kate’s opulent cashmere jumper dresses, all in hazy shades of grey, this once over matching legs warmers and cumbersome sheepskin boots —a promise for some moist feverish little toes. I sprayed her with the breath of an immemorial lily, she had never lost the glint in her gaze.
As for Mara, she lusted on my overly mended indigo multi-layered Japanese style “Boro Noragi” one of our Beaux-Arts alumni had fostered a passion for —and she had spent days trying upon my skin when her innumerable magic had transcended the fabric, all the way to trample it in the mud on rainy days— I had a collection of subdued-toned distressed shirts and vests to superimpose eerily and keep her as warm as the richest clothes, in the Japanese manner. I made her pull on ink-ish blue merinos stockings, thus her snazzy lower belly appealed like smooth porcelain, and then she buttoned up. I thought she should put on dark chestnut cavalier boots. She thanked me for letting her share an indigo fantasy; as I burrowed between her legs, Dagmar seized her nape and kissed her silly, in there she smelled of wisterias at dawn in the box trees.
And there was this extravagant black silk anorak, mock-fur lined, that I had bought thinking of joining Ayla in her mountains; with opaque black silk stockings and sturdy double sole black Chelseas, I could reveal my arrogantly pale hide as fast as the zipper buzzed down, and puffs of blue jasmine whirled up to one’s soul.
Only Mara did not know Hector’s fantasies, but she had lived amongst us well enough to hunch. Hector’s new rides stood inert like a dead thing, not even the faintest plume; fortunately, there shone sidelights and tiny blue pinpoints on the doors commands; wary not to slide, we tiptoed and jumped into the subdued lighting of the back seat.
As usual, Hector sat next to the driver, the black man who grins. He turned to us and whistled at what we showed. Dagmar let her hemline crawl up, Mara spread open, and I unzipped. He was proud and soon eased the bull in his pants. We glid west past the Arch of Triumph straight to the unseeming mercantile eructation of La Défense where I had seldom set foot. We tattled, I told him he should have seen the nymphs’ assembly in the new pool, and we promised we would invite him there.
Beyond the river, we had engaged on bleak subterranean roads the driver seemed to have enough knowledge of, to an empty parking lot bathed with white light and a blank steel portal. We all walked out, spooked by the vast emptiness, arm in arm. He took out his telephone, opened an application, and tapped a series of commands, for all I could see. The two centre panels of the steel wall swivelled out, letting show the bumpy surface of an off-white endless carpet on which Dagmar quit her shoes, at once picked by the chauffeur whom I saw steal a whiff in them.
Hector commanded other steel doors, and we walked into a huge elevator we hardly felt move; he then grabbed Mara and told her not to worry and see how we rather expected elation in his long-time company; he embraced her and snuck his hand amidst her artistic rags.
Through dark spaces now, lit only by the eerie glow of snow and rare office lights across the void, we began to hear subdued harmonies and reached a rounded end of that floor, where a musician, a tall thin young man, sat in a light spot, surrounded with blinking cabinets and multicoloured cables, before a Stonehenge of mesh-covered speaker baffles and, further, the boxes that had carried all that. I had a shot of deja-vu, I had never been more than a groupie with the electric music club in Saint Loup, and I had scored with all of them in sundry toxic states, but they did not let me learn to play, it was a boy’s affair.
A restrained public of well-dressed patrons turned towards us from the depth of low dark burgundy and cypress green modular sofas and ottomans; some subdued spotlights let see languorous poses and nudity, it felt of a psychedelic trip going on, I asked Hector if he expected us to turn on whatever they were on. He took my hand and led us to a vacant lot of seats, saying that music and debauchery might very well suffice, as he knew us.

Of course, I had tickled diverse dragons’ tails in my wayfarer career, often granted me inasmuch to play in my knickers; I had then seen my bester of all spin down the drain and sucked off into sad neverland. And then the blue powder stash had exploded, Hector had known all that as he gently pulled the zipper down, I had always been a tramp, had I not?
Thus delivered, I had no other choice than further what I had blindly devised, in trust of him who had altogether saved more than one lost soul. I kicked my shoes and slid out of my burr, to the attention of a few attendees, among whom I singled out Louis, long-time protector —so to speak. He beckoned me from afar, meaning he wanted the other two as well. I told my buddies to leave their togs there and come with me, nude as truth.
We meandered to where Louis cuddled a young true-blond Bambi with utmost daintiness. he asked me next to him, and In a low tone, he said she was Lily —recently christened so— a delicious runaway girl from beyond the iron curtain, possibly, and he knew for sure that she had carried no papers when he had searched her. She spoke no familiar language other than that of carnal poetry, but Mara untangled a strand of Slavic words she had let out, and thus they could chat some sketchy whereabouts of hers. What Louis knew for sure was that she had been a whore, from the manner he had scavenged her, and he looked up to me.
Reassured as to the gracious reason he had sent Hector to call me, Louis turned to Dagmar and wooed her in German, not that it would wake any nostalgia in her eyes as she purred like a girl. On my side, there were hands on my butt that I knew well, Hector begged for a favour I did not bargain, thus I fetched his proud Peter with my best smile.
As I pumped my friend on the side, room was left behind me that would not remain wasted for long, and the freeloader began to give me a sweet rose leaf I did not shun the least. Hector honoured me soon, and I did not spill a drop, which must have sparked the want of many onlookers around, thus I began to feel greedy hands all over. When I turned over, a handful of guests were losing their trousers, and then my vision was eclipsed by a succession of nose-tickling pubes as long as I cared for letting my throat being stretched by brazen phalluses, there, wasn’t it the whole promise of Hector’s?
The ethereal un-melody that an inhabited soul suffused to the keyboards kept a low key to the welcome abuses which unfurled upon us. Louis had skipped away with Dagmar’s sassy legs, and Mara kept enlaced with her so-blonde almost compatriot while a newly uninhibited platoon harrowed their hides with tongues and dicks, garnering a burletta of moans from the wily innamorati pair.
As from seasoned sea wolves, I heard with a good heart the connoisseurs’ comments on all our physical features, only just shy of being gross, plainly lewd, attuned with some frank handling in an attentive oversight and the exchange of the glances. Some praised my slender legs, many relished my boyish behind, my sinewy loins, and others I had met before in Louis’ prodigious roundabout thus knew to madden me twiddling my sillyberries or my toes. All the while, unrelentingly bestridden as a bale of hay, coughing on full mouthfuls of beastly fluids, I felt vindicated for wasting the species’ immemorial plot, along with the scavenged alley cats.
With Hector’s help, we called for breathers —and rinsers, for that matter— so I could feel my girls’ pulse, in any case, but there was no weariness, hardly routine; only did we perk up with fishbowl-size cups of scandalously unseasonable fruit pudding, Louis might as well have sent to shopping, that morning, on a Buenos Aires farmers’ market.
Dagmar had been back, superbly aloof in the raw, quietly smiling at whatever Hugo had sung for her; she snuggled along the new one and called her a keeper, demonstratively enough to bring on a new wave of avid tramplers who fulfilled her along with her new unintelligible mate.
The music had not ended when Hector heard our plea for mercy and rendered our possessions after a last rinse. Lily hid her tight bum in baggy jeans and the rest in a striped marinière and an ample airforce sheepskin jacket, and her goldilocks in a bomber hat, she would have hustled near a NATO airfield. On the way back, the snow had covered all tracks and ceased; there would not be a stop behind the Russian embassy, but the driver requested his gratuity, thus he parked on the deserted avenue to the Etoile roundabout and climbed amidst us for service; he had hands under every skirt for a bustling while, then surrendered his load in Lily’s mouth, although he had already lowered her jeans half-thigh. No voyeurs, the heavy carriage glided home with a shedload of Eastern Europe chirpings.
I offered a nightcap, Kate was in bed, asleep with someone’s shapely legs, so we went all four to the vacant room next to Cecile’s. I dozed off pretty soon, but the others needed more of Lily’s tales.

Lily Zavratin, as no papers would assert, would have been born near a secret air base around the Okhotsk Sea, and stolen from her destitute mother, who fled with some oil company personnel, never to return. She was raised by some retired officer who did shady trades in Novosibirsk, mainly mafia-related, of clandestine gambling joints, until, at thirteen, her purported father lost her as the last stake in a setup card game with a Bratva kingpin. Thus she became a girl for rent overnight and was sold many times in back alley deals. Then she was spotted by a Slovakian procurer who ran juicy clandestine prostitution rings across Europe, eventually at Hector’s arm’s length. Her unlawful owner died over a sour deal with some Estonians. She knew nought of what she had reached into, but Louis and anyone he had introduced her to had been kind to her, in her sole capacity and talent.
Just like Ksyusha, she already knew volumes about the unfathomable human nature —so to speak— and set aside the risks of blind fornication, she had steered clear of permanent addictions and alcohol. However, in the magic of her prime age, before her so-claimed father trampled her soul, she had trained in formal dancing at school, on boards and on ice, with glee, thus when Ksyusha learned that another Russian kitten had refuged in our home, she came running, all fumbling tattle and clunky chatter; Natalia, who had spoken Ukrainian with her mother, and further learned Russian from high-school, might make a useful and willful chaperone in the invention of a new French citizen, all the more than she was not carnally insensible to both recipients, to say the least.
Hence, we all met at the pool, in mismatched tracksuits and a smell of wildflowers. I was the only one who grabbed zilch of their splashing gab, but anyhow I could swear they had clung to the right tree. Once dried, Ksyusha dragged them along towards the TRÆVIX quarters, convincing them it was the fastest way to meet the best lawyers she had ever met, which made Natalia burst into laughter —although she wouldn’t deny it— and she retorted that the safest track towards the French authorities rested with Hugo, whom they would probably meet that evening.
They left me somewhat buzzed in Slavic mish-mash; there was music upstairs in the dance room, I found Josephine, Emeline and Malo practising their magic, and thus I went silently to crouch in a corner, and watched like a dream.
In Saint Loup, I had once kept on the lookout for weeks to peek upon a junior classes newbie, the kind of undetermined princess who walked out of a tinted windows car at Harmony’s door and mingled in the queue at the counters at dinner time, answering meanly in too perfect French to questions by devils of her age class. She would unluckily dwell with the sexually underage. She had wide hazy cerulean eyes and dithering gazes, she came from Estonia, and her name was Hedda. She wore snazzy American sportswear, and sundry sneakers, all new; her father was a diplomat, like so many of our own. My sly girlfriend Ayla promised to help my crush whose slinky allures woke bees in her lower waist, too, and she dwelt with the minors, officially. It took her a week to sneak into the princess’ linens; she recounted the manoeuvers she spun until her prey guessed her game, and thus played her underhandedly for the while. She had sussed Ayla’s keenness for her slender feet —I was sizzling in hell, at all these mornings reports— so, she begged her to help with her laces, worse, clip her toenails while she wiggled, nude in a white terry robe. Ayla was a crafty witch, she grovelled all it took to make sure there would be no yelling when she pulled open the robe and devour the conniving little jewel, and further. The princess was also a baby slut, as all the dorm later enjoyed: Ayla brought her to me into the shadows of the box trees and played procuress for me, unbuttoning Hedda’s fly, button by button, as she pretended shame, she tasted like the almonds in the apricot marmalade.
Meanwhile, Malo and the telepaths had noticed I had ruffled up their perfumed togs into some manner of a pillow and was sleeping on it. Then I woke with the sight of their gentle quims staring at my bewildered face as they sat on their heels, and I asked about Hedda.
They wanted to soothe their nerves against the wave pump, and they tickled me up to follow them: Malo still possessed her legerdemain tricks on a girl’s clit.

She made me spill my joy, and then she licked my thighs like I was cand; a thrill lashed the dark waters of her gaze, and she taunted me to follow her to some eerie place, would I trust her?
By the thoroughness of the grooming we had been doing, I sussed that some carnal expense were to happen in some as-of-yet unchartered venue. She kept as mum as the Queen about it, only she shamed me with the heap of compliments she strafed my body with. She would wear some garnet colour Duchess satin pantsuit with matched court slippers and nought else, as she prepared for a serenade. As for me, since she was daring me to a high-stakes debauchery, I fetched a sapphire-night silk crushed velvet double-breasted peak-lapeled Judy Garland long jacket, tight-fit black shantung trousers, and simple night-blue socks and flats; I felt like walking into the light of a follow-spot. With an amused grin, she approved of me and unveiled a glimmering black Maroquin leather and white gold dog collar she lost no time to clutching at my neck; she kept the key, and I found myself snazzy in the mirror.
I supposed she had found time to scheme the escapade on her telephone, we were awaited in the street, a silent dark-glazed mammoth in where she shoved the sleek black cello case and pulled me into the vast backseat.
The snow had thawed on the cobblestones, but when we crossed the river there remained wide patches of frozen white and nothing much had turned in the weather. It was a short ride to one of these surviving domains still sheltered out in thick evergreen bushes high enough to hide any neighbours. From the street, a portal signalled with two luminous forbidding signs opened in a two-storeyed long lodge, towards an unsurprising neo-classical ashlar limestone mansion. All windows of the two storeys and Mansard attic were curtained with up-and-bottom-gathered white linen panels letting through a faint golden light that grazed the snow. A greying formal usher awaited atop three marble dry and clean steps up, under the side verandah, with an impeccable smile; the mammoth disappeared, in the fresh noise of its tires on the snow; if the driver had watched us, we had not seen him.
Malo was greeted with her name, and a pose intended for mine, with a watchful eye as I gave it, like a good girl; I felt the maître d’hotel appreciated my collar, didn’t he?
Malo laid her black oblong coffer upon the mellow Persian rug, to the attention of some houseboy for later. Not minding the butler dawdling in our private space, Malo slid a hand into my jacket and told me I should as well drop my trousers, now. As I untied the ribbon and let the silk flow to the carpet, she had fetched a glittery chain in some pocket and clipped it to my neck so that I felt like a party pet.
A muted piano afar played sneaky ariete in the mood of a somnambulic Satie, little lamps aplenty glowed each under a rosy silk bud, casting no shadows. A young scalawag dressed as a pretty, ambiguous, deep purple altar boy, came to seize painstakingly the shiny black case while considering my person lustfully, I couldn’t say any gender, but I swore I would somehow.
I saw myself in a hazy mirror, and I liked the invite to depravity my nude pale thighs between the black silk knee socks and the shimmering velvet of the jacket. Now that I was on a leash, and available to anyone Malo would entrust me to, I better saw fit to let my lapels flutter open.
She pulled me thus after the young porter —whose sort of layered lace alb came down to the ankles, slender feet in patent leather slippers bejewelled of marcasite buckles; I had a hunch there was not any other vesture under the baroque gown— to a glowing patch around a stately chair upholstered in parme velvet and carved of silver bindweeds. She went to hand my leash to a laid-back character at the first row of what I discerned as an attentive audience; I stood in an altogether playful attitude, he tested my obedience to the chain, in little jolts, and he sussed I was no white goose, whatsoever.
Malo was stealing time tuning her instrument, all her silks removed. A few appreciative hummings were raised from the shadow-couched guests who had not yet known of her performances. My handler pawed my inner thighs as he would have to an animal, pulling on the chain to make me bend to his face and hear him breathe compliments on my garcon allure; then he lazily passed the leash handle to the next guest.
As Malo’s renowned melodic swashes unfurled into the shadowy cloud above the assembly, I was kindly jaunted from hand to hand, these all manicured and cautious, lightheartedly exploring my dripping vagina, easing their course into my arse with some lotus unguent. Some asked about choking me urgently, leaving me with that bitter aftertaste that amused the next users, but I wasn’t sabered for good before I reached the large black velvet couch at the far end and I was locked nude upon it. I had renounced counting.
Over the large parade bed, a suspended bluish-green aquarium cast a moving pool of lights around me. As the returned altar angel tucked a pillow at my back, I did not let go of a chance to burrow a hand under the ruched laces of the alb, to find a stiff lesser thing I did not ask permission to gulp whole at the sounds of joshing comments around us, and although that Sissi spoke in a thin tone of voice and affected dainty manners, she was first to bugger me there, at the whim of her patrons; only she thus had to offer a smooth apple-bum amidst a nest of creased petticoats, and so found herself with a much direr affair into her tiny hole. Obviously, she was as much of a whore as myself, and she did not flail at serving both sides —yet, bar what I felt in my bottom, my hunch was to think of her as a girl, it had been her choice. In the dark skirmish that followed, she clung on to me of all manners, and then her sister Bowie appeared, readily nude and as equivocal as her.

Malo’s enthralling chants fanned the embers in the half-unclothed gentlemen’s loins revelling in their undisputed wants, a few savvier of them took advantage of both my sides together with some pal, vaunting my hip sways, my repeating gushes, my easy throat, and my tearful eyes. Most of them wore priceless watches, thus they knew when their time was up, and soon Malo played solely for the three of us, and Bowie played with the leash on the way to the wetroom.
It was a warm shower room all clad in tiny glass mosaics of intertwined rain circles and silver-glazed porcelain commodity basins. Our courteous tormentors had not used the place. Malo joined us, she was pretty much drawn to the queer damsels she had seen play along with me. She rolled up her hair in a bun and danced a long kiss with Bowie in the tepid rain.
The lean sisters still had the stamina to nail us standing against the wall, I was long overspent, but she was a mere trifle to fulfil, only she wanted my true rill this time, thus sitting wide open at the sink ledge, I let her in and masturbated my aflame clit so as to gush along with her, and she was proud.
Sissi and Bowie had been born Colin and Axel fourteen months apart to an investment banker and a far too young homemaker wife. No sooner had Colin first met average kinder at the garten than he had sensed being mistreated as to his social kinships. Their mother and all the household, bar a careless father who comprised nought of his offspring’s becoming during the scarce and scarcer family gatherings, gave altogether free rein to a smoothly feminine entente in the nursery quarters of the house. Understanding nevertheless that she played on some social borders, their mother avoided fashioning the children’s vital expression genderwise, she let her subconscious do the guiding, softly.
They had moved to New York City, a luminous townhouse in the Upper East Side, where their mother found them a debonair up-to-date school — much like my own Swiss paradise— where no questions ever raised as for the discrepancies between what a few legal papers, for insurances and such boredom, bore in fatidic writing, and the gracious sisters who participated gleefully in the school’s community.
As always in America, the tragedy was spawned in the instance of a law firm that wrote to the high-rolling father to complain about the false identities of his two children, who had waved their nascent boydom to the face of their client’s (earnestly feminine) daughter —it had frankly not been even an incident, the children had only briefly compared their mutual nether parts. The father wouldn’t face a disgrace of this sort at his club, thus he repatriated his family to Paris, without considering the matter, and filed for an amicable divorce. They attended a lightly-structured independent school under their new names and set their transition in motion, preventively blocking their coming puberty.
After the brief but dire harshness of the unavoidable confrontation in the judge for family affairs chambers, where she had nonetheless been granted a fat allowance and the sole guardianship of the children —provided they chose their mother’s family name— the mother became an activist for the transidentity cause and blessed the providence that had granted her with two living specimens of rightfully denied course of nature —her own father had collected world-famous orchids, through elaborate hybridisation processes, go figure!
One had not forgone the news about his sister’s peculiar offspring and became a regular at the charming home of his nieces at the Muette quarter’s outskirts, bringing such rare confectionery as Dutriez’s deseeded redcurrants delight from Bar-Le-Duc, calissons from Brémond in Aix-En-Provence, or candied violettes from Candiflor in Toulouse. As for himself, he tasted nought more avidly than his nieces’ suave appendages, at the awareness of his sister, whom he had carnally known since ever.
The mansion we had been frolicking in was Sissi and Bowie’s home since their mother and uncle had inherited it.

The sensuously deviate uncle, Maximilian as he went by, was a noted scholar whose published doctorate memoir pertained to the strategies of double-entendre in Elizabethan theatre and correspondence, a boundless field of research that led him to encounter the circle of self-vetted libertines, that our cunning go-between Liselotte catered to, as for bonny disciples like our Natalia, originally born to a penniless Ukrainian wayfarer who had nested in Hugo’s household at a providential moment, also entrusting her beloved daughter’s fate to a bustling hive of bourgeois-bohemians like me, thankfully.
I sussed Maximillian was whom the leash had been awarded to firstly; the stare had been well-mannered, that of a connoisseur, not a hunter, one I sensed I had wooed before, in Philippe’s maze or peripherals, a libertine prince.
Sissi sported starkly drawn lashes and brows, in shades of raw umber, Botticelli style, with amber gleaming eyes. Unruly curved tea-coloured hair overcast her forehead —she shunned hairdressers— and thus it made her a smaller head —in the Dürer canon; her mouth was misbehaviour as such, she pulled a rosy tongue like a naughty kid.
Bowie’s thick hair was cut in a high-nape bob, but other than that, she resembled her sister in all traits, slightly taller, though. She had long, slender hands and feet just like my Far said I had; her supplemental advantage, currently of average Canova measurement, could raise to a good five inches of tireless mischief.
They begged me to bring them back to our playground, Malo had vaunted our luxury, plus they craved to meet our nonbinary neighbours. That would raise no questions other than whom they would wake with and how. Sissi slipped on floating tone-on-tone garnet brocade lounge pyjamas trimmed in old gold piping, with astounding matched ankle boots. Bowie had fetched a fluid, variegated opalescent jumpsuit together with a high-waisted jacket that would not conceal her emotions, and mid-calf gaucho black boots. Both wore black silk trenches, Bowie’s was high-collared and lined with orange satin, Sissi’s of violet twill.
The formal butler might have skipped the fiercest episode, but he looked relieved to see us go. The snow had laid another miracle upon the sleepy world, we misbehaved again in the slow, silent lulling of the cautious carriage.
The sidewalk had not yet been swept again, but no one fell. In the lift, it smelled like a costly Bond street potpourri, like in Ms Keppel’s wardrobe. Bowie took me a frenzied kiss under her sister’s nose. Upstairs, everyone was in bed, Kate not sleeping in Emeline’s arms, who had sought after Malo and thus found what she needed; they had also watched a performance of the Nederlands Dans Theater on video.
They were pleasantly thrilled to be caught upon, not only in the nude, but also obviously making out. Malo was proud of her double find, and as she unwrapped them out of their coats, she introduced the Laforest sisters. I crouched to pull their boots, so they climbed onto the grand bed, in hands-reach of Emeline’s curiosity. Malo let be known the likeness of the pair with Apolline’s nature, thus the supple dancer —to whom weeks of practice had prettily honed joints and postures— inched fore, staring at Sissi’s candid lips as she recounted our debauchery of the night. On her part, Kate was fired up with the idea of a new venue on Paris’ ribald map, and Bowie’s belt clip was easy to pry open, so as to free the proud little dick, as a morning robin.
Malo would perform another gig later, somewhere, hence she excused herself with a clear conscience of having threaded together some deserving personalities together for the greater good of the suave-scented Faerie.
I fell asleep like a rose in the well, my chest ablaze with the idea of letting involved one another into the realm of two preterhuman princesses, just as much as letting them at the whim of our own luminaries. In the morning, Cecile had scented out a roomful of novelties while she dawdled in our kitchen, for once. She went to grab Charlotte and show her the scene of our sweet battlefield, thus predictably tempting her to take hold of me, who wasn’t entwined with one of these new birds, who soon offered their candid morning glories for both our mouths, giving Cecile a dash of regret.
We had breakfast in the nude, Emeline begged for my toast and I couldn’t deny that all the ingredients were in the cupboard, fresh eggs and stale brioche, but she wouldn’t avow it had been a set-up.
Of course, someone had sent smoke signals to the tribe at the other side of the garden, and thus three pixies in intermixed track-suits soon snuck through the back door, sporting unaffected grins. Delffan, at the sight of our early morning grace, was first to drop her togs and strut like a sparrow. Apolline stole my chair and began to fondle Sissi’s daffodil. Bowie had a crush on Trine when she uncovered her shy breasts. Amidst the crumbs of the vanished toasts, it was agreed that there would be reciprocal invitations, in all due splendour.

 

Cecile says:

Before I became neighbour to a colony of such angels, I had read in magazines a heap of abominations about —so to speak— engineering gender, negating the fate decree upon the becoming of an innocent being. Today’s science, definitely rid of the outdated metaphysical rhetorics that caused, say, Giordano Bruno’s martyrdom, finally owns the perpetually vetted tools to contradict nature one way or another, whatever the charlatans may claim in holy carnivals. On the other hand, the unremittable analysis of the constant mental behaviour of our species, put to the test with the infinite historical archives of human civilisation’s progress, and the universally observable animal reason, have taught the global republic of the honest scientists that fundamental libido is the essential energy of our mind in action —otherwise called the soul, beyond whatever revealed beliefs.
Thus, nowadays, as well as it has become readily available to stop any undesirable procreation in a woman’s womb, it is possible, without scary sorcery, to stop or mend the onset of genre differentiation in one unfurling personhood, as it went diversely for our preternatural companions.
Firstly —in the course of the reasoning that eventually dawned upon the reigning Faculty— the statistics revealed that a number of newborns carried a particular balance in their genes as to the receptivity to average human hormones economy. In the post-eugenic ugly ideology, before such cases, doctors unfailingly led the distraught parents to let inflict horrendously repeated manipulations of their bodies, to the sole outcome of hiding an unconformity and charging heftily for the procedures, while no living example could ever show a proper would-be cure in their patients. Modern-day Diafoiruses kept trampling in dubious psychosocial certitudes pertaining mostly to their own faulty upbringing and ethics.
Be it the blooming of unstoppable freedom of communication, the overcoming of freeform sexual liberty, the withering of the precepts of revealed religions, or the sad ageing of Harry Potter, after the stellar accomplishments of Prof. Etienne-Emile Beaulieu, not only did a lot of diseases find some relief, unwanted pregnancies could be wiped off the slate, but also middlesex individuals could compensate (or not, BTW) their hormonal balance at their choice.
Hence, it became suggested, on the web at large and in open forums, that truly sexually unfit nubile younglings could be cured according to their desire instead of the prevailing psychosocial pressure. Puberty could be easily monitored and managed, hormones compensated —like it already was in sundry pathologies— and patients live a worthy life. Bar one fatidic detail, it remained as of yet impossible to re-fabricate a functioning artificial sex organ, whenas desire still expressed itself through the shunned existing configuration.
In many cases of actual life, it might not go easy to reveal an unforeseen nature to an already heated partner, hence the wiser forward attitude of seasoned queerish party birds. My beloved elders’ attitude, going back to Kate’s unfettered incestuous sex life grafted onto Cynthia’s untypical conformation, and Sarah’s expansive permissive schooling in an out-of-the-beaten-tracks preserved institution, had thrived in the secretive realm of a rich author, then spawned seamlessly a power conspiracy that beat in nanoseconds across the galaxies.
Same as I had been handpicked unaware of Sarah’s hunting whim
and thence my wretched destiny of an abused child mining for nuggets in the derisory literature of outdated magazines had found itself redeemed in Bach’s overreaching transcendence, as naturally as she had lured me into a Hanseatic prince’s bed to watch me fucked in the boats’ beam lights. In magic synchronicity, my childhood grounds had been scorched clean by giant contraptions under the scary eyes of the incinerator’s chimneys, of which I had read in a magazine that they had been spreading forever toxics since they were built.
Sensibly different from all the massive ramrods I had to meet in my young, eventful life, these two rosy asparagus tips gently offered to anyone’s greed brought to mind Caravaggio’s victor Cupid’s or an Endymion woken in sweet Theo’s collection; all theogonies meet a hard time when it comes down to penises.
Charlotte, my primavera surprise, and her blonde echo sister Emeline had swiftly rinsed out to the drain the filthy education inflicted by their ignominious father, they were learning the heavenly snuggles with the suspended-flight creatures, in the stars-scattered scent of timeless dawn.
In a down-to-earth manner, Those angels looked closely similar, however not as eerily as proper twins. Same naturally curly autumn-blond hair, one with a mad fringe, the other parted aside, they were obviously family, with thin joints, long hands and feet that had been the first glimpse Sarah had caught of the mysterious altar angel —before the violet alb had fallen away.

Sarah stood back to me, and I found her labia funnily swollen; she sniggered and recounted how she had been gently raped by the sisters’ brigade part of the night, in a palace I would not imagine existed in nowadays’ Paris; I retorted that no palace in the city would startle a magazine bred suburbanite like me —I had even visited the sanctum sanctorum of the Rothschild family, mind you! Nonetheless, I could figure out how a whole brigade might have left her flat, she could do that! She saw me coming and joshed she would never leave me down, no need to go howl it on the roof like a band of Liverpudlians. I sat her down on my lap and kissed her, she was all ground down. Since it seemed the TRÆVIX pixies wanted to show them their realm and introduce them to the Aviatrix, I suggested Sarah and I went massage ourselves in the sauna, then swim our nerves loose.
There would probably be an orgy soon if Michelle had a taste for the sisters, and a party in return in their intriguing venue; meanwhile, Sarah wanted to cook Liselotte about not having let her in the know, she thought she had singled out many of the patrons as academics she had served before, Natalia’s clientèle, thus regulars in Liselotte’s books.
I wasn’t used to sauna practice, when Lauritz had taken me in, it had merely been to vaunt my skin to one of his buddies who couldn’t wait to fuck me, out of the oven heat. Sarah knew the massages, but also the practice of steam and the flogging with the soaked whisks, rubbing with the loofah, and eventually licking my clit in a frenzy.
She called Liselotte, who shunned the questioning about the Laforests but lauded interminably her performance to a congress of bigwig semioticians —and yes, she had let allowed herself with quite a few of the French patrons before, and she could check the height of the reward in her bank balance.
Probably because of my relationship with Lauritz and the array of debauchery it suggested, and her long camaraderie with Sarah, Liselotte happened to like me, thus she proposed to us two some other shenanigan that night, probably not as wild as a whole delegation of eggheads in a rut, but some well-heeled worldly club of sorts. I could feel the kink of desire at Sarah’s lower loins when she asked me if I was go.
Liselotte had a deep laugh and advised us to dress almost casually, although we would eventually be treated like expensive whores, we knew that drill. It was cold outside, the snow had piled, thus it was the season of Italian exotic vicuna, alpaca, cashmere wools, and mulberry silks.
Sarah groped me in anticipation in the lift; the fume-free, titanium grey berline waited on the new snow. Two amicable bruisers stood stolidly upfront, they exchanged briefly in some sort of Volapuk language. From the Pont Royal bridge, the long, frozen cliff of the Louvre withstood the flurry of white noise crystals; I seized Sarah’s hand.
Halfway into the yellow-blared tunnel that shuns traffic under the vast esplanade, I would never have noticed the deviation towards the undergrounds of the gigantic palace, that was the direction we followed, towards a white-it, cleared landing where a dark-suited usher awaited us with some kind of smirk, a telephone in hand.
It would be long after the museum’s closing time, and Sarah was wired like a kid left alone in the toy store. Behind the glass doors, in a steel-walled reception room, a vast lift cabin opened for the three of us; I sensed the now well-known pang that I had crossed the mirror of some glossy magazine, without the tedious crowds. After a smooth ride up, we followed a dim corridor of crimson wool, ashlar stone, and prettily decored ceiling beams, til a wide open double door to an overly stuffed Napoleon III salon that some close mellow voice, answering my amused curiosity, indicated it had been the boudoir where the shared mistresses of the Emperor and his unavowed half-brother Duke of Morny were greeted, then, just as now. The dimmed myriad of tiny lamps in place of the candle flames spawned a blurry haze in which I distinguished a handful of sleek black-dressed men ogling us, while a few young lackeys, dressed in period French white liveries, silk stockings, drop-front breeches, and patent leather slippers, began fluttering about, to nick off our clothes with savoir-faire, until we pranced around nude, holding hands, like daisies in the wind.
A muted piano played dreamily Erik Satie almost-waltzes as a warm hand seized my waist to lead me towards a supper arrangement of padded seats and white lace tables burdened with sweet delicacies, and a kindly stroke of a riding crop showed me to sit with my thighs open.
I could not read much of the clubman with the switch as he sat across from me holding a drink, smooth-tanned skin, curly black hair and fiery green eyes; the occurrence of the whip had swept any appetite in me, and only remained a gossamer thread of curiosity about rough domination, be it in such gaudy imperial splendour.

On her side, Sarah had lost no time, unabashedly gulping the nearest lackey’s rod out of his breeches and pumping hardily, staining the crimson silk of her seat with joy fluid from her widely exposed twat. I had read that more than a few women enjoyed flogging as a preliminary, I had memories of my scum uncle using his belt on me, bent over a barrel, on the days the drunks upstairs bellowed at a football match on TV, and I wouldn’t avow that my quim was drenched when he did that before he buggered me.
In a breath, I asked Sarah if she had seen the whip, she emptied her mouth to ask if I feared it, and then a few pumps later she said that if I didn’t like it, my pussy would. Having heard us, my hidalgo-type whisker stood up and sheathed a merciless horn into my mouth, holding my dumbed head in two hands; my coy attitude must have aroused him, for it wasn’t long before he gorged me with a long swig of his churn I did not cough upon.
As we moved on in the mostly deserted museum, the lackey followed us carrying portable lamps that expanded upwards in vertical luminous lines, enough to illuminate a picture on the wall, shaded on the backside.
Our eerie elegant troupe met some actual security agents, so then after a few words and a money handshake, we had to comply with their whims and suck their lonely dicks while my trainer played more and more of his switch on my bum and Sarah’s.
They led us to the picture “Parnassus” by Andrea Mantegna, a magnificently miscreant allegory painted for the Studiolo of Isabelle d’Este. The Lackey had fetched two antique prie-dieus in dark wood and maroon velvet, on which we were asked to kneel while one of our suitors digressed in sundry languages about the mythological signification of the picture. Each time he would turn to one of us to ask a question about some abstruse concept he had just said, and we kept hushed, he granted one of his cohorts to whisk us a dozen times, and Sarah breathed to me that it was not so awful, was it?
Now it was high time for them to plunge their spears into our maddened little cauldrons most of these brutes had hurled their bare hands upon, and none had been holding back his strokes. I was confused and also ashamed; even if I had long known, from horrid moments in the piss-scented cellar, how to mutely distance myself from the pain inflicted, my devotion to Sarah was now instilling a dizzying doubt about what was being done of me, and my entrails that oozed so easily while rich-scented geezers took turns into my sizzling slits. I could also raise up my rump so that they would rather thread in my vagina, while I readily rested my elbows on the padded velvet. That tingle in my flesh had melted into beastly ardour, I began to fancy those restraining contraptions which until then would have made me snigger, and Isabella sported a candid grin all along. I promised myself to pin a reproduction of Parnassus to my wall.
Some pestering buzzer was the signal that the party was over, thus they asked us to lick their sticky cocks clean before readjusting their trousers, and then walk us, drenched, to a service toilet where we made funny noises.
The snow had ceased, and the world was smooth; Sarah fondled my lower waist, she said she felt peckish, now, and we were at a stone’s throw from Philippe’s, she gave me that defiant porcelain blue gaze. Our two minders were still plotting in Walachian slang when they dropped us gently at rue de Montpensier, Sarah gave the driver a rich handshake, like a worldly girl.
Sami was busy in the thick of the maze, we ordered some onion soup and welsh rabbit, shockingly with tea and coffee, but we acted as seasoned regulars. Sarah mocked me and asked how my back felt, already, sliding her hand along my thigh. I had to retell her more of my in limbo souvenirs, and besides own up to having a confused mind about the kind of vicious possession I had eventually abided by, unwittingly.
The food was harshly pepperish and hot, just so as to rekindle the embers in my womb, then raspberry mousse woke inspiration, and I ventured to ask her if my hunch was correct about having dinner in this very place, under the decor of fantasy tents not far from the narrow door? When the Lebanese Maître d’hôtel brought back our cards, he simply said that considerate guests would see us for coffee upstairs, if we wished.
She relished sensing the thin wrapper of modesty I still kept, especially when I would indulge strangers along with her, whenas I had done possibly worse under Lauritz’s attention, she entertained this, for vice. The dining room had been peopled with random diners, possibly one or two couples who dithered on crossing the line before their direst fantasy, one young wise-looking maiden, bob-styled auburn, had stared my way two or three times with anxious eyes, so I had dared a wink, whatever it meant, and she had looked down with a smirk.
I craved the warm narrow vaulted corridor and the spiral staircase in which we sniffed each others’ nethers, like naughty brats.

A scent of fresh paint hovered, laced within the benzoin and haschisch of some ongoing orgy, I was subjugated before we reached the landing. Sarah said things had changed, new doors and corridors, fresh crimson carpeting, calling on nude feet already; I had not known of any more suggestive house —but Lauritz had evoked some Imperial Viennese lupanars he promised to lure me in someday.
The only lightings were escape lanterns, whatever had been spiked in the raspberry mousse dizzied us both embraced against the walls in wait to be surprised, the burn of the whip had mellowed against the silk lining of my flaring bell-bottom trousers. We reached an oak door with a porthole in the middle, opening in a heavily draped anteroom to a low-ceiling lounge simmering into the slow ambient harmonies of a well-tuned electronic array.
All around the deep-carmine lampas walls were rounded alcoves of padded velvet and black lacquered wood, under heavily framed mirrors —that probably concealed voyeurs— interspersed with big luminous crystal globes filled with coloured water, as they used to display in old apothecaries windows, perched upon sculpted columns, depicting nude nymphs. The ceiling was totally clad in stamped red copper plates, gleaming like a stolen dusk. There was another level of round banquettes, a few steps down, less private, where couples sat in diverse attitudes of lust, one young man had hitched up his date’s skirts over the waist and slid his hand in her panties as she glanced at us, others kept their hands under the table, some were as naked as we were, petting like innocents.
Two women, one black-haired tanned beauty with an elaborate hairdo, in her prime, wearing a provocative lounge robe slit up to the hips and down to the firm navel —the picture-perfect Madam— followed by a timid straight-haired blonde, nude under a perfect apron, to whom she passed the clothes she freed me from, not asking, affecting all the while to consider me Sarah’s own, at what game I swayed my hip like a whore on offer, and the lady allowed herself to palpate my arse and asked if I had been rightfully flogged. Keeping me at hand, she began unclothing Sarah, whose half-shut eyes granted free use of her, too. The young maid took away our clothes, and our shoes, turning away she showed a pretty witty bum; her mistress said I could have it if I wished.
We all sat in the round that the mistress designated, she kept me near while the maid came back and was at once keenly kissed by Sarah; Ms Albertine, the hostess, had visibly a sweet tooth for me and my recovering quim.
The couple with the candid bride I had given the eye to, in the dining room, entered not unexpectedly, hesitantly, with her partner hunk, thus the madam ran to their help, sussing she could gently bustle the bride as she did with anyone she craved after, letting open the white shirt upon timid white breasts. She read our glances, sniggered, and beckoned me at her place, groping me unabashedly as I passed her.
Vivian, her name was, almost blushed to see a nude girl come sit by her side casually; Landy, a boy with surgeon’s hands asked for my name and said he was daft about my person and gazes, if I would teach some manners to his fiancée; and he was hitching up her skirt frankly, hustling her feelings so as to make her part her thighs and show her sophisticated lace shorts. They both were appetizing, I jumped into their flirtation and let a hand play with the hem of the expensive finery; lowering her eyes, she turned to my chest, in need of a kiss I would certainly not haggle over. Meanwhile, he was quietly unfastening her waistband, so I could help denude her entirely, at his crude comments that she was a complete slut, a sleazy whore and such.
Soon, I could tell that she was gently aroused by the pantomime, and dawdlers turned to us. Her cheeks were on fire but she did not shy, even when her boyfriend robbed her of her knickers. She kept her black holdup stockings, like a working girl she had never seen, she looked so younger in the nude.
Sarah had busied herself with the maid, but she brought her lovely pet to our round and relished my debutante, telling her a garland of niceties, scrutinising the fiancé’s eyes for a hint of what he was up to, reading that he was not impervious to her own garçonne allure. She waved at the madame and asked for a proper room for our merry gathering. The lady smirked as if she had, herself, plotted the encounter; on the way out, Sarah lagged for a second, to let her know that if she knew of one or two idle fighters, she might send them to our front, weren’t we worth it?
The young maid Lucie guided us, through other corridors, to a low-ceiling salon with convenient daybeds in buttoned mohair velvet, deep arsenic green and rosewood, inscrutable bevelled mirrors in thick ebonised frames, box-tree-shade walls and ivy patterned carpeting; feeble light poured from tiny holes in the ceiling, it smelled like grave roses.

The gentle herd of females cornered the buck and stripped him thoroughly, he was splendidly built and remarkably well-hung, but for now, we rather showed him the manners of girls with the one he had there submitted. I kept in mind we most probably had an audience, and shy Vivian revealed a taste for exhibition. The three beds were disposed of in a U pattern, each close to a mirror, and a fourth bigger one in the centre, she let herself capsize over my arm, her head snug onto Landy’s lower waist, who chased wild curls from her forehead, telling her there, there, she had what she wanted.
She stared intensely as I nibbled her feet and tapered ankles to let her part her legs wider and offer a jewel-dewy slit I had been coveting. At the corner of a side bed, Sarah agonized furiously the maid who moaned beastly like a happy thrush. Then, slyly as moths, young eager flunkies began pecking kisses hither and nither, unannounced, and they smelled like the sunny shores of Naples. Landy cupped my chin as one of the lovely shadows whose febrile spur attempted to sidle its way to the holy well, so as to guide my mouth to his dick under Vivian’s squinted gaze; she unleashed her loins back at the humping she had eventually come for.
Somebody reckoned there wouldn’t be fun enough without some fresh backing in terms of a pair of swarthy hunks straight out of the hammam, overjoyed at our little playlet. A nasty pair of those circumcised swashbucklers who couldn’t hide their kinship and judged I was squandered, to their taste, nibbling a pretty mouth whenas a proper dick drooled upon my cheek.
Apparently, they decided, in their Turco-Mongol parlance, to gut open my pretty skin, ensemble, at the tip of their honed spears, thus I soon felt like Goya’s El Pelele, with a fiery duel inside my womb. The available lube smelled of cannabis and violet, a tad heady but madly expedient; I squeezed them like live fish, they shivered up my chakras to my tinkler bell.
I remembered the cab driver trying heavy innuendos: Sarah had redressed me and cuddled me like an exhausted child, straight to the grin of Lord Homunculus from the throat of my home crow, we still reeked happily of our concupiscence.

 

Sarah says:

I had been sleeping flat beside the pillow, and I was totally in need to pee. The room smelled of Cecile’s expensive fragrance; she must have gone to work long ago. Under the shower, I sniggered about the abuse we had inflicted on our thoughtless youth lately, and I realised there would inevitably be some manner of grand orgy in honour of the newly acquainted sisters. I regretted nought, but I wondered when I would slip back into seamless workdays, under just only the watch of the smiling axolotls?
As a good omen, Kate had been woken by Natalia, like in old times; she wanted to mark her first assignment at Censier, a Sorbonne peripheral. She wanted to take her for some mercenary dance at her Villa Bergeyre’s patron, later that night. As for myself, I wished no venture anywhere until Michelle’s gender-fluid fest.
We climbed to the studio vaguely in hopes the Thistle Sisters might come down, but they didn’t, thus it was space from the web and sparse mutual accounts of our recent follies while spawning random scribble stubs upon which to graft endless visions; that was the sap of our souls.
Cynthia was back, they had spent the night reckoning the state of affairs while she had been in Sydney and Miami —a moral swamp she would not recommend— and other nooks in the clock. She was overjoyed with the latest happening of the Laforest sisters, who bid fair not to cry for help anytime soon; only they might, anonymously, report to Cynthia how, with their mother’s guidance, they had concocted their medical journey. Kate had hinted that the new swimming pool was usually peopled with all our angels and fairies at the end of the day.
I wasn’t displeased with our mute roaming on the drawing board, I felt sundry trails to furrow through, sooner or later. During a pause, Kate mused that we might need two spaces if she came to indulge in somewhat dirtier techniques, on larger formats? I jested that Gautier could certainly think of an extra floor, so limitless had always seemed the layout of the space for our whims.
When dusk faded to purplish over the still-white zinc roofs, Kate stacked her utensils in her tray, looked up for an inner mantra to bloom, and crouched down to cuddle my feet, as she would; the vision of the water pixies had surged in her mind. Time to climb down through our tidied-up apartment, and take a lift down to the subterranean provinces. Just as in the hunch, the pool resembled a Palais-Royal puddle after the storm, all the sparrows jolting their wings in the new water.
We slid out of our tracksuits and dived into the fray tickling some toes. The whole flight of Trævix tits had swirled down to the pond from the TRÆVIX tree that felt more like the pervasive holy Banyan. Sissi and Bowie recognised me among the bubbly saraband, so different from their shadow realm of lust. Sissi sat on the ledge, thus it was obvious that I suck her dickie, floating freely until I sensed a lesser jester play into my bung-hole, at no expense.
Kate swam by, with a trifle of envy, but she was chased by plain boys Mathurin and Finlan, who did not shy from my pansy minions, whatsoever; and she could also spread her thighs wide enough for two. Gauthier had promised that the built-in hi-tech purification engine would digest all our biological effluents, thus the water remained enticingly virginal.
We could have frolicked as such the whole evening, not caring at all for vestures, like the court of Caligula aboard the Nemi ships, but it would be fun to play court with the whole school, teachers included, before invading the preternatural sisters’ palace. The two boys wouldn’t yet own a worldly wardrobe, but, bar their beloved diddle, did not outsize us much, thus we headed to our vestiary to attire our sacrilegious bodies.
It was easy to wake up a roses-and-thistles embroidered frock coat that made Mathurin look like a Grand Duke —he had the shoulders and the neck for that— only I preferred he goes shirtless as I would. I fetched hi-waisted fitted black silk twill trousers that wouldn’t conceal the slightest of erections, and lent him black suede Chelseas, voilà. Kate thought I had made him a lethal gay bait for Hugo, but wouldn’t shun to slide a hand upon his hairless chest. The next one, Finlan, I couldn’t find shoes for, he was some two sizes longer, and it was too late to run to the shops, so I decided he would go barefoot like a vaudeville slave. From the old days, I had wide-flared, ankle-gathered, silk dark gold panne velvet trousers, with royal blue trimming, and the matched bolero vest to go with a variegated demi-long sleeves jersey fitted T-shirt; he accepted that I paint his nails sapphire blue —if Mathurin had his in black lacker. I promised they would both look snazzy in the decor of the TRÆVIX palace, so much so that they would shag anyone they wished, til they dropped. They both avowed a mild crush for the new creatures they had just seen me behave lustfully with.

There would be no public perambulation, nor biting exposure to the frost, thus once Kate put on her purple silk velvet jacket with a black sequins shawl collar, lined in orange satin, only black patent court pumps bejewelled of black crystals befitted her, I braided her hair loosely and attached the tail with a black-rhinestones-clad bow barrette; a dash of eye-shadow and mascara weighed her grey gaze, lip gloss achieved for her courtesan swaggyness. When Finlan dared a hand to her quim, she found his trousers had no fly, and the bird was free to wag out. She wore a seven oval opal encrusted gold dog collar along with the matched anklet and bracelet, gifts of Hugo’s, Lalique originals. Finlan had learned to paint nails with Gwen when she whored for him in Bruges, so he glazed Kate’s with pearlescent varnish.
I fished up some kind of a structured, double-breasted night-blue sequined blazer lined in black striped quicksilver twill; I clipped on a choker of fine sapphires and diamonds, and, like her, the matching anklet, given by Hugo on a trip to Pompei and Herculaneum. I would wear black suede round-toed slippers with grosgrain bows, and no underwear either. Finlan took a caprice to graze my laser-smooth legs up to my lower belly, he said we too, looked like devilish sisters.
Melchior was there already, with four of his hunky minders who smirked at our attires, unabashedly, and that was reciprocated. It promised to be a dignified orgy, Delffan had pealed secret bells all over town and was revelling, as the Mistress of Ceremony, in the entry hall, simply clad in a simple oversized white shirt all-over embroidered with gold thread scrollwork; she had shortened her hair as a ball of blond curls, she smelled of a lime tree in bloom in Orlando’s white garden, she wore rich gold Indian anklets that peeped as she walked.
The SEVEN STREAMS gang had also landed, thus Camille took me apart in the private powder room in fond memories, she needed to take me again to New York where she had purchased a new townhouse near the Metropolitan. Dagmar had eavesdropped on us and thus snuck in like a whiff of candour, wide holy-blue eyes, so we seized her, and I pulled her baby-cashmere leggings off to sniff her very badly defended sanctity, she had put on the same Brittany broom shrub ecstasy breeze as Fanny did, and she was nude in her fluid chalk-grey, wide cowl-neck, woolly jumper dress. Camille relished watching me, who had once shared her bed for two years, and all of her secrets, uncloak the one who lived mostly with her and a few other light-hearted blondes; she herself wore a variegated willow green wavy-knit silk jersey, fit and flare, over-the-knee dress with mid-long sleeves; she was still as slender as the gentle whore I had known and brought me at Hugo’s, and yet she now held considerable powers in her pretty lustful hand.
We returned to the bustling party just in time to greet the Laforest sisters’ dehiscence out of snowproof iridescent wrap coats and sleek boot covers unscathed by the mere hopscotch from her carriage to the door; they appeared stratospherically rich. Sissi wore not much under a changing Parme taffeta silk tunic dress, asymmetrically embroidered with a vorticist aplenty up from the hem to the right sleeve and shoulder, and white Jodhpur strap boots. Bowie sported a biker jacket of zebra fur pattern all-over satin-stitch broderie on black sequined shorts, and black-strass Chelseas. Sissi was letting burst her curls over her mischievous gazes, Bowie had gathered all of hers inside a white suede aviator helmet.
Cecile, a white tee shirt in a black matte silk suit and black suede Chelseas, ran to Sissi’s neck to take a long whiff of inebriating souvenir before Delffan took the guests on a visit, the mighty pair already astounded by the sculptures in the courtyard, Victor’s last extravaganza always causing Nicki de Saint Phalle’s dancin’ Nana to swirl in the lights.
We had entered through the basement door under the grand staircase, at our left, from the grisaille salon, music unfurled that I pinned on someone I had loved long ago, the elegant strings fantasies by Henry Purcell, live and fresh. Malo boasted a witty smile, all the more proud that I could see, next to her, another nude musician seated I had leered at, still dressed up, in a Chevillon’s folly where an orgy had unfurled. Rachel de Contilly blushed intensely at the furtive smile I offered while letting my smitten glance flow down on her, she gripped her blond violin like some magic buoy, and returned to reading the score so as to regain her cool; I sussed she would be gently wet when I would hug her. The two other players were serious-looking boys in professional black suits and white band-collared shirts, I couldn’t help fantasising they shagged Rachel in harmony. Malo, whom I had never heard play classical, winked.
As we moved on to the colourful landscape salon, as Delffan flirted unabashedly with Sissi, and Bowie had a crush on Dagmar on a grand red sofa.

The skies of the all-over wallpaper panorama had been peopled with a few more troves, like a pair of pornographic miniatures on ivory under blown glasses in elaborately sculpted giltwood, pale little girls with carmine lips frolicking with dark-skinned fauns in the finest manner of Achille Deveria’s; higher in the dreamy azure hovered a grand sculpted golden eagle holding a flaming red scarf inscribed with the word VOLUPTAS, like some brothel entry sign.
Not all of our Cossacks knew yet the intimate nature of these new fairies, but Cecile had been so enthralled with their ascendancy, and what she had described of a feast in their realm, that the hunky crew found most becoming if they would beam in so much grace and candour; these were not common party girls.
When they walked to the dining room to get a sip from the towering samovar, there were cries of awe, Gauthier’s indefatigable search for genuine art pieces had brought, among the Jin Ju Lin panels, four apocalyptic angels, higher than human, invisibly floating above clear perspex plinths, in the corners of the room; they were the work of American artist extraordinaire Sha Sha Higby, influenced by No theatre costumes and other Asian grotesque theatrical traditions. So hence, the gist of the banquet room was transformed into a contrasted mood stage, alternating the retentive clouds of Jin Ju Lee micro-ceremonies with the broadly demonstrative ghosts of Sha Sha Higsby.
Standing at the glistening tea fountain, I felt allowed to draw down Sissi’s dress front zipper, all the while reading her pert gaze while my fingertips wandered towards her tender secret. She was smaller than Apolline on the matter, and vivid as Delff when she was wired. It was time to frankly pull down her shorts and sit on my heels to suckle that toy like a candy cane, was it not?
Hugo revelled in a neighbourly visit to the novelties, no doubt his eyes had already been caught by Rachel, and that had been enough to hump his long shirt between the tails of a princely kaftan; then he had relished the sight of Bowie letting herself swallowed while she studiously serviced Gauthier, her pretty head tipped over the headrest. I recognised his paw upon my nape as he disrobed my prey and grazed her smooth, sinewy body like I knew so well he would, stroking her nether belly as she was easily gushing into my throat. I sussed she would also sense my mentor’s hard rod in deep soon enough, when he began grazing her tight little bud —and mine.
Gwen was already as well au naturel when she found us; she wore a belt of gold plates encrusted with honed shapeless gems and baroque pearls, like ones on a reliquary, her body fluid as that of a Fontainebleau Nymph. She wooed Sissi in the shameless baby tart manner she would remain in spite of her new riches, offering herself in a sway of her hips, so well that she was ordered to revive the exhausted bird she would crave to cage, thus unfailingly offering her bumhole to Hugo’s swiftly unveiled nob.
The music had fainted, resting the air to Michelle’s proto-generated harmonic ambient; it meant I could take hold of Rachel for a tour and more. Malo was already cuddling her in the midst of the grand salon, for the keen eyes of the whole convent, not yet succeeding at making her part her legs indecently; however, something hinted that she was one of us and she would soon play her violin for transfixed audiences in Speck’s boudoirs.
As an admission that she had already taken sweet advantage of the young tinker belle, Malo enticed her to follow me and I relished she smiled doing so. The orgy was churning lovely, Rachel a tad shy about our trans cousins, but she obeyed as to bend and suck Apolline’s spell for a while as I fingered her natural holes; she was taken aback when she grasped what her mouth was filled with, but I helped her with half the load, she was nonetheless wet as a brook.
I did not yet know of her upbringing, but she was a fast learner, and besides, she had stayed a few days with the dancers’ brood — bar I doubted she had heard the little courtesans’ stories in full. Those who know me just a shade would tell how aroused I was, firstly our longtime cohort Malo daring her to live up to her act, why had she called Gauthier back, or had she? Anyhow she could not ignore what walk of life we led, whatever music she would play.
First things first in this house, she ought to know what extraordinary brain ran it, thus I led her upstairs, Delf envious that I held her by the waist and stopped every other step to peck her rosy lips. The centre gallery had been enlivened by patinated bronze trees with faint dashes of gold in the foliage, and an arm-span wide wreath of braided flowery branches was hanging at the ceiling with a tiny lamp in each flower; on each side, pearly rounds of love seats invited the guests for confidential little lies and ties —Delff did that whimsically, any time, although she hid nought of her pretty person.

Fanny and Trine were making jolly out on the roundabout sofa in the middle of Michelle’s sanctum anteroom. There had occurred a last-second opportunity to wipe out another scammer from the schoolyard, thus she couldn’t have helped, but she flaunted a special attire she had asked from Gianni, in all likelihood —with Michelle’s household’s patronage, Hugo’s legendary seamster had anted his practice a notch. Her perfect-fitted hi-waisted jacket of dawn-gold shantung embroidered in whole with circuit-board patterns in gold threads, and multicolour jewels figuring transistors, over simply modest shorts upon her minute arse. A pair of gilded Egyptian sandals had fallen under the hi-tech seat. Her polyphonic brain had sensed our coming, despite our silent move so as to introduce Rachel to some new playmates and let be handled smoothly —Fanny sported a radical buzz cut, a crisp poplin white shirt and black sequined short shorts because Delff had spread the word that there should be bare legs; Trine went bare-arsed under a gathered mid-thigh blouse of off-white silk bourette. They made Rachel’s eyes beam with lust as she instinctively stood up to hold Michelle’s hand, then let her enlace her slender waist to lead her back to the command room she had seen her gaze at. As she made her sit in the still-warm high crane chair, she bedazzled her with the real-time glittering of world exchange operations, letting her rest her feet apart on the console.
Whatever her misdeed accomplished, half a world away, her drilling gazes through her aviatrix lenses, stealing Rachel’s rounded bum away, they walked enlaced towards the party in her own palace, she had been warned of the sisters’ incoming, she also relished preterhuman prodigies.
I was left to barely feel awkward with these two endearing doves upon the roundabout, I eluded off on tiptoes, merry chirping echoed from the opposite end of this quiet floor, I snuck to cast an eye. Across a méridienne bed, Josephine had bestridden our always obliging lawyer Matthew, who winked when he saw me, and some hunky security had felt invited to join; she was anything but a debutante, despite her youth, and it was a graceful scene, anyone around cared for the wellbeing of the dainty resident maidens. She saw me, and she noded that I come to her mouth and give her a taste of my longing quim, thus offering my pleated bud to the sight of whom was kindly buggering her, and no sooner I sensed two greedy tongues in my crack than I gushed all over Josephine’s face.
On that, supervened Emeline, who had been wondering about her soulmate’s becoming, little did she pay attention to the pair of black-clad studs who followed her upstairs. She giggled at the figure the Gibraltar dancer had entangled herself into —she entertained no other intentions while she unclothed her horse team offhandedly. She wore an anklet with sundry gold charms that tinted to enthral one of the servants who knelt down to lick her limber feet while his cohort invaded her mouth with his taut circumcised winky, keeping hold of her obedient nape.
Temporarily satiated on our velvet nave, we nonetheless relished how she drove the splendid beasts at her whim, to end as well as we had ridden ourselves, but Matthew couldn’t resist running to her mouth. I laid entwined with Josephine in the scents of our effusions when I sensed the fingers of a sneaky bugger prepare my anus for a round; I parted my thighs to my best, so as he could sheathe to the hilt, and he did, unabashedly, like a proficient swordsman indeed; I squeezed all my shameless entrails to fire a mean climax as I saw Emeline squirt like a firehose.
Before going back and cruise among the chosen ones, I found a snazzy pink water room with relief silver glazed chimaeras crawling over the ceiling and walls. On the console was a Lalique phial of Wisteria Soul I had no remorse to wear; in the mirror, my quim was exuberant.
On the left side red leather sofa of the lower main salon, Melchior manspread himself in a same sunflower yellow silk brocade dressing gown as worn by Allori’s Judith in Buckingham Palace —and notably offered more semblance with undead Holophernes than a Jewish princess. The robe was open, and a white satin long shirt as well, thus leaving his half-baked penis in the raw. He obviously revelled at his neighbours’ and associates’ playgrounds as keenly as his own —I have lived up to some.
As I dawdled back in, as innocently as I would, I read out what manner of playlet our Fairy Feller was engaged in, along with the night’s honour guests. On the one hand —justly said— he was diddling with Sissi’s tender trinket, while on the other, he cupped Bowie’s chin as one dedicated goon threaded her offered anus, like do the angels beyond Baroque ceilings; being there, I couldn’t but oblige and contort myself down to suckling Bowie’s pistil of sorts, as to their genteel botany.
I had time to gulp down some bitter drops of sap before a Cossack grabbed my haunches and sink his fiddlestick into my entrails, so I hoot and moan like a monkey, to the amusement of the sisters and the lordship they currently serve.
Michelle and her gang appear and enjoy the battlefield and the trans princesses in action, she shows a taste for Sissi’s legs and feet, conceding warmly that her minions had been right about the altesses’ charm; as she naturally crouched down to seize Sissi’s foot, the meeting with her main associate was taking a tad queerer turn than previous, but she did not touch his tauten manhood in the flows of opulent satins, she invited Trine to suck good of the almighty tycoon’s lightning rod, as a reminder she might also fly to places of high debauchery she had been talked about, that he owned; he kept her on his chest as the sisters strolled with the hostess, who lost a first battle at the princely shorts being pulled down and off while being necked by like maddened kittens. By the time they reached the Samovar, she had gracefully surrendered the rest our her attire, bar the boots. Chatting away like in the schoolyard, they ended up on a sofa, and she let be done both ways; Sergei, who had drawn me to follow them, ploughed me deep as I bent to insinuate my tongue into Bowie’s bum left unattended.
Lauritz came to the party at Charlotte’s initiative: among the pretty, diverting fray, he pulled a crush on Rachel, who was overwhelmed with her success and soaked in semen, which did not help him from cuddling the young beauty while hastily peeling off his black threads —along the walls were side chairs that fructified of piled rags. Lauritz drew her towards the rooms upstairs, sabre to the wind.
At the far end of the more mystic pearly room, under the keen eyes of the samovar officiant —who had not yet granted himself licence to shag the guests— Serguei kept me snug, and my will diluted itself like sugar, attracting Fulgence by. Half-tauten for a while, they pretended I be their slave, the Cossack giving his fingers to smell after he wank me, trading metaphors with his pal who daintily kneaded my toes. I played childishly proud, offering my warm jewellery between them, so as Kate came to give a lick en passant. Sergei asked how long I had befriended Fulgence, so he said we had been classmates in our not-so-heydays, heckling at the likes of Elisabeth Lebovici and Marcelin Pleynet, goons on the so-called “scene” of indefinite bribery and tax evasion, in the eyes of whom we felt like mere savages. In real life, it was our expansive lust that brought us to the same waterholes, and the cunning of debauchers like Liselotte —whom I had shunned as a classmate— and Victor, who had capped the whole artsy boondoggle with his indefatigable dick and an unlimited stash of a certain blue powder, before exploding in flight, after having botched his encounter with the genius of Michelle.
All these most abusive ellipses enkindled my two tamers, I could hardly tell whom of them I would face during the next voluptuous figure, and, together, they took their time.
Later, when we emerged from a round of watersports, the crowds had vanished, Rachel’s violin was gone and her two partners had disrobed to the benefit of Charlotte and Seresine, Samovar was still humping Kate, but the Laforest sisters had eluded and Michelle had retired. Sergei still loved me, I took him to bed upstairs.

 

Natalia says:

That was a first for me, double penetrated by trans winkies, toy-like penises. They fancied me, enough to wish I come to their intriguing mansion, I had heard the tale, and it sounded like something I’d do; Also, they had been in Sami’s books. They sent a Silver Eclipse carriage roomier than a hearse, driven by a pair of hefty lackeys in bespoke liveries.
I had lured Dagmar to come with me, it had not been a hard sell, she had heard the tale. From the start, she was dammnedly more cunning than I to draw eyes; she wore that signature lose-knit, drop shoulder jumper dress of powder-blue rich cashmere, over white cashmere leggings and white slippers. Like foolhardy schoolgirls, we cuddled each other across the velvet; I wore a couture, varsity-style, royal blue padded silk jacket over-embroidered in Korean, matching shorts, and silver Docs.
By the smile the minders sported, I read that we might have been here for quite a while, making out, Dagmar with no more pants on.
The car stood under a Visconti porch lit with restraint by ormolu lanterns and greeted by the mentioned butler, who stared at us with a longing, but let us at ease. I have seen places, slept in royal beds, shagged at the wee hours in the deserted Frick Collection, but it remained to see such an uncompromising display of demented luxury —in comparison, the Hotel von Speck would stand for the elegant constraint of a self-aware connoisseur.
The umbrageous corridor seemed peopled only by a swarm of golden twinkles, like the fireflies of the Italian twilight; it smelled of burnt haschisch, with a fine smirk, the majordome suggested we needed no shoes, thence the depth of the pile tickled our toes, and Dagmar came purr in my neck, enticing me pulling her dress down, at the respectful approval of the black-clad usher; and so went on the deliberate thinning of us, the indeed desirable man picking thankfully our abandoned rags over his arm, then calling some lesser valet to take care of them, not before I see him sniff in our footwear.
Insensibly, the impish carpet led us to the foot of a grand spiral staircase, under which an arched door opened to an obscure passageway of bare ashlar stones, down another flight of crimson-carpeted steps. Not that any of us wouldn’t have descended endless whirls of such stairs, to whatever remunerative turpitudes, it remained nonetheless a shred of dizziness in wait, and Dagmar wetted, too.
As we reached a low-vaulted landing, our hosts awaited, dressed up with black, red-trimmed, leather straps on steel rings, each of their precious little pintles under leather triangle cups, black silk stockings and high black Cossack dance boots. They wore no masks, and they kissed us frantically, complimenting the majordome whose trousers bulged. The trick of the contraptions was that they could be sturdily hooked up on any side.
Bowie took Dagmar’s arm and led her through a side door, Sissi literally fingered my bumhole, pushing me towards another door. It was even darker, only thin rays swept the air of a muffed-out space. She was still handling my body, and other pairs of hands joined in. She murmured in my ear to part my legs, I felt a cannula force into my back hole, and as I sensed the warmth in my entrails, my eyes were covered with a full-face leather mask with holes for my mouth and nostrils. Straps were being adjusted to all parts of me, she said I was not as flat-chested as Sarah, she made me sit on some bowl and told me to let go of my bowels, it smelled of rice pudding, and then some stout dick invaded my mouth. I had been played so a number of times —it was routine at one media-darling psycho schnorrer’s, who paid me dearly but left lash marks on my hide, he said I could not complain because I had been squirting like a possessed nun.
I was suspended tightly, face down, legs spread, my head held up by the mask; I heard a flurry of whispers and felt overwhelmingly palpated over like expensive meat before the sacrifice, the return of a dick in my throat changed my appreciation, then someone rolled under me, holding my waist and penetrating my soaked vagina carefully while a third operator reamed my fresh arsehole. My hands were assigned to taut members, my feet were ointed with drool or else, I moaned at ease.
I couldn’t discern what had become of my main handler. I was upturned with a swift easiness, only just clearing my throat in the move before another shaft dug even deeper into my dangling head. It smelled of that tepid sap and bitter weeds my master Hugo had taught me to tame when he conceded, out of resignation, that I already knew it all anyhow.
When the last of the herd had gushed his load, hurling a last cry, I passed out like a carcass, so it seemed, only to wake up untied on a leather bed, Sissi’s trifle into my inflamed anus.
In a domed bathroom clad in suave-colour glazed ceramic tiles, a round gilded metal pond allowed us four to simmer in lotus lather and heal the lash burns on Dagmar’s back and thighs; she had let be whipped like hawthorn in a gust of wind, her gazes swayed as my hands revived the stinging and she raved incoherently in my neck. The green-eyed tormentors giggled with pride, manhandling our lower bellies in harrowing efficacy like entranced shamans, and that felt heavenly. They fetched some velvety thick multicoloured towels to wrap us in against the dusky decor; they led us to what might have been a bygone fumoir, as Britishy as Westminster halls, furnished of deep-buttoned maroon leather and well-groomed woolly patrons smelling of English Cologne, a confraternity of wolves. Sissy told us the ridiculous price they had paid to overstay for us. Knowing how we had been mercilessly abused made us most desirable in their unabashed souls.
We had survived worse, Dagmar and I, not-so-holy synods or psychoanalytic congresses, and counting. Were these the beasts who had only just raped us? Eyelids were twitching, hands contorted, and breaths were fresh in any event. They spoke in many accents like bidders at a thoroughbred sale, and we had blood, hadn’t we?
They had rushed away their gallop firstly, mutely, it was time then to savour, unthirstily. It would be a dozen of them, wallowing on the age-patinated leather, keeping room to sit us near them. Girls wearing, in all, an apron and black patent leather pumps, styled like ladies, brought drinks on silver servers, allowing some wandering hands.
Our hosts had dashed to shadowy nooks, and Sissi, standing aloof, was, at once, all in the mouth of some greedy gent, Bowie rested her foot on an armrest, offering her jewellery to her client’s whim.
At the lesser of my demands, they called for the snacks cart and fed us nibbles of marzipan and candied fruit washed down with lemonade we had to beg, standing, with their fingers in our bum cracks. Puerile games that brought us dozy enough to let them free us, although predictably, the minders kindly suggested we do them a last-minute favour, mine tasted of fennel.

She was overspent, slumbering with a blissful smile across her soft visage; I couldn’t fathom she would have demanded more of the flogging. In our attic —Beryl was away on a Costa Rican villégiature— I fetched some soothing cream of Peru balsam and made her whine a last little once in the pillow.
I dreamt of horses and cavaliers altogether, flying along the cornices in Fontainebleau under the whip of a tall nobleman whose pride pole wagged out of silken breeches. Dagmar was rounded under the quilt, offering her quiet bumhole deep in a little cushioned burrow; it had been her who had woken me by stealing all the cover.
I had a stash of special crop tea, “Oriental Beauty” from Taiwan, I warmed buttered scones and opened a bottle of squeezed blood oranges. I put it all up on the bed tray, and I waited, not long, until she noticed. It was a relish as such, watching her stretch her long limbs before she paid heed to me and recap how she ended up in my bed.
She sussed that I had been a tad affrighted by her acceptance of steep manhandling, and that did not surprise her, but she had been the one to ask for scorching pain from Bowie and her cohorts, changing the all benign creature into a thorny harpy. Now her back was healed and smelled of balsam, she bantered that she would convert me to harsh play, I retorted I had seen Hugo practice on paid —so-to-speak— patients, and all it had inspired in her had been self-consciousness, albeit she might have wetted down her thighs at that sort of peeping.
Beryl had retold of me, having watched Kate squirt like a beast under the lash, in Victor’s bygone outlandish realm, where a famed pair of black operators were sought after for all the lewdest reasons. I pondered who else in our gentle hive might want the tough cuddlings. Dagmar showed me devilish eyes as she kept her thighs wide apart while nibbling her scone. I asked her if she would like me to go flog her at my regular contorted patrons’ homes, heftily rewarded.

 

Sarah says:

It felt like deserted days in the studio since the heather fairies had access to their own beyond their home landing, I believe Annabelle, under James’s blessing, had rekindled the emphasis on literary studies, for all I know. Kate and I had kind of let the fog clear, listening to audiobooks such as “A Hundred Years Of Solitude” til dusk.
Liselotte had sussed a hint of unfulfilled devilry in me, just what she could advertise fruitfully to her clientèle, and thus I found myself punching a code at the dark green lacquered door of that lavish hotel overlooking the Parc Monceau. A squeaky voice in the grid asked me to go walk upstairs.
I had been told to do formal sexy. I wore a bespoke pinstripe night blue skirt power suit, to the knee with a slit hem and no shirt, boy’s black patent opera pumps with a grosgrain knot —my faith forbids heels— black holdup stockings. I could have wanked at myself in the mirror. A simple choker line of sapphires and matched bracelet, and my grandmother’s Rolex Tank, almost on time. I invoked my ever-dearest Ayla —whom I still guilt-tripped not to have known to retain at our school and thus went to whore in the salons in Zürich, and who, anyhow, liked it— whose motto was that a girl must look like the price she asks; my hair was tousled up, and I smelled of Japanese jasmine and peach. I wrapped all of this in a black wool gabardine trench coat.
In the cobbled yard, under a prominent, pergola, a tall glazed double door glistened with its engraved panes and the lock clacked open at my push. The entrance hall was all clad in dark waxed oak, with a straight flight of stairs between two sculpted life-size nude nymphs on pillars, holding armfuls of arum lilies, beyond which other flights of stairs led to penumbra.
No one in sight, it was warm as a bathhouse, and it smelled balmy; one Venetian lantern hanging from the ornate beams cast its ribbed patterns of gold-tone light on the thick maroon acanth-strewn carpeting; it felt altogether like at aeons from Paris, and the mirrors set me like a spy in an unremembered embassy. The low steps were effortless, I regained a laid-back composure.
On the upper landing stood two more nymphs of polished walnut, facing a white marble relief showing a daintily chiselled lounged Venus unveiled by Vulcan; I had no indication which side I should go. The door on the right was quietly unlocked, and a small, contorted character dressed in white and a yellow vest risked a kind grin and beckoned me with a twirl of his hand. He ran whimsically in some manner of endless curtsey.
He spoke in none of my tongues, but he could show that he wanted my coat rather folded aside on a waiting banquette; I shouldn’t tread on the silken carpets either, hence I slipped off my shoes, however, my soles had been dry. As he ushered me into a dimly lit corridor, he couldn’t help fondling up my thighs with a childish little giggle, and then he ran —what would I purport to be, anyhow?
It should have taken generations of treasure hoarders to amass such a trove of pagan marvels, evoking as well the palaces of Gustave Moreau as Randolph Hearst —with Ziegfeld’s chorus line in San Simeon’s swimming pool, possibly. Here, in enfilade, bronze nymphets by Carrier-Belleuse pranced before diaphanous children bt Bouguereau, in all Belle Epoque innuendo.
Losing sense of direction —never would I have encompassed a layout this huge— I perambulated along the perfectly dusted collection when a tall valet in blue and yellow livery came up and asked me to follow him. We entered a dark room peopled with ormolu accents and crystal pendeloques, some light was faintly beaming from a door ajar.
It was a most formal bedroom with a draped canopy bed of Himalaya blue velvet strewn with jewels and lined with moon silver satin. Amongst the creased bedsheets lay a whitened, dishevelled man clinging to his covers, rolling larimar blue eyes up and down me, telling me to keep the stockings. The merry Yellow Dwarf was suddenly back and unclipping my skirt with manners, swiftly taking away all my suit.
The bedridden character in Little Nemo’s shirt relished what I had to offer, he grazed my flat front up and down with a pleasurable grumble, then made my turn to take hold of my bum with lauds. he commanded me to sit on the bed, legs spread, then back to him on all four, all the while fondling my crack and complimenting my girliness he said smelled of Lirinon, a name for the suave oil I had anointed my quim with —he would be a connoisseur. He carefully rolled down my stockings and cherished my feet, with night-blue toenails, like my fingers.
He said he would compliment Liselotte on her cousines and chuckled while he drew me under the covers, my back to him. He smelled of vintage scents of ambergris and sacred tars, he raved unspeakably lewd poetry in my ear, and I melted into a straw doll with loose limbs, waiting for him to root in me, as he had paid for.

And there would be more to the charter, I guessed, he wasn’t the short-breathed patron, despite this confined routine; I was in for a long feature, arguably, but the chore should be in my strings. He had shot his overture bravely, I was not intended to garner an arietta of my own, as of yet.
Amidst the gibberish that he mumbled while tormenting my foolberries, he might have called on the Nain Jaune, who ran up with warm towels so as to wipe our splashed intimacies and fetched some phial of a nasal spray for his master’s nose. Weirdly enough, that joker had disrobed and was showing a far direr attribute than his master; I knew that manner of a drill full well, he called that stuffing the fairy, and he seized me firmly upon the lubed pivot, while the three-legged jester, helped thus by his Lautrec conformation, expanded my vagina walls by many octaves, til he brushed his balls against the connoisseur’s own jewels, tickling my perineum.
The hard-working nibelung’s boorish face, as he ploughed in my womb unrestrained, was simply transfigured by his quest as he stared intensely as deep as my soul; I was heaved in a Pompadour moment, and the deluge could wait. Possibly fired up by a pandemonium of substances they dared not push me to share, they lasted til the edge of my conscience, and thus the scarlet crows of Krøneborg afforded themselves the shreds of my dreams among the green pinnacles while I burrowed into the rich eiderdowns.
As dawn’s lights suffused through cascades of gossamer lace behind the louvred shutters, it was Gunnars’ incarnate who carried me away from the tepid percale creases, and to an awakening of blissful scents in a small lazuli pond where he granted himself a few more humpings in my defenceless entrails, all the way reading his own redemption in the blue sparkles of my eyes.
The limousine had been waiting in the yard, the avenues felt colourless, and seldom had I sensed fulfilled in such a grand manner. I found Kate and Mara enlaced, thus I rounded myself, nosing in the neck of the samovar maid of the Hotel Sacher.
It seemed I had travelled very far north with the spring geese, the house was empty when I woke, strangely obsessed with whatever thing unaccounted for in my nightly adventure, so as while brewing some of my new fad tea, “Oriental Beauty” from Taiwan, it bruskly dawned on me that my jewellery was lost, of all plausibility among the frills of debauchery. I reckoned that Liselotte’s clocks might not have turned faster than mine, thus I called her to retell my night, and request her wisdom as for my mistake. After an awkward pause, she took a sententious tone to acknowledge that, obviously, I wasn’t aware that Lord Mendelssohn had just passed. I had been in the sheets of a dying man —by what I could testify had been his last pirouettes in that world, he had gone with a happy soul. We wouldn’t know how, of all processes, I could help my prized stones to fall into the enormous heirloom. Hearing that Lord Daniel had enjoyed sharing my pretty hide with some in his household, I began to devise some attempt to undertake before His Lordship would be cold.
I dressed up in a black pinstripe wool pantsuit, white shirt, black tie, black Chelseas, and my black gabardine; sunglasses to conceal my apropos eye-rings. A black Fedora would adorn me with enough mystery, if ever. It was late afternoon, a veiled cold sun through the still bare branches.
Cars, some opulent, mine did not breach the rule, were queueing to access the glazed doors. The oak-panelled hall was crowded with Jewish men of many fashions wearing kippas. I was the very only woman, but I imagined the rabbis might see me as a pretty young man; I affected to speak Oxbridge English. I was offered a shabby black strip of cloth, and I noticed in time that they all wore one dangling at their lapel. They seemed to pray, in Hebrew. All mirrors were veiled with black tulle; it smelled of mere soap.
The majordome stood at the foot of the stairs, he did not recognise me at first, but he suddenly raised an eyebrow and let me murmur from a distance in taut English my reason to be there. He waved me upstairs and told me to go right to find Gunnar, I did not let him repeat.
The right side gathered as much of a Capharnaum as the way to His Lordship’s remains, a dimly lit purple velvet niche, about three steps wide, displayed a collection of exquisitely erotic chryselephantine sculptures by Demetre Chiparrus, that the mourners would not see, anyhow. A ray of light further on the rug reminded me that I wore shoes upon treasures; I pushed that ajar door and saw Gunnar, his unusual skull rested on his elbows, absent-minded. As I called him, his gaze remained empty; I took off the hat and glasses and tousled my hair, somewhat. His face lit up, although with awkward questioning; but he stood up and embraced me daintily, just like he had abundantly a few hours before. Yes, he had garnered my jewels on the rug when they had tidied up the room.

Now, his eyes swayed with mischief, in a way I wouldn’t have condoned, had I not spent these hours at his whim, next to his boss —who had not known then that the stroke was in the making. Thus, my luck had a very easy price to afford, see? He locked the door and came to pick quietly my coat, my shoes, trousers (he sniffed my lower belly), and everything I wore, then only he fetched in the table’s drawer my precious stones, but tst, I wouldn’t wear them before I let him revel some more with my holy body, like never ever in his sad life. He said he had been times and again in His Lordship’s bed with other trulls like me, but none had looked at him more than a second, or let him serve them respectfully while his master watched.
I remembered the kitchen garden in Saint Loup, where slow and unfit boarders lived their simple life, and daredevils like me went in the shack with them and let their knickers down, under the Cossacks’ noses —they had long deemed us dirty sluts anyhow. Gunnar pushed me back upon his rough wool berth and devoured my neck, my feet, and my arse crack. Every once he caught his breath, he stared into my eyes with his forest-green fervour and that candid smile of his.
We used his simple shower booth a few times, but it was never time to let go until my nasty slits became insanely swollen; I promised there would be more, I would see to him, and he believed me. He showed me out through a side door, astonishingly far from the main entrance where the press was on a hustle and bustle lookout.
Liselotte had been titillated, but then she called me a devilish whore altogether. After I had healed my damages with infallible salve concocted by Hugo with our delicate linings in mind, I retold my misdeeds, also Kate, Cecile, and Charlotte expected the finest of worse. It has always been a tacit rule that the rookies go get run-of-the-mill groceries, as Mara had done so as I could bake French toast for everyone.
Once I sat, having fried a pyramid of golden tartines, Liselotte came near and started rummaging into my periwinkle blue tracksuit patched with a big UN logo, forcing me to open my thighs. She had also known —in multiple manners— the supremely excentric Daniel Mendelssohn, be it in his sheets or in the cellar, and she also had encountered my Gunnar, whose real name was Zev, unfortunate offspring of Daniel’s short marriage with Ayala Cohen, from Thessaloniki, who died of a brain tumour shortly after giving life to a heavily disabled son Daniel kept unadvertised amongst his secretive realm on Parc Monceau. Hence, Liselotte bantered that, be I Jewish, I should marry my sneaky faun and become rich as an Ephrussi.
Joking aside, and I had no intention to convert, I figured the motivation of the crowds attending in the Dead’s hotel. We decided to tell our tutelary authorities —upon the main reason of the profound impression the collections left on me before I let myself debauch foolhardily by Quasimodo. Come what may, my womb was on fire; I also considered ringing at the service door and seeing Zev, again.
Melchior reacted in high voltage and encouraged me to keep Zev in a bed, somewhere in the house, until he sent his own Jewish acquaintances to see to the situation fast. He also made me blush at my whorishness, in a mellifluous tone of voice.
Zev had no telephone that I knew of. I dressed up like a fast shot, a purplish ribbed jersey knee-long dress, black crotchless tights, and black Jodhpur boots; I called for a car. I felt like the epitome of a courtesan. It had started raining, city lights recited Saul Leiter’s poetry, and I let the driver peep under my skirt.
The crowd had thinned, only men. I walked unfazed on the opposite sidewalk and turned the corner of the grandiose mansion, to find this bleak little door with an enamel plate showing “service”; a bakelite button looked commonly used, I hasted to press it, and again a minute later. A sparkle of light burst through a peephole, then the door was pulled, and Zev grabbed me in with a wide grin.
One simple flight of stairs up, he drew me along, eructating in his animal noises, to the desolate room I had been in the night before. He planted me under the sole hanging light and danced around in his weird gait, his malachite green gaze into mine trustfully. There were, like, shards of expression when I sensed he would speak, but his mind wouldn’t crank up, and so he just sighed, keeping me at the tips of his fingers, lifting the dress over my head, kissing me desperately, but delicately.
I ripped off his theatrical attire, he was beautifully tautened, with big huddled-up balls, and he smelled of almond soap. He was overwhelmed to have gushed in my throat, but that remained far from quieting his want. After he buggered me again like a Royal Navy gunner, I began to ponder I would soon need my sisters to content the Minotaur. When it came to showing him signs that my poor slits couldn’t take any more, for now, he grinned, hugged me, and drew me into the shower.

Melchior called me personally, and asked that I isolate myself during our conversation. I locked what had been Fayelle’s recovery hideaway when they had chased the axolotls from her brains, and I offered my truly bare image in the video call on the bed. I only saw Van Eyck’s autoportrait with the red turban in return.
Things had gone swiftly, three main families in the community had agreed to let Zev inherit under their tutorship. Zev did not even have a birth certificate, but DNA would provide proof of his filiation, thus, after vetting the inventory of the collections —the only thing that was in order in Daniel’s realm— The Ministry of Finances would accept payment in kind, in lieu for the succession tax. In France’s high circles, no one wished to see the Mendelsohn trove scattered at auction, should it mean letting Zev live his life in the Monceau hotel. The all-time majordome, Armand Lunel, was most satisfied to keep his position and wages, plus a few trifles the tutorship had conceded.
Still baffled by my candid dedication, inasmuch I had been the ultimate bliss in Daniel Mendesohn’s life, Melchior taught me that I had been allotted a hefty sum of money, all tax paid, no strings attached, for valour. He asked me to see to Zev’s transition, suggesting I might do that not alone; it had not been my envision, either. In conclusion, Melchior proposed a villegiatura in a villa at Ravello, he let me choose whom I liked to invite.
I had sussed that Zev might use me —in so many ways— to set his wealthy boot in the stirrup. I asked to see Camille and Hugo on the matter, it constituted, altogether, a worthy tale to think about. Hugo had knowledge of Mendelsohn’s collections and his network of ropers. Camille was staggered at my audacity not to have fled the drama scene, moreover returning for another round of utter debauchery; knowing me to the soul, she granted that the game must have been worth its uncanniness. Not too prone to in-person examination, she would nevertheless indicate two or three neuropsychologists to see if there was some late help to provide to the young savage, except o course the kind I was aptly procuring him myself. It sounded wise, I would see to explain to the majordome. I had foreseen going with Zev and letting him practise the usual blood test by my example —in case other cunning sluts of my knowledge were to ring at the service door. And Liselotte had been Daniel’s procuress, who had sent me to his death, she should stay in the loop, the ways of profligacy.
Not so unexpectedly, the next time I rang the service door’s bell, I was greeted by the majordome, politely smiling, who listened to my intentions and mostly concurred, except he wanted a little taste of my seemingly earth-shattering talents, and forthwith grabbed my throat and kissed me like a desperate eighth grader. Unfazed, when he caught his breath, which smelled of raspberry, I explained that, justly, until the tests that I was recommending, all I could allow for his release —he happened to be comely enough— would be from my mouth he just had a taste of. All he knew of me was that I be a prostitute of sorts, a call girl; hence he walked the walk, unzipped his fly and showed me the dignified morsel I was to pump, matter-of-factly, at least drawing me to a small cubbyhole with disused furniture under sheets, so I could make of him an ally without having to kneel. He nonetheless explored inside my leggings and hitched up my jumper, gratifying me with chosen words that I accepted as a good omen to Zev’s future.
After I had cleaned him dry, he tidied up and brought me to a bedroom of golden yellow and indigo silk lampas where Zev had been waiting for me, nude in a plush night-blue terry robe, reading comics upon a grand padded bed cover. I was disrobed in no time, and again kindly ravaged. I had afforded a house call so we could give our different samples in homely conditions, but we had roughly an hour to play mummy and daddy.
I amply knew the doctor who came, from Philippe’s and other comfy places; Armand coughed to warn us, but I reckoned he could consider our bodies in the raw, given why he had come; the script had been settled, he would start with my dainty veins, so Zev would bravely let himself be done. For good measure, Armand —who had peeped my arse quite a few— rolled up his sleeve, begging to start a personal account.
I did not brag about having initiated a blind sexual binge, so when the doctor called my number the next day, some little blue mushroom in my inner undergrowth shivered in fear, but it turned out it was a mere trick for a personal date at the clinic, and his voice was smooth; I would also collect everyone’s black card. After he had humped me, and again, on the examination bed, he found time to let me know that, since Daniel had been also a cardholder, he had been able to compare and confirm Zev’s filiation, if needed.
On Melchior’s instigation, Hugo was appointed as one of three experts that would advise the notary and the authorities in the D. Mendelsohn inventory, he arranged to take onboard Florenz Marc and Cyprien, in due competence. The financial appraising was at the Ministry of Finances’ discretion.

In addition to prodigious lovemaking, the fire of unspeakable suffering simmered in Zev’s eyes, albeit I could not decipher his growls. A bigwig neurologist was sent, but she could not garner any shred of sense in Zev’s behaviour. We went for painful days of scrutiny, medical imagery, encephalogram and the whole shebang. Ultimately, some pretty operator in the laboratory wrote her observation that he behaved somewhat more intelligibly if he could keep in relation to me, it had been very notable during the encephalogram. The conclusion had been that his problem was probably not of a biological nature.
The case was then deferred to psychologists —through spite— and was suddenly enlightened, serendipitously, by an intern with Dr Blankfein who was attempting to draw Zev through tests, me present, after one afternoon of utter failure head to head. It happened that the young woman was from somewhere in East Moravia, and she began to hear some crippled words amongst Zev’s gibberish and slowly replicated some shreds of rudimentary communication with him. She was savvy enough not to delude herself, it was genuine mental archaeology, and Zev was soaked in sweat.
With Armand’s help, who had been twenty years in the house, we could unearth details of Zev’s upbringing. Because of the relationship between his psychopathic mother who slogged down a suicide path, and his father, a monomaniac collector haunting all the auction venues of the world, Zev was totally entrusted to a nurse who identified him as her own son and taught him her own mother tongue. If delusional, she was a lovely sweet person, enough to stir Daniel’s wants which she resisted so stubbornly that one morning, she was found dead, neck broken, at the foot of the stairs, in her simple nightgown, Zev huddled up by her.
After the nurse’s uninvestigated murder —a doctor signed the burial certificate— none other people could ever come around the child who regressed, even physically; he was never allowed in public, only, after he began to masturbate in every nook, did his father afford him prostitutes to play with, Liselotte had not known that.
I began to feel overworked, night after night with the insatiable wants of a rudish young satyr who barely spoke. Kate was the first to come along with me, and I showed Zev how she was no stranger. He read in her eyes that carnal wisdom and watched us enlace, then he was a damn bull to tame. Afterwards, when he accommodated himself to find in other women what he had craved in me, he began to dawn out of his doldrums for good. He relied on Armand to call on whomever of us he had a whim for. The majordome did not refrain from requiring his toll in kind, with manners, like a proficient hotel concierge, and he was a skilled swordsman.

Meanwhile, the Laforest sisters had called around to their social gathering with us. Those who had climbed the pillows at the Mendelsohn lair had their blood stirred. I had spent a night at Hugo’s retelling the nitty gritty of my adventure, wallowing in mellow cushions, mollycoddled as always by my unfailing mentor.
A date for Sissi and Bowie’s all-out gathering had been set; it was not utterly substantial to me, I was living some weird metamorphosis with my selfless ball player, it was intense, and all progressed by the day. With constant help from Dusa, the intern who had heard through his pathetic growl, and whom he had eventually entrusted with his lost childhood, although he would also confide more totally adult confidences into the rich comforters.

They all kept saying I detained the mental keystone in Zev’s salvation, inasmuch I had received his father’s last breath, in pivotal circumstances in his life, it constituted instant shamanism, the metaphor would have it that I had spirited away Daniel’s soul for the redemption of his son’s.
Now, the devilish sisters wouldn’t talk to me about letting me come to their home with Zev, in a private configuration, an isolated room. It would be Cecile who had to go on an embassy and paid with a few hours leashed as a bitch in an assembly of pitiless perverts, the game became more spiced up —the two lovebirds might have to come to terms with retaliation eventually— and they granted that I could use one of the stately bedrooms with my boy toy. The next day, Cecile was properly raddled, she dawdled and quipped that the two should expect a puppy from her bitch, as goes the say where she’s from.
She asked what intrigue she had been fooled with, and nonetheless amused —and rightfully rewarded— so I offered to take her with me to Monceau where Cyprien seemed to spend his days recently. No decorum was needed, she was all that desirable in the outfit I had wished for her when we met, jeans and a white tee shirt under the black Perfecto jacket, plus she had thinned a trifle, and she smelled of her Italian Cologne, I recalled our follies in that hotel room overlooking the Arno; I loved her.
I wore a simple grey cashmere sweater dress under an over-mended layered Boro coat, and Chelsea boots, like her. Our driver looked ponderous, thus I behaved myself, only warning Cecile that she was about to visit one of the most stupefying turn-of-the-century collections in Paris, if Cyprien had told her, but she had not had any news lately. The majordome considered us with his usual half-compunction, and I knew what it meant; as I introduced my protégée, he seized my arm quietly and drew us towards his snug cubby, I only nodded at Cecile and winked. The Cerberus —we had confronted many others before— greedily kissed my mouth, then asked if my little pal was as much of a slapper as I was, pulling her unabashedly by the waist and beginning to craftily unbutton her fly, as he had with all his passed master’s visitors. She artfully played the defenceless girl letting herself be done looking down most passively as he pushed her upon an armchair’s back and bent to sniff her kittie like he would a precious vintage; he said she fit prettily with me, and he would ask to shag her some other time.
Zev had had a hard day’s work, he was asleep, nose in the comforter, with no pants on. I undressed my bosom chum entirely, she looked at once like another gem in the collection, I was so proud of her. She was drawn to a cabinet on a stand showing a court scene with Nevers glass figurines, letting me crave for her perfect bottom before the soon-to-occur ransack of its secretive rills.
Once the eyes found the sight in the bedroom shadows, there would stand sundry other glazed boxes of drawn glass miniatures, from bland religious imagery till the sauciest obscenity, bawdy scenes in restless taverns, or in Olympian Arcadia. Zev fostered a long-time attachment to the little glass world, he had elected residence amidst them. Cecile couldn’t help reckoning the painstaking work of restoring those which needed to be.
Suddenly, the naughty Alberich stood all erect upon his cloud of cushionry, amazed at two Rhinemaidens for one. He had thrived in humanity, spoke like a toddler in broken French, and stretched his limbs like a sportsman. He jumped towards Cecile with his majestuous dick holding up the tails of his shirt. She knew he wouldn’t attempt any misdeed on her, so she looked him up in the eye while his Johnson grazed her belly. He glanced at me to read my agreement, smelled promises into Cecile’s neck, eyes closed, and devoured her lips like a maddened puppy.
My best craftsmaid of eastern wastelands was becoming her lewdest dancer at the hands of King Kong, and however, I wouldn’t let her duo without helping. She laid back over my inner thigh as he began foraging her bijou slit with the firebrand of his torch, measure for measure, with a perfect smile. I rounded down to catch the tip of her tongue as she moaned in the tempo rubato.
To my demented eyes, he was less and less of the beast his own father had unleashed upon me in a last blaze of whatever poison he puffed up his brains; and all the minuscule glass people in the room stood mum in awe. She gushed her streams unfetteredly, and he would never tire.

 

Cecile says:

These heaps of eiderdown had engulfed the whole world, but I needed to pee, mundanely. I snaked among the wet patches of whatever we had let flow unabashedly, I felt deviously guilty. Mr Armand stood watching me unfurl, but I reckoned he had seen me with that sort of interest before, thus I needed not to pretend modesty; he showed me to the bathroom and bided at a distance, guessing that I might smell funny; it was wise.
He ran a bath with a lather of May flowers, the same as I had dived in once at Speck’s after a fierce hullabaloo, he held my hand to the tub, took off his jacket, rolled his sleeves, and seized a plump sponge nearby to rub my back and the rest, to render me clean as a whistle, earning the favour of my mouth, he tasted of laurel soap.
I had left him neat, he was overjoyed as he dressed back up before wrapping me inside a huge terry towel and stealing a few real kisses. He had collected my street threads, he still relished grazing my flat breasts in the tee shirt. In a vast otherworldly kitchen, he brewed coffee with a Caffetiera Napolitana and asked me what I wished for breakfast. They had an imposing cookie jar in the shape of Humpty Dumpty, and Mr Armand watched me dip the cookies with loving eyes.
Back in his up-straight allure, he showed me out to the side door, whispering to my ear that he wished me back. A black car awaited and drove me home under a sparse rain, leaving Sarah in her dreams, as I always would. I began scheming a way to visit the Mendelsohn collection in the daytime, should it mean granting Mr Armand some favour behind the curtains once in a while; or Hugo —a man of many curtains— could show enough authority as to my competence, whatever my nightly existence.
Sarah came by the workshop in the afternoon; I was back at work on a black lacquered and gilt XVIIth century Chinese made-for-export double-bodied chest with an upper bookcase, from the von Brouwers’ estates in Denmark, as written on the back panel. I teased her about her ancestry, she retorted that, bar her father —she said “Far”— there wasn’t much, there, worth remembering for her, the plinth amidst the broken pediment should as well bear an empty urn. She quizzed me in turn about my awakening, Mr Armand had kindly let her be, thus she had supposed I had done the job with him; we laughed, and she said she would ask Natalia next.
Now, a few days away, the keynote for the Laforest extravaganza was “Années Folles, slutty and sluttier”, Lauritz had shown me again the confidential albums of the most secretly deviant von Speck Paris estate —each time a pretext to offer me to one of his clients. The house, one of the noble hotels on the Saint Louis island’s shore, had never been registered as a brothel, nor the women who whored there in full view of the nearby vice squad. Anyhow, the mood board would easily summarise as going bare-arsed —we do that— thus, I would don this black double-breasted multicoloured sequined blazer, just level with my bum, a choker of articulated plates of Australian black opals, and black pearlescent slippers. I had just finished my touch-up laser skin sweep along with Charlotte who then did her first treatment —and who showed off like Lulu three days later in Speck’s grand salon.
Until then, the soft waters in our pool harboured some faddish delights, when I had enough breathing in a mask for using solvents. It was about the hour when the little ballet crew offered their soulful joints freely to underwater strokings. Finlan the ginger and pale Gwen’s sugar buddy and blushing Marcelin had been stroking each other’s stems, thus I craftily ensnared them in the middle, floating weightless upon their want. I raptured them afterwards for trios in my shop, while Malo gathered the nymphets for overnight amusements in town.
We ordered finger food, soup and Kombucha, and they retold how they had flown to Den Haag to see the Nederlands Dans Theater in a new play ballet called Solitude, in which a young poet passed through the hustle and bustle of mundane life, unfazed and ultimately forlorn, the young man with the vermillion hat. They had cried and joined the thunderous rounds of applause while attendants brought Melchior’s luscious bunch of roses onstage at the salute.
Out of their pride of having been seated in one of the best boxes to enthuse in the perfect performance of the finest dance phalanx in the Western world, they stiffened anew in their sweatpants so I wouldn’t neglect another turn at the carousel and before dessert, I had again sucked and intaken their virulent semen at both ends of my unabashed anatomy. After coffee and pastries, their embers rekindled, I had them chase me to my cubbyhole where the rugs were silken and the lights propitious, I sensed them so easygoing compared to Zev’s rough truncheon. We ended up sweaty, drippy, and heavenly smelling, thus I drew them to my shower lair, where Lauritz had offered me a new toy, a rubber dome on which to rest and dare them to pee in my arse.

That Wednesday night eventually happened, late afternoon, a stealth noria of grey minibuses began in our streets, to the amazement of dawdlers. The devilish sisters had done things artfully, and the weather was unseasonably mellow; fresh greenery shivered in their park. Expectedly, Melchior had lent an army of black-suited extras proficient as the One-Two-Two squad of bygone days, did we feel ogled at!
Sarah barely hid her bum crack behind the beaded fringe of a black slapper over-beaded tunic; she smelled of true Joy by Patou, said she, a present of Mr Armand, a whirlwind of lustful luxury, a murder of jasmine in a bush of roses. She wore a diamond, sapphire, and rubies choker, bracelet and anklet, gift of Camille’s; snazzy black patent court slippers with jay knots. Arm in arm with Kate in aquamarine cascades with a bare satiny back and the scent of Iris Absolute, flaring white opals to her neck, wrists and ankle, iridescent strapped flat sandals. The pair lit up sparkles in the sisters’ pupils; and wandering hands.
Our hosts looked carried away, Sissi almost merely clad in jewels —and most looked real— on transparent crepe, and gilt flat sandals, Bowie in a mid-thigh, pearl-stitched, harlequin tunic of dainty rainbow shades, in white suede Maryjanes and white knee stockings.
Many of our cousins had chosen frankly to parade frankly as the best boarders of a cathouse, travelling wrapped in a shawl. Gwen wore a loose boxer, a cropped little shirt, and mules, in almond green satin trimmed in purple; Dagmar’s pale mauve camisole did not hide at all her coochie.
Those who had, like cats, chosen lush pyjamas, did not make a mystery of their open slits, like on Brassaï’s catalogues for Diana Slip. All in all, the motto was to show willful free access, among the perfumed undergrowth of the magic forest. And even thus, there shouldn’t be any unwelcome transgressions, mind you, Melchior’s hunks are implacable.
Deep sofas and chairs, as wide as the sacred lotus rafts, circled around a low podium where Malo, Rachel and others I did not know yet improvised in the nude a fluttering capriccio in which Rachel’s violin, rested on Malo’s maternal cello’s voice, instigated harmonies and fioriture by the other three, particularly the velvety violas who twirled like silk banners to a breeze. It had doubtlessly been Malo’s victory to undress her heavenly quintet, Rachel was blushing as Sarah tiptoed to them and gave a gracious bow salute. Entered the no less scantily costumed sylphides, Josephine and her court, in air-draught shirts made of sundry embroidery patches sewn upon nothing, flitting around the pale twirls of their impalpable dancing swathes. Nowhere other than in a sophisticated lupanar such as the idea of the preterhuman sisters had suggested could the expression of three metaphysical alley cats unfurl as gratuitously.
Djinn Delff’s genderless intuition input that carefree mockery we crave in them without bothering the meditation of the two others, like the damselfly on a Calder mobile. They did not sweat out on a long paragraph, but the shrub of applause quivered with tenderness; I felt a new crush for Rachel who stared at me as the quintet resumed its flight; she let her thighs part, and so did I.
It would have been Melchior who had flown in Ayla from Zurich along with Annachiara my Venetian courtesan of sensuous memories; as Ayla, all glimmering of jay strands jiggling upon her nudity sat upon Melchior’s lap, our Italian fling ran to me, blowing a kiss to Hugo before poking her tongue at my lips. She embalmed of oriental rose, the surefire spell of her apostolate since she had followed Ayla in the Swiss palaces. We enlaced in the deep down cushions, soon joined by silky strangers, as the rule of the game went. Sarah jumped at Ayla’s neck, who let be wanked by her haphazard hunk, thus Sarah’s bum became unavoidable for a swift opportunist; Rachel’s smile meant some obvious envy.
Natalia, naked in an open vermillion horse guard’s tunic, led a platoon of frivolous mischievous imps, Ksyusha merely decorated with a very high-waisted knit rose cardigan, Annabelle in a misty green domino hood that hardly covered her shoulders, Fayelle in a flimsy yellow organza blouse, and Beryl in a black hide and steel buckles harness letting all access as ought to be in such an urbane brothel.
At best, the Aviatrix would avail herself minutes of exascale autorun, like she couldn’t escape when she slept on Trine’s bosom, inside her Faraday cage, whatever the clock; on this occasion, she had designed for herself more on the client slope, her tight little booty snugly fit in golden jeans, her seldom seen baby breasts nested in a golden mock perfecto lined with white piqué satin. Trine’s vapourous déshabillé flit like a gold powder on her bum cheeks making Michelle proud who had never overlooked the salvation she had found at Sarah’s feet, behind the red sofa. For once, she flirted overtly with Sissi, toggling her pretty spindle.
She ended up remarkably with no pants, welcoming the tiny stiff spur into her jewel slit, I fantasised about some sisterly threading, as I knew she indulged in, between Apolline and Delff; and nonetheless, I had already witnessed her, under peculiar star aspects, enjoy the bruntish toy of some Cossack, just like the best of us, heads and tails.
While another polite John released his karma into my little winker, I had noticed Dagmar and Gwen, innamorati like Fontainebleau nymphs, being spirited away with Bowie, all smiles. As I needed the loo, I went by where they had gone, in need of washing myself up. In otherworldly plumbing appliances, of silver-lined exotic marble, that was thorough; back in the party, I followed a trail of narcissus towards heavy maroon draperies, where eerie rumours seemed to emanate from. Somewhat fascinated, I brushed along the polished wall when my arm was seized by the sturdy hand of whoever whispered into my ear that curiosity killed the cat, and drew me to a black and red stucco proper dungeon where three desirable patients were already tied up to the wall with padded bracelets and complete hoods, eyes and mouth zipped, Dagmar limbs spread out, her face to the wall waiting to be flogged all over, Gwen standing up quartered impaled to the hilt upon a footed dildo, and the third had her arms stretched between pillars, and stood all zipped up in a full black leather bodysuit with red trimmed zippers for the mouth, the breasts, and the crotch. I thought I singled out Seresine de Chalendin, because there was a lush ponytail gushing through a hole at the back of her head, and the pretty model of her feet. My capturer did not let go of me, asking which one I would like to torment, myself, and vet that their bodies would trickle with overriding pleasure.
The leather and fashioning of these utterly frivolous accessories seduced my curiosity, I walked to the black ghost with fine white feet with a want to test the zippers and get a feel of the already moist and warm hide. The fastener glided like gold, uncovering savoury lips, pearly teeth, and a playful tongue.
I did not perceive the other assailants, but before I could voice anything, my mouth was gagged with a supple chew ball, my head was hooded close, my wrists and ankles cuffed, and a corset strapped to my waist and tightened, my hands hooked to it in the back, my feet tied apart on the floor; they inserted some kind of tail into my arse, I could hear the tone of mocking comments, and, further, the cries of someone, probably Dagmar, being lashed.
Someone uncovered my ears and began cursing and insulting me softly with a mellifluous tone of voice, jolting my tail and eventually freeing the way. my nipples were fiercely twiddled, and my toes were nibbled, and then a more than real stanchion started buggering me under the sarcastic comments of more than one.
It served me right, I had been trapped like a candid fool, but wasn’t it all the more kicky? Remained one utter retaliation, I pissed on whoever was poking a tongue into my cooch, sparking a round of heated banters and compliments; I could only accept having been turned into an expendable hole, dripping like a sewer hose, unabashedly.
I recovered, befogged, in a tepid bath, enlaced with Charlotte who scolded me for having let so many cudgels into my bratty nook, she said it reminded her, on Sunday nights, at her father’s shop, once they had coerced her to drink sweet Martinis and dance like Madonna —they did not beat her, though.
The bathroom walls were entirely clad with majolica depicting explicit orgy scenes between fauns and nymphs, of a skilled brush, and marked the depraved origins of the house. Sarah found us, wiped me dry, and said in aparté that Zev was in good humour in a red lampas room upstairs.
She led us through the greedy crowd who might not know me or my bum; older jocks kept their shirts or robes on but ran their fingers all over us. The bedroom was magnificent, dimly lit by porcelain nightlights in the shapes of lifesize erect penises. The walls were upholstered in shimmering crimson lampas framed by black lacquered cornices. By a professional quirk, I took notice of a series of lewd graciousenesses, hanging in black lacquer frames, in the manner of Achille Deveria’s. Tall Coromandel screens obscured the windows, and the red background Persian rug felt opulent under the feet before a Turkish divan spread with silken prayer carpets. A burly gnome sat in an open shirt and rested on one arm, a beastly truncheon jolting up at us —but since my prime days, I had known soon that they would end inside, long patience given.
He rolled wild eyes, clumsily seizing both Charlotte and me, watching Sarah for permission, and she showed big fun while nodding. He had been taught to kiss and fondle well enough to tame worried little does like us, and Sarah pulled his nerves smoothly like the puppeteer; Charlotte was first to lie down and spread her milky thighs.

 

Malo says:

This carnal climate feeds my endlessly sauntering melodies, like the plankton the whale —if I may— that slithered through that extraneous dimension beyond all walls. And no one, alien to these tribal mores that we indulge, will ever relish the sacred chords. My calling, since I first met Hugo and his peers as a pretty ravenous fiddler —a flustered wayfarer tempting a go at whoring, before he sussed about whatever talent in me— had only been the quest for the solitude beyond, notwithstanding harmless passengers possessing clear souls, like we had shown that exceptional night. Brought down to the material groove, I needed the loo, hence I gave a stare at Rachel, meaning I would switch the soundscape to artificial calculation, for the while, at the tap on a pad, the computer rehashed a cyber version of what we had been threading until then.
One of those still dressed up showed me to a private toilet, as big as a Hollywood bedroom, with a chiselled marble seat and magazines on a low table; I read vanities about last year’s Met Gala. I had happened to perform on one of the overlooking terraces across Fifth Avenue, for a genteel crowd who rather worshipped my own kind of fashion, and they owned Brancusi damsels.
Back in the main salon, I wasn’t surprised that the courtly attendance had as soon devolved into a garden of lubricity as unbridled as the machine sounded it was. The instrument cases had been packed away safely, and Rachel had been suborned gently by Hugo at the first row.
There was hustle at each door, crowds wouldn’t miss a peep at whatever daring number, like say, Kate, heartfully ridden by three muscular strangers. In a gilded corbeille settee, Ayla with a smile offered a slit in bloom, upon her impaled rosebud, thus I buzzed around her pricey lips as her cavalier speeded pace and she rewarded me with a beastly spurt that tasted bland like unripe hazels. That was endearing, but then I needed to be done bluntly, and justly one of the said Cossacks was standing there giving me the eye in such a manner, hunky, nude and a valid shashka in the wind. He took over the bulk of me, twirled his tongue to mine, and carried me to some empty cubbyhole with no other light than some electrical indicators; the heavy carpet was enough. He spoke for himself in Zaporizhian slang as he thrust his weapon into my throat and spurt a foretaste of my share, and since I was so thoroughly gulping up, he lay me, and I pulled up my legs at his will. He gave no quarter, I sensed his pertness up through my guts, like Stravinski’s glissandi through Petruschka. He was utterly nimble, letting me dislocated like a puppet in the yellowish penumbra, I dived into bliss as he panted about me.
He had run like a thief, but I reckoned he had left me whole, with a buzzing swarm in my womb, I snuck out for a bathroom, not too keen to expose my drippy thighs, naughty girl.
Camille had missed me, said she, while she drew me upstairs by a small spiral staircase that landed in another stately bedroom with a stuccoed ceiling peopled with wanton creatures of many sexes frolicking in baroque drapery creases. In the master bed, two black athletes had captured some slender filly I soon recognised as Fæbian, that elusive slapper from the Lake Constance shores, rich and devastated since the death of her sister, she roamed the cathouses of Mittel Europa with Lizon and others.
In a corner was a rounded sofa of vieux-rose satin, probably placed there to allow voyeurs to enjoy the sight of the ongoing drills on the bed, and Fæbian was indeed worth eying up, at the whim of the muscular handlers. It helped me recover as I nosed in Camille’s neck amongst the wealth of her ginger curls. Albeit we would be considered as available prey by whoever fancied a dash of carnal tinge towards any of us, we let our embers wane in our dreamy wombs.
We would have been squealed to the wanton marauders who weaved in and saw enough of us, too, without thinking of jostling Fæbian’s passion, the three mature stooges crept around to our hideout and let their hands talk. They were mild-mannered like office clerks who know you are richer than them, wasn’t it the case? So little did they know when they dared us to kiss and to open our legs wide, I read the long-time rascalness of she who revelled in our pillow camaraderie.
One of the trio had found it funnier to use Fæbian’s mouth while she harmoniously lodged two indefatigable hooters. In our team, it went in all alacrity, Camille had always been a keen bellwether, and our jocks obtained what they had rung for, with little sweating.
Soaked like frogs, we headed to the bathroom and locked it, without saying. She felt like a lathery shower, and enough moping dry Liselotte’s wandering scholars; our turn, to corner running treats like Sissi and Bowie, whatever was left of their bonny pintles and heart-shaped bums. But beforehand, we felt a tad peckish, hence we climbed down in search of a dining room, a pretty one that is, like an English garden in May.

 

Sarah says:

I could tell Liselotte was proud of her clout, most of her influential patrons had cleared their schedules to attend that mingling with the heavenly swarm in the most intriguing estate in Paris, in the most private interwar fashion, whatever it cost. And besides an opportunity to review her ratings on both sides of the trade, it was the best way to taste the goods, rudely said.
We two dated back aeons, it seemed, and she had been the one, in our schooldays, chasing me, while I was totally enthralled with Kate, who looked down on me, the needy tomboy in Camille’s sheets; she wouldn’t waste her time, trophy mistress of a powerful geek before she ended up in the dumpster. But Liselotte had stubbornly sensed my perverse bend and sworn to nail me on it. She did not know that, behind my well-to-do Danish maiden allure, I had known more ways to trade with my violets than her; my privileged school in Switzerland, and then the confessions of a savvy teenage prostitute, as her fate had made of Camille —before Hugo eventually sent her back to school with flying colours— this all under the indefectible shield of my beloved father, granted me more leeway than she might have imagined. Hence, when our secretly debauched characters had eventually cranked up, she used me with unabashed delectation, as well as the wildflowers fate entrusted me with, like Natalia, our house fairy.
Upon fine linen, there were heaps of refined nibbles, those under the leek symbol without any meat; all fairies in our swarm condoned the eggs and cheeses, I personally craved devilled eggs —a reminder of the canteen at my lakeshore haven; Liselotte fed mainly on nuts, like the squirrel she resembled, to my all-time liking —I had been boss of Tudor City squirrels, in my New York days.
She could tell me, in aparté, who and what each dawdler was, who stared at my legs and feet with fawning greed and thriving pride under their bespoke shirt tails, it was the best gathering venue in the palace for whom needed another tryst; most were money traders, real estate moguls, many were political handlers, her preferred ones were academic luminaries —pondering types who made you kneel with your knickers down, celebrity shrinks morally adrift, waiting for Peter to straighten up. She promised me she would send me to an astrophysicist too shy to have been among the guests, he could operate the great telescope for me so that I innocently turn my backside to him.
Once perked up —the grand samovar was kept alive by a most endangered maid, in a mere apron— we strolled about arm in arm, she knew everyone, and I was fondled freely as a salutation; she was advertising my arse, wasn’t she? In a chinoiserie boudoir neatly scattered with mirror shards —like in the Margravine Hermitage in Bayreuth— lay my very own Ayla cuddling Dagmar in carnations embroidered black silk padded bedspread. The heavenly-legged hanseatic orphan, not so much overspent of pain than bliss, in German. They smelled of a potent flowery salve that Ayla relished rubbing on the tatters of an angelic bitch’s hide.
Liselotte ventured a light hand between the inflamed thighs, only to find our precious swan still revelling in full bliss, and she murmured she too, procured vicious creatures to painful patrons, for a price and atonement. With a sidelong glance, Ayla expressed her doubts, reviving the harrowing days of Esther, bandaged on the clinic’s bed, until yet, she couldn’t forgive herself for having let the frail kid go alone. Liselotte understood, and floated that she did not intercede among mental freaks, and through the years the Hellfire Club had proven safe, altogether.
The long-winged orphan wouldn’t wish to be side swept as a foolhardy freak, she sat up and hugged Ayla, thus exposing a spectacularly striated back. Seizing the tube of ointment, I took a chance at grazing the feverish muscles, she meandered with her spine, and I sensed full well the perversion of her moan; I let out that I would accompany her if she would.
A funny character, with ice-blue eyes and a winged hairdo, in a long night-blue gown and white shirt came to salute Liselotte but kept his eyes over me, as you do in such a nunnery. He was a world-renowned philosopher, but I was too attractive to bother with the principles of thought, thus he grabbed my fingers and made me stand, then follow him elsewhere.
He smelled of gingerbread, like my childhood cookies, and he kissed me at every turn of his quest for a love nest, thus he soon ended with a stiff kind of flute out of his shirt, so, behind a bust of some bygone bigwig, I sat upon my heels and pumped him proper. He mumbled and wriggled, for my well-earned pride, when I felt tentative fingers about my bumhole, and heard a smutty voice pontificating in Latin, initiating a dialogue I had better be left out of, my master clasping my head firmly until he released his quintessence that tasted of raw fish. The intruder was unexpectedly bulky, with a svelte attribute he ordered me to serve, too, in French.

They had pushed me along, one or the other’s hands on my butt, a proper disposable pet, as I did not contest. They had manners, they kept babbling, in that mock Latin that seemed to have long been their scholastic code, and I soon sussed they debated my physical traits, appraising the charm of my being a genteel tomboy with smooth skin all over and mirabilious eyes.
The Oliver Hardiesque of the two was a mathematician, but my legs made him lose his marbles, they finally dredged up a vacant bed our size, pristine white à la Reine satin and festooned pillows, and I was more than elated to let them handle my limbs with whatever science they professed. I did not need to apprehend their abstruse prattle to surmise the stake of their dispute; they entertained the fancy to shag me together, but the conformation of Oliver Hardy made it inconvenient for him to lie under the stack, then who would I turn my arse at?
Aristotle showed a vehement preference for my bumhole, he already had two or three fingers inside; he inquired if I would be a willing tom thus, I retorted I had been in a boarding school learning the lewd way. As I lay backwards upon his lesser body, he buggered me easily, letting me think he had stealthily summoned the Swiss Navy. Hardy no sooner cossetted my holy slit with his fluids and mine, they both behaved with delicious caution, and as I spread all my limbs, Aristotle tickled my foolberries like a crafty bumblebee.
I was elated to gush like a spring along with them both, a true synergy of mathematics and philosophy, and they did not wane —everybody had taken their pill, obviously. This turn, Aristotle suckled my tongue as he sheathed his rhetorics deep through Archimedes’ splatter, it took me some contortions to come to squeeze his principles, while Newton glided to the hilt in my ready-reamed entrails.
After a thorough toilet in a Pompadour tub, they cuddled me and asked if I was in Liselotte’s books; Aristotle liked my name, and they let me doze out on a dry patch of the regal bed. My whole body buzzing. I hovered in bliss with a flight of swans over the Øresund, the sea froth smelled of semen, and in the deer park, the fawns frolicked about. I resurfaced with the warmth of a long caress on my back; certainly, a sweet woman had followed me in the undergrowth and smelled of fallen poplar leaves.
It was a light-handed girl, who licked my earlobe and breathed like a puppy, one I had not slept with before. I whirled to face her, she was of the pale Slavic harmony, a blond fairy of the seafarers, a salvaged tramp from the mucky realm of lies, that burns endlessly at our borders. Lily Zavratin, her tangerine breasts and guitar belly, aquamarine gaze and flaxen hair, child stolen from a tundra caravan, she had thrived under Louis’ wing, and thus she wooed me in broken French. I could soon tell that she had shagged the night as much as I, and she said it had been pleasurable, Louis had made her a cunning libertine, she had an apartment, minutes from ours, but Mara had told her she should move with us, If only for basic security, I concurred —she wasn’t begging, but she was ridiculously lovely. We sniffed at each other like vixens then, we opened the bed to let it dry of my effluences, and we returned, embraced, play our little game.
In the reception rooms, the bazaar had luffed to scattered winds and the mood board to an afterparty. Malo’s generative soundscape still peppered the brains and rumps but all the remnant manhood was unleashed, and young mercenaries were mentally frothing at the mouth, freed of suits and liveries. As always, only the certainty that they would be caught on video, be it in the darkest light, refrained the ardours of a safe smidgen. The majordome had clearly barked that the modus vivendi be more like Dirty Bertie’s playground than the Sack Of Constantinople, while himself kept toiling hard in Rachel’s lesser access.
We couldn’t reach the foot of the stairs, two or three younglings, on their way to the bedrooms, passed us near enough, thus one joshed it would be fun to plough a couple of lesbians; he was handsome and tauten, I seized his dick and showed him a wide open crotch, resting up on the stairs, daring him to make me gush as much as my lover. He did not flinch, his determination was solid, and we played attuned to each other. The two others had carried Lily to the corner landing where she was shared doggy, no harm done, and then double, like a butterfly. I was more than happy to squirt along with my panting ram who thus earned an honorary degree of Cossackdom.
Fit and skilled, they wanted more of what had come so easy; they pushed us back upstairs looking for another sandpit. It seemed all beds brimmed over with spirit, whilst my cavalier shunned company. At the far end, we opened a door onto a desolate spiral stairwell, and that fitted his adventurous youth. The bleached raw steps led to a row of attics, much like Delff’s realm, lit by feeble indicator lights.

No one seemed to have lived there, the walls were pitch pine, the carpet of stiff fibres. When we opened the first doors, we were suffocated by the mothball stench. Only one room was breathable and filled with ghostly dummies, all shrouded in light muslin. Under the few tawny lights in the high corners, the spectacle was eldritch and scared Lily’s suitors who drew her elsewhere, giggling. I stood in awe, like in some Polish movie dreamscape; in the far corner towered a canopy bed wrapped in grey swaths of chiffon, and the panaches over the corners of the cornice resembled cemetery angels. My captor imp had known this romantic love nest, he capsized me into a stack of pluff pillows that smelled like lavender sachets.
In the amber gloom, he stared me in the eyes, proud of his catch —like I had entrapped a new candid rookie in the boxwoods at sunset in the late summer haze. I let him own me, he was pretty, small nose and dark tea eyes under raised brows, no sign of a beard but a full-grown penis jolting up at my attention, the fresh cadet said plenty of sweet words of me while I crawled down to suck his candy, he tousled my curls and asked permission to gorge me of his beastly sap, when it was already too late.
He thanked me, unabashedly licking the taste of his outspurt in my mouth, I called him a true libertine. He purred and poke his nose and tongue into every warm nook, my neck, my armpits, my navel, my wet bum crack. He murmured that I smelled like a baby as if he knew anything about that. I raised my thighs to offer him the whole province, he enraged my trigger knob till I splashed on his face without permission, and, at the peak of his pride, he threaded in my vagina with bracing alacrity, as if he felt level with my efforts. He almost overspent my unabashed sluttiness, I was brimming with semen; I swore to keep him on my list, his name was Yvan.
I woke in the scented maze of my assented debacle, a meagre ray of daylight suffused through the edges of the shutters helped me reckon my whereabouts; I needed the loo, and a small door seemed to open on a bathroom. As I pissed abundantly, I could see myself in a wall mirror, and I sniggered, I was dead filthy. It was an outdated bathroom, but clean and working, with a vast enamelled tub where I could float in rose-smelling water; enough to entice me to masturbate, again.
I found some kind of terry robe, not that I feared wandering still naked in such a hospitable house. The party was obviously over, the majordome had donned his black outfit and ordered the cleaning teams; he granted me a candid smile, showing me the way to a small breakfast room. Unforeseen, he soon pushed me behind a curtain and groped me with manners, opening the robe wide. He might as well have threaded my arse a few hours before. I did not even start to repost, he smelled of refined Cologne, and his Marshall’s staff was pretty much awake. He gave me a whirl of a kiss and concluded that he hoped we might possibly shag soon, at what I offered him an engaging smile, musing that I might grant him a free pass at Speck’s. He rewrapped and hugged me in the robe.
A little further, there was a lively art-nouveau-style room clad with enamelled tiles showing exotic birds and plants, lavish whiplash-patterned stained-glass windows, and furnished with matched sculpted chairs and tables like a belle-époque tea room.
The samovar girl sported heart-wrenching mauve circles under her sombre eyes, she poured me a mug of a dark cheerful mix and stood by the table like a slave, which triggered my fantasy, did she know? I loosely schemed a manoeuvre of the kind I had always practised with; I did not engage in chatting, but I stared so keenly and let my robe flare open. She insensibly drifted towards me, as if naturally, until she was at arm’s length and I began to play footsie, since she had been wearing only sandals. I sensed my hand could graze up her thigh under the black skirt, and discovered she wore no knickers, as if naturally. Her skin was much smoother than one would expect on a mere waitress.
She leant on my side and parted her legs a chink, she smelled of iris and ylang-ylang, a pricey fragrance then again not expected on her. As I nuzzled on her pubis and told her the luxury of her scent, she whispered that the majordome had offered it. I told her he had groped me in the corridor, and she smirked and said she had seen that; she sat on my bare lap and kissed me, I told her she moved me.
By a window, there was an old-rose velvet loveseat, she pulled off my robe and led me to it, in a turn of hand she was nude too; she said that even those who drank tea would let us be, in any case, and as to the majordome, whose name was Hubert, was probably already watching us, with relish. She said this was the way the two sisters had decreed life would go in their realm, and no one ever complained, the money, the food, and the lovemaking were that copious

Sissi had been scouring around to find me, and there I was, sipping more the maid than the tea, which I assured her was incomparably tasty. She smirked finely and said she knew that well, twiddling the toes of a high-dangling racy foot. She wore no more than daffodil yellow cashmere leggings, a floating paper-white silk shirt, and light-maize colour sneakers. She too had slender feet and smooth legs, as she sat next to Gabriela to show me they knew each other well, so thus I pulled the leggings down and pointed to a tiny spot in the silk of the thong, Gabriela bent down to suck that while I finished my first exploits on her, she tasted like Gyokuro Japanese tea; she gulped Sissi’s lesser droplets in a canny smile.
My nightly Yvan supervened, as if claiming to milk the samovar, but he was quickly aroused watching our scene, so Sissi beckoned him, his fitted Lycras unable to conceal an interesting tension. He was a cunning player, he claimed he had not yet detailed my bottoms in full light, and he did not regret serving them with the same ardour as the other twos. Sissi showed him to near and seized the tiny tab of his zipper to slide it down, freeing that arrogant dick I had greeted in all manners; with her own jewellery still flex as a fiddle, Sissy gulped in deep the wonder tool with long moans, but I doubted he could again spurt out any tangible argument, or would he?
Under an arbour of fragrant promises, we nonetheless should own up to parting ways, eventually. I found Hubert, who had sheltered my petty wares, and little was I surprised that he expected some kind of favour before he released me. I knew full well that sort of drill, and so I let him push me to that expected cubbyhole as they all have, somewhere. That one, other than those hotel concierges use, was mostly the control room for a galaxy of cameras, but I had no time to wonder to what extent they might be used; he bent me fore on a leather-clad desk that smelled of almond wax, told me to part my thighs and began to wank my bumhole two or three fingers like a true tamer, and then buggered me with some urgency, his nob even bigger than Yvan’s. After a vivacious release on his part, he upturned me to force me to squirt like a beast, hence I briefly passed out. He was faultlessly caring when he lathed me over with a sponge, in a deep-blue tiles-clad private bathroom, and I chose to try on his Cologne before I dressed up. We exchanged numbers, he said he would love to meet me at Speck’s two days later at night. He gave me Gabriela and Yvan’s numbers, then squashed me against the padded door to tell me I would be welcome to return and get shagged out of my head in this house, I had done that so beautifully.
I was generous with the driver, as if he had, in the least, participated; he took it as a windfall, ogling my crotch. My mind was obviously kind of fluttering, hence I went first downstairs to dive into the pool. Emeline was there with playful eyes, she joshed I looked like I had shagged a battalion of hussars; I unclothed deftly and dived to her, she liked that I knead her feet on which she had twirled a good while.
Malo, Rachel, and her had quit the party around midnight, she had shagged a good many customers and garnered a fat batch that smelled good. After she had overdriven her blooming youth, Melchior had pulled her apart and sniffed her out like fresh produce, then told her she should foresee in time, and thus ask Ayla for proper means to stack her hazels safely.
Rachel wouldn’t have imagined, since the mild orgy in the pavilion when she had reckoned this might offer a more desirable life walk than what she uncovered of the auditions marathon —that eventually would not spare her the prostitution sideline— surviving, on the whole easily, a world as plainly lewd as this worldly gathering when she had let be groped frankly and served perfect strangers with all the intimate slits of her body. In some well-earned pauses in the toilets, Emeline had exposed for her the modus of hard-edge whoremongering, as many of the pretty slappers in the congregation had endured before perching in this realm. Now, she knew that she wouldn’t be coerced to participate in turpitudes she would not condone freely
Emeline was seated on the basin ledge, she wriggled forward a notch and pulled up one leg aside, so I could conveniently champ her pink petunia to earn a prime taste of her bliss. Then Cecile slid in the water and swam to hold my hips, calling me sweet names before biting Emeline’s toes until she joined us. She had gone home with Zev (in my place, said she) and enjoyed the endless want of the whimsical kid amidst his trove; she concurred at least that he fucked daintily and she would gladly return. Emeline, a hardened little trull since ever, asked Cecile for the sauciest details of her babysitting, it was obvious, for me who still had my nose in her coochie, that she wanted to go lull the boy, even should he be a zany stallion, wouldn’t she?

 

Cecile says:

I took Emeline to my workshop next door, Sarah owned up mutely that I fed a fair scheme as to the irresistible balletic murderer, and so she ran to their customary bed. I proposed a binge of langues de chat dipped in coffee, and the innuendo made her laugh. She was so easily being looked at, despite the harsh training she had grown through, simpering exhibition remained her natural, or had I simply pushed her buttons? While the percolator puffed, she put her feet on the table, either as a gesture of mateship confidence, or a dare she offered me.
Indeed I knew how to content her perfect feet, reviving the chain of emotions since her big sister had hustled us, buying flowers, if there had ever existed a godsent. She had neat little toenails, and the other chicks in Malo’s cot had painted them maroon, also her fingers’, and the floorboards of the dance studio did not harm the dainty joints. I also knew she would bask retelling how her dad and his buddies had made her dip biscottis in their wine, while she rambled naked on the table, while on the outsized wall screen doom-scrolled the crudest of porn. And the butcher had insisted his daughters get to ejaculate, too, he was obsessed with fakers, and he revelled licking their clitoris, albeit his goons did not. Gangbang videos had taught him the Gräfenberg practice, and both girls had felt a smidgen vindicated when they began squirting in the butcher’s face, in spite of all.
She came to sit on me, we shared this antique earthenware bowl with a naive decor of colonial scenes. She was skilful with her tapered fingers, mine were busier among the petals of her precious bloom and the pert buttons of her timid breasts. She did not lose any of her dips. I promised she would come with me to Mendelsohn’s, she had amply demonstrated that her valliant slits feared no such onrush as I had described; I reckoned she would tame the boor like she had the butcher’s cohorts, all of them burly huntsmen eager to get their rocks off. About the bout in Zev’s realm, chances were, too, that the convulsions of beauty would permeate her soul, as they did mine.
In my bed, she right out slew me and relished my unrestrained splashes, the homunculus in the God Crow’s mouth, thus I must have let go for good. In the morning, she was warmly cuddled up against me; I had dreamt of Windsor Castle, where was a grand gilded cradle we shouldn’t have been sleeping in, but Her Majesty did not seem to care, telling Henry the Eighth —much shorter than his portraits— that thence she was dead, anyhow. It had not been a brilliant dream, but my womb purred of Emeline’s warmth like a tranquil promise.
Sneaking out of the covers and closing the bathroom door to let her glide on smoothly, looking at myself in the mirror not smiling, I pondered on our compared fates, girls’ curse, of all semblance more commonplace than received wisdom would admit. I stared into my own eyes and mumbled low that possibly all abusers were not as poisonous, once killed.
She might ask all the tenderness she cared for on her own clock, I slid on yesterday’s tracksuit and slip-on shoes, then outran to my workshop where a dose of Bach would unscramble my spaghetti neurons til evening. I had decidedly caught Cyprien’s bug for Richter’s well-tempered clavier —he had not cared for other Bach pieces, period. I made a family-size pot of Blue Mountain coffee, courtesy of Cyprien who brought big fragrant bags of it. He had not seen our worldly excesses, but he had nonetheless heard some through the grapevine. Quirkily, that morning, as he stood by as I made coffee, he touched me, frankly groped my bum cheeks and pulled down the waistband, and his hands wandered as he whispered not to fear. It lasted time for the coffee to percolate, he tidied my pants back up and hugged me with sobbing thanks. That one time, he drowned most of his langues de chat.
I had been at work on a fine Art Deco Viennese cabinet for Camille’s collection —I had had to scour the web for salvaged slabs of antique ivory, mainly from dead pianos. At my coffee break, Cyprien, who had hidden behind pinned papers, gruffly asked if I would pose for him standing, nude, only just one hour, hips gently swayed as I did while watching the coffee drip from the steam engine. I had seen that coming, he had sketched most of our visitors and I had strived at rendering that self-evident, given we never entertained white geese, did we?
Leaving my work under the press, I stood in the middle of the rug and executed, tongue in cheek, a slow strip. I found a lopsided balance with one foot back, and he suggested I cross my arms high. He tried sundry angles of my head, it lasted well over two hours in the facets o Richter’s, I figured Lauritz would buy the best drawings and hang them in chosen salons at Speck’s.
Mid-afternoon, Emeline appeared, craving coffee to dip the almond tuiles she had bought after shopping on the right bank. Then she noticed I was standing stumm, nude, so she chuckled.

She dallied by and tried to trouble my cool by fondling my bum, but eventually, she had respect for Cyprien, whom she, too, had posed for, in faultless camaraderie. Now she wore an off-white cashmere double-breasted blazer with big mother-of-pearl buttons, over high-waisted, cuffed, silk-velvet shorts, opaque white tights and white suede Chelseas. She had spent a princely ransom, but I could have heartily refunded her; there wasn’t much between her lapels, but it gleamed with lust in every move. She smelled like an English boy who would have nicked Mommy’s Cologne.
After he wrung from me a promise to resume sitting in the morning, Cyprien rested his sharp leads, visibly enthralled with Emeline’s attire. We had time, after a swift shower, I shuffled through the closets to compose a black idea in response to Emeline’s all-white spirits I should borrow one of Sarah’s vintage boys’ black coats, with red piping and gold buttons, fit enough to need nothing else, and black high Cossack boots. The tunic back was split to the waist, and Emeline couldn’t help her hand wandering. I contradicted the strictness of my black garb with puffs of my Florentine iris under my armpits and inside my thighs.
I wrapped her in a beige silk trench, I took a knee-long cape, and we ran to meet the unmissable black car on the Quai Voltaire, where it was blinking for us. The driver knew me, he couldn’t help but lower his stare, and I smiled. Emeline was all aroused to come with me into the realm of luxury whoremongery, I assured her she would master the tricks in one season if she paired with me or Sarah, on that matter, anyhow.
The chauffeur took more than the necessary ten minutes, I began to suss his manoeuvre, and thus I put on a petty show biting Emeline’s tits to make her wriggle, then closing the curtains to wake him up. We rang at the little side door, as required, and Armand was overjoyed to take our overcoats. Sarah had given me a heads up that it would play there as in all the money strongholds worthy of our depravity or, currently, our charity. I wouldn’t offend a suave keyholder like Armand, the conduit to one of the biggest troves there be —bar Randolph Hearst’s overstuffed warehouses that took three months to liquidate— thus I simply simpered for him in my open tunic, he smirked, but he wanted the other culprit, a smidgen younger, whom he told to sit on her heels and open her mouth, while he pinched my tits and ensnared my tongue; he was a savvy libertine, not the kind to bewilder the precious birds we were, he appraised his tipping in the best we had to offer, with manners.
He liked my bumm all the way to Zev’s hideaway, and he fancied intermezzi like asking me to taste him in Emeline’s mouth, in truth, nothing we had not let be done before. Emeline was nonetheless utterly impressed, like me the first time I set foot in Gustave Moreau’s house —though I had then behaved reverently, the pensive deities depicted there had fevered my lust.
Ushering us through the galleries that overawed my elegant white-clad hoofer who reacted to a few Carpeaux terracotta model drafts, hence Armand led us to the Demetre Chiparus corridor where she could exclaim in ecstasy, and whimsically entrusted me with her shoes, then all the rest of her clothes. To the fright of Armand, she dared dance in a line like an Egyptian, slyly attuned to Chiparus’ demi-monde, and she smelled like Laurens’s exotic cigarettes that had fallen behind my mother’s shelves.
Zev was dumbfounded by the day’s godsent; Emeline’s clockwork was wound up and gracious; looking into the Nevers showcases, she kept displaying her firm rounded bum. Zev knew me already, he asked me where Sarah was —I had to invent a possible visit to her ailing father— he was torn. However, his eyes hardly diverted from Emeline’s narrow hips, and when he helped me unshoe my boots, he smiled wryly.
The fluttering jinn ended her course amidst the shimmery eiderdowns, offering her moist jewels to Zev’s concupiscence. He had begun to scour out his expressing mind with the help of dedicated therapy, Sarah had said the psychologist was no less than comely and wore light skirts; she was being paid for on Melchior’s account, whatever practicum she lent herself to. Now he shivered at the wired manners of a however murderous sylphic angel and raved wildly, in clunky French. She was a savvy self-possessed tramp of sorts, she pulled all of his affects like a diligent harpist, he let himself tamed, and she drew him to dance on the rug with her despite that cumbersome detail between them; they rolled, and she let herself do the wriggling bitch unabashedly, thus he ploughed like a stag a yearling doe, just the way she liked.
I leaned over the padded bed foot, contemplative of Emeline’s talent, when a small tinkling at my back signalled Armand’s tea cart. The unblinking majordome did not avoid watching his master bonking that young slapper he had himself nicely abused at the door. He let the cart aside, at our will.
He sidestepped, but I could tell he hadn’t left the room, the back of my arm sensed the grazing coming, and then I could smell the woody-snuff Cologne next to my cheek, thus I nuzzled upon his fly like another beast. The merry huff and puff went on in the middle of the room, I craved being shagged, not merely dispensing another blowjob, hence I led him to the far side of the bed and released the whipcord trousers knowing what to expect. I wouldn’t know if there were maids on the staff, he did not feel like a frustrated male, anyhow. I fancied his circumcised penis among the creases of white poplin shirt tails, the scent was enthralling. Having twiddled one or two fingers into my drippy buttonhole, he sussed he could swash himself in, straight to the hilt, and make me wriggle wide open, moaning like a shameless catamount. He used me proficiently, smirking aloof, like the visitors at Speck’s, only he detained the key to a brilliant future for me, so I was the one who paid, in kind.
It took Emeline more than a round to satiate the beast, while Armand thanked me without having sweat on his shirt collar. After they rinsed their elated hides in the rich light-blue tiles-clad bathroom, she talked Zev to dive under the bedsheets. She felt beautifully spent, we dressed up in a wink and snuck out.
In the morning, she came down with me for a dip-and-sip game. She mused that I could take her places, I retorted we might sell ourselves as a pair at Speck’s. We wore shabby tracksuits and slippers; when Cyprien arrived with a tin of Russian cigarettes cookies, we had finished playing, I poured him coffee in his usual mug, and I stripped to the pace of Richter’s clock. I did not even glance under the rag I had spread upon my current work, but I warned Cyprien it was the last day I offered myself in the raw; he sniggered, then raved ad libitum about my person and my attitudes, my stares. He said it was no wonder Sarah had jumped to my throat and kept admiring me.
Lauritz had been looking for me, he had spent the night with Lily Zavratin, Ksyusha, Gwen, and Kate at the Panopticon, strewing mayhem and bliss till the wee hours. He cast a bid on all of Cyprien’s work about me, promising to hang them in bedrooms at Speck’s. Cyprien quested my eyes, to read in my gaze if he should rejoice of a comforting sale.

 

 

Sarah says:

I had a few pressing reasons to follow Ayla and Lizon to Switzerland. Firstly I should stop over at my Far’s house in Lausanne, I hadn’t seen much of him since he had started dating my school buddy Elsie —and now she had taken a situation as a lawyer for the UN, with Far’s blessing and advice, she should be overjoyed. But although I knew he kept busy with valuable causes at Lausanne University, we had missed aeons in our intimate narrative, and I never returned to his lair on Christiansø island, a magic place now imperilled by Nordstream’s proximity, nor did he.
We took different trains, with a rendez-vous two days later at Ayla’s new venture, a social salon in a posh house with a park, near the botanical garden.
At Lausanne’s train station, I knew he couldn’t miss me, we had been talking a few minutes before; he had parked nearby, I had never known him driving. My tweed-and-steel Far had slimmed a tad, and his icy-sharp eyes sparkled all the more under grey-peppered brows; he still smelled of Jermyn Street. He looked me up, little did he know —or would he? my real lifeway, he never bargained for his love. I refused to let him handle my aluminium trolley case.
He waited for my reaction to his new silver two-door Tesla, I thought it was the cat’s pyjamas, and it would earn him a lot of appeal on campus; he smirked like one who did not abnegate. On my unabashed girly stance, I could only measure the sleek interior with that of a Porsche 911 —I wouldn’t be the only one to have tested it— and this was an easier one, with no gear stick to start with.
I wore a night-blue pinstripe super200 manly suit, a white jersey crew-collar shirt, black silk socks and black patent leather loafers, first-class game, I had been seriously leered at as I answered my mail inserting clips of the landscape, as if all these corporate types had sussed what I would allow myself to in the second leg of my trip. I smelled of a boyish jasmine with cinnamon shoulders and sandalwood undies, far stood mum, but I knew it hustled his brains, I was still the tomboy he had shipped out to Saint Loup.
He had hired a Danish housekeeper, a lively widow from Fejø who seemed overjoyed with her new position and was, past her fifties, learning French, although I loved to hear her Dansk. Thus, my Far’s house felt a lot more “hjemlig” than previously, and he had acquired many more pieces of proud blond Danish cabinetry; he had nicely ensconced himself according to the healthiest values of his upbringing.
Not that I would in the least hit on him, but I put on a fresh outremer tee shirt, knickers, no socks, plus a dark yellow dotted twill kerchief in my breast pocket; a touch of blush, a dash of mascara, and a gentle ruffling of my curls rendered me a tad girlier, I could wear my sapphire choker and Grandma’s Rolex tank watch with the funny numerals Far had given to me in Saint Loup days.
He said I was up to the idea he kept of me, and dared kiss me on the forehead, wondering who the hell had offered me that necklace, not expecting an answer. New cars have this that you really can talk, even if you do not entrust them yet to drive themselves. Far liked me, he wanted to know what thrilling life way kept me afire as he saw me —understood he wouldn’t hear most of it. I entertained him with the unearthing of the Mendelsohn trove in the midst of Paris, and the poor heir in mental disarray —not alluding to what therapy was currently healing his poor soul— Far was interested to learn that Melchior was among the panel that appraised the estate, he pondered I was very lucky I knew such a powerful man —I could not even begin telling him why and how It had become thus, I only evoked Camille’s network he had known about in New York; he knew I had lived happily with Camille for some time before moving to Hugo’s.
In a few years, I had acquired a heck of insight into mature men, plus my Far had unburdened, for the most part, the mythological spell of being part in the acme of meta-diplomacy, benefiting his aura as a praised academic and sought after arbiter in thorny disputes. He took me to that elegant eatery on the shorefront where we had indulged in a memorable moment, in my schooldays. The first-floor venue opened on the lake view through wide vaulted windows, in such a layout that one never felt constrained amidst a worldly gathering. Grege Venetian stucco walls and thick oxblood carpeting set off the rosewood Ruhlman-class furniture and Japanese-style golden screens depicting rippling fish, enforcing an impression of intimate vastitude I revelled in. As in the halls of the Palace Of Nations, or on the terraces of Tudor City, I was the unattainable squirrel princess in my Far’s apanage, and moreover proud he had never crossed lines that I witnessed all around being leapt over. Only one symbolic little gesture had existed immemorially as some carnal bond, to help me from crying, and that would never cease.

Far sported a victor smile when the waiter brought the creamed morels toasts. He sat on the taupe brown mohair velvet banquette, I preferred the sizeable armchair with snazzy copper rails along the arm-rests, hence I could, as a carefree person, rest my unshoed feet next to him to knead them, like he had done my whole whimsical life long.
He asked about Fanny, of whom he had once long-handled the mind-boggling case, he was overjoyed to hear a description of the peaceful redemption of a war victim, in a crime that he knew plagued whole countries for generations to come. At least one such course of events had led to the dismantling of a network of criminals all around the Adriatic zone. Not what Fanny was elaborating with Dr Méant, was it? And she was currently writing her memoir on Odilon Redon for her doctorate in aesthetics.
With the crisp chestnut snow mousse, coated with fondant chocolate, and crowned with whipped cream, on a shortbread tile,
loomed slightly more intimate confidences.
When I told him I would go to Zürich to meet Ayla in her novel installation, I did not try to avoid the fact that she had been a prostitute since she fled the school. He had known that situation, for long, about her. Since she had been my ardent bestie, he had come to learn from Harmony, the school headmaster, that Ayla’s parents, in total disarray, had ceased to pay her tuition two years back, and thus he had discreetly footed the bills for her until whatever fool headed clerk leaked the sensitive truth to her. He had no legal bond in order to ask the police to find her, and her parents were social wrecks who couldn’t care less about her. He had been after all relieved when he sussed we still saw each other, and she lived like a bona fide Swiss citizen.
As a goodwill daughter; I asked about the other half of my family, he smirked and said I would not frankly rejoice at their news, my brother was contemplating politics, and not on the progressive side; once more, he would mingle our name with foul-smelling ideologies. Far regretted having leased the Rosenborg house to his practice, I understood we would be inflexible on rent payments.
So as to return on smoother grounds, I described all the extensions to our buzzing hive since it had aggregated Cynthia’s Centre for midgender research, TRÆVIX, and SEVENSTREAMS, no less, and colonised a few adjoining stairwells. Far had seen worse in his career in stealth intelligence. He was also fascinated by what I recounted of the Hôtel von Speck’s total refurbishing after almost eighty years of mummification, and thus the discovery of Cecile who then settled her workshop downstairs from us, and dwelled in one of the new bedrooms of our supernal den.
He inquired about Camille, whom he knew had been my mentor —and more— in my first Parisian steps. He had acquainted with Adlaï Stern in New York when he thought he was the only one rescapee from the Shoah in his lineage; Far said Camille must have inherited a mighty heap of riches and power, the old Adlaï was thought to have intuited the gist of hyper connexion in the financial realm a nanosecond before the competition. When I told Far that Melchior was an associate in both TRÆVIX and SEVENSTREAMS, he showed jaw-dropping amazement, and he wished he would meet the mysterious Michelle along with me, somewhere agreeable, to what I retorted that, if ever, it would be in her own palace, but that would be of a hard-earned privilege to obtain, the genius was exceedingly remote, and she almost never went out in person, to the best of my knowledge.
The moonlight was scintillating over the holy waters of my privileged youth, I wanted to tell my Far all the gratitude I fostered for the decision he had announced to me during an unforgettable week in London —when we scandalised all the fogeys at Simpson’s with my ambiguous allure. After what my brother had done, or let be done, to me, Far had sensed me flummoxed as to the meaning of my life, and trustworthy colleagues with whom he had opened up spoke positively of Saint Loup, near Geneva, where he went regularly, if he was not set on the Ivy League kind of cursus for me, otherwise, there existed a heap of so-called preparation schools they would not entrust their offspring with, most of them were European. Before he had learned about my brother’s wrongdoing towards me, he had already dug into that offbeat boarding school and its extravagant principles; he had met with Harmony for lunch in a country inn near the school. When in London, he heard my tale, which could possibly send my brother to prison, he took the decision to let me on a trial basis and find a mission in Geneva for himself for that while. And I thrived beautifully, in my ingrained certitude ever since.
I had hung my coat over the backrest and wallowed a tad, both feet at his will. They served a subtle lime flower tea with mountain honey. I could read I had given back some peace to my unfailing Far.

The sky was beautifully torn when Far drove me to the station in the morning. The wind was brisk thus I had pulled on a tight-knit ash-grey jumper. I felt enriched by the conversation we had spun on, his confidence in me was still as boundless as mine for him. The scent of his morning coffee took some sort of erotic twist like that of Cecile in my most recent trysts.
He was fit as a fiddle, smirking quietly. Hearing the bustle in the kitchen downstairs, I had gone as far as to peep into the medicine closet in his bathroom only to find your garden variety of acetaminophen, same as mine. I wouldn’t inquire, he spoke casually of Elsie, vaunting her brilliant cursus in international law and the position she had landed in the Glass Wall. I scented he knew a scheme to date other women, he was some kind of spook, wasn’t he?
Past the vineyard hills, the landscape would turn to merely nondescript clean and tidy. I fetched my tablet and found a pretty good connexion. A long silent name had heard her ears whistle, Julia Grant, the old de facto school captain we all loved, wanted to chat. It was a striking synchronicity, for she had known Far in the funniest of mix-ups when Secret Service burst into the room where we stood at Far’s hotel, without having warned them —they kept watch on a few boarders of interest, Julia’s family were all on the VIP list in Geneva.
It was very early for her, but she was drinking tea on her new terrace, as I could see. She explained that not only had she sold her collection of American Native art to the Met, but a scary event had made her apartment on West Central Park unbearable, a woman had crashed on the terrace from higher up as a suicide, and she had seen her dislocated body in the frail nightgown. Now, she had moved to a spectacular penthouse across from the Met, with only the sunny skies of New York above her terrace.
She also said finely that her terrible twin nephews still barged in her place from Yale, at times, and they would come running if I visited —I fostered a feverish memory of the mischievous pair, indeed indefatigable and well-hung. I told Julia I would ask Kate, or Natalia, to come along, possibly in Indian Summer, if she agreed. We were both overjoyed, I sent her selfies from the train, and she had a rush of nostalgia about Switzerland and our heavenly days.
She was even more wistful when I told her I was en route to see Ayla, and what she was doing in Zürich. Julia had not known what had become of my bestie, after that weird prom feast; I only told her she had been failed by her junkie parents and turned to prostitution which is not a big deal in Switzerland anyway. I promised to arrange a zoom call with the three of us very soon, Ayla would love that.
Outside Zürich Hauptbahnhof, a chauffer had been awaiting, holding an “SvK” sign, it was a ten minutes drive. Images of my terrible last visit, when young Esther had been defaced by a psychopath and lay in a dim hospital room in an artificial coma, assailed me as much as Julia’s harrowing description of the dismembered body upon her railings.
Ayla’s street was conveniently unfrequented, the gate to the house ensconced under the idly overgrown ivy. Ayla ran outside when she heard the car and thanked the chauffeur, then jumped at my neck in a frenzy of kisses. She wore a simple short mixed-colours ribbed jersey tank dress and no more undies than when I had met her that unforgettable morning in Saint Loup. The house was a nineteenth-century composite bastion of ornate assuredness, pampered like a cigar box, amidst an abundance of evergreens that might have been pruned long ago. She even drew me to a bosque of box tree wilderness among which grew a wisteria, and those same white roses as in our old garden of sins.
Four low steps led to the rounded porch and a sturdy double openwork oak door with stained glass daylights, that opened smoothly at a push of her manicured hand. It was only the end of the afternoon, but little lamps in copper sconces were lit all around. It smelled of roses and benzoin, sandalwood and lust. She walked me through at least four lounges scattered with low velvet divans and cushions, each in low-keyed harmony of maroon, malachite green, midnight blue, or panther black. Mirrors of pressed glass set in massive frames of white-gilt or ebonised wood, only reflected ghostly images of us as she pulled off my clothes ever so slowly, for the satisfaction of two or three couples wallowed here and there, pale nude hetæræ laid back in most desirable obscene compostures with grizzled clients in white shirts and black socks: they all smiled at me when Ayla presented me around, and I couldn’t help it drip down my thighs. I whispered I needed the loo, thus she led me by the hand to a bumptious Grand Portor marble toilet where she watched me piss in the gold bowl. As I attempted to undress her for good, she held my head and told me she would be the only person that would remain clad up a bit, because she owned and ran the place, see?

She said I had come here to be a full-fledged Swiss whore, hadn’t I? I dared not deny, after how she had felt in my pussy. She said half-giggling that I needed an enema and she fetched in some side nook for a supple black pipe to the end of which she affixed a gilt plastic cannula from a single-use wrapper. She told me to step up and straddle over the bowl, thighs wide apart like a funny girl, and when she tasted the water lukewarm on her backhand, she filled me up until I moaned that I couldn’t hold back any longer. I sat back down to release all the pestilence in the flushing flows, and we kissed, it seemed my arse smelled of violet.
Now Ayla had an emotional moment with me, joshing she would rather take me in the broom closet, when silly hands came and played all over my back and bottom, and I recalled Lizon was there too. Yes, she was heated and smelled beastly, I licked her neck, and she told us she had pleased a football player on steroids, her coochie was in bloom; she peed and matter-of-factly took a cannula, mounted it, filled up her pretty little bum and emptied it boisterously as we spoke.
Not letting me go, Ayla raved that Lizon had retold our course through Paris at the time she had been a depressed runaway, before she joined Dagmar and Fæbian on the high roads of the Holy Empire. Lizon, whose new warname was Adele, swore she had never encountered a better academy than Caroline of Zürich, Ayla’s emporium.
They told me that my coming ashore had been advertised to Caroline’s A-list of patrons, and I already had a flurry week schedule, on the house rule of four ninety minutes tricks a day, starting at eleven for those professionals who skipped lunch for cuddles —a gold mine. Once a time slot had been agreed there wouldn’t be any cancellation on the girl’s part, and the John paid upon reservation.
My first A-lister was in ten minutes if I cared, I would use room 102 if he wanted discretion —although she confided we might very well be peeped upon. I had a following queue of two more customers I could confirm in my telephone Ayla gave me back. My personal dwelling was up there at 307. There was a copper-clad lift, but many clients preferred the stairs. All my things had been brought up by service, a stealth brigade of unassuming women and men in black sportswear who weren’t part of the debauchery.
To Ayla’s amusement, my telephone buzzed, it was an invite to download the Zello application and inform my account, there was a code in my personal mail. Once done, I had a message from B. who awaited in the blue lounge. I remembered that grin on Ayla’s feline face when she had lured me into the laundry rooms; she fiddled in my butt crack and pushed me forward.
Mr B. looked like and gave the impression of a Doctor, a part-time golfer with a sure hand, he smelled of Connolly leather —I had once been crushed, nose upon a luxury backseat while getting buggered fiercely— and wore a bespoke three-piece suit of Italian drapery. The girls had fondled me with Neroli dry body oil, and B. ignited to it. He was fond of my sly mulberries, and made me hold my hands upon my head to lick my armpits.
We did not sit, he wanted to reach for the 102 room right away. He mumbled, lusting for my figure in the copper pane, holding me from the back, making my hips sway aside. I could tell that beyond a taste for my ghostly image, he showed an instant crush against my bum; he forgot to walk out, and we were called back down by another couple, a curly hazel mädchen with a retroussé nose who gently came lean on and kiss me for the voyeur content of our clients, she held hers out of his trousers, it sensed as she had already served him, she winked at me when we walked out to our room.
Mr B. was in no hurry, he held me against the tapestry and asked me to talk lewd, only to guess where I came from, and he did not find, I could taunt him with all he might feel an urge to do me, in more languages than Switzerland contains, that amused him. I undertook to unclothe him, he possessed a vigorous Johnson in his silk trunks that dripped already, and he relished that I lick the little drops. He was impeccably groomed, and he had been sunbathing in the raw. He told me to straddle his mouth, the bed was firm enough, so I could stand on tiptoes, sit on my heels, and offer him the whole crack to lick; he was no mere beginner, indeed, I was overjoyed to feed him a taste of my gush, right in his mouth, tit for tat with a serious load of salty semen to gulp.
He was elated that I suck him dry while he flinched up in bliss. Then he seized me and rolled aside, mumbling exquisitely virile curse words. I let be handled like a puppy, so as to find myself perched backwards upon him, legs apart like a butterfly, his relentless penis drilling into my innards as he held my haunches like a handlebar. He spewed words I hadn’t heard yet, metaphors of life and death, lullabies of madness.
He had paid dearly, he went up to his par at the game, sheathing his blade to the hilt one last time into my frenzied slit, guffawing at all that spatter. He looked at his watch, insulted me tenderly again, and dashed off to the bathroom. When I followed him under the shower, he stared into my eyes and said he wanted me back, and I did not answer.

Mr B. had covered my hands with kisses, calling me sweet names, and then running for his life. The cornflower blue quilted bed throw had a large wet stain. The blue-on-blue Morris foliage cotton print on the walls quivered visually in the faint gleam of a crystal chandelier, a fantomatic reproduction of a picture by Henry Fuseli, depicting Oberon hovering above lyingTitania, both pale and nude, seemed deliciously displaced, or not.
Ayla woke me, the maid needed to change the linens, and my next number was awaiting downstairs, I had not heard my phone. I asked how I looked to her, she said I was furiously lecherous, the same as I did in the laundry rooms, and inextinguishable like a star.
Mr N. was a stubby ginger in russet tweed that smelled of liquorice. He sported bark green eyes, his hand ventured at once upon my pubis, and I let him do, with hazy depravity. In the maroon salon, an aloof brunette lay wallowing alongside a thin young man in a monkey suit, his hand wandering under the seaweed green charmeuse satin dress, one of her legs pulled apart. My Scotsman stood fondling my butt in front of the languid couple, I understood he wanted me to join them, so I knelt and grabbed her bare foot to my taste and licked. She smelled of misty purple flowers, she was high on some druzy chemistry, and she abandoned her leg to the flow as he untied the dress. My ginger cavalier seized my head back to his crotch wanting me to suck him while she snaked her foot between my thighs.
He brandished a blistering kind of spear with a pointed circumcised glans he had no trouble shoving into my throat, properly fucking my face at no mercy —that beastly feeling of being spurted in unwittingly, my vagina dripping already again.
The sprawled couple had swayed sideways, his trousers were spread open in a bloom of white lining, and a not-so-giddy prick was forcing its way into her pretty rosette not really slidy —patience helping, he might end dripping enough clear juice, anyhow she seemed to consent to the suffering.
Tool to the wind after I sucked it clean, Mr B; asked me for my room number and thus pulled me to the lift. He sniffed my whore mouth and said he loved my all-natural face and my scent. He had the idea that we two had met before; as I undressed him, I recalled a romp with Ayla in a Parisian hotel where she had turned a few tricks with me, Mr B. might very well have been one of the Johns —my recollection was more about the surprise when the concierge taught me I had to repay him in kind for the leeway of affording my arse away under his watch, and it would have been useless to tell him I did it out of mere fantasy, he had taken it as it were, anyhow.
Mr B. spread me flat upon the new bed throw and thoroughly poked his tongue in every joint of my elated body, laughing at each of my moans. He made me shamefully vain and shivering with pleasure, and then he ferreted out my clitoris and soon made me gush and convulse a good once before ploughing in deep into my dizzy womb till the edge of consciousness; I sensed him disgorge spunk in one long tremolo, then collapse to my side, panting.
After he quieted in self-pride, I crawled out to go pee and else, I sussed he wasn’t done, rightfully, so, in any case, I had called the Swiss Navy to my silly rescue. Hearing me trickling, it tingled his bladder, and so he came to straddle me and piss over my labia while savouring my mouth. He saw the bottle of lube and guffawed, calling me a cunning little punk, at once grabbing his shaft in a handful of goo, inquiring my gaze as to my part of the play and ordering me to stand on all fours like a bitch on the soiled bed —he cared for my knees, the A-list had manners.
As I felt him tickle my ready-soothed anus with his fiery tip, he told me to shove it in myself like a shameless floozie willing to please a boor, that I did, like it be Nat King Cole Unforgettable.
His paramour time was up, and he went rinse himself under the shower and twiddled his tie back; I was too overspent to even send him a farewell glance.
After a cat-thorough toilette, it seemed to be about dinnertime, if ever, two-thirds of my day had starved me. Another charming boarder who said she was called Bry grabbed me at the foot of the stairs and pushed me softly against a curtain, stroking my quim as she would her own; she had a sensuous mouth and didn’t need to know other than the colour of my eyes, hers were periwinkle pale, her acorn hair wavy and shiny I tousled while we kissed. She murmured I must have been mischievous, my nethers regions were feverish, then she joshed that I was a true foxy amateur and she would find me for the night. She walked me to the basement kitchen, all clad in white bevelled tiles with teal accents, furnished with industrial-white enamel and steel furnaces like a full-blown eatery. Another few ladies, as little dressed as I, were seated at a large oak table before platters of the kind of food I craved. As I neared casually, they looked me up, and the word ran that I was a rookie from Paris.

It was school days again, tittle-tattle in the swimming pool cloakroom and carefree wandering hands, I loved it and bantered along finely. Lizon supervened and saved me from avowing too much, telling them I was in school with Ayla, and a snazzy amateur altogether. Brie concurred, and, sniffing her fingers, asserted that I smelled like a damn expensive whore, and they all laughed. As I bent over to pick up crisp little bites from the platters, I was actually fondled playfully, with comments about my slick muscles and my well-flexible slits, it sounded I was coopted as a harlot colleague.
Most of the girls drank Swiss white wine, and I had to make my case of being a teetotaller, thus they wondered how I did to cope with bad clients, and I said I wouldn’t let the Johns go wrong, they paid to shag me properly, not to take my head. But I had to own up that I had never been forced into selling my body, thus I could stick a finger into a boor’s eye and run like the wind. They all protested that Caroline was safe, and they would show me the armoured escape closets, just in case —Ayla owned a delightful memory, and this could have saved Esther.
Ayla walked in, overjoyed to see me behaving at level with her shapely boarders, unlike us, she wore a thin peacock jersey dress that let be seen all details of her lightsome anatomy, she demonstrated her undivided love for me, making brows hitch around us, then she chose the possibly vegan bites on the plates; then she begged the chorus to pardon us for our privileged intimacy, it had been beyond reason.
One of the tramps, all of whom in the shared taste of Ayla’s for immature damsels, caught my lustful gaze and clicked willingly; under the shadowy despise of Bry, I went to graze aside the thin hips of that jailbait. She sported a dirty blond bob hairstyle, natural brows, golden eyes, and what I would call a Hepburn Roman nose. She came from Macedonia and spoke in the funny pidgin she had learned whoring herself to the UN peacekeepers, just like her young mother; none of them knew their fathers. As I wooed her frankly, I could read amusement in Ayla’s glances. She said Jana was her name here, with a flutter of lashes; I gave her my room number.
My evening date was as ugly as an old fogey from Goya Caprichos and hung like an ass, hairy like a monkey; however, he smelled expensive and sported faultless teeth, his hands and feet utterly groomed. He struck me as a cousin to Zev’s, with whom I had unexpectedly frolicked, and again, not long ago, I felt all the more a damn courtesan, didn’t I?
So Ayla had made the appointment —and I was still mentally wearing her magic bracelet. This ogre had politely led me directly to 102, and relished making me unclothe him, jewelled shirt buttons one by one. He had mumbled unintelligibly while handling my joints like a sculptor, circling his huge paws around my waist, sniffing behind my ears, and fingering my arse so deftly as a savvy connoisseur, he wore a hefty chevalière with an intaglio emerald set in it.
He frankly succeeded at making me forget who I was, with his tongue in every nifty nook I owned, I couldn’t have done better with Jana’s toes —ones I had just ogled at. It was like horribly beastly, hair from his neck to his ankles and wrists, silky and tickly, smoother than the beards that had itched my hide in previous beds. His sturdy sceptre peaked out of a black and dense bramble he had the elegance to perfume like Zanzibar.
From experience, I knew my jawbone wouldn’t dislocate, but this was one of the thickest weapons I had ever attempted to swallow, a circus performance indeed, culminating with an eerie savour of overripe soapy banana, or was it?
He was so hulky I lost the use of my moves, he upturned me like the Pelele —inert bran dummy— as to where he intended to sheathe into, that I naturally adjusted accordingly, and squeezed to make him roar as a wounded bear. He kept tides of his gooey semen, and he cared to see my eyes capsize in ecstasy, my womb shiver in repeated climaxes.
I woke lain upon a teal blue bath towel, in the warm silence of the deserted room, with some strain to my mandible and fever in my guts, I could not remember what was etched into his ring’s emerald. Ayla came, probably to assess the damages after she had seen her client tootle off. She ran a bath with lots of honeysuckle lather in it, she remained mum, but she watched me move; I thought I smelled like a dog. Once I rested in the water without wincing at all, she slid off her dress and dipped in with me, elated.
Of course, she had shagged the monkey prince numerous times herself, and she no longer was the gamine I had played with among the box trees, hell no! I recounted how he had likely dismembered me and rummaged deep in all creases. She laughed and bantered that she could probably do me that with her foot, for free.
She explained the monkey was a long-time patron of hers, heir to the princely family of Kordary, reinstated in their estates after the collapse of the Russian-led communist rule.

The figure in the emerald was a gryphon, the head and claws of an eagle, the body and love truncheon of a lion, the ring had been walled in along with the family trove in a nondescript house in Budapest since the regency of Admiral Horthy and the following totalitarian regimes, when they had fled the country, until 1989. The Prince had been raised on the Lake Constance shores amongst Magyar expatriates. He had used Ayla regularly since she had whored in Zürich, he was immensely rich. She left me, knowing my bed was ready and warm, said she, slily, as she had nudged the gentle Jana into my bed upstairs, I did not ask who would be in hers.
I was contented and raddled, I even took the lift to the third floor. The corridor was all as quaint and comfy as the rest of the dwelling, not the neglected garrets, wonted quarters for the disposable sex cattle seen in the older whorehouses’ photographs. As on the other floors, thick carmine and purple carpeting, as well as double wall hangings in the same harmony were intended to kill any noise behind heavy black lacquered doors, that sort of privacy one may sleep through when the neighbours caterwaul in bliss —no sooner that said than one might elaborate that murder could also be let perpetrated in the most convenient secrecy, if ever.
Drained out but content, it was enshrouded in the sweetest expectations that I crossed that threshold and peeped through some entrance curtains. It was another pleasure nest, with a white-painted wide wooden sleigh bed amidst a floor-to-ceiling upholstery of blue pattern Toile de Jouy, and two white canned Regence armchairs. The carpeting was periwinkle blue and soft to the toes.
Indeed a wealth of tawny blond curls spread out of the covers, in a scent of linen lavender mixed with the reminiscence of our own Neal’s Yard Geranium-Orange. I fetched an overwashed tee shirt in my bag and I slid into the sheets with quivers of exhaustion. Jana was turned to the wall, offering me her cheeky bottom to which I rounded my underbelly, and then I squeezed her wings in mine and took her to the land of green pinnacles and crimson murders of crows.
Lizon woke us, still gently embraced under the comforter —and how came Jana to wear a nightshirt, now? bringing a bed tray with tea and coffee, she was in the know for both of us, and aroused to see us entwined. My first trick would be at eleven, while Jana could rest until two pm. Lizon said that Melchior, who had remained a regular with Ayla since the Esther ordeal, would fly me back to Paris at night, after my full day of turpitude and his own; then she helped me prep up, like the savvy courtesan she had come to be, since the days she had been my Liseron. Through the splashes, she inquired whether I would borrow Jana and take her back to Paris? I had a sense that I should ask Ayla some manner of permission, however; she was no pimp, hell no, but Jana seemed to cast the finest lustre in her necklace, for all I had seen, or was it a whimsical crush on both sides? Lison floated that she might as well return to Caroline’s after a rowdy season with us.
It was windy and sunny outside, shadows danced in the windows’ white rippled veilings. Somewhat blasé of running around butt-naked at all times, I had donned a white linen double-breasted blazer, nonchalantly crumpled, with big mother-of-pearl buttons, nothing else; it pleased Ayla, who at once pushed her hand to my crotch, kissing me. She smelled of Pausitano dew, she looked me in the eyes and said I would be flying back with Melchior after I served my last client of the day, raddled, at his caprice —I understood she had served him in the night. She reached for my twiddleberry and added I should take Jana with me and teach her French, I kissed her hand, and the Ellipse watch at her wrist told me it was time to go meet my morning hookup.
There were more cats in the salons than I had previously seen, most in Ayla’s style canon, and not many further accessories than stockings and parade high-heels. They all wore jewel watches and a telephone. One with black flat hair with bangs beckoned me to sit next to her, she smelled of Virginia tobacco with haschisch and clove, some kind of trans fragrance she made avidly girly, she shewed apple breasts with dark nipples, she stared with near-sighted granite-blue eyes hemmed in thick lashes, her name was Sheen, she was Latvian —I once had an affair with a Latvian boy on Christiansø island, I made Sheen laugh with dirty words I remembered. Then a clergyman-type appeared, and she lurched on her heels to him and let him grope her at whim, while he ogled my open jacket.
Another temptress was Vivi, an American runaway from Nebraska, who had fled from bumpkin land after three Saturday night rapes at thirteen. She soon had been owned by a Montreal pimp, snatched by another to Vancouver, and then infiltrated into Switzerland by an airline pilot who made her pose as his daughter and was currently overjoyed to see her live her life at Caroline’s.

She said she was nineteen, she could boast a luminous complexion, flax-blue eyes and thick sandy-blond hair, Greek-type nose and low cheekbones, she evoked anywhere but the American midwest, but wherever has the wind scattered genes and other karyotypes? She smelled of honey and broom flower, the yellow warbler and the summer rain, I had to kiss her bye when bushy pepper brows growled my name.
He drew me at once to the lift, one hand upon my butt, in the jacket’s rear slit. In the gleam of the lift cage, he suckled my mouth so I pulled my tongue to let him play with it, and he was a ravaging kisser.
He unclothed himself, tidying everything on hangers like he would attend a conference right after his shot. He smelled of ambergris, a priceless substance I knew from a brown bottle in the house of my grand uncle the admiral, on Christiansø; he had demonstrated to me that the almost foul-smelling matter could transform a blend of aromatic oils into a heady perfume. In a time when the old fogey liked me —before the whole island knew, and him last, that I was sleeping around, well ahead of my age— he had retold me how a block of two kilos had been haphazardly fished out in the high sea from one of his ships and offered to him so he could have it refined.
Back in 102, I was at the hands of a blistering swordsman, dizzied by his scent and vigorously titillated at every nerve tip, without shedding a scale o his sombre composure. However, he muttered his relish of my unassuming noonie weeping like a Spanish Madonna. He certainly bolstered a furious game to foreplay, but here I felt like a selfless morsel, I resigned myself to being done with, fantasising rather about bringing Jana into Melchior’s eagle, and the superior bliss of chaperoning another new youngling through our hedonistic fortress.
This Mr W. was a strong mind, he read my bluff and woke me out of my daydream, drilling a stare in my eyes while he kneaded my underbelly with his fist, making me speechless; my only idea was to pinch his nipples hard, and he begged for more, harder. He hurled then a crooked pair of fingers into my vagina to find the spot that triggered a fierce gush as I climaxed like a Bernini. He seized my wrists in my back and tilted me back upon the new paisley pigeon-blue bed throw, legs up and defencless.
He still licked and kiss my face while he did not need extra lube to force into the lesser path, drenched with my juices. It felt accordingly with the arrogance on his face, a long stiff spear that nonetheless took a few dips in the real source to become easier, thus he prevailed in both manners, filled my entrails with gooey gobs and let me roll silly.
We showered like illusory fencers, he asked for my name and country, thus I puzzled him with jollity as he kept staring avidly at my eyes. I knew he would shag me more, but he took long with the towels, he was utterly gifted as a chiropractor dilettante, and he made me wince happy with my feet. He still owned me for a while, but I begged him to connive with the Swiss Navy, or any other efficient thixotropic gel for that matter , and no, he had not yet hurt me.
There fluttered scattered scrolls of amusement in his gaze, my victory was delightfully futile; I devoted to rearm his means, like the dedicated courtesan. He upturned me on all fours amidst the moist towels strewn over the bed, fetched the transparent bottle on the nightstand, then threaded conveniently my bootyhole till I sensed the tickle of his brambles. It was steamy, the French soap smelled of cedrat-bergamot, I relived the lessons of the damned Cossack and his goons, I squeezed the ring muscle of my arse in sequence in order to make him discharge beyond his will, and show him who I was.
He could have rightfully done me once more, but he called it quits with a sly grin. While we returned to the shower, he inquired if I would remain available at Caroline’s but I let leak that I lived in Paris, and since he was a card-carrier like me, he would certainly find someone who would know of me. That was the most I did to let him know I liked what I felt of him.
The chambermaid, of coarse type with a naive face, woke me when it was time to renew the linens and wipe the bathroom; she couldn’t help staring at me all over, and I sensed it was the least I could do, allowing her to eye up what I had done almost nothing to be blessed with. My second day had augured swiftly, and it wouldn’t be correct to appear downstairs in some sort of bathrobe, so I went in the raw, holding my telephone, whimsically making a selfie at the foot of the stairs that I sent to Cecile.
Ayla grabbed me, whispering she would never tell who I had just shagged and had texted he was overjoyed with me. She groped my abs, she sported arousing shade rings to her eyes, and she boasted she had come six times in the night, I hitched up her skirt and joshed she could do better. We laughed like school buddies —that we were— when a hunky rugby player barged in and looked me up.

Mr T. wore a chalk-grey silk bourette jacket, designer jeans, a pristine tee shirt, and mahogany-brown loafers. He was as bald as a London cabby. At Ayla’s beckoning him to meet me, he smiled sparklingly. That is when I could sense a deft hand over my bottom, and Lizon asking frankly if she could join, for free. I couldn’t see the bulge in T’s pants, but the guy wouldn’t shun a pretty windfall. I had been through so many hook-ups and dalliances with Lizon that I enlaced her to show it was a done deal. Ayla looked up Mr T. and told him it was the girls’ whim —and his luck.
In the lift, I unleashed his valiance tool that cast a whiff of sandalwood, this lucky fellow had had the flair to perfume his nether parts for us. Lizon was chasing his tongue wildly.
102 still hinted a smell of my exploits, but it was suave and how would he know —if Lizon certainly did? He became naked in seconds, the new bed throw was pastel pink and padded; Lizon had already engulped the sizeable stiff dick and showed no strain letting it in to the hilt, making me proud of her; at the other end, T. ordered me to straddle his mouth, thighs wide open, so he could savour both my holy slits like candy.
Lizon had beautifully trained, in her vagrant life along with a tough cookie like Fæbian —who nonetheless looked still like a fresh daffodil— she swallowed the first salvo as quietly as a spoon of custard, it was T. that howled like a stag. For good measure, I used my hand to conveniently gush in T.’s mouth, for good measure. Lizon remained wanting of exultation, but she owned up we needed some tea or anything thirst-quenching; I tasted her mouth, it felt like soap, she ran and fetched a spare toothbrush in the bathroom, it was all good fun. After a cat’s toilette, we called for tea and soda, it was on us, T. paid princely and gulped a can of cola in a breath.
Our lucky punter was a bit of a voyeur, too, he relished more and more watching us together, and it would come easy on our part, we had had seasons under the moon. Thus T’s silly puppet was prim and proper again, and Lizon kept rolling her hips, thighs wide open until it would become rude not to boff her, for free, and she claimed my quim in a way T watched my contorting arse, and warned he would hurl his wad off and trigger a well-earned spurt all over.
T. watched us straddle the bidet and prepare for further scenes, he joshed it should be my turn, no doubt, but then a pretty animal snuck in out of the blue, Jana mused she had time to kill, she wiggled her minute bum in arms-reach of our champion who visibly did not despise novelty, nor did Lizon, by the way, she was overjoyed to meet my nightly pet again.
I devised a royal scene, T. would lie on the bed, sheathed into Jana’s complacent lesser hole, face to us, who could kindly ravage her tiny hooded switch or crook our fingers into her dissolute orchid. It was a blatant success, and Lizon spread-eagled over her mouth like the depraved ballerina, thus the light-hearted imp killed time, every so often, panting.
Mr T. easily acknowledged we had totally drained his guts, but he was delighted he had survived our demented conspiracy; he would retell to Ayla how she owned the most pleasurable garden in town.
After touching up each others’ faces, all three of us had more calls to answer for —so to speak. Downstairs, I told Ayla I would split my fees on that one, and she retorted T. had abounded for the whole festival; she took me apart into a deep velvet sofa, she wanted to recall my natural wantonness, she went south to smell me. I did not have time to lick her mad in return, for I was called for another round. Ayla then told me I was in for a big surprise, though.
Indeed, in the foyer stood two young corporate types, Armani suits and polished black Oxfords, wide smiles on perfect teeth. And they both seized one of my arms —like you would think the debauchery squad— and since Ayla had warned me, I let be done. She had been one, long ago, to draw me in some dim laundry rooms where she knew a pack of studs would hump me silly, and I would never snitch.
But here, whatsoever, the script was in my scale, a brave assuming courtesan ready to serve, wouldn’t I? They introduced themselves as M. and M. with fine smiles. They cornered me in the lift cage, one smelled of petitgrain, the other of bay rum, and four keen hands stroke my physique in fine detail, like some atonal four-hands concerto.
In 102, a wealthy bouquet of white lilac exhaled lustfully in a silver vase, on the wrought iron console, and it lightened my head already, such as wondering how would they sort back their similar outfits in an hour or two? Whirling around me, they chatted out of my grasp like starlings on Adderall, while making me sway all the most obscenely, fawning my vanity.
One was copper blond —not as dreamlike as our own golden knight Gauthier— and short-curled, which did a pretty fleece to his taunt genitals. The other was Brazilian-black and soft, with tiny down curls around a sleek pale forehead.
Wispy black hair grew on his back and shoulders, thus, he was fun to hug, with a stiff spur bustling upon my lower belly. His coffee-black eyes didn’t flinch, he was inescapable, but I had to claim some lube when he forced me to kneel on the bed and offer my butthole. Then on, he gathered his wits and sculled deftly in my guts with breezy comments, while his pal humped on the back of my throat. They were office buddies, they began to dedicate their jolts to different names they knew, in a splurge of laughter of which I was logically bearing the brunt. First I made copper fleece release a swig of his soup, he tasted like laurel shampoo, and he thanked me for swallowing.
I was provoking the bramble-eyed rider squeezing his dick with my muscle rim until he fired like a blunderbuss with a fake obscene prayer. They might have indulged in modern chemicals because, like porn actors, they did not flag after their scores, and I saw coming a figure I relished both sides. Gold rush did not even wipe my lesser hatch when he tilted me upon his spear, and I lay with my whole weight upon him, legs fully spread to welcome any other black-furred lance.
Suddenly, my head was ensnared in dire paws, pulled aside and my mouth rudely solicited as obviously, the third M. had loomed among us. Whoever he was, he wouldn’t be worse than his cohort, only a tad lengthier down my throat, well-mannered after the fright he had caused. That one’s fuzzy muff smelled of uncanny osmanthus, and I could tell he wore a pricey gold watch.
It was no hasty improvisation, they soon pounded in unison, and I sensed a drive of lewd shamanism of sorts I could drift along with like the song onto the bassline; it couldn’t have been too long, and I was outrageously drenched and smelly, but I wouldn’t even find the nerve to walk to the shower. They ran us a bath, not excluding some kind of spin-off, with a shared snigger.
Even on a no-outrage-barred day at Philippe’s had I ever ingested so much jizz in a day, but it made me thirsty; the chambermaid scoffed slightly at my new good company, frankly unabashed, I thanked her for the flowers, but she muttered it was the Mrs attention. My current henchmen laughed and rewarded the girl with Swiss flags.
There was amply of tea for all, and it dawned in my perverted mind that it might bring up certain childish sports, later. Now, I could detail that supernumerary conferee that tasted with a hint of anise. He certainly was the Alpha in their gang, with sunbleached wicks and owl-shaped goggles marks in a toffee-gold face, he was the one who went the most often swank about on Saas-Fee slopes —hadn’t I?— and also, he owned a snazzy ramrod not yet content, as it showed.
Insensibly, they drew me back to lay face down upon the black-ringlets dude, who swiftly stuffed my dewy petal purse. Flaxy-wicks had obviously set his sight on my lesser pathway, and he was already rubbing his tool with lube; I gathered my knees up and wide, he pushed upon my loins, so my hole was free access as he tickled it with his glans, and then he thrust irresistibly into my slidy entrails while his buddy suckled my tongue and rooted his schlong into my sensitive little cream pot.
All in the epitome of being busy, I hadn’t seen willowy jana sneak in by, when I felt a sweet hand stroking my pervaded throat, and the shapely sportsman had her knelt on all fours to fiddle into her butt cleft. Goldilocks —with a magic flesh wand— had seen her too and was offhandedly toying with her nipples; but it was the black-curled bugger who discharged first to my loins, causing my womb to twitch and squirt, thus garnering more spunk, while more of it was injected beyond my belch reflex in my oesophagus. Jana liked the bitter batter in my mouth; and I sussed she has made up her mind to follow me to Paris.
As we all rinsed out any proof of our turpitudes, I nonchalantly let myself piss upon their feet, to what they forced me to sit on my heels and retaliated all over my face and body. We lathered up and cheered, we soaked all of the towels stack. As they were dressing up, the chambermaid came in to collect our dirty laundry, and she was so handsomely rewarded that she blushed.
My pleased customers hurried down, I dawdled by with Jana, Melchior had texted he waited for us, and I supposed he had been peeping over our carnal playlet. For the nonce, he sat in a private boudoir, clad with obscene porcelain tiles I couldn’t help detailing; they all were in the meticulous manner of Achille Deveria’s naughtinesses, with sinewy mock savages ravaging gracile younglings. Ayla stood up, Melchior’s hand rummaging under her dress, she explained the tiles had been salvaged from a former rich brothel in France. I mused the idea of them would titillate my Cecile to spend a few days at Caroline’s, and Melchior concurred.
He grabbed Ayla and hitched up her dress above her shy tits, grazed her tight belly and overwhelmed her with compliments. Jana stood aside, in cute casualwear; loose jeans, vanilla cropped sweat, and oversized black and white varsity jacket branded “runaway” in bold appliqué red letters; she wore vanilla Chuck Taylors, too. Melchior beckoned her, as Ayla’s dress dropped back, and he asked the girl if she wished to go back with me, while he brazenly rummaged in her boyish fly.

This new aeroplane was impressive indeed, bigger and sleeker, no more top air vent, for my ignoramus glance, but Jana stood gobsmacked holding my hand. One thing had been to let the old man fumble about into her pants on the backseat of a cloudly carriage, another was to walk with me towards the sparkling metal albatross and actually climb in. It smelled of new, a masculine scent, probably designed within all the materials crafted about the cabin.
I had travelled before onboard the previous Melchior’s big birds, and if it seemed there wouldn’t be a flight attendant, I sussed I knew the crew, and they knew about me; the boss had many such nieces. The Captain and Copilot might well have known me close on long flights he told us it would be a smooth one-hour trip under the stars, and he ogled upon Jana’s navel.
We dropped our jackets, and Melchior opened his Nehru-collar suit, he seated Jana next to him by the window. Once we reached our altitude, I went barefoot to brew some tea in the thin bone-china tableware, the Emperor bought his teas in the same shop as us. It was one hour, but I felt carefree enough to take off my precious trousers and gather up my legs parted, which he greeted with a gaze. Not too long after, he alluded that I might help Jana free a tad, thus I grasped and unlaced her shoes, knowing he would relish her long, tapered toes. And, why not? I showed her I would pull on the jeans’ hems, till she let me rid her of the thick denim.
He said he could scent we had been naughty, and he loved us for that. He whispered in Jana’s ear, so she fetched his rich man’s dick like a savvy tramp ready to make herself memorable; she sucked thoroughly like a Royal favourite, and I wanked like a lady on a Japanese woodblock print, still not quieted of these two furious days. The sunset was beginning to gild our little scene.
All redressed citywise before Le Bourget, we embarked into another Imperial berline just in front of the ladder door because we were still in the Schengen zone; the chauffeur fetched our bags. All three sprawled in the back seat, we continued our gently licentious ways, and it was obvious the Emperor had a stinging crush for the newcomer. He said he would keep her with him for the while, and they would travel again in the proud white bird, before he sees into installing her near us. It was so that I had foreseen that I kissed him on the cheeks before I ran up home.
The apartment was deserted and clean, our bed tucked with new sheets. I disrobed quietly and hung my persona in the closet, shimmied for a minute in the shower, I smelled right, but I sprayed some Blue Gardenia just in case, it was still far from bedtime. I slid into an overwashed tracksuit printed of the OK Computer visual, put on old mismatched sneakers, and headed down to look for Cecile and the subterranean gang.
She was alone amidst the Mass in B; she beamed up as she saw me, she was almost finished with the mad marquetry, and it was splendid. She grabbed me greedily, shoving off her gloves to frisk in my pants, I retorted that she would be served with my little Swiss tales. She dehisced out of her spotted white overalls, true to the vision I always fostered of her, all gracile in cotton leggings and a tee shirt. She put on the needlepoint cheetah motive slippers we had purchased together at Stubbs and Wooton’s, closed the shop and followed me to the lift. Up close, she smelled like a working girl and turpentine, and that was raw and enticing, as much as when she pampered herself. She kept that same freshness which made me be called a tomboy.
It really seemed it would be the two of us, we ordered a spinach-ricotta pie, apple turnovers, and almond tuiles; the delivery boy even saw her casually denuded —it wouldn’t be a first. She did not know my father, at first she figured I slept with him; I snorted, and then I recounted the last time I had jumped against him in the shower, which earned me a famous reckoning trip to London —and my entry to my Swiss paradise, for that matter. She bantered I really was a Princess, and she grabbed one of my feet under the table and unlaced my shoe.
Henceforth, she had heard about my bond with Ayla —whom she shagged once or twice— beyond the twists of destiny. And the cunning little courtesan had strived to keep in the global Melchior loop, moreover when her young paramour Esther needed serious medical care. However, Ayla led a high-roller international escort career (Cecile should let be booked with one of the johns in Ayla’s directory, in a Paris palace). It wouldn’t be so different from Liselotte’s trade, or Hector’s, only some kind of step further but still under the shield of the black card.
And now, there was this perfectly legit pleasure house in a Zürich garden, like those Cecile had visited in Germany with her northern master, and she revelled in the details I told, while, denuded on all fours under the table, she lapped at my labia for dessert. We promised to go together to Speck’s next day. Meanwhile, we ended up in her bed and the homunculus was thrilled. I also announced my new little blond recruit Jana, whom I would willingly share, as always.
The room was unusually black, my dream had been overcrowded with Lakota riders and Swiss buggers in merry chaos; I reckoned I had slept my heart out, and Cecile had run to her workshop. Incidentally, I blessed the Swiss Navy for their beneficence, rolling my hips in bodily bliss, standing in the span of the Crow God. She had never taken me to the pleasure house the grand mask had come from —it had been there that she had begun an unabashed career in vice, like all of us, reclaiming all the shame buried in a fatidic cellar.
At this hour of the day, the sun bashed on our living room windows, and I felt like opening them wide. I brewed some special Taiwanese oolong and checked my mail; Kate had visited the newly re-opened Royal Museum in Antwerp, along with Gwen and Ksyusha, en route on a car tour of Gwen’s best memories. The Heather Fairies visited southern Ireland, they did not smile dumbly in a tender selfie against the shredded clouds of Killarney. Hugo greeted me back home and invited Jana (or whatever she choose to be called) and me for dinner, smoke signals had roamed the Empire I guessed. Camille had taken Dagmar and Fæbian to New York in Melchior’s Albatross, a spike of fever might happen to strike in the ranks of the attorneys.
I switched offline and rested my feet on the table, tea was infused to perfection, and I mused if the Albatross could reach Taiwan Hsinchu County —where the tea jassid operated his petty miracle on the leaves— in one wing stroke, would it?
Josephine barged in with Jana carrying elegant shopping bags, and one big red box of macarons from Sadaharu Aoki. Josephine said she had found this lovely stranger, pacing at our door, trying to reach my telephone, and was relieved when she saw our no-fuss manners of morning greetings. I brewed more tea and asked Josephine to seat with us, as she was visibly beguiled by the newcomer, scenting another tramp sister, all the more that she be brought in by me.
As they had put off their shoes to play footsie, Jana, in her funky pidgin, revelled explaining where Melchior had raptured her and treated her like a star, with none worse bitter end than entrusting her back to me, and us, with his mindful blessing. After they had dropped me home, they had glided to one of those places outside of Paris where he entertained the vetted Gotha of high-volage libertines with princesses of null bloodline but dazzling potential, mostly making stealth amends for fate’s wrongdoings. I knew firsthand he was a fair and inventive lovemaker, he could summon me anytime.
Early in the morning, they had discussed money, and he had lent her another black card to use in shops with a code to use in shops at her whim, under a roomy ceiling; I knew of no other beneficiary of such largesse on his part. There had been sales at Missoni’s, but nonetheless, they rushed down to the swimming pool where there wouldn’t be any Concours d’Elegance other than live skin. I was certain they would start making out in the lift.
Now then, I craved nothing more than daydreaming in our studio, a honed pencil in hand, listening to some fine audiobook, on top of the world, before Cecile and I go to Speck’s, where I had forewarned that we would be available as one unleashed pair.

 

 

 

 

 

Cécile says:

His Imperial Grace had summoned the Court —and the rear yard, too— to that new venue on Saint Geneviève Hill, in the vicinity of the Pantheon temple. Through a porch under a nondescript Haussmann tenement, attended by the well-acquainted hunks of our liege’s security detail. A deep purple doormat had been drawn to the doorstep, followed by a stylised river mosaic floor, with jumping fish. A red and yellow ocher Pompeian faux-marbre decor with stucco pillars, scattered with whimsical swirls, and a disorderly fauna of monkeys and paradise birds, altogether the umpteenth degree of a pastiche, under apocalyptical skies painted on the ceiling. It smelled of all Gauthier’s mastery, in the flickering light of fake silk flames in bright copper sconces.
I was proud of my Hanseatic cavalier, who had definitively vindicated the fierce little girl behind the low expanded-metal grid, the only smelly air vent to the cubbyhole where she read her discarded magazines, swanning with me, nude on a leash at the Panopticum, at Albertine’s, or in King Solomon’s Mines, where the most cunning Trine had been the hostess, on Louis’s estate, a wing stroke from Paris. Lauritz wouldn’t have done that on his own turf, at Speck’s, where he taped my exploits, unbeknownst to Hugo or anyone but Sarah.
Once upon a night in the Seine’s cruise boats’ lights, lucubrating at pauses in a still blood-whipping episode, he had fantasised about unabashedly advertising me as the available pleasure slave, under his watch; I would wear this purple maroquin mask he had commissioned bespoke a few months back —letting me suss it was some long-haul fantasy— with see-through bee’s-like eyes and eventual shuttering lids. Thus I had been duly belt-flogged, bound and done all the nasty manhandling that powerful brutes crave, like pissing into my mouth and butthole. When I had thrown in the towel, he had thoroughly rinsed me, still in my harness, and driven his silent car to those meeting places where I would again show my arse behind the armoured glass while swallowing his ultimate discharge.
Seeing me dip my morning biscuits in my sloven overalls Would Cyprien ever surmise how depraved my nights were? It had been good fun when I had lured Jana, another gainly catch of Sarah’s when she had earnestly worked three days at Caroline’s, the pleasure house in Zürich, set up by her school bestie Ayla —probably underwritten by His Limitless Grace, whom she had come to know when he had taken care of her companion Esther, who had been trashed by a mad cokehead in a hotel room. Jana had been born a harlot, the daughter of a harlot with the UN peacekeepers in Macedonia; her beauty was more a lucky strike by a Northern Slavic gene brought by the soldiers than the likeness with the Ancient blond Greeks. Once she had dropped her tracksuit, and swayed her hips, the constant draughtsman had yawned in awe. It had been fun to watch, but I had sensed I should clear any misunderstanding, thus I drew her to the kitchen table for coffee and tell her that Cyprien had portrayed all the fauna in our magic garden, in such a manner that she grasped he did not shag them in return. Jana was a brilliant little tramp.
Somewhat revived by Lauritz’s massages along my loin —and a wildflower-smelling oil he had used— I relished the whimsical decor that led us to some manner of a round foyer, behind glass doors, with two opposite counters attended to by tempting young extras in white shirts. Faded red trompe-l’oeil curtains were painted between faux-marbre columns, and a gilded cornice framed a fairytale sky with multicoloured ribbons fluttering from a flying flower wreath. A flock of free blue butterflies flitted around us; for Delff’s little gang of imps, they had already unclothed to sense the flying jewels land upon their bare chest, and their toyish diddle shivered up so prettily that I wanked it playfully. Lauritz was exhilarated, he had not yet really acquainted with Michelle’s closer entourage, the genteel, though discombobulated little court who haunted the princely attics, at most times au naturel. Delff had become the undisputed chamberlain of the game Michelle relished to sense around her when she unplugged her immeasurable brain —she knew perfectly what manner of shelter she bestowed the pretty gang of misfits, Sarah had seen her weep at Delff’s earlier misfortunes.
A black usher beckoned us into a sort of dim-lit Disney ballroom surrounded by rows of gilded columns supporting a portico beyond which unfurled a furious orgy worthy of Giulio Aristide Sartorio across the one-flight vaulted ceiling. The room was the size of a tennis court, I could not believe Gauthier, even with the limitless might of His Gracious Whims, had engineered such a grand folly, but there we stood, sitting in three rows of separate new mohair armchairs —just like those you find at the Théatre Des Champs Elysées— staring at a bare navy black polished floor. I caught myself smiling at the crowds, tentatively sorting who might have not yet frigged me.

Some manner of a low podium was raised in the middle of the far side, with a grand piano and sundry musicians’ pieces of equipment, among which Malo’s sleek white cello box. Now I twigged that Delff had snuck into the chair on Lauritz’s left, and I sniggered apart that it served him right, and I knew the little devil was a cunning lovemaker, to say the least. At the first glance that she turned at me, I winked and nodded.
When the amused rustle in the rows started to soothe down —and Delff’s dainty hand was already in Lauritz’s fly— the concealed lines of lights in the cornice dawned up a mite, and I sussed that the earnestly splendid decor on the vault might be a huge digital print pasted up, I had read that about the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas. Not my trade, but I had to concede that, seen from some distance, it was worth the trick, and Gauthier would seldom botch an effect; as a matter of fact, as we all awaited idle, we applauded. Melchior sat across from us, wooing his current paramour Jana, merely clad in diamonds and pearls, as fit.
In a hazy beam of aquamarine light, Malo walked onstage, holding Rachel’s hand, both naked as daffodils. Rachel wore her hair braided with gold foliages and a twinkling anklet; Malo let her dark acajou long strands flow upon her shoulders. They were greeted heartily; behind them appeared Finlan, in a fitted violet velvet suit, and a marigold yellow tee shirt. I heard Gwen heckling about her love for him.
To my almost well-tempered ears, that loose logic trio had practised in their mannerism. As a soloist —a bush-telephone commendation for habitués of high-rolling artsy debauchery— Malo had hovered, unleashed in crystalline spheres, with the bow sleight of a lone glass-blower; then she had yielded to the cravings of that foolhardy violinist whom Gauthier had randomly hired for a concert at his château warming, of sorts.
Then, it had happened that Malo’s cello twirls had wakened sympathetic strings in Josephine’s nerves and, by a contagion of souls, to the carnivorous sprightliness of parricide angel Emeline. After Malo’s brilliant initial, soon underlined by Rachel’s acute harmonies and Finlan’s muted chords. Our pet dancers pranced into the light, scantily dressed in multicoloured ribbons tied to their braided coifs.
Albeit the troupe’s training floor be close to my workshop, and just a storey above the swimming pool where I go frolic and flirt quite easily when I have my fill of painstaking brushwork, I had not been made aware of their inspirational and technical evolution, and all I had paid attention to was the assiduous presence of ginger Finlan on electric piano —because I had not yet cornered him into the privacy of my cubbyhole, and his laid-back attitude caused me a big crush— also when he would shag the dancers in the water, letting filaments of clotted semen floating, slack little rascal he was.
Like all I could sense of the audience, all of them more or less obligated to Melchior’s might, and already in the know of his infatuation for this eerie manner of ballet —many of us had seen some early stages at the Laforest sisters’— was gleeful awe. The girls were as nymphic as Lalique’s crystal pipe dreams, and their allures as deliberate as those of a hunting cheetah.
Like most, I had effusive memories of these gracile bellies, they had come pose on my sofa to be drawn by Cyprien at Melchior’s generous expense, hadn’t they? And I had exhausted every chakra in me to see them squirt upon my private rug, I kept them legendary among my recollections, a speck of me was whirling into the light, now.
Insensibly, Finlan had drifted to an electronic instrument beside him and snaked along Malo’s spinning phrases, like gold in Mucha’s arabesques. The sylphic little tramps then gave us sequences of striking synchronicity, waking our minds from the mere fish tank meditation we had indulged in, like mouthing secrets to the magical axolotls in the Jardin Des Plantes.
Had they really written a proper score? Or had they invented some mnemonics to unfurl their tale of beauty through our mesmerised souls? The audience went breathless —bar Lauritz who was deep into Delff’s throat, I let my hand rummage through her short curls. That lasted the time for happy tears to roll down many friendly cheeks, and eventually concluded in complete black, through which we hurled our bravos.
I might have been emotional, and the chairs on my left were now empty. A smooth hand slid along my neckline while another pulled me up aside, and I let myself along with a masked black-suited unknown who smelled of rich Cologne and was drawing me irresistibly to the fire escape door. Brusque adventures weren’t unheard of in such portentous gatherings, and the sight of a duo of fluttering smooth labia caught in the crystal of music had unnerved my will to the point of longing for a secret cellar session with a merciless truncheon.

The transport was on par with the best elopements I had enjoyed since I had joined this libertine confederacy. It was a silent midnight blue berline with an impassive black driver, and no sooner had I penetrated the cabin than I found myself swiftly denuded on the plush blue velvet. Under the fitted black mat mask, he showed closely shaven luscious lips, faultless teeth, and a swirling rosy tongue that wouldn’t shy from my tight bud.
Calling me my name, he had fetched in his thin wallet a black card I knew very well, and my app greenlighted it. Anyhow, the whole setup had been so neat that my only question was who had sold me out to that stag I craved to shag full steam anyhow. Under the dickey of a silken collarless shirt, the young stud grew gentle black hair, and I did not waver to unbutton my way down to his manhood in full swing. Unexpectedly, we stopped at a traffic light, and the driver of a nearby truck could take a happy eyeful at us in the act.
We must have reached some highway, the ride became steadier; the chauffeur kept a keen eye on me, too, when my captor ordered me to straddle his considerable spur rearwards, exposing my middle parts in bloom. In my lustful savvy, that foreboded the black stooge wouldn’t sit driving for always.
He had made me splash twice before discharging in the depth of my entrails with a bear grunt. The car had stilled in the moonlight in the middle of a dark farmyard. He called “his boy Gaetan”, warning him not to spoil his livery, meaning I saw coming a splendid black sheeny phantom who began a strain to encroach into my womb with a slippery cosh I had probably better not have seen at first. Rubbing against his boss’ weapon through my guts linings at the same pace as his relaxed driving, he made us both whine like maddened puppies before gushing his peppered goo.
I could have cuddled up and dozed out, not caring about whatever I might let drip onto these unexpected luxuries, but two vigorous arms bore me inside the austere main abode through a low-lintel heavy door. What looked like a guards’ room, all neat ashlar limestone under a beamed ceiling, scarce stained-glass windows, and time-worn slabs surprisingly warm and clean. Nought of any decor; concealed lighting responded indolently to a hand clapping.
I took off my shoes, and a redressed Gaetan took them with the rest of my belongings into a closed storage room. Spent and sticky, I felt somewhat miserable stretching my loins at my victor’s fingertips, but he led me to a water room where he joined me under a tepid rain shower and lathered my every nook, bar my vagina, and asked me to piss upon him casually. The mask held to the water, and in the dry corner were stacks of multicoloured towels, the soap had left a scent of cut hay. He had remained erect, asking for my mouth a few times, holding my hands as I sat down on my heels like a well-trained girl, and then hugging me and necking endlessly like a schoolboy.
Passed an obscure vestibule, we entered a larger hall furnished with sundry Chesterfield maroon sofas and Persian rugs just like your customary boy’s club. And indeed, a dozen masked gents wallowed in the raw, sipping their glasses, each with a girl of pleasure just like me, looking down like guilty innocents. They wore different manners of restraints, padded harnesses, arrays of chains, or leather corsets; all were beautiful and looked aroused to see me. I was shown around under my name, smelled, palpated, and then harnessed with luxury saddlery, dog collar, belt, cuffs and anklets equipped with many metal rings and locked. I was spared the snaffle that I saw a blonde desperately bite.
I was then seized by a gang of the other girls and swiftly attached by means of snap links onto a large ottoman, my head maintained like a horse’s between two chains, my thighs wide open. The girls, who had doubtlessly lived through the same retribution, did not refrain from manhandling at their whim whatever I could no more defend, bantering about my being naughty in the car trip. I sensed agile tongues in my bumhole, with comments that it tasted of someone’s semen.
My mouth was forced by a sturdy stump out of a thorny bush as the brute held my nape; he had been so aroused by my submission that he soon splurted his acme with a taste of soapy cardamom. Only time to gulp in and he was replaced by a longer, circumcised one, who had heard his heated comments in some unrecognisable sabir. Meanwhile, I was relentlessly buggered with puffs, panting, and mannerly lewd comments. Some applied themselves to trigger more orgasms, and feminine hands twiddled my clit like rich boarders to the same end.
After a wild round of being the pommel horse, I passed out. And I woke back tied face up, my head dangling at the edge, my pubis flush at the other end, and the feel of the enema hose in my arse. With the belt attached, I could move even less than before. My return was hailed with bawdy compliments and fluttering girly kisses.

I was sleeping in that breeze of a car with Gaetan at the wheel, clothed just as I remembered, smelling of jasmine and rose, my crotch fresh and quiet, when my telephone rang the first measures of the well-tempered clavier. I never felt like making it stop, but I needed to communicate with a real someone, no offence to a black stooge. Sarah had been anxious about my total eclipse, and my telephone was off. She ran down and saw me in that extravagant carriage which glided away as soon as I was on foot.
Sarah looked hard at me and sussed a fraction of what I had been embroiled into, she joshed that I had interesting rings to my eyes and called me slut; I had been incommunicado for two full days. She said my breath was light as a litchi sherbet. I was famished, we hurried to the workshop where Cyprien was overjoyed to see me alive. I started the percolator and fetched a box of langues de chats.
In the darkness that fell at the end of the ballet, nobody had seen anything of my elopement, the emergency door was unguarded, and the CCTV was not yet functional. Thus, the only clue I had was that my raptor carried a black card and I had checked for it, we would ask Sami about the masked bugger, once I could cope with another trip to Philippe’s. Listening to the details that re-emerged, I sensed Sarah’s mind was split between the angst I had begotten and the excesses she could have hurled herself into as rashly.
All I had been let to gulp down in the course of my brainless defilement had been semen, piss, and plain water, plus likely hazardous pills, thus my regained soaked biscuits tasted of godly confectionary —just like when my offish parents allowed that I took my mug and cookies to my hideaway. Thinking of that, right after recounting my total abandon, must have made me look dotty, but Cyprien kept mum as always when it came to our many hijinks. Upon the second pack of langues de chat, he floated we might consider posing together for him on the sofa, and he wouldn’t mind us chattering our hearts free.
When Sarah disrobed me, she was relieved to behold no sores or bruises upon my mere body, attesting that my captors wouldn’t have been called boors, at least. That sofa, on which I endeavoured to lure all the pretty little arses that the lustful republic reaped afield constantly, had been as elaborately engineered as that of the Princess on a so-called pea that had fascinated my unfortunate childhood in a dingy copy of Edmund Dulac’s picture book for the Red Cross I kept in my burrow; it was basically a bed, a bourgeois boat bed with a buttoned backboard, fitted with priceless bespoke base and mattress, covered with puffy eiderdown cushions, all Gauthier could fetch to incentivise all of us to let drown in Bach’s faerie counterpoint and harmony.
Cyprien patiently explained the pose he wished, notwithstanding the unavoidable effect my coffee would exert on our morning innards, sooner or later; Sarah lived beyond such contingencies, her father had taught her tea, only she relished playing pee in the shower.
I had seldom been a model in Cyprien’s eye, he wouldn’t dare divert me from my work for which he still sensed a drive for responsibility, under Camille’s oversight; but he knew Sarah had clout as to my free will, and for once he savoured the sight of a body he usually forgot, bundled-up into my overalls, even at times when I let be seen I was naked inside. Thus, this morning, when we came back from the water room, and we had wedged ourselves pretty, Sarah pressed along my back, our legs entwined and her hand on my tummy, Cyprien looked so intense Sarah whispered he should be in love with me.
I dozed out quite a few times, and none of my daydreams was nightmarish, were it not for our beloved ballerinas dancing above a solitary lake, ogled at by a mixed tribe of icicles creatures tinkling like a harpsichord, my constant fright being the crystals shattering at any wrong note.
Delff came up, with a box of honey-dripping pistachio puff pastries. They had worried, too, when nobody knew where I was. At the end of the show, they had followed Lauritz to his ritzy island lust emporium, thus their notion of the 911 knight had evolved to that of a palatable playmate, and they pulled out all the stops for him, then Delff had called herself a car back home, once he had cried for mercy.

Sarah says:

Certainly no manner of a babe in the woods myself, I wondered what would click me to follow some unexpected Fantomas to his extravagant berline and possibly fall into definitive slavery. Right, Cecile was let vet the raptor’s black card, plus he smelled good and possessed an irresistible sleight, to start with.
Now, lightly enlaced in her own made bird trap, I could smell a hint of depravity in her hair, or was it the scent of her mind? Delff had made a white and gold apparition, so as not only to check on Cecile, but also to brag about having tickled swords with Lauritz in his lair, they were an amazing jack of all trades.
By the time Cyprien had surrendered his dainty arms, I was resolute to meet Sami —whatever aside— and scrutinise Fantomas’s records, and that new Covenant-in-the-fields everything-goes stag club. Once her fog had lifted, all Cecile needed to coffer another purgatory night was my company. The weather was mellow, we dressed as worldly savages, her in a maroon moiré double-breasted blazer with satin lapels, black veil hold-up stockings with lace welt, snazzy black patent leather penny loafers, a black silk velvet dog collar with an onyx cameo stitched to it —she was little more than nude. I donned one of my military gala jackets, refitted by our Gianni, black whipcord, high collar, silver swash trimmings and buttons, violet twill lining; same stockings as hers, black patent flat opera pumps, and a black Victorian beadwork choker.
We pulled out the potent perfume extracts, she had been whelmed with expensive fragrances by her flamboyant paramour, cleverly inspired around Russian leather and pipe tobacco, iris and innocence. I unearthed a splendid creation by Hugo himself in my own name, some metrosexual magnet concocted at the time Camille had let go of me to his home, and he had blessed me with only a spun-glass-like obsession; in these days, Katherine was squandering her life in the extravagant realm of Victor and his mindboggling drugs —she was about to flee to Berlin along with that Vogel bitch. Anyhow, I had stopped wearing that fragrance because it acted like a free pass for all these students I had no appetite for; I had preferred to smell British soaps and pretend I loved girls —which wouldn’t be false. Now it worked in the original manner with Cecile, but did we need this?
We literally panicked our driver to the Palais Royal, who almost went into hyperventilation, I tipped him on top of letting him obsess his eyeballs for the night. The dining room downstairs was full and promising, Sami ushered us to the low ceiling entresol, where we could have access to the secret stairs as well. He served us poached eggs with creamed morels and polenta, then crisp chestnut mousse with vanilla curd in small tartlets, along with a pitcher of chilled oolong tea. In her corner of the banquette, Cecile let her jacket gape, a young waiter returned for nothing a few times.
Sami led us to his cramped personal office, where I could take a glance for the first time at the intricate array of security contraptions plugged into some manner of private back-office management behind firewalls. As we watched, while fondling each other, his operating legerdemain, I quivered to learn that all of my delectable customary moral slackness had been recorded —the matter would be: for whom? Besides all the convenient two-way mirrors. Sami joshed that it was all encoded, only in case of a mishap. He asked for my bestie’s card and disclosed the inquiry Cecile had made to vet her raptor, who had been cleared a week before in a London clinic; The machine wouldn’t tell who he was, but Sami had an idea what this stag club was, but all intel about it was restricted, it would entertain real powerful men and expensive escorts —as showed the balance of our secret accounts. For a reason, he seized my waist under my blazer, embraced me, and said I should ask myself the One Almighty how an abduction could have been engineered from his own gala room and not be for his personal benefit, Sami said that I and all of my best buddies were held in particularly attentive consideration, thus, we should go taunt him in this flair of attire we wore that night.
He asked Cecile to undress and show herself, so she obliged but accounted that although they had been more than a mad dozen, they had not bruised or injured her, using all the proper preparations, then she also confessed to having orgasmed indefinitely till swoon, only waking conveniently at our door in that night-blue otherworldly carriage driven by a most dashing black man. Sami wondered if she had served him, too, thus she recounted the prelude to her instant moral dismemberment, and laughed before he understandably embraced her, and I freed his beloved circumcised dick that tasted of bitter almond.
There existed a leather bed in a recess behind the office, of the kind I had experimented with hotels’ key holders —and let be wallowed on, lecherously, half-willingly. He licked over Cecile’s candid face, mumbling she was all my sisterly, not wearing disgusting paint to her skin, nor anywhere.

After he had satiated himself of Cecile’s febrile jewels, and showed us to a bijou washroom that he bantered it had been like so since before the French Revolution, he offered to introduce us to the new salon, restored after Phillipe’s Consortium bought and reclaimed a block of tinkered apartments in the volume of a glory days brothel; there might happen we know who was fanning the gossip about the novelty herein.
Indeed, they had reclaimed an inner volume with a distressed Pompeian decor, patched and mended like a multi-centenary Boro Coat, artfully touched up and dusted to render it breathable, furnished with gracefully mismatched Parisian set replicas, like basket-sofas with puffy down cushions, wingback tufted loveseats, cushioned voyeur chairs, and sundry japaned legged trays supporting the samovar or the wine coolers. A British burgundy and tan acanthus pattern carpeting achieved a Belle Epoque schmalzy taste fit for the prelude to wantonness.
In the vertiginous, heavy, loose kimono of a bona fide madam, my suave temptress Liselotte leapt up to us amidst the orchard of available graces of whom I could already name a few.
Liselotte embraced Cecile and rummaged unabashedly under our jackets. Then she decided we looked a trifle too candid for the trade, thus she drew us to the soon-to-be-famous powder room, entirely clad with rose-gold mosaics, where she helped us exaggerate the bit of mascara and kindle up the blush, we only accepted some lip gloss, I hate lipstick kisses. She found Cecile’s coochie irresistible, capsized her into my arms to steal a taste, and hummed that she had been used just newly.
In the Salon, all manners of gentlemen prowled around our immodest comrades letting their merry slots be glanced at; one of them took pride in being pumped standing by some valiant girl, who happened to be our Seresine, at the risk of earning a soiled fly to his trousers, which did not happen, Liselotte’s girls officiate properly.
After she deftly demonstrated to the male attendees that we owned valid slut cred, she let us cuddle each other in an oxblood velvet tufted sofa, until an Asian man, straddling a voyeur chair, asked us to do things and part our legs. His hands were feathery soft on our thighs, I recognised him as Gwen’s yachtsman, and he read that in my eyes, mutely. He took us both to one of those bijou rooms of Philippe’s where he peeled us fully to start with nibbling our toes in front of the mirrors making Cecile wriggle like a puppy, then he told her to poke her tongue in my butt as he buggered her to the rim of his tautened rattle, then he told her to lick him while he served me the same arietta, unfailingly; she fancied to tickle my rosy bit while she made him yowl at the tip of her tongue, so eagerly that she made me overflow like Tivoli, no less.
He revelled in bathing with us, the turquoise bathtub in the same colour faceted tiled-clad bathroom held us all three. He wanted us to tell Gwen how fondly he remembered her, and we find a way to bring her over, the next night. He had granted a fat fare to entertain us, it wouldn’t let Gwen shy, anyhow. He ordered some tea and chit-chated about what we let him figure out of our life, he recounted his cruise life on his yacht from Greece to the Baltic, and his hunt for ship’s girls, it had been such a feast when he had boarded Gwen —nobody knew her age, anyway. I thought about which kind of a lifestyle Gwen had put her in Kate’s armsway, and fancied that she might agree to score again an old saviour, possibly with me.
Cecile had a message from Lauritz she sussed as some licentious invite to a private party at Speck’s, expanding his invite to me also, for more fun. I told Sami of all the praise we sensed about the new venue, and that we would be back soon. Our fragrances might have been less heady, in the car towards the island, but it was fortunate that the chauffeur had not much to watch for bar his panoramic rearview, we even granted him a heartfelt sapphic intermezzo. Once arrived, he ran to hold the door to us, for a last free peep.
The majordome ushered us swiftly to the noble ballroom where Cecile and I had met, a few ravishing seasons back, this was the place, if any, where I felt the proudest of her, and I soughed it to her pretty ear. We made a palpable impression on the swanky crowd in costly togs, we pecked a few amuse-gueules under a spay of white lupines that hailed my still elfish heart. Pitchers of Kombucha marked a win for Cecile who had represented that pretty damsels needed not to be drunk so as to fornicate properly, hence bottles of the fuzzy beverage had been ordered at Agnete og Sanne.
Lauritz wore black, a collarless suit of the most superlative blend of Italian fabric and tailoring, and a clasped-up shirt with onyx buttons; I had not shagged him so often, I swayed my hips in my jacket’s gap. Cecile read that and laughed. A few of the well-heeled amateurs, not yet fixed by another pretty tramp, gave us the eye as they would in all gallantry, but there were other ventures on our mood board, so it seemed.

Once he sensed we had binged enough, with regards to our silhouette —he would never say that— he walked us to the private apartment one flight up, where I realised I had never partied. Under the original willow green ceiling roamed by life-size stucco water nymphs —tending to suggest a long-time vocation of the house —or at least its owners. The walls were panelled with straw marquetry that Cecile had spent months mending, sizing, and burnishing new straw she had ordered, tincted, split, and flattened ready. As she couldn’t help grazing the sheeny surface, I was reminded of the chrysalide I had wooed at first when she was perched on a scaffold, and I saw nought of her, proper.
Lauritz asked we quit our shoes and stockings, I couldn’t agree more. A tourist barge drifted by beyond the poplar trees and cast shards of otherworldly lights, Lauritz reminded our first night together. He beckoned us to stretch down next to him in one of the two vieux-rose mohair velvet four-sitter sofas; from behind Dunand black and gold “angels fight” lacquered screens hovered some slow gamelan threnody. From the centre of the ceiling hung a large, arborescent patinated bronze chandelier, bearing agate fruit and gold-touched bent-out leaves, low enough not to shy off the nymphs. It projected phantasmatic shadows in the course of the running rays; somewhat jaded, Lauritz mumbled these would be the last ones tonight.
If we could have fancied affording him a grand special, he forewarned we expected visitors. Soon, soft knocks from the vestibule called him up, leaving us like the pair of night ladies we enjoyed playing. Two stone-face, crew-cut hunks in black polyester suits and college ties avoided looking at us while searching the room with eager eyes, and then one couldn’t help a split-second peep at my crotch before they ran.
Two mild-mannered German corporate types followed, probably on the greenlight of their security detail, rubbing hands at the sight of us, cuddling for show. They spoke in mock Schleswigisch, so I retorted in mock Sydslesvigdansk, which stunned them and broke the ice, although I wasn’t as fluent as I bragged. Lauritz introduced them as Alfvir and Egill, school buddies of his, influential politikers, stationed in Brussels. As they helped us disrobe entirely, a waiter knocked and pushed a cart with drinks and snacks; I knew the boy, he had been a kind lovemaker once or twice with each of us, in the wee hours, Lauritz condoned that, it made the staff all the more trustworthy —if we enjoyed it.
They sipped champagne from a silver cooler, and Lauritz served us elderflower Kombucha in crystal highballs. One of them had a crush on my Danish feet with midnight blue nails, the other already nuzzled into Cecile’s crotch and groaned at how delicious she was. Lauritz had slunk away in a breath. My Edelman knew of a bedroom in the Master suite, he led me to it by the hand.
The ceiling was also in Italian stucco, a lifesize Venus hovering in drapes with her hips aslant, an adolescent cherub daringly kissing her nipple, causing her to roll her eyes like a Roman Maddalena. The fringed hems of the plaster drapery rimmed the cornice unevenly, atop the vermillion moire of the walls, upon which were hung a collection of ribald reverse paintings on glass, in gilt frames. The low square bed pushed against a black satin deep button-tufted headrest; in the head corners stood a pair of seated gilt bronze bodhisattvas absorbed in contemplative gestures, half-life-size, ready to condone the weirdest of yoga. The small window was blocked by lewd-motives gilt claustra panels and the copper air vents figured dancing Shiva in open work. It smelled of sweet benzoin, the bed throw was of stitched black terry, falling down to the maroon carpet.
My polite Ritter watched me detail the decor, and I sussed there would be cameras at every angle, at Lauritz’s whim. He returned to a more civil German accent to vaunt my androgynous plastic in all angles before I unclothed him. He wore dark blue paisley trunks from where his Balmung already escaped with a pearly drop at the tip. He rummaged in my curls and pinched my chin, wondering where I might have grown up, thus I served him chapter and verse of my cosmopolitan glory, letting only a slight hunch of my lineage fog my banter. I would suspect that such a modern restatement of Das Narrenschiff as our beloved Saint Loup would not befit his German Geist. His eyes drifted aside from my stare, his own flight of dark birds had raised over the fir hilltops.
Meandering over my body and limbs, licking the veins under my skin, unhurried to assume any reciprocal coition, albeit I could handle his very tauten want, he stuttered eventually that I reminded him of a long-bygone passion he had fostered for a younger student boy at his Gymnasium, although he had never tried to reach out, if bizarre might seem his repeated insensibly longer glances than normal. I jested about a case of transfantasy.

I dropped matter-of-factly that he wouldn’t vex or hurt me if he treated me like a boy, I could revel in both ways, if well done. He played dumb, but when I nonchalantly presented my candid bottom and suggested where the Swiss Navy hid, I heard his breath jostle. It took him no time, amongst the sparse furniture, to guess for the small drawers in the Bodhisatwas’ plinths. He still murmured all the nasty words he would never had spoken to his younger age bashful passion. Since he had smothered me with compliments, I could afford him some of what I had been told of being good at, as Lauritz would have probably foreseen.
About the time when he dared bugger me goodly, the other two merrymakers came to wallow next to us, top to tail as Cecile wanted to lick my coochie in reciprocate while her Knappe boy had no qualms threading her beloved rosette as they found the Leman fleet on the bed. She was a furious little cub, I responded as a wired nipper with a lolly, wriggling our bums with eleganz and then letting ourselves unleash the timely spurts attuned with the lava flows in our entrails.
My paramour let his heart flutter unabashedly out of its cage, calling me corny names and frizzing my curls under the shower where we displayed some heartfelt sapphic figures and let them overbid their want in a vice-versa manner. My buddy pouted in despise, hoping I would not swap; I bantered lightly that my friend Cecile also made a brilliant tomboy, with only these two pert little macarons around her rosy sugar tits I never grew myself.
Alfvir, my new cavalier, fetched the tray and they had Champagne, Cecile had grasped Egill’s little caprice, thus she swanked her bum and acted like a no-fuss working girl. But howbeit his disappointment towards me, He would not either frankly shun the candid little buns on her chest. My Alfvir seized my feet as his toys and read my relish; his aquamarine eyes drilled into mine fixedly,I wondered if we had already met somehow, but he woke back to life and playfully crept up to my quim. Of a dry sinewy build, he cast an impression of mastery, and Cecile’s mood had shown he was a delicate swordsman against whom she hadn’t had to fend, but merely dance, unsweating. Now she played yet a different ship’s boy to alleviate another same uncurable nostalgia in a rich Norseman’s soul.
Mine asked me to revive the failing spear, and I took that as a reproach, thus I betted my pride in pumping it back alive till he made me stop and open my thighs, if only to show his comrade the glory of shagging a pretty jewel slot, full-face. And indeed, he was a skilled swordsman, he slid in with grace, in a few thrusts, to go bustle the smile of my womb. A proud smile bloomed on his mouth when I gushed the froth of my pleasure, triggering his deep inner flow. Still erect in me, he collapsed nicely so as to face me up and read my eyes as he dwindled; I mumbled I might relish seeing him again, thus he pressed his forehead on mine.
Visibly, Cecile regretted the swap; after she had cooed with a gallant Adonis, she resented being used like a slag, although she had played the part many times for Lauritz’s vice. I cuddled her in the running streams and promised I would sleep with her. Lauritz appeared in a mottled silk robe, saying the two huskies at the door were losing their patience, hence our odd pair slipped in their threads and shoes and clicked their heels. Lauritz was amused by our puzzled faces, we pretended to keep wiping each other; he pushed us to a sofa, cajoled each one lightly and casually told us that we wouldn’t need or want to know who the Ritters were, but they had granted us a copious reward, in that fat manila envelope. He rejoiced himself that we had serviced two offsprings of the higher-ups with such skills, and he hurled himself to suck Cecile’s pearly slit rabidly.
Homunculus looked radiant upon us, but Cecile wasn’t happy. She said I sounded irresistible in German but she had felt shunned, or scorned, fucked like a mop. It was a bedtime comedy, she loved me in the mighty face of the Crow God. She proposed that we spent our hard-earned stash in Italy, from the Pinacoteca Brera to the legendary town of Pienza with a main stopover in Siena and others at will. Would I drive? Done.
On waking, she was gone, leaving me her nightshirt to sniff and a little note on the kitchen table; she needed three days to put her work on standby. I cooked some French toasts like there was a family around, and effectively, the smell of cooking butter, vanilla, and cinnamon brought a half-gruffly butt-naked Kate, followed by Emeline and Gwen sleepwalking; they all smelled like naughty brats in the box trees, they almost stole the wind out of my sails, as I was trying to make sense of the train routes to Milan. Kate had a better knowledge of escapade planning, as a matter of fact, Gwen and she had pins and needles in their legs, lately. With sugar on her desirable lips, she advised me to go ask for the Melchior Phoenix.

His Worldly Highness summoned me that night, manner to afford our airfare, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to bring on my travel mate, he had noticed her closer at the Mendelssohnn mansion while appraising the collection —and he had sussed she wallowed in Zev’s sheets, by chance. It was warm, and knowing what we were headed to, she slid on the flimsiest of silk jersey tank dresses of purplish blue sheen, a priceless whim of her ever paramour, and barefoot sandals only to jump the gutter. She smelled of magnolia like a dream on Isola Bella, her nails were deep purple; I helped her clasp an Années Folles choker of small platinum plates beset with celestial aquamarines. Thus, I would have bought her for all the kerosene in the desert. I donned a papal white Super 200s double-breasted wool blazer, lighter than a dandelion ball, and one-strap white suede flat sandals; my nails were iridescent black, I smelled of Fiorentine iris, and I put on a necklace of proud sapphires and onyx in white gold with the matching anklet.
Cecile craved fondling me under the gold satin lining; no sooner had we jumped into the majestic carriage than I lifted her hem to the waist. The chauffeur gave us a connoisseur’s eye. In a matter of a short pantomime, we stopped in a garden somewhere high above the rustling city. From the lower cobbled yard, gentle brick steps led to a maze of rose tunnels, mauve and white wisterias, morning glory, honeysuckle, and clematis, not forgetting the datura trumpets and their otherworldly scent.
A shy half-moon was rising afar in the suspicious breath of the town, but a simpering breeze through the trellis let us gaze in simple bliss. Melchior sat amidst an arbour of peachy cream Martha Stewart roses, in an elaborate white wicker furniture set of loveseats and pedestal tables bearing rococo bronze chandeliers and frosty crystal ewers.
In a muffed tone of his otherwise imperious voice, he coquetted already about our faultless elegance. He sat us on both sides of him, on chintz cushions, mislaying his hands recklessly, like he owned us, no doubt. He asked us about our travel, thus Cecile recounted all the Italian riches she craved to imprint in her mind, and besides she was excited to go in couple with me again, recalling our conquest of Florence with fond memories. Melchior was chuffed and agreed to our program, he added there would be a Tesla car waiting for us in Milan, and he began to hitch up Cecile’s dress entirely, for what she wriggled to help. He begged for kisses, she obliged willingly.
Melchior wore an ample dark gold satin robe over a pristine white linen shirt to his feet in white stockings and monogrammed slippers, as he held Cecile’s chin at his fingertips, I went fetch for his faltering manhood because that’s what we do, isn’t it? Then I sensed my vesture being gently peeled off and some skilled hands kneading my bum. That was the etiquette, although I could assert my efforts weren’t in vain, I should be served by one of his perfect hunks, and so would Cecile as willingly. He might demand a second lip service later, but he relished first watching the squad ride us.
When all you have to care about is following the waltz head over heels, you may feel like the chords in a guitar and fly, and smile indefinitely to the puppetmaster. He wouldn’t indulge in requiring creepy chores, and none of us ever returned from his multiverse peeved. I did not notice when he left the garden, the whole corps de ballet was unleashed, they could lull me all their wish. So foreseeably, we woke in the wee hours at our door with our threads duly folded aside, and the chauffeur showed no hurry to see us leave.
Cecile said she had biscuits in her workshop, which I dipped in tea just like her, and that doll’s collation was enough to zonk us out, we enlaced on the sofa and dozed out. Needless to say, Cyprien was radiant when we woke, he said we had found the most natural poses by ourselves, lovingly. Time to hone his work, he would propose a portfolio to Melchior, and we couldn’t agree more.
It was a treat watching Cecile dress up in black yoga shorts and a tee shirt in her stained white overalls, so that only her little head remained, just like the first glance I took of her. I floated the idea that Cyprien should sketch her thus, once, but she hated standing still.
The Phoenix wing would take off the next afternoon, we were awaited at the Savinio Hotel, in walking distance from the Brera Gallery, the owner being a trusted friend of Melchior’s. And thus His Master’s Voice would smooth the road all the way down to Pienza, where an apartment would be ready with an infinite view over the untouched hills.
Cecile’s chinoiserie marquetry work was finished and required some hardening of the glue before being sent to the final varnishing cabin, she felt happily idle. I pulled her upstairs to the studio where all the books on Italy were stored, to forecast our trip. The Heather Fairies had set camp on the rug, as they liked; they greeted Cecile in her almost immodest Spandex outfit.

The Glaswegian Pearl showed her shapely legs and slender feet with nonchalance, Cecile sat in the easy pose in order to cajole them daintily enough so that she did not make her put down her book. I was brewing tea in the large Yixing pumpkin pot, and I could observe the manoeuver; after our unbridled overspending, a restful all-girls party was befitted.
This cunning dawn-sprinkled-haired damsel had slyly steered her gracile feet onto Cecile’s belly and was playing unnoticed with the belt of her shorts. My rescapee tinhead doll wore a fuzzy marigold, less-than-weightless chiffon gown which hid nought of her; She pulled me to her once I lay the tray for tea. She smelled of Zelda peony in all the carnal undertone.
They had travelled with James through Germany to inaugurate their new driving licence; he wanted to see the treasure of the Green Room in Dresden. Fayelle was enthused about our Italian escapade under the blessing of His Munificence, all the more so as she figured out how we had earned the favour. As she noticed that Annabelle had yielded to Cecile’s clemency as the shorts still clung mid-bum while they embraced, she hitched the oversized tee shirt I wore up and licked my tickleberries while I stole her gossamer threads.
The afternoon was waning, we fetched Michelle’s futon and pillows of fond memory, and we entwined aimlessly, other than seeing ourselves thus. Fayelle, who was pursuing a PhD under Prof. Gourdon —on both sides of the chair— reminded us of our beyond-the-mirror readings, and thus she offered to read Valery Larbaud’s Diary of A. O. Barnabooth which author pertained to her coming memoir —Adagio Cortesemente— on literary translation. I remembered the delicious amorous of Fermina Márquez, even though my love fervours happened in a windmill of unfettered passion.
I ordered boxes of petits feuilletés, the fresh specials of the day, and harlequin macarons; Fayelle never tired of reading —her academic tutor relished her tone of voice, too, as Prof. Y. and his sweet daughter did of Natalia’s. The Packard smooth phrase of Larbaud in the easy cosmopolitan Grand Tour careless culture not shunning the bliss in the wildflower on the edge of a dusty Italian road while the chauffeur clears the carburettor, feverish aficionado above any cause, carrying Houbigant sachets in his Moynat bespoke luggage, bargaining a petticoat lace in haste for a tiny gold Louis.
Cecile and Annabelle dozed out in each other’s arms; I rewarded my dear axolotl spy with a mumming tirade in her peachy shell.
We woke lain every which way, under unremembered shawls, comforted by the night we just had. Alfred the alfa Blackbird we appertained to, had begun his virtuoso aubade long before we heard it; Cecile fed them in the minute garden opposite her workshop’s windows.
While the tea rested, Annabelle and I played watersports in the shower like wild. Cecile and Fayelle were sweetening each other’s mouths with more macarons; tea was a special muscatel vintage Darjeeling. Fayelle switched on her laptop and answered a Duo call from Prof. Gourdon, standing at the ready in a plaid shirt; I couldn’t tell if she forgot purposedly, but her tutor stood mum discovering the four of us au naturel before she turned around the camera. I knew where to find sunglasses, and then I sat next to Fayelle casually, grazing her unassuming tits. Taken aback, the Professor thanked us for this morning’s glory hoping he would meet the boy sometime; at his question, I said my name was Alfred.
Cecile was overjoyed, we packed our bags like careless kids, the weather forecast was auspicious. Although we might need some tan, we donned easy sportswear, white shorts and tanks, mine with bold yellow and black trimmings, hers with the same in jade and purple, and we found the mismatched sneakers and socks to go with. I still kept a fat hanger of beach varsity jackets, all vintage now, but we fitted in; a white one with turquoise lettering bought at a Talk Talk concert for her, a dark gold satin one embroidered two Z, a present from Julia Grant —a whim of taking Cecile to New York one day, before someone else did. The chauffeur called from ten minutes away, we smelled of Botticelli.
The bold, unlabelled air frigate awaited in its chocks, the pilots coveted our bare legs, with a penchant for Cecile’s whom they had not yet savoured as well as myself. Impromptu, a pristine white car hurtled on the tarmac, bringing the veteran voyagers Branwell and Bloom —and lustful New York memories— plus a pretty, younger, curly dark-auburn-haired geek with tortoise-shell spectacles and freckles that I intuited was Brit, too.
They were dressed as putty-coloured Irish linen executives and white oxfords, Bloom in the requisite skirt suit of mauvish grey bourette, white twill shirt unbuttoned low, and grey suede flats, made me tinglish so as to find if anyone had already stolen her knickers. She smelled just as I remembered her English Rose. Branwell accosted Cecile like she was an actual butt-buddy of his, drilling his stare into hers to appraise any damage, before sliding his hand under the jacket on her loins.

He teased her clearly enough that we all headed to the Savinio, didn’t we? She wasn’t impressed, but Branwell is a hunky cavalryman of the kind she freely hobnobs with no strings attached, just like me. I fantasised that our Liege desired a few more unleashed videos of us —no offence taken.
We boarded and sat on the convenient grey velvet double seats; Branwell put himself at brewing some subtle Taiwan Oolong tea, ostensibly to demonstrate he had not forgotten any previous fling with me, or Kate, and thus my new travel mate should fear nought from his manners. Incidentally, Cecile looked at ease in her fitted tank, she also had caught the Captain’s eye, for that matter, but it would take a bigger leap to let her visit the cockpit in detail (I felt the pang for more New York follies in Julia’s new penthouse with her mad twin cousins)
The pretty blushing geek was called Elmer, Elmer Fleetwood, mind you, and no sooner had he crashed down than he popped open a pro laptop; he wore rainbow-striped socks, fitted black chinos and a vague maroon and black houndstooth shirt open on a white tee-shirt, he reminded me of Finlan von Blåskove in the matter of musculature —but I recalled having revelled with Gwen’s lean mascot all over in our swimming pool. He jolted when he found the plane’s wifi hotspot.
The aeroplane took off swiftly through the Parisian pollution, already time for Cecile to let go of her shorts, and Bloom raved about the allure in the mere tee-shirt, so Elmer checked sideways and pushed the spectacles up his nose, lifting a brow. Branwell had grasped that Cecile was worth better than a cheap shot on the flight when we would dispose of the full night on arrival, but he relished the sight, like all of us, and meanwhile, she kissed as a natural diva.
At my side, the picture of an English Rose, also nude in the white untidiness of her shirt was a heart-throbber while I kneaded her feet. And, up there in the blue, she stunned us, unaware, starting singing with a childish voice “Here, There And Everywhere” the Beatles song, and more, the two boys harmonised along, readily, well attuned, bright-eyed for the awe they saw us in. Cecile was transfixed, she fetched her chorister’s main attribute and pumped allegedly in time, spreading open his fly to ward off the drippings. After a glorious “Lucy In The Sky”, the alps were almost hopped, and we tidied ourselves for the landing, uplifted in grace.
The car was parked on the tarmac, I took the key and kept Bloom at my side, Cecile would sit between two elated boys, no knickers on. In the muffled bubble of the car, we all sang other Beatles glories, from “LoveMe Do” to “Eleanor Rigby”, I found that Cecile had a moving singing voice, as she wanked the nonchalant geek’s joystick, bustling down to gulp the outcome.
At the Savinio, we were indeed expected in a way that left no wonder as to who was the owner of the place, suites had been connected to make a spacious apartment with a view of the Milano sunset, as golden as the communal shower where we sang “yellow submarine” and helped each other with a rich Cologne lather. Without specs, Elmer questioned my eyes before groping me almost bluntly, before being treated like a girl by Branwell as a whim. We found stacks of the second-best towels in the world.
Cecile and I carried real satin pyjamas —like dignified cats— trimmed with contrasted tubing. She wore a turquoise one with rainbow trimmings, I wore a midnight blue one with silver trimmings. In the eagerness of our wants, we almost avoided the trousers. There was a private dining room with a table set for five, and mixed flower bouquets in silver vases on consoles. The decor was gently dimmed in balance with the sunset outside the large panes where we could revel in our own image. Prints by Alberto Savinio —Chirico’s smart brother— were hung on the bleached wood-panelled walls, the same as used on the round backrest chairs upholstered with peachy velvet. The tablecloth had two layers, a festooned-hemmed top resting on the pale mauve floor-long skirt.
Branwell wore a flashy gold-flecked white vest and fitted white twill trousers with a buttoned fly, nobody wore shoes. Bloom wore a high-gathered hawthorn chiffon Margaret Mackintosh gown as transparent as the English mist. Elmer, as smooth-faced as me, wore à vanilla tracksuit embroidered with vivid blue code lines. We paused our flirting when the butler discreetly coughed at the opened door.
Our three companions were decidedly carnivorous, they opted for chicken roast pasta au gratin, whenas Cecile and I asked for a vegetarian silken tofu risotto mix, with asparagus tips, mushrooms, and pine kernels. The butler, obviously overjoyed to be let ogle not only our feet, took some time swearing that the Swiss chef mastered vegan cuisine. He looked palatable enough, in case of a cisgender whim, did I josh, sliding my hand into Elmer’s trousers and promptly sensing a purely analogue jolt in response to my mischief.

By the time a young waiter in an impeccably pressed white no-collar tunic pushed in the cart with five covered plates, Cecile’s pyjama was already untidied, but she obviously liked Branwell’s manners around her, and she granted the boy a kind eye when he asked her which cuisine she would eat, there were tiny coloured tapes out of the edge of the silver bell to indicate the different diets.
Food was interesting enough to quiet more carnal goings-on for a short while, but Elmer’s fly remained gaping while his telephone worked on mutely lain on the tablecloth. He showed dainty table manners, he promised smooth bed manners, and Bloomed appeared to concur. The red lemonade was utterly fresh, and the nougat ice cream in nougatine beakers with a side of crystalised redcurrants on mint leaves made me feel like a ten-year-old at the Four Season, with my Far, for Xmas.
Bloom and I captured our genie to that grand bed, he reminded me of another creature who had nested behind our studio sofa for a whole season with her screens but had let me revel on her backside all my content; this one offered a snazzy tool, too. Firstly, he had unscrambled a wire to plug his telephone alive on the rug, then he had let me rip off his trousers and trunks, but Bloom beat me gulping the peachy-rose glans she had been accustomed to, so I gave a try at offering my wet noonie to his girly mouth, and he was liking the taste of it, as a worthy boarder of an ideal lakeside house. Then the English Rose was munificent and swapped, guiding his tauten toy to my pouty slit while she attempted a rose leaf. It was a well-tempered spear I squeezed with ardour, and he had the stamina; I soon gushed over Bloom’s face, and she burst into laughter. When, later, he dabbled at buggering Bloom’s shy bumhole, I fetched the convenient travel flask of the Swiss Navy in my stuff, to help.
In the morning, the trio had fled, to work, said a note with everyone’s wishes and baci. Cecile and I met dawdling in the tidied dining room, smiling at what the personnel might have seen of us, not to mention Melchior’s cameras. Amidst a new smooth tablecloth, we ordered a sleek silver vacuum flask of the best coffee in the world —she retold me of her escapade with Hugo in Venice— a plate of Lingue Di Gatto biscotti, and top-grade strong Darjeeling tea. She floated the idea of a video call with Hugo, wherever he was, she tilted her telephone against the carafe of crimson juice, so he would see us as candid as Gabrielle d’Estrée and her sister posing for His Majesty.
He wore one of his Ikat kaftans, he had been in bed with Elvire who showed her gracile chest at his side. He was overjoyed we called, and he approved totally of our travel plan. He congratulated Cecile for her shadow eye rings, and we hummed randomly. He owned up to having missed bringing us to places like the Brera, but reckoned there remained so many treasures for us to revere, and still, we would skip Rome on this one! Knowing he would be recording, we gave him the sight of our most tender embrace.
Visiting important collections is a hard-skilled trade demanding the proper outfit, just like trekking. Cyclist shorts and easy shirts, stealthy socks and black sneakers would do most. We had found these tear-proof, neck-hanging pouches, enough to carry thin telephone, wallet and cash. When we set sail, the streets were already bustling with heaps of stylish young people; Cecile swaggered at my side, retelling me that Branwell had threaded her again in her sleep, causing her a weird dream in that indelible cellar where however she saw no trace of a ladder nor a door, letting herself surrender to the sensation of weird connivance that led her to espouse the thumps till completion, and wallow blind in imaginary dirt while her rapist kindly wiped her. She had returned to that wasteland, where the only trace left of her childhood was that dark pit ripped open where the buddleia grew. She was unfazed, she wouldn’t tell Branwell any of it.
We reached that massive brick-and-stone neo-classical fortress, flush with the street pavement. Scattered groups of students dawdled, each waiting for someone. I was to ask for a Dr Vannelli, and I had to insist more than once with the reception bureaucrats only to let the word of our presence be passed on. It was a blaring victory when Dr Vannelli himself came to greet us, with a dash of surprise as to our mere attire, but then at once, too, a thrill of lust. He was one svelte and mellow-mannered Cavaliere with silver-strewn curls and coffee-dark eyes. It felt like M. had heartily recommended us to him. He ushered us into a second-row office, where a lady with an impressive hairdo did the passes for the house, she asked twice about the range of leeway we should be bestowed. Dr Vannelli insisted we should freely access all public spaces of the institution. She made us step one by one in front of the machine, and so after a few clicks and buzzes it spurt out laminated cards with our weary smiles on them; with a carnivorous smile, the Dottore let us know we could walk in all museums in Milan, big or small. However, he said bluntly that he would not cicerone us around the collections, but we agreed that we dine together: as he sussed we weren’t ones to dress for society venues, he proposed some cool vegan joint where we could merely walk to from our hotel.

There were at least two iconic pictures I expected to meet in the vastitude of the Milanese trove, one because it had been diverted from its intended destination in Venice —and I will remain a bona fide Venetian buff— as a monumental scene of San Marco’s legend in the Scuola Grande, same sort of revolt as when I see “Le Nozze Di Cana” in the Louvre, properly stolen by Bonaparte, and the arrogance of the French purporting that the painting is too fragile to travel back to its legit place ( and everybody saw that when it was unhung from the main staircase, the movers let it drop a few meters, without damage?)
Anyhow —Cecile began thinking I was digressing a tad too long— this huge canvas was also stolen from Venice by the same tyrant who hated the Serenissima Republic so much that he flamed the Buccentoro in front of the Doge’s Palace. She had turned on the third eye-scanning vision and was giving me the cold shoulder, thus I stopped my babble and let her lead the stroll, fantasising inside of Branwell, unable to refrain from a last shot at her tight rosebud. She wouldn’t tire, like everywhere I had seen her honing her expertise. At the core of my wits, I personally couldn’t turn a blind eye to Catholic iconography that I saw as a nauseous chore in the bulk of ancient art. That made the exceptions relishable, like the preternatural scenography by Veronese who dwarfed the goons of the Inquisition in a famous retort, the visionary Faerie of Carpaccio, or the carnal Wonderland of Botticelli, under the wing of the Medici grandeur.
I would have offered her a mint green Bluetooth headset and the whole well-tempered spring, but such devices were forbidden. As for myself, I let hurry towards the Bellini loot, if only to drive one more nasty nail in Napoleon’s coffin. As I found it, I wallowed on the bench in front, unconvinced by the backgrounds —I have always been seduced by Carpaccio’s manner of soil textures, like in the foreground of San Giorgio’s fight— I was turning petty, wasn’t I?
Sne arrived with company, she had let that tall long-blond-haired -student-kind woo her, and his mate stood three steps behind. His English accent sounded Dutch or German, they came to sit next to me, and she said I was her sister. It was instantly out of the question that we chatted in there, though they were attractively young and they knew. The tallest nodded aside, and I stood up, giving them the eye. Thus that was slickly conducted, and we let them hold our hands like eighth graders.
As students, they carried a pass, too, we followed them in a narrow street nearby with a shaded terrace, either Via de Fiori Oscuri? or Di Fiori Chiari. They smelled of some candid Cologne and their nails were clean. The second one, who grabbed hold of me gallantly, wore a mane of thick tea-brown hair and a beard, his big toffee eyes begging for attention. They wore oversized, tumble-dried plaid shirts with toned-down colours, distressed jeans and Chuck Taylors. They were design students from Eindhoven.
The tall blond one, called Kees, let out that they were staying at a hostel nearby, and added low they had weed. I retorted we did not have time to get stoned, and moreover, we did not smoke; but since they already had their hands all over us, did we need anything? They paid for our iced tea, and we went; passing a vending machine for condoms, I wondered if we needed some.
We climbed ancient resounding stairs, my shorts half-down, tangling our tongues on every landing. They lived on the top floor, in an old-style attic with an austere shower in a corner, and a hot tank next to it. They opened all the windows behind the closed shutters; pigeons somewhere cooed and bustled.
I was denuded in a blink, Cecile was laid down naked too, on one of the two uncovered beds, by the lissome athlete who had set his want on her. My avid captor pummelled my belly with a considerable dick before I knelt to gulp it because it smelled yummy until he seized my neck to kiss and asked me to unroll a condom on it if I liked being ploughed through now, which I did.
Soon both of us moaned in bliss as the boys panted. By the immediacy of that snappy random fling, we were both ready to gush our souls out as they filled their cum balloons and tied them off, letting us clean their unabated shafts.
They made lemonade in a tin pitcher for us teetotalers, and it was carelessly that they swapped us, as good friends do. And by the way that Flying Dutch hunk turned me up and poked his tongue, it was clear which bungus he looked to. By means of the required lubricant, it might not have felt as real as the naked truth, but a stubborn hump by a sleek unremitting shark soon triggered another quiver of bliss, moreover with the crafty tremolo of an ardent finger.
We played in the shower and let out plans to possibly meet again in Paris. I fantasised to recruit full-blooded Dutch buggers in our roundabout —provided that they test right. I played the worldly slut expected at dinner. Thus, we fled down the stairs laughing.
On the joyous way to the hotel, we passed a snazzy shop that kindled our acquisitive instinct, simply our buying penchant, damn it, Milano is the Mecca of textiles in style. There were those silk jersey easy-fit dresses to cry for, with a tailoring finish properly manic. Cecile chose a plum-grey-black chevron-knit tank mini dress as tenuous as the cocoa sprinkling on a tiramisu, the young attendant blushed as she couldn’t help touching her.
I found a foppish, zigzag multi-blue, Mandarin collar, mid-thigh, French sleeve, shirt dress that I could figure wearing open to the four winds. Then again, the attendant, who flaunted proudly rounded breasts in not much of a bra, would not resist grazing my sleek chest and finding my tickle berries, I just let her, casually. She sported uncommon anise green eyes, spoke good French, and her hands were preened with her nails polished. What would she infer, when I pulled my Infinite card, and it gobbled up the hefty bill?
I felt guilty, Cecile had kept mum, and I kept babbling to the door, asking finely Where we should look for the shoes to go with our dresses. I was intentionally thorough, thus we had to sit down, in our sports outfits, she had to show me a map on my telephone, and then, eventually, enter by herself her number, with her name — Adele— and take mine in writing because she could not bring her telephone inside the shop. She fled before the manager would frown.
Further in the street, our big orange paper bags flagging us as rich kids —or bitches— Cecile asked me if I realised I might have trampled into the girl’s fate. Looking her in the eye, I retorted with a quiet yes, because that was what we do, don’t we?

Cecile was proud of us slappers, willful dunces of the class tour, she proposed we trap the Dottore, who might not have known we needed not any restaurant to acquaint with him. He would come to pick us up, she would seduce him to a cosy nook while I would enrapture the pretty waiter. Deal. She had trained in the grand jeu of luxury room service.
We cavorted like lustful otters in the shower, then sang “Creep” at the wall-wide mirror behind the double-sink console while brushing mascara on our lashes. I loved her Van Dyck pebble eyes, all the more with purplish rings to them, but we had this expensive balsam to wipe that like a long sleep, and blush to pimp up our smiles. Our outfits smelled virginal and felt for their worth, princely.
Our own Gianni couldn’t have possibly overbid that —neither paled, whatsoever.
We still had two bedrooms at our spoiled disposal, Cecile devised that when she would have hooked the gentleman, I would slink away and let the pretty boy improve his French. The Dottore called in from the desk at the cocktail hour, and Cecile took her magazine tone to invite him up. If he was a trifle uneasy on the proposition, I could tell he revised his judgement when he saw us dressed up and strutting easily in one of the best suites of the hotel, with a grand sunset terrace. She suggested that we could as well dine under the stars.
He nodded and regained his composure, telling us he knew well the paintings here and there in this hotel, authentic futurist pieces by the likes of Severini and Balla that have been there always. As our preferred waiter brought him a Martini, and strawberry lemonade for us, along with tiny bites. The elegant wicker armchairs, with fuzzy puff chintzy cushions, were wide enough to allow Cecile to throw her legs over the armrests, and thus let glances of her nudity, she teased even me. Dr. Vanelli must have felt aroused so much more than in a bustling restaurant. He wore a thin statutory beige suit with an off-white silk shirt he had not worn in his office, thus he bestowed us some reverence before Cecile cast her net.
They purveyed us vegan treats for dinner, asparagus and morels in cashew cream, curried tofu frittata with artichoke hearts and cauliflower, and fennel and truffle salad; since he avowed not sharing our food mystique, we afforded the Cavaliere a turbot Hollandaise with fresh tarragon and celery mash. And we all ended with a raspberry puff, at a time when he had grasped what manner of a trap he had fallen into, Cecile’s skirt hitched up to the waist and her thighs parted.
The boy reappeared for coffee, not minding what went under the tablecloth hems; he cleared the table and came back with a steaming espresso caffetiera, but Luchino, as he had told that we call him, suggested we asked for barbagliate, of coffee, chocolate and whipped cream, seizing my hand to seat me on his right side. So the bugger was daring, and I let him unclutch my couture buttons one by one while he tickled Cecile’s jewels. Hence, her scheme proved too narrow for the bold Condottiere who confided he was also a card-carrying gentleman, and Melchior had made explicit commendations about us; he also knew that Cecile was an expert into the Mendelsohn trove that captivated the Internationale of curators.
Cecile and I had put aside our new garbs, it was time to further the game, so we all dawdled to a bedroom, leaving no trace on the terrace. He had grown a row of wispy hairs up to his navel, and his most Italian penis stood stiff as Justice. He inquired if we were lovers in life, so we said yes, and also polyamorous, at any chance. He laughed and went south on Cecile who raised her legs high. He asked me to let her eat my quim, thus I straddled her pretty face, showing my bottom smile. When he urged threading her, he told me to turn and he kissed me, as he braced himself against the edge of the bed, humping her like a bull. She gushed forcefully and mumbled in my coochie, he roared half-bestially a number of times, and then he laughed as he wrested her from my thighs. But he was relentless, he tilted me over so that I offered the lesser hole, and, still drooly, began to force his way inside. He was slidy enough to sheathe entirely and bump his pelvis upon my arse; that was deeply resounding, and when Cecile wriggled her fingers on my clit I let go a few salvos before I sensed he was blessing my entrails with Italian maestria.
He fell back, in bliss, his arms thrown upwards, while we were lapping each other’s outpourings, by vice. When the three of us were letting the shower’s tepid water soothe our bodies —purring to Luchino’s rave about us— the thunder began to roll afar; he said it would clear the city air for a while, but he hurried to dress and run. Naked as angels, we walked out on the terrace. All cushions had been taken, and the awnings cropped up. I began to wonder if we might have been peeped upon, but that was the secret life of palaces, and then I dozed in Cecile’s arms before the rain reached Milan.

In the morning, most of our nerves had simmered down, and the storm had waned on the world, the terrace returned to its quiet shadows. It took a few unravelled seconds to make me aware I was sitting in the raw in front of our half-smiling ragazzo standing at attention. Caught in the act as a nasty tease, I did not flinch long, his gaze was candid. I swayed an eye towards the second bedroom and walked to it, nonchalantly, so that he sussed. I grabbed him in the curtains and kissed him deeply while my hands worked at untangling his polyester pants. He could brag of a fierce dick, sitting on my heels, holding his thighs, I mouthed like the puppy its bone, then withstood the dire humping of his youth down my throat where he released a full measure, and none was spilt. I made sure he was correct again, and I ran.
Cecile was on the terrace, at the unset enamelled lava table, dipping biscotti; I murmured that I had sucked the boy, she retorted that I smelled like it, but she kissed me and said she would beat me at shagging him. It was he who brought my tea, I had slid into a light silk nightgown I should have been wearing in the first place, though he wouldn’t think that.
There was some bustle, another waiter was acting the delivery of a consequent fruit basket in which we picked a blank card with a hand-written L., a matter for snuggles and hummings. And no sooner had we relished the scent of the hand-wiped fruit than a third musketeer rolled in a magnificent armful of irises in a silver bucket. I knew what Cecile was fantasising.
Lucchino had texted a prettily transparent message, and he also recommended we went visit the Museo Del Novecento. That seemed fit. I also had a fragile little word from Adèle, whose French could lead to think she was lovestruck; I thought I had till the end afternoon to answer. I fetched a short, navy blue and white polka dots shirt-dress and flesh-tone seamless knickers, one-strap navy suede flat sandals. Cecile wore a teal silk ribbed jersey mini dress and grey suede Egyptian sandals, she agreed my mostly invisible manner of underwear was a kill.
Somebody once said that if there was one thing the Fascist regime did not botch, it would be architecture, even the train stations. These singular buildings that now stand across the weirdness of the Duomo, stun the eye with the noble boldness of the stance, and now clearly befit that of the museum’s collections. Lucchino had said our passes would work as well.
Not long after we began strolling by, we needed the loo, time to scroll through messages and notice another one by Adèle, from the same manner of pause, swearing she wasn’t any babe in the woods and she needed guidance whatever the cost. What had I done? I answered we would meet her at the end of her day’s work, wherever she saw fit. She retorted —I could fantasise her, seated on the bowl, too— that she would wait at seven at the back of Caffè Venus, in the Galleria.
I felt besotted with the idea of leading another candid debutante astray, in the sense that she would certainly attend no more shop if she came to follow our walk of life. She was awfully pretty. Cecile mocked me, but we reckoned I had never entailed any of my girls’ crushes to proper hardship, did I? She concurred, but retorted that people like Charlotte and Emeline had been bogged in a deadly trap when she hit on her at the garden store, and then, would she shun the little sister? She confessed she wouldn’t shun gracile Adele either, but we didn’t even know her age.
And this damsel who had once let me voodoo her all the way to a Porsche hell-horse smiled with pearly teeth and switched on the third eye for the fanfares of a genial band of cokeheads. Personally, I had considered this disruptive trend somewhat less demanding morally than Dada and Surrealism —André Breton never set foot in Italy. All I knew was in books, that don’t tell of the actual presence of the art pieces, or our rambling in the magnificent Ca’ Pesaro when there was nobody to grope stealthily by the magical windows or anywhere in the palazzo. Chances were that the Milano collection would soon surpass any other display of futurism. We reached my physical stroll tolerance level in a little more than two hours, she noted the books to order, had a doppio coffee with lingue di gatto, and then we decided to kill time in the Duomo until seven-ish.
This Behemoth of a monument was hellishly warm inside, and we were greeted by a sculpture of Barthelemy holding his skin, another of the Catholic horror stories they raise their kids with. When Seresine retold her poisonous upbringing in the shade of Notre Dame, I felt the craving to go and confess nasty shenanigans to the priest in the booth, and ensure him I resented no remorse whatsoever. That, and an earnest therapist, plus, independently, the dissolute life she led at Philippe’s, seemed to have cured her when I crossed her in the swimming pool, she was well worth it.

Do all forlorn does have a despicable tale to tell through their tears, or am I still the lakeside slut luring the pretty pixies to the laundry rooms? Cecile gave me the get-go if I should follow up after my wooing a young shop attendant, she would still love me anyhow.
Precisely, Tinker Bell sat on the lookout in the dark end of Venus’, in front of an empty cup of chioccolata. It was a round booth, and she slid back to let us sit on both sides of her. We ordered an orgeat lemonade that the waiter swore was homemade. She was mildly conversational, but we did not broach the matter in her texting.
She wore a beige crepe blouse fleeting over black velvet shorts, and she smelled of a gingerly bigarade with an afterthought of tonka bean, I let myself drift in her neck, so she swayed and began to weep. Nothing frightening but it felt genuine, and we wouldn’t untangle her sorrows in a café corner, thus I proposed she dines with us on our terrace, after a little stroll around the piazza to dry our eyes. We held her hand in turn, already trying to make her piece together our way of life, waiting for her questions to confess our most questionable manners, but with the firm dedication not to conceal any of our transgressions, if those were not obvious.
I watched her barefoot sandals and her perfect feet, she walked like someone who found what she wanted. A thin golden down shone on her skin.
She wouldn’t imagine we walked into our luxurious timely dwelling, she almost blushed under the personnel’s gazes. I profited from the lift to hug her a tad closer and poke my tongue between her lips. The apartment, all magnolia-white and gold with the iris armful and the cornucopia of fruit in the centre salon impressed her beyond reason, so I pushed her upon our bed and told her right away that rich men paid for all this, and not selflessly, capisce?
No, no, not that, Adèle, we are free in any manner, but we trade our favours, like high-rolling escorts, if you see what that means.
Unfazed, she said that was what her boss had commented about us, and why she texted, now she was wired. I did not rush upon her, although my hand sensed impatience for sliding inside her shorts. She questioned where we lived, and how we became what we were, a prosecutor wouldn’t have asked more. When she eventually suggested we were prostitutes, I said yes, earnestly, but I was also a known artist, and Cecile was a world-renowned art expert and restorer.
In the meantime, the table had been set for three on the terrace and ewers of the pink lemonade brought up. Adèle wondered if it was an honest drink, so we drank from both pitchers and let her pick her glass. I also ordered a sealed bottle of elderflower lemonade. That fuss triggered a long confidence from her. She was eighteen; she had been hired at this high-end shop more for her good looks than any other competence, by its owner, proper, not by the manager we had seen. This man was her father-in-law, and her mother had fled to Argentina four years previous and had not been heard from since, moreover, there was a judgement on her for abandonment.
She had found herself alone with this well-to-do fifty-something in a stately apartment in Porta Nuova. At fourteen, her all-conventional lifestyle had been disrupted; her father-in-law had declared his passion for her, to the point when he began lacing her drinks and food with drugs to rape her in her sleep. She had tried to get help from the family practitioner, begging him to do a rape test one morning she had faked a bad cough, but all she earned was another predator plainly in cahoots with her father.
Hence the reason for her suspecting the drinks, as she could tell we had views on her mutandine, so to speak, hadn’t we? We did not try to deny, Cecile was enthralled by this new little sister who popped the cap of her humble San Benedetto bottle, and then told her in the eye everything was fine.
The kitchen had built a colourful chartreuse with vegetables in jelly and lemony cream sauce and cumin bread, grilled sweet peppers in olive oil and capers, grilled tofu with a tomato and green salad, and I swore my soul no GHB. The Plombière ice cream with candied fruit was my idea, I asked Adèle to pick her lidded cup herself.
As the table was being cleared by my favourite waiter, who gave me the eye, I soughed in Adèle’s ear what I had done to him, she rounded her eyes.
So then she was still alive for us, and she let willingly my hand on her thigh, but she had not yet ended her story. When we had shown off at the store, like casually doing trials topless and flaunting our sensuousness, we had unwittingly exposed the routine she had become to condone, where she was the sex slave of a man she loathed. She had fantasised she fled with us, whatever the outcome, as an obedient pet if we wanted, her suitcase was in a locker at the central station. She added funnily that she was broke, but pretty, according to a nation of stalkers, and she had never done it with girls, albeit she would.

Her eyes were still damp and longing, I told her we had reaped many other souls in pain before, mostly for the sake of their beauty, selfishly, and she would have to give, first, what never had cost her any, to convince us she wasn’t a honeytrap. My fingertips crept to her waist buckle and her gaze wouldn’t flinch, nor when I loosened the three concealed buttons. We lay low on the wider wicker sofa, and Cecile had joined us, for the game was taking a truer turn. She had not first believed the pretty salesperson, now she would put her to the test just like I had done her.
And so Adèle lay beautifully bare-arsed with her blouse undone and did not see our unnamed ragazzo bringing espresso and sweets to our table. A sudden fever took me to whisper to the boy to show our pretty niece where we had been together before, and he was close enough that I grazed his fly with the back of my hand. Adèle read my gaze with fright, but I nodded to show her where to go. Cecile was awestruck and slid her hand in Adèle’s crack as she stood up for the boy and tiptoed after him towards the bedroom. I was shaking by my own audacity, we spied from the opened French window and saw the boy licking the sparsely-haired coochie of the said niece who wriggled on the bed, then showing her his dick she did no fuss to gulp, sitting on the bed’s edge. We were drenched to the core, and when she did her hardest to swallow all of the young spritzes, she felt like one of ours. When the boy ran, we jumped to comfort her and lick the drips which tasted of fennel and turmeric. We returned to our coffee in the raw, she was as lithesome as Cecile who kept licking her as a puppy. I announced what the schedule was; the next day, a four-hour drive to Siena and the Albergo Piccolomini, Adèle jumped for joy when I told her we drove an electric car, then she clung to me and cried she was mine, and she dozed between us.
I would have bet my knickers against a fistful of cherries that our ragazzo would stand on deck for breakfast with a cute smirk on his beardless face. In a mere tee shirt, Adèle was red as a peony as he stared at her legs and elsewhere. Still bustled by my demons, I breathed in Cecile’s ear that she was last not to have tipped our boy; she sniggered, dipped another cookie, stood up stretching, and reached out to the boy like a magazine princess to lead him to the bedroom. I seized Adèle gently and showed her where to stand on the lookout, and I couldn’t help rummaging in her pretty arse while pinching her nipples. For breakfast time, Cecile prefered lowering the boy’s trousers and showing him her behind to use, and that aroused Adèle abundantly although it did not last long. When she came back for another cup, I swore we had relished her trick. She grabbed Adèle, kissed her deeply and asked her if she still was going with us, to what the new angel slid a hand to Cecile’s wet labia. Together, they dipped the rest of the biscuits, there was one more in the coffee team.
It promised to be warm, we all wore thin tee shirts and cotton shorts. Our boy insisted to help us with the luggage, and he told us he was called Marcello Esposito and would never forget; I gave him a fat bundle of notes that he swiftly buried in his trousers pocket, and then we thanked thus the staff, ending with the valet who told us the batteries were full and explained which best way to reach the A1 highway southwards. But first, adèle guided us to her luggage, and it was a pretty well-stacked car that headed to Tuscany. She had never travelled in an electric one, and she was amazed we could talk in a casual tone of voice. Cecile drove, and I left Adèle at the front, fondling her tangerine breasts from time to time. With her bag in our trunk, she had succeeded in her escape, and I would see to it.
She sang, with a thankfully attuned and pretty voice, love stories by Giorgia but also we all could unexpectedly do “Bad Guy” by Billie Eilish, mind you, then a host of pop gibberish that became lovely because of her. We had to stop in Bologne because the air conditioning was straining the battery. The Supercharger was entwined among the by-ways but the onboard computer drove us smoothly to it. We had time for coffee —my stack of tea was deep in the trunk. In that ugly roadside café, we realised we were a bunch of lethal teases for truckers, but we acted like kids on the lam and afforded slices of deadly Certosina and sweet Mocha. Before the tempers stirred up too badly, my telephone rang to tell us the charge was done, thus we moved on like ZZ girls (that one for my Far).
There would be two more hours through the mountains and Florence, but Cecile preferred to keep the wheel, and I thought I sussed why —Adèle’s thighs would leave Canova pensive— and thus I dozed in the back seat. When I woke up, shortly before Siena, Adèle wore no more shorts or panties, and Cecile had her hands free. Adèle contorted back to give me a wet kiss and dressed back up. Our hotel was near the Duomo.

The manager, Signor Bertini, came to greet us while the bell boy stacked his cart with our bags, and the valet rushed into the scents we had just left in the car. Sig. Bertini pretended to be sorry for not having been warned of a third guest, but we reassured him that the arrangements would be all fine.
No sooner had we set foot in that cosy terracotta pied-à-terre, ornate with panels inspired by the Siena School in an abstract decorative modus, than our new foundling ran around in the raw to check out our luxuries and stirred up rain in the jolly harlequin-tiles-clad shower room where we could soon gather all.
I fetched a flimsy periwinkle-blue linen ensemble of a vest and loose shorts, Cecile sported a mullein-yellow buttoned tank short dress, and Adèle charmed us in a dawn-rainbow fine jersey straight slip dress two-fingers lower than her wicked rabbit muff. None of us flinched when the door was knocked on. A smiling hunk in terracotta livery pushed a butler’s cart bearing a large pitcher of crimson carcadè with marshmallow flowers —It snuck into my mind to watch Adèle piss on me. In a swift tour d’horizon, the tanned handsome ragazzo had reckoned the kinky availabilities, and they seemed to his liking; Adèle swung up her leg idly, which knowingly showed some more of her coochie, and it was noticed.
We went out in the balmy air; it had been raining lately, and it smelled of wild herbs fragrances. We skirted as of yet the strange vessel of the uncompleted Duomo, sparing the visit for morrow morning. Then, we let be drawn to the Plazza, the most brilliant place in the known world, and we were swept in the rumour of altogether children at play, the shrieking swallows, and the conversations on the bustling terraces. We pretended Adèle craved ice cream.
While I sat, awestruck, at the Concha gelateria, sipping a jasmine granita on her wise advice, I sensed a tingle for something yet unaccounted to my conscience, like I would sense something like an empty Deja Vu. Fearing an attack of otherworldly axolotls, I confided my fear to Cecile who sniggered finely, muttering there were two of Melchior’s hunks seated two tables on my right. After gulping the glass of water that faced me, I breathed deeply and bantered that It would begin to be sporty, then, and I seized Adèle’s thigh in a quiet manner. That was no alarm, they had never moved the pinky unasked for. She was unquieted, I promised I would tell all on the way back.
Approved by Cecile, whose half-smile meant she foresaw encounters of well-known manners —but I dared not go taste her greedy slit— I elaborated all sorts of precautionary tales to enlighten witty Adèle as to Melchior’s mentoring of us and the scope of it. I presented her a version of my asking for his sponsoring of our trip, to eventually warn her that she would be royally courted because she was young and lovely, and he had access to all the security cameras in the hotels we would stay at, and belonged to him, close or afar, and we had known that all along. He probably had had a crush on her, just like me. For the rest, she could spurn any advances and fly with us unscathed to Paris, otherwise, it would never mean anything worse than shag a few of his well-vetted bodyguards of the kind we had spotted at the gelateria, would she freak out?
The day was still young, we took the long way back, and she retold us some more of her eerie life. At the moment of her mother’s desertion, she had been thirteen and in legal custody of her father-in-law; all the time when the judiciary was debating as to destitute her failing mother, he had behaved faultlessly —he had always eyed her in the bathroom or when she undressed at night. On the very day when he had received the final decision on her guardianship, he served the sushis she liked and diet coke; she half-woke in the deep of the night, nude along him, in his bed, sensing liquid dripping from each of her intimacies.
She had cried aloud, although she wasn’t truly hurt and all she garnered was another romp, as cautious were it. She had been forced to live a full week in his bed at his whims until she learned to shed her self-respect and climax beyond all shame. Cunningly, he made all manners of damning photos of her giving in to his nastiest tastes, blackmailing her not to tell anything. It was morally despicable but not altogether deadly, and the family practitioner was his partner in crime.
Beyond her tamed attitude, obtained by his crafty mental manipulations, and his notwithstanding attentive lovemaking, she lived the seamless life of an aloof teen, reputed asocial. Her teachers took no alarm. At home, she was spared all chores, the maid had schedules never to meet her, and no visitor wandered about the vast apartment.
Each school day, she would disrobe first entirely and buckle herself in a padded leather collar with a leash attached. Then, she was allowed a cup of cioccolata calda while she botched her homework, after what, Zanni —as she began to call him— demanded she rinsed her vagina with fresh water and injected watered milk into her anus with the enema pear. It was time for TV news, he would hold her like a pet animal, asking for short favours in her mouth.

Incidentally, we had come back to the apartment, and we wanted to hear the whole affair from whom already sounded like another member of the tribe. I needed to nuzzle on her womb, so I unbuttoned the fluid dress, she smelled of wildflowers.
Her masterful tamer always let her choose what they ate, but she never knew what was in her drinks. On the biggest possible screen, he would show her all manners of porn, wanking her skilfully to make her avow she liked to watch others shag. He used a movie projector above their bed and bound her all spread to film her watching porn, with dildos in her.
Then, after a year or so of that willy-nilly modus vivendi, she sensed he drugged her more often, or her memory possibly waned, until one evening he unwittingly let her see the video of her being used by a man she did not know. That, or the drugs he had forced on her, made her stop eating, whatever he served. He did not cave, he explained that he would keep selling her to his most vetted clients, and the videos of the dozed girl were in big demand on his chatroom, besides, the leaner she was the sexier she looked.
The Dr, who played with her in the shower once in a while, made her injections that kept her afloat, eventually, she fed herself again but remained fashionably skinny for over a year, while she lived the life of an expensive underage prostitute. She even accepted to do it willingly if they stopped drugging her. They had never injected her with opiates or the kind you never un-hook from.
She became a hot topic in some secret chatrooms, she had to give herself up to many big names of the Milanese elite; their visits to Zanni’s apartment would ever seem self-evident, Zanni being first and foremost a wealthy investor in diverse fields.
It was nonetheless time to dine, and as per usual the kitchen had known what to serve us. Again, creamed morels and artichoke hearts —mocked Cecile— curried tofu with braised fennel, Toscan fruit salad in raspberry broth. Adèle was so overjoyed she had found confidants for her outlandish upbringing that she overlooked that she was regaling the waiter with her minute tuft. Then, one by one, appeared our handsome minions, willing to catch my eye for consent. I explained afterwards to Adèle that we would probably shag these boys like we had done numerous times before. Would she swear to be safe to shag, when was her last checkup? She pulled out her telephone and opened the medical app where her figures dated little more than a week before we met. She allowed me to upload her files to our main hub —and M. would scrutinise the whole Italian operation, if need be— meanwhile, I showed her a black card, not the infinite this time, and explained how it worked. She admired the perspective, and asked if I would make her one.
I received the green light for her and I imagined who had written it. Now the one that had kept me for hours once brought coffee and stood idle for five seconds, thus I nodded for Adèle to dawdle herself slowly towards the second bedroom where she was followed.
Cecile wanted some dick, I did see neither the arrow nor the Indian, but she was gone and laughed somewhere. Remained the waiter who had peeped at us since mid-afternoon. There was a rest bed on the terrace; to cut short I undressed frankly and walked to it, waving my hand. It might have been the moon, but he was petrified, and though, he was mounted like the top tier of my personal tally. Thus, showing him the bulk of me, I unclenched his belt and pulled down his trousers while he took off his jacket and shirt. As a seasoned fornicator, I sussed he wouldn’t lag long, and indeed he gushed a long splatter, holding my head firmly till I coughed in. He was manly released, and he might have thought of running bowing, as they do, but I would have found it rude to leave me carnally disregarded, thus I seized him by his handle and led him to the meridienne, lay him sidewise behind me and raised my leg up to give him way to whichever hole he liked, but the Swiss Navy being already on a mission, he found sufficient squeeze in my wet coochie where he sheathed a good measure and humped on the blind knob of my womb. He was no more desperate to unload his want, I drove the dance and brought him to complete elation just as I splashed the moon.
Adèle stood watching at the door’s threshold, with a Khmer smile on her face; I beckoned her and she came to sit next to my partner’s nose. She said her warrior had been expedient more than once, but he had kept his watch that chirped every so often, she sniggered. She kindly bent to give the boy a swift lick on his lips, but like the two others, he wasn’t on a vacation, he collected his togs and ran. The three of us gathered under the wide shower, and then cuddled together in one bed.
In the morning, Guido it was, pushed the cart to the terrace, followed by the three of us in the raw, it was only time for fleeting kindnesses, Cecile had long read all about the Libreria Piccolomini which was two steps away in the Duomo.

Adèle wore a daffodil-white, thin strapped, festoon-patterned crochet mini skirt over invisible jersey briefs, so the beadle wouldn’t grumble about immodesty. Cecile wore a bistre cotton ribbed tank top and creased desert-sand cotton shorts, no undies beadle-wise, I chose a vague raw linen man’s shirt over a flesh-tone boxer. I wore beige low-cut sneakers, Adèle some spaghetti-strap sandals, and Cecile her thin ecru beach sneakers.
Same as with anyone, after the frustration of walking on the protective masonite of the legendary pavement —wouldn’t one wish for a glass walkway?— the entry through that small door to the Papal library was a renewed properly carnal bedazzlement, so much so that Adèle remained clenched to my wing, and it was a relish, she smelled of roses in the boxwoods.
Cecile was scribbling notes, my disciple of late leaned her beloved head on my shoulder, and it was no one else’s business. I tried to alleviate the strain of whatsoever bygone iconography and let her free to consider at her whim, the painter’s and his cohorts’ mannerisms, for starters, the way Pinturiccio represented men’s crotches on frescoes which figure the life of an arrant libertine, who later became Pope Pio II, gazes, hands too, the whole shebang of invented subtext, we almost made out in there.
She was thrilled it went that way, after her moonrise peripatetic rant on the utter abuse she had undergone, I began to hunch that the monster might not have been worse to her than the bulk of common husbands, the bastard.
She withstood almost two hours, as much as my loins, anyhow. And Cecile agreed we would have to return. The idea of another cup on our terrace was vital, and home was just around the corner. Only one bum note awaited us at the desk; the police had inquired about Adèle, who was said to be a fugitive from Milan, and thus they might return to check on her. In the lift, I rubbed her back to help her from bursting into sobs.
I had read her ID, she was over eighteen, in my world, that meant freedom to move, period. But I knew not of Italian legal subtleties. Collapsed onto the terrace sofa, pressing her upon my chest, I fetched my telephone to call for rescue from higher up, but the text message was already there, from ultimasapiens@7streams, explaining that some Gianni Mercanesi had filed a report for suspicious disappearance of his daughter-in-law Adèle D’Albano. M. had now sent Avvocado Bertini to speak with the police and put the procedure to rest. But nonetheless, it appeared that Mercanesi had all manners of connexions across Italy, thus, beyond our delightful lifeways, we should not be worried when we be followed by security guards who, of all persons, knew so well, and who would make sure to bring us back safe to the big bird after our stay in Pienza.
Adèle grasped nought of what I showed her on my telephone, but she showed shivers. Coffee and biscotti revived her. Another pair of dedicated hunks had attuned to the hotel’s harmony key, wearing grege silk tweed and still available for whatever service. Sig. Bertoni knocked at the doorjamb to tell us that the police had said they weren’t inquiring anymore, and he granted Adèle a slightly concupiscent gaze, but she had seen heaps.
I fetched my laptop and cuddled her while we browsed Amazon for books on Pinturiccio and the Duomo di Siena, and I ordered all of them thrice, first for Adèle who did not even know yet where she would stack them, second for Cecile’s workshop Where Adèle would have to pose for Cyprien’s keen pencil, the last for our own studio’s library.
We rinsed our sweats and rubbed, only to fall three on the bed and let our detail peep all they cared. It was time to go stroll in the Palazzo Pubblico. Adèle had squirted all she knew in Cecile’s happy mouth, before experimenting with her novel vice all around my clit, and that, she knew how to trigger; then, equity obliged that I satisfy Cecile like I knew how, mind you, and poke my tongue all over her womb as she regaled of Adèle’s mouth. We would probably smell of fresh sex, but no worse.
The Plazza was in full ebullience, and all tables were overloaded with timeless motherly cuisine, only to bring up wondering of what did Europeans use in cooking umami before the Aztek holocaust brought them the tomato and the peppers?
Now Adèle was keeping ostentatiously mum and queried the eyes of her play partner, now offish as a big cat. I took her to a bench under the wall of the bad government and enquired about whatever difficulty made her look like a hunted doe.
She said Zanni would flood all the porn sites in the world with her name and her lewd complacency and it would stick to her as meat flies. Moreover, he would know from his confederates in the police where she was currently, and he had sworn to have her killed if she ever left. I held her hands and explained that, for all I knew, the high powers that had taken charge of us had probably already stripped Zanni of all his prickles and wiped all virtual memories he might upload. It was a capacity at the core of SEVEN STREAMS operations, wasn’t it?

She said she was sensing oppressed in the frescoed venues, she couldn’t release herself in the sublime forgiveness of Duccio’s Maesta. Thus, I told Cecile and the guards that we climbed up to the Loggia Dei Nove, to take a big chestful of Toscan air., but she remained clenched to my wing, huddled on one of the step stones at the foot of a column. Cecile was enthralled with the Siena School, she sat at Adèle’s feet and snuggled to her legs, our security barred a tourist to take a picture of us, with a stern stare.
Later, back on our terrace, after having stretched all our anxious fledgling’s strings under the tepid shower, and kneaded off all the lactic from her dainty muscles, we popped open our laptops to rummage the web for Adèle’s news. Someone good-hearted had sent me links to different Milanese newspapers’ sites, showing that early morning, Gianni Mercanesi had been arrested for multiple embezzlements, and all his properties had been totally pillaged and left empty. It was probable that a fraudulent confederacy had split, and all his social connexions were inquired. She was gobsmacked, she asked who we were, I joshed we wouldn’t paint a fresco to tell, and she would soon acquaint further with our perfumed gang. She appeared baffled for a jiffy, then, in the candour of her nudity, walked straight to her watchdog and pulled him inside, there was no doubt as to what they did.
She reappeared a wink before the moon rose over Siena, soothed and endearing as her normal self, thus we ordered dinner and tracked the news channels on TV so she could zap herself, and she confirmed that all the indicted ones they showed had used her at Zanni’s apartment, she was elated. Journalists in the know said it was troubling that all Mercanesi archives had disappeared into thin air, his cloud account erased.
There were beetroot and sweet onion pie, morels in cashew cream tagliatelle, red fruit salad with almond ice cream, cold Japanese tea and strawberry lemonade. She was restless on her chair, she had noticed that the watchdog had changed, if not our waiter. she wiped a trace of cream on her lip and returned to the second bedroom. A whole squad of Melchior hunks had been assigned to our favours, and I would bet they had been busy in Milan the night before. Cecile and I went arm in arm to our bedroom, waving welcome to the new pair who kept their aloof gaze while they grabbed hold of our lesser statures.
Mine smelled of cinnamon, tonka bean and neroli, his hands were unfailing and high-strung, he mastered the skill of wanking a girl, he was black, with a pointed glans. I called the Swiss Navy, and so did Cecile who straddled a bold spear backwards, offering a slit in bloom. My bugger read that and took a liking to watch me lick my sister while humping in my complacent rosette. They had training coordinating their moves, it felt unearthly as Kind Of Blue once more. Then supervened Adèle and her indefatigable cheetah who might scent a dip of different females. He pushed me aside to thread into Cecile’s wet slit of all his length; my merciless Nubian unsheathed me to try on the runaway newbie who was already all slithery inside. The third jock was eager to spurt a shot, he capsised me, held high my ankles, and slid merrily up my coochie to tickle the eye of my womb and gush like a stag, earning a jolly splash of me on his balls.
Outside, the table had not been cleared, I surmised our boy had been peeping at us, and thus I uncovered him in the window curtain drapes with his dick in hand, ready to pair up on Adèle with the black bugger while she gulped another doodle in her mouth. I reckoned we had unbeknown to us stolen a hot property, but M., who was undoubtedly watching his team perform at this moment, had by the by been served a master shot in the Mercanesi anthill, that I wouldn’t want to know more about.
They left us to piss on each other’s feet like nasty brats; Adèle retold having pissed on men’s faces she just saw on TV. We covered our wet damages and soon slumbered like a litter of puppies. Early the next morning, a knock on our door caught our attention to prepare to leave for our next stage. Our worldly detail, in spooky grey suits and desert boots, smirked gently at our drowsy gazes when we sat, decked in mere silk tees, at the faultless breakfast table —though I missed a plate of French toast. Adèle couldn’t help browsing for Milanese news, the dirt spread through social layers but she was ignored all along, since the Mercanesi apartment had been thoroughly mopped out.
Our bags filled after a fashion, and Adèle’s was the heaviest, we found two gleaming pearl-grey Rivian SUVs awaiting us and our detail. I took time to amply tip our dedicated boy. Though it was an easy up-to-date electric car, Cecile let me drive it as she lured Adèle in the backseat with her. I would have foreseen cuddling my catch myself, but I simply tinkered with the onboard commands to find a means to connect to Tidal and chose a Biosphere album.

It would be one hour, this heavy machine flew like a breeze, and the sound system was crystal pure. Of all of the girls’ scents in the cabin, It was Cecile’s Iris that reigned, or was it some syntony with the new car’s scent? Meanwhile, I would have bet my hat that they would doze happy in ten minutes.
The meditative cypresses impress me like forlorn sentinels of a bygone war, sometimes in cohorts. It is said that they keep the memory of the Etruscans. Anyhow, one roadside seemed a convenient place to pass water next to the wildflowers, as agreed by one of our mercenaries who did the same a tad closer than he probably should have, but we were pals, weren’t we? I did not move, bare-arsed face to the sunbathed shrubs, but I waved him to near his raising dick, just like any tart. In no time, I put myself to gulp two of them, they tasted like soapy soup. In the car, where my foundlings had not budged, I fetched the panforte that Sig. Bertini had offered us on the depart, rich confectionary with almonds and candied fruit, tougher than nougat, to sweeten my mouth.
We parked outside of the ideal village, as it would be called, and walked to a small pristine seminary, an outhouse of the much bigger Papal residence next to it. The entrance opened in an austere square cloister edged with four rows of simple circular vaults, like a stern schoolyard with shrubs in terracotta planters.
Signor Mancini greeted us with a dash of grovelling —and an unconcealed wink of lust.
Unexpectedly, the suite was magnificent, with an infinite view of a preserved valley, noble space proportions, and an unobtrusive attempt at decoration. Our dedicatory hunks would set camp around us with permanent devices watching our door. Something might be cooking about our derailing venture, but hadn’t we read with reward about the three princes of Serendippo?
The most outstanding feature of the resort was this vast overlooking terrace at the rear, a place to watch my foundlings dip biscotti while I resigned myself to ask for an Americano to avoid harsh dust tea. Then we discovered a sizeable swimming pool tucked against the terrace embankment, in the sun. We went fetch towels, and we dared swim and laze in the raw, under the unfazed eye of our dissuasive detail in black shorts, which made clear they were here to care for us, bringing lemonade and clearing after us. Adèle had carried her tablet with her, the news-and-trash channels still rummaged into Zanni’s dubious laundry, they let infer that some of the aristocracy were involved; in retrospect, she grasped how valued she had been appraised, in her rabbit hutch; she asked us to help her spread sun cream.
For dinner, they served us asparagus omelettes, roasted artichokes, and rich Plombière ice cream full of candied fruit. We remained on the garden terrace for a last cup of barbagliata, waiting for the moon, when Adèle read the news that Zanni had killed himself in his cell at the Palazzo da Giustizia. All TV channels were ablaze. She ran to the bathroom to puke, and Cecile took her to our room to wash and change; one of our minders came up with light lemonade and a small goblet, telling her not to drink more than one every ten minutes, a colleague of his had brought up an anti-acid syrup. She recovered.
She brushed her teeth and went to bed with Cecile who recounted her own struggle out of a boor’s grip that had finished with his accidental death on the dirt floor of a cellar. Unless one of Zanni’s peculiar patrons snitches, for whatever motive, of his despicable trafficking of his own daughter, the whole affair summarised in vulgar crookery and extorsion, and she did not even bear his name.
I thought Cecile was the proper confidant, she had herself successfully walked the paths of redemption back and forth, and she had some practice with abused maidens.
I left them in tête à tête and shuffled off, in my best pyjamas, to the next door in the corridor. He did not care about not wearing more than his spandex boxers, and he read my gaze on them. As a matter of composure, he waved at the computer’s screen and told me the girl’s worries should settle fast, only remained what the johns she had met might attempt to shut her off, and thus it should be wiser for us to fly back to Paris on the morrow. I allowed his hand on my thigh and swayed —like I do. It was only an elastic waistband and two buttons, he said he liked me.
I whored as much for the computer’s webcam as for him, M. had told me once that he would peep at us anytime, like bluetits in the bird’s box, it was petty coercion of our lifestyle —as for many other lucky younglings. I pulled his trunks, I knew what to expect, we had romped like animals at TRÆVIX’s, and nothing had soured that souvenir of mine. At the edge of the bed, he pushed up my thighs and licked my whole blissful furrow frantically —full frame. He educed such a vibrant vigour that I let myself be handled at his mighty whim, somewhere far away an owl hooted.

As he flipped me up, still his shaft deep in my entrails, I twigged that another one of his mates was eagerly gazing, trunks off. While pinching my titberries to make me wriggle upon his abs, he invited his pal to join the merriment as I stretched a chink further to welcome his additional peen. Only time to figure it out, two hands caught hold of my head, and yet another rod was shoved up my mouth.
Soaked as a mop, they carried me ever so easily to the rustic but efficient shower, preening my every crease meticulously, when an imperative chirp somewhere rattled their nerves as they had overlooked their guard for my pretty arse. On the split screen of the computer app, one could see a waiter bringing some drinks to my pals, and that was what should not have happened. One of my tender buggers was already dressed and running into the room, talking with the young boy who looked dumbstruck. He tipped him amply and let him go after he noticed that the girls had unwittingly let their bathrobes yawn.
Breakfast was brought by one of the team, whenas I might have figured having it by the pool. But events were dashing again, he told us to watch the news, and soon Adèle screeched in fright, seeing a photograph of a man said to have been shot dead in the night; he had been a regular at Zanni’s, a mild-mannered gent who smelled of Cologne. Hence the plans had been jostled, the aeroplane would await us in three hours at Florence Amerigo Vespucci to repatriate the whole tribe to Paris, out of Italian radars. The sole fact that Adèle could recognise these men was reason enough to hide her, we had done this before.
It was a faster road, and this Rivian car was a beast. I took the wheel and couldn’t do but recount my escapade in the boy’s lair, they relished the details, themselves had merely talked of their bygone fate. Inevitably, Adèle tinkered with the radio to listen to the Italian news and became stunned by the ruckus. It would seem that a thorny bramble was being unravelled and there were reasons she could be caught amidst the spin.
However, the albatross stood on the lookout at Amerigo Vespucci, and that was enough to rekindle Adèle’s confidence as she saw the six of us being boarded on the magnificent machine while the cars were returned to their station. Our minders brought up the printed press, for Adèle they eyed as another of the boss’s whims they would serve too at a given time. Before sitting across from the sisterly doves, still feeling the three men about me, I didn’t shun a random hand up in the leg of my shorts, I had been fair game, hadn’t I?
I played kinky housegirl, making coffee and tea for the somewhat short leap, and I thought of the pilots in their deck, and I knew I would be cooked if I proposed coffee, because they had known me a few times before. In all kindness, they pulled my shorts down and told me to show my arse on the third seat where I would gently gulp them, the Captain first. The aeroplane did not flinch, albatrosses love sluts.
The Parisian skies were in bright tatters when we three hurried into the stately salon car as the chauffeur saw to our luggage. The tinted windows made the nondescript suburb feel like a Wim Wenders emotional travelling shot. Cecile said that I tasted dirty.
The usual chauffeur, his eyes drifting about my person, which I did not shun, said that since they might have traced my payment at Adèle’s shop, and Italian journalists had smelled blood, we should run in through Cecile’s entrance, in any event. M.’s spooks had done their homework thoroughly.
Upstairs, Kate, Gwen, Natalia, and the Heather Fairies had ordered fruit pies. I was obsessed with brushing my teeth, first.

 

Kate says:

Hugo had summoned us to recount Adele’s misfortunes, thus we expected the new Italian nymphet to greet her with freshly baked fruit pies from Agnete Og Sanne and whatever she would like to drink. Thus, we saw that slinky lass, green-eyed, tousled dark blond bob hair, thin as a model, pale as a recluse, and easy with her body like any of us, here. Knowing what she escaped from, I felt like snuggling her as Cecile did.
Sarah took it upon herself to bluntly let out that their foundling feared being judged a whore, which made us all gently laugh and reach out —the Milanese threats once warded off, she would feel at home among us. Around the table, she sat next to Cecile as they browsed the news; Natalia snuck at their side and rummaged in Adèle’s shirt so that we all could relish her tangerine breasts as she savoured the creamy rhubarb and strawberry pie; she had hitched up her own khaki ribbed tank mini dress that I called her cheat, but her bare narrow hips were irresistible if she would.
The depth of the matter was to let her settle either somewhere in our realm, or let her choose her own perch elsewhere, which was not an option for a penniless teen whatsoever, even hard-working. Hugo called, naturally, to meet her with her finders, whenever later. But before climbing down, she had heard a summary of Gwen’s, Fayelle’s, and Annabelle’s kind of upbringing, not in a cry-for-shame way, everybody so far was safe and dry, put apart Fayelle’s bout with axolotls she had a funny way to tell, lending her titanium skull to touch, for luck. Only Sarah and I had had privileged infancies, and beautiful Natalia, who was already nude, then, was born downstairs to Hugo’s longtime housekeeper.
Once they had gone, our goodwill mission would be to scour the all-news channels, except that only Sarah would have spoken Italian, but international websites gave updates on the Mercanesi affair; some of the big game was still on the lam, no search on Adèle’s name garnered anything, the shop manager where she had been put on live display for would-be johns had not known her real name, and the relation to Mercanesi would be too far-fetched. Nonetheless, this stub for a thriller aroused us, as we had been about Fanny and the Montenegrin mob, perverse tattlers.
The Heather Fairies returned to their heights to binge on Netflix or worse; Natalia, Gwen and I decided to go parade of ourselves in the new salon at Philippe’s. We dressed accordingly in airy Margaret MacDonald style hi-gathered, layered, hazy gowns and gilt barefoot sandals, what else?
Sami was happy, he had not fondled Gwen for aeons, and he knew us inside out since ever. He said we would have time to laze around before the usual late hour of idling clients, and he drew Gwen to one of his hidey-holes. Natalia and I wallowed like lionesses for hire on the maroon mohair velvet of the sofas; she had been moved by Adèle’s destiny, obviously because of her beauty, and the wistful shade that would fly on her jade-green gaze. Could we travel anywhere and not fall for heart-wrenching caged birds? And yes, whenas she was there whoring for bespoke-clad barrons probably robbers, too, she was still obsessed with Adèle’s thighs she had caught a furtive glimpse of.
Reclined on the rounded backrest, she had gathered up the frilled hems of her dress over her bum, like a Belle Epoque courtesan, and I was answering her with my thighs parted among the eddies of pulled-up chiffon, making eyes behind the frosted rim of my high-ball of kombucha. The first-comer of the clubmen still in evening attire couldn’t resist sitting by Natalia’s bottom and revelling at her lasciviousness; he was ready to afford her whimsical gameplay, she showed him to a velvety niche hung with richly framed dark mirrors.
Gwen came back, smelling of Egyptian jasmine, rushing to lick my jewels and showing her tiny butt. A pair of habitue buddies fancied a partie carrée and took us to the low-ceiling purple plush box with angled black mirror panes at the top of the four walls, and a large crimson acanthus pattern carpeted square bed in the centre. They had called on a young house servant who helped us rid of our frills and hang them aside, then peel the gents to their slightly less advantageous allure, although they stiffened for our amour-propre. As it ought to, in a corner stood a little black sacristy cabinet holding the holy lube and the kinky pharmacopoeia; I refused any drug, but Gwen was tempted by THC gummies.
Whatever ran in their blood, they showed truly considerate, moreover when they summoned the pretty boy to let loose upon us, which he did frantically. They eventually waned out, like excessive bons vivants. Still, they followed us to the bathroom to practice the joys of watersports, and one had the nerve to piss in my arse, helping me to gush noisily into the bowl. The boy was still enraged at Gwen that he buggered again in the rain as the other clubman pinched her rosy tits. It was easier for us to hop back into our gowns and slink out.

Natalia sported a Gioconda smile, she affected to sniff my crotch and compliment us, but we decided it would be enough for the night. Sami confided that he had watched our little gathering, and it had made him spurt in the throat of a young debutante that he foresaw we would crave, too, when he would have ended up freeing her from her diverse shackles.
Windows down, the cabby told us we smelled rich, but he wasn’t cool enough so as we sniff him back; he wasn’t sad at our tip. Back home, there was a meringue lemon pie and Sarah’s sublime teas. We had racked back our gowns, Gwen still was my little whore from Bruges with an angelic body. We laughed at our white moustaches.
Sarah and Cecile came back with weird expressions on their faces. They grabbed a laptop and opened CNN, a third associate of Mercanesi had been found hanging in his Venice Canal Grande house. As expected, Hugo had been enthralled with our Italian fugitive to whom he showed the Mister Finch moth room —as they waited outside, hearing sighs and giggles— Adèle needed all the care and long-term support, too. As Sarah foresaw, Melchior had brought delicacies after dinner —along with his brigade— and later kindly abducted her to the realm we all knew, didn’t we?
Sarah, who was the only one speaking Italian, believed that Adèle would be left aside of the Mercanesi scandal, at least that was Melchior’s opinion, in the light of what he could survey through the networks. There was an entanglement of forged financial operations, going on for many years, and Adèle might have served as the matter of blackmail, but all documents, physical and virtual, pertaining to Mercanesi’s affairs had vanished, much like in Victor’s case around here.
There would be multiple choices to nest a new protégée in our love-wielded grid, Natalia had visited plenty, with Fulgence and his cohorts, as the workings went in the newly acquired chunks of the SEVENSTREAMS Paris operation, and furthermore, there were cosy places on the other side of the new staircase that led to Cecile’s entry; thus Adèle would dwell closer to us.
Now Cecile ogled Gwen, still wired after Sami’s passion romp, she winked her out towards her room, where I knew she called on Fulgence and Eric by any chance and they came, till morning.
Sarah found stupefying gobbledygook on the Italian news sites, and she owed us more about the manner it apparently fired up from the time that she had wooed that babe in a chic store and let her flee along with them out of blind faith. Now she began to suss out how a mere pebble had caused the avalanche, and M. had not cared to conceal he had overseen our little vacation since we had first embarked. Given the weight of his bear paws, the manoeuvers to cover Adéle’s flight had inexorably pulverised Zanni’s house of cards, and cost their lives to the most exposed players.
Adèle came at breakfast time, along with Gauthier who had been summoned to show her, among other amenities, some available comfy bedsits to be fitted at her will. It was obvious they might have tested the carpeting like rabbits, she showed bright eyes like a mischievous brat. She had chosen a capacious self-contained bedsit upstairs in the newly opened stairwell, with communication to that of Gauthier, Natalia, and many of those who never thought of moving. As they had been imagining the furnishings and decoration like I could figure out our copperhead knight doing with a new peridot-green-eye little whore, he had been casually sending his orders to his emergency teams who were already running.
Ostensibly sitting her on his lap at the table, to taste the only cooking skill of Sarah’s with blueberry jam, he told us it would be on us to provide soul props for Adèle’s nest, once she would have visited in all manners the many hideouts in the château. He had his hand slid into her shorts. Hanging her apron, Sarah proposed to show Adèle around, she knew she had been impressed in Hugo’s galleries where she had allowed him all manners of favours, ever so smoothly. She also craved our Aladdin’s cave, and she had seen bathrooms wide enough to dance in all the places Gauthier showed her to. By the way, she went to the loo, and Gauthier ran to his duties. When she came back, she avowed to having shagged him during the tour, she was a frank comrade, wasn’t she?

 

Sarah says:

Adèle and I needed a visit to the checkup lab, mainly to create her black card. Thus we took a thorough shower like manic otters, with perfumed enemas out of respect for the operators, in any event. She asked if I would stay with her, because she had a phobia of needles, probably caused by Zanni’s abuse of her veins. And so we stood arm in arm, au naturel, before the young short-haired blond nurse— I wouldn’t bet a free ride she wore something under her white coat. At the end of the day, she saw all possible specimens of humans, thus she was all the most amused to see me cajole that pretty Italian filly while she searched for a tiny artery in the crook of her elbow. Next, the gynaecologist, who would prefer tête-à-tête confessions, did not speak Italian, but he heard the confounding story of an outright abuse by a culprit who happened to be defunct now, hence her professional obligation to signal the case was aimless, and Adèle was major. As our doctor, she knew all about the lifestyles in our outlandish hive, thus she was not worried for Adèle, she proposed a long-term contraceptive implant, and Adèle did not see the syringe.
For the good humour of the desk nurse, we slid back into our black yoga shorts and white boys’ shirts, wooing her in Italian; Adèle’s card was ready in twenty minutes. It was a Miyazaki sky, I took her to the Senghor footbridge, and we looked at a few bateaux-mouches, I asked her if she felt like selling her favours to other scented rich johns in a place where the lights of these boats ran shadows across the walls? She answered she would do anything with Cecile and me, and so we kissed unabashedly.
Back home, Cecile had texted she had been looking for us, I took Adèle to the workshop, knowing full well what effect she would produce on Cyprien; but the matter was that Armand Lunel had called her to recriminate as to her long absence at Zev’s side, and it was turning sour in the poor boy’s mind. There were heaps of money to be earned easily, for someone trained at satisfying men, and this one was a phenomenon she would have some pleasure to introduce her to, so to speak. I had myself let be done a few nights in the ogre’s silken sheets, thus after the carefree confessions the doctor had asked be repeated a few times, she might as well withstand the otherwordly beast in the eerie Mendelsohn mansion. There was no schedule on Zev’s planet, Cecile announced their coming, and spoke of Adèle in terms she knew Armand would drool to take a taste of; altogether nought as harsh as what Adèle had been submitted to her life long, as Cecile had heard from her.
I spent time browsing for Milanese news, mostly images of the Palazzo Di Giustizzia’s front steps with bursts of fury when notables came or went, not a word of the captive, it might even remain untold, now that Zanni was dead, albeit the wife sought some media from Argentina.
I fetched a double-breasted peak-lapels night-blue sequined blazer, long of a hand below my quim, and black patent leather flat pumps with matching blue strass barrettes. My own allusion to the wandering lights on the river Seine had gone to my brain, I felt elated to go sell my turpitude on my own, after a week of babysitting on eggshells, knowing that Adèle was in for a massive tremor. After these few hours at the outdoor swimming pool, I opted for mere Neals Yard Body Balm, calling Natalia for help, even should it mean I lick her for an hour. But she wasn’t mean, and she found my idea snazzy; she was going to her music buff client on Butte Bergeyre, and she had not yet teased him naked in an evening jacket. We had time to preen each other like doves and rinse our entrails to the rim. She asked me how much I would churn at Speck’s, it depended on how many johns I would take, but the figures made her wish we went together some night.
I liked to return to Neals Yard Geranium Orange from time to time, and most men liked me with it, inoffensive and genderless if they needed to keep our gambols discreet. It had become the signature scent of Michelle’s since she had once set camp in our studio and she had found some in the shower room. I asked Natalia when she had made love to Michelle last, and she answered it had been a winter day, they had not switched on the lights, to watch the snow fall blue.
As expected, the cab driver couldn’t seem to drive slowly enough, his gaze stuck to my pubis; the warm weather had made me overlook the use of some kind of overcoat. It wasn’t a long ride, I tipped him swiftly, he looked like I had made the remnant of his day. Then the head butler was bedazzled, and I knew the drill, I had had the complacency to yield, once, so he pushed me to the door beyond the elevator, and he was greedily kind, pushing me over the small desk it seems all doormen possess. He used proper lube to hump me deep to the tune of three minutes, and he gushed his load in a hail of jolts. Then he wiped himself and showed me the small, but clean, bathroom.

With that stirring sensation of a slidy bumhole, I welcomed the dimmed lighting randomly torn by the roaming projectors of the loaded barges of strollers. All the more in my role, I wandered about towards the buffet to get tonic and blueberry, a blue inoffensive beverage the barista had invented for girls like me. As I drank, I felt a hand checking on my underwear, and thus finding the place likeable. It belonged to a mature, elegant diplomatic-type character with curls on his nape and embers in his black eyes, who ranted muffed obscenities in my ear about taking his turn in my bumhole, to what I murmured there would be no rebuff if he could afford his wants. It felt truly arousing to indulge brazenly among hand-picked A-listers and dolled-up escorts with natural hairdos and no underwear. My whisperer wouldn’t let go of me, I granted him a casual stroking on his fly, and I found him stiff as a parrot, thus I reckoned he might be next. A mild-mannered attendant —who looked me up, unflinching, whenas he had used me unabashedly a month ago— gave us the key to a third-floor niche, and pocketed some bills from my admirer who relished to let be seen my lower belly around.
Already in the lift, he would speak less ostentatiously vulgarly in my neck, he avowed he had revelled watching my face under his trash diatribe. He guessed I wasn’t some grown-up street urchin, but I had no confession to grant him, that would be off the trade.
At the far end of the corridor that smelled of benzoin, the mahogany door opened on a gold and green boudoir with a large square banquette upholstered with a petit-point tapestry showing sacred fish in a lotus pond, sided by four malachite-green sofas, for hair-rising parties. The same green velvet covered the walls, and the ceiling was clad in reddish gold leaf, with a bursting cloud of metalwork and pressed glass —in the same vein as the one I caught Cecile working on, at the beginning of our friendship— casting a lustfully subdued lighting.
My suitor took away my blazer and ordered me to quit my shoes and sway gently, upon the banquette, to the sound of the slow cool electro mix. Now he was wheedling about my allure, my boyish features, bar my chubby pube. He wanted me to retell how the Maitre d took advantage of me and how I liked it. On each wall, gilded sculpted wood panels showed scenes of the bygone colonial era, explicitly outrageous, like these shapely hunters carrying a nude woman tied to a spear, elsewhere nubile slaves attending opium smokers’ pipes, squatting so as to also present their quims amidst the dreamers’ paraphernalia, fantasmatic Asian whores in odalisk poses, in short, nothing ever possible to put up for a public sale, but as of here and now, the guiltiest of delectation.
In the raw, he wasn’t so repulsive, he was fully tanned and only grew hair on the chest. He had appreciated the skit I had told of, in the maître d’s booth, he was in shape for a master’s turn, he asked me to stand on all fours, obviously, and I was as gliding as a bobsleigh slope. He was a fast shooter, he made me turn over and clean his johnson with my mouth, all the way moaning I was a gifted whore.
He remained cranked up, he might have been loaded on something, or he was in love. He lay down and told me to straddle him face to him and widespread so he could watch his shaft come and go in my slit; he held my hands, and I felt I could let flow, he relished that, too, and spurt some more. Then he passed out. They say things like that occur, but I was dumbstruck. First, I fetched a towel to wipe him clean; I dared listen to his breathing, it was feeble but steady. When I was about to call for help, he woke suddenly, and it took him a minute to remember who I was, then again finding me sexy and eventually presenting excuses. Recovering his wits, he said he would need more of me, on Thursday nights around nine, if I cared. The tip could suffice to buy Adèle a whole new wardrobe, and she had tastes.
As I returned to the salon with indefectible curiosity, I crossed the Maître d who pinned me to the wall only to tell me I was a born enchantress and I’d better be there next Thursday, then he lightly grazed inside my half-costume.
There were two or three very young tasty angels dressed in fragile nothingness, thus I went to woo them and tell them to take their shoes off, as they would at a party their age —they did not reckon yet as to where they happened to be, on what down to earth purpose. One sported very short Mia Farrow hair, I enlaced her in a lazy dance, and she was startled when she felt I was naked at her hand while I tilted her head in a long kiss. I told her to slip off her knickers, and what remained of the haywire schoolgirl blushed. A silver-templed German aristocrat was dawdling near us with bright eyes, I told Coline —that was the name she would bear— to use lube she would find in the bedstead drawer. She had platinum-blue eyes, I would take care of her shoes, and her knickers.

The two others had witnessed my pass at their buddy, they were close sisters, shapely lean, a dash smaller than me without shoes, appetising toes with black lacquered nails, coffee-black doe eyes with lively white, same cinnamon curly short hairdo they had cut for one another. One, Carine —said she— was the elder, she looked downwards when I asked for her pants, she tasted lemony on her pulpy lips, and she wore a short purplish lurex kind of tank dress; I easily reached her close-shaved pubis as I nailed her against the pillar partitioning the salon, so as two young corporate studs came on to sniff at her curls, muttering they would crave sharing her in a comfy nook. I gave her the same advice as I had to Coline, she stuttered she had never done that, I joshed welcome to the trade —they did not look fierce anyhow.
The last was delicious and barely of age, she called herself Dorothy, and wore no knickers, already. She slid her hand under my lapel and to my back. She had grasped my play with the two others, she wanted to show herself as the daredevil, and she stuck two agile fingers into my arse. She smelled of a daffodil, and I fumbled into her neck. She wore a hazy-blue jumble-printed poplin waistless flared dress, it was easy to find she was ablaze. A towering figure of a patriarch bruskly seized us both and dragged us to the lift. He told us to keep on our kittenish romp.
The room was all panelled with carved wood of grotesque singeries on a willow-green background that greatly amused Dorothy as I pulled off her dress. The Commander told her to unclothe him, he wore Saville Row bespoke and sported sturdy loins; he remained half-bent, I told her to suck him hard while I would eat her on the edge of the grand green bed, she parted her legs like a dancer. He grabbed her joujou head and spurted straight in her throat, like obviously she had not expected at all, and he was overjoyed with how she coughed. I devoured her tongue and explained that in rich houses, girls did not spit off, and said thank you to their johns. That one had sussed he had bought a peppy debutante together with a cunning returning horse, he commanded me to prepare profusely the damsel’s jacksie and embrace her top to tail so we could lick our slits while he would ravage her pale hibiscus. I held her firm and poked my devilish tongue upon her proud clit and her labia. I saw the glistening pointed glans push upon the shy rosette I just had slathered with slidy gel —not my favourite fleet’s, though— and I spurted to her crafty little mouth as I could see her surrender. Once she took on the bulk of the menace —and I guessed it wouldn’t be the inaugural visitor in the pink diverticulum— into her bumhole that I helped prised open with both hands, she began to wave in rhythm with the bastard’s growls, just like a rich courtesan. I strived with all my want to make her climax while he gushed another load into her, and she shivered upon my womb with long moans. After an after-party in the bathroom, where Dorothy learned a rich customer may fancy pissing in a pretty girl’s mouth, or vice versa, we dressed him up —as he went on fingering Dorothy’s arse— we thanked him for the princely tip.
I had a crush on Dorothy and her sisters, I was afraid Hugo would scold me for not keeping my whims on leash. Lain aside her on the velvet, drowning in her black eyes, I recalled the days when a whole school lost their underwear in a small boxwood bosket.
Lauritz barged in, all black and silky as per usual, and he sat casually near Dorothy, asking how it was being a softy-skinned hireling. He kissed us both on our bloomy lips and asked us to wait for him, ordering drinks if we will, on the house. The waiter knew there wasn’t time whatsoever, but he relished the few thrusts I let him make in my slutty mouth, for Dorothy’s loveliest eyeful.
Things had gone diversely for Coline and Carine, the latter having sustained all harmless manners of intimate relations, some she wouldn’t dare fantasise. Yes, she had followed my advice, when it became certain they would use her, Heads and Tails. She had discovered the double penetration, either side up, she even had drank semen and piss, whatever repulsive taste they have. In short, she was proud she had reconnoitred her limits. She had pretty creases across her flat belly, and sassy brown tits, she would make a killing in our dovecot.
Coline had inherited a crackpot, a sweet one, that is, who wanted to play house with her keeping a furry tail in her bum, returning after each imaginary housekeeping chore to sucking his dick on all fours under a dressed table. He too, had taken care of blocking her head when he spurted the goo thrice. He had been grateful, he had never glanced at her quim whatsoever. She was troubled the sisters sounded like they had eventually come to like what they had been done to, and she looked disabused, at the least.
Lauritz had undressed, his staff upright, four nude loot girls ready for anything, bar one chagrined pretty blonde, lying on one of his beds.

He was certainly not a boor, and Coline seemed to know then; he schemed some arrangement where I would toy with her pouty mouth, the sisters each with a nascent breast, and him in where the tail dildo had eased the way. He was an accomplished swordsman, and it sure wouldn’t be the first time he buggered Coline. Seeing an opportunity, I crept to her benign slit to enkindle her clit while I sat low upon her mouth to receive the same blessing. I had stolen access to Coline’s tits, but nevertheless, I earned a second tongue in my own rosette. Lauritz warned he would fire his load, Coline gushed in my mouth as I did in hers. Next, I jumped on Carine and crooked two fingers into her vagina, finding the eye of Dr Graftenberg and making her leak folly waters.
Lauritz had been to the countryside, cruising about in shabby nightclubs, as he did in Sylt, in the 911. At the Nonstop in Saint Quentin, he hit on Coline who dawdled offishly and sucked well-to-do offspring in their cars for money. The second night, she let him drag her to his hotel room, and she cried when he ripped her bare. She was ashamed of her clothes, her underwear was frayed. She had dropped out of college, she lived in a garret with no running water, she had shunned pushing drugs around clubs, she was direly depressed, but madly beauteous au naturel, and so young that, after three days in the 911, as-you-will shopping and body care in expensive hotels, she was ripe to accept anything for him. Only that he wasn’t a pimp. He had stargazed with Cecile, and also Camille, about using his power and social skills to simply fish out these forlorn wayfarers and dip them into his open network. He had been mulling over taking over an apartment building behind Speck’s that Gauthier’s enterprises were currently refurbishing, all this at a thoughtless capital loss, bar the listed property, and moreover the windfall of Cecile’s success. The key had been the uncovering that this Hotel bearing his name in the middle of Paris had been a concealed whorehouse for a century.
As for Coline personally, she had been raised almost properly in a small brick house near the old Laon, and then it started to unfurl from terrible to worse. Her father was a simple roofer, and a common alcoholic, who fell from a roof he worked on, six storeys high. To make her fate even more dreadful, her father had been working uninsured and all accountable people vanished. Her mother received a tiny compensation that lasted less than a year, she was badly depressed and couldn’t work; she eventually found a new partner, who treated her so awfully that she abused her medications. That man unsurprisingly became besotted by Coline who ran away at thirteen and thus was sent to an institution near Lyon, where again she was stalked by an education adviser. She tried to protest, only to be sent to a worse discipline structure. Meanwhile, her mother had succeeded in suicide with her own pills, her companion had left her long ago. Eventually, she was sent to Saint-Quentin where she was an on-and-off fast-food attendant. She sold what remained of her parent’s house and became a back-seat whore.
Currently, Lauritz paid for a small bedsit on Saint Louis island, like American parents do for their would-be-writers offspring, only Coline was a whore, a very pretty one at that. I fiddled with the mad idea of lodging her with Adèle, but that was inspired by mere lust.
As for Carine and Dorothy, they had been born in Montluçon, to the very conventional couple of a police officer and a dull housemaker. There was a thirteen months difference between them. The exotic name came from a long-time English pen pal of their mother.
Fate struck in the first year of primary school, when their unassuming father shot up his skull with his service weapon, at his work desk, leaving no explanation. The man had been a remote character, the girls did not recall having ever been held up in his arms, and he smelled of the black tobacco stench. Their waning mother outlasted six other months before swallowing an old rat poison. Kept away from most of the adult tragedy, the girls were sent to their paternal uncle’s farm, near Moulins. They were horrified by the treatment of animals and the omnipresence of shit, they withered away so fast that the services were called and the girls were put in a catholic boarding school. For two years, they abided by the morbid rule of the nuns and let do nightly shenanigans, all was better than the farm’s ordure. Although many measures were taken to separate them, they kept mentally close as if twins. Eventually, as the nuns prepared whatever religious pump to be held in the chapel the sisters hated, they snuck in before daybreak, threw on the pavement the two enormous armfuls of lilies and fled with their derisory bundle. They were already tall enough not to catch the attention, they grasped fast enough how to hoodwink the truck drivers with tall tales, and paid their fare in kind. With their features and some tan, they could pass for Roma, and that is what happened.

One truck driver, not worse than many, had taken them to an automatic hotel to let them use the shower and clip their nails, sort of. He had a penchant for Dorothy, and they slept like fugitives. Seeing them nude, he had a doubt about their age. He bought breakfast and told them they could try to get hired to pick apples, where he headed to. Fruit growers do not ask for ID, nor if they speak French. A band of Roma were already at work, the foreman mumbled they were pretty, as Gypsies. They broke their backs picking apples on low-pruned trees, and at the end of the day, they were cheated, and they whinged, at what the foreman walked out, shouting work began at seven.
No sooner had he gone than a couple of thugs, who mostly served as taskmasters on their own people, pulled them away to a van and drove a kilometre or two. They were three brutes, with paws big as manure forks. They did not rip their clothes, but they made them undo one by one, growling at each new swathe of nude skin, manhandling them like dead meat. They used oil to rape them; they were mounted like asses, but they obviously did not want to break anything, and for a cause, they learned.
From then on, they were sold as back alleys prostitutes, in cars, in sordid shacks. They no longer had shoes or underwear, old women came to wash them and comb their hair; they planned suicide. Fate struck again, their pimp lost them at a card play, he refuted violently and was shot dead along with his goons. They were bound with plastic ties, stacked together in the trunk of a town car, and injected with something in the butt cheek.
We woke hazily on a clean bed, rocked by sea swaying we could not discern from drug drowsiness, we clutched to each other, but we couldn’t tell we weren’t dead. It was pitch black, but we eventually found a light switch and a door to a tiny bathroom if only to pee, because we had been thoroughly washed, and we smelled at each other in detail.
They were in a large boat on the high seas, a yacht called Hopi, long enough to run on. A crewman in no shoes, white shorts and tee shirt, unlocked the door and waved them out. He did not speak French, and when They signed that they needed clothes, he laughed and meant they would wear none. He was kind, but he touched them at all times, even more intrusively than he would have a pet, because one doesn’t finger a dog’s privates.
The ship flew the flag of the Caiman islands, in George Town. The owner was a beautiful young man who had hired them the day before he killed their Roma captor. He looked like King Tut, his name was Georges Nader. Without any ado, he sat them at his feet on a silk rug and told them they were sex slaves, and their only concern was to remain beauteous and available. He bragged about being a faithless orphan nomad, and he made Dorothy suck him right away, before sharing his collation.
Their nascent souls had been ground by aeons of maltreatment in sordid hovels or on a mere mattress in the back of a truck, their only lifeline their sisterhood. They complied, and it was no hassle, though every male onboard could demand their service at a whim, on the condition it would not wound the girls. In the all-male Philippine staff, a few boys knew how to do their nails and hair, they were fine-featured and slender, and the higher-ups would use them sexually, too.
It had been an unreal parenthesis, in tepid waters, amidst the dolphins and sharks, and never a solid ground in sight. It ended in the shape of a Royal Navy patrol ship, the arrest of Georges Nader, a multifaceted trafficker who might pretty well have groomed them for sale, as they do with horses.
They were being re-dressed in British fatigues, brought on-land in the Akrotiri base on Cyprus, and then questioned extensively by a kind woman intelligence specialist who wrote their edifying biography with many innuendos. They returned to France in a student residence near Orleans where they did not mingle well with others they found childish or bothersome, but passed their driving licence. They had a few months to get by before they could fly their own wings.
Lauritz found them just in time, as they began selling backseat blowjobs at a middle-of-nowhere club with a vast parking lot where they had been in the crosshairs of a local pimp. After a midnight escapade in the 911, pills-induced narrative, and moonlight sex, he brought them tentatively to Coline’s bedsit, where they sisternised and cuddled in the same bed, waiting to inaugurate Speck’s back farm. No one wanted to go serve fries or muffins for a mean pay, they had known otherwise and knew their worth just like Lauritz in the first place. He sent them to the medical practice where we all go, and offered them their black Sesame and their first year of bimonthly updates. Before testing their talents in Speck’s grand salon, Lauritz took them to Philippe’s in short zigzag jersey waistless thin-strapped dresses, and black patent leather flats, leaving it to Sami to confiscate the panties.

A tad giddy with all these poignant adventures, I granted Lauritz that he displayed a seducing hunting table, I made him promise to bring them to Cecile’s workshop next afternoon —if only to show them to Cyprien who might crave to draw them— and I would show them around the beehive, perhaps to suggest a perspective on diverse manners of self-redemption. Besides, they would prettily panic the whole hive and assert their self-worth, wouldn’t they?
I took a car back home, not shy of what the driver could see, and found Natalia in our bed; her audiophile had left her wanting, she said it was better in twos. I only confided that Lauritz had fished three young kittens out of the desolation pond and they would frolic with us the next afternoon, I promised I would go with her to trick her doctorate’s master, and then I cuddled her as we had always done.
In the morning I was alone, and some thin rays of sun snuck through the shutters. I brewed some tea and stretched my joints on the rug, listening to Daddy’s ELO. Then all last night’s emotions bloomed aback, and I felt the urge to beam in daytime mode to keep up with young rescapées. I fetched an off-white Irish linen oversize shirt and white cotton shorts. I needed sandals to dawdle in Cecile’s workshop, like chalk-grey suede sandals.
My three new crushes had arrived and were showing their nudity, as I would have figured, the sisters reclining on the sofa, Dorothy upfront, and Coline standing up, relaxed and dreamy. Cecile stared at me to acknowledge that she had not had the heart to turn her back to the marvels. Cyprien had tiny dew pearls on top of his forehead, and a glass full of honed pencils ready. How could the girls have known such mind broderies as Bach’s timeless Klavier? I was thrilled by what I read in their gaze, and I sent a flock of air kisses.
I wouldn’t know if Cyprien had posed Coline standing thus, easy on her balance, arms loosen, her gaze vaguely slanted aside. What Cecile craved was her spine, butt, and shapely legs; I wouldn’t know if the little fugitive had been running so far as to model up such harmonious muscles, I went on to share Cecile’s silence.
The delivery boy from A&S had seen oodles of bewildering scenes around us, but there, he was so frankly flabbergasted by the careless elegance of our candid pixies that he almost forgot to pick his material money tip.
The youths had like some ants in their legs after hours of immobility, I floated the suggestion to make them explore the whole realm where they would meet goblins just like them. Cecile held Coline in her wing, I flirted with the Hopi pets. We visited the gym where Apolline had been sweating on a black torture apparatus, and she gave an eager smile while wiping herself; she was taller than Carine, and she wooed her at once, grazing her shirt offhandedly. The scent of embrocations and other sports pharmacies made for a weird eroticism. Apolline took off her brassière and shorts, thus letting us see all of her peculiar anatomies while taking a shower behind a glass wall, I dropped she was one of our angels, and we moved on to the pool, which was crowded. I showed the kids the vestiary to hang their clothes, and they were noisily greeted in the broth that smelled like a lavender field.
Dorothy cried she couldn’t swim, thus Dagmar took hold of her from the back, kissing her neck and ear, which was what the drowning damsel had hoped for. Apolline had run to join Carine, and Cecile wouldn’t let go of Coline. I dived and grabbed the only boy’s feet, and let Finlan confide his Dane dick in me while swimming.
Now, Adèle and her decorators’ staff had been taking delivery of the main element of her furniture, a grand bed, that is, and thus she was beaming between Gauthier and Fulgence as she dived. And it was also time to see our dancers Josephine and Emeline already in the bare, as they would practice thus, and also Ksyusha who had laid Kate somewhere.
It was a pure Cranach phantasmagoria, and furthermore, Fulgence was gallantly buggering Dorothy in front of my eyes, while Adèle caught up with Cecile and shared cuddles with Coline, trying to say in pidgin French that she felt Milan was far away.
Entered Delff in all their immodesty, asking if we would agree to pursue our rampages in the TRÆVIX salons, wouldn’t we? They were about to order a feast, Agnete and Sanne stood at order by their stoves. It was a resounding YES, and I was overjoyed to introduce the new faces —and further delicacies— in the suave society.
There would be a dress code of nought, and the Laforest twin had awaited such an orgy on our side. Meanwhile, we climbed up to ultimately rinse our entrails, suffuse one another’s skin with Hugo-approved nourishing cream, paint our nails and lashes, and chose perfumes to make sure to end up with a dick up where we wanted it. We played dolls with Lauritz’s orphanage and Adèle, paring them like odalisks, with velvet chokers and tantalising anklets, Cecile even stuck a catchy blue crystal gem into Coline’s lesser hole, I recalled having worn it for one of Natalia’s connoisseurs.

I knew Michelle would crush on Dorothy if the little sex pet raised a dark eye on her, wouldn’t she? Adèle was fascinated by the younger devil. We had not had time to catch up after her seemingly well-auguring visit. Yes, she had been transported to Beyond Land to meet with the Blue Fairy and the Terrible Dogfish, shagged a battalion of black silk suits, all that by my fault, she joshed, the bigger M. had never seen her coming! Notably, she wore a new vivid spring green bezel-mounted peridot ring, as a token of salute.
The lifts overworked to bring flows of nude living playthings like a deluge of truth, even Liselotte had had to undress, and she was still pretty much in my taste, she darted down on the freshers with greedy eyes, and I reassured her that the fillies would be hers to groom, sooner or later; she pinned me to the wall and kissed me direly, whispering “bring them to the headsman, bitch!” in my ear, to what I retorted that “they would beat him, poodle!’ I told my buttercups that this girl would procure them to rich fogeys, so they laughed, not upset in the least, and Liselotte rolled her hungry eyes.
Save for the usual brigade of Adonis hunks, male attendees had barely lived up to the mood board, keeping their persona under some dash of textile. Elders like Hugo and Melchior would deck out their potbellies with rare drapes on which they convened lively graces to come wallow along the richly crafted hems. Delff had finely weened that Cyprien deserved to be let loose in the fragrant aviary, as a wandering stylite of l’art pour l’art —he happened to be so hirsute that, sitting on the rug cross-legged holding a large spiral sketch pad, that it made no difference as to his guise.
Melchior waved at me and told me to lie immodestly at his side, massaging me quiet. He lauded my serendipitous rescue of a forlorn beauty, miraculously threaded into the Italian ramble he had schemed for us, under his keen scrutiny. The Mercanesi house of cards, well beyond the disgrace of using his daughter for blackmail, had remained unnoticed long enough, but it disintegrated as soon as SEVENSTREAMS radars focused on it, and the bolt of lightning had perfused like melted metal into an ant tower, causing more desperate moves than foreseen. As of now, he had tasted of Adèle’s nurtured capacities, her soul as a precious bonzaï tree, and her boundless love for Cecile and me. She was destined to perch in my holy bosque of box trees and roses, though I wouldn’t know where he learned that. I congratulated him on Adèle’s new peridot outfit.
It was obvious that Camille had been working out like a beast —a lovely one, that is, not in view of this spontaneous gathering— and she was overwhelmed by so many shirk-less freshers, bar Carine who kept her knees crossed. I wanted her to hear Adèle, in the wake of what she had accomplished with Fanny. She agreed to keep her house open, but she would need a translator while the nestling would learn French. She suggested that Natalia, who had been disappointed with New York, could also mentor Adèle, with her escort of minders, until she would set her own sails. By the bye, it sounded that the burly Matthew, whom I had greedily tasted ever since our memorable farewell to the Tudor Angels, and who was currently fully erect since he had walked in among us, spoke airworthy Italian and let it be known as soon as he heard Adèle was a Milanese. Good for Camille, too, as long as he would stay off the clock.
The westward grisaille salon, through which guests arrived, be it from the subterranean realm or the front yard junction between TRÆVIX and SEVENSTREAMS Paris, was lit with dimmed clusters of LED candles, in the ceiling and table silver chandeliers. Pyramids and domes of freshly baked puff bites and sundry platters of tiny veggie pies, all flaunted the craftsmanship of A&S whose capacity had notably extended since the installation of the Parisian phalanx of Melchior’s virtual war hounds. Half a dozen side tables allowed whoever to sit and savour, with an elaborate choice of non-toxic beverages, meaning a teetotaller rule that would surprise nobody.
The median panoramic salon had enriched with three true-to-life wooden statues of nude young models not posing, two girls and a boy, about twelve, digitally reproduced in utter detail, with agate stone blue or green eyes in place, gazing afar from the top of square shoulder-height heavy crystal-clear lucite pedestals. The tender lime wood had been keenly sanded and primed —Michelle having dithered as to ordering them gilded or not. Their stern presence against the candidly decorative landscape let be felt a sphere of silence amidst the court dance that went in the spacious vermillion sofas.
New Maori Tikis in polished jade stone with jewel eyes probably concealed wireless cams and reminded me of Cecile’s homunculus watching her bed. A few Haida and Yup’ik delirium masks here and there castigated the self-conscience of the carnal sore losers if there be.

The staff were cognizant of the probable goings-on in the reception rooms and the peripherals. Because of the premiums, and their personal tastes, they had petitioned to allow themselves to be freely used like the guest; only they would wear an apron over their nudity until the due time, and it was all the more arousing to look at the samovar girl in the pearly eastern salon not conceal her pert bottom until ten.
Three new bold paintings by artist Jinju Lee, entertained by Sha Sha Higby’s shamanic corner sentinels, under a floating white-gold-stained bush illuminated by a swarm of tiny luminous petals, over a central round table dressed in nacreous grey moire, crowded with silverware overwhelmed with all manners of confectionery, offered the intimate dreamscape for the random fervour of carnal whims. In this whiter shade of pale, on one of the dove-coloured velvet loveseats, Coline was already buggered by Matthew in Cecile’s arms, and Carine had not shunned being shared by a pair of dedicated Cossacks. At the sweet sounds of puffing and panting, I went, as for me, graze the bum cheeks of the new samovar girl, and learned that she was a friend of M. Hector, her name was Fanchon, she cast a bluebell gaze under a fall fern fringe, her tea was inviting, but she turned to one of the muscular Corporate Attorneys. Behind them, an unfolded white-gilt engraved wood screen concealed access to the commons.
In a corner of the grand salon sofas, Adèle straddled Hector tirelessly, and now she donned the peridot anklet and bracelet matched to the ring Melchior had given, My guess being that a choker would come up anytime. One of Sissi or Bowie was humped in by one of those special M. forces at his side, while he groped the other, it went to show a serene state of affairs; I knelt so to poke my tongue between the offered velvety bum cheeks of a Laforest cherub, as the hand of Melchior through my curls let me know he relished the smile I caused to her face.
I sensed a familiar touch to the pair of hands which were grasping my hips, waking the fantasy of straw and whip, thus I let my never-waning Cossack carry me away to the first floor where filibusters of his species awaited in one of the east wing rooms above the commons. They blindfolded me at once, and I heard the doubled door be shut, I knew what kind of round I was in for, and I wouldn’t have ran from. I had confessed to Serguei whom he reminded me of, and the nerve-curling pleasures I had expired from at the tip of his dessage whip. The manner I had reminisced about this repressed region of my privileged adolescence had allowed him to rekindle the stirs of the borderline possession he had experienced himself, in his father’s stables, where the foreman and the personnel of eastern migrants had shown him how to break-in —as they did with emotional animals— the whores that they had lured in for their fun. All my time at the Beaux-Arts I had steadily despised him, and he had taunted me with insults about my flat chest, bantering with his buddies on my feminity. Now they had me fettered up from a hook and manhandled my carcass waiting for the lash. I think they took turns, and Sergei ordered their flogging be restrained, not to mark my hide.
They brought me to screeching out for good, laughing out loud names I did not need translation for, I was gushing down my thighs like one of Charcot’s patients —if such a thing ever existed. Then Sergei kissed me deeply, holding my head soaked in sweat, they unhung me, only to tie me spread out across a bed and begin to use me as a flesh spillway, upfront, and then back up, and I climaxed indefinitely, until their alpha orders them to go wash. I would never know who they were, it felt like I had been raped by the GPU.
Sergei uncovered my eyes and ushered me to a bathroom, where I dared not watch how they had disfigured my hide, whereas the wounds were altogether imaginary and the burn evaporated in the lather of his gentle rub. We wiped each other, the room showed no trace of my gutting, it must have been of the utmost theatre, I queried a cuddle on the padded bed, and he fiddled with a long horse lash.
On the way back, I couldn’t not notice some rustle coming from Michelle’s sanctum, why our reclusive host had wished to meet the new faces, and more, on the Olympus. She had not foreseen such a pretty litter, and she let them steal her white cotton tracksuit to gambol upon the futon thrown haphazardly under the console cantilever saddle which excited Dorothy, moreover, when Michelle snuck between her legs, and thus she realised she could totally let go of herself on the seat.
As shaken up as I remained from my free ride, I couldn’t swipe off my memory the merry mouthfuls we gave her cheeky bottom when she had taken refuge at the cable hub behind our studio sofa, thus she arched her back while she devoured Dorothy’s blooming slit. Then, unsurprisingly, a disharmonic tinkle insisted in the speakers, so she pivoted back to face the wall of monitors which had been randomly improvising fractal visuals in the idle time and now instantly displayed gazillions lines of abstruse flickering characters only Michelle’s brain could make sense of, and it had ever been thus.

Dorothy climbed down and swapped pleasures, Michelle resting her dainty feet on the edge of the console; she fitted her head with noise-cancelling two-way headphones and so she went into orbit with a pretty kitten licking her pink knob, she even closed her eyes a microsecond when she wetted Doruthy’s mouth.
From experience, I could tell Michelle had zapped on us, and her abstraction could last hours. Little pixie Delff pushed us to the other cardinal end of the stage where an array of daybeds and meridiennes awaited our slight romps. Someone had passed the word of our flight into the orgy cloud, all clad in changing silk taffeta gleaming in alternate pink and green colours like the abalone shell.
All idle men of any language discovered the hazy light that fell from a wall-to-wall white papier-mâché vine, strewn with LED points oscillating in the same pink-to-green light. Enough to fan the ardours of our uncountable heart, within the dishevelled carillon of three shrub-like, airy, silver jingle-bells clusters contraptions, perched atop alabaster spiral columns, livened by the mills of mechanical coils, winded-up by the confederacy of the resident pixies.
Hence, while at West an unassuming princess balanced the chart of worldwide exchanges, the Orient honed the pearls in the choir of angels. Trine, the escaped guardian angel of the subterranean carnival, grasped my hand to draw me upstairs in the attics rooms where the deep beds stood askew under the dormers, she wanted me to retell of the murders of crimson crows amongst the fierce copper-green pinnacles of the Kings of Denmark.
The sun woke me, three of us, Dorothy, Carine and me under a mere white sheet. The rest of the deserted house was claimed by Alfred, the reigning blackbird, in the garden trees. Not that we smelled other than trails of the rich fragrances we had wallowed upon, but the simple tepid rain in the spacious pink marble shower room wedged back our minds to the idea of French toasts and marmalade.
Nobody caught us butt-naked running through the subterranean path and the lift to our apartment where a gaggle of souls dreamt in all beds. We shut all doors, I knew were soundproof, and they called Lauritz whom they woke and who sent baci from his pillow; he said Ksyusha slept at his side.
There was a ready stale loaf of sliced milk bread, organic eggs and milk, and vanilla sugar. They rolled their eyes at some apricot jam with bitter almonds in it. They had no idea if they had clothes when they came, I recalled the sessions on Cecile’s sofa. They eventually dared say they prefer coffee, so the black dwarf would puff while I pan-fried a wheelbarrowful of mellow slices I would roll into powdered sugar.
They were overjoyed by the hullaballoo they had survived with flying colours, Carine wondered if that would be a sustainable walk of life, and I answered that I knew of no demand for them to overspend their charms and exhaust their lifestream for the sake of money, they might as well branch off towards whatever trend they find appropriate, and no one would shepherd them back to the flock to kowtow, they might even go back to school, in earnest.
It couldn’t have been the scent of coffee that brought Cecile dawdling by, but perhaps the chuff of the machine faintly echoed through the shutters. She never cast more charm than in worn-out togs like this discoloured nightshirt, moreover watching Dorothy rummage under it. Her mouth tasted of fresh water, she grazed my mons pubis as if to prove to me she wasn’t jaded with our shenanigans, and she asked in the air if the sugar-frosted-mouthed foundlings were ready for another exhausting day of listening to Bach, enlaced on her sofa?
They did not lag long, and the few other boarders in the staircase will always regret not having met them three in the lift in their most truthful attire, Cecile kept her smocks downstairs. Now, Coline’s curls were dewy and smelled of Covent Garden tangerines, I kneaded her spine as she straddled backwards on the chair; she moaned she had never shagged so many people in a night, but inside, she was smooth as a baby and ready for some more. She sat on my lap, pecked some bites, and mostly wanted to know who they all had been. She had the talent to sketch characters in a few words, and I would tell their tags as fast as it came, bar Melchior’s special forces she had revelled with, of course, but I could testify they had always been around to make the show with us.
Adèle had recovered from her debauchery in our spare room, the nearest perch to her ongoing workings, one floor up. She was grateful that I kept her near me, because of the language. Fanny would set up meetings at her old Parisian school where she had first learned French, Adèle was very popular in Camille’s orb, she was invited that evening. She liked tea my way, like most she saw me do, albeit she had never touched a woman before we happened to walk into her shop. She let Dorothy rummage in the finery she wore.

 

Cecile says:

Cyprien had been rightfully infatuated with the novel trio, they had gone for a quick dip before appearing at the workshop in their native grace and wet hair. He played Matthaus’ Passion, for a change, “Kommt Ihr Töchter, helft mir klagen”, with the uncanny effect of making our girls dance, in the godly manner of Botticelli’s Allegory of Spring’s Graces that I knew for sure they had never seen. A stroke of cosmic synchronicity led me to cry in awe, and I wouldn’t swear Cyprien did not.
They sat on the cherry-red velvet cover, overjoyed with their effect, posed as if they were the musician angels. The Draughtsman decided he would try and sketch details of the faces, asking them to freeze in their moves, as in the street game of one, two, three, sun. I ran to the bathroom to wash my face and my tears.
I had put myself to work on a pair of gallant miniatures from the secret compartment in a Louis XV bonheur-du-jour desk from the Mendelsohn trove, the painstaking operation would be enough to keep me from ogling at Coline’s heavenly tits. Adèle knocked just in time for a coffee pause, she was bringing almond tiles; Gauthier had taken her shopping for furniture, and he had shown her his bedroom, too. Time for the paints to dry in her home, Melchior was taking her on vacation somewhere in Ireland or Scotland, weather permitting, she joshed about the many lovers she’d be having there, no doubt. She had acclimatised better and faster than I would have thought, but I did not know what mantra Melchior had breathed into the seashell of her ear.
After a few bursts of laughter escapades to the bathroom, it became obvious they were tired of posing, they wanted to join the dancers, Cyprien could cotton on that, and he knew he could hone his strokes on his own. They didn’t even mention clothing. Adèle remained, she wore a short black light silk crepe polka dots shirt-dress over yoga shorts, and snazzy two-tone black-and-white loafers with mini white socks. She came to stand next to me, she smelled of Gauthier’s Cologne. I put down my wad handle, screwed on my chemicals jars, pulled off my gloves and slid my hand under her dress, telling her we would go in my cubbyhole. I cropped up from my apron and smock all bare —Cyprien had seen me thus every day— and bent over to unlace my sneakers.
I refused to shower ahead, she smelled of a trace of lovemaking, I certainly smelled of a day’s sweats, and I could tell she was unwittingly aroused by our mixed scents. Pants down, she was discovering my hideaway, my burrow in the magazine collections, of which she had soon sorted out the porno ones with their motley covers, she laughed that Zanni had been giving her plenty. Bach had certainly gone home, she breathed her words when she retold Gauthier and Philippe had shared her with the window wide open, and afterwards they had crossed Natalia with hungry eyes. I told her I would arrange a date with Natalia our house fairy as soon as I would have made her moan with my tongue, and I aroused her by telling of which manner she would traffic her to her rich clients.
Josephine and Emeline had been practising some nifty synchronous adjective moves they wanted to be threaded into the main piece we had seen at their gala —as if only to wipe off the idea that it was all improvised, just like in Jazz, Finlan had taught them. Josephine maintained her sacrosanct rule of mere nudity while dancing, as it had dawned upon her listening to Malo, and thus regaling us, without further ado, with her bine tendril moves. Adèle was awestruck to see them, and she herself would seem to possess the features to make a graceful sujet, her captor Zanni had never risked to entrust her to a school, hence, she had merely shaped her young body doing carpet gymnastics in her prison. The duettists had called it a day, they smelled of whatever liniment they anointed their pretty joints with.
Now it seemed Josephine’s pidgin Spanish, as spoken in the shady alleys of Gibraltar, connected funnily to the Milanese slang Adèle’s johns eructated in her gaol, and moreover, the mutual touching made more sense anyhow. Emeline lay her ear on my heart, as on the day we let her big sister jump on the 911 back to the château gone wild, not knowing of a steadfast little wildflower sister in her wake. And all the deadly confessions we shared under the crinkled sheets had sealed an unwaning sisterhood.
That tight-knit gang dawdled down to the pool, followed by Finlan who could no longer hide the full-fledged erection we caused him, I said to Emiline the boy deserved some attention, and thus we swam around him so he would choose which one of us to play in. Having assumed the human metronome for them all day, he tasted for sweet revenge in Emeline’s tight bum as I kept her embraced. He was a good swimmer, she was mumbling happily.

We shared eggplant parmigiana and cashew cream tagliatelle, coconut little pyramids and Mocha. Sarah was on a jaunt with Lauritz’s foundlings, Kate gathered lingonberries on Sylt with Gwen. Josephine wanted to go whore at Philippe’s, but I felt like some wilderness along with Emeline, wired as an eight-year-old. I called Hector, he said he could take all of us to some no-holds-barred party at one of Louis’ relatives, for a hefty reward. Finlan was also welcome, the house was extremely wealthy and attracted many libertine graces.
Josephine and Emeline were well-trained doxies, Finlan a girl’s dream of a slender, pale Nicholas Hilliard persona with a faintless rosy manhood, all the same. Laying the telephone flat on the table, I questioned Adèle about letting herself available to a herd of well-heeled wolves endowed by the Swiss Navy? She asked me if I had done that often, and I answered that I had never been betrayed by Hector, whatever kinky whim he dragged me into. She said she wanted to obey me, in any shenanigan I would see fit for myself. Hector gave us an hour to dress thinly and powder our noses.
One exciting prelude was to go rummage through our elders’ vestiary, one could even dress up Finlan because he fitted the same sizes as Sarah, except for his gentle crotch, which would visibly bulge into some girl’s trousers. He agreed to wear a three-piece night-blue pinstripe suit with a Parma silk shirt and deep-purple bowtie and socks, patent-leather Oxfords. He might need black spandex boxers, we had that, too. As for us courtesans, we merely needed any rags to walk from our door to the car. Emeline found a high-gathered, fuzzy cornflower blue Tana-lawn shirt dress, with poet sleeves, ruffled collar and wrists, the hem not higher than that, and white suede ankle-strap sandals. Josephine found a purplish gleamy ribbed thin jersey tank dress that gave her a star derriere, and bejewelled black-strap sandals. Adèle had fetched in her luggage a loose dawn-gradient silk tee dress and iridescent ballet flats. She said she had whored in that outfit, sometimes. I pulled out a simple oversized, white, peasant shirt with a turquoise-clad Zuni concho belt and slim turquoise Egyptian sandals.
But first, we rubbed ourselves with the pricey body cream Sarah had advised me to use, so gentle in any crease of the skin, and mostly odourless. I detained a collection of expensive perfumes — Lauritz loved that, and it impressed the clubmen at Speck’s. Josephine transcended a famous rose and jasmine apocalypse at its most, Emeline had fallen in a legendary valley of lilies, and Adèle did not dither with another all-time demon in the most recognisable phial of all since 1925 with the blue stopper —she avowed Zanni insisted she touch close to her labia with two drops of it, even were it not for him to sniff. I had kept for myself the present from Dottore Flavio Di Luccia, Curator at the Uffizi Museum — encountered during the all-inspired trip Sarah and I had done to Florence— a subtle composition once invented for the Medici family, they say, around a soul of petitgrain bigarade, perverted with the stiff debauchery of London dry gin, mellowed by shavings of sacred woods and mystified by olibanum, altogether a shady and potent Cologne for the kind of tomboys as Sarah and I.
The iridescent night-blue minivan picked us up in a breath at our door. Hector in a lightweight wool black suit and a silk turtleneck watched our butt cheeks as we jumped in the velvet seats. He whistled with contentment, telling us we were beyond expectations. He spotted the boy in the club with a short nod, Josephine said he was their piano player, so Hector just retorted he was a lucky guy. At a traffic light stop, he jumped to our side, as I read he was aroused by our newbies. His hands were overworked upon so many new smooth legs.
We headed west, to the opposite of my dioxin origins, first to the corporate vainglory of La Défense and its subterranean pathways, and a void all-white space that Hector bragged would startle us. And I knew what, he told us to disrobe and cavort heads or tails, an empyrean litter of kittens for the lubricious eyeful of a company of voyeurs who had gathered around our carriage, membrum in hand, with nude slaves on leash.
Hector was easy to undress, and he was drooling for the one he had not yet tried, while she lapped the crotch of Josephine upon her face. Emeline and I never bored together, and she had long known the best manner to display her spread hips to my merry tongue. He gasped when Adèle cunningly yanked his discharge off, while the windows were adorned with dripping spittles. He had a shipload of floozies, he gave the signal to set sail, and we were followed by a motorcade of unnerved sportsmen out of that giant cube of nought.
Smiling his heart’s content, he fetched us some convenient hot lemony towels from inside the so-called privacy partition —though I wouldn’t deny shagging that black driver once in a while. Then he buckled up each of us, bar Finlan, with some black, striated, padded leather, ochre yellow trimmed, dog collars, equipped with steel rings —keeping the key to the locks clipped to a bracelet he wore. Each of us had known that kind of contraption before, and we had seen the other girls on leash.
I could sense the spin of that new game, as he clasped long leather straps to each collar lock. We would be jaunted around, curbed by the neck, at the whim of dominants, like other pleasure animals, probably cuffed, shackled, and flogged, too.

The ride wasn’t long, up some slope stood a steep rampart with an archway through it, iron doors spread open, and a last bend led to a vast bailey amidst four asymmetrical constructions standing upon colonnades. The whole structure exuded more of an outdated rigour than worldly elegance, albeit the stone of the ashlar walls be honey-gold white. The smooth clean stone pavement displayed an array of abstruse geometric figures much like a sunken astrolabe.
The cars had parked under the archways on one side; the stylish owners of restrained pretty human beasts approached and looked up at us. I was traded by some likely knight of industry, against a languorous Slavic blonde who did not speak and followed Hector willingly. Our little dedicated sorority was instantly dispersed, too, on a whatsoever tacit agreement and polite grins.
In a corner, behind opened massive steel doors, a vestibule led to low-step marble stairs most of the muses climbed with grace, like trained chorus girls in the Ziegfeld age. It led up to a single oak-panelled hall under a high wooden barrel vault that cast echoes of the eerie sounds that spawned from a mysterious installation on an elevated stage at the far end of the room; a long black-haired musician in a witch costume and a top hat was all busied on a Prophet 10 machine, before a black wall of speakers.
On both sides of the entrance, partitioned stalls served as cloakrooms, and passageways seemed to lead to bathrooms. Our holders tied our lunges to appropriate steel hooks aside from their individual lockers and asked us to help them change attires. As for mine, he smelled of alluded hesperidium, Turkish tobacco, and amber; he had gone shopping on Old Bond Street. He sported a muscular bum that foretold of ravaging jolts. He was well worked out, with pectorals and abs, and a sizeable dick already so tense as to show a pearl of desire at its glans’ tiny slot. The proper sportswear style would consist of silken black open-crotch tights and a scooped neck, long sleeves singlet. As I bent to help him pull in thin black Russian dancer calf boots, I sensed skilful fingers wandering in my ready slits, and I sipped the drip at the tip of his dick.
The hall was scarcely lit, furnished with malachite green buttoned velvet loveseats and meridiennes offering large armrests, and extensive stool tables clad with colourful kilims. Otherwise, not any decorative accent in the room, the scarce randomly placed embrasures were occulted in cul de bouteille stained glass. Persian rugs were strewn upon the time-polished stone slabs.
Louis and his cohorts awaited, draped in satin capes —probably to conceal their sullen Majesties. He cheered at Hector’s unexpected cast as we were keenly presented to the seniors. He called me the pretty curator as he recognised me, borrowing my buttocks for a tender swift pass, he called Josephine her name as one of Melchior’s dancers, and then he relished Emeline in her best most-obedient expression and also asked for her name. When it came down to Adèle, he groaned of lust and asked her handler to make her turn around to eye her gentle behind, whistling of envy. Finlan did not wear the club outfit, he kept trampling idly with his Peter so jolly stiff that I took hold of it and my john told me to keep it warm.
He led us to a wide-armed sofa, his legs apart, pulling me to make me gulp his febrile dong, while he kindly groped the astray Dane boy who shunned not away. He told him to pick up the flask of lube and prepare us for an easy shag. Unsurprisingly, he ordered me to impale myself backwards deep on his shaft, while Finlan would sheathe my coochie to the hilt. I lay flat on the bed of muscles, legs in the air, he murmured insanities in my ear and pinched my nipples. Finlan went staccato into my womb, his panting warned of the merry crisis, and so the main man grabbed my haunches and hurled himself in the whirl of my entrails to gush in time with my boy. As I convulsed in his burly neck, I squirted wholeheartedly.
A gentle brigade of Goth mixed-sex characters, with tattoos and piercings, in mere black vinyl aprons, came running from behind the musician stand, bringing hot towels and fresh drinks, not shied of erring hands. My Ferdinand grabbed the pretty one who had just brought a tray with a large ewer of fruity drink onto the ottoman table next to us and told her to lick me clean. Her hair was dyed raven black, her skin moonshine white, and her eyes jay blue. She bore finely designed black rambling roses all the way from her mons pubis up to her bosom; as she went on bringing me to another rapture, Finlan was testing her bumhole with two fingers of lube, and she parted her butt cheeks with her hands to help him penetrate her; once he had discharged another wad, she ran away, dripping come down her shapely legs and on the rug. I took notice to ask Hector where she had been found.

Rambling Rose had properly sucked me clean, and I would willingly have returned the favour, mind you. Now she had been called on to Louis’, no apron on, and he made her display her whole picture empaled backwards, legs up and feet on his thighs. She was indeed flamboyant, the outcome of days on end suffering the vibrating needle.
Once he was finished, he told her to lie upon a large ottomane and spread her legs, offered to whoever. I made the move to pull on my collar like an aroused beast, and it amused my Ferdinand. I naturally walked on all fours to go wallow in her crotch and exasperate her clit, while my handler used her mouth sideways, she had not squandered it with soot like some in her style do. So then I could not shun what I sensed in my own rosebud, I was lent to another valiant spear, and eventually pushed aside from the rose bush wherin the cavaliers craved a ride.
Amidst the thorns and foliage engraved in her smooth skin, my mouth found her modest nipples which nonetheless made her screech among the moans she owed to the gusts stricken through her guts.
Not far from us, Adèle had also let herself cast abandoned on a bed, and they had called the waiters to frazzle her, and they did, relentlessly, heads or tails. Further aside, Emeline, who was a long-trained toy vixen, dared dance upon the low table as she had at one time done for her dad’s buddies, and nonetheless, she was gently floored and tipped over.
There would be more hullabaloo about Josephine, who ended with cuffs and anklets, tied and quartered by means of chains lowered from the vault and floor anchoring rings. She was gagged and blindfolded, and Hector managed the whole set. I stared at Louis, not really taking a taste in the scene, but he beckoned me and asked my rein to Ferdinand who was more aroused by attending a round of flogging anyhow. He had kept Rambling Rose at his side, in a casually lewd pose, thus I noticed her limber-looking feet, arched like a Thorwaldsen fairy’s, noticing what Louis said I could have her home, if I wished. Her name was Rose, hence the decor, and she was ostensibly aroused to watch a lovely girl be whipped, but she slid her coquet hand up my thigh for a smidgen of my dripping shame. She whispered that she had been such a patient more than once, because it earned the most in libertine parties. I sensed Louis’ fingers fickle in my back alley, then a lash cracked on Josephine’s bum, and again a dozen times, at the hand of a fully masked sporty girl. Standing near to her well-beloved partner, Emeline was being buggered standing and chuffed with pleasure —she too, had endured the whip by the ruthless boors— even Sarah returned avidly to her Cossacks and came back stiff and achy, sleeping days on end, overjoyed.
Louis kept raving low in my ear that my ballerina darling was garnering heaps of money right there, but he would spend twice that amount to watch me in the throes before shagging me.
Another faceless gymnast-type girl took turns, with a cat-o’-nine-tails, on all sides to make Josephine twirl in her bonds until she gave up and hung still over a shallow pool of urine. Two of the Goth servants dashed to free her and rub some lotus-scented unguent all over her, then laid her onto a nearby bed, at the whim of the rekindled wolfpack she couldn’t fight against, thus she was abundantly served, while the subservient creatures continued massaging where they reached. Born a harlot, this had been a harsh episode, but she moaned truthfully with dicks wherever they slid into. One martyrdom would be enough, all the restless male loins had been fired up, and the scene turned to another ‘Meduse raft”, thus we were ushered to some manner of a hammam, and Hector unleashed us, before asking me for another go in my docile bumhole; he was a master swordsman, and no one had mishandled me that night, he succeeded making me squirt some more, and our new Rose lapped up all the pretty spendings.
And so I was trapped, and there were five of us perditas, and a pretty rake, in the van back home, cuddling an overspent Josephine who was nevertheless serene —and rich. I dared not fathom what Sarah would make of a Rambling Rose, and I did not even know which other way she made a living. She wore a black corsetted dress scooped out so as to let see one of the black flowers engraved in her dainty skin and sturdy black ankle Docs; Adèle was smitten, and she kept her hand on the roots of the roses.
It was the crack of dawn, I beseeched Josephine to grant me a final deep wet kiss and not foster any rancour nor shame; she might all the same use the vice in her art. She was a person of many returns, she only dropped she would show me her back next morrow. They fled to their nest with the wandering playboy, while the lift gobbled up Adèle and Rose.

As per usual, I was up after a few hours of deranged sleep, the real flogging of Josephine bore on my conscience in some gloomy manner. I slid on ecru leggings, a tee shirt, and sneakers, then headed down with the intention of hugging our punished prima ballerina. From the gym room level, I could hear delicate footsteps amidst the silence, Finlan wasn’t there yet.
I was relieved to observe Josephine’s back and bottom fresh as the dawn, and her moves unhampered precise in her bearings. When I made myself seen, the pair unstitched the crewel work of their carnal meditation to come to circle me and let me palm Josephine’s muscles. She said she had dreamt of infinite wings and crystal thorns. She smelled of lavender and petitgrain, she rummaged in my pants and said she would lash me for all to relish and pirouetted back to Emeline’s loving counterpoint.
A fluttering cluster of flimsy notes ventured in the nymphs’ footsteps, from the antipodal standpoint of received ballet, the musician in multicoloured striped pyjamas followed the dancers’ incarnate score. I went to hug him from the back, and let my hands wander about.
Upstairs, the shades in my room appeared quiet, whenas the crumpled sheets rustled with soft chirps. The new foundlings invented the language of their caresses with unheard words, and I grabbed their feet. From the depth of her bed, Sarah had had the feeling of an unknown girl speaking in French, she was wowed discovering the Rambling Rose in the wake-up shower and thus threw her shirt and joined us, the Goth princess at once victim of her glory.
Cyprien would have been longing for his new Milanese crush, thus I embarked the gang down to the workshop in mismatched rags. The Draughtsman had been catering saucers of dog food granulate for Alfred and his family amidst the sparse ivy of our well-bottom garden, and the witty blackbird loved it, the RSPB had said so, with King Charles of the realm of birds. —I suspected Cuprien had been rummaging in my magazine piles.
He was awestruck when Sarah pulled off Rambling Rose’s shirt for him to see her transfigured body, and he kept mum, coming nearer to feel the engraved motive, grazing her smooth cheek, and staring at her kaleidoscopic azurean gaze through the black fern lashes, a wilder version of Sarah’s, who wondered where the prodigy came from.
I had a stash of Langues-de-chat, the coffee scent made us touch the ground after the somewhat ethereal moment. I relished hearing Rose laugh at my manic cookie dipping that she cutely failed. Cyprien was earnestly troubled. As much as his drawing idiosyncrasy projected ad infinitum Adèle’s traits, so did this impressive black efflorescence across the milky complexion of a candid maiden leave him in a stupor.
Sarah was utterly smitten, and sussed awkwardness coming, thus she cuddled the Goth Madonna, while Adèle took the standing pose, her elbow resting on books piled upon a fern column, her head swayed aside on her hand, the other picking some falling shawl, like she would have just denuded herself.

 

Sarah says:

This windfall prodigy enthralled my feeble soul as the last straw in the camel’s heart, Cecile had all reasons to bring home this nonetheless boggling specimen of fashion. She had been born Rose Schmidt, to a Swiss-German-origin hotel concierge whose dubious manners had hampered the career, and who lost her properly to a pimp, at twelve, in a gambling scam, and Jacinta Moroes, a former Spanish chambermaid of republican descent, who chose to sacrifice herself for Rose’s sake, and died an early death. At thirteen, Rose had been raptured by some wanton English aristocrat who designed and paid for her tattoo, during a whole season in Bangkok, aboard his boat Wandering Rose. Except for being tied down for days on end and manhandled by the tattoo artist, while her captor was mostly too high to breathe, it had been a quieter period in her life, once the tattoo gun was put to rest, and she had also been thoroughly laser-depilated, not to interfere with what the artist claimed as his masterpiece.
Her owner had been overjoyed and paid an oriental dance teacher so she could roll her hips for his friends who paid him drugs for her forced favours. He did a deadly overdose, and the yacht’s captain chose to avoid the juridic hassles, so he sailed southward to Australia, putting Rose in his bunk, casually. He sunk the body in the high seas, with a heap of old chains around it.
The captain acted as if the owner’s ghost still lived onboard, forging all the codes for transferring the necessary money to pursue his navigation. He wanted to establish himself on the Australian Gold Coast and prostitute Rose, as a start. He was arrested in Bali having tried to refuel while the banks had sussed their client was no more. She found herself forlorn on the shore near Bualu, begging to be brought to the police, to whom it was gruelling to explain who she was, but she was lucky enough that someone called a British diplomat who was interested to hear about the Rambling Rose and brought her to the British consulate.
No one had any trace of her, neither in the British nor in the French services, but her tale of her becoming aboard the Rambling Rose was faultlessly eloquent, she knew of the bulk of details to prove she was not lying, and besides, what benefit would it have been to her? She spent two weeks at His Majesty’s expense in a seafront hotel, meeting British detectives daily and lazing on the perfect beaches, although she wouldn’t yet dare show her illuminated body. From Monaco to Bangkok, all her memories were asserted, and eventually, she was transferred to the French Embassy in Singapore, and then to Paris.
They found traces of her at her school until the age of twelve, they were diligent in providing her with an ID card and taking detailed photos of her whole body. Her pitiable father was arrested on the street and put in jail prior to a trial he did not attend because he died of cancer after a mere few weeks, she never wanted to see him. And for her pimp, he was tracked to Nice where he had thrived procuring for some foreign residents. She testified anonymously, among a few others, and he was served a twenty-year sentence.
She was sixteen, an orphan with no more than her skin to call hers, thus she was legally placed in a foyer near Montparnasse Station and chose to go to school, the psychologist having deemed her wise enough. She wanted to speak English and Spanish; as for the rest, she did not see the point for her, except it counted in the notation. She was surprised to pull excellent marks in French when she pocketed her A levels in the literary section. They helped her find a place in college, but she found more fun and reward in exhibiting her treasures online in a corner of a hotel room, until Hector and his squad offered really big money to sell her beauty to safe, rich libertines and she could live in free and gorgeous places. Then, a few days ago, after a warm-hearted session with Hector, he had promised he would tip her off when she would have to mingle with our gang to her advantage. It had been a few months while she had been vetted in view of a black card, and she had fostered a taste for this so-to-speak educated libertinage, and so she hoped I liked her too.
As I paid keen attention to the twists and turns of her whatsoever picaresque tale, seeing up close the vivacity of her rosiness, I had jaunted her around our realm, to finish upstairs in our studio, letting the dusk light wane, pecking cookies and sipping tea as she had known aboard the Rambling Rose.
In my turn, I sketched the genesis of a rich poet’s endeavour and all the branchings it set off. She agreed to meet the Landlord along with me, she nibbled my tinyberries when I warned her we all had paid our rent upfront, and she grinned she was a spendthrift in these matters.

We texted our whereabouts to Cecile and the others and went to the vestiary to invent some evening wrapping for the new sensation. I told her that my knowledge of tattoos went no further than what flourished in porn and it was rarely overwhelming. She approved, but she gave excuses to the models who could not afford such work as she bore, it had cost an arm to her john, and plus she had had to shag him after each session.
What she looked like, with her makeup removed, I insisted she was nothing short of stellar, and should no more blacken her pouty mouth. I necked with her against the wall to assert that she would respond willingly with the truth on her lips. Same for her hair, mind you, her natural hue was close to mine, I could tell by the roots, I offered to take her to the best stylist in the Carré d’Or to reverse that mistake, and each other week for a year of reviving her shock. As per usual, it was what I did best with unkempt runaways, listening carefully to their ordeal, and letting them relent their unessential bonds, given that our rescapees had already widened their moral scope unto the sex trade and would ease back into it, wouldn’t they?
One elephant we wouldn’t allow in our pretty rooms was lethal addiction. That would be an utter dire medical problem, far beyond the reach of language; and our black card regular check-ups screened for these products —though not the recreative Learyan mind expander kind, and cocaine was certainly at the edge, is it not?
I would concur the colour black befitted her; moreover harmonised with the roses she heralded. So, there was this buttoned little dress in purplish-raven silk panne velvet, its frilled hem slit upfront, bejewelled with jet-black facetted marquise beads —the whole shebang, I had worn that once in a masquerade thrown by Liselotte. For then, I dried up on the matter of adorning her lovely feet, I wouldn’t want her bulky Docs upon Hugo’s precious rugs, but on the other hand, she wore two sizes smaller than us, hence we wouldn’t even find Cinderella’s slippers in these cupboards, and she would go downstairs deliciously barefoot.
We both lacquered our nails black, brushed a dash of eyeshadow, and deep purple mascara on her thick lashes —that made me envious— and sapphire on my Kettelær gaze. She was such a treasure to fondle, apart from her walking emblem.
I put on a bridegroom black matte silk, tiny-beads-strewn, double-breasted evening jacket with satin wide peak lapels, and I needed no shoes either. If he ever was in a vesture mood, Hugo would be all too glad to provide timeless eccentricities. Rose sniggered at my fashionista drivel.
As it ought to happen, Hugo had pulled from his museum hangers pieces befitted and mended for him. He wore aniline purple thin iron-worked Morrocan leather dancer boots, as seemed to have become in fashion in the upper-crust libertine circles, a long white linen satin collarless shirt buttoned all the way with gold-rimmed amethyst cabochons, and a fitted maroon kaftan embroidered tone-on-tone of pervasive scrollwork in so many layers it became low-relief sculpture.
He vaunted a new delivery he had of the mysterious Oriental Beauty crop of Taiwan tea, the unpredictable magic of a tiny bug on the tea trees. We followed him into his bejewelled kitchen, he was lately proud of an oblong ceramic plate, purportedly by the Della Robbia workshop, depicting Verità in the shape of a nude maiden thigh-high in the water, embedded amidst other marvels of the main wall.
As he brewed the tea in a baroque pumpkin yellowish Yiking earthenware, we were seated on Thonet stools bearing the stencil mark of a famous Années Folles brothel. I was proud of my mentor, although I could tell he stood on tenterhooks facing my pretty alley cat of whom his good chum Louis might already have retold the bulk of her biography, and thus he knew she was one of the foundlings he revelled redeeming. A few days before, he had spent the night with Adèle, and she had been all quietened in the morning and since. Camille had retold me intimately how Hugo had fished her out of the last extreme while she sold her desperate hide.
He kept staring frankly at Rose’s eponymous face, but he casually busied his hands under my jacket’s flaps, granting me the tiny shivers of being shown for the unabashed floozie I am. When he seized the heavy silver tray to bring it into a low diwan room clad with golden pink Turkish lampas and circled with engraved Venetian mirrors, a diffracted light sprayed out of the gilded lanterns, I chose my moment to hug Rose from the back and begin to unbutton her dress, almost playfully. Hugo became all smiles, his mouth, yawning with awe when I robbed it all and helped her sway her candid hips.
All facets of his yearning soul were ablaze, he excused himself for a minute and ran back with his spectacles on his nose. He kept Rambling Rose’s hands for long minutes and danced his dance around her just like I had figured.

The maid Bohdana, new under Lena’s supervision, brought finger food on covered antique silver plates, and lace doilies; the young widow with a tight blond bun showed no attention to our unavoidable nudities. Rose, wallowed in the Maja pose, agreed to his homage, letting way to his famished greed for the mere fleshly slit at the nascence of the shivering bush of her.
I helped her retell her epic, knowing what his literary bend was thirsty for —taking for granted she would not return to wandering at the edges of social wastelands. And I wouldn’t care play gooseberry, I kept gnawing at her Pompadour feet as if I was the favourite’s bow-wow. He pulled off his carapace, unbuttoned the shirt and showed the straight stalk I also knew so deeply. In the gleam of his linen wings, his connoisseur eyesight binged on the iconic metaphor he kept humping wholeheartedly, so much so that she let gush her abandon to the four winds, moaning like a princess; it let Hugo chuff out his own bliss as he bumped unrelentingly upon her mons pubis. He embraced her, and they rolled, so that I could lick whatever was offered to my pointed tongue, and I could poke a warning in her anus that it would be next for the bull’s rage, and I knew how daring her apple-shaped bottom looked. He let his wings fleet away, and he asked me for the easy gel I smeared into her shy rosette —though I had keenly witnessed what vigorous truncheons she would intake thus at no peril. While I wriggled my way to give her my clit to bustle, Hugo counted on my lustful skills to rekindle his pride, but the view of her shapely loins and perfectly firm bottom, plus our intimate girly micmacs already stiffened his wand in my mouth.
For all I knew of her, she kept following a carnal intuition, for none of her episodes could have taught her such cunning lovemaking, and it was a heave in my plexus to watch her squeeze and wriggle a dick so gracefully, indefinitely, while I came squirting in her busy mouth.
We chose to sleep on our own in the studio, as I posted to the others, on Michelle’s futon, under the last flickering stars, she had liked Hugo’s grand flair; I promised her she had earned a lifelong asset, just like us, but she retorted she was no Tudor angel, however. We slept with her head resting upon my chest. I carried her over to the land of verdigris steeples, through the murmuration of the crimson crows.

 

Cecile says:

Although Italian and French be diametrically divergent as to their linguistic genius, there has always hovered some incestuous manner of communication amongst us Latin catholic herds. I read that verbose ponder once in a magazine, and I thought it concurred with my own enlightening adventures in bedazzling Italy.
There, we fostered two raised harlots deprived of other social company than captors and johns, and they went along in any manners of vernaculars, including a heap of hand play and dishevelled cryptophasia.
Unsurprisingly, Lauritz smouldered with lust at the idea of two more gems to encounter and possibly mount on his crown. He proposed a party in his private salon at Speck’s, and we had pleasant memories of our recent romps there. Sarah explained to Adèle and Rose what kind of a windmill Speck’s was, only that night would be on Lauritz’s private invitation, which we reckoned would not make much of a difference for us, eventually.
Josephine and Emeline would do dancing elsewhere, along with Finlan’s free reins, and more if it happened, at a party at one of Natalia’s admirers’, and she recounted that Liselotte longed for succulent news from us.
Sarah had embarked Rambling Rose on a shopping privateering, which meant she had earned a credit line as long as the rue Saint Honoré —and Gianni would imagine the follow-up later. As of then, it was mainly an affair of bootmakers, but firstly an emergency session with our best hairstylist to redeem Rose’s natural softer black hue. I wondered what bijoux Hugo would have fetched for her in his vault.
When we all appeared at Speck’s porch, we looked like the carnet pages of Vogue magazine, except not. As per usual, the majordome needed to be tipped upfront —he was handsome and sweet-mannered— so he pushed Adèle towards the velvet drapes beyond the lift for a thoughtful touch-up she would not complain about. She wore a glistening marigold-yellow-to-white string-strapped trapeze mini-dress, and he stole the assorted thong. Lauritz knew of the routine, it was a means to afford the utter loyalty of his game warden, the hirelings in his command would only serve on specific demands.
Rose’s new looks mystified us. Her dark Auburn hair formed a tousled fringe that overcast her stormy blue stare and grazed her shoulders, her fleshy little mouth had regained its natural flowery taste. She wore a geometric patterned platinum, onyx, diamonds, and sapphire triangles choker with the assorted bracelet —Yes, Hugo had been so smitten, how would it go for Melchior? Her demented body imagery was yet hidden in a cobalt blue silk twill Nehru collar shirt dress with rounded tails. She had found dark blue suede flat-heeled loafers, and her legs were smooth as a breeze; she would be the season sensation at Speck’s —if she pleased.
The foundlings’ gang knew of the marvel, the male posse had only twigged rumours. However, our munificent host had spread the word of sartorial prink, to start with. Our unflagging Valparaiso copper-headed herald donned a close-fitting three-piece suit in pale gold, silver, and mauve Einstein-pattern silk Jacquard on a collarless mauve tana lawn shirt, mauve socks and suede loafers; his subtle blond companion Philippe looked even younger in a pontifical-white gossamer wool suit, pinstripe white poplin shirt, white socks and white linen Oxfords. Fulgence manspread candidly in black silk twill peg trousers, black silk tee shirt, loose plum bold chevron-textured blazer with bronze buttons, and black cloth derby shoes. His mate Erik played even blacker in a wide-fit black-on-black patched Horus eye varsity jacket over pristine black jeans, tee shirt, and brand new low Chucks. As a token of Sarah’s indulgences, Sergei and other Cossacks swaggered about in colourful foulard shirts and tight black satin low-waisted trousers letting guess their knouts. Everybody sported wide smiles, even the hirelings who brought the zakuski and ogled frankly under the damsels’ wings. Dorothy cavorted nude in a high-gathered vermillion shantung flared dress, her sister in a frilled fuzzy-printed bluish shirt dress that flouted modesty, Coline teased the Zaporog Brotherhood in a dungaree dress of rosy silk crepe. As for us almost housegirls, Sarah let float a shaded midnight-blue halter pleated swing dress on her prideful rump, I was all snugly fitted in a spinel-red ribbed jersey tank mid-thigh dress under which anything would have been a fault, in Lauritz’s compelling taste.
Seated on the rug, Sarah had pulled off Rose’s new shoes and preyed on her pretty toes, Lauritz necked with Adèle as lazily as she would let him upon Loren Nerell’s hazy bells low on the sound system. Before the festivities unfurled beyond mere foreplay, I went up to Rose and invited her to dance up, breathing to her ear that I would strip her down for all to see and swoon. The blaring light of the barges’ projectors across the room still inspired me as they had in my first nights in Lauritz’s passion.

I pulled the small zipper under her arm and slid aside the thin straps to feel the layers of silk glide along her back. I still hid her front side in a loving embrace, but Fulgence let out that he had already wanked himself looking at her on a video chat, more than once, said he with a greedy tone. Thus I pivoted her ever so gently holding her arms behind her back, like I put her up for sale, like in the most phantasmatic scenes of XIXth century French pompier painters, except it would be more of a free-for-all revelry, with manners.
Clutched to my wing, she gracefully showed what she began to believe was not merely a funfair attraction —as for me, I would never forget seeing the tendrils poke out of the black latex apron. Fulgence softened his tone as he confirmed that he had been assiduous at watching her webcam routine with one hand, like possibly millions counting the cheaters; he came near with the smile of a twelve-year-old meeting Billie Eilish in the flesh.
Lauritz was gobsmacked, he said he would have been smitten in her own merits, but who the hell was this man who would inflict such long enduring pain on an innocent nymph? It was up to me to advertise the subject of Rambling Rose’s epics, querying assent in her cunning stares. Sussing more than she would tell, Adèle came on to cuddle up to the other side of Rose, and we composed a true mise-en-abyme scene worthy of a canvas hung in a Jockey Club brothel. They had heard such awful tales before, beginning with mine, obviously, but none yet which wouldn’t reap a happy ending in our stealthy empyrean.
Whatever deviances I retold of her life, she knew full well all these compassionate crotches were all stiffened with lust, and after all, there she was in, so to speak, full bloom, at the mercy of the direst homages, wasn’t she? The pretty foundlings understood she was no less of a strumpet than themselves or Adèle, thus they gathered around Rambling Rose to make merry, in all homeliness, with a future comrade in their kind of league.
As the carnal scents simmered up, the lucky herd of galliards rid their squandersome fripperies to appear in the glorious truth of their birth and the boldness of their want, but our host had already pulled back the walking metaphor on the couch and asked me to summon the Swiss Navy so as to empale her, face-up, open at the mercy of all, and I knew she feared not such excesses, otherwise she would tell me.
Queuing for gardening thus would not befit the usual fraternity, they cheered when Fulgence burrowed into the magic roots of the metaphor, but decided that since they would doubtlessly randomly deserve such bliss another time, we, damsels in wait, would not bargain for a treat. Dorothy had already set her sights on the honey-blond skin of half-coyly Philippe, whose bent-up dick showed real enthusiasm at her and thus she took aside.
There was still that thing between the Cossack and Sarah hence they could not near one another without hurling at their throats first; she was lavishly lewd being buggered standing like a Burne Jones Andromeda with lesser tits. Elsewhere, it was simply obvious that Adèle lusted after Gauthier since when he had undertaken her boss’ favourite love nest arrangements at Melchior’s expense —and willfully under the array of spycams, she bantered she had lived her whole life under pervert monitoring, and Gauthier wouldn’t shun a man’s peep at his nudity; he had such a depraved deal with Melchior regarding Adèle, he wouldn’t know if the planetary capacities of SEVEN STREAMS gave him similar access in Speck’s, as far as I knew, no one had ever complained of his ubiquitous curiosity.
Coline had triggered Erik’s black lust, and she had never encountered a truncheon that enormity, but I knew first-hand how he would persuade her it was what she needed above all, with a smidgen of our friends the freshwater sailors’ salve; and so she swooned in bliss.
It left Carine and me, circled by the last pair of legendary horsemen, those who had ransacked and raped to the sound of the Radetsky March —how came Joseph Roth’s novels had washed ashore in my magazine closet? We played shy damsels tenderly huddled against the fright, letting them lust over our defenceless bums while we revelled in kissing like schoolgirls. And so they let us frolic laid together when they fingered in the holes they coveted; she wasn’t exactly a white goose in the woods, she gathered up her leg aside to offer him the way in just as she sensed I did too, and we huffed in each other’s ear under the barbaric assaults.

Sarah says:

We needed three cars to return home, the newbies had gambolled all their fill, and everyone around had played smoothly. Now the barges had gone, and the island had come back to a still. The gang of foundlings had a safe pathway to their hideout, I wasn’t sure they would find the courage to kick off their shoes before dozing out.
Even my best evocative Zaporogue had danced with such zazz I thought he was in love with Rambling Rose. Had he danced? Little did she care, she found her thrill on the studio futon, and we snugged listening to Alfred’s early declamations; did Michelle sleep with her earphones?
There still remained a stash of that enlightened batch of a morning Darjeeling tea, and an unopened tin of Rumpelmayer vanillekipferls if my runaway felt peckish. I switched on the computer perfunctorily, there was no need for music, and began to check my mail, instantly grabbed by the most customary address, that of Kate, whom I knew was up north with Gwen, with the subject “mourn”. She said briefly that her father had died in the Bahamas and the funeral was that day in Hamburg’s Saint Michael church, and the burial in Buxtehude with his ancestors. She made no comments, I sussed what kind of social chore it meant, she simply had never loved her father, merely bonding with him through her brother, for whatever legal opportunities.
Hence, I retold Adèle the advent of the formidable friendship between two privileged art school posers sleeping around uselessly. She was captivated by the dire peripetiae of the Berlin escape, though I remained soft in the recount —only be said it had sealed our common teetotaller oath. I would not insist on the swashbuckling tales through German psychiatry, whenas Kate’s father had played a mean part, by the bye.
I hurried my narrative towards the happy untangling of the catastrophe, glossing over Simon’s ordeal and whatever scars he might foster in his soul, today he was heir to a family empire, and his father had whatsoever prepared him for that, stealthily, through the forceful network of German engineer schools, away from Kate’s drifting.
Adèle asked me if I had, too, slept with my brother, and that brought a welcome opportunity to shower her with the yarn of my own hectic life, full of unabashed debauchery, but not any manner of genuine incest per se, put apart my father’s —my Danish Far—delicious compulsion with my feet since the days of my birth. I told her how I despised my cowardly brother, against whom I conjured the murder of crimson crows that I encountered in my dreams, flying over legendary Denmark.
We played watersports in the shower room that I told her Hugo had built for us; she cried she was overjoyed that her heart had hurled her at me, when the wind had pushed us into that shop, and suddenly her scheme had taken shape. She described how she had never imagined a friendship like Cecile and I shared in her whole little shrivelled life, and how she had felt relieved reckoning she wouldn’t have to account for the trials and tribulations of her intimate sexuality, Cecile had been such an earnest sister in that seminary roon in Pienza she would never forget. Yes, she still had moments when she doubted the reality of her becoming, but her previous life had not revealed itself any more truthful, whatever ginormous tragedy ensued. Eventually, she had revelled in the manner Melchior had considered her, and I asserted he never lied, be it to obtain favours.
Alfred had gone to another peak of his territory, and we agreed on some music. She had no idea of spacey ambient soundscapes, most of her culture had been Italian television, say no more. At first, she cringed at some sounds she said drew her back to the drug-induced moods they had inflicted on her, although she avowed it had happened the same when she had let be done lovemaking on her, and waned when she had witnessed us openly lewd, in a genteel civil manner, under none other authority.
The heather fairies sniffed the bliss of our night when they found us, and Annabelle sat down at Adèle’s side with bright eyes. She knew a bit of Italian from work she had done around Lord Byron’s correspondence, but she soon better let her hands do the talking when she read Adèle’s laid-back attitude and gazes. The Princess of Axolotls rejoiced that we had unfolded the futon, and she took possession of the dainty Italian feet.
Annabelle’s ample teal paisley print Laura Ashley vintage dress did not conceal too long that she wore nothing else, as Adèle dared hitch it up to respond to a mild elfin rape that would not extract me from my inspired doodles, except when Fayelle set out to please my toes to exhort me to tell them who and what was the new nymphet, there. I told them briefly that Cecile and I had fallen smitten with the pretty fanciulla, raptured her in our private aeroplane, and caused a crisis in the Italian government, Honest!
Annabelle was already too enthralled with Adèle’s lower belly, but Fayelle, to whom her titanium skull must have granted some clairvoyance, did not buy my hot air. I let out that the ragazza was dangerously on the lam but in view and care of our tutelary gods.

The thistle elves had been hired for some shady dinner party at some Liselotte’s patron, why they wore such dapper nails, fingers and toes of emerald green and amethyst purple. They left a trail of lavender drizzle and broom flower’s hopeful solace. Gauthier had been looking for his highly-recommended client, whose apartment only awaited an array of furniture, possibly from his and Hugo’s repositories, at whim.
The new stately accommodation for the elusive Milanese trappola-di-miele opened across our back landing and spanned till a further staircase on different levels of floor, oak or terracotta. Like in a grand suite, a foyer contained a built-in closet and a toilet, led to a complete living room with a counter kitchen, lit by three windows overlooking old roofs, or a corridor towards two bedrooms, one at the top of a narrow crooked staircase, both with full water room and Italian shower. If the need was, another room accessed from the main room had been left void, it was part of yet another house.
We couldn’t help frolicking upon the only material piece of furniture, the über-thick mattress of the Las Vegas grade mattress where these two had already met a few sweet times. Gauthier’s fancy jeans had a buttoned-up fly, we swapped the furtive torture, he spurted in Adèle’s mouth, who gulped every drop and kissed me.
He had also invited Cecile and Hugo because of their sure taste and ability to supply. Cecile brought up Rambling Rose who had spent the day lying on the sofa twirling Cyprien’s brains with her living double-dare. They caught us, but if it was easy for sluts to pull back down their lounge gowns, it took more time to button up Gauthier’s sophisticated jeans, however nought to blush for, lucky lad.
Hugo accessed this staircase from the lower floors, he rang at the door. I explained the little unrest he sensed he relished the cause for, thus he enlaced Adèle and kissed her mouth, then he granted her a beaming smile and listened to what that apartment inspired in her, and he soon reckoned she was still all enthralled with his own style of dwelling, if asked. I almost foresaw that he would take her back onto her grand bed; he relished babbling in Italian, it was altogether good omen as for her setting up. He knew about Kate’s mourning.
Natalia called, she said Liselotte had one of her schemes with plenty of received morals breaches between vetted adults, a tad raunchier than Philippe’s corridors. The runaways asked me if I would go, and I retorted I rarely shunned Natalia’s invites and she was one of Liselotte’s best accomplices. As for Rose, it couldn’t be harsher than where I had found her, and Adèle would eagerly let herself at my cravings.
Natalia came on with swagger, in tight-fit black twill jeans and a one-button free-floating loose white poplin shirt, on flat heels black suede Chelseas, just like I could have. Since I sussed we would likely end disrobed no sooner than the threshold would be crossed —we came a long way with Liselotte’s clientèle of greedy academics and worldly psychopomps, the rewards were always stratospherically for, altogether, some easy parts to play— I preferred the crime-inciting one-piece outfits, such as my oversize blazers or the butterfly-thin shirt dresses. Adèle could go merely bare in a scarf or two, Rose might want to set off an effect, keeping her shirt closed as a start. Cecile wore tiny black shorts and a silk harlequin bomber jacket with casual black Chucks. Rose was proud of her black-and-white loafers, and Adèle chose silver ballet flats. I liked my black patent opera pumps with a nifty grosgrain bow.
There was a limousine service, a long-chassis black six-door U-boat with a white-gloved chauffeur. Natalia was wired like in her ten-year-old days, same ferreting hands and candid gaze, that living miracle. It suddenly smelled like the cloakroom of the pool in Saint Loup, and Adèle cuddled in my wing. From the depth of the black leather seats, the shaded windows didn’t show much of the cityscape, only that it did not last long. We found ourselves in the high-covered inner yard of a prewar stone and brick six-floor building entirely walled off with gypsum blocks, under the moonlight and some feeble indicator lamps. The floor was remarkably clean, those yellowish ceramic bevelled tiles you might expect to find in such a place.
The place was spacious enough to allow a U-turn of our ride, and then two double doors clanged shut. Two beautiful black well-built men in expensive black suits and shirts walked out the only open door and down the three steps of a perron, beckoning us to follow them inside, and shutting the doors in our footsteps. It was lugubrious as a dead bank, a deserted Brazilian administration. All roll-down shutters were closed, and deadly echoes flew like eerie bats. Two more nondescript bruisers appeared, and we were pushed towards a lift big enough for us all. Adèle and I were pressed against the shoulder of one of the quiet black handlers.

The man must have had pupils like saucers, he sported Oakleys, and his sleight wasn’t under my flaps by accident. He smelled of clove, tonka bean and cinnamon in Neroli, he was impassibly deft, he could allow himself any whim. He also gently wanked Adèle’s bumhole.
Somewhere in the upper floors, we were led like a troupe of floozies to an oak-panelled kind of cloakroom with a large centre table, and told to bare entirely and collect our things in the suitcases we saw, while our four minders evaluated our respective merits under the mere emergency yellow lamps. Then they seized us all, arm in arm, and pushed us into the next room, where not a single speckle of light would let us accommodate our vision. Thus, would it be some game of hide-and-seek in a deserted Ministry of Debauchery?
Adèle was torn from me in a beastly huff, and I was pulled by whom I sensed was a nude interesting man, wearing night-vision goggles, who smelled of expensive Cologne and made me run to some kind of bed amidst the blind maze, pushed me on my knees, stretched my bumhole with some cream and buggered me holding my arms back with might while another dick was forced down in my throat. I heard Gobbledygook comments and then squawks when I had to take in their inaugural jizz.
It would be one of these Liselotte lewd excentricities she sold to her who’s who of influent luminaries. I was held a hot towel and told to clean, then I rested near the scent we had strewed on the bed. I heard a dubious cry somewhere afar, but I scrabbled towards it, finding a door and a smell of lilies, feminine hands searching my bumhole for a filthy scent, then pulling me down to drenched labia and ordering me to lap.
The carpeting was soft, and the randomly arranged beds and whatever padded furniture one could be tipped upon, to be made available, comprised no sharp feet or stands so as to hurt one’s toes. At times, I was seized by the arm and brought elsewhere, a piano played nostalgic complaints, possibly Satie, but it seemed there were crowds of stiff assailants of different manners and fragrances, even some addressing me like they knew me.
I was mugged on carpeted stairs, thrown upon a grand feather bed and shared indefinitely, toileted like a newborn, and ultimately thrown in an apparently still eager multitude, and realised they no longer wore night vision devices and bumped randomly just as me. Then it was another kind of fun, keeping pace against clumsier antagonists, until mighty steel pliers clutched on my arm, and I sniffed the minder in the lift, and let him do me. I couldn’t be so certain in the obscurity, but it sure felt like it. I was already rattled and wrung, he had no effort to bring me to a wall and daze my mouth in a long kiss, then let slide his back down, still clutching me till he began stretching my coochie with his matchless cosh, and I started to moan.
I woke up in the colossus’ arms, the crowds, except for our exhausted gang, and the two black minders —the other one then cuddling both Natalia and Rose— had vanished. Three night lights on the ceiling showed a considerable venue entirely void. Adèle would dare approach me in fear of my giant, I held out my hand to invite her onto his lap, and he told her in English not to fear, but she quivered when she saw the size of what still rested on my thigh.
They showed us to slate-clad showers and massaged everyone in the lather. Once rinsed, they fetched us lavender-scented bath towels, brushes and combs, and eventually, they left us in a vestiary with our suitcases.
Our chauffeur reappeared and led us to the humming U-boat, the yard was otherwise totally silent, the roof glazing was turning mauve. In the cabin, we packed like puppies on the back seat, Natalia asking how many shags we had taken, and we were all in the blur past the two dozen. Natalia stole Adèle and told her she knew access to so many such shenanigans —if she would.
In the morning, Alfred had given up waking us, we were three in the grand bed, Natalia and Adèle enlaced, with angelic faces, nothing uncanny, this bed had been Natalia’s playground for years, and she retained her prerogatives, whatsoever. After such inconsiderate carnal expenses, I felt like cooking French toasts, and was overjoyed to find our maid had renewed our little supplies. I betted at least Adèle would come running at the smell of sweet cinnamon; I won, and moreover, Natalia came to rub her mons pubis on my bum cheeks, making Adèle mull that she found women in love so moving —she wouldn’t have thought that possible until lately.
I had never heard a doorbell from the new wing’s side, and I went to answer candidly, only to find a man in blue overalls who could not spit a word, til I ran to cover myself almost modestly and excused myself wholeheartedly. He was bringing a heavy piece of decoration sent by Hugo and needed instructions from Ms Adèle. I ran and told her to slip into any dress she would and go help the workman.

On a sturdy low cart, the man pushed a man-height crate into Adèle’s living room, pulled out an electric screwdriver and began opening the box. Amidst serious support props and paddings, there was a radiant Della Robbia Virgin with Child, as she had just admired one in Hugo’s kitchen, in a round wreath of different orchard branches. She stood tense in disbelief, and the mover was in no hurry to see her no longer show herself in that flimsy gown. She finally asked if it could go to her room upstairs, and it wasn’t a problem; from the foot of the stairs, after checking the path to follow, he told us to move back, seized the piece against his chest and walked up like he had carried a baby that he lay upon the bed. He asked where she would like it hung, she said across her bed. It happened that room was part pale yellow wash, part pearl grey. The tondo fit perfectly over the grey background. She was elated, but the workman had moved on before we could thank him. Natalia inaugurated the Holy Virgin by pushing Adèle onto her bed and hitching her dress up, so much she worshipped her little peach.
She would learn how far a night with the magician would begin to reverberate in her daily life, like most of ours, and he wasn’t the only good genie. A man we had known of before, in cases of threatened damsels called me, to see us both in private, and I thought the studio would do, if we rolled the futon away and post a sign on the door. I translated the whole Milanese affair from Adèle’s measly point of view. He assured that the Italian services had no official knowledge of her, so far, so good. Since Fanny’s case, he had seen a few of our pretty foundlings; he was cautious, on a secretive mission, but he knew there never was a mistake or fallacy in return. He offered Adèle a new identity, anyhow she hardly had any before, as the inquiries showed. They proposed Adèle Foscari, born a month later in Siena’s hospital, to Fulvio Foscari, who died in the fire of his trattoria in Pienza and left not much of a trace, when she was three and brought to Milano in adoption by a friend of his father’s, Benedetto Montarchi, now missing, and Angela Ferracci, deceased. She agreed and signed the demands for ID and passport that he would transmit to the Italian Consulate. He asked for a white wall to take portraits with his telephone. He wished all the best to Adèle Foscari, he had been enthralled by her legs the whole time, but he knew we would not take offence, would we? I showed him to the street door he had come by, in the lift, I gave him the Bacall gaze, I would swear I could feel an erection.
Once the agent had left, Adèle avowed she was flabbergasted, like I would be some kind of a master spy. She helped me to unroll back the futon and pull her dress off. The window cleaner made a beaming smile, and he finished his work to better ogle us, was he some kind of spy, too? Natalia found us and pulled out of her jeans before I could tell about the window cleaner.
There were heaps to be relived, whores of us, of that furious night. I had been a tad frustrated in the black, I loved to watch my buddies fuck, like we did at Philippe’s behind the double-view mirrors. Adèle wondered what Philippe’s was, and I summarised since the Orleans years, the Revolution and eventually the clandestine corridors. Natalia decreed that, if our loins withstood, we should take our new neighbour to Philippe’s that night. I agreed and texted an ambiguous poem to Sami who promised me the finest of dinners.
There was a message from Kate, evoking a never-ending ceremony with a eulogy that taught her most of what she had never known about her father, otherwise, she had mostly held her mother’s hand. Lauritz, too, had supported his mother. Her half-sister had only shown up at Buxtehude cemetery, beautifully tanned and impatient. Since then, every day was another meeting with direly serious people, and she was all too happy to trust Simon to take the reins. She had met his wife, Ada, who looked like her and made the first move with a frank stare, Kate thought she probably knew of the bond with her brother. They had gone sailing on the Alster one evening, she had felt she might very well do Ada. The empire was in Simon’s hands, her mother would keep the house on the Alster shore, and the swans. The cottage on Sylt remained undivided. She had regretted not flying back with Lauritz, it would be a matter of days, now.
Natalia borrowed one of my black dinner jackets, which was even sexier on her because it did not fully cover her baby breasts; she slid on black silk veil tights and black suede loafers. She borrowed that boyish cuir Cologne that made her smell like a schoolgirl. I put on a midnight blue sheen twill waistless shirt dress, French sleeves, no collar, embroidered with randomly scattered vivid coloured capital letters, with black hold-up stockings and navy suede chelseas, I dropped dashes of woody narcissus and roses around my groin, armpits and neck.

Adèle looked heavenly elfin, in a blur striped gradient opal silk jersey, cut in a fluid tunic, wrapping her shapes closely, so thin one could feast one’s eyes at her bum crack, and armholes so deep one couldn’t help sliding a hand upon her timid breast. She wore silvery Greek sandals.
We had time to take a turn at the arcade gallery, most regretting the modern vandalising of all the southern end, stripping the Galerie d’Orleans of its glazed roof and all the shops under it, then fifty years later crowding the Palace’s backyard with an inane array of bulky black and white cement stumps. Lucky are we to have preserved the civil elegance of the other three sides Philippe II d’Orléans completed before the Revolution during which he voted for the beheading of his cousin the King, before being shortened himself two years after. Under the lineage of the Orleans princes, the common law did not apply within the limits of the domain, putting it off the scrutiny of the Royal police. As we know, like many monuments built in the immemorial handcrafted manner, rich clients, bound solely by the facade’s layout, devised whatever arrangements and circulations within, concealing as many concealed pathways and stairways that fitted their whims.
To Adèle, this antique venue did not stand in comparison with the Galleria Victorio Emmanuele in Milan, although she scarcely knew it. She might have been right to think I had rambled a bit, while onlookers took an eyeful of all we showed of ourselves. Sami met us at the door and ushered us to a table in a nook on the entresol, near a half-moon window. He demonstrated how fully he grasped what I had forewarned him about my Italian foundling, and she noticed. They had prepared hibiscus kombucha which had a jot of acidity to it, and a grilled tofu and peppers, mushrooms, and pineapple salad interspersed with chiselled parsley, coriander, tarragon, in lime, cashew and soy dressing, and a side of grilled polenta slices.
I remembered our first visit, with Kate and Hugo, in that same room. She was recovering from her Berlin fiasco, still under the spell of Dr Schubert. We had an inkling about a small door marked “private” in the bathroom, I would have sworn it had been slightly ajar while I was peeing.
Now, Adèle knew that beyond the crooked staircases that we would climb deep inside the massive walls, she might unabashedly be groped by anyone she would meet, or further if she let. This impressive monument was still no less than a bawdy house patronised by a conspiracy of oh-so prophylactically vetted libertines ready to share and be shared, albeit as of then, she would merely be on a tour, behind the two-way mirrors.
We had all naked wild strawberries in leaf imitation porcelain plates and tiny silver spoons to savour them one by one, just like in the forest undergrowth, before the wolf ate us.
Natalia went stealthily to the loo, Adèle and me a minute later, and found we now had to use our black card to unlock the private door. Natalia awaited at the first bend, necking with Sami. As we all had been before her, Adèle was a tad spooked in the narrow vaulted ashlar stone corridor deeply carpeted in maroon wool. And I knew Sami would stand at the small landing to grab a feel of her, I helped him by hitching up her flimsy dress, whispering to let be done.
Natalia led us to the vestiary, joking it would be wiser to secure our togs now rather than losing them all over the place —we had our essentials in concealed pockets in some hems. Though we knew the maze eyes closed, Sami pretended to guide us, and Adèle in particular. It was time for the early romps, most of the booths along the mirrors alley were busy, I spotted a known actress offering her bumhole to a grizzled gent in a shirt with all her talent. Girls from legal to no age helped diverse types of clients exult sans soucis.
As cunning big sisters, we knew that at the end of the corridor were some salons to the reverse use, where Sami would ploy to hustle our young Italian pixie he did not know had been raised as a captive bait and thus knew all about the pelvic thrust. Unsurprisingly, after so many gracious eyefuls —all the libertine girls in the rooms knew they were being peeped at— Adèle was aroused, wet, and granted Sami a swerving tango that left him so stunned he wouldn’t let go of her before buggering her legs up, using his own spurt out of her coochie as lube.
We had offered a lesbian counterpoint to potential amateurs who knew where to corner us after our playful shower. Sami well drained and on the run, we were cheerfully accosted by four musketeers that let us not ignore their bouncy swords, so narrow was the path towards another salon, with a padded square stage in the middle, where we lay welcoming in all indecency, and it was obvious Adèle reaped all the wants. One of them called me by my name as he thrust into my bumhole made slidy by his benevolence. I heard my sisters moan eloquently, Adèle busied three bulls on her slinky own.

I knew how to curb the assault, however flattering it be; we climbed down a spiral stairwell to the subterranean premises, and there I put a call for Sami through the interphone, then went to the warm pool, resolute to calm things down, if they ever wanted to see Adèle’s shapely rump again. It was in those low vaulted ashlar cellars, who knows how many levels there are, besides the sewer tunnels and the metro?
Two nymphs lounged already in the tepid waters of the small mosaic pool, although wide enough to swim a breaststroke or two, they called themselves Angelina and Victoria, one spoke Neapolitan, the other as many tongues as there are in Switzerland. Angelina stroke Adèle’s pointed tits and said she could tell that she had only just been carefully jostled, as she bore no bruises; then she learned she was talking to a newcomer, and she showed a greedy smile. She was willowy and tanned, she confessed they lived in a penthouse and basked in the sun on every occasion, their terrasse big enough to work out daily. They did not do much else than rent out their niceties to select clubmen, wouldn’t either we? I pinched Adèle when I had the hunch she was about to unwrap her own story.
We had been taking flying steps, and Adèle had all the rights to ignore the turmoil at the core of which she had been the fateful glitch. Now, as for other foundlings we fostered, she would have to edit the whole narrative of her mistaken life, keeping the nuggets out of the dregs.
In the morning, some sleek-suited envoy from the Italian Consulate set siege to our beloved fortress until he found help from Cecile, who offered coffee, so dumbstruck he was looking at Rambling Rose, hardly covered in the studio —Cyprien finally having engrammed that her transgressive beauty wouldn’t poison his own sensitivity— but merely took him up to the apartment, while we hurried down from our unassailable futon, in whatever shapeless nigh tee-shirt we had found that made him smile candidly at our legs and feet, he was the acme of an Italian Cavaliere, the three of us could have melted for his charm. He was personally bringing Adèle’s new vademecum and a few re-issued forms for her to sign, all the more lightly than she had never done anything of the sort. Then the pressure had risen so high as he accepted Cecile’s coffee, and she swayed her gaze to make me wit on that I was showing my privates by hiking my foot up on the seat. But he had visibly been briefed at the highest level, and what he saw did not feel like the underworld. He liked Cecile’s espresso, and he had a tight-knit conversation with Adèle, not mentioning her would-be trade activities all legal in Italy, making sure she had no part in the current political scandal. Not forgetting my morning absent-mindedness —I was so proud I would have blushed— he took our numbers, knowing we might very well shut out our telephones, shook hands and followed Cecile, in her work smock, in the lift. Adèle was overwhelmed by holding her authentic ID and passport, she remembered how her picture had been taken on a telephone, I prepared tea and held her head as she cried all over my crazy shirt.
Kate barged in with her don’t-hustle-me-no-more eyes, she, too, needed my womb to cuddle on, but she was stunned by that new just-out-of-bed kind of imp who wouldn’t speak. It became instantly so much more urgent to hear me explain how the Confederacy had scavenged yet again two more imps —one from Milan, the other by the good graces of Louis— than what I supposed she had to bear with, in the ranks of a family and caste she had never mingled with before. Gwen had been terrified and remained in the Alster house, feeding the cygnets with fruit. Now she was in the pool downstairs with her TRÆVIX buddies, they had flown ever so fast back from Hamburg.
A&S told me they had fresh cinnamon-rolls-apple pies, I ordered one to be delivered at Cecile’s, and we went, Adèle in white short shorts and tanks, Kate in slinky mauve yoga shorts and cropped top, and me in a myosotis-blue thin one-piece. I saw frank relief on Rambling Rose’s pouty face, and then curiosity towards whom she couldn’t mistake for other than Kate, and I read she was at once beguiled with her manners and the way we behaved together —which she later said gave her the key to our eerie world.
Out of the carton, the pie smelled of bygone afternoons in the wide light of the Østersund shore, and to Kate the cottage in Sylt’s dunes. Cyprien quitted his penetrated gaze and looked at us like living things. Cecile peeled off her work togs, but Rose took off everything at Kate’s request and even risked coming to sit on her lap, deciding she smelled good, and she spoke smoothly.
Cecile, wearing a mere grey slip with a light camisole, enlaced Adèle and tried her best to ask about the night at Philippe’s, and she grasped, mostly with faces and hands, that she had been favourably impressed, and also copiously honoured.

She floated the idea of asking the Laforest twins if they wished for a boundless quintet in their majestuous salons, thus the maitre d welcomed her and whoever she saw fit off his own bat, Their Lordships being currently furiously occupied, and Cecile remembered precisely what that meant. As for myself, I kept a spiky recollection of a dedicated turn in the whipping cellar, utmostly troubling, though heftily rewarded, did I warn the damsels if we were en route to the most extravagant clubhouse I knew in Paris.
Together, we thoroughly pampered each other all the way to the enemas, for sure. An undetectable touch-up with eye shadow, mascara, blush, and gloss to look a tad grown-up, then we pillaged the perfume cabinet hoping our driver wouldn’t suffocate.
I sensed that Kate was overjoyed to cock a snook, so to speak, at the shareholders who would never know of her whatsoever, she graciously unclothed for us and went fetch possibly the most shameless outfit in her repertoire, and there be. She found a jade green satin tunic, slit to the hip, with waves of aquamarine beadings at the hem, and silvery flat maryjanes, she couldn’t sit without showing her sinful slit. I dressed Adèle in a Gilberte Swann mullein-yellow twill flared, tiered, dress under which she would have no fineries to show but white hold-ups and new white suede ballet flats. Cecile remembered a black Shantung long sleeves shirt dress with ruffled collar and wrists, rounded tails and red trimmings that would set off the marvel on Rambling Rose’s body while being craftily unbuttoned; she wore quirky black shined ankle-boots and red-stripe-trimmed over-the-knees black stockings. Cecile herself liked snap-studded Okinawa-style varsity satin jackets like this double-dragon embroidered on crimson and black one over unavoidable black satin little shorts. She pulled on black thigh-high stockings and black suede flats, she would always be my infalling crafts girl from the magazines closet.
I would still be in two minds as to let myself flogged, whatever the reward, but I sussed Rose liked her thorns rich, so it might, and I had seen Cecile gush under pain before. I chose a sapphire-amethyst changing silk taffeta double-breasted blazer with white gold Venetian mask buttons, and I wore patent leather deep-purple penny loafers.
They had sent a huge statutory schickerei-grey berline that awaited our snazzy troupe on the quay and ran to take care we don’t stray from the outer door, his hand on my butt. He drove ever so slowly, and I sussed what he would be trying when he parked near that horrendous insult to a human tragedy that wallows behind the Paris Musée Des Beaux Arts. He was a handsome grizzled stud who knew perfectly why we went to his bosses’ lair, and he purported to be served a chink afore our debauchery, although I would have bet I had seen him cavorting amidst the guests at our last worldly fiesta.
He kept staring at Cecile as no mistake, so she squarely asked if he wanted a blowjob, and he retorted she had a lovely mouth, that I kissed to tease him. Cars are perfect scenes for depravity; no sooner had she bent on him, her shorts lowered, than at least two gawkers stood at the window wanking, and in the back, we did not remain quiet, Kate wanted to acquaint with my mute ragazza who used her hands. After he had been cleaned out, the chauffeur tidied up but told Cecile to stay indecently undone, so, not only this impressive carriage caught the eyes at traffic lights, but some sharp-eyed onlookers were given away some eyefuls. I knelt on the jump seat and helped her swallow the mouthful.
The maitre d sported the stiff smile of one who is breaking new shoes, but we knew him by heart. As he kissed Cecile who let him, I joshed he was tasting the chauffeur’s last spurt, and he could have as much from me. He asked if it had been a fault from him, but we laughed.
Sissi and Bowie came up in light foulard-printed robes, we could tell they had just lately been shagged as they liked. They walked us to the grand salon where linen veilings subdued the slanted dusk light. It smelled like the glasshouses in Kew Gardens, with wild animals in black on the loose. I remembered the treachery of the sofas in which one easily tipped, showing all the clubmen had expected. As in any truly good continental club, one of the gents spoke Italian with a northern accent, thus appropriating Adèle whose skirt had flown up.
I called the twins, who were overjoyed to see us back, and I warned them of an exquisite speciality inside my neighbour’s dress, beginning to undo the buttons one by one for them, crouched near us. I pulled away the shirt completely as Rose let me do, taking her on my bare chest. I did my best to embellish the narrative of the captive on a wayward yacht, months of half-torture under the needle gun of a perversely mad artist, and eventually, an operation of Interpol that had brought Rambling Rose —also the name of the yacht whose owner had died of an overdose of alcohol and Oxy— back to our bedazzled waters.

It wasn’t long before she quits her bold pair of brodequins and pranced around on her dainty feet with crimson nails. Our dermatologist had wished to determine what kind of ink her tormentor had used, and it turned out it was genuine Japanese Kuro Sumi ink used for centuries. The doctor had prescribed an unguent that smelled of fresh weed and gave a gentle contrast to the motive in the skin. Rose felt at ease with her illustrated body.
If it seemed assured there would be a dispute as to whom would shag the living picture, there wasn’t any as the Cavaliere drew Adèle to the bedrooms upstairs, her dress and shoes in hand. The maitre d had taken a fancy for Cecile, probably because she had avowed to being an easy slut with the chauffeur, and thus he had pulled her to his private nook I had known of, too. Kate let herself be wooed in German without telling that she spoke it, and it went smoothly upstairs, too. Three contenders to Rambling Rose’s indulgence eventually agreed to share her, since she would not disapprove, why would she? It left me with the Fairy Twins, and they did not fuss about letting me unclothe them too. When Cecile came back from her quick pass, she still smelled of raw turpitude, and she wore that so well. Bowie took her by the hand towards the bathroom where she wanted to play with her. I remained entwined with Sissi amidst the emerald green velvet of the sofa until an antique beau with white fluffy sideburns invited us to a room upstairs. And what a vigorous senior he revealed himself to be! Sissi had known all along, and she let me be played in and out, the considerable shaft still capable of making me squirt in a way he loved while she discreetly left. He wanted to know my name, and he kneaded all my bones while he used all my holes, then he pulled me into the bathroom and told me to wash with him, and we laughed with the enema hose. I helped him dress up like a good girl as nude as can be, he asked for my hand, and he put three gold coins in it.
Back downstairs, where some new visitors had escaped their boring obligations, I asked Bowie where Cecile would be, and her embarrassed answer confirmed what I hunched, she had been taken away to the cellar. Bowie finely proposed we could watch through the mirrors, like Marie Antoinette. I liked that, as if I would help spare her the worst, but, in the narrow peepers’ corridor, Sissi pinched my madberries and asked me if it was not frankly delicious to watch, as long as there would be no scars?
As if by chance, nude sportsmen tiptoed on both sides of us, eager to watch us watch and busy with their hands. As for me, it was obvious I would be ready at a whim, and thus I complied, with my bum arched, to a stark standing shag, while looking at Cecile wriggling under the lash, and so did Bowie. They left me dripping and panting, and now Cecile too, was humped in both sides, stretched upwards in cross bonds, and Bowie had run, giving way to give way to a new pair of implacable rams whom I could not avoid in that cramped little trap where they had to bear me with my legs up in the air to reach both my slits. It sent me back to my laundry cellar’s memories, the all but naive excesses in the sewers of paradise. This time I pursued one of my assailants, and I reached a recess in a white tiles-clad bathroom, with a large tub in its midst steaming with lotus. Bowie soon led Cecile by the hand, crying and drooling, smeared in jizz all over. We let ourselves sink in the sacred fragrance, and she laughed at my distraught face.
In that gliding vessel of a car back home, The chauffeur asked Rambling Rose to show herself nude on the front seat. She was exhausted, a battalion of greedy amateurs had succeeded one another in her living metaphor, but that one here did not claim for the last straw, he parked somewhere near the Arc De Triomphe, for a quiet while. Kate shied from touching Cecile, but the twins had anointed her burns with miracle balsams, she let her jacket open on her tormented breasts and begged for kisses.
Back home, Adèle happily cuddled herself in our bed between Kate and me, Cecile and Rose ran to entrust their souls to the Crow God, under the sarcastic grin of the homunculus. Sometime in the night, Natalia was all too happy to lie aside Kate.
As ever, Cecile woke up at Alfred’s order, put on a tracksuit and headed to her workshop. She left Rambling Rose in the safe bushes of the undergrowth, like a doe her fawn. She was involved in the restoration of a spectacular, painted multi-panelled screen by Jean Dupas, a master of Art Deco flair, star aboard the last of the truly luxurious French transatlantic ships, sadly sabotaged in New York harbour.
Natalia had a crush on Adèle, mainly because of all she had managed to read about the Scandalo Milanese and the fortitude she sensed in the pretty rescued orphan from a bygone planet who steadily reshaped her foundations with our not-so-gratuitous guidance. With Fanny in mind, we agreed that professional help like Dr Méant had been providing would keep Adèle on safer tracks, I promised to go ask the Doctor for recommendations.

At break time, Cecile came up to chat around the late breakfast table. Even coffee had been made for a moony Rambling Rose. I couldn’t help pulling down gently Cecile’s pants, as though to assess the damages, and she frankly took off everything to let us reckon that she was intact after all, thus I sat her on my lap and poked my nose in her armpit.
Then she joined Rose to play dip with cat tongues, she wore a prefaded blue tank top from Cecile’s and nothing more, she wouldn’t know what fuss I was making about Cecile’s loins. Through tea’s evocative savours, I tried to sort out the situations around the table hic et nunc. I re-threaded our conversation with Natalia in front of Adèle, and she asked who Fanny was. I agreed it would be enlightening to summon Fanny and Dagmar to dinner, and also Fayelle if she was in Paris, to retell her guided soul-searching after the axolotls’ episode.
Cecile’s world had never encompassed any manner of confession, she had told me that I was the only person she revealed her secret to, and she had never disappointed me either. She thought that Fanny and Dagmar could actually give Adèle a heap of clues if she agreed to go to school, for one. She would keep Rose in her bed as long as she needed unless Adèle shared her place with her.
Natalia had gone, promising she would be there for dinner. I felt like playing doll along with my buddy Kate, for the good of our foundlings who might crave to possess some new rags of their own.
We scoured the rue du Bac all the way up to the Bon Marché, the biggest antiphrasis to stand up in Paris. We stopped when it became obvious we needed two cars to go back. The girls had ferreted out oodles of snazzy lingerie and teased all the young attendants in the trying booths. Kate’s and mine cards knew no limitations, but we had messages about the double security of our payments. Camille asked if she would be welcome with us, she craved to have a look at our new debutantes —I sussed Natalia had spread the word of our windfalls.
The light was uplifting, with beautifully torn clouds and a whimsical breeze, we decided to walk to Agnete og Sanne’s open kitchen, to choose our feast’s food in the same manner our little tramps had raided through the fashion chichis. We looted one of each pie of the day, salted, sweet, and in-between, boxes of little puffy nibbles, and an army of fruit-mix paper cups. They also had different kombuchas and mostly the elderberry. It all went in the delivery boy’s tricycle who knew how to ask for the door where he was well known. Not only was he not disappointed with the tip, but he could almost drool at the girls’ legs on the stairs when we crossed.
Camille brought a family-sized box of Sadaharu Aoki’s confectionery, Rambling Rose made no fuss showing herself wholly, as she was so incentivised by all the village to take pride in what she had resented before as defiling or awkward. Not letting her get dressed again, Camille kept her clenched to hear her legend, marvelling at her smooth skin over the elaborate black lines, she praised the unguent Rose used.
But I needed her to hear a harsher story, and thus I enlaced Adèle who hardly grasped what I would retell once more, pointing analogies to the past situations of Fanny and Dagmar as for their legal establishment in France. Fanny spoke broken Italian and wasn’t insensitive to Adèle’s polite smile, the same she had herself turned to Kate in the Venice little store, and had eventually brought her to us, distraught and hunted. She asked her if wanted to stay and thrive here, beyond turning tricks that wouldn’t be enough to make her a bona fide citizen. She explained how she, an abused foundling out of the Balkan wars, had been enrolled at school to speed-learn French and then Art History and aesthetics, just as Camille had done long ago, and Natalia.
She also put forth the long-haul soul-searching with Dr Méant, unwilling to manage two similar cases in the same extended family of sorts, might consider addressing her to some reliable colleague, though experience showed it wasn’t an easy quest in Paris, she might find a method to scour through all the crooked roots of her soul and prune the hampering morbid ones, then set them in the new order, easier said than done, agreed most of the suave assembly. Hugo knew all varieties of psychopomp professionals in less than a two-minute walking radius.
The pies took a turn in the oven according to Agnete’s advice, no one scorned any, nor the puff nibbles. We also had different sauces to pour on, Adèle wondered if we ever did some actual cooking. Fanny said neither did they.
Camille longed to pull away that breathing picture at her side, probably nodding a blessing to a mad lord RIP, in the least to a needlemongering virtuoso. She summoned all of us to her quarters, to the cheers of her current boarders, and I knew she would bring precious support to our damsels in distress.

Kate had disrobed Dagmar before dessert, and both cooed happily despite regretting the absence of the proper herd stags. Natalia gloated in echo and fetched her telephone to call well-known names to the vote, then send them unequivocal messages. I wouldn’t tell what Taras Bulba and his band of pleasant stooges had been at, but they dismounted at once to come and pip Fulgence —who had been watching Bambi on Youtube with Erik— at the post. First, all the plates were cleaned, coffee and tea were brewed, and Camille’s present was put on display.
But all the talk was about a drawing by this unknown Thai artist whose name must be dissimulated in some abugida among the rootlets above Rambling Rose’s labia. She said he might as well have been Japanese. She purred to the as-of-yet moral caresses of this keen scrum of fresh Cologne-smelling hunks. Camille played promoter, and Rose liked that.
One slanky new Zaporozhian nerd remained standing behind a sofa, and his sun-bleached strand across his face appealed to me, as he reminded me of one we shared unabashedly, Ayla and me, in the steamy cellars. Memories whipped up my rump and, as he looked at the tea I was pouring, I nodded candidly so he took the seat at my left. His name was Stephen, he was Irish from Cork University College and a junior Conference Interpreter with European institutions. He wore outdated baggy jeans and a loose white cotton shirt. After I served him tea he wanted explanations for, I did not waste much time reaching for his fly, showing by my stare that I knew what I was doing.
While I explained the miracle of some Taiwan teas, altogether more suited for evening, he returned the gentle fondlings all the more easily that I had dropped my pants. He asked if we had met before, as I was pressing his noticeably noncomplying Irish penis, for size, as go the sayings. Over there, Sergei had nuzzled his way up to the mound of Rose’s and was licking like a greedy wolf while she was still hugged in Camille’s embrace. Fanny revelled in Erik’s muscular handling of her honey-hued limbs while she nibbled at his balls.
To Kate’s relief, Sergei had also rung up three of our old school buddies we had hardly seen since the time of our orgiastic vernissage, and she seemed fit for taking on the three of them, had she been alone. In the weirdest moments at her paramour Victor’s parties in his insanely artsy venues, we would say that women were all the better in debauchery if outnumbered. She had been such a foolhardy creature of grace.
So then she confiscated two Armenian brothers and led them to our bed, and I reckoned I should make my own move if I did not want to shag upon a mere dining chair, thus I took my crush away to the studio where he beamed a grin watching me unroll the futon, his jeans on his arm. I may brag, but he was so truly desirable that I pumped him dry in a furious swig and then let him return the favour wherever he would prefer, but for a while, he relished ogling me all spread, mumbling in whatever otherworldly parlance. He too, made me gush in no time, crooking two fingers into my coochie. Out of the blue, I asked him if he had already been to Philippe’s, only to know if he had complied with the screening, and thus could mingle further with my bodily humours; he frankly laughed and fetched his wallet to show me his card, where was mine? Downstairs. I duly did penance, sneaking on tiptoes to the counter where my wallet was. It seemed everyone was getting humped, and Camille tasted the Cossack jolt; Rambling Rose being gently shared nearby on the sofa. I returned to my walking playboy, with proof of my innocuousness. He rubbed my ribs, protesting he had believed me: he asked if I had checked my number on the web. He opened my laptop and searched for his number on Google, which led to a black screen and a query for a personal code, and thus to a mere blinking green psychedelic light and his full name, Stephen Leopold Fuddlesome, then he clapped the machine, already too famish of my womb. I handed him the bottle of Swiss Navy.
Early in the morning, to Alfred’s great dismay, I was pulled out of a conference with the swarm of crimson birds over the garden of Tycho Brahe on Ven, in the Øresund by stubborn humps to my frenzied womb, one split second before I responded willingly to the Irish green eyed wanderer. He was so beguiled by my smiling yawn that he let go of an irrepressible gush in unison with mine, just like we had reached a perfect gameplay at no effort at all. Under the shower, I retold him where he had fished me out from. While rubbing me dry, he assured me he was interested in my dream, and he asked permission to record me telling while we drank the morning Darjeeling tea, under Alfred’s perfect sarcasm. He used my computer, saving the file on his cloud, thus I spared him nought of my long-time tribulations with frozen angels and the murders of crimson crows. He eventually avowed being a writer.

 

Kate says:

I woke up between Dagmar and Natalia, it was a fresh summer morning after a stormy night. No one was in sight in the living room, and the wonder maid had cleared our petty damages, what would she know of our unmentionable shenanigans? I made tea, although I would have preferred it be brewed by a Danish angel. She had reappeared sneakily on tiptoes to fetch whatever and return to wherever. I understood she would have slept in the studio, Michelle’s futon had recently reappeared.
Natalia and Dagmar had played in the shower, they were scented of our traditional Geranium-Orange, Dagmar came sway her hips to my face, how could an angel show a navel? Right away, she claimed to love the new ones. She said Camille had snatched Rambling Rose away with her, and Fanny was in bed with Adèle in Fayelle’s old room. Natalia had been gently playing footsie with me, she said she would help Fanny manage some kind of cursus for the young ones, from what I understood she would introduce them to influent Dons, a path Camille and Liselotte had taught her at a profit. Dagmar too, had learned French that way, and now she held some esoteric position with TRÆVIX; would that mean keeping Michelle’s feet warm at fatidic moments.
They had a lunch appointment at the Baltimore, and I guessed it wouldn’t be talking equities; Natalia made for such a splendid hireling, and Dagmar figured the perfect sister, at that; they offered a most expensive pair, by Jove!
I did not dress, and I climbed up to the studio, discreetly so as not to wake her, if ever. There was this funny scene where the young slinky lad with a sun-bleached strand across his face sat nude in Sarah’s chair while she pranced, also nude, about the creased futon, rapping on her familiar Slumberland universe while he seemed to record her in her computer —is there a copyright on dreams?
It smelled like together they had ignited the whole night, and I thought nobody other than me had ever heard the whole tale of the verdigris pinnacles of Denmark and the murder of crimson crows, I retired before she summon the Tudor angels. I had a hunch he could not avoid also sleeping with me, so entwined our souls are.
Now Hugo texted he would love to see me in the afternoon, indeed I wished to update him on my circumstances, Camille and him had often been sole navigators onboard my drifting barque, and I entrusted my shaky soul to him. I wanted to surprise him by climbing down in the raw, a reminiscence of our early days on both sides of a camera, before my Berlin wreckage and Sarah’s call for rescue. He knew what flimsy relations I had had with my father, I enticed him to fondle me, telling him how I had misbehaved most of the night, during that gentle gathering we had set to figure out our foundlings’ future. He said he had met them both privately and they should honour our symphonic bouquet, and then he pulled me to the shadows of the silver-black bedroom.
Complying with Hugo’s long-acquainted wants, beyond the pleasure honed with years of trustful lovemaking, diffusely brought some closure to the days I had gone through, following Simon into notary offices and the board room overlooking the Elbe, signing all he told me to, before eventually, we met in that empty apartment in the moonlight, as frenzied as we had ever been in our endless realm on Sylt. He had announced he would soon marry, as a means to reconcile with his scattered body; his wife only knew the official version of the accident, in which I was totally exonerated. He said he doubted he would once dare tell her about us two, but I remained free to behave my own way at the cottage, with whom I liked.
At dinner time, Cecile, Adèle, Sarah and I ordered fried zucchini blossoms with a side of mustard sauce, grilled tofu and mushroom salad, and a perfect fruit mix with bananas. I knew Adèle was far from what she looked like, a quiet little lamb. Her skin was uncomparably smooth, and she let me graze her nascent breasts. We all bragged about the homages we garnered on the night before, so much so that Cecile floated the idea that we go sell our hides at Speck’s. I disregarded that Lauritz’s address book was probably filled with my father’s classmates, but at worse they had seen me at the funerals in one of my brother’s suits, overshadowed by one of my father’s hats.
We all dressed like floozies. Sarah put on a vintage round-tail white cotton shirt and a small black moleskin vest, nude legs and patent leather thin-strapped sandals. Adèle wore a dawn-mauve layered chiffon gathered dress that let all be seen with two-strapped white suede sandals. Cecile pulled a stern-cut black Duchess satin skirt suit, open and slit on nothing, with patent-leather flat loafers. Sarah fetched one of her cadet tailcoats, black with gilt buttons, and white spandex shorts she said she might pull off if the mood was up; she wore perverted black knee-high true cavalier boots. I put on a gold-pinstriped white serge double-breasted jacket, with padded shoulders and sharp white satin lapels, lined in silver satin; and white patent ankle-strapped boots.

It couldn’t have been a long ride, I was seated next to the chauffeur, and he couldn’t keep his eyes on the street. Sarah told me I had been supremely skilful not showing all. It was still early, no wonder that, once he checked our credentials, the head butler would pick his reward among us, and no wonder either he took Adèle by the hand towards the velvet curtain at the far end of the corridor. We climbed the first flight of stairs and entered the grand salon, like Lysistrata in Aubrey Beardsley’s boudoir. Soon enough, Adèle ran up, unfazed in her twirling frills. She told Sarah it had been only a courteous antipasto, as she could taste. There was refreshing kombucha available on the buffet.
Lauritz’s new kittens weren’t yet onstage, or else they were at work upstairs. Again, Adèle was solicited and warned that she spoke Italian, which made an elegant patron walk up and speak her language, to the dismay of the prime bidder, but we weren’t there to police the customers, who quieted anyhow, and she went with the Cavaliere for a while. The shunned client took a sudden taste in Cecile’s boots and did not need to talk to take her hand.
Came the quick-witted Dorothy in a mere sapphire blue lace caraco, the epitome of a late-night working girl and she read my eyes to offer me a kiss and slide a hand to my warm quim, so I hitched up her laceworks over a pale bum. That scene aroused more than one John, and I was pushed by the waist towards the lift by a Cuir de Russie who already rummaged in my neck and my lower belly as the lift slowly went up.
That room smelled of colonies times, camphor wood and polished lacquer, opium, lotus. In a flap of wings, I was all nude with a prim silver-templed corporate head who tricked me with a few questions where he skidded to German, and I answered thus, blushing as if it were more shameful to whore in my father’s tongue. He might not have done it on purpose, being a party pal of Lauritz’s, he must have felt kind of Heimelig.
There was enough space around a black quilted satin bed and two low flat-rest armchairs to make me sway around like an expensive slut. The carved wood panels depicted wall-sized exotic dancers of red gold against black polished lacquer, like in some opium-era Shanghai brothel. Spot lamps were affixed to the shiny caput mortuum ceiling casting sheens on my moving body. Like to a beast, he ordered that I come near and untie his trousers while he threw his jacket and tie upon a backrest.
He sure was well-hung, straight and sturdy, and a pearl of clear jizz dripped from the eye of his glans, thus I showed him what I had trained at since kindergarten, taking authority to push him back on the bed. In retaliation for his arrogance, I sucked him clean in one go, not enough to make him falter, though. He wasn’t repelled that I breathed of his male scent, he granted me a flow of admittedly inventive slur and ordered me to stand like a dog at the bed’s edge, on my parted thighs. He found a tube of lotus-scented lubricant to prepare me like a daring gentleman —I wouldn’t have soaked myself enough, in his unsettling Volksmund mind stance, but eventually, that was what I had sought around here, a frank beastly shag. Nonetheless, he bestowed me with some carnal pride handling my spine and butt with appreciative comments before sheathing me easily to the tip of my womb and humping in so fiercely that I let gush with throaty cries that earned me some arousing butt slaps. He wasn’t ready yet for his second blow, he pressed on my rump to make me arch and offer the rosy corolla of my lesser slit already eased and greased at all avail. He was a careful bugger, a dignified peer of our usual riders, and he soon tickled my stretched ring with Bismark’s moustache, then pumping like a Krupp steam engine. I squirted in elation again and again, before I sensed his warm jizz gush in deep. We were spent, and collapsed on the side; I did not shy about letting him see how fulfilled I was, like it were what he had paid for, and I did not know his little name.
The ensuite bathroom was clad to the ceiling with greenish-flamed tiles where a wide rain shower had been installed behind a glass pane —Sarah had explained to me once that brothel patrons should not waste time in a tub— where I saw him whole and he explained he had been a champion swimmer in the wattenmeer, but now he swam in Berlin lakes. Eventually, he dropped he was called Bernhardt, I told him I had harsh memories of Berlin.

Duly rinsed off any carnal traces, I walked back proudly into the salon feeling a tad peckish, so I gulped a few of those banana-cherry-chocolate bites along with a glass of vanilla milkshake —the next contender would find me a childish mouth. Coline stood there in a simple blue-striped shirt merely buttoned; she would have needed an afternoon in the sun rays or a dash of blush, but it seemed she had herself shadowed her eyes with dark blue, not to look too infantile. A sinewy type in a bespoke black dinner jacket stealthily burrowed a finger into her buttocks crack before I would start figuring myself out as the john.

I found the manner a tad gross, even with a young harlot, but she looked back and called him his name before they ran. Some clients can’t help falling for pretty boarders. Two or three unknown girls in suggestive attire advertised the high taste of the house, letting go in lewd attitudes over older patrons’ laps.
As I dawdled back to the main stage, my tummy once comforted, one of those short fidgety young half-bald conquerors in a bespoke silky no-collar suit, slid a tentative finger under my lapel, lauding my nudity amidst rich bulls. He spoke with some Mittel-European accent, he smelled of cedar wood and muttered his impatience. I followed him to another bedchamber on the second floor.
It was a viridian lampas total decor with a curtained posted bed, Anglo-Persian crimson and flowers-strewn carpeting and white gold leaf ceiling. A small desk covered with a jade-green silk prayer rug, just only convenient to push me onto it, letting my head dangle so as to make me gulp a long shaft while he stroke my unassuming but sensitive tits. The desktop was just long enough for me to rest my feet and open my drawn-back legs.
He had disrobed entirely, proud of a well-strained abdominal belt and a forward-tense penis. He was a sharpshooter, all his first jizz offload went straight through my back throat while he eructed gibberish in a high-pitched tenor tone. He was gallant altogether, he offered me a drink when all was gulped in, and there was tonic in a small icebox. He kneaded me all over in search of the absent body fat, but I knew my worth. He seized my wrists in the back, and I knew what was to come, he pressed me face down upon the soft pile and found my bunghole obedient to a three fingers anointment. With seemingly Swabian language comments, he rubbed his glans against my rosebud to niggle in further and further, and he was skilled at the game, thus I responded by wriggling my bum the way he liked it all the way to the tickling muff. I certainly soiled the precious rug, but then it was none of my concerns, I climaxed carelessly like a boundless brook as he gushed with tremours, deep in my entrails.
He cuddled me in the scented creases of the shadowy bed, and I must have dozed out, for I woke all sticky and smelly. I ran to the black marble and silver bathroom; on the stained desk was a small bundle of cash, with a card engraved W. D. I took the card and left the money under my glass for whoever would have to clean my mess, and that made me feel righteous; I had seen these workladies in black sportswear and sneakers.
Having rinsed my bareness in details, I strutted back as well as I could in the salon, where Sarah stood in a recess naked, hugging Carine who showed appealing rounded buttocks but looked moody. A client had been rough with her, too glad he could take advantage of her unseasoned youth. That wasn’t game, for a clubman. They could indulge in plenty of lewd manners with sluts like us, but hurting a newbie who showed me her swollen cheek, would have consequences in all the network. A waiter brought a pouch of ice, and he looked moved, though altogether aroused by Carine sitting with the pouch on her cheek, bare naked.
And so the spell was broken for the night, we called the maitre d. to lend us his office to wait for the other girls while they officiated. Sarah had texted Lauritz a furious report of what Carine had endured. There wasn’t excess commotion, we fetched our threads and snuck to the lift, asking a waiter to tell Cecile and Adèle on the one hand, and Coline and Dorothy, on the other hand, where we were, at their next intermission.
Howbeit, as the situation was taking place in a house of loose pleasure, and thus it wasn’t so inappropriate to see Udo Wenzell’s hand grazing Carine’s tapered thighs rather than helping her dress. We all had allowed him liberties as some extended droit de seigneur, like all key-holders exert a way or another. Anyhow, she was terrorised, thus Sarah did something utterly debauched, she took out Udo’s stiff candy stick to defuse the tension, telling the man after she forced him to gush that he would be granted many other occasions to use Carine in all ways. The doe-eyed little harlot saw the mayhem wane, and the rest of the light brigade rejoined them one by one, and then Lauritz, who had something of a sit-down strike on his hands.
Udo took our defence but now was time for bigwig customers out of theatres, and they had been teased in earlier messages, thus it would be unwelcomed to ask them to go elsewhere. Cecile was Lauritz’s trusted confidante, she designed a goodwill arrangement in which Carine would go home with either of her friends, while the bulk of us would greet the genteel guests a while longer. Lauritz promised he would report the boor with the higher Ways And Means commission, asking for no less than a three-month suspension, in addition to a perpetual bar from Speck’s.
To all of us, Carine’s mishap was of an unheard kind among the milieu we mingled with. Thus we returned to the pond out of which we would be fished, like frogs.

 

Sarah says:

It had happened twice, in the Tudor days, chimney swifts became lured to our windows and knocked themselves out on the terrace, motionless. My nanny had taught me to bear them upon a clean kerchief and try to give them water from a spoon. When I had come back from school, the kerchief was empty, and I felt a pang, but my Far explained that birds are not meant to stay with us, were they touching with their witty eyes, furthermore now all the swifts that I would see foraging around at dusk would possibly be twitting hello to me in memory of what I had given them. Swifts have disappeared from our deadly cities, only pigeons survive, like rats and crimson crows.
We had saved Lauritz’s pride before an areopagus of well-heeled amateurs with fine manners. I caught the eye of a light-ginger Van Dyck with long slender hands and something of a morphine habit —although I couldn’t detect any injection spot on his transparent skin along the visible veins. So long as he did not entice me into his damnation, he could toy with me as he did for a splendorous price.
In that room upholstered entirely of carnelian silk damask, after he had hugged me like a buoy in the low-dimmed lights, he had asked that I help him unclothe. He owned that his erection was whimsical, but I should not worry, he could behave as the perfect lesbian only to watch me climax. He smelled of Florentine September, cypress and iris in a cloud of ambergris, like one time-forsaken Bright Young Thing on the Grand Tour.
The hips-high terracotta cotton piqué bed would have offered some convenient support to being shagged in whatever way —I kept that in mind for later; it was room 29— but he hauled himself across and asked me to lie spread and come pull my tongue to his face and let him lick, fiddle with my pretty quim and gush, thinking of the laundry cellar’s foals —from my masturbatory repertoire— so Alastair had a hunch and bought me to tell, with more and more details, my debauched sex life in Paradise, as he fiddled his capricious tool. Eventually, he ordered me to suck him, and I did, with all diligence, regardless of his indecisive pulse, to a meagre end that nonetheless sounded like death throes of him. He fuddled asking for his pillbox in his jacket, and soon I grasped it wasn’t so as to quiet any faintness, but all the opposite to worsen the crisis I had procured him.
He coughed some manner of excuse and thanked me as one of the best girls he had ever hired. Speaking like an antiquarian —Lauritz later told me he was a renowned Renaissance expert— he detailed my all-disposed person like he would a sculpture, and I took poses. He said that had he met me in the laundry cellar he would have buggered me and again.
He followed me into the golden-rose marble bathroom, where he begged me to piss upon him seated on the bowl, and then we lathered up one another in the shower. He left a notable tip for the maid. I would flag him as a commendable gentleman, with certain mannerisms of his own. I passed in the cloakroom to perfume my sweetest nooks and weaved in to the stage in my fluttering shirt.
I was told Kate and Cecile had just found some company, which left me available once more at least, Adèle was in all likelihood experimenting on the vanity of spoken words in a trade she knew best, didn’t she? The waiter I let grope me to keep him talking told me she had never rested docked for long, and then he asked I go wait for him in the toilets near the lift.
A trio of gala-vested gentlemen without a speckle of dirt on their patent leather shoes held congress in some Finno-Hugric parlance, circling me and lifting my shirt, becoming overexcited at my attitude. Eventually, one of them asked me in German if I were slut enough for three, they took one key and chivvied me into the lift car. They smelled of Lexington chic with a dash of Jo Malone London, I let myself be done.
I wouldn’t remember having been worshipped before in this room, with a large gilded bronze statue of dancing Goddess Kali overlooking a square black satin bed —I would have loved to see her in our home day life. The gleaming oxblood brocade repeated the flammêche motive as if they were set in motion by the many hands of the dancer, under a bronze tiles ceiling where hung another one of these glassed wrought iron lighting fixtures, figuring thunder skies with purple bolts out of golden clouds, casting mystic rays of light around the room.
They had casually disrobed like clubmen before a squash game, boasting their stiffened cocks in a manner that hinted it wasn’t their first trio by long and they would rip me open like a piñata. They raved to no end while triturating my body like a meat-tenderiser, however not so brutally. They drank my mouth off, not nosing out the young waiter’s odour —he had served me a spicy ginger drink afterwards.
They made me wallow across the bed on my own, and I fantasised that Lauritz’s cameras would capture my lewdest moves. One of the players was gifted at massaging feet.

Another stubby one, dark-haired all over, crouched down to make me taste his impatient drippings and let me mould my mouth onto his harsh root for the nth time of the day, I be damned. The others pulled one of my legs high, so as to access the rillet they were thirsty for, both sides. It went smoothly thus, and I took no more care of what I would gush than he warned me of what he spurted in my throat, calling me in his gibberish while holding my head firm. No wonder he was at once replaced at a game that had gone so infallibly to success, thank whom? Only time to gulp and a thankfully leaner Peter headed seemingly a notch further down my throat with an implacable drill move, and he was straddling the limit beyond which I would belch up ungraciously. A tap of my hand on his made him hold back a bit while his want spurted with due arrogance. They burst into bortsch laughter as I expected the third bitter purge of an impenitent slut, but that one was busy buttering up my lesser hatch like a steam engine piston, and then bustling inside with one of my best friends.
That wouldn’t do enough, he rolled over and made me spread eagle, hand kneading these ticklish perineal adductors, from under. The smaller thick one had recovered enough to come in upfront, and he preferred to help Mother Nature with slidy salve, thus I felt instantly filled at no strain. When my back rider cried release, I was capsized again to offer my gaping ring for free.
Once they had wisened up their inner beasts, and though they seemed to revel in the carnal mess they had made of me, they discussed, still manipulating my overworked remains, and eventually carried me to the maroon and gold mosaic bathroom where they all three pissed upon me like haywire scallywags —had this ever happened in the Jutland dunes? After that, we washed away all the stench and looked at each other frankly only I had not much to cover myself back.
My buddies in vice had been waiting for me, only conceding foraging hands to their parted thighs, for free. We fled like a flock of sparrows when Udo called to say a car was there for us. He granted us a keen bye look. Lauritz must have ended in bed with a spent Dorothy. The driver knew full well what we were, but no one sat at his side for the short ride.
Cecile had a message telling her that Charlotte was in her bed. The other three of us cuddled up with Adèle, yawning but altogether gratified with her encounters; unassumingly, she had the skills not to let herself be pillaged and raped, so long as she would not end trapped in with a loaded boor like the one who had hurt Carine. She had served three johns, under Udo’s electronic eye for a double reason, and she would be particularly greeted next time she would feel like going. Alfred would soon take moral power upon his patch, Adèle turned her buttocks on me, and Kate showed that quiet smile as in the times.
In the morning, Charlotte dawdled somewhat idly waiting for me to brew tea in the big Yi Xing pumpkin. I was yet too dizzy to bake toasts. She said that Liselotte had sent her to a prosperous soul-tweakster for the rich, Dr Jacoby, two streets from us. She had been greeted by a muscular black woman in a black slim-fit training suit and sneakers, knowingly courteous, who ushered her through a maze of untidy rooms she joshed pleasantly she wasn’t allowed to touch.
The Doctor waited in a bistre long gathered smock and a black bowl hat. A lorgnette hung at his neck. She knew at once that he wore not much under the plastician smock. He agitated long slender hands with randomly changing ostentatious rings, he wore thin patent skin bottines. He asked her how much the den mother had afforded her and nodded, leaving her ditched as a mooring pole on a rich Persian garden rug.
The room was a low beamed ceiling with odd knickknacks dangling here and there though she could tell one or two real jewels all the same. Books were piled, stacked, and tucked aside with notes poking out. He was slouched upon a medieval armchair, fiddling whimsically with the lorgnette.
Under Liselotte’s instructions, she had been wearing a long Tana Lawn night-purplish gathered dress strewn of tiny flowers, with short sleeves and buttoned front. She had slid on black ribbed over-the-knee stockings with lace rims, she wore round-toed black flat Maryjanes. No underwear.
Having been raised on a butcher’s unabashed incestuous whims, it would take a lot more deviant fancies than what she had seen coming to unsettle her. He asked her to undo her dress’ buttons one by one, so she did from the bottom, and then she played like unwillingly with the dress tails hide-and-seek on her nudity, in case the fickle warlock would indulge such tastes as country brutes, and as in a matter of dick, she sussed he would. But he yelled she moved too much, the dress should fall slowly from the shoulders and then unveil her timely, he had paid dearly for the whole night, would she behave like a mere streetwalker?

Little did the fanciful Doctor know what he was calling for, the butcher’s daughters know what raw meat is like, and the brain fiddler was served, offhandedly, as she recalled. He probably had been under the influence of a more potent substance than the herds of gendarmes her father had entertained, thus when she unleashed all the vice she had been raised for, his paradoxical dilections were looking up at her quim from the splattered rug while she pissed in his mouth.
She gloated like a thoroughbred strumpet overjoyed with her cunning, she had left the conceited snake oil mentalist quivering in his sheets. She dreaded Liselotte’s damage report from her client, though, and it struck sooner than she had expected. Jacoby had had what he called a seminal dream after she had left, and he was now writing about it in a novel structural form. He wanted to have her every possible Tuesday, or any other day, weekly. Liselotte added he was a wealthy bastard, and from what she heard, she complimented Charlotte on her skills. We laughed our heads off.
Now it would be delivery day at Adèle’s, Gauthier had warned that workmen would need space to carry out their magic, in other words, she wasn’t needed for the day.
At the same level that we dwelled, with a trick to pass through the lift car, Hugo had promised there would be an apartment for Charlotte, he had announced that decision in the scent of Corfou’s Hesperides garden, and Cecile had promised to oversee the finishing. For the time being, she shared Cecile’s neighbourhood with Rose, in the vacant Fayelle’s room, among places.
Since the lugubrious pilgrimage to Hamburg, Kate had gone through understandable wafts of spleen. She had been bustled between fits of bygone déjà-vu, flash-backs of drug-induced hyper-consciousness, and —like the sandbanks in the coastal tides— unsettled spans of familiar strangeness that she associated with the forgotten conversation with Dr Schubert who was now dead.
After she sulked for some time on her cooling cup, and untimely sighs I read too well, I suggested it was time to climb up to the studio, where the routines of her graphic loiterings would reset her soul. I was musing about the idea of another jaunt to New York, as shambolic and off-the-wall as my farewell to the Tudor Angels, of haywire memory. Julia Grant, our natural school captain in Saint Loup, repeatedly invited us to her new apartment on fifth avenue. We had so noisily showered our girls with our Newyorkese exploits that Natalia, when she stayed in Camille’s prestigious penthouse, had come back not amused. She could have a drooling pack of hunky American lawyers with no qualms next door, at SEVENSTREAMS. Julia might have shown her some funky byways and a famous pair of twins.
Summer had furthered the heat, Charlotte convinced Adèle to follow her to the pool, I slid on an ultramarine silk jersey tank top and black lycra shorts, Kate a sage green short-sleeves liberty shirt and white cotton shorts. We climbed up to the studio like in the times, letting the idea of a New York spree niggle in the back of our minds.
I brewed a big pot of black Taiwan oolong, and switched on Soma FM in the ambient realm. She busied herself with menial routines, in such moments she found solace in sharpening her pencils, while she could not yet focus on the white of paper. Now then, she was so deeply disorientated that I could not pretend to set my course on my side of the desk, thus I decided to paint her toenails anew, just in case we went again whoring ourselves somewhere unknown. We chose iridescent malachite green, I needed to do the hands, too, and we ended up on the carpet.
We called Liselotte, offhandedly, an hour or so later, and shared good humour about Charlotte’s performance, and she said she had not paid attention to the girls’ origin, all she had grasped was their seduction, and the sassy manner Charlotte had hustled Cecile and the garden shop to hop into their car; Liselotte said she had cornered Charlotte in one of the parc’s gazebos and she had found that she was truly worth of our company, if that was what she craved. She had also cast an eye on the younger sister, of course, and now she would manoeuvre to bring her somewhere cosy and make her tell their story if I would assert in some way that Liselotte was trustworthy.
She kept the line with a tone of voice I knew altogether, and precisely why I had called. She went on, suggesting I, or we, could pocket an honest fortune in pleasing someone she knew at the core of the city, what was once called “The Boulevard Of Crime”, so many were the theatres in which were treaded the darkest intrigues with the most horrific means. Her friend had inherited a chunk of this most popular neighbourhood —as can be seen on the oldest photographic print in the world— and still owned, nowadays, a small venue for his private delectation, which had probably been part of a luxurious brothel that had been torn down at the end of the 1800s, after the horrendous slaughtering of the owner and most of his family in an upstairs apartment. The murderer had never been caught, the scene had been appalling, with real flesh and blood. Only one of the heirs happened to have been in Spain, it took him two years to have the scene cleaned. Isidore was born in 1990, the sole heir of an opulent fortune; his parents had left him, among a pervasively built heritage in Paris’ affluent districts, this bizarre construction, now encased amidst ordinary tenements, under baroque glazed roofs. His father Aristide Pointarien had spent lavishly on the restoration of this small theatre he liked to compare with that of Queen Marie-Antoinette at Trianon, in that it is entirely built of wood, stucco, and papier-maché, like all other comparable premises along the boulevard. It comprises sixty seats between the parterre and the stalls, plus hidden private hidy holes above the cornice. Chances are it was used —like Trianon’s by the way— for private immoral performances.

It was a long prologue, thus Kate also followed with amusement. The narrative reached an apex when she said that Isidore, a bright young thing, crashed himself riding a motorcycle and was left a paraplegic in a wheelchair for life. He had long been a hellbent whoremonger, and so he could not accept his sexual handicap because his brain was still as famish of vice. He spent gazillions with American research hospitals which obtained a ghost of erection in patching the spinal cord with stem cells until he gave up because of the pain and the side effects of the painkillers.
Simultaneously with the butchering of his loins, he had met in Los Angeles a sexual coach who, at a cost, had taught him esoteric manners of sexual satisfaction with consenting (i.e. expensive) escorts, and brought him back to some sort of creative life he esteemed he deserved and could afford.
Liselotte had submitted in person to some of the diverse improvisations Isidore organised in the family theatre, onstage or otherwise. He had acquired some reputation among the rich-smelling nightbirds, and the most finicky of investigations had never proved any disloyal or criminal attitude toward what went on in the fantastical realm, haunted by the original unexplained massacre and now leisurely mastered by a rakehell on wheels.
Kate had time to clean and paint my nails in iridescent night blue, and we had time to mull over a theatrical vesture. Gianni had recently made a spectacular double-breasted, padded shoulders harlequin blazer, mounted up with contrasted coloured pieces of crisp silk taffeta —like a Vorticist manifesto inhabited by a Burne-Jones nude— and golden sandals would do. I would pair with her as a shadow, donning a black wool crepe tuxedo with a shawl grosgrain collar, one side over-embroidered with black scrollwork like a Spanish Hearse. I wore flat black suede slippers with jet roses. We would cover our modesty with those unearthly iridescent TPU trench coats, at least until we reach the theatre foyer, though not to run unnoticed, anyhow.
Liselotte wouldn’t send us to an unsavoury ambush, would she? It wasn’t your average romp, and she had not given physical practicalities, but the curiosity of a preserved antique folly of the bygone bedevilled times when money was spent unabashedly for private exceptions without the frame of social fiscality —our predecessors in debauchery chucking their lives to the wolves’ pit.
We called a car, and it took some thirty minutes with a nice Maghrebi man who could have busied a dentist for his own sake, he could not perceive we went bare naked in the multicolour sheens.
Bang in the middle of a nondescript tenement building stood an anonymous two-storey high Mars-violet lacquered carriage door, and a video entryphone with a simple keyboard where I punched the number Liselotte had said. A croaky voice asked us first to step back one stride, and then come and push the smaller pedestrian door, one was wary.
We found ourselves in a dark oak-panelled hall paved with end-grain timber. It led to a second dark oak double door, with another pedestrian entry held open by some black comedy lackey wearing a white wig, a red and blue livery, white breeches and stockings, and black patent opera pumps with square silver buckles. He ushered us into a bright-lit foyer in the manner of a peristyle encircled by a dozen gilded columns figuring twirls of swimming undines emerging progressively out of the water whirls like would the Fontainebleau caryatides freed along the cornices. The presentation was altogether gracious, and the attitudes knowledgeably erotic. None of the conventional prudish artifices masked the painstakingly rendered details of the feminine anatomies, no waterweeds nor inopportune errant kerchiefs the centuries-old war on nudity has imposed on our greedy eyes. On the wall behind the massive columns was painted a hazy Arcadia where nymphs and fauns coupled afar in total ignorance of an original sin whatsoever. Bunches of clear-coloured crystal bathed the whole scene in a euphoric gleam. Above all the scene, skies of golden green volutes, like the bedlam of an opium den, made my brains unfurl in mid-aquatic streams, if ever Alphonse Mucha saw any such thing.

After we gave the charming usher our dragonfly chrysalis coats, he reckoned there wouldn’t be much more to peel. Moreover, he seemed to find the random game of our exposure to his connoisseur taste.
Then he pulled open the second big door, carved and gilded on its outer side with a farandole of nude wanderers and musicians. An actual organ began to distort time with savant melodies of Satie’s carefully transcribed, as a savoury perversion of church music.
A thick maroon carpeted alley between rows of old-rose velvet upholstered armchairs led our steps once our shoes were confiscated.
A black-chrome motorised wheelchair pivoted towards us, revealing a richly curled blond being, seated in a Royal Blue velvet robe with quilted satin shawl lapels and golden Brandenburgs who introduced himself as Isidore Pontderien and invited us to sit next to him and tell of our lives, though he mentioned that Liselotte had already pitched the bulk of it.
He fiddled with a luxurious riding switch, and used it to pull apart our lapels and tease our nipples and the rest. He made me rest one foot on the seat and show him my jewellery. He was only offhanded, he summarised briefly the aftermaths of a greasy road and the umpteen surgical attempts that had left him with partial control of his intimate functions, and a fierce addiction to painkillers.
But nevertheless, his soul had never abdicated the passion for sex that had driven his life since forever. He said he had scoured the brothels, everywhere they exist, to peep on every manner of nuptial parades human beings inflict or indulge together. One day, a notary had come up with an alert about the roof of this place, that he owned without caring.
After what Liselotte has said of you, I bet you have been stunned by the utter quality of the workmanship and the subtlety of inspiration. In times when Europe was feverishly adorned with idiotic allégories girded in mandatory diapers, the word had run in expatriate Italian circles of what they came to call “Il Ponte de Niente” where the most talented brought their young models they also would prostitute to wealthy clubmen when their posing was ended. The clientele of the Opera foyer, renowned purveyor of slender anatomies and docile characters raised under the discipline stick, would not shun these ignorant little contadini who lived their days au naturel amidst the worksite and they could rent for a ride in their curtained carriages. There even existed a word-of-mouth ring to foretell HRH the Prince Of Wales when new ones awaited deflowering.
Isidore had probably stood above average before he had been whacked, and he still sported a resplendent mane à la Led Zeppelin. He showed us with a twirl of the switch to let our jackets go, and near. His gaze was lively, he grabbed my nape gently while he uncovered a proud dick, muttering that fate had left him the tool, if not the handle to play with it, and he asked me for a mouth favour, after a minty kiss.
Beyond an ornate border of footlights, a proper stage slanted upwards to the backdrop paintings depicting a marine cave, the centre stage setting off to a giant oyster, its rim dripping of glitter and pearls —He asked Kate to take her turn sucking, bantering he would be a long way till he spurt, but he loved getting acquainted with his actresses. He said we should go lie on the pink satin tongue-shaped cushions and play together inside the closed shell, behind the stage curtain, while the spectators, who had been kept amused in a private foyer, would come and sit to watch us do our part till we swooned —to thay, Liselotte had vaunted our boundless talent.
We followed the costumed gopher —who could hardly deny the effect our rounded bums had inside his breeches— to the giant oyster that smoothly snarfed us up while it closed. It wasn’t a fool device, it comprised enough concealed vents for us to breathe, and listen to the stage silence in the eerie overture of the organ music. Kate and I joked that it wasn’t much of a theatrical intrigue so far In her neck, I invented a fragrance of coumarin and almond, where Isidore had licked her.
Only some shivering sheen shone upon us when the lid raised insensibly, at the sound of Debussy’s Arabesque played on a glass organ, before the pitch-dark space in which sparse glimmers flew from jewellery. We earned a round of applause when a voice from under told us to loosen our act and open our legs —at the game of exhibition, we sure were no debutantes— so we dedicated to our audience some real climaxes, before the giant mollusc tossed our lewd wrecks on a carpet of velvet corals and burrowed itself out of sight.
From the fly loft, prop boys swung long banderoles figuring out the maritime depth, and coral bushes cropped up, as fantastic creatures styled from Ernst Haeckel’s drawings with aquamarine-blue open-crotch dance tights gambolled gracefully around us. The convenient mossy rocky shapes offered a proper stand for our rumps.
There’s nothing more fulfilling than a hellbent assault from a trained dancer, whichever slit he chooses. The first one wore a sequined mask with blue goggles stitched on, leaving his mouth free. He tilted one leg in the air so as to reach the edges of my womb and rummage in there like a wild boar, causing me to splash out at the audience’s cheers.
Although I had one in my anus and another in my mouth, I could discern moves afar in the public’s rows, and some legs were thrown up at a steady pace. After half a dozen obliging tritons ended their filling us to the rims, the lights went up as the music, which had turned to what I assumed to be Ravel, played offhandedly but not vulgarly, revealing the bountiful soul of this improbable organ.
I felt soaked, despite the hot towels little fish-costumed pages had brought me, but the lonely Prince of the orgy insisted that I jump over the footlight and come to him at once. He craved my beasty scent, and he was imperially erect, so he ordered me to sit empaled on him and sway my hips as he had seen me do just then, and it succeeded, with huge roars and cheers from his guests.
He kept me clasped into his open robe, letting me drip over his poor thighs. Kate understood what just happened, she sat at his inert feet. He said we had randomly replaced people we outworthed greatly, thus he begged we keep his address in our books, and let his minders roll him out. We asked for the bathroom, and we were shown into a grand water room with an oversized ceramic basin filled with tepid lotus lather. A few male guests, back in their black tuxes, came to politely watch us; to their quests of seeing more of us, we told them to speak with Liselotte.
Back home under Alfred’s taunt, we found an armful of yellow Mrs Meilland roses in the biggest of our silver buckets. No card to read, no riddle to solve, we thought like a pair of clogs. I needed a final enema, Kate thought it was the idea, so we helped each other at that and not long after, whatever chatter Alfred, I enlaced my best friend inside a pearly shell of arabesques.
In the morning —rather say hazy lunchtime— in the mood of not speaking on my telephone, I had baked my toasts, waiting for Kate to dawdle about with weary grey eyes. Natalia barged in, wearing her usual flannel cat’s pyjamas, and forgot why she had come down straight from her bed when she smelled the plate of apricot marmalade of hot French toast I pushed under her pretty nose. There was an overwhelming scent to the creases she had slept in, I gently rubbed her flanks in the childish fabric, my ear pressed to her tranquil heartbeat on her back. Suddenly she asked why I wouldn’t answer the umpteenth message Liselotte had clogged my number with since the last two hours. I affected to be more captivated by what I found under the top buttons on her chest, mumbling about the night we had survived.
Liselotte needed to know what we had done at Isidore’s theatre. Pulling a chair close to Natalia’s body that I was quietly disrobing, I gave my report, on all proviso, of what we had committed at Isidore’s expense, so much so that Natalia’s hands crept up under my shirt. Liselotte, who now spoke to all around the table, retold how Isidore was enthralled with our manners, All the more that I, personally, had procured him sensations he had thought existed no more for him. He was begging us to return, I read on Kate’s face she wasn’t too keen, I only joshed it had been a very demanding performance, even though we had been treated with manners. Natalia seized the opportunity to flaunt she wasn’t shy to confront such a stage, judging by what was left of me a few hours later, to what Kate asserted Isidore would crave her, once overspent, drippy, and smelly. Liselotte did her best to temporise, explaining there would be different tableaux, although the part wasn’t each time very different to fathom, indeed. Moreover, Isidore afforded extensive means of production. Eventually, Liselotte sent a private message with the actual figures we had made in one night; I wouldn’t be that vain, but I was kind of gobsmacked.
Now Natalia wooed me openly, and it was true I had keenly teamed with her in some of Liselotte’s most scabrous shenanigans, for the most salacious of memories and an earnest bond of whorish camaraderie. I sensed that Kate was currently more inclined towards more intimate tricks like the private encounters at Speck’s. What she had heard of our comments on Isidore’s realm had grabbed Natalia’s flammable brains, she followed us upstairs to listen to as much as we had been conscious enough to remember.
She reclined on the red sofa, her black knickknacks-strewn flannelette pyjama shirt artfully wide open —hadn’t she a precedence birthright to feel at home around here over all of us? She was crafting her questions about Isidore’s secret historical premises —indeed worthy of her academic knowledgeability— obviously piqued by the whim to go whore over there with me.

Kate enjoyed the morning (it must have been well into afternoon, mind you) ramble of her elective niece of sorts, who had enjoyed, during her adolescent blooming, sneaking stealthily into her side of our grand bed so magically that we would miss her, now that she proudly exhausted the pair of her hunky black and white minders next to her door, Fulgence and Erik eternally at her whim. Kate, thus, joined our house fairy and stole her trousers, intoxicating herself first by nuzzling the rag ball they did in her hands. While taking a strong dose of the nightly scents of our most literate whore, she assured her she might go taunt with her sublime bumhole to the wealthiest of a crippled soul in his private opera, and I would introduce her in all due perversity.
She witnessed my arrangement call with Liselotte while she licked my naughty feet. Then, while I brewed a large pot of oolong and cracked open a pack of ladyfinger biscuits, I asked her to keep on her childish attire and not shower yet.
Cecile did not knock and was overjoyed with all she caught us doing, firstly savouring Natalia’s laisser-aller, attesting to the irresistibleness of her wild scent, then bantering about the incapabillity of ladyfingers to be dipped, except in a fruit charlotte while Natalia swiftly pulled her jeans to get a whiff of what she smelled of.
Cecile was still personally more or less engaged in the wuthering needs of the Mendelsohn realm, sending to Zev’s appetite whomever of the colony felt a need for a frenzied shagging topped with the inescapable favours due to Armand Lunel by the service door. Natalia had not yet heard the Parc Montceau’s sirens, but she would, undoubtedly, the Mendelsohn trove was finding its way to the connoisseur’s press, inexorably, and besides, she wasn’t one to shun a furious bed as Zev’s.
Nevertheless, she nosed some new lode she might find fruitful to her growing professional clout, and so did we, albeit she might have to acquit the same manner of a toll to get access, as we explained we had done. Isidore, another crippled demiurge, would certainly not grant an enchantress as her access to his lascivious sanctus sanctorum without laying whatever he still could on her bare body, and thus I explained in detail why he was crying for my return.
And thus we teased our younger sisters with our circus exploits, and Liselotte was negotiating a trio for two days later, if they would. In the meantime, dusk had crept over Alfred’s realm, and we felt unmotivated to order dinner home. If the clubmen allowed, food was fine at Speck’s, so Cecile called Udo to announce our descent upon the gilded salon, and Kate longed to see the pretty foundlings again.
So much had we raved about our possible performance onstage at Isidore’s that we decided to pass on sartorial necessities, wearing mere trenches to reach the quay. I lent the transparent chrysalis to Cecile, whom we saw too often in streetwear —albeit she would still excite me thus— with flat silver ankle boots. Natalia kicked arse in a black oilskin double-breasted, belted, square shoulders, mid-thigh trench, her summer blond straight bob jolting above the high collar, black patent Chelseas promising to kill once she will prance in the nude. Kate boasted some Lauren Bogart flair in a crisp beige silk raincoat with arrogant lapels, on sandy grosgrain bottines. I wrapped myself in a flimsy, navy-night, buttonless duster loosely tied up at the waist with matching silk Jodhpur strapped boots.
Perfumes were ignited in the weatherproof garbs. In the car, an instant fragrance blend of Damask rose, tuberose, iris and feminine fervour took to our heads as we reached in no time the stern classical facade of our playground where Udo awaited our gang but wasn’t aware of our overture when we checked in at the vestiaire and our black cards did the talking themselves by stealth RFID. After we stowed away our boots, he pushed the four of us in his velvety booth and pulled his trousers down; we took turns on his presentable dick, and it was Natalia who gulped the bitter swig. We had a pungent sip of ginger extract and kissed each other with fiery lips inside the lift car. We devised not more than two or three romps, nights at Speck’s had become endless.
There rolled a soft hubbub cheering at our candid brazenness, and the next-door nymphets began handing their togs to the waiter so as to dance skin to skin with us for the steepest arousal of the clubmen. Adèle, who revelled whoring along with the island colony when her daily schooling was done, grabbed me in Italian and made me promise we would remain a pair, whatever clients we hooked, she casually let out that Fanny was already somewhere upstairs.
We meandered towards the buffet, in spite of all the hands busy at our bums. There was a house cook, now, a young Moroccan woman conveniently at odds with her unauspicious suburban background and regularly installed in the restored kitchen and lodgings on the ground floor.

She had trained with the dance team and their too-polite coach —no one complained, even in secrecy— thus, she had shaped up irresistible abdominal muscles and straightened up her shoulders. She was thrilled to meet Cecile and me again in that prestigious venue where she exerted what skills she possessed off her own bat. As I feasted upon lickerish bits, some hands insisted about my lower waist, a tad more lovingly than the rest of them, so much so that I glanced who did. It happened to be the three-Louis tipper, of mellow memories, asking me out again. I pressed Adèle on my heart and explained our whim of the night. He smiled but then mused he might then hire some help to make do with us. He relished hearing me translate for Adèle whom he began to think he had grossly overlooked. He leisurely pushed us by our bums towards the lift, on the way to the third floor, he said we would go on with our collation in the bedroom, and he has such memory as to have ordered a pot of oolong tea —he had all intentions to let us piss.
We helped him to unclothe down to his long tail shirt and knee-high socks, his properly seasoned weapon looming up from his neat linen. That room was panelled in hand-sized palm wood diamond points, under a varnished martelé red copper plates ceiling. Above the usual square bed of russet quilted velvet, a large layered cutout baroque-shaped moth of multicoloured long stitch embroidery, in the midst of which a polished black Venus threw her arms high in the manner of antennae. Seen closer, her eyes were orange gemstones. Across the room, above a gilt wood and Sienna marble console, hovered an arm-span wide battered steel tricephalous eagle, with the same gems for eyes, holding gold and garnets storm shards in its claws.
He purred like an old Maine Coon in the savant-sucking of Adèle’s, and he asked me to press the service knob three short strokes, which called one of the young impeccable gophers who needed not an invite to take hold of me right away while ridding of his clean livery. As I grabbed his tauten circumcised cock, I saw he couldn’t help trifle with Adèle’s bum as well, and so I smirked, he was a boy of the world.
When we all collapsed onto the bed, he had yet held back his outpour —or I wasn’t first served— but he took time to play my piccolo with affectionate lips before molto ballabile bow strokes for what he had gingerly applied lubrication so as I let myself totally be done in deep carelessness, turning to kiss Adèle’s quiet little face. They gushed in quasi unison like on command of the burly Admiral —his bearing so much similar to my old Christiansøe uncle I should have better shagged— who then ordered us to enlace so as to let them, unwaning, burrow into our rosebuds sideways. I relished cajoling Adèle’s abandon to the bustling of our masters on the clock, she was unwittingly teaching me to be a better whore.
The spectacular bathroom was all red copper, smooth and warm to the body. Before the shower, the gold-florin Admiral ordered us to hug him and piss all we knew along his thighs, it smelled of sunburnt chamomile. He helped us thoroughly clean for the next client, joshing he might peep on us, some other time. He gave us each three fifty-pesos Mexican gold coins, kissed our heads fatherly and ran, wishing he met us again.
The handy boy lay in wait around a corner in the corridor, and when I offered him one of my coins, he showed me his, and he begged for a wet kiss from both of us. In the lift car, we sniggered at ourselves, merely clad in perfume, holding that treasure in our fists. Having bucked our ideas up but still enlaced, we danced our way across the rich carpet through waves of free petting. Our duettists had left us famish, and we sailed towards the buffet, followed by keen eyes who tried to fathom what we had just been done to.
Dorothy stood by the table, mildly shunning clients’ offers, visibly charmed by a lightly covered, long-haired, apparent colleague who happened to be none other than Seresine de Chalandin, one of the rare island natives we had fished out at Philippe’s. As I called her by her name, she turned and was mostly drawn to Adèle’s smile, probably guessing the cause for it. I joshed that she could no longer remain as a civilian —some clients would bring in their bright-eyed spouses, though, forcing them into immodest postures for all to see before choosing another woman to play with— and thus I began to casually unlace the fuzzy navy-and-rose printed twill vintage fit and flare dress, helped by the two barefoot nymphets who relished to discover she wore nothing other. A waiter, one of those we might very well find shagging us at the rich whim of a client, took great care of the dress and the blue suede loafers. Unsurprisingly, no sooner did Seresine appear in her slender grace than a pair of merry partners I had personally acquainted with before, manoeuvered on both sides, and took her upstairs with not much of a chat. We explained to Dorothy how it would be in reverse what we had just done and made us so hungry.

Dorothy was accosted by a near-potbellied senior, richly clad, with white sideburns, who promised her enough so that she followed him, her pretty bum just level for his ferreting fingers. Then it was Adèle’s turn, a British-sounding, ginger moustachioed lean thirty-ish elegantly creased linen-clad, made valorous endeavours in Italian to prise her loose from my grip and walk her to the lift.
I went to sit on a dark rose velvet Paul Iribe sofa, opening my legs like a sailor while watching the ceiling where Cecile had appeared first when I sensed a wandering hand upon my thigh that I let crawl to my blooming quim. He sported black eyes, black curls, and faultless white teeth in an inciting smile. He knowledgeably fiddled with my clit and labia, and he forced me to give him access to my lesser hole and tried its suppleness. He joshed we were intimate enough to slip out somewhere cosy, thus I followed him.
In the lift, he gave me a tongue-twirling kiss that only lovers dare give. The room had a low ceiling with stucco figures engaged in a pastoral orgy where fauns and sundry animals copulated unashamedly. I had never seen that scandalous piece, lying all spread to his taste on a sage green velvet quilt, I relished the delicate handiwork on a subject matter worthy of the Inquisition’s ire at the seemingly Regence times —but the Hotel von Speck was probably extraterritorial in these times, is it not still?
The decor seemed epochal, upholstered in ancient verdigris moiré silk, each wall haunted with heavy silver framed engraved Venetian mirrors. My Middle Eastern type client disrobed swiftly and told me his name was Nuriel Gadlani, from Berlin. He asked me to stand and walk around in my normal tomboyish way, he was stiff as a donkey, and I began to look around the room for lubricant. He said the little bird had told him that I wasn’t a working girl by necessities of life or the strong-arm tactics of anyone, was I? I swayed my hips in approval.
He danced with me on the overlapping silk rugs to his soft crooning before he capsized us upon the bed. With a grin that let me think he read my mind, he fetched in the silver-clad bedstand drawer a black and gold tube of clear gel that smelled of coumarin, opened it deftly with one hand, and wanked my slits with some of it, without spilling any.
He commented drolly on my holy streamlet that now smelled a hint of my Far’s tobacco pouch in faraway lands. He wanted to know if I ever had grown hair down there, so I made him happy retelling my affairs with the laser geishas. He was a skilled tosser on my nerve edges, he liked the tales of the box trees and roses, the Tudor City squirrels, and eventually he buggered me ever so slowly to heart.
Dawn blinked when my light-handed wayfarer left me in the grey marble bathroom after a last squirt of piss over me under the shower. He had used and served me a number of times, I couldn’t fathom where time had drifted. When I dawdled down to the salon, my cousins had retired, leaving a funny note on my telephone. Workladies in black sportswear were cleaning the place with windows wide open for the song of some of Alfred’s colleagues. To anyone walking the street at that early hour, I would embody the privileged party animal.
Kate was alone in our bed, and Alfred mocked me, but a glance in the mirror showed me that the dark circles at my eyes were sexy. I snuggled up in her arms, she mumbled some in German.
I woke in an empty house, fresh as a daisy. After a gentle while with my tea, it was Rambling Rose who dragged herself by as nude as I since she thought she was alone. She came to sit on my lap and drank from my cup, I could tell she had had a busy night, too. She smelled of Iris and Neroli like a princely mistress, and she let me taste her humidity. She had been flown away in Lauritz’s copter to the seashore under the moonlight, he had been insatiable but kind; she was overjoyed we took her along. I retold her of our nude jaunt at Speck’s, and she wanted to pair with me, too, one of these days. I told her about Isidore’s, where she would doubtlessly make a kill. She was straddling me on the chair as I proposed another number to our forecast performance at the theatre to Liselotte, who had heard of our appearance the night before. She craved Rambling Rose, and she would love to see her dance for the luminaries of demi-monde.
The weather felt heavy, and soon it poured a summer rain —the kind that would have sent us nude on the lakeshore lawn in Saint Loup. And so I had to explain some bits of my paradise to the picture girl. We climbed upstairs, the whole house bathed in the petrichor scent of a nearby garden, Alfred too busy rummaging into the newly moist earth. I did not have the heart to let Rose sit alone on the sofa while I drew; she wasn’t the kind yet to read or browse images, so I unpacked the futon, and we cajoled the time away. Then Adèle came up hoping for some tea, so they necked like schoolgirls and made me shamelessly wet. I could tell these two would share the apartment the workmen were burnishing at Melchior’s wish, across the landing at our back door.

Kate returned from the swimming pool in a minimal almond green ribbed jersey tank dress and nought more, she idolized the little thorny root ball. Liselotte called, she had sold the principle that she only dealt altogether with exceptional persons of exceptional beauty and appeal, thus she called from her car downstairs, if we would.
Kate proposed that we attune ourselves to the burlesque splendour of Isidore’s premises —not that far unlike from the Garnier poudrier ostentation, were it not for immodest details— and browse into my collection of vintage undergarments and froufrous from my family’s wardrobes in Copenhagen. All that expensive finery had been laundered and ironed like new, and more had come from sundry shops in Antwerp or Geneva.
Only Irish linon would haze lightly enough over Rose’s bush, under a Bayros frilled déshabillé. The rest of us finagled our way to cover our butts in the less troubling manner with openwork bodices and blouses letting appear the truth at every step. There were boxes of white seamed stockings with black-striped hem you see in vintage porn.
It was still early, the big whale car looked like a bride’s basket full of orange blossom and laughs. Liselotte wore her signature asymmetrical black and white patterns, she wore black patent leather flats whereas white suede made our feet fluttersome. There wasn’t a breath of wind, but it was a flickering flock of doves that was gulped into a banal side pedestrian entry, leaving one or two onlookers fazed.
We accessed the parterre on the side, and guests in evening garb wandered in from other sides, at once keen to watch us hanging along the front row. The stage curtain was down, glimmering like a royal train, strewn with crystal pearl whirls, draped in the lights like a psychedelic rush. Isidore did not keep us waiting, he was rolled down the centre alley to his usual standpoint and greeted us to the round of seats close to him.
He singled me out and waved me to come near, not losing time before rummaging into my pleats, and he told me I wouldn’t go lie into the shell because he couldn’t let me afar. Liselotte had devised that our two younglings would sparkle up there, and this phenomenal illustrated girl would unveil her self-masterpiece at her whim. He donned bright red satin with gold-yellow padded lapels, he sure had all the spectre colours hanging in his wardrobe, for what I guessed. He was gripping my hand like a drowning child, and he joshed to Liselotte it was some kind of a school she roamed with, all of us perched on stilts and as flat as choirboys, she nodded finely and mummed about birds of a feather…
The organist had plundered whatever medicine chest, his spirits ascending like the lark, come what may. The lights dimmed, and Isidore in aparté offered me a fortune if I performed again what I had granted him the other night. We, floozies, had all been plucked off our frills, with hasty manners, long before the curtain raised to the sound of wobbled trumpets and the troupe of Rhinemaidens came wriggling their hips to the footlights.
There was a sospiro when the rich cardboard shell lid lifted up upon the embrace of our last foundlings who did not have to cheat about their cuddles and offered only truthful tenderness, for that once. And Rambling Rose found a simple solace showing what she had been supremely made into, at the whim of a madman. I sussed she wouldn’t pursue a career at that.
Meanwhile, I had necessarily turned my pretty back to the stage to service Isidore’s imploring stalk while sensing a caring hand bedaubing my lower byways with lotus balsam, and a mindful warm staff test the suppleness of my fleshes, till adding some of his very own spice deeply in my entrails. This Isidore’s torment chair was sturdy and wide enough to let me climb up backwards so as to impale myself, crouching over him, stepping on both sides. He muttered loving litanies to my heart as I did all the selfless drill moves while a pair of his pretty seafood frolicked around the valid part of him —my bet would be they could as well play my part.
Charivari time, no one could draw apart Adèle from Rose, but they let different pairs of good friends in sundry states of undress enjoy all the knowledgeable manners of their talents, as long as they could keep a loving eye on each other. The shimmering satin of the giant mollusc became the cradle of many figures of lechery, to the sound of the organ’s unleashed amphigory, when at last Isidore yowled in his attainment, clutching at me out of my breath.
Somewhere beyond the scene was a spacious shower arena, round and glittery, in tone with the house’s glamour, where all the pretty birds rinsed the moral and bodily expenses of the bygone clients. Isidores’ boarders were young and bubbly. They said they all had left harsh backgrounds, they owned black cards now and enough money if needed, but the life at Isidore’s, one or two gigs a week, was easily bearable.

Since they owned a black card pass, we asked if they patronised places like Philippe’s, they smirked and said they knew all about Sami and his cohorts, but the trouble was that some of them were tracked by evildoers, pimps, husbands, or family; thus it was all the safer to remain nested with Isidore, who demanded quasi-nil, out of letting him watch their willing romps. Liselotte was enthralled with the new recruits of long-legged elves she would have glibly leased to the starred names in her directory.
Two or three of these runaways badly tickled my fancy, tall shapely tomboy build with next-to-none tits, and that flaunted manner of candour in spite of what we had just been indulged in. One dark-eyed, bold-eyebrows, pale swanky ambiguous creature who sat showing a quaint little quim asked me if we stayed over there. I told her that, from what I heard, their gang were safer boarding in a high-end club rather than roaming the hedges for random encounters. Her thighs felt smooth, Erin confided she had been forced long enough to scour in the shady undergrowth for trickle money not to be tempted. I retold her of the roses in the box trees bosket, but she understood it had not been for money, so she embraced me, and I promised to be back. As I couldn’t help fiddling with her feet and ankles, she let out that they practised on most mornings in gymnastic dance with a real coach who was also teaching them how to shag properly, she laughed.
We were all taken on a guest tour of the Gynaeceum, rather a jumble nursery that smelled of jasmine marshmallow and recalled the so special TRÆVIX’s attics where reigned a will-o’-the-wisp called Delff. The daylight flowed down from the frosted-glazed roof that kept away the city hubbub and the neighbours’ indiscretions. For more theatrical fancy, three paunchy crystal chandeliers lit up at bedtime, casting sparkles among the russet-painted nerves of the Eiffel framework. A long gangway ran around the light well at the step of the lodgings’ doors and windows, implying some sophisticated controlled mechanical ventilation, as I did not sense any other stress on my lungs than that of the emotion of contemplating Erin’s bum —lodgings at Guise’s Familistère all had openings towards the open air.
The overall allure of this other cote was that of an aristocratic convent in Pietro Longhi’s times, put aside the sordid underbelly of the Venetian Carnevale that historians have debunked. Had it been a crass dump of disposable skin, we wouldn’t have been allowed in freely. Isidore was proud of his timeless establishment and would tell nought about the security it maintained for its boarders, whatever licentious the performances onstage and beyond be.
Not so innocently, Erin drew me to a room in the corner of the walkway, a yew-green velvet burrow with a mirrored ceiling over a square divan and running couches along the walls, under large bronze lion heads with black crystal eyes that I would bet my virtue concealed cameras. Altogether a proper romping arena where she said the girls could invite their acquainted clubmen at their whim on their account. Yes, Erin reckoned she was already rich, and she wasn’t wrong.
I wouldn’t guess when the communal shower rooms had been installed, all clad in green marble with glimmering antique pipings. Kate was there dancing like the New York kids in the gush of an unlocked sidewalk firehose Erin pulled me to the rain, kissed me and pissed along my thighs as if she knew, thus I responded.
In the shy morning, she woke me with amusement at my first surprise; we had cuddled away in her posted bed veiled in white organza, she said it was breakfast time. At one end of the walkway, a centred double door led to a communal eat-in kitchen where my comrades all had pretty company, and Rambling Rose much more than one. Tea was congenial, Cecile was discreetly gazed at as she dipped some sort of speculoos cookies in her big bowl of coffee, and Kate was head over heels in love with a golden blonde Slavic elve who spoke with pearls in her mouth. Adèle had found a black-eyed Italian runaway just like her with long braided dark hair, and she seemed to learn a lot about the Parisian underworld. Liselotte did not let go of her telephone adding new faces to her encrypted cloud, with heaps of aliases but real black card numbers. She kept snuggling with a wild-eyed Greek escapee who looked not much older than legal. Later in the car back home, Liselotte told me about Evi, who had been hunted down by one of the villagers who had already sold her for traffic to the Montenegrin mob. She had been eighteen and three months, and her mother had helped her with an ID card. She had whored for the price of her travel to Corfu, Venice, Milan, and sundry places in Switzerland before a concerned client brought her to Isidore’s where he knew first-hand that she might be warm and safe and he would meet her again. Four of them learned French with a student who blushed when she saw they wore no knickers, but who was all the more motivated that Isidore paid well and lodged her in one of his many properties.
In her well-established practice of procuring talents to vetted, morally stable, worldly characters, Liselotte understood that Isidore’s brigade of Chevau-légers wouldn’t go roaming the lairs of her patrons as we, for some, did, and furthermore, we could assert that Isidore’s establishment offered more congeniality than Philippe’s velvety corridors —albeit libertines like me had their urges for sweaty promiscuity, once in a moon phase.
Adèle and Rambling Rose were in tender cahoots, in spite of having debauched all night in effusive company, causing Cecile to brood over the pair with motherly devotion. She confided to me, for whom she had read Isidore’s marked preference, that she would return, were it only to document the origin of such a peculiar venue where, besides the sustained homages by vetted mild-mannered unknowns, she had discerned the touch of some Belle Epoque champions of decorative extravagance, the schools of Italian maestros who had spawned from the Church’s counter-reform and rambled on from the Holy Roman Empire of Germanic Nations to the marshes of Saint Petersburg. My yellow armoured working girl to whom only a random kiss-curl at her temple had hooked my heart one hazy morning amidst the river Seine had thrived into that renowned expert with a delicious butt I could worship in my ancestors’ fineries. I mulled over taking her to New York before they killed all the treasures they possessed like they had the Ziegfeld Theatre.
The bulk of Adèle’s deliveries were in, and Gauthier in person was on deck, overjoyed to see Adèle, for whom he already had a marked penchant, together with the illustrated maiden, both draped not more than Madame Récamier, charmingly still hazed by a feisty night. They would not dispute the architect’s ideas, only Adèle made clear that Rose would share the apartment and sleep in the upper bedroom. Hugo visited, too; he had envisioned the co-habitation, and since his tête-à-têtes with both the windfall foundlings, he had devised decorative propositions, considering another plate by the Della Robbia for her bedroom, he showed Rose a photo of an honest reproduction of one of the “Innocenti”, that which was unswaddled till below his pert little weenie and could be alleviated of any religious weariness.
While offhandedly in bed —the only piece of furniture as of yet in her house— with the copper-headed archangel we had all had a taste of, she had gleefully let him carte blanche, like she knew he had had for most of our niches, in hope he would like the way back again. Here we stood in our floozies’ garbs until I sussed that the workmen did little else than drool over our niceties, thus I invited the other two temptresses up to the studio, while Hugo made plans with Gauthier.
Next door, we stopped in the laundry room to drop off our embroidered gauze veilings, of which none had seriously suffered, thanks to our attitude of going bare at once. The housekeeper knew how to maintain our timeless threads, would she sniff at them like I just did? Hot weather had crashed the city, we played under a shower and remained unclothed. The roof was well-isolated, and we could let the drafts run in blocking the windows. In the middle of the snuggles that we couldn’t help rekindle, a sudden cry of Alfred’s convinced me that he ought to be thirsty, I was trying to devise some manner of a birdbath on the flat of the roof, but Rose told me their was one outside of Cecile’s and she had seen Alfred and others frisk in it at whim. I called Cecile who avowed her tenderness for the blackbird she did not know had a name, and she retorted me that he also had a numerous harem who also bathed in the same basin. I told her I had a box of ladyfingers and none of us wore clothes.
It was like she had not seen the girls for days, whenas we had only unboarded the car. She had gone to swim in the hope there might be anyone to grope, but the water was still and crystalline, she only cracked all her joints; the dancers were in The Hague to worship the Nederlands Dans Theater Then she recalled the idea I had thrown up of a trip to New York City, and then it was too late to keep that from the babies’ ears, and also, Natalia would never let us go without her, serious —she had once tried in the SEVENSTREAMS network but apart shagging other hunky lawyers she could have next door here, she had found zilch of what Kate and I had described of our memorable jaunt with Julia. My money was on that she would barge in at dinner time with the same idea she would have heard through the grapevine.
We could morally afford to bring on the kids, whatever accommodation we found, but neither owned a passport, and that was a matter of high politics —or pillow intrigue. Under the eager eyes of my impatient buddies, I called the number I had for such occasions and left a sibylline message on a more flirty mode, if he ever wanted to seize that ball. I knew Kate had velleities about the Tudor City squirrels and Julia’s twin nephews, I left a message in her box, too.

Hoping to surprise us in our natural indecency, Gauthier had walked up to the studio unannounced and wasn’t dissatisfied by the tableau on the futon. It was to vaunt that the team had achieved their work in Adèle’s apartment, bar the decoration and the definitive light fixtures. Gauthier had chosen the witty bone china crockery and the simple flatware. It was decided we would have the first dinner there, with sundry pies. A dining set of six blond bentwood Hoffman chairs and the original round table ravished the girls; for a while, we thought we had lost them in the upper room.
As I foresaw, prideful Natalia snuck her pretty nose and admired the work done nearly as much as the girls’ nonchalant nudity, owning that the heat was unbearable, although she wore merely black gym shorts and cropped top. I grabbed her on my lap —the chair did not budge— and began groping her, she smelled of honeysuckle, and then she preferred to pull off her shorts. I retold my fleeting whim of a visit to Julia’s in her new penthouse on Fifth Avenue, across the Metropolitan Museum where the God crow had told Cecile to go. It was easy, only a matter of providing a passport for the enamoured foundlings. Natalia was wired, she swore that Hugo had all the necessary connections. After dinner, the babies disappeared into whichever bed they had, Natalia had a word to say to the God Crow, and the bright archangel led me to his bed so as to daintily share me with his boy Philippe.
They had used me offhandedly, just like I needed, I woke up in their deserted bed and dawdled down home. Nude and peppy, I made tea and browsed my messages. Julia wrote she was overjoyed and asked for a video talk. She moaned her want when she realised my attire, I promised the other four were far snazzier than I, and younger. There was an urgent call from the service I had solicited, I missed my switch and answered the young officer I knew in my birth costume, he made no remark, listened to me, and I twigged too late to excuse myself, after all, he might have seen me thus more often than I would ever know. He had Adèle’s file, and it wouldn’t take long to find Rose’s, so we would have their passports the next morning. As he saw it, Adèle would be from now on French. I retorted she could come and assert her consent to that in the minute. I ran to fetch her, and they both came running so my correspondent had to tilt into panoramic mode to regal himself, and he asked far more questions than needed, obviously enthralled by the rambling roses.
When I returned to Julia, she whistled at our morning trio. I retold what the officer had just said, she lived in the same world, only she did not do it in the nude. She warned me the terrible twins were at Yale, a mere two-hour trip from hers. Then she panned around her penthouse to show us the huge terraces under the dawn skies, and our damsels were overexcited. Remained to know when we would be transported, and that might cost a visit to the higher-up, but that did not seem to annoy the passengers.
I texted our request to that link I had, saying who would like to travel, and we went up to the studio. Kate said she would go to Hamburg and Sylt with Gwen, she had to take care of her mother with the succession. Alfred taunted us when he heard us, but now I knew Cecile was providing him and his family with all the freshwater they needed.
Now that the machine had been set, I couldn’t do anything other than roll on the futon or frolic in the shower with the foundlings, waiting for some summoning call. Token of the appeal they were bestowed upon, the answer asked us if a car could come to fetch us four at dinner time. They were no babes in the woods, they had a clear notion that the meeting would turn into an orgy, we rambled on about the extravagant tastes of our main mentor, and what could await us in the skyways. Not unlike Isidore, who couldn’t achieve much by himself —or inexplicably with me, it seemed— Melchior would throw us defenceless to his horny hirelings who had a licence to anything except hurt and tear us. Of course, experience had taught me that these impressive bullyboys rarely stood more than three or four humps and listened to what we condoned or not. All in all, it came down to the eeriness of the settings, and of that, Adèle had no idea yet, besides Isidore’s.
We had coordinated outfits old enough to look new again like a ballooning geranium taffeta shirtdress over-stitched with random calligraphy swashes that I had worn shortly once I wanted to look like a girl, with the matching flats that fitted Adèle’s darling feet. To Rambling Rose, a parme charmeuse satin, high-waisted, gathered, buttoned-up, French sleeves dress trimmed with rows of night-blue velvet ribbon one would frenziedly unbutton to see a living legend, with patent little flats for her tapered feet. Cecile had one of those flimsy-looking variegated silk jersey long-sleeved mini-dress, under which one could plainly see her mons pubis and her nipples —but we weren’t going to take the A train, were we? Natalia borrowed one of the crisp, rounded tails men’s nightshirts with Delft blue cross-stitched swaths to the collar and the wrists, that she buckled up with the blue and red stable belt and my Swedish uncle’s gilt three-crown buckle. She wore invisible gold strap sandals.

The big hearse awaited us upon Cecile’s reserved parking space at her door. The ride was utterly silent, were it not for some hypnotic muted saxophone loops which brought me back to my lakeshore heaven when we grooved on the lawn with somebody’s boombox. It was visibly the chauffeur’s taste, a neat black man in a night-blue suit and salmon pink shirt, with Oakley shades.
For Adèle, the cruise in Wonderland continued with all the new tokens of luxury, while for Rambling Rose, it was a tad more routine. We came to stop near an impressive black helicopter waiting amidst a lawn circled with whirling red lights. An all-black-clad attendant opened our car door next to the passengers’ stairs. Adèle had never flown one, she clutched at my arm, and I joshed that she wait for the turbines to fire up, but I knew that beast was soundproofed.
We flew for some twenty minutes and landed on top of a hexagonal tower, next to a big round construction under a low, glazed metallic cupola, like a fortress amidst a limitless forest. On the horizon, a herd of wind turbines rotated slowly with red beacons at the tips of their blades. Once our copter quieted, we did not feel any breeze, only the breath of the forest and the cry of an owl. Beyond a railing, a stone stairway led down to what felt like some outdated military outpost for a forgotten war, cut millstone, and limestone borders, the same apparatus you find along the railways.
Passed an open massively armoured door, a vaulted rotunda entirely clad with bevelled blue-enamelled tiles and floored with a vertiginous concentric gold, purple and green mosaic maze, adjoined to a vaulted corridor in the same decor, the mosaic figuring a running river crowded of shimmering fish. I had told our younglings not to fear black silk-donned Melchior hunks that awaited us with stony expressions, they would remain thus as long as we did not hint otherwise, and wouldn’t we? —I retold Adèle the bulk of my exploits in Mustique’s cellars.
The river led to a round pool, several arm-span wide, edged of dark green marble, with a gushing spring out of a dragon’s mouth in its centre. Arched windows opened all around the room, over the timberline, beyond a steep moat, but stained glass let see through only the top of the panes the early stars of a perfect day.
Across the pond, hidden wallowed in an old gold silk damask robe like a burnished Buddha amidst the openwork of black wood couch rococo side-rests, on a mattress of purplish velvet, altogether like an opium dream bed, Melchior watched us perambulate in our insubstantial attires as we skirted the rim of the pool towards him and his entourage of stern black hunks. He seldom kept feminine servants next to him, he had other perspectives on the matter.
We sat on the sundry sculpted seats of the elaborate ensemble, and he told Cecile these had been in some unnamed Venetian palazzo gone broke before a rich American heiress fell for them and eventually resold them. She lay down, not only to show her own anatomy, but to try and look at the craftsman’s mark in the wood of the underside of the rail. It amused our host, who asked in his best Italian Adèle to help unclothe la curiosa, as a signal we should all disrobe.
At once he grabbed Rose by her hand and sat her between his thighs, petting her ever so lightly, asking her to crop up her thighs in a mannerly tone of voice which let her be done. Natalia had seen the water was deep, she asked if it was swimmable. Melchior told her it was, and since forever, the well had been harnessed in antique days and girdled as we saw it by Neo de Bellerives, one of the richest courtesans of the so-called Belle Epoque when a weapons trafficker had bankrolled this priceless folly and died before he could see his mistress swim. Nobody saw her cry. In her heydays, she scoured the finest brothels of Europe in search of new younglings before HRH snapped them and taught them whoring —that herself did all the same while revelling in their prime season, making a point of giving them a profitable career.
Natalia swam like a dolphin, she came to tell us the waters were an endless tepid caress, but Melchior couldn’t let go of his Rambling Rose whom he wanked smoothly. We slid into the bath, perceiving at once that it was bottomless down along the central column. We could keep our eyes wide open in the soft flows, the black mosaic walls augmented the apparent vertiginous depth of the abyss.
Expectedly, all the tritons of the inner circle appeared among us inoffensively, but soon our laisser-faire signalled that we hadn’t changed, and the softness of the water allowed easy intrusions, then the exhilarating weightless penetrations at their whims. Lastly, he let Rose go dive amidst the lecherous shoal and her captor let her legendary escutcheon float wide atop while he gently buggered her gracile body.

As per Imperial usual, He had disappeared in a whiff, leaving a detailed schedule in my mailbox of our flight and stay in New York from the next day at 10:00. To see these sinewy hunks in dance attendance, rubbing black towels down to our feet, was certainly one of the extravagant luxuries of this planet; and the copter awaited. Three of them climbed aboard with us, unshy as to what we had to offer in the next twenty minutes.
One of our black angels was Italian, and flaunted a fierce cazzo Adèle wouldn’t disesteem after the nautical fantasia. Natalia did not dither straddling the blue-chin, bald-headed, green-eyed Janissary I had almost drowned myself for, so deftly had he wielded the sabre. The third musketeer had soon impaled the rose bush by the roots, Cecile and I regaled with her pearl-adorned slit and the peppery twinkles of her nipples.
Next morning, it seemed everyone was on deck early, and Natalia, who had slept with me, had already cooked nutmeg and honey French toast that no one dared compare to mine. We had decided not to pack bulky bags, I knew we would shop like panthers on the least occasion.
The pretty lovebirds —who then had been cheating all night— were hi-voltage and foot stamping, brandishing their newly delivered European passports I had an idea would impress the US customs. Natalia and Cecile beamed, one in flecked russet silk work trousers, tan ankle boots, a willow-green ribbed tank, and a rust corduroy hi-waisted —her butt a major asset— mock biker jacket with a massive dull-yellow N in the back, the other a radical black 200 pinstripe suit and a see-through black mandarin collar shirt, black suede Chelseas. Rose had donned two man’s shirts, one black and red tartan, the other black with white polka dots, over a distressed white tee shirt, boyfriend jeans, and black Chucks. Adèle wore a putty natural creased flax suit, a white leotard, white socks and white Cecil Beaton Oxfords; she smelled of New Bond Street and said she had thought of me, I deduced she was a perfect listener. As for myself, I knew what I wished would happen on that flight if it happened we had company, were it, again, for the ship owner’s eyes. Although I kept powder-blue sweatshirt and shorts in the cabin bag, I donned a flimsy silken night-blue double-breasted pantsuit, fitted by Gianni’s unsurpassable hand, no shirt —are we private or not? Patent leather loafers. I had felt like exhaling that haunting Iris and Gelsomino fragrance we had brought back from our Florentine Pietredure follies with Cecile, and thus she too ran and fetched the travel spray she kept from the same escapade, a whiff of a boundless haze of ambergris through the legendary woodlands, the depth of our carnal complicity. Adèle liked to think of herself as an orange-blossom girl, Rose as a rose as a rose. Natalia the whiff of a seashore bright spell with all the broom flowers on the pulsing vein of her neck.
The impassive metal albatross stood at orders, airstairs down. As they had filled out the flight manifest, I did not see our usual crew, but a pair of young women with the same greedy look upon us and introduced themselves as pilot Agata Waldstein, a freckled lean athletic poney-tailed dark blonde, hazel-brown eyes, copilot Beata von Thun, dark boyish crew-cut, eager flax-flower-blue eyes that unclothed me as well as my pretty posse. Both were Czech, and they had served in the Air Force, they wore fitted uniforms with bright stripes on the epaulettes. A new flight attendant smiled with a pretty cleft chin, and stalk-blond short tousled hair, she might well have caught the owner’s eye, just like mine.
I did not know the two college boy-type passengers who rushed in a tad breathless, but it felt like one of Melchior’s teases, and Natalia couldn’t help snigger. There was room in the big bird’s bosom. One was limber in his Irish tweed suit, squared white shirt and white socks in rust suede loafers; he was Latvian like his pal, going back to Columbia Law School, his name was Niks Vasilijs, blond like the Baltic shore’s weeds, eyes grey like the winter noon. The other one wore mid-long bark-brown straight hair, tanned skin and rimmed green eyes; black chinos and tee shirt, a suede shirt-jacket, and dark ankle boots, he looked like a college czar at the same Columbia Law School. His name was Maris Jansons. He spoke some Italian.
Aboard, the attendant shily asked that we sit one in each seat during take-off, whatever we did further. Natalia sat opposite the boys with an innocent grin, I took Adèle beside me, and Cecile wooed Rose. All straps were buckled. Soon, when the pilot called to relax, I went to the toilet and changed, which gave every one of us a need to lose their pants, Rose to show her chest, and Natalia her splendid legs!
Our foundlings sussed that even twelve kilometres high, Melchior’s pixie dust still tickled their loins unabashedly, but Natalia was first to lure a Latvian to the banquette on the way to the loo.

In the uplifting hyperborean light, elves didn’t fuss about covering their pretty nether parts, nor did Natalia about waving up her legs in the fire of the action. I walked up to the galley to feel out the nerves of the attendant about our attitudes, and all I earned was to be properly hit on, and I wouldn’t shun her, she had a separate bunk, and she smelled of Royal Oud. She whispered the co-pilot would peep at us. As a matter of fact, it was the pilot herself who came and groped me as I had dozed after the twirls of a stubborn Baltic tongue: she did not unclothe, but she wanked me till I gushed like a bustled can of soda. She never lost control, she made me feel a drifting whore.
Meanwhile, the orgy had thrived on the back divans, the Latvian studs were overspent, Cecile was snuggled-up with Rose, and Natalia took a studious lesson in Italian. We were already overflying the Canadian coast, so, after a needed fast shower, I re-clothed myself and called on the rest of the flock. The zealous attendant Irene served us a last cup before Teterboro. Everybody was eventually relieved of their instant dates, the two musketeers would rewind their expensive studies under our well-acquainted team colours.
At the customs desk, they could flash their F1 visas, whereas we had to hold a bit of conversation with immigration. As expected, the CIA was tickled by the —properly— unaccustomed form of the unimpressed pair of foundlings’ documents, that were scanned to central control for green light. We earned a nonetheless puzzled welcome smile and pushed our cart towards the black sleek minibus of which the black chauffeur waved a 7S sign.
We were told we headed to the Chambord Merlin on Central Park South, a stern classic pink granite facade hotel with high terraces as I crave, bless Melchior. Our suite would be on the seventeenth floor, with a vast balcony overlooking the park, and there were fresh flowers in the vases. The decor was Rockefeller Deco in cream and beige The air outside was as warm and thick as I remembered; we ordered pitchers of lemonade for the stunned newcomers. Natalia leaned above the balustrade like a she-wolf on the prowl in a graphic novel.
Thanks to 7S —for short— our telephones operated on eSIM cards and VPN, I called Julia who soon sent me what we looked like in her telescope on her penthouse terrace. She pressed us to come over to party with a bunch of her innumerable cousins: we could easily walk through the park up to her home.
I received a greeting message from M. with flattering comments on our cruise, asking about my educated appreciation of the Latvian crew, and warning that we all had service links in the 7S app on our telephones. I wondered where the cameras hid in this luxurious apartment. I understood Natalia was having a conversation with Camille, I sent a message to our Aviatrix who retorted she would hack my phone to watch us, and she would send us her lawyers for non-work time.
An all-around sight from that most enormous playground would do fine as a preamble to visiting the otherworldly metropolis. I, myself, had not yet confronted the disproportionate needle towers that loomed just behind the first row of dignified facades on the south side. —As an old Tudor city Squirrel, I mulled that unable to conquer the left bank of the East River, the city fathers had let it grow upwards regardless of simple practicability, so fifty-seventh street had lost its flair.
At a food truck, I bought a handful of nut pouches, warning that we would probably be attacked by my little furry friends. Adèle told them a lot of gibberish in Italian, not letting them rip her off too fast. As we approached the museum, the needle-scrapers began to look like industrial vents just as the Edison chimneys we had in front of our terrace long ago.
Julia’s perch stood effectively across the Met, a stern citadel with a canopy and a bedecked ex-wrestler doorman; the lift wouldn’t run higher than Ms Grant’s place, said he. She awaited us, surrounded by her cousins, fit men in tumble-crumpled cotton attires who smelled of Jo Malone just for us. Julia’s apartment spanned the two last floors under the massive water tower. The terraces ran along all sides with sundry pergolas and awnings under which to wallow on divans and chaises longues.
The reception rooms were in the well-off rustic lodge mood of the Great Northern Hotel in Twin Peaks, with pine-planked walls inscribed with wide figures of the God Crow that made Cecile dance like a Disney native; Julia fell for her, but she owned I had come with an impressive phalanx, like old times, and she had grasped that she should summon the stables mates ready to worship the fillies like they did in the box trees, didn’t they? She said that since we were six hours ahead, she had not planned a proper dinner but only bites, and she kept the carnivorous ones in the breakfast room, at the far end. It wasn’t long before she hugged and groped Cecile who had made out with almost everyone all day, anyhow.

Julia wanted me to meet a thin blond boy, upright and on the lookout, who ruffled my temper at first with his fixed iron gazes. Things were, as he spoke in my deep-down vernacular, he knew more about me, as I was relieved to hear in Danish. He was Heine Wedell-Schuling, the son of another diplomat with the UN nebula, he knew my name all the more, having been with my brother at Yale. And there he saw I averted my eyes and prepared to turn away, he read that I could shun him off in a whiff.
As he wriggled his attitude, he reeled his phrases off, swearing he believed all Julia had retold of my drama, on what I trusted Julia on my life. A tad stiffened, I walked towards the terrace, yet not totally barring him from following me, but properly self-willed to somewhat make him pay for having woken ghosts in this very place. I rekindled my family accent, knowing how it could bear on interlocutors’ nerves —I had adored my Far when he did that— and I asked him about his growing up. Unavoidably, he had gone to one of these aristocratic hotbeds, fierce bastions against the thriving social democracy the whole world credits us with. Then he had been at Saint Andrew’s in times when HRH trained in received pronunciation, then Yale the Sanctum Sanctorum of class dominance.
Irresistibly overwhelmed by the spectacle of the grand toppling of lights at sunset seen above the verdigris roofs of the enormous museum, I let him nearer, and I spoke English only to concur with all the good Julia had claimed about our lakeshore paradise. I sensed he had not been thrilled over my brother’s tales and whatever scorn he vowed me.
Around us, behind a maze of flower planters, couples made the stars blush. I wasn’t complicated to peel, Heine twitched my tinkleberries with a pleasurable sleight, and I did not feel when he unbuckled my pants. He had been wearing bulgy shorts; he was tooled with an enviable dick. I collected my togs and drew him to a rest bed where I awaited his homage wide-parted like a worldly slut. He was devilishly skilled, he kneaded all my muscles muttering greedy compliments; he licked me so that I squirted on his chin, and then he said he carried the card if I would let him shag me, and thus he made me climax more than once, as if having stirred the shards in the sands of my long gone nightmares had flushed out my nerves, and while he filled my entrails with jizz, he muttered what a Fyrstinde I was.
He knew where to find a bathroom through a side door, and Rose was already playing with the twin Clayton under the shower; I asked Heine to piss on me, and I splashed upon his feet. The rest of the gang was camping around the platters of elaborate nibbles. His staff to the wind, a Canadian hunk came offhandedly to ask Heine about my temper, as he would have about a horse, reminding me of my Cossack fetish, so I defied him, so convinced they would all try on me before long, as he palpated my bum.
But my fellow Dane was so smitten that we had to evade before dessert to yet another side of the terrace where he romantically bent me over the balustrade to bugger me wildly, face to the night.
And it could have lasted, if only for the spectacular location for an orgy, but we were hours ahead, and Julia eagerly wanted to show us the new Grant rooms in the Met in the morning, thus I launched the 7S app to see if they would transport us at midnight, and a silver and black minibus did at midnight. Every one of us was spent, Cecile wanted to know more about Julia who seemed so colossally rich and how she had acquired these collections, so true was that they had not lost time babbling, together, and she said some American Indian friend of Julia’s had properly torn her to tatters for Julia to watch up close.
I sensed we must have looked like some rock band while the reception smiles led us to the lift. We had six grand beds, but we merely filled three, I retold Cecile my dalliance in reminiscence, and how it had been some perverse delight to demonstrate that my brother’s little sister was indeed an accomplished libertine, and she understood that. She smelled of some expensive body lotion.
I had ordered a continental breakfast with orange juice, tea, coffee, pastries and thin cookies for Cecile, otherwise leaving it to my buddies to order at their whim, and Natalia felt up to a slice of pecan pie. I feared the quality of the tea, but like aboard the Albatross, higher orders probably had done that it was a faultless Darjeeling like one at the Claridge —who the hell had shagged me in such a place?
At nine in the morning, the air wasn’t any fresher, mind you, but our gym tights, sneakers and banana belts were all the more couleur locale. Julia had insisted that we did not dress up for the museum visit and that we wear easy shoes. Only Heine of the boys was there in the bustling hall, we were all bestowed membership cards which gave us all access for a year. He said he shivered to see the cleft of my labia in the spandex, I wondered if they had genderless toilets.

I was beginning to fear he might fall for me a tad too far, I mulled over letting him watch me frolic with the rest of the gang so as he reckoned by himself I wasn’t ready to commit, except for my chosen sisters —and my unfailing mentors. I kept firmly arm-in-arm with Cecile, who was moved to walk into that utterly celebrated place that I guessed she already knew by heart in many forms of photos. The other ones were looked at.
Julia wore a colourful zigzag knit jersey dress and a beaded vest, she told me she preferred to keep some level of social status in her position of donator, but that did not mean we had to, nobody would dare question her invitees.
I knew someone in her forebears had constantly acquired all he could find of the so-called “ledger” art, named thus because it had thrived on lots of discarded accounting books salvaged by good-hearted American ladies and given away to the First Nations women deported in the infamous “Trail Of Tears”, to give land to the cotton grower settlers. We had admired these reborn books on our last visit to the West side of Central Park, and Julia confided to me she had yet only donated half of the trove. Her belief was that since art on paper can only be seldom exposed to light, she would install a top-of-the-art scanner in her home —she had unused space for that— and would publish the drawings with a scientific commentary vetted by the tribes.
One could say it wasn’t your average ethnographic presentation, but a dignified art vindication after one of the worst genocides of modern times, bar the Jewish Holocaust. And Julia ostensibly dedicated her introduction to Cecile, whom she casually held by the waist, wouldn’t she? Natalia remained at an intimate distance and demonstrated her best education in the art field —perhaps mulling a novel attempt at earning some situation in New York— as well as the easiness of her tight rounded rump. As for me, I devoted myself to translating into Italian and French the importance of recovering the first American Arts, as both had undergone the benediction of the God Crow in Cecile’s most hospitable sheets —for the frenzied satisfaction of the homunculus inside the beak.
The blessed orphans still felt kind of levitating after the dazing warmth of the welcome they had been pleasured with after the no less dazing transoceanic orgy leap, but they reassured me they would easily dance for another round, in these manners. They were candidly impressed by the northwestern woodwork and mainly incantatory paraphernalia and masks. They were stunned to hear that for a long time, ancestral dances and ceremonies had been prohibited by the ruling colonial state.
Julia had ample matter to be proud of and felt generations of her lineage were vindicated rightfully, whatever her singular walk of life. One big hour later, we walked to the museum cafeteria to sit down and talk loose. Cecile did not shun stealthy hand-play as she explained her work with the Mendlsohnn trove, including the lustful compromises she had to concede, but wasn’t she a loose woman since always? The reward was considerable, in any manner.
Natalia had pushed her pawns wisely, gleaning cheer gazes from me, who had sussed she was trying to sell her skills to Julia, and I did not bargain my help, whatever her aim. Julia liked her, and Cecile quietly dipped her cookies. My foundlings wriggled their bums on their chairs, they would rather go shopping on my bottomless account.
Now holding Natalia’s innocent hand, Julia proposed an all-time Newyorkese must, a back-and-forth trip on the Staten Island ferry, to say hello to Miss Liberty. I called for transport, thus before we could start feeling time passing, the minibus awaited at the corner of the transverse —letting me wonder where it spawned from, imagining them on standby at Hudson Street. On the blue velvet seats, Julia already let Natalia squeeze up to her and breathed her air, smiling, while she retold the Parisian Surrealists’ passion for Amerindian art —she had wandered among such collections, she added finely. Cecile now cuddled up with Rose, a hand grazing her uncovered belly, telling her whatever tales of the God Crow she had slept to. While we reached West Highway, I lectured in Italian about Julia’s dedication to her family’s heirlooms and refusal to let spiritual artwork be considered ethnographic artefacts. Reckoning that she probably merely listened to the sound of my voice, I diverted to how Julia and I had met in Saint Loup, Adèle was fascinated by my stories in paradise, instead of the hollow Berlusconian pantomimes she had endured on TV while waiting for her abusers. My inner bet was that she would wipe her memory slate clean, gradually, like Cecile and others had, rewriting her magazines in her own affective spacetime.
Julia showed them the upper stern deck where they packed against the railing to take pictures before the receding Manhattan skyline, sundry dispositions all comprised the merry foundlings embraced in blooming smiles.

They knew perfectly my deviant tastes, and so did our Rambling Rose; they bantered that their grandma listened regularly to her Nat King Cole records, so they recalled:
“Ramblin’ rose, ramblin’ rose
Why you ramble, no one knows
Wild and wind blown, that’s how you’ve grown
Who can cling to a ramblin’ rose?”
And they pissed on her and me, yapping like fox cubs before we showed them we could too, hiking up our labia: and the stench was awful till we released the rain and they buggered us enlaced, with the lather. And unavoidably, they spurted in unison while Rose and I helped each other join them in.
Still wet, they took us afar to a blond-maple bedroom where a bed left only a narrow alley to move around; face to it was hung the magnificent hide on which had been painted the map of a cavalry battle of the”Indian Wars” times that Julia had not yet donated to the Met. The bedcover was made of sewn patches of leather. They pushed us top to tail so we could keep kissing while they licked our holy brooklets as our feet fluttered high up in the air. I sensed my bumhole dripping, then my coochie was again duly filled, but a trifle more snugly than the previous hour, if nevertheless terribly bustling. Furthermore, although I still couldn’t tell one from the other, we benefited double.
There was a copper-clad bathroom behind the bedstead, where we could rinse together with the soothed Katzenjammer twins, then go rally our party to call bedtime. Adèle was prettily spent, she had endured the throes of lust with the other black bull who could not have bent her ears with lament but did not spare his instant passion for her cheeky mons veneris and deployed the most graceful manners at her pleasure’s sake, she was quite smitten indeed. Cecile and Natalia did not count how many sportsmen had ridden their supple rumps, and Julia had sunk the enema cannula in their ploughed ring holes for a last washout.
Julia thought we weren’t fit for a night stroll back to the hotel, and she joined us in an Uber she had ordered. Our bouquets had been freshened up, and she insisted on sleeping with Cecile and Natalia, whenas I cuddled up with my exhausted foundlings and dreamt of a warm wind through the laundry cellars where a flock of crammed pelicans quacked while ogling me sideways. Near the shore glid some paper sailboats scribbled over like antique testaments.
Breakfast with fresh cinnamon rolls, rice pudding, and French toast kept the tone of an immature diet, said Julia whose bustling cousins would crave eggs, bacon, and fries with coffee, and nevertheless shagged you like distinguished baboons, wouldn’t they? We unpacked our loungewear finds with renewed eagerness, only Rose wondered who had footed the tab, and she agreed it would be the albatross, too.
Julia proposed we spend our day in the MOMA, where there was a Calder hoopla, big mobiles and tiny toys. She bought tickets for all online. We dressed up spoiled kids’ style, brand-new sneakers, easy-go chino shorts, tees or tanks and shirt jackets, all in off-white and sand shades, not to insult the artwork harmonies, said Julia wisely. We walked down the Golden Mile down to the corner of Saint Thomas, by pairs of affinities, the foundlings inventing, as it came, a somewhat Newyorkese traditional pidgin, the Parisian scholars comforting each other in the wake of what they had seen each other friskily enjoy all evening, and us, alumni of the box trees sisterhood, who couldn’t help evoking our miraculous areopagus on the unspoiled lawns of Neverland. Yet I took a kinky pleasure in retelling Ms.Grant shortly what popular Ayla had endeavoured amidst the liberal Swiss wisdom, and the enraged trip we had done to Zürich in her distinguished villa. I had not yet vaunted to her the luxuries of the Quai d’Anjou.
Now the two libertine ingenues had found the perfect unspoken communication to go by, arm in arm, each listening to the audio guide in their language, on the same subjects, the timing being set with beacons in each room, each work. Julia was smitten by the little courtesans and wondered why I had become to mentor them. I could only tell her that it would take a whole rainy day of talking to explain how this informal family of ours did not only foster the random wayward orphans worthy of our self-interested fancy, but also provide for their living and dwelling, free for them to keep on their mercenary trade made so easy, safe and rewarding. I might remind my old undisputed school captain that my pretty jailbaits never had a secret service to mind them out there in the jungle.
Cecile and Natalia had found common ground in front of the magnificent display of cubist works, thanks to the Rockefeller collection. Cecile fell under the House Fairy’s spell, like she sensed pixie dust in her loins, and I was so proud of them both. Not that Julia would be blasé in any manner, but she hurried us a bit towards the Calder show, in fear we might not sustain enough heed when the time would come.

Thankfully for us all, Calder ploughed his trail like a beautiful workhorse insomuch that we don’t feel deprived of his genius altogether, but in the space of the new pristine halls and the caress of the dainty lightings, Calder’s multiverse vibrated like one big enchanted soul in suspension, bestowing our perambulating cohort a candid elegance, aeons from the fashion chic standard. Julia, in her natural habitat with the badge of Distinguished Donor to one of the city’s renowned institutions, felt bustled by my crew’s carefree flair, but eventually, she dropped that she couldn’t fathom what a society girl like me did with, for what she had grasped, were earnest courtesans on tour.
I repressed a rash of indignation and told her bluntly that we orbited far beyond the rickety precepts of American society, and we would have flown in our private Falcon before we cared to make an impression, we did not belong in Elite Model Look. I added I had no reservations about bringing my little harlots to my father’s home, and he would not inquire which prep school they had attended. Nevertheless, I owned her that she held the snazziest boheme orgies on New York terraces, where no lost angel would furthermore come crashing.
She acknowledged that without her terrible cousins —whom she admitted shagging since like forever— and the endless parade of healthy frat boys they invited to her bedside, she would have fled New York and bought some penthouse near us and my runaways. We went to the expresso bar, where Cecile found house-made cookies to dip, imitated by the double-entendre babies; They made some honest English blend tea.
Julia proposed we walk five minutes to another gift of Standard Oil to the city, the Rockefeller Center had been restored in all its glory, and she was sure Cecile —of whom she was grazing her smooth thighs— would appreciate especially the restored decorative metal plates, by Hildreth Meiere, an Art Deco giant in America’s 1930s. We would also try to cast an eye to the monumental lobby, where Jose Maria Sert had unleashed a coalition of brownish titans, but since I had contemplated his gigantic manner of an art form when my Far had taken me to the Palais Des Nations in Geneva, and I learned that the painter was a dedicated Franquist, I would rather snub the muscular stances of his model brutes, albeit I sussed Cecile would find fodder for thought to that spectacle.
Along the way, the pairs of us had shuffled, and Julia recalled her spoken Italian to let herself wooed by a redeemed sex slave with a fresh nose and a bouncy gait. The weather was fair down Fifth Avenue, but Rose felt repressed, dwarfed by the outlandish proportions of the city. I clenched her to my wing and retold her I had lived along these cliffs at six, transported from the most possible horizontal scape of the shores of Denmark, chaperoned by security who watched me nibble my ice cream cones. Eventually, flirting openly amidst the bustling crowd resettled her mood —although nought of the wares in the windows appealed to her. I raved joyfully about the innumerable opportunities among the multitudes, but she joshed that she needed not more than we had already in our village. In the summertime, the central sunken plaza became a huge café terrace under the clemency of Paul Manship’s golden Prometheus who kept a towel over his manhood in Rose’s impish spite. The pretty professionals were impressed by the relief plates of Meiere, Cecile said she would research her works; Natalia was gradually realising that she would find more futurity near Cecile than in Julia’s roof garden —unless perhaps she captured a doctorate at Columbia while dwelling at Camille’s New York penthouse.
Hearing Cecile’s enthusiasm, Julia proposed that we keep on down to Forty-second Street to watch the Chrysler Building and across it the poetic Chanin Buiding. Our gang of unleashed lesbians pranced gaily down to Bryant Park, and, on foot, I no longer knew the city I had considered mine a while; I let myself listen to Rose’s prejudices and sent a message asking for the possibility of a flight the next day. She said we lived like princesses and gave me a heartfelt kiss.
Inside Chrysler’s lobby, we made a candid bunch of lasses, getting attention from the desk clerks while helping each other contort looking up at the stunning ceilings in their fresh colours depicting hunky workers in action, the epic genre of magnifying the automobile industry —until it collapses like Detroit— nonetheless a true national heirloom, endeavoured in most dire times. Rambling Rose was not so impressed.
Natalia wooed some kind of livery-clad attendant to hear the bulk of common banalities about the Chrysler temple and be confirmed that there would be nought else to visit in the privately leased building. A society club that had once existed inside the spire had been demolished and cleared out for security reasons. The man said they would find a heap of books about the building and the decoration prowesses.

As we admired the glitzy lift doors, she dared the well-turned-out man to take her to the top floor; he was too glad to oblige, and she left us there, not so surprised. Adèle and Rose resumed the course of their exchanges, in which their hands bore as much meaning as their tentative broken French; they had not paid attention to Natalia’s escapade. Julia took my arm to tell me she admired our arrangements, and she sussed that our utopia thrived beyond our little flock here; I mused she would be amazed what our privileged dovecote had become, did she remember Michelle the Aviatrix?
No doubt Natalia smelled of bad weed sap; and that pride of a carefree brat she sported reminded me of the nosy little mouse who snuck into our bed any time and copied all our tantalising misbehaviours, under the radars —or not?
A two-tone silver minibus took us back up Park Avenue. New York heat was having another spike, the strange odour of air conditioners hovered in the streets. Upthere, in the Babylonian splendour of extraneous architecture, we rid ourselves bare and ran to the rain shower before it was tepid, in persistent visions of stylised subaquatic flora. Then we were unanimously hailed while parading in our towels and forgetting our togs.
Julia asked for drinks and tea, and although it would be cooler inside, we preferred idling nude in the dusk magic as I remembered our Gothic pinnacles overlooking the river —I knew nowadays they would be sunk under black glass cliffs as if the Donald had plagued the whole city.
Heine hit on me in Danish, and with wandering hands that I did not shun, but I freshly told him he was obsessing on a bird that would have flown away in the morrow. Following me and my cup of tea to a west-looking lounger, he made me open wide and risked that he would follow me, I retorted that even if I would gladly let him shag me once upon a shooting star, I wouldn’t like to make him sorry at our armoured door. I feared he craved for a wife, possibly a mother, and I had no bend toward that, whatsoever; I had been busy enough fostering astray kits he would have no compassion for in a mundane life, raising his own.
Having put away my cup, he seized my ankles and lifted my legs apart so as to kiss and lap my holy brooklet as a famished wolf, enraged to make me spurt at his face, against the New York sunset lights. Somewhere afar, someone played a moody saxophone. As if my rebuff had whipped up his want, he threaded me deftly and thumped on my womb as hard as I wanted while the Chanin fish escaped in the golden Chrysler realm, like a reshoot of my best psychedelic trips. I sensed him gush altogether beastly while I did not seem to cease climaxing, and that allowed him to force easily the lesser path as I offered myself in a happy somersault and I dripped upon my own face. He lasted a while at a fierce gait before thrusting another load in deep.
As he released my legs and I felt sparkles in my entrails, I saw the smile of Natalia peeking over us, with some opportunist serving her the same, and I sent her an air kiss. Heine showed me a side door to a bathroom where Rose was already letting herself be washed by a crew-cut sailor, so we hugged and kissed in whoever’s hands, I felt ready for the whole Danish army.
There was a grand platter of crudités and crackers with bowls of sundry dressings. Everybody looked spent and smirked. My stud remained clenched to my back in spite that I had told him I would probably shag another one for the fun, and one of the new wrestlers seemed justly appropriate, staring at me from across the low table with a noticeable hard-on; he might have missed the first round, I answered his glances and returned to the garden where I leaned innocently over the balustrade, waiting for a caress.
He was another offspring of the Grant tribe, called on by his cousins, he had driven down from Boston, enticed by the news of a flock of European party girls. The twins had vaunted me as the tomboy they had endlessly shagged together, said he while seizing my bum. I turned around and felt his dripping glans on my navel. He looked boyish, too, short dark blond hair, grey eyes, square jaw, and upright shoulders, he sported an irresistibly candid smile; He was called Dana.
He had watched us root and fallen for my shapely rump, said he, I understood he wanted most to bugger me, thus I told him to fetch us some lube, but he had a tube of KY ready, that was first-degree craving. The nook where I had just left my stains was now busy, Natalia riding on top of a black bull; my quarterback pulled me to the far end where he must have known stood a double lounger. He wasn’t the brute I could have feared, he gave me an ornate intermezzo with his virulent tongue and complimented my blooming apertures; I showed him I could contort so as to gulp his shivering staff, so he groaned of bliss. He couldn’t help shooting a thick prelude down my long-used throat, and I strained to gulp it all like a toddler would her medicine.

At the Customs check, officers had greedy eyes on us, undoubtedly differently clad than the usual private clientèle, but they queried about the obviously lightweight contents of our bizarre tubes we feared they ask to unroll; luckily, they scanned all of our luggage and could see exactly what we had said we carried. Then they became furiously intrigued by what Rose let see in her half-open shirt. We waited in an elegant lounge for the pilots to show up and do the last-minute inspection of the big bird.
It would be the same crew who had brought us, and they ogled us with renewed reciprocated want. By one of the High Power’s whims, three pinstripe junior executives were to keep us company, probably as a token of gratification, which put us all in our slutty shoes, didn’t it? All it did was make us prattle on the allure worth of the available bespoke-attired gents, and none failed to our connoisseur glance, they would all play for the boss’ peep show. Moreover, they had probably learned that we dwelled next door to the 7S offices in Paris —if ever they took a taste for one of us.
Onboard, Cecile, the foundlings and I took the double seats, Natalia was all too happy to pick the fourth corner of the singles’ square, at once letting be admired her discreet pubis hugged into dawn-coloured spandex.
No humbug in the conniving smiles of our flight buddies, some of us knew their good manners, and our pupils didn’t foster preconceptions, it would be a matter of dancing on the right foot, ten miles high. As a phalanx of seasoned nanosecond swordsmen on their off-grid time, they hund their jackets and ties, then rolled up their sleeves in no haste, we all would soon have tiny crystal plastic cups filled with creamed delights, and our favourite drinks. On our side, we freed our pretty toes so as to squat prettily upon the precious upholstery, the rest of our elfin features weren’t arduous to guess.
Our very comely assistant asked if I wanted to brew the tea myself, I wouldn’t know if it was a pretext to feel my bum, but she did, standing in the galley, inasmuch we had cavorted merrily in her private booth three days before. Now, three pairs of keen eyes relished our gentle playing, all the more when she dared pull my shorts half down, letting all know the easy slut I will be. I could hardly bring my tray back to my place; a green-eyed, tanned Hidalgo-type, Cologne-perfumed, deft-handed cavalier offered me his lap and stole my shorts.
And so Natalia could hardly refuse to leave her corner to go sit on the knees of the ruffled-blond slender playboy whose desk must have been on the sunny side, and she fetched his noticeable dick out of his silky trunks to play with as he twirled his tongue in her mouth. She would always make a cunning point of honour to go faster than me with foreplays.
The third musketeer would certainly not remain a dope in his seat, he wandered towards the rest of our party, where the kids necked happily in a corner while across the table Cecile awaited company. Given the gait things went, the tall curly ginger beanpole didn’t waste time and proposed a straight pink staff that needed some care, and that did not rebuff Cecile who licked the clear drop at its tip, then gradually gulped the whole length. He wasn’t at all intimidated to fuck a lovely face in front of the pair who had by then bared their little arses.
My caballero put me on my feet as if I weighed nought, so as to pull off his trousers and briefs. He sported a thick donger with big furred balls that let me foresee some frisky ploughing. He tasted spicy, I fancied taking him to the aft divan where I spread my thighs wide for him —if ever, I knew where to fetch the Swiss Navy in the toilet. As he tickled my labia with his glans, he said the kindest things about what he saw me, a tight tomboy with silky skin and happy freckles, and his penis thumped in my womb with ardour.
Naturally, Natalia led her surfer boy next to us, and we kissed as she stood on all fours; I said where the lube was when he attempted to force his way in, and even an enema douche; they had a good laugh in the toilet —would there be a camera behind the mirror? Back with us, it was obvious they had already played the point, and we gave them a show of our lesbian tenderness, like trained courtesans, and by the bye, it was what was happening for the bliss of the ginger man on the other side.
Like children in the candy store, they kept in mind to garner a taste of each insolent bum they saw, even if their eyes were bigger than their balls. My rider had a greedy eye for Adèle, thus after a while of rekindling his want by watching us orgasm with our own means, he went grab her and took her to the toilet in her turn. The beach boy liked me wide split on the couch edge.
Then those rakes realised we were three hours to Paris, so they fetched blankets and went tilt their seats back while we took all the bunk space cuddled up with each other. Rose and I rubbed noses.

It had been raining snakes and frogs over Paris; we had to splash in the puddles to reach the terminal, and we looked weird in our light outfits. To say the least, we felt frankly dazed; luckily, no one asked about our big tubes, they must have been flagged as inoffensive somehow. Two statutory berlines awaited with chauffeurs and umbrellas. Our elusive partners had not even asked our names, and they ran like loots; I swore I would report that to the big seven over the clouds —although once re-cuddled with my sweet sisters, I did not feel embittered having whored among the stars.
Charlotte had bought langues de chat for Cecile and all of us; there was a stale brioche to bake French toast. On a whim, I craved to see Natalia in her chief headdress, which she unwrapped and shooed her head with, mind you, and then in the nude, too! No matter what, she deserved to live with that, I sent a video of her, like so, to Julia.
Now, we risked witnessing wreckage in Cecile’s coffee, we longed for bed, the love birds snuck with their precious luggage, and Charlotte embraced Cecile to lead her to the God Crow realm. I begged Natalia to sleep with me, her adornment found a convenient stand over the perroquet coat stand, overlooking our irrepressible embrace —but I told her not to sleep in the nude and gave her a silk shirt.
The next morning, after a double turn of the clock, I had an enthused comment from Julia, who warned me, however, that my compatriot suitor would be on his way to Paris, although he had taken his lesson about having me, and she had lured him into lustful situations to make him own he wasn’t doomed after all. Another short one came from a higher-up who wished to meet me in person late afternoon, and that had never been a bad omen.
Charlotte asked for French toast, Cecile had been downstairs at work since the wee hours, as usual. Once she had had her treat, she wiped her hands to slide them under my shirt til I sat on her and she wanked me good. Natalia called us sluts, she was fresh as a daffodil in April, and she went downstairs to the gym. Charlotte said the dance crew were back and kicking, I invited her to the studio; we would be waiting for a heap of new picture books about New York from Amazon. The heather fairies had returned in all their beauty Charlotte was happy to play with their feet while wallowing on the futon that remained there for pretty passengers. Annabelle gave me news of James who had undertaken writing a long-forethought metafiction, thus he had warned his pixies they would entertain in a better company by the river shore.
I spoke with Kate, who was reviving her youth in the house of the swans with her brother whose marriage had gone awry, just like that of their parents, I understood they could not envision life separately, whatsoever. Simon had bought their stepsister’s apartment beyond the Tuileries Park, there they would shelter their dotted passion because Kate knew nevertheless she belonged with us in the dovecote, while Simon had not been able to cope with our polyamorous ways. Moreover, from now on he mainly governed a shipping giant on the Elbe shores, but on that, we already dealt with sundry serious wheeler-dealers, didn’t we? Their fickle stepsister lived a happy life in the Caribean with the trust fund their father had left her.
The storms above Paris let exhale the petrichor note from Alfred’s gardens and did not preclude the tiny emperor from warbling, so we let a window open, whatever the splatters.
A little later, I went down to dress up to meet our arch-sponsor who had probably been watching my pretty loins all along, bar the romps on Julia’s Babylonian terrasses. It wouldn’t be a society chitchat, a simple shuffle-zodiac night printed silk twill shirt dress would give him the tiny thrill that he could bare the whole me in a sigh. Matched hold-up stockings and black patent leather opera pumps would underscore my nudity with flair. Charlotte had helped me lacquer my nails, and she was wowed, more so when I donned the platinum, onyx, and sapphire choker and wristband the big 7S had offered me. I needed not more than a dash of blush and eyeliner, lip gloss would make sucking look richer. I had to promise Charlotte a full night of snuggles.
There would be no massive berline with a peeping chauffeur, I was told a lackey awaited at the subterranean path to SEVENSTREAMS offices beyond the TRÆViX palace, and I had no idea how far they went. On my way, I heard there was fauna in the pool, but I met no one till that metal door I had never seen open, next to that leading to Michelle’s Neverland.
The usher displayed no visible gender, although they wore the usual masculine livery, but beamed that manner of unsettling beauty I would unfailingly fall for. They smelled of lime tree bloom, they casually gave me the eye as we roamed the utmost silent metal and grey velvet-clad corridors with a striated black marble floor and a luminous frosted glass ceiling. It crossed my depraved mind to corner them and rummage into their trousers.

Before opening the last door, they neared closed and whispered they dwelled only a few steps from us. Their long blond hair was gathered in a loose bun.
It was a vast salon with a high wooden coffered ceiling, stained glass windows, and an endless, intricate Isfahan rug overlapped with other smaller silk flowery ones. On a side, my boy Finlan was playing on a massive wood-cased organ-like instrument with a separate big wooden speaker box, the soundscape he commanded was a subdued, random melopeia as if he ad-libbed for himself alone, and I wished that the eerie laments of Jon Hassell would thread through that pearly haze from where they had flown away to. The big seven was wallowed in a deep, buttoned, maroon leather sofa, of a group of three, in an old-gold silk satin lounge gown over a floor-long white linen shirt, white stockings in ornate petit-point slippers.
I was still startled by the encounter I had in the crooked corridor, so I did not notice Melchior spoke about them right away, telling me he had bought them from Liselotte, not even on a carnal whim —like that he would sense for me then, bestowing me to sit on the adjacent sofa— so enthralling was the beauty of Sasha he had merely admired in her shower; he promised he would arrange a close encounter for us, possibly under his eager scrutiny, as I would know. They dwelled in a neighbouring house that Gauthier had just finished decorating, with independent access to the street, and inner communication with 7S offices.
An Asian boy in black brought a cart bearing a sparkling gold samovar, glass cups, and three plates under golden bell covers. His Lordship waved at Finlan to join us, so he put the machine seemingly in generative mode, so it continued seamlessly with the same harmonies and tempo. The delicate wayfarer whom I had come to know as Gwen’s protégé when she was whoring in Bruges had transfigured under the ascendancy of our nude performance dancers and Malo. Now he sported oat-blond curls unfurling over his eyes, fitted rosy gold silk brocade suits over white tee shirts, marigold yellow sneakers and socks. He smelled of red Lebanese.
The black-clad boy served us tea that I preferred dark because I knew It would be the utter best Taiwan crop, and then he lifted the cover bells, producing a merry carillon. There were sundry sorts of tiny pâtés, and it smelled of faraway spices. Mr M. did not eat, but he turned to me and said pontifically that I would not remember who I had gambolled with on that flight back other than my lovely posse, and he kept his greyish eyes jooked in mine for a hefty count of seconds while Finlan wolfed plenty of nibbles, however silently. I sussed it would rest on me to invent whatever tale to erase a heap of pretty souvenirs in our babies’ minds, at least convince them our different ones. I grasped we had dealt with hi-voltage operatives, under M.’ cover, in full knowledge of our usual complacency. That was it, he furrowed in his pocket and fetched a gleaming black leather box that he handed to me. It contained a ring with a deep-coloured sapphire the size of my middle fingernail, emerald cut, bevel mounted into a rounded platinum chevalière, and he joked he knew I would wear my parure, the stone was genuine Kashmiri, it rooted into my soul instantly.
His expression returned to his omnipotent goodwill, he rested his head on the sofa’s back and waved vaguely towards my waist, as in please, undress. I reclined and parted my thighs, so Finlan neared to graze over the edge of my stocking, and I knew M. had devised to watch us make love to each other. I freed the black glass buttons of my dress in no hurry, I had made out with the laid-back rake a few good times, and I let him denude me, thinking of how Gwen had rightfully chosen him as companion, there was some immature grace in both, and they had thrived among us.
I knelt before him to untie his coloured silk-braided belt and unleash his pretty stiff dick I did not wait to gulp while I pulled the trousers away. He was delicious in his mere tee shirt, I supposed M. was wanking at this sight and my bumhole in the air.
As a provident amateur harlot, after I had cleaned my innards, I had thought of carrying a small tube of lube, I knew there would be a need for sodomy anyhow. I straddled Finlan in reverse and let him bugger me legs wide open, my feet upon his knees. He was a nimble player, I could feel his blondish tuft tickle my butt crack, and I was first to spurt some, and again, before he gushed up to my kidneys with pleasant meows.
I rested my back into his arms, contorting sideways to kiss his mouth, when M. called me urgently, he wanted to come in my mouth, and I took that as an honour, but he tasted no different than the rest of his genre, after all. He called on Finlan and told him to shag me on his lap, spread open and ready, in my pink fore slit, and he passed him a pot of surgical wipes, mind you, it wouldn’t have dawned on my lustful mind. I noted he fondled the boy as much as I, but all I cared about was that he sheathed his hard candy deep into my dripping coochie and stumped it straight against my womb’s bottom.

And then as he had attained bliss to himself, he left us, splashed and messy like playful animals, reassuring us of his unswerving blessing and, to me, that I should go try his new hotel in London along with my pretty cubs, any time. As we caught our breath, hugging each other, unhurried upon the sticky leather, Sasha was here, waiting for orders with her dreamy smile; they carried our stuff to a grand bathroom, a round vaulted mosaic room depicting the wonders of a coral reef haunted by a profusion of sundry fish in semi-precious stones. They remained on dry land but looked at us unabashedly, rinsing our intimates, rubbing each other with the big natural sponges brimming with expensively perfumed lather, and then helping us to wipe in opulent towels, with their patient indiscreet hands. Some time along the corridor, I squeezed them, all gently, against the wall and told them what His Lordship had said concerning them; so, they returned my stare and asked if I would be certain of what I suggested, and I could tell the benignity of their desiring toy, they were one of those delicious unaccomplished beings, like our own Apolline —and many that entrusted their souls to Cynthia, next door— and who had also avoided the lure of the final butchery. In all kindness, (weren’t we birds of the same cloud? ), they confided to us their number, come what may, and responded to some unequivocal kisses, before hurrying us to our own customary burrows. Once they gave the final baci, the steel door shut with a sigh, and I thought we would hardly tell which one it was the next morning. After a last complicit embrace, Finlan ran to the dancers’ lair, and I took the lift to my floor.
Cecile and Charlotte sat in the buff at the dining table, sharing a rhubarb and ginger meringue pie over coffee; I couldn’t help retelling what we had been doing, except what I did not remember already. Cecile shared my tastes for undetermined grace, (on what Charlotte still kept wondering), thus she relished my all-fresh description of Melchior’s sublime usher, suspecting they had done the honours only for my sake. She surmised there would soon appear another new passenger on her couch, transfixed in Cyprien’s stare, with all I knew she would deploy afterwards to entrap them in her cubbyhole, and so in the lustful web of the God Crow homunculus!
After a fleeting voyage in which mingled the Chambellan realm and the tireless return of the Chrysler demanding men, the Manling chimaeras, I woke like a daisy with an urge to write a poem in Sasha’s mailbox, after I baked a stack of French toast. But I saw the flag on a word by Hugo that slightly implied he might enjoy my recount, too —I wondered if he might have nattered with a Rambling Rose he craved so much.
Eventually, Sasha and I talked. They were still in bed, the Almighty would be absent, and they owned their time. They had all the leeway to possibly cavort with whoever in the company orb —and I heard that included me, holy rain!— only they had never dared. They were born in Kersiguenou, on the Crozon peninsula, Brittany, nineteen years before, under a boy’s name, their parents teachers in psychology and literature at Renne’s university. A small village in the cold season, and a bustling resort in the fair months, they were an outgoing nature boy spending their time on the sprawling beach or the wild woodland around the hamlets. Their parents had fallen for a crooked granite old farm, and only wished to spend their life there from then on.
Until about thirteen, when the mockery about their tiny sexual appendages became unbearable, and they were exposed nude during recurring bullying. Thus, one afternoon, they swallowed a whole box of paracetamol to end their miserable life. It had been a stormy afternoon, their father had sussed something anomalous with the noises he heard from his son’s room, saw the emptied blisters and heard his son calling for death. The stomach pump took an hour to arrive, and the father had forced some milk down his oesophagus and made them vomit most of the sixty capsules, fearing that most had begun to dissolve. They had to swallow heaps of activated charcoal, they forgot about dying, and they slept in their parents’ bed.
Their father inquired, and he hated what he heard in smatterings. The schoolteachers called the affair a fuss about not much, there were nigh-on fistfights, the university don was accused of dolling their single offspring, irremediable words were spoken, thus the family moved instantly to Rennes and put the farm up for sale. They settled in a pretty townhouse with apple trees in the garden and dedicated the time they had earned by not commuting anymore, to homeschooling their lovely phenomenon.
Doctors found that Sasha would never be receptive to testosterone so as to develop a male body and sexual organs. Along with them, and with the help of a therapist sympathetic to the situation, the family decided to let Sasha become their apparent feminine self, rather than botch a hopeless simulacra. In any event, Sasha would enjoy the same manner of sex life as millions of happy homosexual people.

They were accepted in dance class as a she, provided their appearance and manners did not intrigue the other pupils, and she skipped the showers as she lived nearby. But when it came down to taking scholar exams, there should be a positive identification, and if the administration had accepted the name change from “Luc” to “Sasha” to comply with a medically proven ambiguity, France had not yet admitted a neutral sexual identity case, thus, Sasha passed the A levels as a boy and went on studying psychology with a girl student card.
I made the remark that they never spoke of their mother; they explained that, though she was a dedicated and loving ally, she had never frankly coped with the incongruity of Sasha’s situation; she would have easily fallen in the lure of the reassignment procedures that would have tortured her child every other year to no avail whatsoever. She owned that she was in no capacity to confront Sasha’s father, who had moreover exchanged with a host of colleagues and practitioners to build a solid case file —without involving Sasha, nominally. The recurring issue kept meandering in the marshes of Parliament. There had been laws to protect, incompletely, the intersex babies from the butchers, but the high court had brandished the fundamental principles of the republic so as to refuse the non-binary identity. In Europe, only Germany and Austria allowed undetermined passports, as of yet.
They had been a brilliant bachelor student, but she had crossed people who raised an eyebrow at their relationship with their father, who had become a potent don in the field. It might have been capricious, but when a private psychiatrist they had impressed —not with their science— in social gatherings at the family home, told them of some open position at 7S with a profusion of benefits, they had applied online and gone through Melchior’s weird untraceable routines, until after three months of pleasant online meeting whenas they never saw him but was offered a bona fide contract they could authenticate with the family notary. Their father did not feel he should intervene openly, but he garnered all info that was given to him overtly. M; told them he was sending a car unless they chose to take the fast train.
They had arrived two months before, in one of the guests’ suites while Gauthier’s teams arranged an apartment to their taste. As I would have bet, they had conversations to all extents, and eventually, they unveiled all their secrets to the copper-headed knight I told them was the best intuition they had ever had. I told them we all had shagged, in one way or another, the beautiful artist. He had sworn that no one, ever, in the tiny society they were about to discover, would even whisper a word of scorn for their being, and they would learn to sleep with their carnal peers, even. One thing They would not escape was the awe their beauty struck on whoever discovered them.
At Melchior’s instigation, they met with Cynthia, she had to walk down the street to find her door; she told her she had found it easier to exist as a she, although she possessed the apparatus to shag nicely with understanding girls. She told them she, or her staff, would be there for her at any puzzlement their condition would arise in their private or social life, and she advised them, anyhow, to afford a confidant therapist compatible with their state of being. They proposed to wait for me at the discreet door on morrow night, and I took that as a win, for my self-esteem.
The weather had freshened, thus I donned a brand-new white tracksuit I had brought back from New York, no undies, to climb down barefoot to Hugo’s for plenty of delicious gossip. I was all enthralled by my conversation with Sasha, the new peach tree in our neighbour’s garden, a promise for many sweet seasons, I craved to cuddle their feet. Hugo laughed to see me thus and rummaged into the thick new fleece that smelled of my petitgrain spiritual Cologne. We had golden truffle pâtés dripping with cashew cream, roasted peppers in hazelnut oil with pistachios, and pomelos and litchees salad in rose syrup. He couldn’t rest as I retold our carnal expenses on the terraces of Babylon, his familiar shaft quivering out of his long white shirt. He shagged me andantino, asking me to describe the many manners I had danced on, in the fragrant maze, the many dicks I had contented as a princely courtesan.
And then, after he had manipulated my body in the tepid rain in his bathroom, I wallowed indecently across the precious silk carpets, and I recounted the amazement of my foundlings in the Art Deco follies of the American fury, so much so that he was mulling a trip there, with Cecile, I understood that. We browsed through a period portfolio in heliogravure of Chambellan’s work for the Chanin that rekindled my visions as he buggered me again, chuffing.
I returned home to find Cecile, Adèle, and Rose bustling Charlotte’s brains with our transatlantic extravagances around a late-night cup and cookies, so much so that the poor girl began to hatch a plan where Lauritz would take her there, along with one or two of his own foundlings.

At my calling, the blind steel panel swivelled smoothly, and Sasha invited me in, stealthily. They bore their abundant hair strands free over the shoulders, and they wore a glistening dark variegated knitwear adjusted jumpsuit, with black slip-on shoes —they had long, slender feet. After all they had confided to me on the phone, I felt some carnal proximity just like with anyone on my side of the labyrinth, but I saw some jolt of distress when my hand wandered upon the silk a tad too low.
They hasted through that crooked corridor I feared I would never memorise right, but what was the risk? I had tried to compose a snazzy outfit with a rusty brown Prince de Galles silk tweed double-breasted blazer on a straight, short 200 wool black skirt, silk veil holdup stockings and black patent strap flats. We met sundry gold-toned mirrors, and I liked all I saw in them, my invisible makeup did set off my eyes. I wore my best sapphires, too.
We passed a few doors, and we stepped into a lift where I could sniff in her neck a musky wisteria one must have purchased at Floris’ and did not tell of a boy. They gave me that first timid kiss.
The wonky little penthouse had been dolled up by the dedicated craftsmen Gauthier kept busy, it had some feel of Trianon village, of princely rusticity, I said Cécile would love to enrich it, if they invited her. The walls were hung with probably digital reprints of toned-down botanic wealth historic wallpapers, on best-quality stock, with trompe-l’oeil cornices, plinths and mouldings, like in a time-spared playhouse, reaffirmed by a delicate antique military ordinance furniture of thin japanned steel, the kind that had roamed over Europe in Napoleonic turmoils. All the woodwork and closets had been adjusted and waxed in their best patina, and an Axminster carpeting with a reddish Smyrna pattern had been stretched so that I felt like taking my shoes off, expecting them to do so.
In the bedroom, a big padded maroon bed had pride of place in the middle of a dark luxuriant jungle representation with no discernible motive repeat, giving the feel of those tropical wells, and the night blue star-spangled ceiling evoked some mad opium den I craved to trip in with them, indeed. The jumpsuit opened on the front, I dared pull the tiny tab down, but they shifted aside, without pulling it back up.
The bathroom, which had been another bedroom once, was fully clad with stamped copper plates, and floored with bright blue azulejos, and matched loo, bidet and column sink; a wide shower head promised plenty of water fun; two tiny windows sheltered repoussé gold ivy bouquets. They needed my word to believe in their luck. My hands were so keen to slide on their chest.
Opposite the bedroom was a wood-panelled study with glazed closets packed with esoteric textbooks in English, a stern little desk invaded by sleek computer contraptions, two rounded-back caned chairs, and an oxblood red buttoned sofa, upon the same reddish oriental carpeting. It smelled of wax and cinnamon, I pulled them down on my lap and denuded their shoulder as I garnered a full-hearted kiss. Looking into their eyes, I asked if our bright knight had been kind to them in that other manner, because he always had been to me, and I tickled them softly.
In the nude, they were utterly splendid, their winnie straight fore like a candy cane, and it tasted as good. They were as tall as I, shapely long legs and rounded bum, slender hands and ticklish feet. But I saw their mouth turning bitter, and tears were near, so I shuffled my mood and asked them if they had ever touched a genuine girl, putting their hand on my doodleberry. I apologised for being too hurried, asking if they wanted to hear my life for a change, and that made them snigger a chink. There were blankets in the closet, it was softer to sit on, but I did not let them hide themselves, however, and it made them smile again.
They heard most of the shebang of my wayfarer youth, the confederacy of the Tudor squirrels, and the snow angels. She literally adored my Saint Loup saga, the boxwood grove, and the laundry cellars, although they protested I exaggerated on the slutty side. I envied their virginal candour, I told them that made her all the more desirable, when they wished for it. I went on till they dozed and I helped them to the grand bed, all They needed was a silent white cloud, for now. Hoping I would make my way back, I remember there was an exit on the floor level, and my telephone could open our back access. I was stirred like a debutante, and proud of my holding back, this was not a seasoned alley-cat, and watching them would be all the more delicious. I wondered if Cynthia would accept to counsel me around them. I went to the pool and met Percy who had not shagged me in aeons.

A young delivery boy from the Rue du Bac flower shop brought a bunch of sunflowers mid-morning, so I fetched the heavy teal blue barbotine vase and displayed my token of gallantry for anyone to know. While I brewed some Taiwan delight, I wrote a makeshift poem to our new sylphic neighbour. Kate wrote she would arrive that evening. Charlotte trundled about and avowed she had had a bustled evening at Speck’s with three insatiable Swedes I seized her waist to listen how she would moan, but found that she was merely a bit achy in her loins, which did not forebode a quieter tonight. She asked about the flowers, so I explained I had earned them by not forcing my way on someone I craved. She sat on my lap, drank from my cup, and promised she wouldn’t tell. She had never betrayed my trust, so I told her what she would learn sooner or later, I sussed it had been M.’s intention by showing them to me, and sending her after me —after Gauthier had introduced her to the real world, pianissimo. She knew all the mysteries of the lovely creatures who dwelled in TRÆVIX’s attics; she had gambolled a few kindly nights up there, and she feared not indecisiveness. She wondered what was with Sasha, and I could only tell of preternatural beauty, which meant I had been lovestruck by M;’s young usher, so much so that I had let her sleep. Charlotte listened and then begged me to knead her loins like she knew I could do magic, it was rightful, and we went on the bed, but I told her all the same I had shagged Percy in the water before going to sleep.
Sasha and I chatted all day with held-back words, so she surrendered by five, agreeing to come up to ours for dinner, not worse. I told her the dress code would be scruffy chic and barefoot, we were all vegan, and teetotallers; I would wait for her at eight before the concealed door. I promised we would not exceed seven guests, and I ordered Charlotte, whose back was healed, to keep mum. Delff and Apolline understood obviously. I warned Cecile, but Kate was somewhere en route, and Sasha knew her long connivance with Cynthia.
They wore baggy jeans and an untucked dark indigo shirt, gently tousled hair and bare feet. I noticed their natural brows never were manly, and I had not seen any makeup in the apartment. I hugged and kissed them casually —we had gone thus far, hadn’t we?— and I kept them clutched to my wing as we walked to our side’s lift. They exclaimed when seeing the swimming pool afar with nude beauties splashing around, but they shied off when I proposed we go see them, thus I ushered them to the lift, watching their slender feet. A lift car is a place where people kiss, they let be done.
Charlotte was setting the table, in a mere Tana Lawn blouse. It was a treat to see her jolt as she looked at Sasha, her connoisseur stare piercing through the pair of jeans; she held their hand just a tad too long —and Sasha already had no more footing. Cecile burst in, just out of the shower, exhaling a whiff of snazzy man’s Cologne, well done. She too, was awestruck before the Big 7’s treasure —I clenched them tighter at my side to avoid them a quiver of awkward self-conscience. Cecile has cunning moves when inspired, she stepped kindly upon Sasha’s foot, telling them they would look so overwhelming in a portrait by her workshop buddy, and she called them Lady Hamilton.
Delf wore gold lamé jeans and a cropped rainbow-dyed top, in all, Apolline a long-tails maroon milleraies shirt, and gold bangles to their wrists and ankles. As their usual, Delf was gently demonstrative, a bubble of ginger tangerine who stole Sasha from me and slid their hand to their tummy. Sasha had never encountered any of her kind, and they were light-struck. Nevertheless, the two ambiguous imps knew their practice by heart, asserted by a long soul-searching with Cynthia, thus they obtained reddition of Sasha’s jeans, revealing faultless tapered legs and letting Delf’s hands stroke the precious ratchet I had sucked last night.
Gwen appeared in an oversized lichen-green jumper, she had another part to hold, although not apparently as ambiguous. Sasha liked them all and retold her life story to an eager audience, although it sure wasn’t a smidgen as tragic as theirs. Kate disembarked from her Alster shore palace in Hamburg, she naturally kissed everyone, and then was taken aback as I introduced Sasha, who was already scantily clad in their blue shirt already buttoned Monday to Tuesday. She read a shade of alarm, thus she muffed her voice to say who she was and we had long lived together like atypical swans. Sasha let be hugged again, tamed for good. Then Kate went to our quarters to drop her bag, and came back in a simple ribbed sage tank minidress that let ignore none of her shapes. She nonchalantly told Sasha she was altogether an ordinary woman. They chuckled.
I had fried bread slices to load them with cashew cream with morels, a secret of mine prepared by Agnete&Sanne who sold it to worthy customers of our privileged streets.

Sasha insisted on hearing the guests’ life stories, since they said we all sounded like out of the dire waters of strangeness. They were amazed by the light-heartedness with which young, desirable, impish characters retold sordid ordeals they had undergone, and they owned that they had been favoured with a father like theirs, I concurred, for I felt a rare one with a righteous dad, too.
I unmoulded colourful vegetable chartreuses, along with tasty sauces and lab-grown spicy baby salads sprayed with lemon juice and hazel oil.
I warned Sasha there was more to our carefree ways of life, and to our polyamorous philosophy. Not only were we sharing our unfettered promiscuity in our little utopia, but we all belonged to some planetary network of transmissible disease control behind which we could have free rein over our sex life all the way to safe prostitution without latex sheath. Their jewel eyes rounded wide, this was beyond their rational mind, although they had studied all manners of human behaviour, in their academic cursus, they had never confronted the actual motivations in the living flesh and that, a righteous father doesn’t do, incest is too heavy a burden to carry on, as I saw it.
We all swore that they would never be forced to abide by any sexual behaviour; even one of the most potent men in the world had not violated their will, and neither would we. For the time being, their great beauty was enough to secure a niche inside a richissime realm, and they would comprehend more bits of the inner workings with every new turn of the clock. As for hic et nunc, didn’t they relish my kneading their feet under the table?
Dessert was a real Empress Rice Pudding with sundry candied fruit scattered in it, moulded in a baroque Victorian edifice. It seemed timely for the two foundlings to barge in, ready to devour the bulk of it, before they noticed the impressive delicate new guest they couldn’t tell if it was a Lord or a Lady, the shirt ajar on a pale flat chest. We all turned the introductions into comedy, and the pudding was utterly delicious. It happened that Sasha spoke a bit of broken Italian, and Adèle fell instantly smitten by them, eventually easing her narrow bum on their chair, and grasping ever so fastly whoever she was wooing thus, her little harlot hand down between Sasha’s thighs.
We had ten of these unfailing historic Windsor chairs that had kissed endless crowds of arses, clothed or bare, and on they went. Adèle charmed Sasha while twiddling their toy bauble that stood upwards, and naturally, she told of her astounding upbreeding and how, haphazardly, we abducted her to freedom and caused a domino effect collapse in her hometown. There, she met my eyes and changed seamlessly the matter to how we had misbehaved in luxury hotels. She had been wearing her dawn-gradient lounge dress, they ended in the nude swapping spoonfuls of vanilla white surprise, while Kate fondled the whole shrub of Rose’s.
Sasha needed nought more than a subito Italian romance, I noded she should accompany her lover to her lair, while Kate craved for a horticultural fling. Charlotte and Cecile felt the call of the God Crow, and the attic children took pity on me and pulled me to the shower where they pissed in my mouth, to start with.
I woke in my bed alone, not totally miffed, but a tad defeated. Sasha returned to the breakfast table and kissed me like never before, not shying her pretty crotch away. I wore my new white sweatsuit, they sat next to my left and slid a hand into my pants, and I was stunned. Her hair smelled of Adèle’s kisses, it dawned on my tea that they had broken all the hampering emotional bondings, and so she returned to me, unscathed, I went fetch her a maroon and cream sweatsuit she liked. She agreed she had been shivering cold. Once garbed into my scent, she gathered up her legs sideways to rest her feet against my thigh for me to stroke them.
Kate sniggered when she joined the table as if the scene were so obvious; she reached for Sasha’s hand to tell her they would remain among us all they liked and I was her fair anchor. Rather than brew another pot, I proposed we climb up to the studio. I gave Sasha funny Norwegian socks because they took some two sizes bigger than us, I bantered we were in for another round of shopping, but I reassured them that it would be free.
I hoped the heather fairies would come, and they did, in their usual thistle blue style, although Fayelle was an imaginary Scot with a titanium skull welded over the dream of the axolotls —She quivered at the sight of the Chanin frieze in a book— but she also sported finely white feet on the futon we had decidedly no reason to remove, now.
Being the tea maid, I mused it would be time to acquire a Samovar, like TRÆVIX’s —I told Sasha it was certain we would be invited to the palace that night— but Annabelle complained that she loved the big pumpkin Yixing pot, didn’t I? The object pleased Sasha like a fairytale genie. The newcomer had to yield to the marvelled curiosity of our poet ladies.

They announced they were genderless by birth but had been happy in their seaside village until the age of common puberty, which their metabolism skipped. Thankfully, their father rebuffed the quack sorcerers and took sides with their inner being that needed no pharmacopoeia tricks; were they pleasant enough for northern shepherdesses? That would be a signal to unleash a flurry of snuggles and fondlings, gently agreed with; Sasha lost their socks again.
Sweet Kate, all too happy being in her real home again, feasted her eyes all her fill; she mused that if Sasha took a taste in carnal games, it would be wiser to coin a black card, too. Sasha did not know about that, thus Kate fetcher hers and showed it, then opened her laptop, opened the proper site, that is, a blank black page with an invite blinking, and, under Sasha’s eyes —they rubbed their body against Kare’s warmth— punched the long number on the black plastic card, and the screen turned to blue-green fractal animation around a button labelled “status”, which opened the mention of the next limit date. Groping their bum, Kate said they might go together in the afternoon, the clinic was five minutes away; it would be a simple blood test in conjunction with their Social Security carte vitale, and the genuine doctors would propose all available means of prevention against all transmissible illnesses, ie sundry vaccinations, but Sasha said they thought they were up to date on that level. Thus, an appointment was made for us three, in the afternoon, through the same swarming site.
As expected, a message from Delff rang on my telephone, inviting the household to a friendly party in their salons. I translated it might mean two dozen mixed party animals awestruck before their ethereal beauty, all of them highly desirable and available, in earnest. I promised I would let her shy away under my wing if they dared not woo anyone else in the assembly, or let anyone woo them, which would not miss to happen.
At the homelike clinic, after they filled the forms and signed an authorisation to read in their carte vitale, we all gave samples, and it was simpler for them, who wouldn’t have cycles. No questions were asked, they supposed a special code in their numbers set them aside in a class of their own. But they would own a black card in the morrow with possible notification of a vaccine to take.
That accomplished, we went to the A&S tea room, where the waitresses rolled their eyes like marbles. I warned Sasha that the whole staff would come up, only to peek a glance at them, and it did not fail. Nonetheless, we took rhubarb and mulberry, tangerine and raspberry, and almond and pear pies, a few brioches in view of future French toasts. I warned we would not be home that night, and we carried the boxes up to the studio, where the heather spirits salivated.
Later, after the feast of heavenly pastries, Sasha wept when Annabelle let out the tale of her Glaswegian childhood —if it might be called thus— and her career as a young backyard trull. But she did not avoid telling of the onset of complacent licentiousness through the thorny byways of her destitute fate, until she was raptured by her forever soulmate and liberal lover, who brought her to Paris and supported her generously, although she no longer dwelled in his wisteria-ridden estate in Montmartre to enjoy the delights of unabashed wantonness at a few steps down their rent-free comfortable nest. Fayelle had once become a depressed sidewalk floozie before Camille, an affluent, redeemed fellow wayward badweed, singled her up in her gallery and gave her a warm shower before cuddling her in her bed where I came to know her and showed her to acclimate with us all and follow Annabelle back to school and into her perch.
During the yarn of the lost damsels’ redemption, Sasha had let their trousers slide and enjoyed the rosy lips of the one who wasn’t talking, which tickled Kate’s unfettered fancy as she crept down and gnawed the angel’s toes before overtaking their angel’s pretty groin and earning a sip of angel’s materiality, underscored with a deep sigh. Alfred pretended not to be amused.
That is the scene our Natalia came to discover after the throes of lust had appeased. Hugging my back on my seat, she firstly saw a heavenly face beyond the desk edge, then her gaze embraced the whole angel not caring for modesty, and was, like we all had, awestruck. She dropped her jeans and crept to frolicking on the futon at the semi-god’s feet. I wasn’t tired yet to do the presentation in Sasha’s presence, and anyhow, it was like their day, wasn’t it? Natalia complimented them candidly, grazing along their smooth body features, casting spells they remained thus forever.
Sasha had not then explored our part of the subterranean province, I showed them all from the bottom up, the timeless foundations with the crypt of the dead, the pool, the gym, the dance floor, and the golden corridor to TRÆVIX palace were awaited black-clad ushers.

Most of Michelle’s minders came from families in the ancient French Indian trading ports, of dark complexion and self-awareness, like the personnel of Paris museums —only later on into the night could they unveil a more lustful side of their characters, as in the roaring twenties society, although as of dinner time, one could not tell that.
As it was a no-code mingle gathering, and we had had no time to go shopping for basics like evening slippers for Sasha, we remained in the new sweatsuits I had bought in New York, and white socks. They were bewitched by the cornucopia-style mix of decor, and they asked if Gauthier was also managing these installations they felt they belonged to. The underground round hall was now lacquered a dark shade of vermillion, on the checkered pavement stood a new gilded bronze dancer, a sister to the famous one by Rudolf Belling, on a black marble plinth.
We met Camille’s entourage walking on the ground floor, Dagmar, blond straight bob hairstyle, wrapped in one big grey unspun wool loose knitted jumper with a slanted cowl neckline, setting off her long tapered legs wearing grey suede Tod’s Gominos, who jumped at Sasha’s side to hold their hand kindly; Fanny in an open white shirt and an undone powder blue tie, white Jodhpur boots, short, curly wheat-blond curly hair; Camille, warned by Fayelle, tousled light-ginger mane, Emilie Flögel mint green panne velvet tunic dress and assorted crocodile loafers, totally mesmerized by Sasha’s face and allure, an omen to the talk of the gathering that made us clench tighter to each other.
Gauthier appeared in a grand bow salute and dashed at Sasha’s lips, stealing them off me like a prey of his, who they obviously were, I had visited their hideout. I console myself knowing that the copper knight would return the angel as fresh as we had found them. He tasked himself with the honours of the house.
The grisaille salon had been peopled with a collection of grand Delft earthenware chinoiserie jars that glistened under the cloud-like chandelier, upon ebonised wood stands, all along the pastoral scape; as for grand gatherings, tables were dressed with amuse-gueules and pitchers of coloured kombucha and lemonade. I had lied to Sasha, the whole tribe had come running only for them, and I should stand at the ready.
In the Turqueries grand salon, I noticed at once that a choice had been made to gilt the wooden fac-simile life-size nymphets, and it reminded me of the pretty priestesses guarding the canope vases for King Thut in Cairo’s museum, against the soft-coloured gouache-like panorama, I liked them in all their golden details. In the sumptuous dawn-gradient skies, a new Venetian etched mirror, bevel-mounted in a repoussé gold monument, hovered too high for anyone to gaze at oneself in it.
Sasha chaired, blushing, next to their lover on the central vermillion sofa, coveted by the pretty crowds, Delff in their fitted daffodil yellow suit cajoling their bared feet upon a crimson silk velvet cushion. Apolline and the Thistle sisters retold ad infinitum Sasha’s becoming story, freed of provincial pettiness, dubbed by M. with selfless largesse.
As the meeting reached full swing, Delff nodded at Gauthier and pulled Sasha all the way upstairs, unavoidably to meet the grand hostess, and I thought I could see that. Delff did not avoid kissing their kindred on the grand staircase, while I watched, holding the bronze rail. In the anteroom, Josephine and Emeline danced nude to the music of Malo, who played an unusual instrument, a half-breed of a cello and a guitar, an arpeggione. Gwen and Finlan, Charlotte and Cecile, Fæbian and Lizon, all in the nude, but Cyprien, only barefoot in his nondescript greyish outfit and holding a drawing pad, communed with the dancers in the scattered light of the cosmic chandelier.
Sasha stood stunned and dazed at the sight of our inhabited pixies, I stole them back from their beautiful deflowerer, and I asked them to squat and watch in my embrace, my hand stealthily in his trousers. They leaned on my shoulder kindly, and all the lovely faces cast us mellow smiles. The pair paused and came to us, seated on their heels, still wired with inspiration, offering their coochies to see, accepting Sasha’s heartfelt compliments, and inviting them anytime to the dance floor.
I led them towards the sanctum sanctorum of the metaconnexions, the Aviatrix was practising her own yoga flavour upon her cantilever seat, in front of her meta-keyboard, her pretty pet nymph Trine in lotus posture on the carpet below. Delff went stealthily to Michelle’s feet and exerted some kind of massage, with no apparent avail. I was groping Sasha’s tight apple of an arse.
Resettling her balance in the craned armchair, Michelle took a deep breath and turned to us, at once smiling at Sasha, who was bedazzled by the whole wall of screens blinking with innumerable spots and signals, the Aviatrix wiped her spectacles, and I could admire her disarming, youthful unglazed face for a short glance.

As she feasted her eyes upon the new wonder on the block her partner cum neighbour had warmly alerted her about, she beckoned them nearer and graze their smooth cheek with the back of her hand. She spoke softly as her hand wandered about, promising Sasha would be safe forever.
Naturally, our eyes returned ceaselessly to the agitated charts she commanded on the wall —it reminded me of Victor’s copper-clad room where he once shagged me in front of the Xmas-like twinkles of his market watch. Suddenly, Sasha asked abstruse questions, as for my understanding, but not for Michelle’s, who seemed to answer straightly and engaged in a heated disputation, before suddenly swivelling her seat to face such an angel full of surprises I had taken til then as studying philosophy.
For her, too, casual meant a vague tracksuit, more of a childish pyjama of white fleece randomly embroidered with soft-coloured mathematical symbols I sussed had cost somebody’s arm and leg. She invited Sasha to sit down with her on the carpet, as Trine pulled me by my sleeve out of the room, back to hear Malo play on her new instrument. Further, in the dim-lit chill-out salon, Finlan was shagging Emeline in Josephine’s arms, and Trine wondered if that inspired me to cuddle with her in one of the white brocard loveseats.
Trine is a delicate lovemaker, we lingered in the cuddly shades, but then a gang of blood-thirsty Cossacks came out of the woods and found us ripe to their taste, and Sergei knew my needs, as one of his cohorts dragged away my sweetheart. They had come to gang bang Cecile and Charlotte, too, it soon was a concert of huffs and puffs, to which a reunion of Natalia and her faithful minders joined spiritedly.
After I had passed out at the hands of one urban savage, I made my way to a whirly mosaic bathroom where I could rinse away the off-spurts of the vandal army, while a bergamot and lavender bath ran, in which I dozed out. I woke back shivering with cold, thus I ferreted out for my fleece. On the other side of the storey, glazed and veil-strung doors had been shut on Michelle’s private lair. I wouldn’t know about Sasha, and the staff was doing their best to clean up around the scattered party guests, exhausted, in lewd poses. I helped move them into easier attitudes and covered them with some unused tablecloths.
Kate had brought Mathurin back to our bed, and they both smelled like an Italian daybreak in the sun. I couldn’t help fiddling with the boy’s dick that straightened all right but did not wake him. My hazy mind began conspiring that Melchior had played three-cushion billiard to put Sasha, whom, he could not ignore, was a proper undercover nerd, possibly level with the Queen of them all, into her might-wielding pants.  I ended up chasing rain frogs, barefoot in the grass of Tycho Brahe’s Star Castle observatory on Ven Island, cawed at by the murder of crimson crows who have known me forever.
At dawn, my bedfellows shagged back to life, I knew Kate’s moans so well, I watched them, wanking myself unfazedly before going to cook breakfast. Cecile, who never slept and was a bit of a seer, came up and slid her hand into my trousers casually, she yawned that it had been a fine spend, and wondered what had become of Sasha. I retold her that they had flown with Michelle to some Fibonacci multiverse, and it had escaped me that they might well be an autistic savant, the computer in their studio should have alerted me. Anyhow, I wouldn’t change an iota my attitude towards them, and I still craved creeping into their bed, alive. Cecile said that Cyprien had fallen headfirst for their beauty, and we should help bring them on the workshop’s sofa, listen to Bach in the nude, shan’t we?
Around noon in the studio, a pear-and-sweet-pea trio brought fresh cinnamon-raisins rolls, Apolline, Delff, and Sasha giggled. I dived into their more-than-ever-deep gaze, while my hands wandered into the maroon and cream fleece, and they did not flee, seeing what the attics puppies left us to reconcile alone together. Yes, Melchior had known all along they had been diagnosed a mild case autistic savant, and informatics wunderkind, which they hated to advertise in fear they be singled out as a total monster, would I?
As it had turned during my visit to their pad, I unclothed them on the futon and asked how it had gone with the queen, they sniggered and said I knew she was a sweet bee, even with odd specimens. Once they had spurted their swig into my mouth and owned that it felt wonderful, I suggested they might agree to pose for a truly great artist, in Cecile’s workshop —they loved Cecile— in the nude. I added that Cyprien would show him his portraits of all of us, exposed, including our middlesex darlings.
After a brief shower, I led them to Cecile’s world, and they liked it, and moreover, the untiring pearly strands of Bach in the perfect speakers. Cecile prepared some coffee, and Cyprien, who visibly was intimidated, showed his drawings, Apolline and Delff and Gwen, obviously immature, among our lovely troupe. Unexpectedly, they agreed to show themselves standing, nude, and Cyprien wept.

I sensed the music transported them —Cyprien’s good meditative path, which had given Cecile the peace and the persistence, whatever Lauritz’s glitzy debauchery in devotion to her— and they let me handle their pose upon the burgundy plush velvet on the sofa, arrange their blond strands, thinking of Gustave Moreau’s languid adolescents. The well-tempered backwash would return endlessly, and Cecile fetched kerchiefs for Cyprien.
I returned to TRÆVIX’s, as, since always, I had free access to Michelle’s rarefied propinquity —besides, I loved to play with Trine’s slender body, on the command room’s carpet or else their undone futon. The house had been thoroughly tidied, and the heating adjusted so the resident elves could wander unclothed if the whim took them thus.
Michelle wore an ecru pyjama, her small feet —which for months had been all I saw sneaking out from under our red studio sofa— resting upon the edge of her metakeyboard. A buff Yi-Xing earth, finely allusive-shaped peach and branch teapot, and a glass cup, waited on a side tray. At this minute, she was totally invested in whatever operation was happening beyond my comprehension at the core of her machines, I thought I could have sucked her toes, and she wouldn’t have noticed.
She turned aside to pour some tea, and she smiled at me, making a gentle comment on my new ambiguous fling so beautiful. She asked for details about their provenance, she had been stunned by their fluent savvy in computing logic, but she refuted that they be any more autistic than herself, being metabolically undecided was widely enough to explain their cute weirdnesses, wasn’t it?
Certainly, her omnipotent partner had found it amusing to send them as a curveball and wait that it veer her course, he had not trusted Gauthier for that, he had known the copper knight had shagged them the first night.
To hell with menial jobs, were it in 7S grand style, Sasha would collect doctorates, be it at Michelle’s expense, the die was cast. She was amused to hear they were posing for Cyprien, she said she would buy the drawings if he sold them. She let me cuddle her on her workhorse, but her eyes had returned to the battlefield. She had cut her hair short, she smelled of mellow hesperides, I slid a hand into her pants.
Back upstairs in the studio, Kate was at work, and the fairies read Monsieur Songe by Robert Pinget. I was thinking they would spend the night in Cecile’s magazines’ cubbyhole; I had their number, I proposed we go shopping the next day, I wouldn’t let them with Cyprien for days on, all the more that Hugo was wondering what strange rumours unfurled about in the house.
Not comfortable in Mr Songe’s front yard, I went to loiter near Adèle’s only to find them a tad dishevelled after a party of Cossacks had ended the night in their beds. They were bare-arsed, and they smelled funny, I went frolicking in the shower with them. They assailed me with questions about the shy angel. They had played with the attics’ imps, they knew what intersex meant in its sundry flavours.
Gauthier had arranged the Mola panels into black reverse moulding frames and then assembled them against a red ochre wall behind an opulent vermillion wool velvet sofa and armchairs, the perfect setting for a Cossack orgy. On a new ebonised wood antique side table, in an engraved copper tray, stood a fully functional electrified samovar, out of which Rose poured, with pride, a respectable Russian-blend tea; Sergei was not only a bad boy.
Fanny dropped by, she did not shun the pretty nudity of everybody, but there was an appointment at Adèle’s future French school, so the ragazza put on light-colour flourished leggings, a short tunic dress, a grey corduroy bomber and grey patent loafers and they ran, Fanny sported a navy trench, black ankle-boots and knee-socks; she smelled of costly fruity Chypre.
Rose said the weather was too dull to stroll about, and she did not feel like shopping, so I sat on the rich, maroon with sundry motives, Persian rug to begin kissing her feet, smelling of the Neal’s Yard Geranium-Orange much in use in the tribe. She wallowed like the odalisk at my whim, and then we tried all the lewdest postures on their sofa. She said I should go with them at Speck’s that night; she felt whorish.
Cecile texted they would go in aparté for the night at Sasha’s, would I take Charlotte with me anywhere? Rose liked Charlotte. Adèle and Fanny came back whisked by the early season wind, Fanny ran to Dr Méant’s, it had become an addiction, hadn’t it? Adèle rejoiced we went together to sell our hides to rich clubmen, it was some weird vindication for her upbringing, said she. Now then, she knew enough of French to negotiate the limits of her prestation, like a well-bred harlot.

We went early —food is excellent and plentiful for Speck’s damsels.
Adèle wore that gleamy dark blue variegated jersey bodycon dress, and it was easy to see there was nought else in it. It was Rose who allowed the majordome Udo Wenzell his tip in kind, unfazed; she wore a purplish and black mish-mash painted silk shirt dress and black silk hold-up stockings with black velvet slippers embroidered with silver roses. I sported a 200s wool blend double-breasted blazer with satin peak lapels, hold-up veil stockings with large hems, and patent opera pumps.
The attendance was cosmopolitan, while we tasted fresh vegan tiny pies from the rue Saint Louis, we fell under the radar of a bunch of Japanese executives with expensive watches. Adèle followed the obvious alpha, who apparently spoke Italian, Rose, already well-tuned, agreed on the deal with a pair of well-spoken bow-tied perverts, and I let a fourth inscrutable character slide his hand between my lapels before leading him to the dispatch desk where many indicators were lit.
He groped me in the lift car and tortured my mulberries so that I feared I had followed a sadist, thanks but no thanks, not that way. Come what may, Since he was here, he had seen the conditions of use, and I knew the sundry security recourses. But now he was massaging my chest in a way that the pinch I had felt diffused deliciously straight to my chakras.
That fourth-floor room was a manner of baroque singerie in the Margravine taste, the walls scattered with framed mirror shards around which played a colony of delicately painted macaque monkeys. I wondered if Cecile had also worked on these —and shagged her boss in there, she still had a sweet taste for Gauthier, she might as well have tested all the rooms. My present NERV boss spoke awfully broken English, but his gestures were so expressive that I could feel like a puppet and see a shallow zircon smile when my pose fit his want. There were two painted chairs, a marsh green wool velvet club armchair, and the expected square bed sprawled with padded willow green satin. He feasted his eyes making me contort so as to offer my bumhole upon the furniture. He disrobed of his Armani bespoke suit and his Yuki silk shirt and trunks. He sported that conspicuous truncheon of a dick that made me wish for lube at first. He pushed me to the bathroom, a soft-green marble cube with gilded apparatus, where he showed me that I rinse my bowels with the disposable enema hose, straddling the bowl. Once he decided I was clean, as he rubbed me softly into a thick towel, he kept muttering in Japanese, and I sensed he was slathering my slits with the commendable Swiss Navy like he would have greased his personal gun, and I did not conceal that he was pleasuring me. He led me back to the bed’s edge and showed me to kneel back like a bitch, arching my loins the most to expose my bumhole. He had handled me smoothly, I was no more misgiven as to being used for what I had come for, as he did, deep and easy like I were a fine-tuned Gold Wing en route to bliss, I splashed him and again unabashedly. He growled as he spurted jizz all over my entrails, collapsed over me and kept silent as I felt I dripped. When his spear waned, he pulled me back to the bathroom and pushed me gently under the shower, as the fluids added veins to those of the marble tray. He massaged me as no one ever had, and kissed me deep in the tepid rain. Eventually, I was utterly puzzled when he left, throwing a handful of bills upon the stains we had left on the bed, of which I pulled a couple for the cleaning help.
I smirked that was a good thing he had made me pull off my stockings before making me squirt down my thighs. As a trained harlot, I carried a slim spray of that expensive King Street Myrrh and Tonka Cologne, so as not to smell like a return mare. The Japanese fleet had set sails, and I felt peckish, little canapés with wild asparagus on egg fit, with a full tumbler of elderberry kombucha.
I heard a melodious barytone on my nape while piano fingers rummaged my jacket back slit. I was told to eat my fill, at my pace, before letting myself be drawn to a quiet place. He was a tall, curly black-haired, honey-skinned, and almond black eyes Middle Eastern cavalier that gave me a brief deja-vu pang; I thought I might have shagged him before, as it was bound to happen someday, in another pleasure stable.
In the lift, he ferreted out my clit and wanked me, I was already limp when he opened the door. That room was entirely clad with grey waxed zinc sheets, bar a full-length mirror, with a huge luminous white feather ball above a padded black velvet bed tucked with black toile. Two patinated steel chairs and a black velvet footboard bench were the possible props for our dance party, and the coal grey carpeting was deep.
As he went for the nightstand drawer, he asked me my name and liked it, but he didn’t tell me his. I hung my jacket to a coat peg and asked if he liked my stockings, he looked me up and told me to pull them off. He seized my arms in my back and watched me in the mirror, thus I unzipped his trousers and caught hold of a sizeable circumcised penis as adroitly as a seasoned harlot.

He joshed about Adonis with a vagina —I had heard that one since about 8th grade, and I liked that, everybody wanted to shag me, anyhow. He undressed behind me as I still wanked him hard. He knew how to start music with a command he had fetched in the drawer, he chose a laid-back electronic station, I preferred the Steve Roach mix to live through what we were about to do, and he agreed.
He told me to sit on my heels, wide-opened, and suck him once afore, and watching my relaxed bumhole aroused him such that he seized my nape when he couldn’t help gushing a fast shot deep into my throat. I gulped all neat, so he admired and kissed me in his own bitterness. He said he could see I had been buggered lately, I nodded and said he could make it easy with lube, for I had no taste for pain. He laid me on my back, took the tube from the nightstand and told me to hold my legs high, wide apart. He sniffed, liked my pubis scent, and went on to licking with dedication and ardour as he wanted me to splash for him, so I didn’t hold back, and he liked it. He had stuck his gooey fingers into my anus and coochie all that time, so now his penis glided in both my pathways. He was beautiful, his hair had fluffed like that of a Hollywood swashbuckler, I exulted a few more times before he gushed deep into my loins.
The bathroom was also smooth-waxed zinc —like the old rustic tubs we played with on sunny days in Taarbæk, aeons ago. He took leisurely pleasure handling me in the lather of a Bay Rum body shampoo, then he pulled himself back together, combed his curls back, threw a few dollar bills on the sink console, kissed me and called me my name, so I stood dumb, I still had no idea who he was. I rinsed my arse, I hoped my own fragrance would mix well with the spices in my hair, I left the money on the nightstand for the maid, and I strolled downstairs.
Rose sat on a bronze velvet Iribe Nautile loveseat, eating a chocolate éclair over a gold-rimmed plate, her shirt merely tied with one button, eyes gently swayed. She told me about the double tornado with the pair of Japanese rabid dogs, frightening but eventually entertaining, even and odd at the same time, politely executed, anyhow, and they had swapped sides under the shower. Then she had pumped a short-breathed senior who had not undressed of his three-piece suit, only pulling a shaky dickie and touching her all over, fingering her arse, then asking her to suck. His jizz tasted of a spiderweb, would she say.
I told her we should dance languorously together, and it might inspire a clubman with a double wallet, and that is what happened. But first, one white bow-tie fogey had to be shunned for the redhibitory cause of a boozy breath, to the benefit of a comely senior don type with white sideburns who enthused for our duet, atwitter fondling two butt cracks at once while watching, up close in the lift car, our tongues twirl together.
He led us to a last-floor room upholstered in a singular edition of Toile de Jouy, off-white printed in coral red of pastoral ribald scenes between nymphs, cherubs, and fauns, enough to send the makers to the Bastille, but perfect for the scholar’s lyricism. Stucco scenes of sundry obscene couplings peopled the pale pistachio green ceiling, and moreover, the petit point tapestry upholstery on the bed’s headboard and a pair of Régence armchairs depicted diverse crude Olympian raptures. Nowhere could the eye escape the obsession for whichever kind of fornication, bar the toned-down Savonnerie carpet.
With flitting hands, he disrobed us both down to our toes and made us dance while he took his trousers off, remaining hidden in his shirt’s tails; and black high socks in his polished black Oxfords. Once he had released his collar, manspreading in his armchair, he waved me to bend to him, and he tied his white bow to my neck in a swift sleight, then he made me spin, and I sensed his tongue poking in my bumhole, so I found appropriate to further the favour to Rose who spread her bum cheeks graciously.
He might well be ancient, show rosacea and hold his loins when he stood, but he sported nonetheless a stiff root full of heated blood. He arranged us upon the bed, me on my back, with my head over the edge, Rose face to me, spreading wide enough to give me her quim to lick, and reciprocally. Then he fetched a tube of KY to prepare his way into Rose’s slits, and so he foraged whimsically between the three manners, coming back in my mouth and asking me to drool on him. He reached his peak in Rose’s lesser hole, banging his balls on my eye, mumbling whatever in what sounded like Latin.
He congratulated our prowess and invited us to the bathroom, with an antique hammered copper tub, big enough for the three of us, like fish in the saumonière, said he, as he took off his shirt. He was still half erect, as he sunk his belly into the jasmine-scented water. He told me to turn my arse to him and crouch upon his dick I would soon revive with my skilled hand; Rose would straddle the rim of the tub and piss on his face if she felt so. Her arsehole dripped jizz among the lather on the bath water, the john laughed, and he hardened again at my own sluthole’s edge.

Back in the salon, I still sported the white bow tie, Charlotte and Adèle had been waiting for us to flee, they had had their fill of rich depravity. Lauritz’s foundlings and some new well-turned nymphets were up there, performing. Udo asked me for a goodbye favour, and my posse came with me in his private hideout, offering all he wished while I sucked him dry and clean. He told me to kiss Cecile for him.
As always, after a seance —which wasn’t beyond a good libertine romp— the polyglot sisters felt rich, and exhausted. Adèle had managed a dozen humpings altogether, but she smelled all dewy as they returned to their nest. Charlotte recounted to me she had shagged a truncheon so thick she felt torn; we went to bed so I could have a look, all frightened. I could fist her easily, but I saw no tear, the monster had manners, and probably some experience. She couldn’t tell if it had been any more enjoyable, but she had orgasmed, eventually. As we rummaged in our rumpled slits, I wondered how I would have withstood such a massive assault, she offered to fist me, some other night.
In the morning, as we took our breakfast, Charlotte and me, her quim almost healed, Delff came on a mission. Michelle wondered where Sasha was, because she did not answer her messages. I suggested they would be at Cecile’s workshop, posing for Cyprien, and I was certain Michelle would love to buy a portrait of Sasha. But our aviatrix had mulled over the wunderkind’s future, and chatted with Melchior in their private encrypted forum about it. Sasha should meet Prof. Siegfried Alphand, of Paris Sciences et Lettres University, and hear what they could aim for in the global realm of fundamental research, as they had let Michelle understand. Prof. Alphand would be at TRÆVIX house for dinner the next day, it was not the kind of appointments Natalia ran to. To be certain, the best way was to go downstairs and tell them to switch on their phone. Charlotte was eager to peep at Sasha posing nude, it was such a novelty. We went in a pretty delegation, and I loved how Delff groped me in the lift car.
Effectively, the Bach capsule had been orbiting incommunicado, it was time for a coffee pause. Sasha asked permission to lock herself in Cecile’s cubbyhole, and from the planted alley, Alfred signalled that he saw no objection, he had scattered twigs and dead leaves on the pavement. Half an hour later, Sasha came back with an ingenuous smile on their lovely face. Delff jumped at her in her puppy manners, we did not debate what we knew of the matter, they would meet Professor Alphand the next day. Before that, we would go scour the Bon Marché for the best togs and shoes. Delff floated the idea that Sasha meet Michelle a little later today, to review what to explain to the bigwig don, would they not? That one did not know of Melchior, but he had consideration for Michelle, whom he had long seen trace her course like a shooting star.
I corralled the Sasha worshippers back to the upper studio, the wunderkind’s track was cleared, and Delff returned to her hi-spirited attics. Charlotte had witnessed Cecile’s fascination for the new sofa passenger, in any event, she went diving. Kate was probably at her brother’s on the other bank. I sent a probe line towards Natalia, and she showed up the next minute; she wore a black silk velvet, fitted, mid-thigh, low back-line tank dress with a black opal cabochon on the strap, and a black silk trench that she threw on the sofa’s armrest. I understood she was going whoring, and she wanted me along. We climbed down to the vestiary, to dress me as a worthy sidekick. Once I was undressed she showed me I still aroused her, and she was wet. She said it would be lewd-chic, with no undies. I had this new night-bluish mish-mash painted silk twill round-tailed shirt, with long tube sleeves and a high mandarin collar, it was easy to see I was nude in it, and the black onyx buttons were gamely to undo. I slipped on black veil open-crotch tights and black patent opera pumps. I took a peak-lapels belted black satin trench. I sprayed some orris, bergamot, and amber from Hugo’s piano before closing my dress.
She called an Uber, we went to a mansion close by the Parc Montceau, where she punched a code on her phone to open the smaller door. Under the classic stone porch, the lanterns were gleaming, but the light was mean. On the right side, rich-carpeted steps led to an oak-panelled vestibule where a black man in dull blue tails took our trenches in a closet and felt us all over with a light smirk, and dexterity, and then ushered us into a sombre foyer, hung with Belle Epoque, full-length nigh-porn depiction of languorous women, a collector gallery. It was the same boundless wealth epoch as the Mendelsohn mansion, in a worthless minor mode, only the intricate walnut woodwork was impressive. Another black man in the same livery came through a double door hidden by a tapestry and waved us to approach, offhandedly gathering a handful of our butts at our passage.

A long walnut-panelled, gold-enhanced corridor ran to more darkness, and the pair of dressed-up goons must have known they had leeway to profit from us, thus we both finished kneeling on the deep carpet, sucking sturdy shafts that smelled of lavender soap, in turns, with nonetheless gentle comments, it was the common tithe of harlotry, like the concierge’s in-kind tip at posh hotels. We couldn’t do other than gulp thoroughly and try to suck in the scent before meeting our john. We kissed each other as a test, and it amused our profiteers, who also tidied up each other.
At the end of the hallway, a double door opened on some kind of an opium den of the roaring decade, with divans on three sides, strewn with glitzy shawls and stoles. It smelled of frankincense, sacred wood and red Lebanese, a dishevelled thirty-something, wallowed barefoot amidst gleaming silk cushions, was smoking from a silver contraption, smirking at us. He inquired if the Toundeh brothers had gently abused us, and nodded that it wouldn’t be forgotten.
He was wrapped in a yellow Ikat fabric robe with a padded gold satin shawl collar. He said he was called Joel, and he asked for our names, wanting to know who was first supposed to show up. Playfully, he wanted to see a little bit more of us at a time, to decide if we made a worthy pair. Once we were bared, his solid staff was emerging from the rumpled fabrics, at his hand. He told me to show that I could gulp it whole, while he dared Natalia to poke her tongue into my little starfish, that for what I spread my thighs all the wider. On his part, he was shoving fingers in her bumhole with lube, and she meowled graciously.
A third young black man he called Yaro had appeared on the sly and prepared to bugger Natalia with a rod the size of her arm, right under the nose of our john, thus I thought, for my part, that this Joel might well have hired the whole kinship at our avail, and apropos, someone was lubricating my back alleys with keen diligence, in readiness for some serious carnal endeavour, which I would not decry in its kind awareness.
Now, I could sense the actual thumps upon my willing chuff that had been woken by a fairy’s tonguing, and what a piston it was, inexorable like a heavy machine, attuning my inner clockwork to his frenzy, driving me to wish for a full-blown gush together with his manly expense, the most exquisite whirlwind to the soul.
Would the two ushers have conveniently dropped their livery, that made four stallions crazed on our lively holes, and Joel, who had firstly fast-fired into my mouth, revelled amidst the fragrant chaos happening upon him.
After the joyous quartet couldn’t besmirch any more our defaced anatomies, the patron stood up and ordered the orgy scrum to the bathroom. It was the same overload of Belle Epoque nudities, well nigh obscene, on glazed ceramic panels, an alliance of Alphonse Mucha and Frantz von Bayros, overran with gilded pipeworks and esoteric contraptions. The client revealed a decent physique, if not as sinewy as a sportsman’s, healthier than one would expect for a rich bedridden rake. As blond Natalia was all the rage of the black mandingos, Joel still had his fancy for me, and he handled my joints and limbs adroitly. In the multiple heads shower, he showed me where to hold while he buggered me in the warm flow, effortlessly after the considerable carthorse’s schlongs he had unhitched on us. But he felt ideally tooled, taking his time while handling my flanks, twitching my quailberries, raving in my nape a garland of metaphors.
We all wiped each other and went to some dimmed-down dining room, after the bright sparkle of the water games. Natalia confided that her bunghole ached a bit, but they still twiddled with any piece of her they would grab. As I sat at a grand oval table laden with delicate nibbles, someone demonstrated a furious talent sucking my toes, thus earning his path to my quim where he triggered a few spurts so he laughed.
Joel spoke a strange sabir to apparently tell them they had had enough, so they scarpered, giggling, and we remained, feet on the table, overspent. I could not learn who had put up the collection, he bantered we should come back and confront his Massai lions, we had been extraordinary sports, so to speak. Now, we wouldn’t have any idea where our togs had lain, there was this relation between our indecency and that of the fantasy depicted on the licentious side of the otherwise prudish Salon corporation which officially made its honey in adorning society watering holes and official venues with bland pictorial bluettes, like as many faux nez on the sordid sequels of the unbridled universal prostitution and industrial alcoholism.
He laughed, and approved of my cute tirade on social hypocrisy, adding that we still did not have free access to reports on the corruption of our diplomatic corps in the faraway colonies, whenas, apropos, they still played bigot Paul Claudel’s catholic balderdash at the Comedie Française.

Natalia had joined me close on the chair, he was revelling in fondling our thighs and feet, all throes appeased. He answered me with the remark that the universally revered figurative seminal painting of the past century was a brothel scene: Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, the most visited picture in the New York MoMA —a gift of the aptly named Lilly Bliss’— although no one had known that for decades.
I asked Joel if he knew of Isidore Ponderien’s private venue on the Boulevards, a glorious pictorial antithesis of Opera houses, comique or not. In any event, we could possibly consecrate ourselves —no pun intended— to introduce him, given there was a thin chance he met Isidore wherever, due to his physical condition.
Now we began dozing out, he called one of our buggers to bring us our togs, which he obeyed diligently, not without a last keen peep at our coochies he had used and abused shortly before. Natalia wanted to sleep the rest of the night with me, and Charlotte was already there, thus we cuddled up around her. She sighed and frowned, eyes closed on my shoulder.
We were woken by Cecile and Sasha, one in a casual oatmeal cotton sweatsuit, and colour-stained sneakers, the other in a cloud-blue-striped silk bourette Mao simplism suit, and Gainsborough skies Stubbs&Wooton velvet slippers. There was an air of candid camaraderie about them, whatever they had shared in bed. Sasha still shied before these unabashed nudities, but as Cecile sat amongst us, they couldn’t avoid being pulled down on Natalia’s pillow, and being animally sniffed at in a tickle game. Then Cecile said Cyprien must have been waiting, and they ran.
Natalia dreamt aloud of Sasha’s beauty, and then she perceived a shade of unease in Charlotte’s gaze.
Were it sour grapes, she could follow them downstairs and offer to pose, skin-to-skin, with this preterhuman sensation. She had gently cavorted with any of us, and now she felt disowned by Cecile’s offhandedness. When tea was made, I took her on my lap, resolute to give our beloved parricide all I knew of Sasha’s mystery, beyond the awestriking beauty that brought Cyprien to tears. Through the thorny shrubs where they had grown up torn by lack of compassion, they had never lacked their father’s faith in them, then this serendipitous opportunity to solicit a shred of attention from someone in Melchior’s entourage, then using me as a conduit to Michelle’s attention. None of us ever had to demonstrate any uncommon mathematical genie, but it would be ours to help Michelle foster this one because she had never failed us, whatever the weird lifestyle she had led, first at our feet, behind the red sofa, before she happened to own the world.
Natalia inquired if she, and her posse, could help chaperon Sasha through the social chores of whatever academic cursus they needed to complete —without afterthoughts. Sasha answered that Michelle and TRÆVIX would see to their security, full-time, here and abroad, possibly. But what Michelle counted on was our common selfless comprehension, beyond the unavoidable lust.
Cecile had spent a full circadian spin along with them, as chaste as a bottle of water, and she concurred that the available specific support by Cynthia’s team, and a highly vetted therapist in Dr Méant’s acquaintances would set Sasha on a course Michelle foresaw as bold as hers. Besides, being installed right on top of a major communication node, they would never find themselves in need of bandwidth. From the apartment I had visited, there were secured accesses to 7S executive suites, to the street, and directly to the subterranean facilities, like the gym, the dance floor, and the pool —that attracted them most. For the time being, They revelled in the dreamy atmosphere of the workshop, languidly resting upon the red velvet, possessed by the sublime anagrams formulated on Bach’s piano, thanks to Sviatoslav Richter. Only the attic’s elves dared sneak in, bringing tins of ladyfingers or langues de chat. Imaginarily, Alfred liked Sasha; Cyprien had taught them what to feed him, the supreme treat being simple raw oats they poured into a bird feeder unfit for pigeons. Alfred would bring his brownish ladies; sparrows, robins, and tits were welcome.
That evening, Cecile and Sasha would have dinner with Elvire, the shy transgirl we had met at one of Natalia’s “literary” clients’, and preferred to live as a “she”.
Among my daily messages, one by Seresine caught my eye. She said she had been living on Ile Saint-Louis with Lauritz’s own pretty foundlings, but she proposed we go somewhere kinky together; she craved to see me get naughty. I showed that to Natalia, in case she had an inspiration. She mused for a minute

 

Cecile says:

Delff had taken over as the governess of my workshop, along with her areopagus of undetermined younglings, and I could tell the release it bestowed upon still fragile souls like Sasha’s and, lately, Elvire’s. But it wouldn’t turn to regressive bedlam, and while I regaled of all their pretty attitudes, having turned my easel the other way, I could see Cyprien gently undeterred, with a rare smidgen of a smile in his eyes, all the more when Delff convinced Elvire, who did not nest in the attics, to rise up from the long gipsy skirts she donned and enlace Sasha’s pose —for the draughtsman, naturally.
The measure of time was ordered by the cycles of Bach’s twenty-four preludes and fugues series in the Well-Tempered Clavier books, or any humanly bearably long ensemble of piano pieces Richter had deigned to record. There were entr’actes when anyone fawned for a chance to rub some shimmer cream on the models’ bodies, and the two abandoned their aloofness at the spell of the fairy’s dust. The workshop’s heating was mild enough to let anyone undress, and Delff had no issue pulling her kin bare.
Sarah and Charlotte appeared before dinner time, and ordered whatever whim the angels fancied in the realm of pies and puffs, a tad more of the bulk on the sweet side. Fruit Kombucha was delivered, but most drank warm tea or coffee. As per usual, Cyprien had fled to some mysterious home of his. Charlotte smelled of a Jermyn Street Fougère, a mental tour de force she had known would bust me. She had earned somewhere a gold and purplish spinel stones anklet, I ended up asking her if she had been jealous, more than when I wallowed for Lauritz.
Sarah schemed to knit bonds between the two timid ambiguous beauties who devoured each other with their eyes, and I agreed they might support each other, in addition to making a beauteous couple to watch. Gwen and Finlan had snuck in, the only wholesome male in the barnyard; he had eyes on Sasha, but they were already plotting to flee to their pretty den where they had already let me pilfer all in her carnal county.
Then the attic birds felt like splattering around in the pool, and Sarah claimed our pearly slits needed thoughtful nursing other than dormitory games. At Speck’s, there might be dick for anyone, but not as frankly depraved as some public orgy, I floated we had not visited the Laforest twins in a while, and their house was some real fairground for well-heeled rakehells, and Sarah was even ready to afford the entry toll, so much the cooing of the angels had stirred her lower belly.
She heard the Maitre d would be a successor, but he had her whereabouts on a confidential file, and he would call the Ladies for her. It made no difference which one she talked to, she, and whoever she liked, were most welcome in their caravanserai. She asked me some ninety minutes —it was still only dusk— to send proper alerts in her regulars’ mailboxes, and for us to groom. She wished we find a few more of our lovelies, there would always be manna to garner.
I flagged whoever I thought might be idle and ready for a posh orgy elsewhere, and Dagmar, Natalia, Adèle, Rose, Seresine, Emeline, and Ksyusha answered with a touching ensemble. Finlan promised to act as feminine as he knew, dressed in daffodil-rose adjusted jeans and jacket, he could wear our white Jodhpur boots and Jo Malone Complicity. As ever, Dagmar showed her intolerably shapely legs out of a vague pearl-grey knitted unspun wool shawl-collar sweater dress, and fresh new grey low-top chucks, and she exhaled tuberose, Virginia tobacco, and cuir. Rambling Rose concealed her skin-deep masterpiece in a wealth of white linon ironing frills and innumerable pearly buttons; over-the-knees white lace stockings let guess a swath of pale skin, and she wore white suede Maryjanes; she impersonated the embrace of Bulgarian rose, Egyptian jasmine, and Florentine Iris, whatever an alchemist had laced them with. She was held close by Adèle in a peach-rose twill, waistless, high-gathered minidress with French sleeves, matched stockings and ballet flats; she smelled of Bergamot, incense, and sun-baked scrubland. Natalia sported a fluid shirt dress cut in bold meli-melo printed twill scarfs; as likely, she was the most provocative of the flock, her whole body shimmered with the unguent that Hugo provided to her tanned skin —she was the only one who sunbathed on our roof— she exhaled chamomille and neroli, she wore thin gold-strap flat sandals, and ultramarine nails. Ksyusha, who had learned a lot of French at Philippe’s, and sundry Sami’s joints, wore twenty-one grams of variegated chiffon held by string straps. She was still slender as the Japanese wisteria she smelled, and Sarah couldn’t help but seize her supple waist; she wore iridescent Egyptian sandals. Seresine wore a short collarless shirt dress of indigo-dyed glazed Tuareg cotton with half-sleeves, black veil stockings, and slim flat ankle boots —she showed evocative rings under her dark eyes, she had been a couple of weeks at the Mendelsohn mansion, of her own will.

Owing to where we were awaited, Sarah donned a midnight shimmer blue panne velvet shirt with bishop sleeves and rounded tails, Berlin blue stockings, and black patent court pumps with a Lazuli grosgrain bow; her nails Admiral blue. I craved to dance with her in the twins’ classy ballroom —knowing she wore nought else, underly, than a whiff of gardenia— at the yearning of unknown club members. I chose a maroon silk jersey dos nu little dress nigh-short of covering my black silk stockings welts, and maroon ballet flats; my nails were black lacquer, and I had sprayed myself with Italian lucciole.
Everyone was wrapped in some manner or another of flimsy wind coats, if only to cross the sidewalk and hop into a ritzy black whale. The city season was waking back, but the breeze still felt like a lover’s brushing. Adèle confided in my ear she was so grateful for the life we lived, not that she had not been treated as a pricey harlot then, but now she had a whole swarm of us to love, follow, and emulate.
Bowie and Sissi —I never knew which one of the pair was a notch taller— proudly greeted us at the foot of the grand stairs. The black-clad, pearly-grey tie gophers, reckoning their future after-hours preys with a concealed smirk. They took our elytron-like coats with aggravated greed, no doubt we were like groomed fillies at the horse fair.
In the grand salon, a black man in a Navy blue tuxedo played dampened smooth standards, with the lid closed. Sarah mumbled Moon River and gave the pianist the eye. Some two dozen people watched us wander in, wallowed at random in the pompous sofas and armchairs like a posh wedding party. Many were in gracious company, like young coy spouses or otherly apparent nieces in not much more attire than our own brood.
A white damask-dressed table held a choice of puff nibbles, canapés, and pastries amidst a gilded paper garden. Sissi took me aside to confide that the bulk of the night’s gathering was held by a club of well-to-do rakehells bringing their wives, or whoever they pleased, to debauch them, one or two of them skirting nigh-close to worldly incest. They averted their gaze like blushing daisies when I was interested in what their proud hubbies rummaged between their thighs. One of them beckoned me to sit alongside the preppy blonde he groped and dared me to show my knickers, having sussed I wore none. My dress was hiked up above the waist, and as if that was not rude enough, I picked up the hem of her white twill flared skirt and began to pull it upwards, only to see that her pristine white thong and tights already stood mid-thigh. I left her that way for all to watch, she obviously deserved a good whiff of candid shame, and the shivers of dainty fingers upon her lower belly, to start. I thought she might very well end the night strapped on the flogging contraption in the dungeon downstairs, and that was a delightful fantasy.
One silver-haired onlooker had fancied both my lower belly and seized my elbow to pull me up aside; he was slim and muscly, more than his temples would have induced —and the pianist hovered like Thomas Newman— he slid my dress shoulders down and let me wriggle out of it, naked in my stockings, then called a waiter to take it away. He wore a hazy blue silk suit, and he smelled of coumarin, I undid his jacket’s button and stroked his tight abs, foreseeing some ostinato thumps in my womb if he took me onto some of these available day beds and he didn’t dither long.
Sarah had swooped on a curly dark-haired gracile and gauche princess, a nigh-look-alike the sort she can’t help wooing furiously, letting her own white butt tease freely amidst blue crumples. As she forced the bashful damsel to throw up her tapered legs while she begged her cavalier for a sideways kiss, some bald black stud reached into her rosy bum crack and devoured her creased bud.
My distinguished punter had gratified me with a glinting smile and left me all sticky, I snuck towards the restroom and couldn’t help but peep through a door left ajar to the small office where the new maitre d had capsised Rose upon a small desk where he was pounding her in while admiring her treasure; she saw me and winked, the new captain was up to his task.
The bathroom was of the same grandeur standing as the rest of the palace, with peculiar attentions as to the special goings-on most probably occurring, like this gold-rimmed porcelain jar filled with disposable cannulas next to the coiled hose on the wall behind the bowl. The decor was glazed ceramic tiles in the kitschiest Opera Comique taste, with a profusion of unveiled nubile models.
Back in the velvety arena, escaping the grip of one ambushed dexterous valet —whom I left with later expectations— I relished the sight of the kind of lascivious murmuration under the dimmed golden brown light of the chandeliers. Bowie was nude at the hands of two imposing black compadres in tuxedos, vests, and bow ties, their imposing dongs out against her muscular belly —there ought to be an efficient gym room in the palace.

Not the least more clothed than her twin, Sissi was pleasantly helping a distraught novice with a fringe take a full-grown pike into her shy back hatch, while hers was steadily humped by a bugger in socks. A third well-off scoundrel, seeing an opportunity over the armrest the young harlot cried upon, opened his white satin-lined trousers and stuffed his masterly dick in the pretty open mouth, bringing the debutante to surrender her anus made slippery, anyhow, with the proper lubrication. And the beastly ensemble found a fluent gait, interrupted when that who was shagging her throat took hold of her neck to gush deeper, inescapably, inciting the rear bugger to unload with long chuffs of bliss while Sissi meowed of content as her screwer arched against her hind.
Natalia had let her hem hike up above the modesty line next to a fine-mannered black man, and another slimmer one came by aside her who could be his son, grazing her thigh with long dainty fingers. Besides the obvious, they seemed to relish her babble —she’s unbeatable at innuendo— and they searched for the tiny black onyx buttons of her charivari dress. Flaunting her slight breasts with a haughty smile, she let them devour her face with urging greed. She wriggled animally, but she did not bother to undress them, and she hailed Ksyusha, whom she saw across was already in the nude but scunnered off her suitor in her clunky vernacular. The black hunks swiftly unleashed their belts at the sight of the two felines enlaced close at hand, furiously willing. The dance became gradually rambunctious with two fierce truncheons of silky flesh on the loose, and Ksyusha loved that, although her supple slight waist would seem at risk. She tasted each of the dark glans with mock reflection, which owed her to be lifted up onto its hardness while her hospitability remained slightly too tight.
Enraptured by the sight of a gracile Polak blonde on the verge of being speared apart by a black mandingo club, I suddenly grasped it would mean carnage, thus I lept to take hold of the tackle and copiously smeared it with KY from a tube that lied conveniently on a coffee table. Only then, all the way kindly masturbating the shuddering menace and the sister’s cootie, did I let him glide in to go bump onto the womb’s door and execute the tremor dance, foreseeing his second attack would burrough much deeper through the lesser hatch, at a dearer expense, but I had seen Ksyusha withstand worse before.
Natalia had thankfully gotten hold of the lube as she lay on top of her muscular champion, and she chose to shove him into her own well-trained rosebud —she did not revel at being hammered on the bottom of her vagina. In my posture on all fours attending to the blondes, I sensed someone preparing the takeover of my own jacksy with some delicacy, thus I responded by constricting my rectum to his sliding measure of bliss.
I needed the loo; and no wonder I was followed by some smirking hireling who, no sooner had I sat on the toilet, dropped his trousers and grazed my lips with a circumcised tearful penis of his. I sucked him clean, and he thanked me, watching me inject water into my arse through the cannula, then he tidied his allure and combed his black hair back neat. He was called Eldar, from Bosnia.
When Dagmar dawdled a few steps upon the Royal Savonnerie at the pace of the piano inspiration, she was instantly followed by an upstraight cavalier whom she whiffed over her shoulder before sliding a hand upon his fly. They had been stealthily tracked by a slanky valet who grabbed the dandy clothes to go hang them safely; While she already kneaded her punter’s glans, she ostensibly looked the boy in the eye, as for a reminder.
But her current paramour had seen all and muttered naughty ideas in her ear while tackling her against the panelling to bugger her standing, with style. He was a well-worked-up stud, had not kept his socks on, and was pleasurable to watch while humping my sweet friend.
Rose was far from throwing in the towel, on her way back from the powder room —and it was obvious she must have been cornered, some way or another, by the two beaming goons who followed her afterwards— walking with a rolling gait to the buffet table where a pretty maid, whose apron hardly dressed her nudity, attended to a monumental gilded samovar. At a doubtlessly well-turned compliment on Rose’s splendour, this one skirted the table to slide her hands under the maid’s pinny from behind, rubbing her lower belly onto the rounded bum cheeks. The girl was black-haired with a thick fringe, fair-skinned and grey-eyed. Her hands looked like she had never worked otherly than filling enamelled glass cups, and her nails were lacquered burgundy.
The tableau they presented was suchly attuned to the gathering that the demand for tea —stealthily intended to lead the guests to the water room and pee a little more— sensibly grew while they played hands. I winked at Rose, the girl was called Sofia, from Romania, and I knew right away that, unless some dissension raised by the twins, Lauritz would buy her out and install her into his backyard dovecote.

All nude with her night-blue nails, Seresine looked like her usual submitted princess from a Hayez fantasised painting, as she came to the waterhole, taking a peek at the lustful servants. She enlaced me while we walked back with our cups to a deep crimson sofa that shrieked of all the turpitudes it had comforted for aeons. We joshed we would make a lascivious second course to the taste of those swordsmen we had not yet tried.
Meanwhile, the piano ad-lib swirled like creases in the velvet, and she rolled her black eyes like a Bernini while sending her leg to the clouds to offer herself at my fervent tongue, and that enticed a pair of crew-cut-haired German hunks to invite themselves into her parted lips, and in my easy slit, not faster than I slid my tongue on Seresine’s clit, fit like lock and key while he twirled upon my lesser breasts. They could have been brothers, keeping pace as they mutually swapped postures.
There would be some sort of constant traffic jam in the bathroom, rustling with lewd babbles, where men had no other choice than piss upon whoever stood in the shower. Bowie had fetched a dispenser of clear soothing gel for the strained innards, thus you could go back and peddle your pretty wares to fresh troops. A time came when proper clubmen had called it a night, but the armada of pretty personnel pranced back from their vestiary clad in classless livery, frothing at the mouth.
Their new master, Kreisler Oswald, had allowed himself to the prime of our follies and kept his fitted black suit to tame the herd inside the range of human courtesy, so to speak, inasmuch as we retained our absolute free will. Emeline came out of the shower lightheaded, she told Charlotte that at least three firebrands had conjured to kill her with pleasure, and they well nigh did, without causing any tear, whatsoever no tears, the AstroGlide manner. She let herself be pulled by a gallant specimen in solid tension, and Charlotte sighed as we dawdled back to the salon. Apart from a few diehards, of which one persisted in giving Dagmar what she craved, remained the offhanded pianist who continued filling the heady air of our debauchery with angel dust. Charlotte fantasised it had not been fair, she snuck beside the slender harmonizer and did not ask for reaching to his fly and wank the carnal metronome. None heard the affetuoso flexion in the ad-lib festoons, neither when she bent as to gulp all she could of the eleventh note.
Refusing some untimely advances, if only to assert I could, I went hunting for Sofia, the samovar girl of that night, whose bangs rested on my mind. The water in the vermeil urn had gone tepid, and the unlikely vestal vanished. I pushed the two-way door with an oval porthole I sussed led to the scullery. Indeed there was a suite of oak-cupboard-lined rooms that attested to the past splendour of the house, and I sensed there should be a linen room with piles of ironed laundry; my hunch was right, there she stood on a chair in a corner of the dim-lit windowless den, redressed in a stern black dress, black tights and sneakers, and a simple white apron.
Although I had read in her stare that she was no manner of a babe-in-the-woods, forced to wait, nigh-nude, at a buffet table, she did not move when I neared, looking me up like the fawn that knows no better than freeze. I went and sat on her lap casually, and kissed her tentatively. She responded calmly, her hands warm over me. I untied the apron knots behind her nape and her waist. I told her I had brokered some sweet deal with the twins, given that we had clicked together —whenas she would have made me drink Ty-Phoo in lieu of Bai Hao— in that manner I fall, once in a rose moon, for that spell of a gaze, that sway of the hips under a fancy lace apron. She would come over with me to the dedalistic realm where we thrived in random kinship, and return to Laforest palace anytime she rather, earnest.
She had these wondrously tapered fingers with natural short nails lacquered black that she wandered about me and my face while I sketched a candid canvas of my fate so far, so as she would not figure we were all wayward heiresses. She answered nonchalantly —what the hell— on her own lousy breeding, said she. She was born amidst beetroot fields, in a white stone hamlet with a nigh-destitute primary school and three uncertain shops, all with smoke-stained drinking troughs. Sofia’s mother had been pregnant at fourteen, and hid her belly under make-do and mend togs from the family attic. She had come to light with the sole help of a retired nurse neighbour who nevertheless called for the firemen’s ambulance, when all was properly over. It was a full moon after Xmas. The parents were a sore cliché of helpless wretchedness, her own mother had been knocked-up, behind a hedge of petals-sprinkling hawthorns, by a well-built farm boy who bluntly hurt her. When the county Doctor told the culprit he could nevertheless escape his responsibilities, a marriage was pronounced hastily by the Mayor, who was the schoolteacher and had unabashedly groped the bride since the lesser grades, as it turned out.
She wore a light black twill trench with black gunmetal buttons, black tights and ankle boots. After walking the barren trails of misfortune, she had been dwelling on the thick pile of palace carpets; now, she discovered the discombobulating charm of bohème luxury, as I pushed her to my room through the dim-lit foyer where the dislocated puppet girl by Hans Stangl smiled amidst her playful hurly-burly. Charlotte already slept under the exploded face of God Crow, to the grand excitement of the inner homunculus. I thought if anyone spied through his crystal eyes, they were in for a delightful novelty.
Charlotte wasn’t in the least surprised to see me unwrap my pretty catch, she had read my moves all night about the fringed bait at the samovar —like it would be set up just for Sarah and me. She cuddled up to the new passenger as I did, too, top-to-tail.
It is my constitution not to need long sleep, I left the girls in slumbers and went for coffee and biscuits, my main sustenance. No one was up, yet, I opened the window to listen to Alfred’s rambling rant. Through the ajar door, I saw Seresine enlaced with Sarah, both sound asleep, so I closed the door. Dagmar dawdled by in a hazy blue sweatsuit, she smelled of Geranium-Orange, and a loose waistband let see her smooth midriff that she brushed my face against, begging for some of my coffee. I pushed the biscuit tin to her side and joshed about our excesses. She had lost count of her expenses, but she had scored her money’s worth, said she in her cute Sächsicher English. She was overjoyed when my bedfellows raised up and strolled on over, wearing whatever tracksuits they had found in my closet, exhaling marsh lilies. Sofia would be the talk of the house, but no way could she skip posing for the Master draughtsman, so she would be my plaything for a few days, bar a courtesy visit —at least— to our beloved mentor and Landlord.
There would be no bed she wouldn’t be toppled over if she let it, but I warned around that she, too, had a harrowing tale to tell and it would earn her some relief to be listened to, as it had to most of us. Then Sarah had sensed the hustle, so she barged wet in her bathrobe, soon followed by Seresine in ample navy blue satin pyjamas. Sarah had not foreseen I would snatch the samovar girl with the twins’ blessing, she parted her robe and gave the newbie a wet hug upon her belly, then put herself to brewing tea.

 

Sarah says:

I wouldn’t tell of some largesse by our beloved twins or a masterstroke of Cecile’s, or a spell of one girl with fringes, or else of altogether human trafficking, but finding the latest samovar girl dipping biscuits at my breakfast table bustled my still northern brain —from a recent flight with the crimson birds.
Indeed, at first, I had melted a fuse at the sight of the flimsy apron and the shy grey gaze, the tapered fingers handing me a cup, but then I had been elsewhere so bustily courted and humped that the samovar had been removed, and I wasn’t so besotted as Cecile to go trail the game in the service alleys.
Cecile is my true kindred, while Kate is across the river sorting her soul. I guessed Sofia had been telling some dire tale of her fate —besides lowering her gazes as Seresine did. Now she would bathe a day on in the well-tempered waters of a kind of day’s work, wouldn’t she? A token to enter the ritzy monastery of our boundless tribe.
When the new soulmates headed down to bewonder Cyprien again, I took Seresine upstairs for whatever need she sensed. Since the futon had been unrolled again, next to the sofa, the heather Fairies had returned more willingly, and they might just foster the new little princess harlot thus as she needed. Outside, it would be raining, and Alfred was annoyed. The Thistle sisters snuck in gently, once they had seen a light down from their high window.
As I doodled randomly and honed my pencils, after the YiKing pumpkin pot was filled, I watched Fayelle getting enthralled with Sérésine’s thin and pale feet —whose nails I had helped paint maroon— while listening to last night’s follies, with reminiscences such as to make the girls regret having not followed the troupe. Not so long ago, all of them had spent their lives in debauchery, I dared them to go places with me.
Before their eyes, I called Liselotte and recounted to her what we would make ourselves available for. She needed an hour to sort her options. We had time to go drape ourselves as a saraband à la McQueen —except for the torture shoes— wrapped in city raincoats and suave fragrances. The usual minibus crossed the river at the Pont Royal and headed easterly.
Reading glints of lust in our gazes, Sofia wondered where we took her, in mere almond-green silk velvet pyjamas and matched English embroidered slippers, no undies, that made her feel more undressed than attired for outgoing somewhere. Cecile explained that, thankfully, the Laforest mansion wasn’t unique in its kind where wealthy raptors could afford themselves what had become rightfully unfeasible for free in their employee entourage.
I explained that Liselotte, who was one of my Beaux-Arts buddies, had the knack for instigating inventive situations of libertinage between consenting adults, so to speak, unrepentant of their debauchery on either side. Sofia concluded that would be called prostitution, and I could hardly rebuff, only she couldn’t help reckoning she had enjoyed her life of hotel mouse, bar the yoke of the numerous male hierarchy. A go-between like Liselotte, who had long kept files as colourful as Edgar Hoover’s, managed to cost money at the right end of the deal, and so did other entrepreneurs she might have, given the capital she owned, the pleasure to consort with.
At my phone call, the tall portal opened, and we landed in a paved courtyard at the stone steps of a perron where a stern gent with silver sideburns welcomed us with grey gloves. We did three couples, Seresine not much more assured than Sofia, as I grazed her bum in the plum, flared pleated jersey dress she was nude in. The hall was clad in bumpy mirror panels, plinths and cornices in which the checkered paving reflected distorted in a whimsical infinite landscape. Four ceiling-high oak trees of dark green patinaed bronze grew from huge, ornate, bronze Medicean pots. Bothered by our presence, a flock of colourful macaws prattled through the metal foliage. A grand hemispheric cut crystal chandelier was adjusted under its blurred half to make an impressive light ball. Sofia whispered wondering how this wondrous decor was kept clean, and Cecile retorted that probably the birds did.
When the maître d opened the door to the next hall, some immaterial Mozart music raised, quieting the parrots’ rumpus. A young slender boy in a stylised black moire court dress with a snowy linon jabot was standing above the glass harmonica, grazing the crystal bowls spindled on a shaft, that he made rotate half in water by means of a pedal. The curly blond, short-nape boy beamed an unfazed smile and wore a diamond at his left pinky.
After the serious grizzled man scanned our cards in a thin reader he put back in his vest, we were ushered up low steps grand winder stairs in the whirling echoes. Scattered on the ashlar walls fluttered a flock of nude beribboned angels of both sexes, chasing butterflies, in coloured and gilt ceramic. At the ceiling, a stained glass cupola gathered swarms of the magical iridescent Lepidoptera in the dizzy spell of musical harmonics.

We clung to the massive polished bronze handrail supported by green patinaed scrollwork to sense the whirl from the wind-rose pattern of the coloured marble pavement up to the bedazzling dome of backlit shimmering shards. At the round landing of the crimson-carpeted upward stairs curve stood another smiling youngling in grey silk velvet habit, vest, culottes, stockings, and gloves, like an inspired ballet moth, with brushed-upwards blond curls, like a Chelsea schoolboy.
The last crystal echoes waned as we entered a realm of muffed percussions, long-breath clusters of xylophones and celesta threading into the endless maze of a giant polished bronze gong excited by another moth grey livery undetermined genre operator. It was a tens of steps long venue with a high vaulted ceiling painted of angel bedlam both genres, in an utmost unruly composition, an ultimate rebuff to Sant’Ignazio, in the grand style of a Jean Delville.
On a misaligned dais covered with Royal Savonnerie sat a very old man in a golden and blood-red robe on a tall gilded baroque throne padded with crimson velvet. Our pretty moth informed us it was His Excellency’s Anyday —he knew not when he was born, having been found a naked toddler on a street after the Warsaw destruction.
Tall gilded girandoles holding profusions of candles were dispersed at random above sundry assemblies, wallowed upon rich rugs and cushions, more or less denuded in the hazes of psychedelia and the scent of incense from antique Japanese dragoon burners.
From afar, confined in a pandemonium of cushions, His Unnamed Excellency beckoned us around with a dazzling smile, and then some of the dreamers came to us and helped us disrobe slowly —if we would. The male part boasted evidence of their welcoming us, Sofia was a heated success, but Seresine, whom I had seen so lascivious at Philippe’s, remained clenched to my wing although many hands wandered over our nudity.
We were offered candy laced with sundry psychoactive substances of the mellow range, and a sober physician monitored everyone’s well-being, which did not mean he wasn’t lustfully interested in our lower bellies. Our band dislocated between spacey groups, keen to watch us take flight and loosen our self-conscience in the flow. Seresine and I knew our preferred blend to start with, thus the mild-mannered monitor told us which ones to chew and gratified me with a promising caress.
Once again, I was flabbergasted by Liselotte’s resources about Parisian life. I told Seresine how, still at school, we had shunned for no reason that baby Louise Brooks type who seemed to befriend every doable student. Then, how she had lured me to sell myself to some perverse teacher and on, although I had no financial needs. Seresine also confessed to being a born harlot, beyond the rampant abuses she had endured among her degenerate family.
Came the moment when the all-gracile population on the ceiling spoke to our understanding, as well as a few well-hung slow dancers who claimed possession of my mouth and my brooklet they anointed with intrusive salve before offering to root in so easily both ways. Such was the quality of the magic we had chewed that I became one big orgasm like the gong that pulsed like a storm cloud —until I passed out.
When I woke out, I heard Seresine being humped in her turn, while a green-eyed elve with intricately braided hair was offering me a plate of almond and dates confectionery, but first I needed to rinse myself of all the sticky goo they had blessed me with. She showed me to a bathroom as wide as Mme de Montespan’s with a large round rose marble basin where a few merrymakers twiddled with each other in tepid orange blossom water. The room was entirely clad with Majolica tiles depicting naiads and tritons doing the naughty, in bold colours. A large frosted crystal conch at the ceiling radiated soft lighting upon the wet mingled bodies. My new companion, a Swede called Bodil, avowed she craved to grope me, and she was amazed when she realised I had answered her in her own Scanian accent I had once taken on my Admiral uncle’s. We laughed and bantered in Øresund vernacular, so much so that we ended buggered in the water by Baltic pirates.
After more enema injections, I was famished, and so were my roommates who had lived on the same trip as us. No manners of caresses diverted us from eating. I introduced my nigh-compatriot, and she loved all of us, with a little crush on Sofia, still a bit shy after what she had just done. The monitor came back and concurred with Bodil on what we could chew on, now.
That triangular purplish black sweet knocked me down into a bag of marshmallows, just like the monitor expected, and the greater relish of Bodil who watched, holding Sofia’s timid breasts. The dedicated pharmacist exhibited a considerable desire and smeared cream in my carnal alleys with two fingers while the breath of a gigantic pipe organ enwrapped me in a cocoon of purple fairy dust.

I recall vaguely that the monitor and others used me endlessly as I flew around in my dust cloud along with the lively circus I had joined through the ceiling. I retold myself that I had never had such a smooth high ride. Three virgin-looking nude musicians lulling handpan drums on their crossed legs spun exactly the tunes I dreamt. I might have been carried away in some attentive arms to another bathroom in a stars-strewn lazuli mosaic dome where I expelled torrents of sundry residues and danced in a tepid rain.
We were stoned and wasted like mops in a bucket, but Cecile and I conjured it was time to corral our own and go back home. The cleverest idea I found when a pretty moth I had not violated let me find my stuff and my phone in it to speed-dial Liselotte and let her decide to send for us. There were fits of laughter while trying to sort out the right shoes. Sofia was frankly exhausted, Cecile almost carried her to the coach, which leery chauffeur feared for his seats but relished how we looked like at the first red light.
We had taken a few tins of sundry gums, the instructions for use could be found on the website. I was still swaggering about in my cape of magic dust, Seresine let gleaming hummingbirds drink at all her flowers. Afar on the roofs, Alfred pleasantly spun the yarn of our misbehavings.
Kate did not wake us when she returned in the morning; she undressed and slid along sleeping Seresine, whom she had not hobnobbed with much yet, and found her skin so softer than imagined. I inferred the intensity of fraternal ardour she had lived when I saw her enplaned for a long quiet flight, while the princess and I felt surprisingly fresh. I took the tins of magic gums I had left on the kitchen table and went to camouflage them in the back of my personal drawer. I guessed Cecile and her new crush would creep downstairs stealthily, and Sofia would soon lose the few clothes she wore.
The Thistle sisters, too, showed purple-ringed eyes, but they smiled like the Angkor dancers. Annabelle sighed that she had never had it so devastatingly fulfilling as far as she remembered, Fayelle said she had been thus mistreated before, but not in such an enjoyable manner.
Liselotte called, en route to come visit us, and she was at once proud of her naughty scheme’s success. She explained that she had known Adalbert de Bellechassagne since high school days, affected by cerebral palsy, long before he inherited that palace he lived in, interlocked amidst generations of mismanagement, behind curtained windows. He still owned a few antique masterpieces that caused some stir when they went up for auction and sufficed to sustain the lifestyle we had just enjoyed some demonstration of. At the name she had told, Seresine said candidly that it had been evoked time and again in her own native feudal enclave, when her own monstrous brother wanted her to woo the poor Adalbert for greed. They had forced all kinds of subterfuges on her, but she had never agreed to meet him, the name would go escheat anyhow.
Cecile and Sofia, in off-white sweatsuits and sneakers, came up sooner than usual, with touching sleepy eyes, the model had dozed out, for the pleasure of the artist. Liselotte was bewitched by our new foundling, she jumped to her side and allowed herself to fiddle with her waistband. Sofia checked stealthily that we did not disapprove of this risqué behaviour by one she didn’t know yet. But Liselotte had manners for white geese; pulling her by the hand to sit on a sofa, she stared at the grey gaze while quietly unlacing the sneakers, so as to fondle the gracile feet like a pair of doves. She wore a silk taffeta shirt with bold black and white aslant swaths, and a black taffeta gathered skirt that hiked up immodestly. She was groomed like a porcelain doll, her short nails were lacquered black.
She offhandedly pulled away the sweatpants and raised her brows in awe, unaffectedly shooting the breeze as to our carnal expenses with chemical liberalities, Gaspard, the gathering’s monitor, had reported all the praise he resented about our little troupe —and I should particularly blush, said she. And these Californian confectioneries won all the contests in the US liberal states.
They ordered pies from A&S, but it was time Sofia came down with me to Hugo’s empyreal forestland —I craved these inaugural moments when I would smoothly introduce a new irreligious proselyte, heart and soul still in my dream, to the allegiance of our boundless mentor.
The weather was mild, we ran barefoot down the stairs carpet, nude in long flared silk dresses, hers changing pearl grey taffeta, mine midnight blue twill, just like two boarders in a ritzy parlor house. At the door, Hugo noted our deliberate feet, and he kept Sofia’s hand as we passed under the multicolour crystal sparks of the spherical chandelier under the mirror-clad ceiling of the vestibule, and passed the heavy Silkroad tapestries, in the corridor recently enriched with a dozen exquisite Victorian pornographic reverse paintings hung over emerald green chiselled velvet.

Hugo wore an open Uzbek kaftan over a long, ample white cotton and silk shirt that could not conceal his arousal for long. In a yellow jade and gold cassolette, slowly smoked sandalwood and benzoin, we followed him to the decorated earthenware tiled kitchen, with the Della Robbia Mother And Child, circled with a garland of fruit on branches, to see him brew some Taiwan tea and filter the kefir in silver enribboned ewers.
Sofia was bedazzled by the profusion of mindfully ornate artefacts in a live situation, she admired another detailed plum YiKing earth teapot, with leaves, tendrils and bugs. We carried the trays to the salon while he took out baking plates of golden bites from the oven to fill silver chargers. I decided we sat on the sides of him and cut short to approaches, behaving like the headless floozies we had been the last night, with manners.
As he asked Sofia her whereabouts, true or not, I rummaged into his robes and fetched a proud nob that I quietly wanked while he was so kind as to let her summarise candidly how she became a nigh-nude samovar girl at Laforest’s whom we took away, some nights ago. Hugo liked the part where she did the hotel mouse and hardly concealed that she liked it. His hands crept up from the dainty feet on the shapely legs and the smooth thighs she parted with a willing smile. As I stood to go help her disrobe, he swiftly unbuttoned me so my dress fell down too. I seized her nape to guide her to come suck the very ripe dick.
Like a well-trained harlot, she gulped all with no fuss and let me taste her kiss before drinking a tumble of fruity kefir. As I had foreseen, Hugo was smitten, and Sofia would earn a perch in our tree. She wallowed in bloom upon the silken cushions, and I couldn’t help but go gather the nectar in her holy creases, offering my bumhole to Hugo, who could neither resist.
I knew how to make her spurt in my face, she tasted like elderberry flowers, while I wriggled my innards to make my bugger come again, and I orgasmed twice on the way. Then I supposed it was time to let him make the acquaintance of the hotel mouse at length, I tossed a playful goodnight, grabbed my dress and ran back upstairs.
Liselotte had befriended Seresine, the kind of sensuous obedient girl she lent to cerebral notabilities for hefty ransoms. The lovebird neighbours had found the rhubarb and blueberry pie to their taste, and they didn’t wear much else than open silk pyjama tops. I needed the loo and a shower, obviously, Adèle followed me with intentions. No sooner were we walked undressed into the water room than she enlaced me and I sensed warm pee along my legs to which I responded likewise while the rain heated up and we kissed as we always had. I washed the enema pear hose and rinsed my little back furnace in the toilet bowl, we wiped each other in a whiff of Cologne.
Now Liselotte had promised a pretty loot to Rose if she came over with her only, in that mauvais genre black lambskin dress zipped up to the neck, no underwear, laced ankle boots. Liselotte’s intuitions weren’t the king to overlook. Before they left us, she gave me a number to call for me and Adèle. Cecile and Seresine had been summoned to the Mendelssohn mansion. The Heather Fairies probably read a chapter of a timeless saga.
I had spoken on the phone with a polite barytone who took at once a most welcoming inflexion when I mentioned Liselotte’s name. The address was on the eastern outskirts of the city, along the Marne River, and I thought I had never been. The man had said to come casual, no fuss, but we decided to play it a tad more tweedy than elastic waistbands. Anyhow, there would happen a libertine contrivance, so we pampered each other like the floozies we were. We smelled of nothing cheap, in our 200s pinstriped night-blue or black power suits, and black patent leather loafers.
The building was a blind buff brick parallelepiped a few steps from an impressive outer wall comprising a blank portal and a walk-in door with a keypad and a lens. I had a code to punch so the lights in the empty lot led us to the building’s glazed air lock entry vestibule floored with warm black arabesque marble slabs, walls clad with sandstone plates, under a dim luminous ceiling, and dome cameras in the corners. It would evoke anything like a prison, a bank, or any evil secret operation, but not the kind of follies Liselotte patronised.
Little LEDs on the doorframes turned green when we could push on, and there was a puff sound when they closed. It smelled like an exotic garden, a layered ambient soundscape fluttered low in long reverb, ebbing away the angst, although Adèle had gripped my arm. The walls became ultra-fine holographic screens which triggered my fear of heights or showed us luxuriant places beyond the lushness of Catherine’s Amber Room, the Topkapi Harem or the Sistine Chapel.
In the midst of the maze, all lights went out, and any locks to the doors we stood between showed a red diode. A light zone dawned in the centre of the room where we stood, and a voice, that I had heard on the phone, said we should disrobe entirely, and tidy all our belongings upon the wire metal contraptions resembling bird cages, hanging down from nowhere, like those in mine changing rooms. We wore no jewels, the mute valets were hauled up, and we remained clung to each other in the dark, as it became somewhat souring, to our taste. Whenabout I became ready to protest that silly game, my arms were seized from behind by strong paws that joggled me like a bag of rags despite my cries, and I didn’t hear Adèle long, these doors were airtight, and the music was dogged.
Manhandled by more than two men, I was hooded with a tough rubber device, locked at my nape, which covered my eyes and gave me a weird hearing. I was strapped with heavy padded bonds at my ankles, knees, waist, elbows, wrists and neck; then, I was laid down on some sturdy stuffed bench and secured with my legs spread open. Someone entwirled my tongue in a convincing passionate kiss, while his cohort set my carnal pearl ablaze with as much fury, and all the more that I could not move. Rife with lubricant, I was used like a soulless rag of flesh beyond my wits and still sensed fits of gushing bliss through me.
I woke in one piece, still blinded, on a jumble of thick terry cloth, efficiently massaged with scented oil, unscathed and ready or more, as artful fingers prepared my holes for. Another body was then clung to mine, I recognised Adèle, told her I did not know what had happened, and kissed her mouth to the relish of our distinguished tormentors. With the help of proper thumb kneading, our legs were stretched like candy at the fairground, overhanging enough to bring us to sheathe us at their whim, so they did, innumerably though not to completion, as if to ascertain that nought of our dearest privacies had been torn or bruised. We were deftly unlocked, unhooded, and pushed, dazed as we were, into another dark room with a green light pin blinking, and thus back to the one where our stuff hung, each of us with a fat pink envelope. A white silent car awaited at the street door. On the dashboard, we read that the night was nigh over; we were famished, and I had no clue what might remain in our cupboards.

 

Cecile says:

Since Melchior had acquired the high hand on the Mendelssohn estate, and entrusted me as Missus Dominicus while the inextricable succession was amicably appraised by the fiscal authorities, my stealthiest attribution had become to keep Lord Daniel’s heir Zev’s innermost burrow populated with fresh willing nymphets, and furthermore to follow the majordome in his private cubbyhole to offer him my bare bottom at a desk’s edge. Zev was nigh mute, due to Lord Daniel’s treatment when he had been the shameful offspring of an unauspicious union. The innocent had survived, vetted to be His Highness’ blood, with the complacency of a family of servants in the kitchen and diverted pathways.
Most of our libertine brood had lent for a while their pretty skins to the candid ogre in his Italian sheets, and they all said it had been beastly but altogether worthy and harmless —I knew that first hand. That night, Mr Armand had caught a fancy on her after she had tamed the beast. I had done my most to let him shag me a farewell, but he was smitten by Seresine’s bashed gazes, and so he buggered her hastily in my bosom on a table corner. I cleaned her, and later she dozed out in the cab.
Upstairs, Charlotte was buried under the comforter, she mumbled vaguely when we cuddled up on each side of her. Early in the grey dawn, in these solitary moments when Alfred pontificates unabashedly, somebody knocked at the door in a well-known manner. Delff held Sasha’s hand, both in ecru jersey sweatsuits and petit-point slippers, she said Michelle wanted more portraits of Sasha, in the more immodest manner he had done sometimes with complacent models. When Cyprien arrived, Delff was quick to grasp that Sasha was seated at the border-fussy master’s south-western corner of the table, thus, without a word, they made them come sit on the southeast, and they finely understood when seeing a hint of a smile as Delff pushed his full warm cup to his routine corner. Cyprien was smitten with Sasha, all the more when he saw the buzzcut pixie let their hands wander free.
No one had ever mistaken my north-by-northwest stronghold, but I’m sure I would have shared it with Sasha. Now that Michelle had helped them hatch beyond preconceptions, and also frolicked with them on her futon just as she did with Delff, Sasha had embodied their angelic persona in their own right, and it was striking. For the time being, new wires had been drawn to the jewel box where they lived, but the odds were their genius would soon spawn in another square of the neighbouring draughtsboard, tight close to TRÆVIX’s connexion.
Cyprien was enthused about depicting the full nudity of Sasha’s nature, all the most on Michelle’s commission, whom he worshipped; and anyhow, the presentation of his work in Camille’s connoisseur’s gallery concerned a screened audience. Besides whoring to the most demanding johns, Natalia had developed a flair for public relations regarding Camille’s art cult, all the more deliberate that the gallery supported her artists financially.
And Sasha had been coached by Delff physically, as well, so when they pulled off the outfits and pranced around the workshop, it was a renewed wonderment. My night amongst a pandemonium of innumerable collectables had not blunted my covetousness for live perfection. We had finished dipping golden langues de chat; Cyprien typically took away his cup with him until it went cold; Delff plumped up the cushions on the deep sofa and installed their buddy cutely immodestly posed so as she wouldn’t tire for hours. I went to start the Well-Tempered Soul of Richter gently up —and watched Sasha’s gaze focus afar. Delff murmured in my neck that I took them to my cubbyhole.
They —contrary to Apolline, whom, however, she lived along with— preferred that improbable pronoun that makes writing about them rather goofy, but can’t we afford to sound off-worldly, can we? Making love to Delff was at once infantile and animal, but they laughed like a bird and tasted like a fresh almond. Dew pearled at their temples when I let them penetrate me and gush down my brooklet. They also were the best clit-pecker this side of Paradise.
Once contented, they liked to frisk around in my oversized shower room and my array of expensive body care bought by Lauritz in our hotel romps. They fluttered away stealthily, Sasha hovered beautifully amongst the spheres, they would soon become as impalpable as Michelle.
From my exclusive excavations into the Mendelssohn tumulus, I had brought back, at the price of complying with Mr Armand’s sexual caprices —Melchior had spoken of sacred prostitution, and duly rewarded— a most intriguing parcel which had let me see by one of the corners that it contained an old painting on a stretcher since aeons, roughly the size of an in quarto. The wrapping was made of glue-sized big printed folios and string, apparently spared by any worms or bugs.
I undeniably needed the expertise of Cyprien before any attempt to unpack whatever it was.

I lifted up the headrest of my tilted techno seat and joined the others in Bach’s serenity until Sasha possibly needed the loo, which eventually happened. We had another cup and cookies together, and I brought the parcel to the middle of the wide table. Cyprien confirmed it had been sealed sometime at the turn of the eighteenth century. It was clean, it had been rested in a box with sundry old papers.
Sasha refused a shawl on their shoulders, they seemed fine and rested, and I couldn’t help but softly stroke her back. Cyprien fetched a scalpel he used to hone his leads, and cut the strings. The old wrapping wasn’t oxidised, and the layers of book paper unfolded upon a dark manner of landscape on canvas mounted on a stretcher. He asked me for a pad of aspic oil to rub the brownish surface without damage and eventually muttered the name Seghers which made me run to my collection of magazines and bring back an old issue about that very obscure artist, predecessor of Rembrandt —who had once unabashedly retouched a landscape of his that hung in his dining room.
I explained to Sasha it could mean we held a true rarity in our hands and thus I felt I should refer to my tutors, Camille and Melchior. While the oil was wet, we could read a fantasmagorical landscape of the kind Seghers, who never travelled, could never have seen in the Netherlands’ reality, and then it waned back to dirty. I re-wrapped the board in its paper folds, slid the whole in a padded manila envelope and secured it on the upper shelves.
While Cyprien installed back Sasha into their own creases, I went into my lair to call Camille and Melchior about the eventual trove. There was work in waiting, but I couldn’t put myself to it. Sasha had asked the Well-Tempered Clavier, from the top again, and I kept watching them breathe.
Camille knew the codes but knocked gently so I went to open the door, telling Sasha not to bother. Camille had heard of a new angel but had not yet seen them, so she was as stunned as us all, hung her trench to the Thonet clothes tree, and, after having swiftly kissed Cyprien and me, crouched down beside Sasha, out of Cyprien’s view angle. As the magician she is, she sussed there shouldn’t be a conversation, the angel was in flight posing, and she rolled her eyes in awe towards me, as if I should have warned her.
I beckoned her to follow me in my study, and her expression in return told me that she needed a few more instants looking at Cyprien’s model. Richter condoned that, and Alfred was absent. When I pulled out the brownish packet from the envelope, on my little desk, Camille’s eyes turned greener, and her face beamed when I repeated applying the aspic oil.
Cyprien was leaving, he thanked Sasha keenly. Camille proposed we order some treats and stay at the workshop where she felt homey —she obviously blessed the occasion to see Sasha, all the more that they were not hurried reclothing, but they said they had promised Gauthier to spend the evening together, might they call him on here with us? I knew their discreet affair, I concurred that it would do a merry gathering, and Camille wasn’t bothered anyhow. Sasha texted the invite, I called Agnete and Sanne.
Seghers no longer mattered, Camille feasted her eyes on the empire’s new prodigy, sitting next to them and stroking their shoulder while evoking their needs in cutting-edge technology and space. Sasha said Michelle had been totally straightforward on material prospects, but also the candid crowd that peopled her house and the whole realm physically connected with felt like what she had always missed, bar in the intimacy with their father. They only feared the Pinocchio mirage, eventually. We laughed at the parable which gave Camille a chance to caress their still small nose and their perfect face.
The delivery of fresh finger food was brought into the front room, along with a few seasonal pies. Gauthier was enchanted to find Sasha still in the raw with us, he said the scene was a new metamorphose of Le Déjeuner Sur L’ Herbe, a far-fetched one admittedly, and I had to find Manet’s image among my documents. Sasha shied from being mocked, but Camille was swifter to bustle the angst with her kiss, while Gauthier knelt down to worship Sasha’s feet, I foresaw I would divert my excitement at Speck’s. When Gauthier reached up Sasha’s pink trinket, Camille remembered a visit she had promised Michelle, she saw me wrap back the Seghers and said offhandedly that I should keep it for myself if I liked it. We all parted ways, I went upstairs to deck myself out desirably.
I didn’t yearn for a surprise romp with Lauritz, but I texted him of my intention, to what he retorted from Ibiza that he had been following a runaway little devil. He recommended that I watch over his brood of babes in arms if I crossed them. As I was ointing myself with a priceless moisturiser offered by Lauritz, Sarah heard me and saw I was on the warpath, she came on as denuded as I was, and mused I wouldn’t shun her company if I were to go hustle somewhere ritzy, would I?
Such synchronicity was no odd between us two; I related my rather idle day, passed mostly contemplating our Adonis windfall, posing immodestly on my sofa for Cyprien, a commission of Michelle’s. I avowed I had been aroused by watching Gauthier pleasing the wunderkind with his greedy mouth, while Camille kissed Sasha madly.
Inevitably, Sofia had eloped with Hugo, and we would receive news from a distinguished place on earth, but Sarah missed the samovar girl. There were dozens of cauldrons around Paris in which we could have our flesh broiled, and Liselotte’s endless repertoire, Hector and Sami, but Speck’s was more homey to us, where we had truly met, and she had rushed me into Lauritz sheets, in the light of the tourists’ barges. And as of now, I had not gotten shagged, yet, in all the decors of the house.
She was never more enticing than in her phantasmic blazers, and she could parade bare legs in a brothel salon. She wore a double-breasted black grain-de-poudre with only one of the shard lapels of blue-gleaming black sequins, with black patent Opera pumps with a grosgrain bow. I helped tie a deep Royal blue velvet choker with a tiny pearly white gold bee stitched to it. She had sprayed deadly Tuberose, she had some more in her pocket in case of other rounds.
I donned an asymmetrical one-button black silk princess satin shirt dress with half-sleeves and a bold platinum chain necklace. I went bare legs in black suede Chelseas. My fragrance would be a dash of impalpable lilac-in-the-shade-of-a-cypress-tree, said she, and it bloomed wonderfully around my quim. She had eventually persuaded me to use my painterly workmanship around my eyes, after she showed me once that my brown eyes could kill, too; but I still begged her for the last touch —would it mean to call her a forger?
In our excited carelessness, we had not taken much heed to the driver’s seemliness, he frankly took us for whores, but he only said we smelled rich and gobbled up a staunch tip. The proficient majordome awaited us with a smile, but pointedly blocked the way, showing us to the reserved area where he minded his own affairs. Lauritz had long granted him the most liberal leeway towards visitors our kind, with manners. He would usually shag his whim paying utmost attention not to stain his pristine outfit. That night he fancied I looked while Sarah sucked him dry, my legs thrown open, on some chair. She swallowed his bitter spoonful, but he asked we kiss over it, and we did, in all lustfulness; then he made us rinse our mouths with blackcurrant cordial which made our lips crimson.
We made our entrée in the grand salon arm-in-arm; the music was prewar mellow, and we acted like an amateur should afford us both, which befitted a regular patron, a German trendsetter journalist who, in turn, wished to treat some visibly well-off acquaintance of his. They both were well-built greying lads, I relished square dances when I could watch Sarah spend herself loose with paying strangers, unfazed.
The room was on the second floor, I remembered having disassembled the large bronze and pâte de verre storm cloud chandelier to restore it. The ceiling and cornices were original palladium leaf, the walls were upholstered in nacre grey moire. I knew intimately the three paintings by Jean Dupas, with long, pale damsels and racy animals in the sunrise light, which had been commissioned by the then-owner of the house, in the thoughtless twenties. Over the headrest hung a sculpted white-gilt wood panel depicting nubile Asian dancers in a ceremonial row, above the silver-gleam padded velvet bed. Matched Art Deco armchairs, white-gilt little furniture, and cypress-green carpeting made the class of this reserved-floor playroom.
Günther appreciated speaking Danish with Sarah, whom he had known as Jensen —guessing all along it was an assumed style, and hearing full well the Kettelærs’ manner of speaking— so thus, since Dieter was the guest and took a liking in my waistline, we all spoke French impeccably. No sooner had we pranced in the cool ambience of this decor, than we flaunted our nudities and began with demoting the Savile Row perfect jackets upon some chairs backs.
A gentle knock on the door preceded the pretty cinnamon-skinned waiter —that we had both carnally enjoyed before on other incalls— pushing a cart with a bottle of Champagne in a wine cooler. Sarah played showing the boy how fit she was and winked, while Günther slid a tip note.
We refused to drink, they asked us to dance together and twirl our tongues, to conclude they would shag each of us alternately anyhow, and Dieter was first to unleash his fresh Johnson to tickle us with. Without further ado, we stripped them prestissimo, Dieter’s silk socks smelled of petitgrain, too; he seized my nape as I gulped the whole length of his proud boyish cudgel, sitting on my heels, my knees wide apart. Some men relish being sucked standing, they would never guess how I learned so efficiently, would they?

As she had taken the bit on her side, Sarah fiddled in my arse at Günther’s relish, and they gave us lewd little names. They swapped before the full fruition, and I was crammed with the warm broth that always reminded me of the stench of spilt beer on dirt. Like worthy courtesans, Sarah and I shared a kiss drenched with the semen of our rakehells, who revelled in our filthy games.
They threw us, legs up, upon the gemütlich bed, they preferred to taste our pearly slits and sneaky rosebuds and compare our tastes, like bona fide connoisseurs. They agreed that I tasted a tad like Rockefeller oysters, whereas Sarah evoked the Copenhagen gravlax, but they weren’t so famished as to make us gush in their mouth in revenge, Dieter was all the more aroused when he saw us keeping on our enamoured kiss, he seized my haunches and sheathed his rekindled staff into my coochie to the balls, as Sarah grabbed my nipple, and I flew through the silver haze, hearing afar the godlike homunculus laugh at me.
Sarah had tilted over to suckle my tits while Günther shagged her wild, arse up. Almost out of steam, I suspected our Teuton knights to run on weird molecules in their systems —who knows, nowadays— but I wouldn’t spend the morrow patching things up in my body and soul, so I gently held back the reins, asking Dieter for some lube, a message that he was overstraining my heed. They agreed to a pause and fetched the Swiss Navy in the nightstand drawer to ease our heated chinks in depth. Dieter proposed pills, but we both refused; the furthest we ever went would be a safe dose of THC but no unicorn drugs in the wind.
They called service instead, for tea which was the top standard at Speck’s. Our pretty cinnamon boy came back rolling a butler tray with a silver samovar and glass tea set. As we all lay wallowed, undressed across the bed, it wasn’t that shocking when Sarah crept a hand on his trousers up to the fly, and the boy was nude in a jiffy, he didn’t wear much under his livery. As Günther went on ointing her slits, she welcomed the dark spear to her throat, gamely.
Dieter asked me kindly if four fingers made me suffer, now. I had a thought for the sweaty swine who had long been using margarine onto me before his untimely demise, but I offered a lickerish kiss for a truce before he capsized me over, to resume buggering me, smoothly, as I smiled to bygone hardships I had seen swept in rubbles with all my old wretched neighbourhood. Now Dieter gasped that I had been so right complaining while drenching my slutty entrails with tepid fudge.
Enticed to it by Günther, Sarah was enlaced upon Ganesh, legs wide apart so that both her pampered slits be speared, and she gasped like a beast til Dieter gave her the stake he had hafted me with to gulp, remained for me to straddle over and give Günther my dripping bumhole to lick. It went in a diligent quintet so skanky that semen promptly poured again and Sarah was properly soaked.
The bathroom was a small cosy teal and silver mosaic twirls rotunda in which we swarmed upon each other in a tepid rain and balmy lather, salacious hands in every nook of our expensive skins.
Ganesh had thankfully left us with the tea fountain, and our dignified ritters had dumped princely tips above the lustful stains on the silver velvet, we called each other sleazy names. Wallowed indecently in the armchairs, we relished one another, I dared profer I had evoked the sordid cellar where I had nonetheless experienced my first ignoble orgasm. Sarah looked up at the chandelier I had rekindled once and said I would remain the same fairy she had unzipped bare off my overalls on that famous day. We agreed the night was still young, and that we might wander another go near the buffet table, like a pair of pricey fillies. On the landing, Udo sniffed us and kissed his fingertips, pulling us beyond a heavy velvet to taste our mouths and else; he suggested it would then be timely to stroll around in our sole perfect skins; a few well-heeled diplomats had excused themselves from their family dinners, only for us. I granted him a real tongue-twirling kiss, and when he caught his breath he called me an artist. We handed him our outfits and walked back carelessly into the precious arena, like prideful whores.
On the dignified grand piano, some great-grandson of Count Basie lulled the crowds into a warm dusky mood. Our little backstreet cousins luxuriated in gilt and dawn Paul Iribe loveseats, nude at the hands of stern-suited patrons, some adorned with black silk stockings and luxury pumps, the others only nail lacquer. We made sure everyone saw us together, swaying our hips like dancers before we stood, gracious and attentive, near the watering hole. Nibbling my little rolls, I could sense many manicured hands grazing along my bum crack, and then it was a more insidious feminine caress, Coline had ditched an untoward fogey who tasted like his last cigar. She was overjoyed to meet us whoring just like them, and she kissed me so lasciviously as to arouse the wandering males nearby.
That Cavaliere seemed to have been ogling Coline’s apple-shaped buttocks, and our candid display of tenderness piqued his want, not to our dislike. His combed-back black curls were strewn with silver, and his tanned high forehead set off his keen espresso gaze, his smile was precious Carrara white, and he spoke French with a Florentine accent that woke sparkles in my rump. Sarah heard that, and so she let a pair of German bankers sweep her along on their way.
Our Cavaliere wasn’t solo either, He introduced us to his cousin Tiziano, a self-conscious avvocato whose flat hairstyle did not hamper the carnivorous smile; they twiddled our bumholes a while to make sure we weren’t shy that manner before pressing us towards the lift to one only room.
That third-floor room is black, with thin velvet on the walls, black-lacquered cornices and skirtings, dark crimson ceiling and carpeting. An embrace-wide, repoussé yellow copper round platter depicted fauns and nymphs fornicating frankly in the style of Viennese Secession, hung at mid-height and amused Coline, who wriggled her bottom upon Ludovico’s fly.
The gentle Signori embodied Italian sartorial wit; with all the tailoring skills and the ultimate Milanese drapery, it was enthralling to undress them and tidy their togs upon the japanned chairs. While Tiziano licked up all of Coline’s against the wall, Ludovico had pushed me down on the golden plush bed; he was armed with an impressive flesh spear and tight-hung balls, and his muff was silky. He smelled of the most distinguished Cologne that Italy might educe.
Then they wanted us ragazzi to get jiggy together as they would glean their pleasure at random, whatever we offered. At this hour, we were both willingly easy shags, and the condottiere foraged about gallantly to finish, nigh ensemble, in our impish bumholes, with tenor dialect imprecations. They relished making us lick each other’s arse like sows, the lowest depravity like a dare Coline and I shared, suckling each other’s tongues, and then we ran to the bathroom, behind the headboard.
It was a palladium-leaf-clad alcove with a nest of lit quartz spikes on the vaulted ceiling over a large moulded glass tub, on ball feet. The floor unfurled blue-to-green spirals of mosaics interspersed with agate eyes. As in all the house, the water flow was abundant; the lather smelled of fresh hay. They scrubbed us thoroughly like babies while we sucked them as a goodbye, and they dressed up as fast as servicemen, leaving a handful of blessings on a console that we gave up to the maids, owing up to be already costly sluts, weren’t we?
As we went into the vestiary to perfume ourselves again like real women, Udo begged for a swift pass in our devilish mouths, having heard something funny from our Cavaliere. Sarah was stealthily gratifying the pianist, who did not rest his play while she was sucking him, while Dorothy and Carine did the same to some senior late-nighters who did not wish to go upstairs. Coline whispered around that we would all be on the go soon.
In the car back to our place, the driver let Dorothy sit in front next to him, in her little sequined black tank dress, which wouldn’t conceal her naked quim. He only regretted the fare was too short. We drank a nightcap of tea and coffee, I had received a message from Sofia, with a photo of her, nude, before a gothic window over the Tyrrhenian sea, in Gore Vidal’s Rondinaia villa in Ravello, Italy.
We woke unwittingly up Kate, but she wasn’t displeased to meet the pretty troupe of back street girls again, and she guessed at once what kind of disport we had spent our night, all nigh nude at our late tea party. She took a fancy for Dorothy, whom she asked to sit on her lap and retell her the pearls of our night’s shady commerce, so much so that she swept the little tart to our bed, and we still heard puffs and giggles. I took Coline to see the God Crow, and we heard Sarah and Carine in the axolotl bedroom.

 

Sarah says:

Carine was the shy one, and nonetheless a bona fide whore like us, only with a dishevelled soul, a deserted self behind a fluid persona. It had been Coline’s will to put her in Lauritz’s car when they eloped from the sleazy backlot where he had been hunting at random. To strangers, they pretended to be sisters.
Fayelle’s room smelled of Eglish sachet, rose and lavender; the bed was tucked afresh, and the pillows were alive with axolotl dreams. We had fetched some of those overwashed teeshirts that seem to sit in any of the house’s closets and feel smoother than silk, and Carine snuggled on my bosom, in the mood to speak. She had come aware that, in Speck’s salon, she was sought after by as many Johns as her sisters, mainly those uncertain characters who feared confronting an unknown woman head-to-head and thus preferred to seek solace in the shadowy love seats of the grand salon, behind lacquered screens; on average, she had to gulp half a dozen spurts on the sly, while exhibiting herself lewdly, and it made her as rich as the others who climbed up exotic trees in the bedrooms upstairs. However, she did not refuse to follow those who wanted to shag her outright; only she had felt a tad dumb —but they liked that.
I sunk my memories again on my Neverland lakeshore when I lured to my single bed a host of bustle-minded virgins when there wasn’t any single-minded pirate already flaunting a pretty peen against my belly, asking for directions. I had certainly not schooled the whole bunch of those wayward privileged kids into becoming bona fide sluts, but I had smuggled some keys to let them thrive on their own. When my little bestie turned a professional, I never knew how fate had struck her, and eventually, she became a righteous sister to whom I could entrust a foundling like Carine, couldn’t I?
We woke mid-afternoon; the weather had chilled a bit, I took my little fling of sorts to the vestiary to array her with hazy blue paisley cashmere leggings and an oversized jumper; some natural rustic socks did marvel on her slender feet. Cecile had already trapped Coline in her workshop —if Sasha showed up, it would garner them a free taste of a fine girl’s hide. I inferred all that because there were no traces of anyone’s breakfast, same for Kate and Dorothy, who would likely be upstairs in the studio.
Installed on the futon at the feet of the Heather Fairy, Fayelle had been reading aloud Isabelle Of Egypt, by Achim von Arnim, embraced by Dorothy in a carnelian tracksuit, her hand under Fayelle’s ample saffron yellow wool jersey gown. The Thistle Sisters greeted Carine with overt lust, Annabelle beckoned her to sit by her side on the red sofa; Isabelle returned beyond the desert sands, and Dorothy stole Fayelle’s lips. I was overjoyed and I put myself to brew fresh tea.
With a dash of mischief, I set out to narrate how the back street foundlings had ended in our beds, in a manner of literary pastiche. The Dovecote Ladies had already heard what Dorothy had let, and they were most educated about bawdy houses’ lifeways, but they relished some further enlightenment about Speck’s where they had not yet monetised their pretty freckles. I kept in mind to let Carine speak for herself and what she had reckoned of our debaucheries, and I saw Dorothy loved me for that, while Annabelle’s deft wings fluttered through Carine’s easy wear. As Venus shone in a pure dusk, Alfred commented on our immodest raves.
As the clock went, Annabelle unveiled they were expected in Montmartre to a friendly wake of Finneganomics at James’ along with burly tweedmasters for whom they played the envoys of Plurabelle —and possibly more. Kate was nigh frenzied about following Dorothy to Speck’s; thus I remained as the sole companion to Carine, Cecile having texted that Coline and herself were going to the Palais Royal. I called on Liselotte.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sarah says:

Gianni Capodimonte —il Sarto per eccellenza— one morning that he had groped me all his heart’s content while he adorned me with a myriad of unfailing pins —and I still smiled like a daisy— listened to my plea that he should consider the sartorial case of the new talk of the realm —much more fluently in French, where the use of the genderless pronoun “iel” doesn’t bustle the phrases like that of “they” in English— all the more under the undisputed influence of our Aviatrix, whom Gianni revered and clothed, in all of his touchy-feely manners, with the most rewarding success; thus he agreed to meet Sasha.
The impeccably old tailor was literally awestruck when I lovingly undressed our new unreachable living grace, and I could read on his Neapolitan face the ancient echo of bygone cults to grace and youth. As I held a nude Sasha by the hand to incite them to let their sublime body express itself all around our living room, it was discussed what gamut of genre clichés to play with, not so far from my own, with nonetheless the ability to urinate standing. I had my own idea, with an illimited budget, of where to order bespoke fanciful ultimate shoes at Laurel’s, where Theo, our poet from Oz, had his coloured two-tone Fred Astaire Oxfords made.
Sasha had never worn any manner of skirt; they would continue in trousers and briefs, and I trusted Gianni on his inventive palette. They would remain dwelling on the Melchior side of the general maze, Gauthier had done so well with their pretty labyrinthine den, and Melchior’s means had made built an exascale satellite to the TRÆVIX nexus and its ultra-secret New York connexion.
A discreet expedition had been set, comprising Melchior, Michelle, Camille, Sasha, and Delff, who did marvels as Sasha’s life coach and occasional lover. Nobody in the 60 Hudson or the Long-Distance buildings took any offence as to the apparently disparate team of TRÆVIX’s and SEVEN STREAMS joint brain trust. Mr Phanage, SEVEN STREAMS’ chief operative, happened to be gay and fell for Sasha before they intertwined neurons, following a few hours of brainstorming with Melchior aboard his Albatros. The outworldly angel demonstrated a brisk focus on the tech solutions at work on both shores of the Atlantic. They went for dinner in the newly reopened Chrysler Spire restaurant, where Jørn Hartvig offered what Camille called a pricey, impeccable cuisine; she did not know if Melchior had bought the whole tower.
Thanks to Delff’s elven manners, and Gauthier’s dainty passion, Sasha soon grasped the polyamorous game that ran incessantly through our realm like electrons in a processor, and they had not forgotten my chaste visit in their perch. One golden afternoon, when Alfred, our block’s suzerain blackbird, mocked me alone in the studio, I received a message from Sasha telling me they would relish meeting me at the door by the gym, and I felt like them. We both wore fluffy tracksuits, they were barefoot, rich vanilla yellow, and I was powder blue with a big aslant “MORE” patch across the chest. They took my hand along the corridors, with a few devilish kisses in the crooked nooks.
Besides the unconditional love stream by Delff, Sasha had been seeing Cynthia at length and again, so as to ascertain they weren’t no manner of monsters whatsoever; and the Doctor was becoming a world reference on their shared nature. Gauthier had ferreted out grand tour micromosaic landscapes in quaint black and gilt frames, that looked like benign heirlooms near the bedroom door. But what enthused them most was a gift by Melchior of a painting by Lyonel Feiniger of New York Harbour in a cubist view and low-key tones, and they said they could hear the music; they had a vivid imprint of the voyage to New York; Melchior is such a leader of souls.
They would shy no more when I slid my hand under the thick cotton to fiddle with their nicely erect little boy. I wasn’t ignorant of nature’s whims, I knew how to spin their shuttle, as puny it be. They were overjoyed, they avowed that Cynthia had advised them to let me woo them to whatever end, and she had herself, quite a few times, and taught me some.
Sasha ordered finger food and fruit salads; they were literally worshipped at A&S, and a pretty box of candied violets wasn’t on the tab. They brewed Dong Ding tea in a stump-shaped Yiking pot. I couldn’t tire of watching them nude on their Japanned chair while fiddling with their feet.
They recounted how Gauthier took them, just as he did me, and I offered that they buggered me, too, for dessert; I knew that angels of their kind prefer it that way. But I didn’t feel tip-top ready as such; they laughed and said they had obviously all it took to proceed to a proper enema they would use with their numerous lovers, wouldn’t they? They watched me from a distance, I liked the mild obscenity of it. Then they asked me to climb on all fours on the bed, to watch my bottom while using my bumhole, I helped myself with my wet fingers to trigger my own climax.

Sasha’s cosy study had been unavoidably furnished with new slim tech contraptions; they sat me on their lap, on a silver Aeron chair, in front of the desk and two large monitors showing the usual tapestry of coloured diagrams. They joshed that they still were monitored by Michelle, the principal processors being installed in the room under where we stood —waving at a thick yellow cord that ran from their console and from there to the black steel cabinets in the TRÆVIX’s palace cellars.
They smelled of something benign like frangipane or calissons as I licked their balmy-skinned neck before I sensed their mind was being gripped by some detail on the monitors. Insensibly, I crept out to fetch my togs and sneakers, then headed out through the maze, reached the gym and the pool, and joined the holy fray. I was overjoyed to see Fulgence come out of the shower room and jump in the water, and he wouldn’t mind finding me in it, craving for a proper friendly shag. I was more than willing to be buggered like a floating frog.
I had not visited his workman’s pad up a crooked flight of narrow stairs, past a door marked Eric Vandour, his old pal, at the tip of the building. Besides moaning under his vigourous hands’ continuing avid dismantling of my puppety carnal envelope, I had to own to him that he had evolved greatly in his lifestyle. He dwelled in a typical orgy drey mainly furnished with low moss-green velvet divans and an oak round breakfast table and café chairs; the kitchen was separate. He would probably work elsewhere because I couldn’t see any of his work displayed or stacked.
After he had peeled off my rudimentary clothes and kissed me all over he stopped and stared at me with funny eyes to say that, in all this time, I had never cared to visit him for a friendly shag, had I? He mocked me as an unapologetic aristocrat with the most arrogant bottom. He fetched sundry tins of all the cookies he had found at the Bon Marché and warned me that all he knew brewing was coffee, like Cecile, on whom we shared the most lustful of praises. Natalia had helped him the most in settling camp elegantly as she had been a keen regular since the days when Eric and himself had played minders for her among the wolfpacks, imaginary or not, in the venues of academia —before she began sleeping around with all the bigwigs at Liselotte’s instigation, garnering all manners of rewards, and money.
His coffee, from an Italian percolator, was indeed grandiose. He confided that he bought the beans, triple roast, from the wholesaler who served the most demanding cafés, and he paid it an arm and a leg just like them.
After we had lustfully tangled in the pool’s purified waters, he smelled of his own tickling animal spices, and stood valiantly ready to ease my inner itches, thus, I offered him my beaded slit he had always vaunted as a sassy violet. He took me sideways, I had always easily thrown my leg over up —since I was taught by Gallo Fuks, our gym coach in Saint Loup, how to ease my hips— to ease for deep, slow penetration, whichever the pathway they chose. That once, Fulgence made me blush of contentment, burying me under a cartload of compliments while he kept stirring in my womb. And what moved me most was what he said the other boarders said of me when he lured them to this den —all of them.
There was a stark, slate-clad shower room with a zinc ceiling, a black enamelled pillar sink with a matching bidet, and a pair of bleached stools. The floor slabs were finely polished. He asked me to sit with my thighs parted.
In his crash room, over the sage-green waxed walls and cornices, on one side hung a collection of exuberant bawdy etchings by the Australian Norman Lindsay in sleek palm wood frames; on the side, sundry risqué lithographs by Alberto Vargas, and on the third wall, in white gilt frames, the ten engravings by Hans Bellmer and Cecile Reims for “Le Petit Traîté De Morale”, a present of Camille’s, said he. On the third wall was hung a large sequin embroidery of a passing tiger against a flowers-strewn black background, inside a heavily ornate border, a gift of Gauthier’s, which attuned with the stylised tigerskin on the Tibetan carpet. A large square ottoman table was upholstered with kilim, and he joshed I was one who had not yet laid upon it, I betted I might, I liked his garçonnière.
By the bye, I spoke of my fling with Sasha, whom he had heard of in an extraordinary manner by all those who had seen them. He wondered a tad ironically what it might be to make love to some sort of overgrown child, so I tried to comprise it would pertain more to the lesbian realm than what was only just going to happen to me —as I was holding his rekindled firebrand. He avowed he had buggered Apolline a few times, but she played her part feminine, although she asked that her cherub diddle be sucked. That said, he fetched a tube of KY under the sofa and shagged me like a boy.

Fulgence carried me away to his small bedroom, almost entirely filled with a thick square bed that smelled of him and pomander, with a fluffy comforter. In the morning, Alfred could hardly police me out of my cloud, and the artist was gone. I found a gentle brief on the table saying we would keep close, me and my posse; also, there would be some finishing jobs to tweak in Sasha’s, and he would recall what I said about them.
I went directly to the studio —to pull the wool over Alfred’s eyes— and brew some strong Darjeeling. I grabbed a fistful of sunflower seeds for Alfred’s feeder, knowing it would make me look guilty of something, which I wasn’t, but it kept him silent for a while, would he call on the Mrs?
While I chased elusive fireflies in the blank of the paper, I listened to generative music on < saintloup.art >, a fantom site of the old confederacy of lakeshore computer buffs Ayla had somehow reconnected with. Sofia, back from the terraces of Ravello, snuck in with a bag of the legendary limoni, worthy of Zurbaran’s, scented like tinkle bells, but she said they wouldn’t keep, and I should make kombucha.
She had tanned beautifully, only just a slight shade, Hugo having unfailingly massaged her with costly sun cream, telling her all the tales she wished to hear, answering all her dangling interrogations. They had foretold together a smooth future, and he had incited her to follow freely whatever attraction she would sense towards any one of our easy flock. The Laforest twins’ realm had been her manner of novitiate in a proper bawdy house, to which she would probably like to return at whim with some of us. Now on, regardless of her otherwise carnal fantasies, she would need a room of her own and the means of material independence, notwithstanding the ways she would see fit in our own walks of life. She had been wearing a willow-green cashmere ensemble, and she stood with her pants pulled halfway down, she joshed at the futon askew near the sofa like some battlefield, indeed, as I tipped her over and we wrestled kindly. Her spangly silver eyes under her black lashes and swift brows cast a quiet mystery as she let herself lay confident. I feasted on her pale moist labia and clit, she wasn’t shy to gush a swig of pleasure tears upon my mouth that I lapped up with a greedy smile.
Unsurprisingly, we were caught by the gentle fairies who were instantly smitten, and since that touted futon had somehow become their usual cloud, they kicked off their shoes and jumped onboard with litanies of kisses. Fayelle wriggled out of her long mullein-yellow knitted gown and sided with Sofia as she grilled her with questions, repeating that she, herself, had turned up once from the sidewalks of despair —she spared her the axolotl episode, as of yet. As we had come to picnic carelessly in the raw on the futon, Sofia could ask all the meddling questions that came to mind regarding the economic backing of all these desirable creatures she had been meeting in our surroundings, and the answer was the picture of some open-air cult, operating merely above regulatory radars, and resting on the monitoring of epidemiology in consenting adult members. Nigh worldwide, the possessors of the sesame credential processor included in a black seemingly blank credit card could practise high-safety prostitution far from the sleazy skin trade Annabelle and Fayelle had been forced into as younglings. The rewards came directly into the service providers’ accounts.
I sensed that Hugo, besides the very situation he had taken Sofia in those few heavenly days, had rested on me and the good souls in the mill to educate, some would say groom, the silver-eyed newbie in the ways of the realm. While we all cuddled her already most pampered body, we described all we thought of the sundry venues of debauchery she would access with her black pass, and she had an appointment later in the day where she craved I escort her.
The thistle sisters —but Fayelle had never yet set her dainty foot in Scotland— were expected at James’, Annabelle’s purported father, for a private gathering with Lord Zak Duveen and his posse, at the whimsical hillside mansion in Montmartre; they expected all devious but caring excesses; they left us, to go harness themselves accordingly.
Walking to the clinic, Sofia confessed she had needle phobia; there was no other manner; they would need to fill at least four phials of her blood before injecting all necessary vaccines against all known STDs. I asked the Doctor if she could crunch a Xanax that would quiet her in ten minutes; he smirked and said he would tell the machine not to scan for it in her blood. Nevertheless, she was sweaty when we went to the gynaecology exam room, where she did not want me to leave her, although the procedure of taking a cervical smear was utterly harmless. I showed her to feel my own progestin contraceptive implant below my armpit and told her I had chosen it for long-term peace of mind and no estrogen. After less than a minute of soul-searching, she asked for the same.

In our casual tracksuits, Sofia’s apricot-sherbet patched of a big powder-blue Z on the chest, mine turquoise-blue with a ruby-dotted line embroidered across at an angle, our Chuck Taylor sneakers reciprocally mismatched light purple and mint, we went for tea in A&S backyard conservatory salon. We ate rhubarb and raspberry pie under the attentive eye of Agnete and her staff; I was so proud of my catch.
We bought dinner for what I reckoned could be a possible impromptu gathering, Sofia would only gather her card the next day —calling my attention to the fact that she had not thus been hired fully at Laforest, and Hugo might have knowingly brushed past risks.
Back home, in the mellow mid-season sunset, Alfred was busy cursing away any contender to his fiefdom with the most mellifluous style, Sofia laughed her head out at my praise of His Little Lordship. Cecile returned from work, carrying scents of aspic oil in her hair, and she was enthraled at once by the good looks of my candid recruit whom she recognised from Laforest’s. As she stood attending to her coffee machine, she offhandedly let her fingers crawl in Sofia’s curls, and pressed the willing head upon her tummy while she rummaged in her sweatshirt. She sat close and wanted to hear about our day, while dipping langues de chat. I would have craved we go out on the town, but it was safer to bunker up in my bed and watch a Terry Gilliam movie.
In the morning, my brain still obsessed with the music theme of Brazil, both of us wearing loose nightshirts, I began to enumerate the possibilities of our next night, starting with a joyride at Philippe’s and already Sofia’s eyes rounded; when I described Speck’s, The Panopticon, and Liselotte’s ramifications, she felt like Pinocchio lured to Pleasure Island by Honest Sarah. I cooked French toast and fetched cinnamon syrup and faked almonds, so her silver pupils sparkled. I explained that Cecile had been unfailingly at work since dawn, and we would climb up to the studio waiting for the lab to call up.
The Heather Fairies exhaled Scotland’s wild fragrances when they invaded us in their Glaswegian-style flimsy gowns, barefoot. Sofia already lay across the futon with a fresh pillow that Fayelle hurried to come share. They were obviously proud of their night, and the rings to their eyes told why. Annabelle avowed she had been stunned by the audacity of her purported father’s saturnalia in honour of his guests.
Lord Isaak, an all-time abettor of James’, had descended upon the Montmartre’s estate with his brigade of colourful young flunkeys with the most gracious sans-gène, overjoyed to bustle a tad the old rakehell, Baron Wigmore, such as he knew him. They had brought heaps of victuals in order to escape the vegan diet of his friend and his muses, of whom he nonetheless did not ignore the boisterous past, having advised him wisely at the time he adopted Annabelle. So, the feast happened on two separate buffet tables in James’ grand salon, the five mixed origins lackeys given free rein to buzz around the house girls once their appetite sated. They drank champagne and thus kept a respirable breath when they wooed the ladies.
The two noblemen had lost the jacket and sat in a pair of easy fauteuils à la Reine, expecting the sight of young vigour. The boys were dressed in thin wool black trimmed suits, Parma striped Russian-style shirts, and polished black ankle boots; their legs showed impatience, but they kept a pleasant badinage with classless received pronunciation that told of Lord Isaak’s care of his unwonted entourage. They did not know of the chaotic upbringing of the damsels, Annabelle had long squashed out any hint of lowlife Glaswegian accent, and Fayelle kept only so much of French je ne sais quoi that tingled the boys’ crotch. They didn’t know yet that, under the ladylike, razed velvet flared shirtdresses, thistle blue on Annabelle and peachy rose on Fayelle, nothing would repel their eyes or hands from the laser-sleek complexions of James’ precious pets, bar the matched colour holdup stockings.
For a while, the innocent libertines’ hemlines kept hidden the smooth knees, but they didn’t help anything from slowly sliding up their legs, till the paleness of their nude bloom above the stockings became a mute consent to let them unbutton the dresses. Lord Isaak warned not to rush on, and James claimed that all was available if obtained gainly soft and smooth, and anyhow untucked their long-tails shirts out of their loosened trousers.
James’ sofas are deep, moss-green, down-filled mohair velvet cocoons large enough for boundless lovemaking. Our literati fairies reacquainted with hellfire as if they had never stepped out, with the trifle of excitement of pure vice, no other constraint than pleasing their benefactors and garnering as much pleasure as they knew how to reap in the sinewy loins of unfettered hunkies. Sofia lapped up every word as if it extended her perspectives in unabashed depravity.

Sofia had been so flagrantly in awe that Annabelle, while relishing her young shivers, had devised a plot for us to turn ourselves at Lord Isaak’s suite at the Dune Belvedere, not only was he a very generous patron, but his troupe of slender big cats was well worth the pelvic thrust. It was swiftly designed so that we go, in the morrow afternoon, to this left bank’s supreme hotel, in walking distance of us.
After a tenderly bustled night haunted by the fairies’ recounts, Cecile was long gone when we dawdled to the breakfast table and pondered what outfits would suit two grand-style Parisian lorettes for rent. Sofia craves to rummage in our one-of-a-kind wardrobe, and her feet size is more or less 39, A~B, like Kate and I.
Out of the shower, and the proper courtesan grooming, pricey body lotion and nails varnished silver for her and night blue for me, I followed a hunch of costuming her as a white Ziegfeld cavalier, easy-dropped white satin French culotte, white silk knee-high stockings, an untucked rich white frilled shirt, and an authentic white woollen cloth spencer jacket with all the ostentatious silver braided trimmings. I would have dreamt of white cavalier boots but white patent opera pumps worthily set off her shapely calves and slender feet. On a whim, I gave her a palladium moonstone ring I had bought once at Goodwill’s in New York, a wide polished band with a bezel-set gem, she was about to weep, so I asked her to help me.
The mood was set on vaudeville’s military; she would be the white cavalier, and I would thus play the sexy black evil. I had this black velvet tailcoat trimmed with purple piping and strewn with silver buttons, whose lapels hid enough of my flat chest and drollberries. I slid on a black satin pair of high-waist knee breeches with a fall front in case His Lordship was in haste, black silk stockings and black patent flats. I clipped on a black velvet choker with an oval amethyst cabochon set in platinum; I put on a tad more purple eye shadow and sprayed some high note of gardenia to alleviate the boylike demeanour; Sofia wore that incestuous haze of rose and jasmine I craved to trail into her promised intimacy.
As we would walk on the brink of dusk, we’d better wrap ourselves in evening trench coats —albeit I was long well-known for our sartorial eccentricities. The concierge in a powder blue livery with golden Brandenburgs blinked insensibly when we announced ourselves for His Highness; he called room 23 on the phone, mimicked a silent assent and showed us the lifts. Sophia seized my arm and mumbled something about the depth of the carpets, it wasn’t long since she had weaved in and out on demand, in a black bodysuit, under the eye of the unfazed cameras.
His Lordship reminded me of Hugo, in a long vermillion velvet robe with padded shawl lapels, open on a long white nightshirt, white silk stockings and vermillion velvet slippers embroidered with his monogram. A younger woman sat in an armchair, blonde and rose in one of those impeccable tailleurs, slim and pert, showing a little of her elegant legs and feet in black silk stockings and sleek bicolour pumps.
Lord Isaak, gallantly helping us to hang our coats in the closet, had read us at once and guessed who was the shiest one, thus he seized Sofia’s waist to bring us to Lady Elfim and introduce us as Paris’ finest courtesans, which earned us a candidly interested smile, why not?
A collation table offered sundry savouries, sweets, and fruit lemonades in crystal pitchers —His Lordship had recalled our diet— a bottle of champagne stood in a silver cooler, all amidst the sparkling tableware. The music was a muted light-hearted baroque, and the subdued lights grazed Sophia’s when he made her turn slowly with obvious lust. He turned to me and asked me to pull her culotte down graciously so she would show her bottom; I unbuttoned and began to pull down the silk on her nudity, to the comments of both our patrons. I saw Lady Elfim’s knees part imperceptibly, but I could briefly tell she wore no knickers, letting me think she wasn’t here to suffer.
Lord Isaak told Sofia to untie the jabot and open her shirt, while I finished sliding off her culotte. He pushed a chair before Lady Elfim and told Sofia to spread her legs towards his wife while he stuck his tongue greedily into my cavalier’s mouth, and she kindly held his neck. Then he told me to bare my arse, too, and go kiss the Lady if I would. I complied gracefully, and I surmised that my sweet delta was also to her Ladyship’s taste, so I walked to her side, and I stood indecently until she touched me; her husband then called her Flim and asked her if we weren’t magnificent animals to pet at her whim before he called his tribe of island flunkies to rape us?
The Lady was, at least, an educated lesbian who succeeded at giving me thrills; I could barely sneak a hand under her skirt, but when she crept a bit forward I knew she was all wet and willing; she led me to a nearby sofa and let me rid of her pricey tweeds and linens, she was a sporty, laser-smooth, honey-skinned, boarding school kind of a woman. Her ash-blond, left-parted bob hairstyle with a short nape and her dark green stare, once the armour was rid of, let bloom a pretty palatable filly, to my taste.

The Lord had gone on petting the girl in her frills and over-the-knees stockings like he wouldn’t allow himself further, but he relished Sofia’s pouty mouth, and then he summoned some invisible crew onboard, with a fine smirk. A corner door slung open, and the five expected hunks pranced in, vested in mere ribbons, plonks to the wind, sniggering like street rascals and showing no more regard for nobility than for my own coochie —but, after all, didn’t I debase a heap of quarters myself?
Flim wouldn’t let go of me while the greedy cubs began holding my feet high to nibble at my sensitive rims, although she was first being skewered like a Bankside crumpet, as for a London socialite. It was a whirlwind of cinnamon devils; the sofa moaned like a cart of rubbles; we all ran to the full-size bed in the next room, and His Lordship wallowed in a low Régence armchair to touch himself into the creases of his regalia watching Sofia busied in all her slits. Next, he would come to graze on my neck as my head dangled backwards at the edge of the bed, being filled by a stiff morsel, while a cohort rummaged through my bumhole to the hilt.
It really went as the Heather Sisters had recounted, innumerable rampancy of brutal ravage, for the pure delectation of the jubilating vermillion tamer, though he remained physically aloof. When he eventually scattered their panting herd to the depth of a truly grand suite, the bed was soaked and crumpled, it smelled like the wrestlers’ cloakroom in Saint Loup; we dawdled to the totally anachronical Calacatta marble bathroom with a double-sized white enamel tub and abundant gilt plumbing, the three of us women. We mingled in the bath like otters in a puddle, Her Ladyship gently voluble about our grace and complacency, asking how many boarders lived in our convent, rounding her eyes when I portrayed a few. She said they had been card-carrying libertines for a while in Britain, but they had only started exploring Paris resources; I addressed her to Sami and advised a visit to Quai d’Anjou where Udo would understand a reference in my name.
When we went back to redress, all the mess had been tidied, and the cleaning boy stood looking at us unabashed before pushing the cart of dirty laundry over which he might well now wank out. We noticed the fat wads in our pockets, Lord Isaak nodded; he smelled of Jermyn Street.
In the lift, as Sofia cuddled on my bare bosom, I told her it might well not be over yet, and with her knowledge of hotel mores, be it the top crop ones when it came down to pretty flappers, she foresaw what ensued. The night concierge, who commanded all the CCTV, stood by the doors and ushered us to the far end of the landing, behind a private door, in a dark muffled staff room where he hastily ordered Sofia to suck him while he opened wide my lapels and groped me up and down. It was swift; he soon grabbed Sofia’s head and muttered that she gulp all, and she wisely did. The bastard checked in the mirror there wasn’t any stain on his trousers.
It was a full moon over Paris when we walked back; Sofia couldn’t help sliding her hand on the bundle of money in the pocket over her heart; I joshed it could as well be monkey money, but she already knew it was hard cash.
We slept the whole morning, and Kate took a fancy to Sofia before I returned from my flights over the Øresund silver glints, showing me the fiery cub she was. I preferred to keep on gliding on the island drafts of our aristocratic night, and I brewed a pot of Oriental Beauty of Taiwan, my latest fad in teas. The northern doves were eager to hear our explicit report and were thrilled to hear about a Lady Elfim, at all. His Lordship had questioned them about other commendable floozies available; thus, we pondered about who could go along with Cecile to ride the cinnamon platoon with grace, and eventually, she decided on Adèle.
The novelty had come up timely; Lauritz currently revelled in Ibiza’s lupanars, searching for yet another wayfarer in despair to shack her up with the other kittens in his discreet back alley refuge for Speck’s performers, hence Cecile missed her mentor’s whimsical inventivity as for lubricity, hence this unforeseen opportunity of rich whoremongery, and moreover Adèle had long been broken in the service to rich old clients as much as to a herd of colourful flunkies.
Now Kate fantasised about taking Sofia along to Speck’s, and I wouldn’t sour their fling, I didn’t own the narrow-hipped hotel mouse, did I? While the gossip went buzzing about His Lordship’s shenanigans, I read a message from Hector who eventually invited me out like old times; it wasn’t that he merely needed company, he claimed he missed our manner of wakeful lechery, and Louis had phased out of his grand style expenses, making do with simpler ceremonies with the foundlings that Hector rescued here and there. Therefore, would I care for a surprise trip inside the ritzy carriage?

Cecile had nurtured the finest of sartorial tastes, transmogrifying in a jiffy from a butchy working gal into a classy tartlet deploying her spells. She donned an ankle-long maroon velvet panne halterneck, slit up to the hip, like a Shanghai courtesan’s, black sequined Egyptian sandals, and a Viennese Secession platinum, onyx, and white jade choker. She outrageously smelled of lethal white blooms, the likes of tuberose, magnolia, and orange blossom, she had sunk her troubling gaze under a heavy dash of eye shadow.
Her accomplice had an unabashed taste for silk jersey; her villainous pimp father had always decked her out with pricey teasing rags, in the gilded cage where she awaited the johns. Now that the aftermaths of the scandal had waned, she kept no hurting grudge about that criminal manner of an upbringing —she had fruitfully exchanged with Fanny and Gwen; she went to therapy twice a week with one of Dr Méant’s colleagues, after they had sorted out the legal ties of her situation as a more or less fugitive. Her intricate dawn-coloured pattern shirt dress was buttoned only down to the top of her thighs, which could become troubling if she sat down with no undies, but she possessed all the postures of the savvy courtesan. She wore dainty cornflower blue suede Mary-Janes, a thin golden chain did sundry turns to her neck, and she smelled of a lady lime tree in may.
They ran lightheartedly, expecting a saraband of unfettered lewdities; I craved to hear their morrow impressions. Thinking of Hector’s velvet berline, wherever it might glide, I surmised that I could as well travel bare, as in Violette Leduc’s “Taxi”. After a thorough toilet, I chose a double-breasted tuxedo with one sequined lapel, lined with purple silk princess satin. With one piece, I was decked to the nines, plus black velvet slippers embroidered with silver Jolly Rogers, and a strass skull on a black velvet choker —never wear the real stuff to unchartered adventures, mind.
Although I learned to drive in Saint Loup, I seldom practice from home, like the whole household. Hector’s regular chauffeur operated cooly the smooth electrical nave southward on the Raspail Boulevard up to Montsouris quarter, as usual, glancing at my simplistic outfit with a smirk, we went back ages, didn’t we? As for Hector, he greeted my knees with a blazing smile as I wallowed next to him in the back seat. He smelled of oud and black oolong, like a warm beast; he avowed he had been erect since he had seated in the car; that which deserved an instant favour sideways, one knee pulled up —I wished the chauffeur used auto-pilot.
He gushed in deep not long before we reached a three-storey nondescript building with two garage doors, in a small alleyway. He gave me a potent mint drop and a tissue, thanking me with a loving glare.
He tapped into an app on his phone and typed a few codes so that a door flipped up to let us in a curved path leading down to parking spaces already filled with rows of limousines like ours until we found an empty spot to park. The clean, anonymous space reminded me of previous encounters I had let myself be played with. At the ceiling were affixed wires and pipes, sprinklers, lamps and cameras, all white; the walls were tiled peacock green, and the floor was metaphysically checkered. A steel door opened on a mirrored lift car. The chauffeur, a black man whose I didn’t remember the name, albeit however the whole rest of his person vividly, was glancing at me sideways with a greedy smirk; I leaned back upon Hector who had slid a hand in my jacket.
We landed in a fully oak-panelled hall, lit by four Dutch chandeliers with subdued faux candles and carpeted in thick moss-green wool with a strewn-flowers pattern. A stern character in black tails and patent Oxfords led me by the hand to a discreet door that opened on a dark wooded vestibule to another door and a corridor where he told me to disrobe and unshoe, took all with consideration and left me there, in the raw, after sneaking out through another side door —it was beginning to feel like an Escher maze.
From behind me, a tall man wearing a black glove-skin helmet with big oval mirror glass goggles, letting the lower half of his face free, breathed on my neck as he frankly groped my buttocks, pushing me thus towards the far end of the hallway. He smelled of forest undergrowth with box trees and honeysuckle. He was nude to the belt of old-style fall-front trousers —I could feel why— white stockings and black Repettos. I responded willingly to his handling, and he could not ignore that I was ready for any whim of his. He seized me a few times to kiss me like a famish schoolboy, his dick wooden-stiff under the fabric, but he was like impatient to lead me to the end door.

Still so much in Escher’s manner, The architecture unfurled in no logic with what I had briefly discerned on arrival, and we walked into a tall-ceiling room, still warm and airy, lushly carpeted like a Norsk forest, dark as a nightly cathedral. Now hovered a handpan drum’s infinite melody that wriggled in my plexus and spine like I would have dropped some weird atoms. A feeble light emanated from faux candles in polished copper sconces aligned on the dark oak panels alternated with high-shaped open-work sculpted giltwood frame black bevelled mirrors in which I liked to see myself, and so did the other handful of masked prowlers whose proud penises jolted in the air like a herd of gryphons.
Without a word, at the pace of the ghostly drums, they steered me to a well-identifiable black leather padded bench upon which I was firmly laid and at once used and forced with craftiness and all necessary lubricant. Amidst the carnal bedlam of me, I heard in my ear the soft voice of Hector asking if that was what I had craved, and not to fear the wolfpack; they were vetted connoisseurs better left anonymous. Lord Isaak’s hirelings had only been gentle spars compared to the gust of jizz I was intaking in both my slits and my throat.
I was carried to a steamy green marble hammam, lathered up with orange blossom water, and hosed, in and out, till I was reborn pristine. Some ribald gossip cropped up about my androgynous allure, although one alpha-sounding voice praised the pertness of my pleasurable chinks and the slenderness of my features, I heard the chord of higher authority — like I had witnessed sometimes in my Far’s wake.
The lead stag kept his liking of me when we returned to the banquet hall where I had just been the main course; his ways of handling my body concurred with the manship of his charisma. I realised I had been embroiled in some shadow political shenanigan —so far so good, however. He sat me on his lap, buttoned back up. Little treats had been arranged on side tables and on the prop of my recent lewdnesses. Fat silver tea and coffee pots shone on a tray among frail porcelain cups. I was forbidden to close my legs; they all could tell I was again shamelessly wet.
A pair of nude twin nymphets were introduced in the same manner I had been, unabashedly groped by each of the carefree clubmen. The girls were picture-perfect long reed blond-haired, blue-grey eyes Friesian elves. Sateen and Pearl Van Armel —as it sounded— smelled of rose marzipan; the shortest one wore a strand of her eponymous beads; my tamer forced me —as if I would baulk— to enlace Sateen and kiss her deep as she was already fingering me. (There had been a rear season at the lakeshore when such a pair of indiscernible beauties had enthralled all of us, and they did not return after Xmas. Ayla later said they prospered in a Munich house)
With long, sleek legs and feet, my stupid heart was set at once. Hector would have to steer them to our gallant court at any cost, all the more than they revealed a taste for unfettered abandon, in turns upon the sundry large armchairs where craving thrived. My own stag contrived a figure in which he buggered me, wide open, back on him, while Sateen twiddled my clit with her tongue, and cohorts took turns in her offered slits.
After we had enjoyed reciprocally pissing over ourselves and in our mouths, I could speak with them a bit, in that same messy parler Gwen and Dagmar bantered with, that —totally unerotic to our ears— Germanic hotchpotch so funny to hear in their beloved mouths. Hector had received loud and clear my otherwise silent demand, and thus, there were four of us caring for his Peter at the back of the ritzy gliding vessel, and he insisted we tip the chauffeur in kind, somewhere he knew amidst the Cité Universitaire. The strapping black lad chose to mount Pearl against the hood, and I sussed she was in for sensations —having myself served the bastard more than once in public, I knew the size and bluntness of his black rod— and he did not take a once as his fill; after he splurted copiously into Pearl’s kitty, he ordered Sateen to hitch up her flared jersey dress, bend over, and he forced his still drooly dick into her back hatch, long enough for a second salvo. There were keen cheers from the spontaneous audience, but Hector barely left time for the proud fouteur to clean his black shaft that we closed in, watching the splurts of cum dripping on the car windows.
So, that new pair of Northern sylphs were altogether as depraved as our own kind, sussed I as I licked semen from their however minute holes which had just been right out defiled. Hector wouldn’t own to having devised the encounter, but he was so happy as to make me ride his dick backwards while the Van Armels returned the favour of their keen tongues.
I was overwhelmed to bring back home such an amazing loot. After a last Geranium-Orange shower, I took them to our bed, and they swore they would never want to leave, whatever the ransom.

They slept snuggled together, Sateen keeping her sister on her bosom, and I embraced their peaceful dream. It had been Hector’s call, so it was not just a lucky happenstance like it would neither have been, quite a few times before. Next would come another moving tale of runaway angels he would have captured, like Nabokov’s Blue Karners. And they would spin the long yarn of a misgiven upbringing that the soul of the hive would help ward off, with the spume of carefree days.
In the morning, I was unsurprisingly first on deck; Kate and Sofia had not returned from their lustful ventures, and Cecile was undoubtedly already at work; I would show her my living trove downstairs later, and I bet Cyprien would be thrilled, too. I put myself turning slices of lame brioche into golden French toast, the scent of which pulled my foundlings out bare-bottomed in old faded Xtina and Avril tee shirts. They were wired and overjoyed to have washed out on our shore. They didn’t know what tea was, they wanted to dip their toast in bowls of sweetened black coffee. I abided by so.
It was transfixing to confront the double eager gaze of candid smiling faces. They licked their tapered fingers and tiny nails with kittenish evocative application. My soul hardly figured out all the pretty misbehaving I had seen them smile through that last night, but then we played footsy, and I summarised what manner of a lustful trap they had stepped into, bar they could flee anytime they would.
They appreciated my frank biography, but we soon moved to the sofas for naughty intermedes. They, too, were born to a bigwig father, a high-ranking Martian who sort of kept them so long as they didn’t bear his name. They had come into the world in Willemstad on Curaçao Island, where their father had been briefly stationed, then they moved to Tucson, Arizona, with the whole Dutch household that fell apart two years later on the endless misbehaving of their mother who couldn’t stand the misalliance she had fallen into at eighteen and finally fled to California with a rock band. The twins had been repatriated to The Hague to their father’s family and a host of nannies and au pairs until they were sent to separate boarding schools on the advice of a weird psychiatrist hired by their father, until after multiple runaways and suicide attempts alerted the health services, and they were withdrawn from the father’s and grandparents’ custody, whatever clout would they own. For one, the weight they had thinned down to was alarming, and they had both become totally mute.
They were put in a mild institution where, apparently left to themselves, they eventually agreed to speak to others and reveal they possessed a full-fledged intellectual capacity. Only they could not have survived the separation from each other. Their father, made aware that they would only thrive by their own whimsical logic, summoned the representative to the Child Welfare System and offered a definitive modus vivendi for them. They should follow the normal academic cursus in a System’s institution, at least till their majority, then change their family name and be granted a trust fund, estranged from him.
The System’s officers, leaving to their majority the possibility for legal action against their progenitor, sensed a useful incite to bring the twins to the A-level, beyond which it would be up to them to decide their fate. Thus, on their eighteenth birthday, the notary read them a proper contract, not concealing that it could be deemed faulty by the Courts, granting them, Sateen and Pearl van Armel —not that far from the original name— an honest monthly allowance. They were all too happy to sign, even if they could not de jure renounce their natural filiation.
The twins had imagined, having learned French at school, moving to Paris, going to college and having fun. They rented a small apartment in Rue des Martyrs and went out on the town so big. They had a season in the coolest VIP rooms and private petrodollar parties; they were not in the least aware of what they drank and who they slept with, only they always clung firmly to each other.
They happened to learn the hard way that their natural charms were far worthier than their mere money when they found themselves trapped for good in a house on the Belgian frontier, locked nude in a pink padded cell not unlike those of an asylum, with a grand bed, a shower room with a loo, and cameras in every angle and a UV lamp on the ceiling. Drugged to the gills with all they ate or drank, they made clients around the clock, woken or not, cleaned if need be by some flunky.
One regular who fancied a submissive patient but retained a sliver of moral sense heard them once speak to each other in Dutch about their helpless condition and the fact that they had not eaten any of the laced food they dumped in the toilet, nor drink, sustaining themselves hardly drinking the shower water. Of course, that client was all the more excited by their thinner allure, but he eventually sobered up on his whims and called Hector, whom he trusted on such matters.

Dreamlike twins in their prime are not like fish in the sea; Hector had known them up close on the night scene before they vanished, and he had suspected of any such bad encounter; he took note of the whereabouts and drove up at once with a pair of well-built partners, in fear the girls might be sold away on the dark market and packed away inside some container. His partners and he wreaked havoc in the unassuming joint until the girls were brought out naked and their wallets, passports, and telephones surrendered. They had run off minutes before the police circled the sleazy hovels and found enslaved women of all ages, the nexus of a large blackmail operation, and the servers of unlawful pornography.
Hector was known in the best legal brothels of Flanders, so he brought the twins stealthily to the Bumble Queen so they could be dressed properly and served some hearty food to their want. He did not let the management there make professional offers but drove the sleeping twins back to the ground-floor guest lodgings in Louis’ mansion and called the doctor for the wee hours, and they stayed until then, willingly as they had been entrusted with a key that they had tried.
Since their stay at the State institution, they had received all the necessary vaccinations, and thus it appeared they had come out safe from their long season in forced prostitution, spared by HIV although not provided with condoms. They underwent all tests in our prevention network, of which Louis is one of the founders, and were chaperoned by Hector through his overlord’s realm, They came to know intimately all of Louis’ associates, among them Hugo and Melchior, in a succession of gallant debaucheries to which they abided willingly, valiantly expunging the memories of the slaughterhouse as a mere peripeteia they could have otherwise enjoyed, given their naturally licentious temperament.
During one of their encrypted chatroom conclaves, these out-and-out rich seasoned libertines acknowledged that the twins would fruitfully join our suave little republic; thus, it was delegated to our generous mentors to whomp up some dignified double lodging, once they would have bewitched everyone in the bustling hive, what they had begun to accomplish with flying colours.
After the plate of my fried toast was wiped clean, they seemed only concerned with my spry little body, but I knew better, and I craved to take them downstairs in Cecile’s workshop. With a plethora of sneaky fondlings, I instilled in their shared mind the idea of having their nude portrait drawn by Cyprien in the traditional manner, and we would keep chatting, to Cecile’s own arousal —the draughtsman was more of a mystery, at that.
I gave them whatever clean sweatsuits they liked, and let them choose in the sneakers drawer, as we happened to share a nigh identical foot size; they willfully mismatched colours between washed yellow and waned blue. I slid on old cashmere hazy-coloured leggings, one oversized ink-blue sweat, and royal blue velvet slippers embroidered with the sun and the moon they envied.
Our unwearying Geranium-Orange shower scent smelled good on them in the lift, as they snuck kind hands into my thin boxers. I did not yet show them all the subterranean realm, Cecile awaited, in a scent of Arabica, but someone nude lay on the sofa, posing for Cyprien, whom I soon identified as our middlesex genie, and introduced to the twins all so simply, telling them the mere truth while they read my eyes to make sure. Being some sort of human artefact themselves, they did not shy at the idea of another such living rarity, so they made small talk about nothing with their usual candid smile, while the other two feasted their eyes on them, Cecile staring at Sateen’s loosening waistband, unable to refrain the urge to strip them —for obvious artistic reasons, needless to say— and expose their dainty double grace au naturel, to what they agreed playfully, enjoying the warmth of the floor slab, inviting Sasha to dance close with them, like the fine libertines they were.
Our preternatural genie made no fuss telling them what they were, and how they had become addicted to the music that played during the posing sessions. They would soon have installed in his own oratory, the same state-of-the-art sound system, just like he had heard also in Michelle’s control room. They all had coffee, and the twins passed the test of swift-dipping the langues-de-chat. Cyprien showed some of his drawings and floated the idea that they pose along with Sasha in a baroque trio; they liked that, all the more that they knew how smooth Sasha’s skin was and their winnie inoffensive. Cyprien arranged them together by hand, going back and forth from his viewpoint to their heavenly bodies. When he was satisfied, he turned the music back up, and the angels took flight for him.
I followed Cecile into her cubbyhole, and we cuddled each other. I summarized what I knew of Sateen and Pearl and that they were probably here to stay with us —to what I caught a sparkle in her eye.

She had fresh news from Lauritz’, who was smitten with a Daphné de Rhuys he tried to persuade to join the backstreet sparrows, given where he had ferreted her out, wasting her young life in the dance clubs’ backyards and frying her synapses with meth or worse, en route to the brothels of Andalusia —nothing alike our own gently licentious faction, obviously. We sniggered, self-consciously.
Delffan, in an ingenuous mullein-yellow sweat suit, barefoot, had snuck in to attend her current paramour in their Bach hovering session, and they found themselves in awe with the scene that now graced the vermillion velvet drape on the sofa. Cecile, who went homely bottomless, like me, started the coffee machine for the upcoming pause; I brewed some of the tea I was keeping in her cupboard.
When Cyprien rested his pencils, Delff let out a heartfelt couplet of laudation for the empyrean surprise. Their Nini Theillade’s Midsummer Night Dream goldy head charmed the wonder twins at once. While asserting their closeness with Sasha, they wooed the pair, telling them the core of who they were, with their signature aplomb and smile. As it always does, it spawned happy faces for all of us. They thought revolting that my kittens redress in the least, and Cecile concurred.
The draughtsman begged for more time with the twins, for he knew it was Sasha’s last session before a while, as they craved to soon be able to navigate the arcanes of their connected planetary genius to the holy scansion of Bach throughout their own system —and Delff, who still slept from time to time at the Aviator’s feet, along with Trine, possessed the ways of soothing geniuses when their synapses overheated.
Cecile had grabbed Pearl when she had kissed hello and fondled her diminutive breasts affettuoso as she had carefreely thrown her arm behind her neck. Sateen’s thigh sided mine as I grazed her soft wavy abs, pondering that they would like the complete gym room. Confident the twins would agree to a few more sessions for him —and Cecile— he praised us all with a namaste and a peaceful glare and fled swiftly.
Like a house pet, Delff had discovered the faster way to Sasha’s den from downstairs, hence no need for shoes; on their way out, they asked if the twins had seen the pool and the dance floor; that touched a simultaneous nerve in the girls’ mind, they claimed that dance had been the greatest relish in their school reclusion after they had attended some Nederlands Dans Theater beginners courses and other therapy-oriented dance practice.
Bien entendu, they raved more and more as we showed them the extravagant subterranean realm, the gym, the glasshouse stage floor where luckily Josephine and Emeline were practising their telepathic routines on Finlan’s pace, in their usual costume. We snuck to the far edge and sat silent. The dancers did not kill their effort, but they had noticed some diverting novelty, and so their bodily ad-lib waned off, thus they swooped upon us and squatted casually at hands-reach, asking about the awestruck sisters. I always relished the scent of their heated effort, but very soon, they pulled the newbies down to the glimmering pool and helped them disrobe in lust. After a messy petting in the shower, we all dived, and the exuberant twins demonstrated all the fluidity of the mythological Pisces, lending themselves for any manner of caresses before letting themselves be caught by our house otters. Then the local big cats Fulgence, Erik, and Gauthier showed up unaware, probably in the idea shagging a dancer, given the erections they displayed. Finlan had called on his buddy Mathurin Marleaux, whom I realised I had never favoured yet and was worthy of a blink, indeed.
Once we all had enough soiled the waters, never mind the filters, Fulgence buggering one in Josephine’s arms while Erik christened the other one to black fervour in his pet Emeline’s, the twins didn’t show any sign of weariness, so thus I threw the idea of nibbling upstairs and get further acquainted. I had gently tasted Mathurin’s worthy spear both ways, while Cecile floated on the tip of Finlan’s ginger shaft, and all this aquatic debauchery gave me lewd ideas.
Agnete & Sanne had time to bake the stash of sundry little stuffed rolls in their refrigerators. Now, I reckoned that if it were a refined relish to watch them cavort unabashedly, I myself might well be left carnally wanting, and that wouldn’t fit me. Among the names in my directory, one sort of winked at me, I texted the great-great-grandson of Stenka Razin, who needed not many words; I sussed he would also summon some of his own swashbucklers. Meanwhile, that delivery boy from A&S was gently gay, and so Gauthier abducted him to his upstairs lair, from which his minion Philippe had eloped. I wouldn’t know what was with Sergei, but he showed up in buff whipcord riding breeches, a fitted tweed jacket and a Russian white shirt, toying with a thin braided leather crop —that gave my buttocks a thrill— against riding boots that he would certainly not care to unshoe for a shag. Yaguil had certainly vacationed somewhere in the far South, so showed tanned skin set off by a fresh white tee shirt in his crumpled Perfecto jacket I wouldn’t help kissing languorously. He smelled of juniper and angelica like a shot of London gin, a giddy fineness to be found in a well-hung steppen wolf. And it was at once too lush to tease my best Cossack with his plain-cloth pal. He explained a bunch of them had spent a whole month naked on a Seychelles islet, invited by a burly old magnate with a flock of complacent asian fiancées (and yes, they had checked his blood on the return).
As I took hold of his tough lapels, I pondered whether it would be easier to pull him to our bed and wallow on that skin, but I wanted to watch the angels pinned upon the studs’ merciless dicks. Our darling heart looters might very well have been boozing earlier, they wouldn’t ferret out a single drop in our cote to hamper their stamina, only raw desire on both sides. It had been a harsh argument between us and the Zaporozhian nigh brutes that we had won with the sway of our narrow hips. Meanwhile, if Fulgence and his posse had cavorted with an easy drunkard Kate, they had never known me drunk on alcohol, even in dishevelled orgies, and I was a fundamentalist on that matter, I could tell of so many young fates we had salvaged mainly from booze in their misery. At worst, they would call me and my cohorts headfast teetotallers, but they craved our most deliberate lechery.
Yaguil relished my almost flat and muscular chest; he made no fuss. My boyishness excited him as by a schoolday’s nostalgia, and I could relate to that. I made haste with the metal buttons of his fly, sucking him half-seated on the table’s edge while I sat wide open on my chair. Then he asked to swap and made me spin on his shaft while he kissed me like a schoolboy. I had the smell of box trees all over my mind.
Sateen had unzipped Sergei’s fly so as to free the vigorous weaponised want that she let bonk deep down her throat —like a savvy whore, to the bastard’s marvelling— and hurried the release of his spooge first load she gulped in whole. Next, in a pleasing swashbuckler scene, she grasped a first riding boot and strived to pull it away —thus showing adorable moves of her butt— and then the other one, earning cuddles from an unkempt Cossack soon denuded and enraged anew.
On the facing sofa, our impeccably gallant Fulgence had known to disrobe in a jiffy and hurl himself to Pearl’s quim he licked like a mad puppy, her feet high in the air. Kneeling upon a cushion, he then assailed the drenched slit with his stubborn scarlet spear. He couldn’t help muttering how the hell we always found more of these heavenly sylphs so willing, but I was too busy to answer. In the other corner, Emeline was filled to the rim with Erik’s thunderstaff she had been well acquainted with before; like their usual trainer, she said she loved black men with manners, and Erik was one of those, for their febrile dedication to their partner’s response. I remembered when I had entrusted Natalia to the black and white pair, and how she became the untouchable queen of the Sorbonne, all the more that she slept with her main professor in art history, to whom she had been procured by Liselotte. Emeline had revelled in Natalia’s confidences, and craved her mentorship, although she did not aim at real superior studies.

 

Cecile says:

This Mathurin Marleaux had been dawdling about for some time with the dance floor posse; I had a hunch he might also get jiggy with pretty pansexual Finlan, and when he had come posing for Cyprien, I had sensed a chink of static between the frankly bonny young lad and the coy seasoned esthete. The portraits had been beauteous but had swiftly disappeared from the portfolio Cyprien showed visitors or hesitant possible models.
With the gang orgy in full swing, as I wished to stay and keep feasting my eyes on the lewd goings-on, I went wallow in a maroon mohair velvet easy chair by the windows and seized Mathurin’s dick to suck as he straddled the armrest. Finlan made me throw my leg up so as to reach my drooling slits and lick my ember clit. They had been finely trained by the subterranean tribe, and the British-y chair was compliant —generously stuffed with down— to our lascivious manoeuvers, and thus I let burst a bracing orgasm at Finlan’s mouth before gulping myself Mathurin’s spoonful of bitter jizz. And that was nowhere enough —mind you— in a jolt of their young nerve, they persisted in their carnal frenzy, all for my tireless yearning.
While elsewhere in the bustling scene everyone swapped partners to rekindle the fires, my two younglings mindfully upturned my shivering carcass so that I would take them both in —once a good soul passed the bottle of Swiss Navy over to us. Thus, I lay back with Finlan’s firebrand deep in my bumhole, spreading my legs on the armrests in order to greet Mathurin’s hammer in my drenched holy crack, so we could slog on into our indeed mutual relish.
When Kate, along with Sofia, crept in after who knew which adventures, to drink something warm before bed, they described our troupe as that of Le Radeau De La Meduse. Scantily clad in sundry shawls and foulards, we stargazed if ever, after the last lukewarm water games. The twins had reunited and dozed, half nude in a Kashmir shawl; Sergei had passed along a vape full of a mellow THC strain, and I gazed at the grimaces in a Unica Zurn genie framed on the wall.
Yaguil crept to Sofia’s feet and pulled off her Chelsea boots, breathed her cashmere socks and eventually her freed long toes, not without further intention. They had returned to the Laforest palace and served to the best of their talents a handful of mighties, and also a few corridor prowlers. Sofia’s quim was warm as a nested squab, and she had long lost her knickers. The Cossack hitched up her mauvish paisley pleated jersey dress to sip dew at her labia between her parted legs on the chair. They were both beyond the turmoil of fevers, but she accepted a lazy extraneous quiver as to please a Tatar adorer.
My clock was set: I wanted Emeline to join me in the God Crow’s vessel, I knew she liked to sleep with me, even stoned as a diamond; we snuck out in a smile. Under the homunculus gaze, in a silk jersey tee-shirt that left her bare-arsed, I chose rich drone music to fill our sails, but she still wanted to know if Mathurin was worth the try.
Not so early the next morning, she was all crumpled into the comforter, but she was offering her buttocks, and I couldn’t help but slide the tip of my tongue to the pleated bud if only to hear her moan in her dream before I went. In the workshop, the fairies had vacuumed and tidied the kitchen. I read my messages, firstly the news from Lauritz, who was en tête à tête with his new fling Daphne in the citrus groves in Amalfi —and she has agreed to go back with him, and our lifeways. Otherwise, a word by Armand Lunel, the majordome of the Mendelsohn mansion, who needed to discuss with me about Zev’s bed.
Monsieur Armand had finely reckoned that my work in the Mendelsohn estate would grant me my marshall’s staff, and he had devised that I could not forgo procuring to the half-wit heir Zev’s bed needs, that were copious, nor his own share of droit de seigneur. All in all, neither of them smelled bad, and they shagged properly in the mystic nooks of that rich bazaar where they spent their eerie life. I would figure out another trustworthy harlot to earn fat fees in Zev’s silken sheets, a true undercover mission that would nonetheless not spare me Monsieur Armand’s whims when I went to check the inventory.
Emeline might revel in being a full-time whore for a rich well-hung retard who could barely keep it in his briefs. Seresine had done it a week long and became rich enough to afford a few whims, but she had bored shagging alone with a dick that wouldn’t speak. I would ask Rose or Sofia, or both; they had pretty staunch loins. As of now, I dressed up stern chic like a career girl on assignment —or a bar torpedo, for that matter; real posh johns want their meat camouflaged.
My vintage Vuitton attaché case in hand, I rang pertly at the service door nearing Monsieur Armand’s casual quarters —he detested answering at the main entrance to familiar people like me, although he would always thoughtfully take my hand.  He had at his disposal this warm little lodge with a barred window onto the garden and a white-tiled complete bathroom I knew well. A pictorialist photo of Lord Daniel in a severe frame overlooked a stern oak and maroon leather office furniture and a maroon velvet daybed. The not-less maroon carpeting was plush enough so that I would kneel upon it if need be, and see myself giving head like a streetwalker in a large sorcerer’s mirror at sundry stages of naked.

Once that I had delivered by hand, in his neighbouring 7S offices, a small unknown painting of Lucretia by Lucas Cranach I had painstakingly restored for him, Melchior had offhandedly undressed me and induced intimate conversation, such that I had bitterly confessed of Monsieur Armand’s manners with me. Melchior had stared at me first with a smirk; wasn’t it what every man in the least of power over me would ever want to do, just as he was himself doing right then?
Having set up the erotic painting I had done magic for, he had asked me to sit on his lap, covered with the usual long white shirt; he had caressed me like the most precious artefact around and asked if Armand was a bad lovemaker, with all possible details, to the point I had been aroused and he had told me to part my thighs wide and successfully wanked me so as I surrendered, panting. He kept me thus after I had climaxed, his shirt wetted by my gushes.
I had eventually agreed that Monsieur Armand was not the only gatekeeper I bought complacency from in that manner and that I craved the playlike humiliation he had forced me into, as far as it had gone yet. Melchior had relished my candid confession and had enwrapped me inside his padded kaftan, twiddling with my wet labia. Since then, Monsieur Armand had made lay a new thicker carpeting. The reward for my work on the Cranach had been astronomical; Sarah had called me a majestic whore and taken me to Speck’s.
That pale morning, the whimsical wind smelled of the dead leaves in the park nearby. I was happy I wore trousers. A maid I instantly had a hunch Armand would casually abuse answered the door with a mild South Asian accent on her faultless French. Armand closed the door of his hideaway and immediately groped and kissed me, however, not striping me nude. On the new tone of libertine complicity that probably meant that he was enthralled elsewhere —the new maid most certainly— he explained that the emergency was with Zev, who had not shagged for a week and roamed the house, howling after a female so all of them remained locked downstairs. Would I venture and tame the beast? Hadn’t I done it before?
That wasn’t a spine-chiller, actually, and as soon as Zev saw me in the raw for good, ready to dive into his desires, he became sweet as a puppy only with a hell of a truncheon jolting its tip. Thankfully, I knew where the lube tube was, and I smeared both of us rim-to-bottom. He kept licking my face, but when I lay wide open for him he buried the plunger to the balls with a demented grin and spurted a first load before I could think of it, not waning in the least. I decided he too, would give me rapture, and so I made him resent my vagina constrictions, just like my bygone rapist had forced me to learn, long ago, on his middle finger. We became both unabashedly noisy and rabid, I had two long nervous episodes before he flipped me over to drill my frowning hole till I swooned, nose in the sheets.
I sussed Armand had been peeping on us, good for him, for he brought a colation on a butler’s tray once we quieted, ogling what I did not try to hide. He did not look down on me, but he would certainly have liked a turn in my slits. Zev was satiated; his sticky dick was not any more monstrous than many, in its bush of black curls; he wasn’t even circumcised.
His bathroom was Victorian state-of-the-art, all clad with turquoise tiles. Before the tub was filled, he was back in my lesser alleyway, stubborn but caring, laughing when he saw me spinning lather on my clit. It lasted until the water was hot; I had to negotiate my retreat after a last salvo. It was obvious that I would have to procure him ardent fuckstresses if I wanted to achieve my work in his house, since he was living amidst the collections.
I made sure to avoid Armand on my way out, but was it him panting afar, in measure with another lighter cry? In the car back home, feeling shivers around my butt, I smelled of Zev’s expensive Cologne. I decided I should ask Natalia for advice; she was all in all as savvier in all aspects of such a situation than me; and the money was aplenty. She came by in the afternoon, with sunbleached blond curls, her golden green eyes set off by her honey tan, and a denim boy’s shirt open on her kiddie tits. Cyprien had gone home.
I made coffee and recounted my frantic matinée, so she craved to feel my battered kitty and gently ripped me bare as I confided the details all in her taste, although she would embody the exact sunny opposite of my shady upbringing, wouldn’t she? At once, she fantasised herself going through the whole shebang, from the shady aparté complying for Monsieur Armand —she was drenched already as I took off her jeans— to Zev’s magnificent burrow; she begged me to take her along and used all her spells to wring out a promise that we would go next afternoon. At dinner time, she ran to one of her bigwig sponsors, and she joshed that my story would inspire her night’s prestation, were we not sluts?

Sarah was all enamoured with Sofia; they were chatting around a cup of tea when I returned upstairs, mostly about what kind of a future the pretty grey-eyed novice could envision from now. She smelled me, and although I had changed clothes and freely caroused with Natalia in my cubbyhole, she detected the Cologne on my nape and sussed about my day. She, too, had experienced the Mendelsohn protocol, and she might still have a go once in a while, all the more if it helped me.
We ordered a morel pie and a coconut carrot cake. With our hands all over her, our debutante opened round eyes under her bangs while I told Sarah my hectic day; she was subjugated by our freewheeling mores, and I could tell she was aroused when I slid a hand into her sweatpants. She was also scared of losing grip of her life to some whoremaster of sorts Hector had warned her about.
Not unintentionally, as Sarah wanked her on her chair on and off, I answered all her questions about my day’s follies, repeating a few times one of us could take her along to the ogre’s den. How big a member had she ever shagged? Did she know that lubricant does magic for our shy holes? Didn’t Sarah ever fist her front and back? I didn’t even conceal that I was firstly interested in keeping the fool’s bed peopled with fairies and the majordome drooling for more. I explained my work there, supervised by some dicastery of potent figures, among which our main mentor I might introduce her to some time —he would love me unveiling the blushing newbie for his relish.
Sarah’s blood had been stirred beyond what cuddles in Sofia’s neck could heal. She proposed we call on the black and white upstairs studs, I said I needed no more humping until the morrow, but I would certainly crave watching Sofia’s narrow arse ravaged by some burly workman, and she lovingly blushed again. Fulgence had hastily put on shorts and a white crumpled shirt, Erik some jeans and a white tee shirt stamped with a lone black chick. They drank coffee and liked the cake, both minds set on Sofia’s brave little smile as Sarah uncovered her perfect midriff. Putting my bare feet on the table, I claimed I had had my fill of dick for the day, and that earned me a flight of dirty jokes, enough to loosen the angst and allow Fulgence to rummage over in Sofia’s sweatshirt before lifting it away and kissing her deep —I figured her pert little nipples would madden Monsieur Armand.
Sarah had disrobed in a wink and was already straddling Erik’s lust beacon, her heels clung to the seat’s edge, legs parted wide, bouncing gently. Fulgence had carried Sofia away to a sofa and was giving her most devout cunnilingus —I knew the taste of her, I wanted to help her not fear her own debauched pulsions, so I went to nibble her toes and graze her shapely legs. Fulgence called me names as he revelled in sharing with me. I played tongues with her, and her young mouth pouted like a rosy snapdragon flower.
Now Sarah stood on all fours on the rug, intaking the rugged humpings of Erik’s merciless shaft like a seasoned harlot. Embracing Sofia and annoying her pointed tits, I offered on the side a wide view of my all-spent crotch as Fulgence wanked Sofia’s clit with the tip of his glans and she meowed already. When he bumped on the edge of her womb, and again, with dainty restraint, she fluted her higher notes in unfettered passion, raising her feet higher to give deeper access, and she spurted together with him. Sarah was huffing and puffing under unending assaults, I could see her squirt down her thighs; she was beastly beautiful.
Sofia mumbled little yaps when she grasped that her tormentor was trying on her pleated bud. I jumped and fetched the KY tube in the kitchen flatware drawer, in time to ease the way fully, to her young surprise. I guessed that Louis and Hector had kept that part discreet, because I could not figure them, both out-and-out buggers, not using her in that manner. Now she seemed to harmonise notes upon a new sensation, and it sounded lovely; I reached her clit with the tip of my tongue, long enough to watch another crisis gush on the balls of the proud tamer.
She collapsed, arms and legs spread wide, a wandering smile on her face, trustful and released as I drew her to the shower, where Fulgence groped us both in the lather. I was still sensitive in my frowned little back slit. Sarah and her victor joined us, even half bent he remained impressive as I incited Sofia to flatter the beast kindly, bantering that she would soon sheathe it in her lovely entrails, like all of us.
The boys disbanded, hinting they would have a train attack in the morning. We laughed, bar Sofia, who dreamt already. I lured them both to the God Crow’s watch, for the greater relish of the febrile homunculus. Alfred was recounting blackbird lullabies in some neighbour’s garden.

Sarah says:

I woke alone with my almost virgin buddy sound asleep upon my heart; I snaked out to the loo, but I snuck back in her air; she smelled of faraway roses amongst box trees. She ended up sensing I was awake, she assailed my forehead with kisses, like my forever babies on the shore.
Someone had left a pouch of pastries and some fruit amidst the table; while the tea brewed, we spoke all the good we felt for Cecile. As of late, I had grown a fad for Taiwan’s tea Oriental Beauty, a random miracle caused by a minute bug which, sometimes, may trigger a chemical response in the tea trees and thus obtain a warm, balmy flavour in the mild roast tea leaves. These ones I had bought in the Grande Epicerie, and my stash was waning. Sofia listened with enamoured eyes; yes, she would follow me to the giant store.
We dressed in streetwise chic, my Wired black and police-yellow hoodie still fitted me, black moleskin shorts, tights, and Chelsea boots, just like I could run in a split second; Sofia had not yet explored our vast timeless vestiary, and she was about the right size, shoes and all. She agreed to a powder blue corduroy bomber, clouds-printed cashmere leggings, and off-white chucks, no top. She said she felt as brazen as Kristen Stewart. She sprayed some fruity Cologne, I fetched the same boyish muscatel-neroli the hoodie still exuded.
Unglamorous but pristine fresh-faced, we rushed into the taxi I had called, and the driver ogled Sofia’s chest at each traffic light. I played bodyguard, and she snuck her hands onto my skin. In the posh-patronised marketplace, our style would not strike as incongruous, all the more when I ordered the whole stock of an expensive tea. Then, because warm days would be waning away, I drew Sofia to that pricey shop where the leggings she wore came from. I had an idea to try an oversized twelve-thread granite-blue cashmere jumper Dagmar also loved, and new leggings for her.
I knew this would do that she stand naked in the fitting salon, at the hands of the shop attendant. One cowl-neck model answered perfectly my search, I did a legerdemain trick to hide its price, then also when she chose six pairs of leggings. I wasn’t unknown at the cashier’s desk, and after she looked at Sofia, the stern manager granted me an approval glance, while my credit card did its magic. So we already carried bulky chic bags when we reached that hosiery emporium to stuff our drawers with all denier grades expendable silk, from prudish opaque tights to opened bodystockings, schoolgirl socks to mid-thigh stay-ups, all baits for febrile hands. Another fever stroke for my little plastic fortune she should not know of.
Lastly, shoes were on my kinky agenda, namely a couple of snazzy loafers, Hermance and Walton was the place; she earned thick-heeled black patent leather, misty-blue grey suede flats, and also navy blue striated-leather ankle-laced boots, perfect match on her new style board.
It had all gone swiftly, I decided we could try and visit Camille nearby; in the taxi, she was overwhelmed, and she chased for my gaze, almost weeping. I whispered in her ear to not even fantasise about repaying the whims of my own for her. Camille laughed her heart out seeing our bags of spree. She instantly liked Sofia, who was again bedazzled by all the luxury. We brewed some of my newly looted special tea. I frankly told Sofia that Camille had been my first mistress when I first shored in Paris and more or less groomed me into courtesan life ways before she made me move in at Hugo’s after Kate eloped to her perdition in Berlin, from which we all conspired at rescuing her.
Camille approved my summary, but her mind was already set on Sofia, and she mused that she would crave to see these new rags on her, requesting permission to unzip the bomber and pull down the leggings to her feet she had already unshoed, to feel the thick carpeting. While Camille walked her, holding her by the fingers, around her faultless Art Deco set, I spun an introduction to Sofia’s young life, and Camille relished the hotel mouse part, confiding, in a lower tone, of her own freelance harlotry since the age of thirteen, until the sheerest happenstance of being procured at Hugo’s, who, amongst the numerous hirelings he typically took the fancy of, engineered materially for her to endeavour to study for good and eventually earn an academic title in art history, and thus be able to manage the art gallery he had long envisioned. The irony of fate had done that, once she had soundly established herself in partnership with Hugo, she inherited in America from the only surviving uncle in her exterminated kin, and now she was one of the insanely rich she had serviced for years, with a fervent taste for wayward souls in gracious bodies. She bestowed her miscreant blessing on our dreamy liaison and said she would also see to helping the pretty hotel mouse burrow a hole of her own amidst our buzzing hive.

Camille had been nude under a lichen-green alpaca jersey lounge gown, barefoot. Bringing a silver tray of nibbles, her stern black butler saluted us without flinching the least at the immodesty of our allure; that was all Camille’s wonder realm and the greying man was undoubtedly royally remunerated.
She had revelled at the tip of Sofia’s pink tongue on her clit, and read my delectation by proxy for her youthful rapture. Long in the know of our posse’s libertine expeditions in the most private rendez-vous establishments, she hinted at a new such address on the Quai de la Tournelle, where I could certainly relish my new fling in full-fledged debauchery, the patronage, according to Fanny’s reports, was much similar to Speck’s, the management cosmopolitan and the staff most palatable, we would garner fortunes as a couple. Needless to say, we would obviously have to tip in kind the marshalling minders, but as to that, I knew the drill full well, and so did the hotel mouse.
She dolled us up like pricey escorts, her vestiary outclassed ours by far; she pulled a striking halterneck glistening dark blue-green opalescent jersey long-sleeved minidress, hold-up lace-rim silk stockings which left a swath of nude thigh, and night blue patent leather flat court pumps. I wore a purplish and blue changing taffeta shirt dress nigh too short to cover my quim, open-crotch black tights, and black patent leather flats with marcasite bows. She had been the inventor of the secret armpit pocket that frees a working girl’s moves in scabrous situations. There we stood, two lewd-minded warriors on the move. She let us choose among pricey perfume samples of perfumes, enough for a frantic evening, Sofia a subdued genderless hesperides-jasmin, and me a velvety dark amber-tuberose. Eventually, considering us much in her taste, she slid on an open-front, long-sleeved black sequined fourreau knees-long dress, black veil holdups and black patent leather pumps. Her bronze-glimmer heavy hair curls gathered from the back of her head, and she smelled of yellow honeyed marigold and Virginia tobacco. We put on fancy black-glazed or glittery raincoats to be able to roam on town. On the grey velvet seat of her chauffeured gliding salon car, she couldn’t let go of an awestruck Sofia.
It was a low gothic door under a small arcade walk; we had had to call first and give our credentials to receive a code. A second door comported a bronze plate engraved ‘FORTUNAT’ in lean capitals, and a slit for both our black cards and then opened on a clear ashlar stone corridor carpeted in dark crimson wool. From the moment the doorman saw her, I sussed she owned the place, and she knew what big cats she was about to feed us to. The majordome was a stolid middle-aged Asian with combed-back hair who could hardly look away from my eyes and dared a sleight caress on my uncovered mons as we rid of our coats to the parade, and I knew he would tilt me over any time, which happened as I went for the loo, unfazed, and he pushed me in muffed sort of closet further in the vestibule —and I earned his unfettered faithfulness, also most of his kinsmen’s.
Camille kissed me for that, sliding a hand to my familiar coochie and then stealthily smelling her fingers; Sofia had not hunched anything, yet. I whispered she go finger my freshly shagged slit and warned her to expect the same in every nook from any of the minders. She retorted softly she had known such customs in the palaces she served and that it wasn’t the harshest part of the job, candidly pouting her lips for a kiss.
They had wallowed upon the deep-purple velvet cushions of one of the straight-designed banquettes in the beamed, low-ceiling lounge, surrounded by a visionary painted decor by Michel Henricot like the eerie ceremonies in an Egyptian tomb, without a dash of morbidity.
In a spot of soft, warm light, a slender nude girl with dishevelled dark hair played mezzo voce on a fretless bass guitar plugged into a mighty system; she stood on a Persian silk rug, half-seated on a black leather bar stool and bore precious anklets and sundry jewels. She played slow, unfurled melodies with Jaco harmonics, she swayed her hips in an unending invite. Camille said her name was Azul de Bénévent, and I could have her for a moment, later, but she could be expensive. So thus, her music began to flourish in my womb.
But someone came to sit at my left and carelessly slid a hand on my thigh. I looked up and liked the cypress-green silk velvet suit he wore with a multicolour-stars-embroidered collarless purple silk shirt. Short black hair, moon-pale complexion, he stared at me with squinted coffee-brown eyes, pouting his lips like a girl for a kiss. Risking my hand on his bulging fly, I responded I would only go with my little sister, if he could afford us. Sofia, whose dress was hitched up on her parted thighs, giggled at my words, and we followed this snazzy john to the lifts. Scattered across the tiered levels of the room, wide enough for two or three dozen couples, only a few then listened to Azul in various attitudes of obscene. The women looked young, natural and laidback, most johns exhibited their carnal pride; the scent of lust floated amongst the sundry rich perfumes. Camille waved goodbye.
The unfazed waiter gave our man the key card to number 17 against a go of his credit card, with a faint smirk. Then it was a one-storey course, but time enough for Sofia’s dress to fall down. I gathered the strewn waves of cloth at her feet; on the landing, he pinned her to the wall with a long greedy kiss.

The rooms had evocative, redundant, soundproof doors, as you encounter in secretive offices, and brothels. A rich coffered ceiling of walnut wood, ornate with whimsical red, blue, and gold chimaeras struck in contrast with the raw stone, uneven old bricks, and other timber-framed walls. The carpeting was of a mellow gold Persian garden pattern, and the expected grand square bed was covered with clean umber-brown padded velvet. The buttoned headrest stood against a centre partition behind which a glass cube sheltered a shower, a sink and a toilet, all in honey-gold tone. A Bluetooth sound system gave a quasi-infinite choice of playlists, among which was a Jon Hassel mix that befitted my erotic mood and did not annoy the gallant musketeer who dazed Sofia with gusts of kisses. A well-educated lovemaker, mind you, who, once Sofia lay stretched out on the bed, turned to me, peeled me nude, granted me a kind share of petting, and told me to make love to my little sister, which I willingly obliged. He told me to kneel by the bed’s edge, part my thighs and arch my back. Then I sensed a few fingers applying generous lube in my slits, letting me foresee what came in next, which was long, bouncy, and adventurous in both my benign overtures. The lube smelled slightly of frangipane and coumarin as he told us to swap positions and he smeared Sofia’s feasty holes.
As he saw Sofia’s hands deliciously slim, he schemed a Pierre Louÿs’ delight for three. With all gracious hand plays and kisses, he lay back on the bed, told me to impale my bumhole upon his staff, legs wide apart, then told Sofia to lubricate her hand, sheathe in me with it, and take hold of his dick through my rectum’s wall. And so thus it was done, carefully, as he licked my earlobes and called me little names, until I sensed the thrusts of warm jizz deep in my loins, and that was some novelty! Sofie was shied and feared for my entrails, but I made her look that there were no funny traces on the delicate hand she had fisted me with.
That green jester was a gentleman; we played in the shower box, and he relished giving us each an enema to get neat for the next rider, he joshed —stowing us back on the harlots’ shelf, it seemed.
Our stockings had been soiled, and it showed, while our dainty skin was all the more freshened, and thus we returned downstairs bare-legged and a bit unkempt, like proper whores.
Camille had made her move towards Azul who was taking a break perched on her stool, a glass in hand, and she had quit the sequins. She sported a fiery arse, in all, and swayed her hips like a cowgirl. I might have tipped her to wear a lace mask, but anyway, 7S wasn’t public, and her shareholders had all slept with her. In the fashion of undress that we displayed, the gazes we shared with the other thin-skinned hirelings were more plainly matter-of-fact, little did they know what we, privileged libertines, sought after on their turf. As they could see, the place was not lacking attractive bait or well-heeled amateurs. We ordered fruit mocktails in sleek Martini glasses, and we behaved like bona fide polyamorous floozies in Berlin heydays, avering we were solely available as a pair.
We saw Camille leaving arm-in-arm with the musician who had boxed her instrument to rest in a long black box. A little bird told me there might soon be a fruitful encounter between two languorous nude improviser musicians.
Some bulky American admiral type in a black dinner jacket with satin lapels shored next to us, with fantastic silver brows and a Florida-blue gaze. He waved me to unbutton my last one and Sofia to pull her dress up her waist; his grin wasn’t too vain, his massive hands were manicured, and his shoes were likely bespoke and polished. He breathed in Sofia’s ear to slide her little hand inside his button fly. He smelled of Bond Street Cologne, he pushed us by the butt towards the lift and chatted overtly about the looks of us with the waiter who was charging his credit card, wondering if he had tried us, to what the witty young man answered with a hopeful ‘not yet, sir’, and pocketed a folded dollar bill. The room was 207; in the lift car, we were stuck between the mirrors and his corpulence, but his breath was faultless when he devoured my mouth.
That room possessed a bronze-colour mirrored vestibule and was even bigger than previously, with an oak-beamed ceiling, and honey-gold waxed rendering walls. Two tall windows were shuttered with subdued yellow bourrette curtains, the carpeting was rosewood-hue thick wool. The grand bed was covered with plush fawn faux fur, and the high headrest was Asian mythological, gilt, sculpted openwork wood, depicting the adventures of possibly prankster demigods. On the main wall, hung an oil-painted oblong panel showing a delegation of hi-ranking Turks in a Venetian decor which I had seen Cecile restore last year, and lastly, facing the bed, a large monitor and a manner of console for those who needed to watch some porn, probably.
A sleek and auspicious tall gilt angel by Hans Arp floated between the windows. Two Ruhlman armchairs brought a modern touch of high luxury, Macassar, bronze, and beige skin. He sat in and asked that we undress him. I unlaced his statutory shoes; he wore high silk socks. He had visibly popped some kind of pill to fuel a turgid pole such as this, out of his shirttails. He seized my nape and gently forced me to intake it down in my throat. He was a quality client; even down here, he smelled suave, as he hurled his want into my desecrated mouth while manhandling Sofia’s abandoned body. Without warning, he spurted a salty spoonful of bodily sap I wouldn’t toss back, sir.
He carried a considerable paunch under his white singlet —like my Christiansøe uncle admiral who spent his time ogling me-devil but sent me back to my mother’s when I got caught naughty with my boyfriend in a rowboat adrift. And now I had grown into a full-blown self-aware slut, and I sucked admirals for money I did not need.
Like a playful grizzly bear, he moved around his mass with impressive grace; he rested flat on the bed and ordered Sofia to slide him up her bumhole and wriggle the samba, while he would return me the courtesy with his tongue in my pretty holes if I would sit upon his moustache. He frankly did not conceal his bliss, and he growled heartfelt insanities as the moustache bristles tickled my clit and Sofia became panting.
The bathroom was floored with blond slabs, the walls clad in mosaic spirals of ochre hues, and the ceiling of copper leaves. in the wide, tepid flow of a central shower, the bear played on with our slippery bodies, and it was as joyously lustful as Klimt’s ondines, in the blessed little while. We then applied ourselves to wiping the heavy beast who giggled and to dressing him back up impeccably as we still gambolled in the raw, and he relished that. before he went, he put a fistful of extra dollar bills on the bed. It was not negligible, but I taught Sofia that it brought good luck if we left the tip to the maids who cleaned the miasms of two privileged sluts who had already been paid for their charms; she nodded, we slid on our togs and ran downstairs.
A nude hangpan player had replaced Azul, cross legs with three drums, letting show a yummy chubby mons. The bass player wore a tight black leather set, Camille and her had waited for us to return to our place and meet Malo. Azul carried the impressive black box. Seen up close in the car, the musician looked younger, I would have craved to wipe off all makeup from her face, and I hinted that it would all dissolve if we came to play in the pool. Through the little web, Camille had reached Malo and vaunted the musician who had played at Fortunat just lately and revealed not only a carefree physical beauty but true improvisational skills. Malo had answered that she certainly wasn’t one to refuse anything to Camille, but also there was nothing to lose, meeting a pretty girl who played bass.
First, we needed to change; there were enough sweatsuits in my vestiary for all who wanted —and I took my time, boasting my bare arse to Azul I had a sudden crush on, yet not shunning Sofia aside —she might also learn sharing my crushes, we all did. It amused Camille to wear a sage-green tracksuit of Kate’s that smelled slightly of her perfume, and to let her own flat midriff show.
Unsurprisingly, Azul wondered where on earth she had ended up, and she was not only a tad gobsmacked to discover in which manner of grand lifestyle some club flappers like us, moreover oddly teetotallers, were living; but she was young and was impressed by Camille’s attentions for her —having sussed through the Fortunat’s staff attitudes and comments what powerful lady she was, in earnest.
In the lift back downstairs, we looked like roadies for a showy rock star, although, seen up close, her chestnut-brown eyes cast witty gazes. She could not notice my wandering hand on the black leather she wore nude, the only idea of that I felt lewd as such. And she must have begun to beware of some dire entrapment, noticing we were reaching the basement. On a hunch, I said in her neck not to worry, she was here for music. With her long black case in hand, she followed us through the gym and the corridors to the dance room where Malo awaited, nude on a fancy padded chair, her cello between her knees. She greeted us with some sliding chords, and invited Azul to help herself plug her instrument into the amplifier behind her, but asking her to unshoe her ankle boots to walk on the dance floor. Her feet moved me; I had not seen them thoroughly to my taste in the dark salon at the Fortunat’s. She set herself swiftly around the high-end electronics, tuning the wireless connexion with resounding chords of her own, and lowering the volume to that of a classic double bass. Then, not raising her face out of her unfurled nigh black hair strands, she wandered through random motives of slow virtuosity, dancing about with the weapon-black shiny instrument hung to her shoulder.
No one had told her it would be some kind of an audition, but she was impressed by Camille’s clout, money, and sweetness. Malo was kind of awestruck by the prodigy she didn’t battle yet, waiting for Azul to pause. When it happened, shaking her mane back, Camille asked if she wouldn’t play in the nude, just like Malo; she rested her instrument on a chair, unzipped her jacket, letting my greedy eyes see some dew drops on her plexus, and unbuttoning the trousers that stuck to her thighs so I ran to her help, pulling them off and eventually kissing her toes. She smelled of an offbeat virile fragrance of tobacco, tonka, and luxe leather which, in my perverted mind, lustfully defiled her splendid star youth. Returning to my place, I saw gleefully that the girls had slipped off clothes, and Camille tenderly groped Sofia bent upon her crossed legs.
Resting the blond cello on its stand, Malo stood and hugged Azul, softly swaying, murmuring secrets in her ear. Now I craved her young buttocks, I knew I would watch her be buggered in my arms, in some warm shady nook at Philippe’s or elsewhere. They sat next to each other, and Malo pulled the first notes of alchemy so beyond my rational grasp, but right through my emotional bliss, and I could very well figure our slinky ballerinas improvising on these endless volutes.
It happened that Finlan and Mathurin had heard an unusual sonority on their way to the pool, and so they stood at the threshold, spellbound. Finlan wished to join, on the bulky Hammond organ that had been brought there for him, so Malo raised her brows sideways as a welcome sign, but for a few seconds, Finlan only gazed at the new wonder girl. Soon, the jam went as smooth as a may breeze; he had found the settings to thread seamlessly among the girls’ ad-lib. Camille gently turned to me and whispered we might have found ourselves another new neighbour, as it seemed; Melchior should hear and see that.
When Azul eventually bowed out, exhausted, Malo proposed a dip in the pool, to what the girl rounded her eyes, asking which pool? So Malo embraced her and led her towards the lower floor, and we all dived into the pristine water.
Camille had found Azul through Fanny and Dagmar, who had been invited to some posh party at one of Fanny’s fellow student’s. Azul played bass in a proto-indie band called ‘Morton Babes’ and had been bustled by drunk louts before our two blondes intervened; they took lessons together in kickboxing. Azul had been a wayfarer kid, merely eighteen, to whom some music producer had afforded that state-of-the-art instrument against edgy favours she had so hardly condoned that she jumped on Fanny’s invitation to come and stay at their apartment. The three of them had naturally fallen in love together, and Camille had invited Azul to play in her salon upon her girls’ commendations, and fell for her like we all did at first sight.
Following Lauritz’s extravagant lead, Camille had bought this age-old building on the Seine front, which had previously served as almost anything one could think of —not unlike Hugo’s dovecote with its eerie underground— with the pet project of installing another Maison de Rendez-Vous in her taste. The name ‘Fortunat’ was pure happenstance, a name she had read in some research papers she had funded to give some of Fanny’s school buddies a paid work about this house, and it sounded fine to her ears.
Azul de Bénévent never knew her father; her wayward mother had been a long-time groupie who did not bother who shagged her in the tour buses, and had been pregnant beyond her wits, luckily in times when her only excess was with marijuana and did not affect her baby. Laurentine de Bénévent —aka Nancy Carbone— had been born to a far-fetched branch of a famous French family, so when she was sordidly murdered at a squat house in Spain, Azul was sent to her next of kin, an uncle who was at least ill-prepared to raise a little girl. She had lived in that once prestigious mas along the canal in Aix-En-Provence, mothered by the old housekeeper Noélie, despite the continuing abuse by the uncle who allegedly committed suicide when she was fourteen, drinking a dissolved handful of aspirin in a glass of whisky. Her cousins had taken over the mas, and one of the sons her age learned the guitar and dragged her along to his lessons, trading a cheap guitar for blow jobs, as he called that. She had had a long training at it with her past uncle, and she craved to learn music; thus, she reckoned it wasn’t too harsh a price to pay; the boy was clean and smelled of frank soap. Therefore the teacher wondered at her fervent dedication and did not count her hours.
I wouldn’t have bet on what enthused Malo most in this new windfall recruit, musical genius or elfin candour; all the more now that the water frolics had washed away the dark makeup Azul had been wearing to cheat on her age. However, Camille incited her to spend the night at Malo’s and see if she would return to Fortunat’s in the evening.
There would be heaps to rave on, about our shopping spree turned night on town. Sofia could hardly let go of her mind on the pillow, and I had to find words to alleviate her qualms. She had been enthralled with Camille’s serene mastery, not averse to some quiet lust.
Kate returned later, after a blithesome expedition at Speck’s along with Adèle and Rose; she was overjoyed to hear the news of a new parlor house nearby, owned by one of our orchard’s queen bees. She vowed to go sniff out there, in gala dress, the next night. We also boasted of having met Camille’s new prodigy girl catch that we expected to see play for our ballerinas after she slept in Malo’s bed.

 

Kate says:

My last night Japanese clients had dismantled all my circuitry like some ludicrous would-be Major Motoko, but anyhow, my lustful ghost could manage even worse, mind you. As I figured this morning, my bedfellows neither had been miserly in their carnal expenses, now they clung to each other like Oregon otters in a blissful dream.
It appears it is the migrating season on our safeguarded nesting cliffs; the same unexplained ethereal waves that steer flocks of unwavering birds, whatever cosmic storms unfurl the auroras in the northern skies. And good Sarah hatching a pretty mouse into a red light kitten. Their hair smelled of dead leaves under a Tuscan poplar grove at dawn.
Yesterday, my ever-so-torn brother had insisted that I introduce him at Speck’s; he said it would turn him on to watch me whore myself in public, even be it to the likes of his now peers; the very name —albeit unadvertised— of the venue itself still weighing large in Hamburg, where Simon had become a notorious figure. He snapped already for my damsels in waiting, most intrigued by what Rose let see between the cute-ish lapels of her water-lily some sauvage loose shirt-dress, white-hot aroused to see the hand plays with Adèle in loose dawn-gradient pleated twill.
I’m still not sure Rose had known all Simon and I shared when she followed him upstairs, what the hell. Adèle had hardly time to grab her fill of the appetising nibbles on the buffet table —the constant succulence of which was not an unimportant bait to lure wayfarer tramps like us back to the clubmen’s playground— that she was firmly steered towards the lift by a befitted pinstripe banker type whose sideburns would no doubt soon tickle her inner thighs. As for me, I took my risk to the silver-and-gold mosaic powder room the stage butler couldn’t ignore. I opened my thighs to show him my stream, then conceded my mouth to his whimsical short-lived fantasy: on my way back, a hunky Rechtsanwalt from Lübeck courteously seized my waist for a few dance steps on the easy swing of the muted piano; he smelled of citrus and wet undergrowth: I sensed the pang of delicious infamy.
I wouldn’t know if he would crave my being German at all, I went ahead in my educated French, not losing any of the muttered names he feverishly garlanded me with. My buttocks in hand, he had asked the dispatcher for his usual, dark oak, dimmed lights room with a deep maroon velvet high bed he strewed me upon, my head dangling so as to easily gulp his stiff Buddenbrook staff, and he ordered me to swallow the belching smirch.
Recomposing his manners, he tasted his own flavour on my tongue and lips while pinching my tits, then he demonstrated he would not disdain my own elation, poking his professional liar’s tongue all over my holy brooklet with eloquence, and he saluted when I freely splurted to his face. He muttered I was going to repay for that, gentlemanly fetching the lube tube from the bedside table’s drawer. He revelled burrowing the whole length of his unflinching spur into my back lesser slot, as a reminder that chemicals have blessed our generation of tireless vigour. It might happen that I be bustled by flashbacks of ancient angst, bygone shades of miscalculated abuse they fished me out of timely, bless Sarah’s soul.
And he bragged he had afforded a third leg, as he rang for champagne I wouldn’t touch —Gerolsteiner be fine, your Grand Highness. I vowed a lewd thought to Sarah when I saw coming the invite to the waiter, a young Mediterranean-type slender cutie pirate I had acquainted with before; he was in the buff and at attention in no time, his circumcised spear jolting about like a puppy. That über-vaseline in the clear tube was another wonder of modern science, they both rammed their spouts mercilessly at pace, alternately and gracefully, like courteous swordsmen, and I squirted like a gargoyle. Herr Anwalt emptied all his carnal rhetorics with breathless glee and tipped the boy like Xmas. He sang salacious lieder of his own make under the flows of tepid water in the red marble bathroom, then he wiped me all so kindly. He took my number for eventually next monthly games.
Back downstairs, I didn’t search for eye contact for a while, I was famish, and new finger bites had been displayed. My younglings were busy, and I did not see coming the team of yakuza on both sides with nine hands each. They let me drink my fill of delicious mocktails, and they found the proper buttons to press to make me follow them, not knowing how many they were, carried away by the popularity.
The dispatcher raised an eyebrow when he saw me on the verge of going with five bustling salarymen, but I didn’t look so foolhardy, and he allotted them in a large far-end, top-floor room. It was somewhat of an antique cabinet filled with erotic curiosa and framed vintage photographs taken covertly on the premises —I recalled once Hugo had demanded such contrivance should be put to an end, but Lauritz could not swear he wasn’t still spying on the rooms, all the more now that digital cameras could sneak into any crack, unnoticed.

We tacitly had passed up Hugo’s rightful moral reluctance about the debauchers’ image, entrusting our turpitudes to Lauritz’s goodwill, whatever our future bore; Victor, my passed extravagant boyfriend, had also recorded me in demented situations, before finally erasing his whole cloud, possibly due to Michelle’s victory in their never recounted exaflop war.
My spry gang of tanukis felt likely high on something joyous as well as stiff-inducing. I felt like a drunk ostrich amidst a party of chimps —with all due respect, they smelled like a duty-free store on a busy day— drinking jizz to the rim. After my binge of Northern and Mediterranean splodge, the Asian module, as frenetic as it may be, was all I could befit myself to, happily. They cleared the carpet to take hold on all sides together with dexterity and ardour so as I lost sense of time and ultimately passed out on the rug. When I came back, I was alone, drooly and sticky, with dollars stacked on the corner of the bed we had not used. I had a thought for the cleaning lady who deserved them, rightfully. I took my time to shampoo, and rinse my entrails in the antique-tiled shower room —the toiletries at Speck’s are most classy.
My faux suivantes had carelessly defaulted and left a note on a napkin that they had enough, so why would I blame them? Seeing me dishevelled in the cloakroom, Herr Udo felt otherwise, and my recount of the samurai binge he had been made aware of aroused him so that I had to fob him off with a last bucking over his little desk —and run.
The new silver-eyed mouse revelled in Sarah’s dance attendance; she did not shun my playing footsie under the breakfast table; she seemed an easygoing little harlot, a keeper. They longed to go watch the first encounter between Camille’s new find of that willingly nude evanescent girl bass player and the rest of the telepathic poetry troupe that was rarely on deck before mid-afternoon. I killed time wooing Sarah’s flame just like everyone in the house would, wouldn’t they?
It was sunny outside; under the frosted glass roof, the midday light became unreal as a Yves Tanguy set. The three of us left our shoes outside the sanctuary and went to kiss nude Malo, who rested her cello against her parted thigh, and Azul, alluring beauty behind a glossy black bass guitar with silver strings, both quietly tuning their instruments. In the back corner, tousled-haired Finlan gave the tone on his bulky Hammond organ. Insensibly, like the legendary lark, Malo’s soul ascended into the light, alone, soon to be chased after by the tight-wired chords of Azul’s tendrils, amidst the clouds of the organ drones.
Malo had long aroused our fluttering goldy swashes in orgy moments, whatever high we rode upon. Then she had met Josephine, haphazardly shored among us from Gibraltar’s back alleys, who had naturally embodied an earthly idea of her ethereal soul, and then Emeline who hurled her survivor instinct after her providential soul mate Josephine’s steps. Whatever score that laid out, they had flabbergasted a crowd of dance buffs, gathered in a new extravagant venue of Melchior’s, and who wondered still what they had witnessed.
Irresistibly drawn by the new colours in Malo’s music they had heard from afar, the two pixies were seduced by a new character who befitted the part seamlessly with a faultless ear. All tingly, the pretty goblins popped out of their raspberry and mauve sweatsuits and pranced about the dancefloor, eager to catch up with the new dynamics of the sound stream. Sarah is so truly obsessed about feet, especially young girls’, as Bruno Schulz in his Booke Of Idolatry. like two fawns tasting the water at a brooke’s shore, in nigh synchronicity, they tiptoed amongst the trio’s wisps, who seemed to try modulating in accordance with them, in running response.
To measure up with Malo’s sleight upon the simplissime contraption of glued-together wooden sculpture of her cello, Azul twiddled with the array of little knobs at hand on the flat polished body of her graceful hobby horse, and so the rich complexity of the covert circuitry in the black canvas-clad box behind her, with tiny coloured pin-lamps flickering. Malo was giving the keyword, sensitively embodied by Josephine’s whizzy whirls upon her unflinchingly sure feet, while Emeline unfurled the beaded counterpoint of airy accolades, all in a suffused pace to Malo’s whimsical lead.
Azul seized on a clearing for a solo play, and we knew she could withhold endless attention as we had heard her do in Fortunat’s dark lounge; she offered the seemingly offhanded dryads the free air for elaborate couple figures they had devised with love, all of that unprepared, though, as went Josephine’s intuition.
Finlan had wholly invested the antiquated machine he played on with the ingenuousness of a thicket of hawthorns at the edge of the open field where the carefree does frisked. The sounds he fed to the monumental speaker hovered like the spring morning mist, filled with the chirpings of teeming hatchlings.

Dawdling by in the idea of a morning swim, some TRÆVIX’s boarders had heard the unusual depth of the tone in the otherwise customary music in the dance venue. Apolline, Trine, and Gwen sat with us in their bathing suits, which merely consisted of their telephones. I texted Adèle and Rose, who soon joined our eager audience for the acme of boundless synchronicity in the final embrace of our wunderkinder étoiles. We cheered warmly, and most of us followed the exhausted ballerinas to the downstairs pool, in the hope they could help massage the transfigured, gracile bodies.
Mathurin was a tad miffed he missed the wonder surprise treat of the day, so Finlan mocked him, but foretold many other sets, all the more if Melchor had seen a recording, why wouldn’t he, there were cameras in every angle?
I climbed up to the studio, leaving the two playboys to their enviable fate. Sarah was casting shreds of a daydream upon a paper pad while Sofia, at her feet, skimmed through an album about the Fontainebleau School, which had baulked to return on its shelf. At a little distance, what seemed to be rumpled-up knickers lay on the rug, though I wouldn’t think either of them had worn one this morning.
My attention fluttering like a wandering moth, I started an online chat about storming Fortunat that night, after warning Camille, who insisted we brought our lads, not as clients, but as what she called “boute-en-train”, they would only shag some of us for the voyeur lazy johns, at what the whole clique enthused. Natalia came by opportunely, along with our wayfarer Ksyusha, who had considerably improved her French in some gallivanter attorney’s bed to whom Sami had procured her after a rambunctious week in Philippe’s maze. She was fresh and racy like a free cheetah; her affluent barrister owned a seaside estate in Corsica, attended by a gang of tanned do-gooders. She had grabbed her swag and fled like she always did, only this time she returned to what she might call her home port, eventually.
Camille beamed as the whole squadron reached port with gourmet offerings. Lauritz’s backstreet foundlings had joined, too; Dagmar, Gwen, Fæbian, Lizon, and others had heard the jungle drums, and Camille was smitten with Ksyusha. She had rounded up all available beau monde, including Sami and Hector in their multiversal capacity, so to speak.
Whereas Fortunat’s entrée des artistes opened on the much-trodden quayside, patrons were introduced through a discreet
blurred stained-glass reception office on the side street, after they identified with the scan of their QR codes at the door; a third service door of black-lacquered steel opened on a paved yard a little further. Less sternly formal than Speck or whimsically labyrinthine than Philippe, Fortunat stood like an unassuming fortress, a bleak hub of Secret Services with no parking spaces.
Here again, Gauthier and his staff had fired up their brains to befit the connoisseurship of Camille’s, and the main salon extolled the sheer genius of Henricot’s murals, haunted by pure desire creatures as a backdrop to the lush maroon velvet banquettes where our herd of does soon wallowed, au naturel, bar a few well-furtive jewellery.
As nude as ever, Malo and Azul stood on high black leather stools in a low dramatic light bubble, lulling all want by treading their fantasy chords amongst the harmonics of the grand piano merely grazed by Finlan, in a glistening mellow yellow outfit. It smelled like a gala night at the Italian Embassy, with an extra dash of animality. Camille begged Josephine and her acolyte to dance for us, so they simply ditched whoever was lusting upon their cheeky little arses and offered us the acme of their telepathic routine almost in place, as a pair of courting swans.
Our hostess was obviously overjoyed to see most of the usual punters in disarray as to the fierce capriccio embodied by the possessed little witches, who nonetheless emphasised the most deliberate of poses without falling into a mere coarse exhibition. She had seized Dagmar, slenderer than ever, and seemed to idolise her cherubic profile, as the tall fairy rubbed her wings in the cushions, innocently flaunting her lingering smile.
I felt intrigued as to how the landlady would respond to some proper invite, if any, but then it wasn’t baffling to see her give her hand to some greying dapper clubman; she might feel missing the gap of incertitude none of the power brains she hired would procure, although she wouldn’t shun letting one of her Yale’s hunks try to deprave her —putting the crystal of her soul to the test.
The latest sensation to date, the Dutch Terrible Twos, swung in with giggles out of the majordome’s cubbyhole and bowed deep down to the ballerinas, showing us their perfect buttocks; then, seeking space to perch on, they tiptoed to some free back spot where black and white clad bumblebees congregated at once to ogle up close the double despair of their uptight genitor, and so they purred.

Lauritz paid a courtesy visit, holding hands with a slinky, tanned bohemian too young to be frowned upon. Before she stumbled into self-conscience, I stood up to greet my old-time pal and thus grope his new catch, who did not wear undies under a fluid Gipsy dress. That would be Daphne; she still smelled of Amalfi hesperides, and she knew what genre of club her saviour had brought her to. I enlaced her and murmured I was going to let her dress fall down, as she wouldn’t side with the buyers, would she?
While I gently wrung her shy tits, I made her confess she was French, the shame of a swanky Faubourg Saint Germain family, enough to make me crave to dive into another family drama to provide a gentile soul with the company of sundry others, for that resilience endeavour she would owe to a shapely carnal appearance —and the squashing of all a wrongly education, mind you. The 911 alpha male had bestowed her into the herd; would she prefer we pander together, that night? Lauritz ostensibly cheered on that, ol’ Moggy.
Long time no see Rachel de Contilly —whom Gauthier had hired to play the violin for us libertines in the woodland pavilion of his Chevillon estate— was now daring to show her gracile rump in the raw, kept on a leash by the essential Liselotte, a gleaming chain clipped to a black thick padded collar with a saddlery grade ring, laser-sleek and groomed like a Meissen shepperdess; Cecile sat by and asked for the leash handle, which Liselotte confided gracefully.
Lizon and Fæbian had flown in from their Konstanz hunting grounds, and they wore flawless diamonds. They had a good influence on each other, and they obviously worked out these yummy abs. I remembered Lizon as a pale pavement tramp, under another name, when Camille had fished her out, and Sarah had schooled her all over Paris on ways of rich harlotry.
James W. Manner had long been one of the fervent faux-uncles of Camille’s even before she went to school properly. He had brought his current magical nieces —he called the Thistle Fairies because he had salvaged Annabelle from the damp Glaswegian slums— who lived studiously under the roofs of our dovecote, a place I had once settled for my more-than-brother Simon. Annabelle’s companion, Fayelle, had once encountered Julio Cortazar’s axolotl during what turned out to be a deadly cerebrovascular stroke to what she owed to still bear a titanium patch on her skull, and a taste for research in the aesthetics field, just like her soulmate. Nevertheless, they had never abjured their libertinism, all the more now that they shared the same social protection as all of us in the Hellfire club. James sat next to Hugo, revelling in the proper chamber ballet spun out by the antique-worthy cast with no veils.
My new pet girl and I caused a major crush with a bespoke double-breasted pinstripe ash grey suited crew cut, blue eyes, self-assured conqueror who did not flinch in asking for immediate favour from Rachel who knelt down between his parted thighs and unbuttoned his fly, still bound with my leash. He had grabbed that we would team, and he gladly could afford both of us. He told me to stick my tongue, tasted me, and he liked it while humping in Rachel’s modest mouth, eventually forcing her to swallow his triple splurt like a pricey professional. Pulling her up on his lap after he had sheathed back, he thanked her, well aware she was more of a debutante, and tasted his own in her mouth, then steered us to the lift.
Camille’s caprice had been carried out lavishly, it felt like every nook was intended for cuddling up, but the room we entered surpassed all the lupanars I had been taken to —bar Speck: the jury was out. That was a superb male, doubtlessly living in grand style, muscular and trim like a statue, hands and feet spruced up, I deduced he must live a life of ease on a yacht deck. Once all naked, he wanted to focus on Rachel’s exultation before using her shy brooklet to burrow in her womb. He had finely seen that she was moved by being ordered things against her upbringing, thus he told her to lay spread on the duck-green plush velvet bed cover and lift her legs so as to offer all her intimacy to his eager devouration, while she would repay the same favour to me, demonstrating unexpected skills and obstination as I straddled her nigh candid mouth I wouldn’t spare to spatter.
He succeeded in making her surrender with touching spasms and spurts, heartening him to aim at her lesser hole he kept smearing with the available lubricant and foraging in with two or three fingers. Once her slits were slidy like seaweeds, he waggled his shaft around the rim of her jolly slits, bracing with little jolts the unflinching penetration of both ways made easy, to the damsel’s surprise. When he had sheathed in her lesser hole to the hilt, he sniggered and watched her wriggle at his whim, then he hurled his renewed discharge in the deepest of her entrails.
She collapsed like a rag doll, breath short, sweaty. I kissed her drenched little face and licked her eyes clean as she palpated her nether parts as if to assess any damages. Ken had soon done expediting a shower in the adjoining bathroom, dressed up in a wink, poked at his forehead with two fingers, and ran. Rachel shrugged and smirked, leaving a pretty wet spot on the velvet.
The bathroom was clad in green marble, with jade-green porcelain fixtures. The rain-like shower poured freely in the centre, we massaged each other; she bragged of having withstood a full-grown stag; I owned to him he had behaved in better manners than a stag; she should see that as the furthest possible tolerance; she was a gracile doe with an artist so
The room was hung with verdigris crushed velvet, with a pair of tall oxidised mirrors, framed in silvered sculpted-through wood, in which we looked like timeless floozies in a green pit of debauchery under a contorted opalescent Murano chandelier. Across the bed, between the celadon green moiré armchairs, on a silvered console, lay a handful of Euros; I told Rachel the unwritten vow of libertines like us, which was to leave our extra premiums for the maids who cleaned our lewd havoc after us; Rachel loved that, she knew what her reward be.
She stretched on the plump cushion of the armchair, I couldn’t help but walk on all fours to her holy brooklet —sacrilege be hailed— still emotional with the stark storming in its frail innards she avowed was not a first, but a whole new sensation. There again, an abusive brother bereft of any wisdom as to proper lovemaking manners but furiously inflamed between his legs, had commanded that mere saliva and clear pre-ejaculate sufficed to his inconsequential pleasure in her lesser hole. Indeed, but he denied her suffering, and she knew no one to dare turn to.
Moreover, when her violin teacher enticed her to audition for orchestra positions —bar those new blind ones where her good looks would not intervene— she had to learn not to shun wandering hands if she coveted an engagement. For her and her partners, meeting Gauthier had been a blessing, although sleeping with him, too, had certainly prevailed in his decision to help them, but, as careless he seemed, he had groomed her into an easygoing libertine walk of life and permitted that she dwelled in a matchless small apartment overlooking the river and the Louvre where she would allow, now and again, the use of her buttocks to Gauthier’s pansexual acquaintances in the moving lights of the bateaux-mouches, and other amateurs Liselotte purveyed since they had met in Chevillon. She had also played her fiddle for Camille and her Cologne-smelling American hunks, along with Natalia whom she endeared fondly.
The night was young, and the after-dinner crowds would round up like wolves. Only Finlan kept his tapered hands running on the clavier. Malo cuddled a petite garçonne whom Rachel told me was one of her colleagues, Azul had been taken away to the upper floors the minute she had rested her instrument. Sarah wandered back from service, smelling of Scilly daffodils like a London virgin, with a hint of her last trick’s tobacco in her hair. She slid at once a deft hand on Rachel’s pubis, complimenting me on my taste. She overtly wooed my date of the moment, and soon she could have told of her latest sin, although not trying to steer her away from my wing. I sussed she had just jotted Rachel’s name on her dance card.
A soft-spoken South European gent murmured a request on Rachel’s nape, not intending to have us both. I felt a delicious pang letting her part like a true floozie in her prime, and she had given me all her clues to pursue our conversation some other night. Sarah preceded a rugby-tighthead who grappled her butt, not knowing what fiery mount he had chosen. I turned away, casually, not in the least keen to form an opinion on the patrons who might give me an eye; my part was to sway my hips.
Cecile and Charlotte, in the far corner, conspired with Sateen and Pearl who might not, as of yet, have fathomed what game was rolling on, naked in public on spacious banquettes so soft, like they had posed for days in Cyprien’s eye. Charlotte was kindly demonstrative and knew the pair wouldn’t shun sisterly wanking each other, thus arousing the whole attendance; she just instilled the merely mundane idea of making rich patrons pay for sharing the privilege of some of their lustful moments. Sateen said they had long grasped our goings-on, only they wouldn’t yet dive alone, and separately. So far, so good; Cecile let Charlotte tout the trio to valliant customers. Some tuxedoed German ancestor with a pricey smile and a moustache came to sit backwards before them, bedazzled by the forgetful pair’s nonnies and by gracile Charlotte’s daring vice, as she taunted him with her cunning little foot under his nose for a kiss. Their bustling exit to the lift didn’t go unnoticed. Cecile came to console herself on my shoulder; she said the twins crowded her mind.

 

Cecile says:

No wonder the van Armel twins would be incandescent baits; I had bitten to it first-hand, hadn’t I? And the workshop had glowed like embers at the risk of paling the colours of Richter’s piano. I wouldn’t bet all my cookies on the seasoned beau who hired them, so they might also meet some diligent flunkies, in all debauchery. Kate didn’t actually beam nor set her splendid mechanics in motion; when she excused herself, I snitched on her to one of the hunky house goons, so thus she blushed when she returned and called me slut, in a smile.
Leaning on the closed grand piano, I sensed a warm hand rummaging in my bum crack with some gentleness, so I let be. The operator revealed to be some sort of candid geek with faux tortoise glasses frames over pale-fawn eyes. I turned to him and agreed to a long unprofessional kiss while he checked all my buttons.
I must have been personally tracked because in our assigned dull-terracotta velvet room hung two paintings I had primped up for Camille, lively ribald flemish scenes we suspected had been painted by a famous anonymous. To cut short the lecture I was inclined to offer him, he told me to fetch one of the pillows on the oxblood velvet bed, kneel on it and open my mouth wide as he detailed the bedlam of the merrymakers’ crowd on the panels. It suited me fine to debase myself in some whoredom, I would not tell him I was the one who had revived the paintings; I made him spurt and howl like a bona fide aesthete.
Now relieved, he ordered me to pose, mainly so as to offer him my bumhole, but he took his time complimenting all my features; like an unapologetic trull, I peddled all the tricks of my indecent half to his gauche lust, revelling in sensing his moral bolts crack open. My beloved mentors had rightfully convinced me of the convenience of deploying my deliberate seductive manoeuvres in the anonymity of a parlour house —my dear friend Annachiara who whored in Venice while working on and off at a lingerie shop had explained to me that she feared bringing clients to fall for her or become obsessed. As my geek licked my arse fondly, I promised myself to call Annachiara or go along with someone to shop for Italian lingerie. When he tried to force his way in, however, I had to ask him to fetch some lube from the bedside drawer; he was not that savvy, yet. Now he was enthralled looking at what his Peter did, shily pistoning into my bottom as I was lying out spread-eagled for him, at the edge of the bed. I knew what kind of stare would bolster his want and help him not sink into self-conscience, I played bitch like no one would ever know.
But then, he happened to be one of 7S’ workhorses, half boy, half solid state, a candid money wizard; which meant he could trace me at a click. I had better confess my weakness to Camille in case I might hurt her baby who had not seemed all aware I had been for hire. However, like most men, once their balls are drained, he had politely excused himself and returned to whatever screens he lived on.
In the salon, a sylphic nudity I had met somewhere played a hangpan rested upon her crossed legs, on a comfy cushion. After a while of waving into her improvised lullaby, I acknowledged she had been playing at Louis’ country club on the frantic night when we had met Rambling Rose. Her long auburn strands caressed her toyish tits, her slender belly taut as a sack of rice, and her fluttering fingers knitted a fluffy veil of harmonics over the sighs of the continued orgy.
Three new merry beauties, dressed as for a worldly event, were ushered in, and I singled out Mellie Rose, a movie starlet, Phoebe Lane, a reputable porn actress, and a pretty deb with a pearly smile and a weightless skirt, no undies. They ordered champagne. As the etiquette would allow in a bawdy house, I sat next to the shier one and introduced myself offhandedly, soon laying a hand on one dainty knee. Her name was Plum Sybil, said Phoebe Lane as she spoke only Moldovan; she had found her in Prague, on a porn set, she added with a wink. My hand had been sliding up, causing no fuss, and I began to wonder if I could borrow Plum for a trick, while Phoebe seemed at Mellie’s whim.
Things went the best of my wishes when a well-heeled patron recognised the actresses and asked them out; Phoebe looked me up and said I could have my way with Plum, who grabbed nought of the deal as I hitched up her skirts. She had a slightly cockeyed coffee-brown stare, a petal pale complexion and an overall stray expression. She let me disrobe her; she didn’t look like your average Moldovan country girl; her nails were neat, and her feet were soft. She did not resist my kiss and let me wank her kindly. Some fortyish American diplomat who smelled of airport hesperides came to sit aside Plum and asked if he could play with us. He stared at me with endorphin-blue eyes. I seized Plum’s free hand and lay it upon his fly; she knew perfectly what to do. Soon, we walked to the lift; I had gathered her things and left them with a waiter —who profited so to finger my arse behind a curtain, casually.

Mr Steel cornered us in the bronze-coloured mirror-clad lift car, speaking in a funny gibberish Plum anyhow answered to; he would embody that polyglot agent whom I had figured among the worldly gossip in my old magazines, just as smooth-mannered. In the few fleeting seconds, she seemed a bit comforted, and her gaze bloomed in a comely heed which, although it did not address me, clicked a crush on yet another mystery vagrant nugget.
Matter-of-factly, I favoured Mr Steel’s lust for her all the way to a vast deep-purple bed in that faux-malachite painted room with polished mahogany and deep-buttoned padded furniture, the whole like some Victorian sanctuary, under a high dark beamed ceiling and four dimmed Tiffany chandeliers. Our bodies shone like porcelain amidst seaweeds. He sported tanned sinewy shoulders, but he held back his grip. He asked me if I was the antique connoisseur for Ms Stern, and I retorted I was blessed so; he said my Parisian English was all arousing, but it was Plum’s fruit he gnawed on feverishly. Meanwhile, she responded to my kisses like one of those convent boarders locked up till eighteen she certainly wasn’t. She had already wetted the velvet of the bedcover when he presented his considerable weapon at the pearly gates and sheathed it in effortlessly as she cast her feet high up to ease him in deep. I recalled where Phoebe had said they had been coming from. He was a deft swordsman, too; she wriggled and moaned like an otter kitten. He panted when he gushed in her womb, and she grabbed his hips to keep him deep, muttering words I couldn’t gather but sure did not sound plaintive.
As he staked out his whole advantage, he told me to straddle over and show my bum that he smeared again with lube. His spur felt as in the upper average of the condottiere scale, and his gait feline as that of a spadassin taking his time in my guts. Plum had snaked down so as to lick my pearl like I would be Mother Superior. No wonder I reached elation and squirted in my novice’s mouth while the tremours brought our cavalier to another proud discharge.
The bathroom was clad in iridescent forest-green bevelled tiles, the ceiling of aglow stained glass, the floor a graphic whirl of spiralling black and white triangles. The tepid rain poured from a large bronze sunflower. As in most bawdy houses we patronised, there was no tub, only a green marble toilet bowl, a bidet, and a column sink with choice toiletries and perfume miniatures. Mr Steel left us with our hands doing the talking; Plum sussed full well I would take her home; she mimicked that she had no proper bond with the other two, only some sort of free-use agreement she did not complain for.
In all synchronicity, we crossed Sarah in the corridor, weary-eyed, smelling of iris and violet. She needed no explanation as she stole Plum —she loved that name— from my wing to taste her mouth: weren’t we sisters? She said we had tribesgirls who would speak whatever vernacular my pretty catch did; we braced ourselves to confront Mellie and Phoebe, but then it happened they had conveniently deserted; Camille would tell us about her guests.
Plum looked all the happier to come along with us. However weird it might sound, she was nevertheless not a perfect stranger, even if her documents bore another name, Lidia Netosi, of Roma origin, and she had registered a brand new black card, along with her pseudonym. She blushed when I insisted she take all of our gain.
In a taxi jump, we brought her, with her bag, home, and she was exhilarated. Sarah disrobed her and worshipped her feet while I made coffee. It was late, but I thought exotic flappers like Dagmar, Fæbian, or Fanny, might possess enough understanding of Middle-European vernaculars to share beyond cuddling with Plum.
Camille wanted news of the lovely wayfarer she had seen only in a video sent to her by Phoebe. I recounted my windfall tryst with Plum and one of her hi-wired operatives: she laughed and bantered she couldn’t have schemed better, good for me. She had met the pair Mellie and Phoebe at a dishevelled party Natalia had lured her to, so she had reckoned they might dignify Fortunat’s parterre with their libertine swank, as they wouldn’t fear being singled out amidst a handpicked crowd. Plum had not been in the deal, Phoebe had lifted her up on a porn set; she was already a junior asset in Sami’s farm, only she spoke nought other than body language. Camille agreed that if I was so smitten as to foster her, the other wayfarers from the eastern barbary fringes might help her acclimate to our vicinities. Remained that she carried a Moldovan passport, but the 7S Arcana did wonders, so long as it did not camouflage some human trafficking; she would play candidly with her liaisons in the authorities.

Sarah and I took Plum to bed under the God Crow’s homunculus eagerliest gaze than ever; our Gipsy runaway cast Sarah in her box tree thicket mood, and they eventually fell asleep entwined. At Alfred’s call, I didn’t jump up; like all others, the Carpathian Fairy would sit for Cyprien’s unfailing eye, and probably for our sponsors’ collections, whatever music she would hover to. Sarah was smiling against her merely allusive breast, in the scent of the night’s sweats.
I went to make coffee; the stash of langues de chat had been stocked up. I posted a request in the hive’s chatroom about a Gipsy stray princess who spoke only Barbaric, if anyone could help translate her tale, and I mentioned she was gorgeous. She would be sitting all day in the nude in my workshop. I had not yet dipped a half-dozen biscuits that Fanny wrote she would join in the afternoon, and Dagmar said she thought that Fæbian be certainly the most knowledgeable —having been trafficked by a Roma gang long enough— but Dagmar wasn’t assured she would be in Paris.
They emerged, fresh and pampered in sweatsuits and socks, Sarah in light grey with big blue SK patches, Plum in peach fuzz with lime trimmings I had never seen before. Sarah had brushed Plum’s mid-long auburn to give some volume, she was totally smitten.
Before we moved down, Camille had written that Fæbian was on her way to fly in before dinner time and she was eager to help. Plum liked the workshop, and she was intrigued by the bewitching simplicity of the well-tempered clavier. She grabbed at once what was expected of her when Cyprien, bright-eyed, showed her his portfolios, and so she complied easily, letting him manipulate her like she were a precious puppet; she withstood a few forty-five minutes rotations; she could see me touch-up a little portrait of a young lady I couldn’t help somewhat force towards Plum’s kinship traits, which did not escape to Sarah, with some irony.
Dagmar showed up in one of her now signature cashmere jumper dresses that let her mood be seen at whim. Perched on a chair, she also wooed Plum unabashedly, making her wonder in what Faerie she had shored. Master Cyprien adored Dagmar’s long pictural body after the next pause, he begged her to lay behind Plum as a sisterly tableau, which dawdling Gwen happened to admire, along with the chords of Arnold Schoenberg’s Verklaerte Nacht I had wished to play, following Bach.
Fæbian texted from Le Bourget, and Ayla was with her; she had jumped on the flight on a whim, and besides, she might help Plum spin her tale, Sarah already fantasising about a villegiatura in the Zürich house of pleasures, where indeed many Carpathian damsels also spoke sundry vernaculars. She ordered a worthy feast that neither Camille’s brood nor ours would miss, bestowing Plum some unforeseen stardom she could not complain from.
The Swiss libertines had both revelled in the snowscapes with not much of a costume on, poster girls for Engadin. At once, around tea, coffee, and maccarons they had brought, they found words to wring out some story of Plum she let candidly unfurl.
She had been born to a tribe of Roma, that is in the lowest caste of vagrants in the Rumanian ethnicity. Although fate would rarely provide her with only shoes to go begging in city streets, she had been blessed, or doomed, with great beauty that, rumour had it, wasn’t her purported father’s fault; but well before she had any dash of breasts or pubic hair, this one decided to sell her as a virgin bride —an atrocious custom Europe should be ashamed of. Her mother, who could show anyone other than her husband the legs and rump of a ballerina, had a protector in the local police; thus, come what may, she organised Plum’s elopement to Ukraine, Poland, and Czechia, at the unavoidable cost of her virginity but a thin chance to come good where she stood now, after a budding career in Prag porn platforms and the goodwill help of another porn actress, Phobe Lane.
Camille had arrived with Fanny, who understood full well Plum’s ordeal, and also that she might have her family’s henchmen after her, reckoned that her documents were properly done, and she would obtain an entirely untraceable identity, just like her, to what Camille concurred. Everybody was enthralled with the runaway Gipsy, although we concluded she had better forget these origins for some time. Hugo ogled all her rapacious suitors would unveil bit by bit until they all ended in the raw, but, as always, he maintained some modesty under an ikat kaftan and a long white shirt. I knew Sarah and Ayla would bring him Plum in his lair to get further acquainted —if she cared to stay among us. Dagmar was overjoyed to reunite with Fæbian; they chatted endlessly in German. Ayla suggested some of us visit Switzerland, too, to measure up the class of her hencoop Caroline’s compared to these Parisian new clubs she would experiment by herself the next day. Seresine and Natalia came late with weary eyes, they had let themselves be played with at Mendelsohn’s —at a price.

 

Sarah says:

And so we revel in the finicky protocol that rules our Immeasurable Landlord’s court. Hugo was overjoyed to see unforeseen Mistress Ayla, barefoot as us upon his precious rugs. The conjuncture afore His Grace was tiered in sundry manners, and each one foliated as voluptuously as a Syracuse cannoli. It had all started with Cecile’s blistering crush on some harlotry comrade at Camille’s new parlour house. Like herself, the girl sported no special traits, but the serene candour of an as-yet-spared youth put up for hire upon a velvet banquette. And then also, Cecile’s film was mute; the stranded fairy only talked in Volapuk, if in an overwhelming mellow deep tone attuned to her slightly cockeyed black gaze.
Made aware of the situation, the new whimsical empress Camille offered a private flight to our long-time polyglot couch-linguists Fæbian and my own Ayla to make a chink of sense of Plum’s parlance —what a poetic fairy name, coined by actress Mellie Rose, who had first fished her out of the sleazy brooks of show business. Fæbian, a runaway from the heavenly shores of Lake Konstanz, had sadly been trafficked by shady half-gypsy gangs all around Austria, and thus she would gibber some of the middle-European slangs, where Plum seemed to be originated.
As Ayla made out in grand style with Plum for Hugo’s eyes, I played the house girl and served house-made fruit kombucha in fine crystal goblets. I could tell that, under his ample linen shirt, Hugo was wildly aroused. Plum couldn’t tell where she had been born; her oldest remembrances were those of a roadside urchin, the happy, bustled womb of the warm caravan, the spirited pride of a persecuted nation. But long before she began shaping out of a mere twig, she had read the gazes of the brutish males, and of who she knew as her father. Her mother had begun teaching her how much to fear those and probably sowed the ulterior motive of fleeing as soon as she would be tall enough to spit in their eye. It went as far as to let her know there were gadjo-style clothes stacked deep in the cupboard. She saw her sisters and others casually abused by the older men, to no serious reprimand in the group, but when she grasped, eavesdropping on the conversations, the reason why she was more or less spared sexually, that is to keep her a virgin so as to be auctioned as such at the Gipsy festival, her soul froze, she lost her appetite, and she began staring at the waters in the rivers they crossed, waiting for one deep enough to dive in.
Her mother used to take her along panhandling on the sidewalks of country towns because her wild beauty was an incentive to easier give them petty change. Once, she spilt the dirty pebbles for her, telling her deep in her eyes it was time to put on jeans, sneakers, leather jacket and run to a rich gadjo she had known in that town. It had been a thunderstrike down Plum’s spine. That night, when men went to drink out the money they had gathered, she grabbed her bundle, changed herself in a thicket along the road after a cat’s toilet, and headed to the address her mother had taught her.
She couldn’t actually read, but the door plate was well-polished. An impressive woman in a white coat answered, and she repeated what her mother had told her to say. The person led her to some small pristine room like those they build in shop windows for Christmas. She had never sat on such a delicate seat, she reckoned that her jeans were clean enough. Just enough time for her heart to quiet, a jovial white-haired doctor, his white coat open on a dark suit, took her by the hand to his surgery and asked her in Romani who she was and why she was there.
Fearing there wouldn’t be another occasion to speak out her angst, she poured her soul like a storm gully, and he didn’t show any manner of prejudice to it. When she felt she had told the gist of her young life, he kindly said he would play doctor with her, and asked her to disrobe entirely, which she did in anguish, all the more that she wasn’t so proud of her overworn underwear. She had never seen a doctor, she hardly knew the word. She underwent the palpations and the cold thrill of the stethoscope just like her worst sexual fears, and however, even after he lay her on the examination table, asked her to spread her legs open and swiftly looked at her coochie, nothing weird happened to her. Nothing more than thoughtless fondling while he explained she was in perfect health and also complimented her on her good teeth. When her boyish jeans were back on, he asked to see her bare feet, and she too had sussed there was nought medical about it.
Doctor Solomon invited her to dinner with roast chicken and potatoes in a precious dining room with Chinese lacquer screens and soft-coloured paintings. He explained that since she was so young, she couldn’t stay more than a few days, after which one of his friends would drive her to some place west, as an unofficial au pair in a family where she would learn a Gadjo language, supposedly.

The doctor, seeing that she almost dozed upon her slice of cherry pie, had led her to a bedroom all of her own where she woke, still numb, all nude under the comforter, not sure what had happened or where she was, but she needed the loo. The room was daffodil yellow, and the light was softened by chutes of white veils; she found the first bathroom she ever saw, all of white earthenware with what she figured out was a toilet bowl, and she giggled at the silly noise her pee made, then daring to press the flush button.
For the very first time, she saw herself full-length in the mirror, and she liked that. She remembered her mother had insisted, the day before, on washing her head and cutting her toenails.
She jolted when she realised the doctor stood there, in shirtsleeves, eyeing her whole with a cute smile; she showed him some dance moves like she had seen her elders do. He sat on the tub’s edge and asked her if she wanted to take a bath, letting the waters all out, testing its warmth on the back of his hand, then sowing perfumed salts into the flow, causing a cloud of lather she stepped into. He rubbed her with a big sponge, massaged every crease of her softened skin, wanking her kindly, wondering if she was so much of a virgin, anyhow. Holding the showerhead, he told her to tilt her head back for shampoo and a new haircut. He could not see her weep out of elation.
He gave her a marigold yellow bathrobe and watched her savour her toasts with apricot jam and coffee; raising her leg, she let him knead her toes under the table. He said she would go shopping with the maid for whatever she could carry along. They spoke about the nonsense of that custom of selling virgin brides, he offered to make disappear once and for all that possibility in her coochie, not for his own sake, whatsoever. So, in the meantime, she followed the maid in the best stores, dressed in her tomboy outfit, her hair in a bun under a cap, and snazzy sunglasses, to buy brand names underwear, tee shirts and two other sets of modern clothes that gipsy girls wouldn’t wear.
After lunch in town and an afternoon trying on her new looks, the doctor took her to his surgery and, after complimenting her tastes, gave her a full lecture on sexual matters, with photos and diagrams, asking if she was ready to do over with that virginity detail many women went without anyhow —I concurred on that point. He told her to undress and lay on the examination table, legs spread while she looked at the chandelier. She felt a little sting in her labia, then nothing at all, and that was it. He told her to keep a sanitary pad for the night. While they were at it, he inserted in place a contraceptive implant, telling her to go to the family planning in three years to replace it and not worry about having any more periods.
We confirmed it had been a wise decision. She reckoned it had saved her from a lot of useless hassles, and she thought her mother would agree. That night, after sausages and peas, they watched television together; she was seated on his lap, in her knickers, no trace of bleeding —even when she went to the loo— he fondled her nigh flat chest endlessly in front of a series of music videos she needed not understanding. The doctor never dropped his trousers down, she dozed out in his arms.
Two days later, a young Czech man came to drive her to Prague. It would be twelve hours through the Hungarian Puszta, but they would sleep in some highway motel halfway. She had a new ID
with a portrait photo the doctor had taken of her with his telephone among a batch of nude ones she had let him take carelessly. She wore slim black jeans, a red number twenty-three tee shirt under a black and red tartan shirt, and black chucks. The doctor hugged her fondly when they left the apartment.
Her driver of a silver Audi was Jiri, and he hardly spoke Romani, but he showed he liked her a lot. They had some borders to cross, but there were few chances her elopement had been declared. They listened to some cool-pop playlist, and he bought her chips and Coke; she checked her pad, and there was no blood. They stopped at an all-new motel near Bratislava, she ate spaghetti and meatballs and chocolate ice cream; Jiri was fond of watching her eat, and she was hitting on him wildly. The room was minimal and clean, and the TV played MTV; before the end of the first song they were undressed, and they shagged like no tomorrow, but again in the morning.
In Prague, Jiri lived in a fifth-floor apartment with a view of Saint Nicholas Tower. Before dinner, they screwed again wildly, and so again after a quick burger and Coke. She craved the way he looked at her, and she adored who she had become; it felt like Doctor Solomon had given permission to a lifelong vindication, free rein for a windfall lovemaker extraordinaire to transmogrify the dirty panhandler into a beaming sex bomb.

I still saw and listened to Ayla’s embodying Plum’s funny mishmash of a parlance with the same fascination she had exerted over me since that first breakfast on the Swiss lakeshore when I had pranced in the school’s canteen with my purported Newyorkese prestige. I could still sense my pulse against the braided bracelet she —a pretty tanned pipsqueak at the time— had derisively ensnared me with and which had worn away a wink too soon, hadn’t it?
Hugo keenly recorded the whole precious rant, taking Plum’s healthy glow as a token that her tale wouldn’t sour in a moment. Had her fate sustained its course one or two more seasons —my Far would have supported her farther than she had figured— Ayla would have become a powerful therapist, instead of a high-flyer escort guru, but, as thus, she had, willy-nilly, encompassed the dispassionate Swiss regulation for sex work to the betterment of innumerable lost souls, bigotry be damned.
The weather had been fair over Prague’s roofs; Jiri remained heedful and breathable, never indulging in fits of mansplaining towards the however forbidden sex doll he had a torrid affair with. He nevertheless came to avow the truth of his social whereabouts, he showed Plum the porn videos he produced, directed, or acted in. Candidly aroused, she asked him if she wasn’t as attractive as the models in the videos, and she asked him to show her anal sex like most of them seemed to relish.
He told her that, instead of a bleak au pair position in a conventional household, earning merely enough to buy a pair of knickers a month, but fed and lodged while she learned Czech, she could, given the sensuous capital he believed she owned, make a minister’s earnings in a day of shagging for paying voyeurs. But he told her it supposed a whole background of precautions, in short, the requisites of establishing a black card for her, with regular check-ups and all necessary vaccines; no more of the risks he had induced her to take with him in their sexcapade.
Although he could not resist giving her, at once, a taste of anal sex, he played fair in that he went with her to the medical appointments necessary for constituting the files of her vademecum pass, and it took her a heap of attention to believe there were so many evils out there avid to breach into her bloodstream and tissues. Thankfully, the nurse who extracted her blood samples was of Roumanian descent and took her hand to alleviate her fears, and she made no comments as to her obvious young age.
During the necessary delays, they did not quiet their incessant lovemaking, Plum was hooked on reproducing the prowesses in the videos, and Jiri could show her the seemingly innumerable crowds of models, a good many trained dancers from Russia, in the ceaselessly renewed exercise of the same routine by different bodies and expressions. Enthralled in the carnal game she had just only discovered, she could not suspect further manipulations of her soul; she had been raised in the wilderness and the grime, in a hostile world they cursed daylong.
Jiri invited one of his long-time accomplices, a gorgeous slender woman he had known as a high-school dropout, his first so-to-speak muse in the shady business of porn. Her usual name was Cloee; she had that disarming cornflower-blue gaze and a dainty frame, all the more when she had acted with Jiri before the legal age; he had foretold her she would fall for Plum, bigly. If only to show some precedence in lasciviousness, she unclothed at once for Plum’s eyes, onto the bed where she lay spent and engaged in lesbian conversation. Plum was new to such commerce, but she had seen scenes in Jiri’s videos; she let Cloee guide her, and it was plain easy, delectable. She gained a Gadji big sister whom she knew would never betray her. They lived a fusional moon which facilitated public apparitions, if any. With mostly automatic GoPro cameras, they shot their best canoodling and edited a short video to post on Jiri’s private news. His buddies warned him he frankly skimmed borderline paedophilia, so he kept Plum on the back burner, but once she had been vetted for good, she followed Cloee and him on the shooting sets where she revelled in the trouble she spawned among the lurking testosterone freaks, and Cloee lured her in behind-the-scenes monkey business that became proverbial with Jiri’s entourage, unaffecting his desire for Plum whom he found all the more desirable when she reeked of the boys’ semen, and Cloee had known that.
Because Plum, who progressed beautifully in Czech, longed to make her own money, Cloee showed her how to advertise her skills in chatrooms she knew of, and how to sell tricks in a vacant apartment she would rent in cash, anonymously. It went smoothly for a whole season until someone tipped Jiri he was under watch because of her, and thus they decided she should move to a house in Leipzig with discreet outbuildings where Cloee and her churned out highly lucrative routines for another season until she followed Phoebe, whom she had met in the brothel’s nooks, to Paris, taking a romantic night train from Berlin to Paris, where Mellie, a friend of Camille’s took them to Fortunat where Cecile had a crush on Plum.

I saw the dilemma coming up between carousing at Ayla’s Zürich bombonnière or settling in our buzzing hive she had yet only visited a small fraction of. I devised that a promise we would visit Caroline’s, along with Plum, in the lilacs’ season, would justify Ayla’s impromptu flight of which Hugo was overjoyed —certainly as much as whoever peeped on the jet’s cameras.
We left Ayla with her old faithful acquaintance Hugo and climbed back up, where Cecile sulked, drinking coffee with Dagmar, who missed Fæbian she had merely seen yet. They were relieved to see us back. All of us nude on a sofa, we retold them the gist of Plum’s adventures. Our madchen went emotional about the house in Leipzig where they had plied the trade offhandedly with some word-of-mouth acclaim. I craved it when Dagmar thought of herself as a whore; I burrowed my nose into her blond thighs while Cecile pulled Plum and her amorous translator Fæbian to the God Crow’s altar.
Ayla was on a mission; she snuggled us up in the comforter while Alfred sang out his belly full of seeds and worms. She was on to bring Plum to see the almighty as to her becoming. Since the ugly catastrophe with Esther, Ayla remained a regarded conduit in Melchior’s so private affairs, which was firstly her main competence, obviously. She wouldn’t dare barge into Cecile’s room, but that one was another early bird, only she usually snuck down to her workshop.
And yet, we wouldn’t budge, and she became curious about whom I was hugging. Ayla always owned the gift of waking up princesses. She uncovered the long slim dreamer and knew she would need the loo. If one could brag of connoisseurship in damsels, it was the lady of Caroline’s. She sensed an ancient efflorescence of craquelures on her soul’s sheen in Dagmar’s first gaze, as she sat before her, innocently peeing. She behaved matter-of-factly, and Dagmar sussed her kind recoil; I revelled in watching her approach an angel of redemption without flustering the morning harmony; we had lived a languorous trip of a night, I would suppose the same in her.
Probably not comparable to ours, Cecile had nonetheless stuffed her closets with a resourceful wardrobe at each of her escapades, whenas she beautifully wore casual as she worked. Fæbian had played doll with Plum, making her wear maroon and black aslant wide-striped satin pyjamas, herself in a raspberry sweatsuit embroidered with a splatter of wildflowers across the chest. Both went barefoot like they were in the mood to return to bed soon. But the rumour of the Gypsy girl had flown, and first, Adèle and Rose came up to fondle her feet, for want of spoken words. Plum was enthralled with what she was welcome to discover in Rose’s black twill blouse. Nobody contested we would all acquaint ourselves more fluently au naturel in the water, and thus we climbed down to the subterranean realm, not all at once in the lift car.
As if it were a matter of convincing a penniless runaway that our nursery was an appurtenance of the earthly paradise, we all boasted pride in the innumerable amenities we had free disposal of. It would take some time in her street urchin’s soul to own up that all this was real. On the upper level, the dancers had been practising for good with their black muscular coach with a persuasive tone of voice; they smelled of fresh hay, and they invited Plum to follow them to the dance floor, where they dared her to join in their improvisation. Off with the pyjamas, Gypsy Belle showed how they fired it up on the river bank with her cousins when the lads were looking elsewhere; now she wooed the coach, and it worked; she earned compliments on her supple loins and her firm balance. They tried a trio on some Steve Reich ostinato that first spooked Plum until she saw what they did of it and she responded with her idiosyncrasy that left us speechless. There was a lot of rizz in this narrow rump, said the coach, who was from Baltimore.
It lasted a few suspended minutes, and Josephine hugged her, in a volte, then led her downstairs to the pool, into which we all jumped with a big splash. And here came the TRÆVIX kittens in their diverse genres, to what I would think Plum did not know frankly what to think but did not show any sign of worry. As they happened to swim nearby, I enlaced Apolline and told them That Plum would probably be slightly spooked by their transnature, the quicksilver whirls of the element we floated in made it easier to acknowledge and feel even without the reasoned words we use to play down the queerness in the first encounters. The most eloquent object lesson be to embrace our unarguably suave, forever middlescent neighbour amidst us, with offhanded foreplay if not much more were to expect. I knew Apolline by heart as a peerless kisser, and Plum could see their kindly impromptu went unnoticed amidst the watery bustle.
Still enthralled by her windfall affair with Sasha, and probably some affective diplomacy with The reigning Aviatrix, Delff, who was TRÆVIX’s house fairy, had not yet been apprised about my unforeseen wildfowl catch.

After we dried ourselves, and Apolline was welcome to hang on with Plum and me, we climbed up to fetch some easy sweatsuits. Plum dug up a maroon oversized top, with marigold yellow trousers, Apolline snatched a sage green stretch velvet ensemble that let frankly guess their tootle, and I donned an ash-grey suit with a large sapphire blue patch “S” aslant across the chest. We rummaged through the slipper drawer to make up mismatched pairs. Plum revelled in Apolline’s cuddles, she had wiped off any manner of preconception.
We returned downstairs in merry humour and walked across the gym, with Fæbian and Dagmar, to the underpass leading to TRÆVIX palace, and Apolline did the honours of yet another grandiose decor —after Hugo had bedazzled her on sundry couches in the nifty nooks of his lair. The grand salons were tidied up and smelled of pomander; scarlet amaryllis trumpeted in silver vases, the precious golden timepiece rang like tinker bell in the Zuber merryland.
Michelle had just done an hour of cardio intensive and taken a prairie-fragrant shower with Trine, her pet nymphet who wore nought under the sky-blue tee shirt embroidered with what looked like a Tibetan musical score. The large screens in front of the cantilever main console with Michelle’s attached seat flickered as ever like a Las Vegas billboard gone awry; only, the mastermind running the machine did not look in the least like a prankster,
behind her gold-mounted crystal spectacles. However, she was a sweet loving demiurge on the polyamorous planet she had spawned; with her piercing stare, she embraced Plum while I let Fæbian do the go-between in their pas de trois, and there were hand games and deep stares.
That fille de rien I had picked up on a brothel banquette worked wonders in our multiverse, with the flair of a seasoned courtesan who wouldn’t interfere in Michelle and Trine’s obvious bond, but let Michelle’s hand slide into her pants. I found it smarter at the moment to lead Trine away to another place and make out with her on some sofa; I knew full well she wouldn’t be jealous of Plum whatever they did, everybody did with Michelle, at her whim.
After a station in Louis’ most extravagant quarries, hosting guests, in the nude, on a landing mid-stairs, behind a delicate Bugatti desk, where she had learned to shiver in the concupiscent gaze of debauchers on their way to a subterranean orgy, below the deep shade of an unspoiled forest. But yet, I suppose it had been Trine’s indefectible candour that had let her share Michelle’s secretive company.
Although we kept making out heatedly, she made me recount the appearance of the Aviatrix among our easy-living troupe. I recalled the epic mishap at Hector’s —Kate’s mentor, the most extravagant finance wizard in Paris, whose bunker across the Eiffel Tower sheltered our deviant pastimes— when we exfiltrated Michelle from the tech burrows where he had assaulted her uninvited. We had instantly bonded with the four-eyed cherub, whom we had nicknamed the Aviatrix because of her clear Aviator Ray-Bans.
Our most precious souvenir was when she headstrongly set camp in our studio “behind the red sofa”, on a futon she had ordered, next to our connection wall socket she had tweaked to befit her needs. Of course, we took tender turns pulling down her sweatpants; she already smelled of our Geranium-Orange from Neal’s Yard Remedies she had found in the studio’s bathroom; we agreed as to which radio to plug while working. Alfred and we weren’t yet so intimate.
Trine revelled in the details of the legendary blonde geek, we agreed she would write the book. Between fits of licking one another’s petals, she explained how she had adapted to the new life on the silent control room floor, studying languages and the gist of computer science on a powerful laptop her lover had concocted for her, with sessions of workout in the gym and the pool, and dreamy carnal parentheses. Every other day, Michelle thought she should practice her English with handpicked lawyers from next-door offices —and she had tested most of the clean-looking ones.
Trine was a happily fulfilled pet girl. The two slender mädchen, after their somersaults on another sofa, had keenly listened to the legend episodes of the house lady. Trine suggested we go downstairs for a bite in the Lee JinJee room. Time to warm up some nibbles; and the impeccable black suit servants displayed a few platters of golden delicacies, unfazed serving four beauties in the buff —they had already shagged each of us in their overtime. Trine remained on my lap; she was as light as Ayla had been in our blessed Saint Loup days.
Dagmar cried in her napkin; an overload of bliss woke the thorny black critters on the murky path of her childhood. In smooth German, Fæbian consoled her, swearing she would spend days listening to her. In these moments, Dagmar cast unfathomable glares. Trine wanted me to hug her all the tighter.

Michelle and Plum joined us, they smelled of a meadow next spring, and Plum was beaming under Michelle’s thoughtful smile. My runaway windfall came to sit next to us and groped Trine ever so gently, mumbling some shreds of a song. Then she showed peckish, too, and gleaned puffed nibbles here and there, asking Fæbian if it would be vegan, too. I think Fæbian answered she would be surprised, though. She moved to their side: she was fascinated by Dagmar, who could make her laugh.
Apolline came up, and then Natalia, arm in arm with Sofia, who complimented on our perfect outfits. Apolline did not pull off her knickers. A white jacket boy had brought the samovar cart along. Plum went to sit on Fæbian’s lap, it seemed together they had cobbled up some funny gibberish, making liberal use of their hands.
Delff and Sasha came on a grapevine hunch, bright-eyed and sharp, Sasha overjoyed to see all of us again; wearing a deep purple sweatsuit with five silver stars embroidered on the left side of the chest. Delff, as usual, tight-fitted in a light buttercup gold-threaded silk suit and a flimsy white tee shirt which gave me urges to tinkle on her abs. They connived with Michelle about some already threading online affinity, and Sasha beamed like a Botticelli.
For all I knew of Michelle, she was delighted with our affectionate gathering, but she winked at me, murmuring there were so many girls, taunting me to retort that she had troupes of devoted hunks in voice reach, hadn’t she? In the meantime, Cecile and Charlotte had had a busy day at Mendelsohn’s; Charlotte said Zev was worth a whole platoon by himself, and Cecile had had to earn Armand’s complacency to open a few more closets in the mansion; all in all, she was fulfilled with their day, if not so to say expired; they still had the stamina to woo the new wayfarer, after a cup of tea.
Matthew and consorts had put on hold whatever exegesis of the jurisprudence they had been polishing for the firm and reported for the suavest of duties, given who had placed the call.
Pulling a chair behind us, Matthew mumbled that it had been long since he had seen Trine au naturel apart from her mistress, to what we simpered like Ziegfeld daisies while Michelle, who had turned to Sasha and Delff, told him not to fawn girls like a bad boy. Taking advantage of the hustle and bustle stirred by the happening of the top TRÆVIX crew whom the girls’ chorus hurried unbuttoning, we pulled Matthew to the next salon, where we found some soft sofa corner to frolic in.
Since the hectic days when Michelle and us had set camp at the far end of a corridor upstairs at 60 Hudson Street, Matthews had dedicated himself body and soul to Camille and Michelle’s operation, and I had been overjoyed to find myself a goodwill extra in that becoming realm. Now it looked like he had tanned in the buff somewhere liberal; his pubic curls gleamed of paradise blond. It wouldn’t be my turn, though, as he devoured Trine’s gracile body with maddened gazes. I was all too well greedy not to help; he was handling her like a bunch of lilies, as I knew what a pretty consummate floozie she was, at heart. He was an even-tempered ploughman, he awaited her chosen gait while savouring her mouth, so I felt pointless there.
But one detail had not slipped my mind if I were swift enough. I knew my way through the commons, and to fetch the new samovar boy, no one could take offence to see me dawdle, again in the raw, into their workplace. The cook and an older butler looked the other way when I hit on him like a puss in heat and drew him to that vacant vestiary next to the guest restroom. I understood he wouldn’t shun a windfall, he kissed like a mad puppy. Even before he had finished his interior design commission on Michelle’s orders, Gauthier had shown me in practice what he had thought such a cosy vestibule would be convenient for. The boy’s name was Javier, he had smooth cinnamon skin and a bustling spear of a toy to play with. He had probably escaped from some cruise ship and was gentle-mannered; he smelled of Zanzibar soap. He laid spread like a gigolo on the rose and gold damask sofa, letting me tinker with his nigh bald appendages, not losing a drop onto the cushion silk, and he tasted like weed raw sap. He looked like thanking me, but he wanted more and made me stand down on all fours on the carpet, at once repaying me the favour of a skilled tongue. I revelled in what proved to be a lucky strike —with indeed some lustful prospects in the place— when he took possession of my drenched coochie like a real tropical swashbuckler, I slid into a magnificent crisis, and we joined together in a ticklish burst of carnal embers.
I led him to the bathroom next door, and we pampered each other in the shower as I promised myself to come back for more. In the main salon, the orgy was upbeat, bar the Queen and her trans minions who had probably retired to the command room. Trine jumped at me, eager to know where I had obviously gone to shag someone.

I texted our hostess to laud her exquisitely diligent samovar boy in chosen terms. In a swift answer, she agreed heatedly, so I knew the boy had already earned a position among the TRÆVIX beauties. It appeared that Plum and Fæbian had bonded beyond the mere chat; they were heartfully serving a couple of muscular attorneys and had found a common language to appraise the performances. I felt like doing thus, along with Dagmar, who had cast a nonchalant glance my way. She told me a team of frustrated tax wizards had exhausted her in every manner possible, with manners; I relished licking her tepid slits, and then we snuck out for a swim with the dance room crew.
Dagmar is a great person to sleep together with, all the more after such a boundless carnal expenditure. The house was serene, and Alfred was spirited; insensibly, we initiated the day in German, and I relished her peculiar accent, deliciously more restrained than her practical French or English —for she had followed Fanny’s educated example and Natalia’s quickwit oversight; she had shown the best of dispositions becoming a lettered courtesan. She mocked me staring at her in that shabby bluish oversized singlet, her skin still miraculously honey-toned from whatever escapade she might have surreptitiously flown away to.
Before I would wonder where Plum might have crashed, after the flamboyant corps-à-corps we had admired her in, Fæbian and her yawned their way out of the vacant Fayelle’s room, asking me for some rags to put on; I gave Fæbian a beautifully faded bluish and white horizontal-striped marinière, and a raspberry cream long tee shirt for Plum, thus we all looked like a family vacation cliché. There was enough pain brioché to bake French toast in my manic manner, with brown sugar and seedless raspberry jam. The big pumpkin Yiking teapot was all too happy to serve some Taiwan’s Oriental Beauty; no one requested coffee.
Dagmar kept her quarters in TRÆVIX’s attics floor, so she ran to dress for school in time. Plum and Fæbian relished my recounting the tryst with the samovar boy; they decided they would spend their day in the studio, laying at my feet on the unrolled futon, finding their words on a tablet —or making out all their fill. We did not need any more clothes.
I texted Fanny begging her to see my gipsy wayfarer. She retorted that was all gipsies are, of all times, but she could ask at her old school that Plum be cared for and taught proper gadjo. She would see us in the afternoon: she brought macarons from Zenia’s, a new budding salon in rue Monsieur Le Prince. Once hung her pricey cream coat and her black and white slanted-striped alpaca scarf onto the parrot coat hanger, she kicked her natural suede Chelsea boots and jumped beside the nigh naked harlots on the red printed flannel tucked futon. She wore a short rosewood wool crepe shirt dress and rib-knit cashmere vanilla tights she could obviously not keep on long.
Amidst the gentle shenanigans of which I could relish three pairs of insolent feet, Fanny, helped by Fæbian who visibly craved her, explained roughly what she came from in a Mittel-European mish-mash that Plum found convincing. Visibly, she wondered if a Roma runaway would abide to settle in, be it in our luxurious way of life, but I couldn’t nose out an ulterior motive in her. And anyhow, didn’t we all live in fortresses?
After they splashed one another under the shower, they smelled of the Aviatrix’s preferred Geranium-Orange fragrance, and I could embrace a good once our Venetian foundling who said she ought to run home. Plum was proud of all the talking about her own fate, and Fæbian had seen all there is to a lone pretty girl’s life on the road. I had kept to my seat while they had gambolled like fawns; now I was aroused like a Messalina, and I proposed we go have dinner and more at Speck.
I dolled them up like rich debutantes, Fæbian in a ruffled Chantilly shirt, kinky slit white silk tights and white suede Maryjanes, Burgundy nails, fingers and toes; Plum in a mauve layered muslin waistless dress a tad too short, rose holdup stockings, black patent leather flats with strass clips, and deep purple nails. I fetched out a night blue silk velvet shirt, matched stockings and black suede Chelsea boots, black lacquered nails. I opened the fantaisie jewels drawer, gave Plum an amethyst choker and bracelet, three strands of white pearls for Fæbian, and deep blue velvet for me, with a strass studded bee clasped on it. Fæbian and I are used to underlining our gazes and lips and also warming up our city girls’ pallor with blush, for Plum, whose pointed chin and oriental eyes caught the attention brashly enough already, but our amateur savoir-faire showed her a persona she hadn’t yet dreamt of and that she burned to put in use.
Fæbian preferred the masculine fragrances in Colognes, shrouding the complexity of frankincense in veils of hesperides; Plum went for some Florentine powdery iris and tuberose in full-strength extract, that made her an intriguing aventurière; I set for an ambiguous Londonish neroli.

When we touched hands with the majordome Udo, I wasn’t sure Plum had grabbed what other sort of venue Speck was, although I had flushed her in a bona fide parlour house. But the unsaid rule in the grand usher’s eye was a delegation of the Droit de Seigneur in his secretive little red velvet nook. Telling Fæbian to come show herself upstairs, I held Plum’s hand to the far end of the vestibule. I wasn’t sorry to watch my pretty urchin comply with the greying man’s whim as he also revelled in being watched.
He kissed both of us, rummaging in our scant outfits; he was one to like flat chests. All too glad he had us both, he told me to sit on the small desk and make her lick my willing gash, while he found hers disposed to a swift bounty ride. He wisely chose to spaff into a kerchief, letting her, like me, appropriately moist for our clientèle.
She wasn’t bothered the least; in the lift, she slid her hand on my coochie and swiftly sniffed it up.
Nonetheless, we were a tad famish, and the buffet was abundant. The backstreet sparrows were already pecking and giggling in the most transparent attire. I introduced Plum as a wayfarer who spoke only Moldo-walaque Roma only Fæbian might have heard of. Dorothy let her hands do the talking and earned the appropriate answer; her tight buttocks in the black lace needed no spoken words.
Although she looked like one of the Lake Constance well-bred mädchen, Fæbian was a seasoned courtesan and soon had flushed out a pair of eager clubmen who did not fear fondling her nether belly openly until she agreed to follow them upstairs. I kept Plum up close, even when that tuxedoed salt-and-pepper dilettante offered her his arm in sundry parlances. I dared retort it should be us two, albeit he paid for one, for I liked to watch. He looked up in my shirt and embraced us both; I sussed he was some bigwig psycho-wizard in Berlin; it stirred some mixed memories in Dahlem.
Another room on the fourth floor with a majestic green William Morris acanthus motive carpeting, oak-panelled walls, and exposed dark beams ceiling. The hip-height square maroon stitched velvet-clad bed was inviting, as were the à la Reine armchairs and settee upholstered in floral petit point tapestry that did not show how many spurts of jizz they had been blessed with in the course of lustful ages. Dr Müller told me to undress entirely and sit, legs parted in one of the armchairs, enticing me to wank gently my dewy clit. Meanwhile, he took off Plum’s flimsy dress but liked the thigh-high stockings with a lace swath, bent her back on the bed’s edge and nosed as a connoisseur in her holy brook, vaguely moaning.
In Berlinerisch, he told me to come undress him while he fondled Plum’s thighs, then slid off her stockings to gnaw at her toes. Once in his silk black socks, he told me to climb and straddle her mouth with my muschi. He held her ankles high and tried to force his way into her bumhole, thus I told him in my best Schweizerdeutsch to fetch some Swiss Navy in the bedside drawer; he looked up at me, and I nodded towards the place he would find what Mother Nature would never provide. Once he grabbed the wordplay, he gave me a stare I was proud of, while Plum savoured my labia; I explained to who earned his living like Sigmund lecturing anxious damsels on their sex life how to smear Plum’s willing playhole with enough gel to insert three fingers, then his dignified phallus on all its length. She was no virgin back there; he could bugger her with all the ardour he fostered. I guessed his previous flings had devised some manner to prepare themselves, but what about a candid patient too pretty to be spared? After he gushed with demonstrative huff-and-puff, he did not consider Plum’s mood and went straight to the shower, out of his socks. He re-dressed in a sleight that let me guess he did more than once in a day’s practising. He left a few big-figure Euros and pilfered the bottle of Swiss Navy —I knew where the stash would be.
The bathroom was a blue rapture; all walls were clad in sundry patches of salvaged azulejos, and the floor in opus incertum of bluish slate slabs; even the toilet fixtures were white earthenware decorated in Delft blue. Plum relished that sensitive decor, and I strived in the tepid flow to repay the blissful instant she had licked me. Pampered and perfumed anew, thanks to our pocket phials, we returned arm in arm to the salon after leaving a meaningful tip for the cleaner staff.
Plum was happy like a snazzy courtesan, and I guessed eager to discover the different bedrooms. Around puffs and nibbles, Dorothy recounted her john, a military buff, had made her circle around in harness with a horse tail in her butt and a bit in her mouth, wishing he could have special fetish boots made for her. Anyhow, he was mounted like a donkey and had toiled fiercely to make her exult intensely. She begged for a turn with Plum in pairs, and I let them go for it, they already let their hands do the talking.

I agreed they made up for a rich ticket if the post-dinner johns felt like affording it. As for myself, I dawdled among the gawkers in black suits, showing enough of my swaying buttocks, a glass of peach fizz in hand. Some old fogey played a cool romance on the muffed piano. Unsurprisingly, some virile hand seized one of my butt cheeks and tickled my jacksy like it was his own. It was my returning Admiral, and I let him play for show.
We had a room on the second floor, with greenish crown-glass windows opening on the backyard. The walls were hung with teal blue crushed velvet, the cornices and the sunray ceiling were white gold leaf, and a reverse-dome crystal chandelier glimmered faintly, creating a sort of winter fantasy. A large naturalistic painting depicted a swan making an impression, another one some faerie castle in the moonlight with a white many-horn stag at the door; I was disrobed in no time to prance about on the greyly silk rugs. My white moustachioed mock uncle took his time in the tall-back silver leaf armchair, detailing all the traits he craved in me, not just my feet. Then he beckoned me to kneel on a convenient cushion between his parted legs. His trousers were cut in the finest wool twill, and his fly had horn buttons.
His dick was a genial returning horse to me, loaded with bravery, and I licked the clear drop of syrup on the eyelet of its glans before mouthing it frankly, letting him hold and hump my head unfettered, sensing it would come good, affrettando. He watched me duly swallow his meagre spoonful like they made me with cod liver oil eons ago; all ageing Admirals have something Danish to me. He pulled me up and told me to pretend I slept across the bed, so he could touch me at his fantasy. That was what he did best as if there would be some manner of electrical induction out of his hands. He said nought, but I spaced out willingly as he softly tried all my joints and my bliss buttons and tidily anointed my slits. Then he lay alongside my back and pulled my leg up to ease into my tewel like a valiant sailor, bantering that this was the most cosy little cove. He rammed in ever so deftly without sweating but calling me names in the shell of my ear, wanking my hooded pearl so skillfully that I climaxed just before him.
The bathroom was clad in rustic glazed greenish sandstone tiles, with a large tin bathtub both of us fitted in not caring our time. He was making me feel beautiful.
Like a bona fide military man, he was all dressed while I still lagged in the buff. He asked to kiss my arse one last time, and he fled. And before I gathered myself together to come down, a seemingly butler in a black suit rushed inside the room and pushed me against the wall in a fit of rage. That was one of those black-eyed, long-lashes oriental animals that sluts like us exasperate, a panther that devoured my mouth before I could think of resisting him. I asked him if he would rape me, he said no with a cute levantine accent, but I would serve him like all the men in the house, like a covetted whore, wouldn’t I?
I stopped resisting him and looked up, for he was worth it, and worthy of me, too. I had not yet paid attention, but he had watched me. He pushed me face down on the bed, holding my wrists in my back while he emptied the lube where he aimed at to releasing his rage. I heard his belt buckle fall with his trousers, and then I sensed a much bigger calibre forcing inexorably into my guts, like a Cossack. He knew I was coming again and that made him gush deep in my rumps, jolting and panting. Then, arrogantly, he turned me over and ordered that I suck him clean, the acme of lewd while our juices dripped down my thighs. He was still stiff while he buckled up; he stared at me and joshed there would be other fillies to ride before morning. He dared me to say I hadn’t liked our surreptitious little sparring bout. I returned bravely to pamper myself before going back to the parade salon.
Adèle was dancing with Plum, nude with stockings, to an exaggeratedly slow “Tea For Two” elegantly driven by a young black pianist in a white tee shirt and tuxedo. Plum’s word salad and her swaggering attitude won her all hearts; her guise of a black-eyed, dark-haired honey complexion slender foolhardy nymphet wouldn’t tell of any origin whatsoever, only a gem of wandering genes, secured in time against the woes, in Faerieland. Anyhow, when a bald, stilted character became an inapposite nuisance, she waved him off decisively in that kind of slang every girl speaks intuitively.
Soon after, our supreme posse intuited we had done enough —although we might be aroused courting some new palatable floozies for ourselves— so we headed for the backstreet sparrows’ perch. I could tell everyone was content with the loot; I recounted my free trick with the Levantine rapist, in a manner that made the sisters secretly wet. Obviously, Lauritz had emulated Hugo’s lodging scheme for appealing wayfarers, and I ushered in a new night along with Dorothy and Carine.

In the morning, Adèle and Rose had snuck out; it might have been a school day, in my guess. The apartment smelled of pomander, and also, next to the bathroom, an Asian woman was ironing some laundry with lavender steam —not coy about seeing us stroll about, nigh naked— but a subtler scent hovered in that open living room, a girly animality that I had revelled in for breakfast at Saint Loup.
Foreseeably, Lauritz popped in with a box of fresh pastries and a new face, Daphne de Rhuys, in full Ibiza bloom, a tad daunted, albeit none of us raised a brow. Nought of her looks denoted where Lauritz had fished her out from, and he had taken time to groom her back to a natural attitude, whatever glint might flutter in her thistle-blue eyes.
Unthinkingly, I pulled a chair for her between Plum and me, close enough to cuddle her arm. She had delicate hands, freshly manicured in some starred hotel she had followed Lauritz to, and she wore a brand-new gold band ring with a bezel-set aquamarine cabochon. Her off-white cotton piquet tank dress was short enough so I could see her white knickers on a rounded pubis; a golden peach fuzz gleamed on her slender thighs; she was in all the same species of this thicket’s band of tits, and her body language led to think she would swiftly bind along seamlessly; that was Lauritz’ design, wasn’t it? Once it was all set with the flock that Daphne could lodge in one of the spare rooms, he called for her bags to be brought in, but there was an unmissable servitude to abide firstly, in Cecile’s well-tempered emporium. Fæbian felt in love with the sunlight in the birdscote, and the three of them; she decided to stay, or go together with them shopping for fineries or shoes.
It was a fair day, Plum, Daphne, and I sat at the back while Lauritz watched us from the front seat. It was a short ride, however, enough for Plum’s hand to slide up the new vagabond’s legs while I explained what manner of wayfarer she was beyond her weird parlance. She willingly let herself be done; she smelled of a dry pathway through the scrubland, with helichrysum, sage, and rockrose, and she let her head be jolted over my shoulder so that I could kiss her gracile neck.
We found Cecile busy with petty chores, her hair tied in a kerchief and her hands in big work gloves. She had known we were coming with a new Lauritz foundling he had not sent her photos of, to enjoy her surprise. In a wink, she transformed into a comely hostess in sand bourette wide-legged trousers fitted to set off her witty butt, and a tan jersey tank top that moulded her timid breasts; she wore new grey suede monogrammed slippers. The ultimate sound system softly diffused Bach’s piano French suites from the four corners of the ceiling, which tended to make the younglings giggle, so Cecile gently took hold of Daphne and led her to dance in a sudden lustful embrace which delighted Lauritz and all of us; then she began to hike up the light dress all the way up, revealing a shapely frame, well-drawn abs, and tight buttocks that Plum hastened to uncover, pulling down the white cotton knickers.
When Cyprien walked in with a packet of new drawing pads under his arm, he was candidly overjoyed with the tableau of the two nymphs frolicking with Cecile. Around some coffee and auspicious langues de chat, he discussed with Daphne and explained that he wished that she pose for a few drawings in such a glorious outfit, and also together with Plum in complicity, would she? We all concurred, bar Plum who could only suss by reading our eyes, while Lauritz busied his hands over her, that something impish was cooking.
Cecile then was in no mood for work on the doubly exciting piece of an ancient amber chalice she had brought in from Mendelsohnn’s, which was anything but a religious artefact, entirely sculpted with the most explicit bacchanale, a true princely masterpiece made up of many reddish amber scales that she had unearthed from the bottom of another closet while Seresine was happily lending her rump to the innocent wealthy brute. Thus, Cecile invited us to her cubbyhole, where she had decidedly installed a real bed and where we could chatter any old how, after some intimate preparation in the bathroom nearby.
We recalled our inaugural romps in the rented apartment ablaze with the projectors on the tourist’s barges, when these two had conjured their fates against all odds, well beyond my own depravity. While we fondled each other, he told us how at first Daphne had hustled him amidst a dance floor and led him to a shabby hotel for a usual short trick, becoming scared when he told her he wanted much more. Taking her by the hand, he told her to take him to the one she worked for, a junky ruffian who pretended to be cross and that Daphne was his. Lauritz understood it was for real, and Daphne was shaking; the pimp kept her telephone and her ID she had disembarked with six weeks before, along with a French scumbag who had eventually sold her for some drug.

Not that she would have been destined to such a low life any more than whoever in our cute confederacy, mind you, Daphne was the only daughter of a well-to-do surgeon who had married one of the nurses in his clinic, and easily forgot himself around sexual wants. Not only had he made his wife’s life utterly miserable, as that of most of his underlings, but starting about second-grade age, he had insidiously sexualised Daphne’s person in a terrifying manner, all in the socially alluring lifestyle of a notable household.
Daphne’s father had indulged in cocaine forever, not impairing his capacity among the team at the hospital; she had never been curious as to what kind of speciality her dad worked into. Her mother also obviously lived under the influence of whatever substances, and Daphne had seen, once, weird bondage contraptions in her parent’s apartments. All attempts to communicate with her mother had dried out besides small talk and mere table manners; Polish maids attended to her daily needs.
Her father would barge into her isolated third-floor bedroom any time without warning, in sundry levels of nervous exaltation and dilatated pupils. Whatever she had been at, he demanded she stand in the middle of the carpet in her pyjamas while he sniffed compulsively her sheets and pillows, and then stay in different stages of undress, most often her trousers lowered mid-thighs while he masturbated in a kerchief. He also relished sodomising her with his lubricated forefinger, later she should lay on the bed across him and trample his genitals.
Under abstruse explanations, he blocked her puberty with some injections, to make sure she would grow tall, and he lectured her on the sublimity of rangy elegance. At twelve, he made sure, under anaesthesia, that her hymen be anatomically hospitable, after some days of soothing salve. And straddling her father’s dick once or twice a week was not worse than the rest of what he did to her.
No one questioned that she be home-schooled by sundry vetted students, albeit one Scottish elfish damsel garnered more in her father’s bed than at her side, although they, too, finished in bed after a while —and she avowed the father paid her for that, too.
They had a holiday house in Saint Lunaire, Brittany, where her mother and her would be monitored through online cameras and chosen young staff from the father’s hospital who had all to gain sleeping with Daphne after the day at the beach. He would join them for weekends.
And it was there, on that magnificent beach, that she acquainted Marc, her age, a few months before her eighteenth birthday. The boy and his posse lived in an old refrigerated lorry on which boat portholes and vents had been installed, and which was painted shabby blue, helter-skelter. Daphne became their trip slut, high on psychedelic drugs and music, washing the salt of their skins in the cold waters of the nearby river. When the blue lorry vanished, so did she, to a rambunctious peregrination of rave parties all over France. She easily became the group’s main earner in the back seats of random clients —she was a tempting Lolita with enough remains of a middle-class upbringing. Then Marc took her to Ibiza after he fell into harder drugs, whoring her out to the crowd of gawkers with a budget for that, and ending up owing her to his dealer, from whom Lauritz had bought her.
Lauritz was smitten for another round after he moved her to safer grounds, refreshed her hairstyle, and accoutered her with expensive rags and shoes. Nonetheless, he needed to have her vetted for any physical addictions to drugs. For that, they went to the well-documented local hospital where she showed no serious signs, except for easy-to-fend-off minor STDs. They went on a full-throttle honeymoon trip under the Mediterranean sun.
Meanwhile, in his paranoid priggishness, Daphne’s father had abided by the gendarmes’ advice that they would not cast a missing person appeal for Daphne who was an adult and had been seen cavorting with scallywags her age. Dad fumed for a day, then took sweet revenge with the au pair in a white powder binge.
Only Lauritz slipped on a pair of jeans out of the cubbyhole for a coffee pause. Daphne sensed he had spilt her pretty marbles, but now she was reciprocally enthralled with the silken-skin Gypsy girl and to sit still against her had been a refined torture. Nonetheless, they were flattered with the results of Cyprien’s pencils Lauritz asked to buy. Bach went on with the Missae brevis by the young Pygmalion ensemble, but Daphne floated a request for some more contemporary soundscape, so Cecile obliged by plugging in an ambient music web radio, arguing that it would be difficult to play beat when the two nymphets, who were now making out on one chair, would be required not to move.
Cecile sympathised with the beaming young blood and proposed we elders go swim, but Lauritz was so captivated by the tableau that he preferred remaining crouched in an armchair, keeping his erection in his jeans.

 

Cecile says:

All too certain Lauritz would carry away the lovebirds into one of his signature grand tours, and after we had worked out a bit, sweated in the sauna and swam like trouts, Sarah threw the idea we go back to Laforest and avail our pretty selves to some unknown, otherwise vetted, diplomats. The Maître d. Kreisler Oswald answered most favourably to our request, and the twins would meet us later in the evening.
Sarah would don one of her black blazers, double-breasted, wool crepe with one lapel sequinned night blue, lined with purple satin; I chose the counterpoint in white with some icy satin peak lapels, lined with wisteria printed silk twill. She slid on crotchless tights and black suede Chelsea boots; I chose the same tights in pale mauve and flat white suede loafers. Fæbian, the savviest of Hetæras, caught us dressing ourselves up as worldly whores and wanted in. She is about my size; I took her to the vestiary and found it amusing to dress her in a combination of both, with an oversized black and white checkered plush jacket, tiny silver shorts and bicolour loafers. She had more breasts to show than both of us. Lauritz had always overindulged me with pricey perfumes I would only wear when I would somehow go hustle somewhere; Sarah owned a collection of the rarest fragrances there is, all concocted with love by Hugo; she gave a one-night tester of an elaborate jasmine absolute to Fæbian, who sprayed her pubis first in a fit of laughter. I wore one of my fetish irises —rekindling my tropes towards the shady Uffizi. Sarah would smell of silver lime bloom, which made her eyes bluer. What an inspiring bevy of amateur princesses for hire!
A statutory chauffeured company car from next door picked us up and glided towards the rich West. The chauffeur did not know what we were headed for, but there were lots to ogle at in the back seat; Obviously, he had driven to Laforest before and knew how to get the glistening black grand portal to open for the car.
Kreisler met us at the porch, at once intrigued by Fæbian’s aventurine glare, making clear, in a courteous manner, that she would first have to follow him into the maroon velvet shades. He was a handsome hunk with a quiet stare and manicured hands; any of us would follow him on a greeting pass. The Laforest overdone Golden Age antrum bathed in the wittingly remote Erik Satie music, played on the gilded Erard piano by some young student in a borrowed tuxedo, the fantasy of a Koi fish in a lily pond.
The attendance was your average devil-may-care sparse off-duty suited crowd shuffling with half-nude temptresses. The Laforest twins were, to say the least, pushy about the feminine casting of their club, and they did not take extraneous commendations and certificates. Thus, the damsels in different manners of undress could all compare to our gang. Many Russian beauties had scoured the brothels of Europe before conquering a perch in our pricey orchards. Once their status was granted, we could see them at Philippe’s or Speck’s, splendidly fit and free.
Sarah singled out a dear partner in lust she had once mentored through the wealthy backwaters of hi-life society. They clicked instantly; Lizon was a delicate, pepper-black-haired, marsh-green-eyed, gracile, offhanded girl who ditched her flirt to run and wallow with us on the outrageously plump cushions of the Louis sofa, showing me her laser-smooth underbelly as an icebreaker. Facing me sideways for Sarah’s amusement, she cropped up dainty slender feet with deep crimson nails and seized the button of my blazer, suggesting I ease out of my shorts.

Sarah clenched her chin in Lizon’s neck from the back to make a general introduction. We were both of similar social extraction, and I knew Sarah sincerely praised that, not exonerating us from being bona fide harlots. And by the bye, we were actually putting on a show, as a pair of pinstripe bankers across would think, waggling out their bespoke shoes until Sarah responded and went carelessly yield her person between them.
Twiddling a pretty toe ring with a lively garnet set on it, I watched around the corner of my eye how Sarah surreptitiously vetted the two clubmen whose sleek hands already worked all over her and had pilfered her tights; they must have smelled of Bond Street humour thus she agreed to follow them upstairs, swaying her hips as she winked at us —wasn’t it exactly what we had come for?
Lizon kissed like head over heels, with yet childishness in her candid eyes. She was ostensibly wet. A bulky cream tuxedo touched down so close behind me that I sensed his erection through the silken trousers. He was unexpectedly mild-mannered and asked for a private conference with us both. We walked enlaced, for the feast of his eyes, to the staircase in the next room where he mumbled his bliss of watching us climb. The bedecked bedrooms were open on the gallery, bar those where some hanky-panky went on; he chose an undergrowth green damask one with turquoise sheets on a pompous gilded framed bed. He demanded we go on our own affair and let him use whatever he fancied of our bodies, which indeed befitted our fantasy.
Having ever so playfully unclothed us, and himself stripped down to his shirt and socks, he began skillfully poking his tongue hither and tither down my loins and between my buttocks, leaving no doubt on his intentions I did not object to, and then incidentally I sensed the cool gel he was smearing my arse with. Without much further ado, he was forcing a headstrong glans against my yet still frowned rosette, and I let him do his act in all ardour, arching to meet his efforts. Lizon was overjoyed to hold me thus ploughed, and she blessed me with funny monikers and grabbed the bull by the balls between my thighs; he was in a full œstrus —had Hugo once taught me. It was good carnal fun, for him, but would I expect any more than being neatly used? He belched out his load, and that would be it, except he must have been single-handedly some big pharma affiliate; thus, he could demand we wriggle in such a way as to offer him Lizon’s holy brook available for a redouble shot in lustful equity.

I felt as besmeared as I had long ago —before I had slaughtered the dragon in my sneaky manner— so now I could sprawl willingly in the dripping anonymous jizz. I fantasised about a bison as he humped my slanky comrade at a good pace, and I straddled her mouth for a chance to gush on her pretty face. He was in her wet twinkle, a mite pacified already but still ravenous; we all erupted gloriously in unison to his unabashed pride. We were soaked.
We lathered up one another with good humour under the tepid rain of a wide showerhead; I wouldn’t know what language he spoke, but he sounded elated. He largely tipped the maid under the feet of a Demetre Chiparus dancer I would love to restore. Once he was back up neat and tidy, he gave us each a voracious smooch and walked. Now we smelled of the magnolia whim the twins let lie around in the bathrooms, a real call for rape, whimsical and expensive.
At the collation table, stood, as one may think, a new samovar girl with an ajar modest black shirt under a fancy frilled white apron. She was looking down as I asked for coffee, and when she went to fetch some in the kitchen, I noticed her black skirt was slit to the waist, revealing slender nude legs. She wore black velvet strapped flats. Lison joshed that I looked smitten. Her thick hazel hair was styled in a French bob; it could have been a perverted pleasure to keep her blush at our swaying nude bellies. Lizon fingered my butt and pretended she had someone to see.
I asked the girl, who knew better than her demeanour, what her name was. She mumbled Vilma, from Lithuania; she had been here only recently, so she apologised for her accent which I found delicious as I rested my cup and steered her backwards to the kitchen door and the staff rooms. She wore no undies; Sisi and Bowie had suggested encounters like this might happen to her. She was easy to unwrap, the smoothest of debutantes. In the laundry room, I sat her on the ironing table, in the moonlike shade. She tasted of vanilla cream. She spoke French honourably, not only with her hands. She knew perfectly what went on in that opulent house; she had been a webcam model for a while; she wanted to stay in Paris or go to the US. Amid gusts of kisses, I assured her she had made the cleverest move in following the cunning twins since she had chosen to monetise her obvious charms beforehand. Had she not secured her phone, passport, and documents? She understood what I meant, she laughed.
I soldiered on licking that pearl in her creases and cramming my fingers in both holes until she quivered a good once, howling. My turn could wait. Then I followed my whim and steered her back on the main stage in her new princely attire, looking for one of the two hostesses. At once, my catch made a purring impression on Lizon, who had found a good soul to brush up her coiffure. I found Sisi in a yellow moire déshabillé —although they could boast of the same physical charms as the best of us, the fanciful twins had nonetheless a persona to stand apart, which did not forbid some overt hand plays— and I complimented her on the new samovar damsel, floating a whim I had fostered to bring her back home. Sisi smirked, watching her Wilma promoted to proper courtesanship at Fæbian’s hands on the nearby sofa; she said the girl couldn’t have landed to a better mooring in Paris; a vicious band of dirty cops had already targeted the lovely Bambi girl before she was brought to Laforest by some distinguished clubman. Only, said Sisi, lowering her gaze over onto me, there would be a slight fare to settle personally, if I deigned to follow her to their private apartments. The place could have wowed the fussiest horizontal glories in Paris since Sarah Bernhardt, bar the polar bear skin to frolic onto. Amid the turquoise and lapis lazuli inlaid woodwork and the embroidered drapes stood two bronze sculptures by Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux of Neapolitan ragazzini posing with shells, a girl and a boy in their sylphic immature perfection, polished by generations of devotees. There hung a collection of paintings by the wrongly outdated Beaux-Arts glories later shunned by the self-conscious clientèle. Sisi and Bowie had repatriated many nigh soft-porn punctilious nudes from the family’s New York storage vaults.

I wouldn’t know what made me tell Sisi from her sibling; close together, she was the tallest. For the rest, I was smitten by the bulk of their traits; they enjoyed being one. She drew me onto a loveseat enwrapped in a throw of peach-gold plush, threw off her gown, and imperiously seized my head against her coochie that tasted of fennel, so I grabbed her buttocks and took revenge in her pleated bud. She came on to squirting in my face, with jolting laughter, and joshed I deserved my new pet, by all means. Now she nailed me down and forced my legs open while grabbing a silver bell at the sound of which a hunky young black boy fully armed jumped to our side bouncing, asking who would be first.
To my surprise, she showed him her back and told him to smear her as usual while she began devouring my rosy slit. Visibly, the boy was a happy regular of her lascivious rump, and she threw me a couple of proud glances. The novelty of the game made for a quickfire conclusion, and Sisi meowed at my splashes while she was obviously filled with bliss. But it wasn’t the end for the healthy swashbuckler who wanted to pin both our flowers on his sleeve. Sisi helped tilt me over, feet in the air, and he was drooly enough to thread me in at no effort. I realised how dire a menace he was that our lithesome hostess had entertained like a feather, and Domenico was a damn fine dancer making my entrails swirl, keeping up a carefree smile as he gushed deep up my loins. I promised myself to add his name to our list of desirable guests, if the twins allowed him in town.
The bathroom was a masterpiece of Alphonse Mucha glazed ceramics, a true testament that the mansion had been an exclusive parlor house since the crazy times of Belle Epoque. It had a vast celadon green bath and Art Nouveau fixtures and furniture. One cumbersome contraption amused me, a sort of white high padded bench with indented sides, and at one end’s corners two kneeling nude figures holding up cushioned sorts of offerings, a manner of delirious obstetric apparatus that I soon could carnally sense along my own spine, confounded by the over-costly creativity of the profligate rich, in the wake of many a crowned head in Petersburg or else. Sisi suggested that I try it myself, so she and her Domenico would comfortably feast on my lustful rill. There would be convenient cranks to secure my floating position, depending on which of the holes was coveted. Handy grips in the shape of Herculean penises, and a padded headrest allowed the patient to release all muscles bar the pelvic apparatus, so to speak. Like a pretty and mischievous operator, she handled me, head to toe, in complete rest while gently wanking me in wait for another assault of rekindled Domenico who chose the dripping slit he had not yet used. I thought of Michelle, who could ask her minions to service her while resting on her motorised seat, in front of the arcane figures of the planetary traffic on her wall; she then opened such a lovely quim I couldn’t resist quenching my lust, probably causing turmoil at the other end of the butterfly effect.
Standing stiff at the exact momentum point, he kept humping freely upon my womb’s door into my tightened and drenched sheathe. I could fantasise about being let thus at the will of the other clubmen, so endless became the shivers.
In the car on our wee-hours course back home, I was proud of my catch, who willingly passed hands to hands of our lustful brigade. Fæbian had willingly submitted herself in the subterranean dungeon when she had understood the size of the reward, Lizon had contented three healthy merrymakers till they dropped, and Sarah had fallen for Wilma once I went paying for her ransom, but I claimed the right to sleep with her in the homunculus’ eye, knowing we would end many, as a purring brood eventually —when giving orders about our furnishings, Gauthier always insisted on indestructible British bed bases and frames.
In the loose nightshirt that I gave her, Will, with a V, showed shapely thin legs and slender feet that enthralled Sarah once more, though I couldn’t say her whimsical heart had ever beaten wrong, in Italy or elsewhere. Eventually, with Fæbian clutched to my wing, the night was rich —according to Alfred who had a taste for orgies. In the morning, Sarah was tasteful enough to wake up first and make breakfast, which included coffee and langues de chat she kept a stash somewhere. Once the pyramid of French toast was baked, she didn’t need to call us on. I had distributed fresh mismatched sweatsuits and our size fitted everyone, but Will could hardly fend off wandering hands; she sat on my lap; she owned a pair of elusive little breasts that made her quiver. Sarah told her to try raspberry jam on her toast.
I had first been in her shoes, and I recalled the self-conscious angst when Sarah went all smitten with me and showed me around the wonder hive. Firstly, she wouldn’t skip a visit to the noble-floor magician, possibly to the All-Mighty himself, and she would probably shag everyone around. But I anticipated most when I would introduce her to Lauritz, be it along with his new redeemed drifters, but then I would root for her, if ever. For the time being, she could settle with the God Crow which had not scared her; her luggage had been flimsy to bring about. We all decided on a visit to the realm and the playgrounds. I didn’t know where Plum and Daphne were, but we received a glamorous picture of them enlaced in front of Mediterranean houses clung on a seaside cliff.
She was absolutely the no-fuss girl, and her desirable feet were a perfect size, the same as Sarah’s and her boatloads of footgear, I told her not to care about matching the sneaker’s colours. I kissed her all the way down in the lift and led her to my workshop so she began to fathom some more about me, and thus what she would discover in the maze. Cyprien wasn’t there, and the place was as tidy as a workshop may be. The cubbyhole was a tad messier, as my last shuffling through books and magazines had been left, but I couldn’t resist pushing her across the bed and pulling her trousers down. She couldn’t find the word “insatiable” in French, but she meant it, with a smooth voice.
Next, she hardly believed residents like me could use the gym and its funny contraptions at their whim, but she owned a bit of savvy about them; she had practised some before. Finlan’s inspired ballabile on the Hammond organ unfurled through the corridor and charmed her pearly ears, so I took her by the waist to the dance studio, ready to see her jaw drop. Josephine and Emeline were in a mock minimalist mood, but visibly, news of Wilma had buzzed already through the invisible grapevine; their dainty feet flew to us, and they gently simpered until Wilma stripped down in grace. The two whimsical telepaths smelled of their mysterious body oil and were wired like Gibraltar Barbary monkeys. Wil was beguiled; the day was fair over the room’s frosted glass roof, and she could show pliancy, along with graceful character. She watched a few wing flutters of our beloved phenomenons and risked some mindful steps in pace with Finlan’s ritornello. That would not compose a trio, but it spawned enough good humour to send us all to the pool, and that, even the Laforest didn’t have one, yet.
Decidedly, that samovar windfall amazed me like a besotted schoolgirl; she could swim as fast as the dolphins Lauritz had promised he would show me. When Finlan joined in, it wasn’t long before she grabbed hold of his proud staff, reading my gaze as if she needed permission.
Apolline and Dagmar dawdled by and felt like a dive into the fray. Each blessed time we salvaged another random tramp, a key question would be their appreciation of our middlesex beauties — nothing to do with British geography. It would typically behove to Delff’s talent to defuse the unasked questions, but they were currently head over heels in love with the latest geniuses who were probably spinning the world from a perch an apple’s throw from here.
Dagmar had had a restful sleep, and her gaze was immense; after she swam in deep a few lengths, she returned to Apolline and cuddled her up in her wings with a smile to Wilma, asking her to come closer and say who she was, briefly commenting that she would be no different from any angel in this holy aviary, only she would have to get acquainted with our flying rarities of undetermined essence whom we claimed the honour to shelter with love if only she gave a whisper of patience. In her typical outlandish accent, she offered a swarm of well-phrased compliments to the floating newbie, while I cuddled up with our unassigned fairy.
Through the eddies, one couldn’t tell the difference, even if their dandy pink spur was aroused; but since Kate had recounted to us of her young passion with Cynthia, we had given room in our judgement on the matter, allowing our partners in debauchery to forward such souls in need towards us and our mellow syndicate. Neither Dagmar nor I enticed the two to kiss afloat.
Once the gentle court wiped and spruced up, Apolline wished to do Wil the honours of the TRÆVIX realm, and some kaffeeklatsch. The ballet troupe, though dwellers of another wing, followed casually. Wilma was already a tad flummoxed, so she clung to my wing as we passed the gleaming metal doors, and her face was scanned too; it always is a moving moment bringing a new stray angel to the Aviatrix’s palace. With some self-consciousness, she could see she had really stepped through the looking glass when she saw the samovar boy push his cart in.
Trine greeted us all, announcing would join us, along with Sasha and Delff who had been visiting. I wouldn’t need to describe who Delff was; the surprise would be delicious and harmless, but I told Wilm about the essential difference about these two. I could see the bespectacled, unassuming, barefoot impish blonde was overjoyed to see us all in her private imaginarium. The round table in the silver room was magically covered with plates of sundry bite-size pastries and confections. Spiced tea or coffee was served in colour-beaded glass cups I hardly could dip some Italian almond cookies in.
Befogged by the unfurling rash of novelty, Wil had no clear idea as to who came and wooed her, hiking up a dainty foot upon her chair corner. They spoke about Lithuania and its thriving communication network in the wings of NATO, which Wil had never heard of, but she let Michelle slide a caress in her pants. Seconds later, after winking for my approval, they fled hand in hand.

Trine wore cream black-trimmed satin pyjamas, and she had sussed out Wil’s careless move, leaving me with my cookies. We had tender memories together; she came to sit next to me and wondered who was the new brunette. Forsaking the ricciarelli, I first gave her a taste of my mouth, then grazed the sumptuous fabric on her sassy pointed breasts. She grinned at yet another tall tale with a pretty face every foundling brought to our pond, true as the moon.
We moved to a silver damask loveseat, where one of Sha Sha Higby’s spooky creatures was staring at us virulently from the corner. Hadn’t we been gently ousted by Aviatrix decree? The one who owns all keys by Droit de Seigneur, house fairy Natalia found us such, no trousers on, and she crouched at our knees, hassling us to come misbehave with her among the Liselotte clientele. Dubbed at a tender age by Louis, whose limitless hospitability had fostered her polymorphous libido to our shores, Trine would not haggle her trust, once granted; she agreed to come by all the more that Natalia was already lapping at her dinky brooklet.
We tiptoed out and up to the vestiary, not knowing what lustful plot Natalia was cooking. She was wearing glistening white glove skin ultra shorts and a rainbow long-sleeve net Lurex crop top, bare legs in white suede Egyptian sandals, and a golden charm anklet to her left foot. Her eyelids and nails were subtly iridescent. We found black patent leather flat pumps with a grosgrain knot to complete Trine’s ever-so-tempting outfit. I fetched a short variegated jazzy-pattern silk jersey long-sleeved dress bought in Italy; Natalia decided I wear nothing else but lace-hemmed hold-up stockings and black suede Chelseas. She called whoever it was and said a car would pick us up in ten minutes. I couldn’t help thinking she had designed her scheme beforehand.
Wrapped in unassuming overcoats, we jumped into the night-blue, tainted windows, sedan car that waited on the quay Anatole, and it glided west. The glass partition behind the driver’s seat had become opaque when the car moved. As dusked loomed, we saw less of the real world unrolling through the darkened windows, only the carousel of lights. Then we hovered through the forest undergrowth, Trine had lost her trousers, and her shirt was unbuttoned; she was a cuddly pet aroused to return to the pleasure sojourns she had come from.
The three-story wood gingerbread mansion with Victorian pinnacles stood close by a lone pond, and the golden moon was rising afar. The chauffeur opened the car door, not ignoring the unkempt state we tried to tidy up. The all-wooden house with a wraparound porch was painted indigo-blue. Two torches burned on each side of the steps to the front door. A sombre valet with black sideburns, black silk frock and breeches and silver buckles on his black erstwhile loafers, stood manspread between a pair of impassible grey Weimaraner dogs with natural uncut ears. The three sported the same smile while mentally stripping us. I am not comfortable with dogs, but these stood so offhandedly that I let them ogle under my skirt, unfazed.
The stained glass doors opened on the heady fragrance of the cedar wood the house was made of. The layered Persian carpets invited us to kick off our shoes. The dim lights gleamed in the mother-of-pearl decor of rich Anglo-Indian furniture. Like in the dignified clubhouses that Lauritz had shown me in, deep leather Chesterfield sofas composed a dark maze punctuated with big bouquets of crimson peonies in silver buckets.
The twins Cerberus and their goon had returned to their kennel with the scent of our quims in mind; a tall hunker hailed Natalia gracefully, already drooling for Trine’s dainty feet and the swath of bare skin at my upper thigh. He ushered us to a vacant nook in the midst of the salon, letting us uncover many a lewd tableau in every corner of the warm shadows. A new scent meant some opium was being burnt, a general slackening of the poses told of drug use. One platinum blonde pale tramp I had met before at Speck’s let a bulky punter use her loose bud while half-dreaming with a smile.
Natalia’s snazzy gonk had seized Trine’s feet, capsizing her over the plump cushion —I understood that— so she deftly grabbed my dress hem and hiked it up to over my breasts, not without my help. Natalia busied herself disrobing the cavalier who revelled with Trine’s toes while we made out like schoolgirls. I recalled the only crush I ever lured inside my cubbyhole, a blue-eyed babe in the woods who betrayed me in a confession to her priest —and thus was abused in the seedy sacristy, judging by the shameful gazes she had later turned my way, whenas I could have at once forgiven her, little did she know.
Natalia is the utmost libertine; she had ferreted out the bottle of lube and was caringly smearing Trine’s holy crack as well as the considerable menace that jolted against her milky buttocks. Then she was burrowed through in one headstrong go.

Trine’s song did not fail to bring on some eager lizards over the backrest, and since there was lyric poetry going, we others were soon taken to task as well. Natalia let be wriggled out of her bright moulding shorts, still bent over Trine’s ticklish nipples, she thus offered a wider angle to anyone who had just prepared her slits, winking at me. And that would be an over-sizeable specimen; not pretty —what would she care— but unremitting, who wrung damnedly cries from her while hurling himself at her womb’s bottom like a possessed madman.
As for myself, I had known that sprawling over the armrest to kiss Trine deep, I was putting my arse on the chopping block, come what may, understood the princess had brought us to such mannerly paddock of sorts not on the merits of our conversation. My bull smelled of burnt spices, and I sensed that he had taken risks with his heart, popping magic pills. He sowed me in, with hearty grunts, relenting slowly till I expelled him out, wriggling.
A bevvy of amateurs had gathered, commenting on our carnal talents like bloodthirsty Spaniards at the arena, kindling the worse of my depravity. They congratulated Natalia on her good catches; lasses were the raunchiest at lewdly handling our drippy slits and drinking out our souls from our lips. The word went out to bring us to the cellar, so we were steered away to a stairway down to a moist and warm vaulted pit with a thick round rug in its centre. All fondled and groped by expert hands, the remains of my wits foresaw the worse coming when we were forced down on all fours and our holy sheaths were smeared again with rose-smelling goo. Natalia kept wriggling her buttocks under the cajoling strokes; Trine sighed with bliss as a tattooed slut wanked her; some taut shaft burrowed in my throat while the rumpus heated up around.
From the corner of my eye, I could see the lanky lackeys in erstwhile black silk suits keeping on short leash the two grey panting Weimaraners, fitted with odd rawhide manners of boots I only comprehended when the beasts were unleashed at us under the obscene cheers of the stirred coven of libertines.
The scent of our buttocks line maddened the silky and sinewy animals, properly trained to mate with depraved fornicatrix like us. I was quivering as he lapped at my crotch with a rough tongue, and then he straddled my rump and hurled his spur hither and nither until I shamelessly adjusted myself to his height, as I would have for a man. He sheathed in my quim with frenzy, and it was nothing like I had ever seen; a sturdy stump in a fit of rage, spurting ladlefuls of heated liquid in me as he became still. It was dripping down my thighs, and I told myself it wasn’t worse than Zev Mendelsohn’s assaults in the depths of his den, with dues for Mr Armand’s favours on the way out.
However, I relished seeing Natalia arch her smooth loins to the jolts of the grey beast; Trine was humped on both ends by likewise beastly creatures with wincing faces. As I drew back from the ring, other girls were offering themselves for service, and they called the animals their names, so as I guessed they were regulars to these games. Natalia drew us to a rustic water room paved with stone slabs, where she injected tepid water into our naughty holes and we pissed on one another to the relish of interested players not yet satiated to whom I could hardly refuse a go into my narked slits, standing against the sink. We had demonstrated our unfettered debauchery, so now it was a free-use orgy.
In the car back home, we smelled of sheer luxury, like dawn in Vita’s garden. Our stockings and Natalia’s shorts had been stolen as keepsakes. The reward for our outlandish trick was phenomenal, but Trine regretted not having been serviced like a beast, too: Natalia promised to remember that. How would she dare tell Michelle of what she had seen? And, as a matter of course, I told them there would be a sneaky stop in the forest for the sake of the chauffeur who ignored nought of our conduct that night. Trine wanted to be the victim, I refused, but she would be the one with the chauffeur’s dick in her bumhole. And thus it happened. A herd of deer watched us from afar.
In the blue hour, nobody in our street could have guessed we were nigh nude in our flimsy trenches. Before we nested under my duvet, Natalia gave us a pensive stare, wondering if we would forgive her, once the fever settled. I retorted that, as for now, she should give Trine a thorough enema and then lull her into the God Crow’s floating attention.

 

Sarah says:

I had been listening to Alfred’s inspired rave from under the quilt, not keen on anything when Trine snaked in along my back and snuggled in my neck. She hadn’t yet paid attention to our tiny black oracle bird. She whispered she had some monstrous tale to tell me and slid a shy hand on my tickle berries.
Over tea and toasts, I felt a tad dumbstruck by what she described, although I could sense we were both aroused anyway. That manner of games had pertained to Kate’s confessions when she lost her marbles in Berlin long ago; it had taken place in Victor’s empire of deviances, and Natalia, who had lived with Beryl —Victor’s cook’s daughter roaming free behind the scenes— knew best about the extents of human depravity. What was most nagging was that now the idea of wallowing myself in such a perversion would buzz inside my devious brain. And Trine, who spared no details, was obviously wet as a rill. Her thighs opened on my lap, she rested assured I had made no fuss of the big girls’ deviant practices; no one had been forced nor hurt. It remained to guess what Michelle could intake of all this from Sirius’ point of view; chances were she would keep mum.
Fæbian and Plum came up; they had valiantly entertained a winning polo team at Fortunat’s. Fæbian was still bemused by the carefreeness of Plum at the hands of a quatuor of hungry hunks; she had properly coached them at her whims, said a veteran of all mitteleuropean brothels. Trine revelled in the smell of Plum, but she couldn’t do without Michelle’s aura, would there be some other pet at her feet, and thus she fled.
We moved to the studio. The polo fans liked the idea of wallowing on our futon. They would probably doze out to the music or nibble my toes under the table. And so they abode by the plan until Cecile came up casually. It took her no time to spill the pearls offhandedly. She wore a peach-fuzz sweat suit and purple velvet slippers I hadn’t known. She stood close like a pet cat; I could smell anise in her beloved breath. She murmured it had been so vertiginous to follow Natalia’s unabashed deviance and let go of herself on all fours, to the cheers of rewildered lads holding on to their dicks.
Fæbian, too, turned up wild eyes listening to my little sister’s exploit, how she had been terrified with the unexpected size of what the hellhound had sunk into her, and how he stood in hooked, gushing a full cup of smelly liquid as evidence of her damnedly transgression. Only the sight of sylphic Natalia arching her back to the unfazed creature humping her had whipped up Cecile’s inner devilry. She was easy to strip; I needed to check on her beloved hide; she smelled of heavenly white petals
I couldn’t tell if I would ever go along one night with them to the house by the pond, but she had aroused me in the wickedest manner. The pretty Wustlinge pair had another appointment with the polo team; I texted Sami that Cecile and I were ready for one of his renowned private sessions. Meanwhile, I pulled Cecile on the red sofa and tasted every nook of her like one greedy vixen.
He had said we would visit one of Melchior’s richest clients, and he should rest assured we felt our best debauched mood.
After the sacrosanct thorough ablutions in the bathroom, we set ourselves to the key of all foreplays, the sartorial trump card. She brought up a bona fide treasure she had been able to beguile Gianni Capodimonte to sew up for her by hand, with all the manual fitting he would, a fitted long single breast riding jacket cut in an erstwhile length of silk petit point herbalist motive cloth, lined with dusty-rose paisley silk twill, buttoned with old silver-mounted garnet carbuncles. No shirt. I could still sense the emotional pinch of when I had unwrapped her from her drab overalls on Speck’s workings, after having watched her manicure the grand metal and glass clouds lighting sculpture on the main salon’s ceiling. She could have gone bare-arsed, but she had gleaming black silk tights that would open all the way at a whim. She put on Astaire bicolour thick-sole oxfords. I gave her a choker of alternate garnets and pearls.
As for me, Sami’s tone had inspired me. I fetched my genuine re-fitted vermillion red Danish postman double-breasted jacket, lined with black and white striped cotton satin, strewn with gold buttons, that smelled of coumarin like old pipe tobaccos. I merely slid on black lace knickers, lace-hemmed black silk stockings, and a pair of black suede Chelseas. I also wore a choker of tumbled clear rutile quartz beads —from a fling in Saint Loup— and my nails were lacquered black, hers of dark crimson.
Cecile was proud of her pricey perfumes —bitch— and gardenia was fatal, worn on her skin. I tried myself to follow the reminiscent note of my livery, tweaking with a Zanzibar woods-and-vanilla Hugo had once invented to lure me into his bed. and their couldn’t be a better omen.
In the car, Sami broke the routine; he asked me to sit next to the chauffeur —that same comely black hunk I had shagged a few times en route to outlandish debaucheries.

Not that he would let the smooth-gliding carriage drive by itself, but the chauffeur 2.0 has a lot of leeway, bar one hand and one foot. No sooner had he watched me land in the passenger seat than his fly went bulging big. I wouldn’t know if he was left-handed, but his right hand was already parting my lapels and twiddling with my mouse-snout nipples, calling me a pale freckled tomboy who needed no knickers. I had plenty of time to play and suck up on his imposing schlong, then gulp the salty outcome as a well-bred damsel, making his eyes twinkle. There would be a journey back.
In the back seat, Cecile’s black silk bottom was slit wide open, and she lay aslant against the armrest while Sami’s depilated rod burrowed in her entrails, rocked by the car’s gentle tossings. She contorted gracefully to offer a greedy tongue to kiss, one leg thrown over the headrest, altogether obscene and touching. He said it would be wiser not to gush in her bunghole, so, unabashedly, he hurried her to finish him in her mouth. Jokingly, the chauffeur conveniently proposed harsh mints to purify our breaths. The tone was set. In a concealed compartment behind the backseat, Sami fetched wrapped, clean little towels and wiped up Cecile’s arse before pulling up the zippers.
The car had stopped in a round limestone colonnade opened to all winds atop a ledge overseeing a plain crowded with high windmills; a stern classical building stood tangent to the void circle, all amidst an unattended wilderness, a stone throw from the forest edge, the inner ground laid with clean stone slabs. One might wonder what such a three-storied Florentine revival-ish villa did in the midst of that boundless solitude, further below, the mills slowly churning above deserted wheat fields.
Dusk was settling; a gentle thermal breeze was tousling the nearby foliages, to the exclamations of some jay birds. Nobody showed; only faint gleams far beyond the shimmering and rippled glazings behind the wrought iron grates seemed to rove around ghostly. We spoilt sluts clung to one another; Sami kept a fine smile as he pulled a doorbell handle.
A greying black butler in bespoke tails and patent leather oxfords; he keenly considered each of us and sentenced we were a tad over-dressed, weren’t we? He asked for our shoes and stockings, and then let his manicured hand rove onto our nether parts like we were indeed pretty whores to sell. He didn’t dissimulate a penchant for Cecile; he cuddled her inside her jacket and took possession of her minty mouth in a long free kiss.
Sami had snuck away; the dark crimson, green and black Turkish pattern carpet felt lush to my toes; the house smelled of yesteryear benzoin with a hint of fornication, leaving no doubt that we weren’t astray. The scarce lighting emanated from polished copper sconces hung to the stern and dark panelling or the paintings’ striplights among which I could tell a few mystifyingly sensual Nerdrums.
The elegant Cerberus had not pursued his feast of Cecile’s complacency further, so we were left alone to roam nigh bare, arm in arm, in the maze of sundry salons, all with deep malachite-green velvet sofas and kilim-upholstered low tables. Groups of indolent characters, in various manners of lewdness, composed careless indecent tableaus and smiled at us, possibly sliding a furtive hand between our legs.
The women obviously all pertained to the same distinguished crew we habitually mingled with on our hunting grounds, all of them fit and willing for the luckiest breed of powerful johns, not all male, but as of then, we were out for some famish dicks, possibly. Once we had ogled many obscene hugs, we rested alone in front of a large Ljuba depicting, in my view, the ultimate throes of carnal passion in wise of a multiversal feminine persona blooming in a wealth of hysterical jewellery. Cecile very much agreed with my senseless metaphors.
As it ought to be, we were tracked by a fine team of three Nordisk mates in shirt sleeves but still trousers on, in case we would disappoint them. They took our hands in an unruly baisemain and asked our little names. I let unwind the comments they did of us as they pulled open our lapels and grazed our anatomies, with friendly nudges in our common vernacular. They were somewhat secretive about their position, but that was the kind of realm I had been raised in, so I made clear we were well-educated party girls, for a hefty reward they did not baulk at.
Odd numbers are more fun, it shuffles the pleasures we give and take. They craved to try each and every bit of licence we let be allowed, and as they were gentlemen libertines, that meant all they could shag or lick —provisions of lubricant were handy on the side tables. There also stood sundry coloured crystal bombonnières containing Californian gums and boner pills, the night was far from over.

With the gums was a pretty round leaflet explaining the colour code, from lime-green “!” to deep purple “!!!!!”. Take your pick. The reverse of the other pill box simply read “one at a time.” Cecile had no experience with THC, and not only can it trigger back long forgone angst but also render nightmarish escorting a newbie gone awry. She felt adventurous and free, and I let her swallow a bright red double “!”, but I took none, knowing that attending to her induced affective ramblings would wake enough of my own recurrent mental swirls while allowing me enough reason for her sake; besides, another pillbox contained Xannies in case of a panic attack.
Our hunker Danes showed redoubled rouse as to shagging a first-time tripper, but they sounded savvy enough on the matter. Two of them gulped the advertised strong stuff, and all of them took a blue pill with a high ball of banana shake some nude woman in apron had brought. Now Sami and his also denuded chauffeur had found us —not to bring us home— and though they did not fuss with the funny candies, it promised a bumpy lullaby for our candid souls.
In a matter of minutes, the kilim coffee table, large enough to hold my little sister and me, was cleared so we could offer ourselves to their whims while Cecile began to feel weirdly warped and ticklish. As my fellow countrymen obsessed with all of her warm slits, I managed a tête-à-tête between 2.0 and his boss in the depths of my blessed Danish brook. I could see Cecile had threaded her natural propensity into the new ardour that tingled along her spine, all of her chakras ablaze.
I woke in Sami’s arms. He smiled and carried me to a deserted subterranean hammam, where 2.0 was already soothing Cecile’s loins and heart with patient massages on a padded table while she peacefully smiled at slumbers. He brought me into the ashlar vaulted heat room where he rubbed me with fresh leaves and laurel soap, which I hauled myself to return to his beloved muscular animal machine until he moaned that his erection hurt.
Cerberus only found our jackets and shoes, the rest had probably been flatteringly stolen. In the blue hour, Cecile lay nigh nude next to our smitten chauffeur 2.0; I rested in Sami’s arms, my legs spread to his lazy caress when the last party animals standing beckoned the limousine, so as to catch a glimpse of us. Before I enwrapped Cecile to run to our door, I begged Sami to fetch us some of these gummies, and he smirked.
We rolled together under the homunculus’ gaze, and Alfred made a mockery ruckus about what he obviously knew of our extravagant night. As a perfect nanny, I took time to apply soothing balsam to Cecile’s harrowed private parts, and mine.
In the morning, I woke to a masterful orgasm, but it wasn’t of Cecile’s doing, it was Natalia’s, and she was licking my scents on her lips. She only wore a carmine and blue silk Ikat gown of which the belt had slipped. Her perfect body struck me once more, which we had long relished as the pervasive, delicious forbidden fruit.I sussed she had expected to find Cecile, and the sentiment about their previous night in the house by the pond redounded in my soul —although after our Dansk orgy of late, I was no longer coy about it, whatever she might abandon herself into, and even drag Cecile along with her. As I peed on the toilet, holding her fine legs, I asked her if she would have lured me too in that cellar? She laughed and retorted she would.
Lauritz had texted that he was en route to Hamburg to sort out some business chores, and so he sent us his little new crush from Ibiza’s dodgy alleys, with the commendation she was worthy of our attention and needed some manner of mentorship. I warned Natalia not to go awry on the kid, so she gave me the perfect stun-kiss —such as she might get high with.
The two baby tramps barged in, splendidly suntanned Amalfitan way, scantily clad in candy-coloured spandex. They smelled of spritely lemony blossom; I fantasised about the Neapolitan fresh bellhops in the luxury suites they had pervaded at Lauritz’s expense. With their nobiliary particles —how wouldn’t I take a decadent notice?— they tasted of that extra smidgen of imaginary flavour like my school pet bestie turned madam, Ayla, was enthralled with, in her pretty entourage of sex angel friends.
I took Daphne on my lap, and we made out like we had partied all night, already. Regardless of what Lauritz had said of her, I did not feel her like a dishevelled drug fiend. As Natalia and I couldn’t help our hands all over them, I had the hunch to retell what Cecile and I had spent most of our night doing and being done to. I listened out for what they said about drugs, and that, along with the loving freedom she granted me of her immaculate golden skin, convinced me she was candid as a baby tramp could be. She had indulged in about all the psychedelia as we all, unscathed and wiser. Besides, they partied with such tough cookies as Gwen and the gang, and they had come with me to give all her samples to the gentle nurse.
Across the table, Azul and Natalia’s apparent instant idyl seemed rooted further than a made-up breakfast encounter; they necked like long-time cunning accomplices. Since she had followed in Camille’s footsteps for her higher education, it seemed that Natalia kept a good head start when it came to nice socialities, to the greater pride of her mother and Hugo’s.

 

Cecile says:

The night had been heavenly peaceful —Sarah sleeps like a lily in a pond, and I know where her soul flies to. I hadn’t been haunted by any of my nightly demons, and my lower belly felt like a tit’s nest. Alfred must have been busy finding his breakfast; I snuck out as I was, in that flimsy tee shirt, whoever could be in the lift. The weather had been untimely warm. I had a thought for Lauritz in the scent of the citrus groves, with a pair of nubile harlots.
My stash of biscuits was all spent, and I couldn’t not run to the shop for more. One baker ten minutes away could sell me some; I slid on a mismatched tracksuit and a pair of sneakers; anyone could have pushed me under a porch and easily rape me —a weird fantasy I put to the waning account of the gummies’ effect. The streets were quiet, the nearby boulevard wasn’t yet roaring. They gave me a large paper bag full of my langues de chat and also some ladyfingers. I garnered some well-deserved interested stares; I smiled at everyone, which might have been a symptom. Proud with my loot in hand, I could verify that a cute student was actually ogling my midriff and lower, to what I smiled but I did not stop.
Cyprien would be working at his place unless a new angel came alight on the freshly changed crimson velvet. I put on Bach’s French suites and considered my bakery stock, but eventually, nothing beat the langues de chat for dipping. Some magazines had arrived, and one showed Art Deco metalwork in America by the likes of Paul Chambellan and Edgard Brandt to what I stuck a tag, in case of some new expedition there. I received a message from Armand Lunel telling me Zev Mendelsohnn and himself were dying in the desert these days, and he waited for me morrow noon for a surprise. Both of them were worth a visit; the Maître d for his sneaky manners, and the mad Master for his unending obsessions and his considerable truncheon. I did not need to answer the reminder, I was knowingly bound to the realm of that otherworldly mansion in the midst of Paris, and I had come to like that.
I would have fondly greeted a visit by my wry new psychedelic nanny, but as I was ever so slowly readying myself to boot, Sarah dawdled by with two drop-dead beautifully tanned darlings in loose singlets and shorts. I didn’t, myself, wear much else than drab leggings under my work apron, and I didn’t bother to change that. Seen up close, I had already caught a glance of Azul at Fortunat’s playing her bass, au naturel, along with Malo. The other one, Daphné, the well-bred stray kitten fished out of Ibiza’s chillout rooms by Lauritz, had bustled my sympathetic strings before. In the course of our babble, Sarah shrewdly suggested I show Daphne my cubbyhole, of which the baby had no idea what it meant, while she would go take a dive in the pool with Azul.
Pulling off my apron with a quip about our respective chests, I casually prepared another tray of coffee and biscuits, then steered her gently towards the spider’s trap. By luck, she needed the loo, but she ended up in the bathroom, peeing on my feet and all over, reciprocally —a trick Sarah has taught me.
Daphné enjoyed our frivolous little sports, and she liked my choice of pricey perfumes; she sprayed some of Mayfair’s ambiguity which demonstrated a trait of self-awareness and left me head over heels enamoured. Before the Ibiza shipwreck, she had not sailed the polyamorous seas, and, like myself once, she had not revelled in the boarding schools’ culture of lesbian streams about which Sarah had keenly enlightened me. And she was a fast learner at that, too, although I made no demands. I showed her the sublime naiads of Klimt’s after we shored at the bejewelled thresholds; she tasted of dew pearls, and I drank oblivion at her armpits’ weeds.
The lustful idea took me to bring her to the Montceau citadel and prostitute her for treasure. I would teach her the utter pride of free rein libertinage beyond the sore fate of romantic opera lionesses, damn it. Like our slender sister nymphets in these blissful quarters, she would soon be rich and fearless. She did not shun my shady intrigue, we went upstairs to prep up.
Like most of us, she was a seven-ish —or thirty-nine— size in clothes, and the fairies’ infinite array of shoes fit her perfectly. Her ideally smaller head spun to the scent of all the garments in the closets as we rollicked, once again nude, in the mirific vestiary that some guardian angel tidied up tirelessly. Her honey blond bob hairstyle had brightened a tad in the Italian sun after the gloomy Spanish nights. Her neck was stunningly gracile and long, I had the whim she would borrow Sarah’s erstwhile parade white cadet jacket with gold trimmings and a double row of buttons —she sometimes said it was just revenge to flaunt our pretty tits in this prideful militaria that did not necessarily keep its promises later, whatever she meant. White spandex leggings moulding her arrogant little quim, white and gold petit point flat slippers, green pearls anklet and choker to pair up with her aventurine green eyes, and the magic was onset.

The game being to make ourselves fit to be shagged in a wink, I fetched a maroon and crimson changing taffeta frilled shirt dress one could either hike up or unbutton, a flat onyx choker, waist chain and anklet, maroon suede Egyptian sandals, and so the trick was done —never mention my uncle. Lastly, I figured the peony scent recalled the colours of my dress.
Trench coats as flimsy as dragonfly wings would shield us on the way to Bluebeard’s lair. I had texted Armand as soon as I had caught the glint in Daphné’s eyes. The car was a glistening night-blue whale. It had begun to drizzle, the air bore a hint of petrichor scent. Our chauffeur, a fiery-eyed mid-eastern type young man, checked on us at every traffic light.
We tip-toed to the service door, like a pair of pixies to a rabbit hole; I would have bet Armand had been pacing in the corridor. Daphné bedazzled him; no sooner our coats hung in his private office than, rough-and-ready, I went for his fly and found him stiff as a stake as he held her head in awe. While he devoured her lips avidly —easy access was all he was dying for— he tilted her back upon that desk I had blessed quite a few, and slid off her leggings in one go. I held up her back, pulling aside her lapels, and he ordered me to open up my dress. A finger of sunlight touched us when he gushed ablaze in Daphné’s shy little slit, and he ran for a towel as I showed her the bathroom. Once he made sure he bore no stains, he folded up her leggings and rested them aside; no need for them in the house, nor the rest of our costumes. He took a minute to push me against the wall and finger my arse adroitly, as ever; then he ushered us upstairs through one of the sundry service paths, which meant he had to follow us in a spiral stairway and therefore lick our arses a few times.
Daphné was dumbstruck by the magnificence of the place, and we had not seen the stately entrance yet. Just like M. Armand, I revelled in watching her buttocks amidst the breathtaking decor, as the walking gold standard of all vanities.
The beast was crouched on the rug, in his nightshirt, apparently sleeping. A hint of feminine scent hovered in the room. Armand avowed that our Seresine had been there until midnight; he liked Seresine, too. The dumb ogre saw my feet first; he clucked and grabbed them, ever so kindly. He was used to worship them, not unlike Sarah. Then, from the corner of his eye, he noticed the glistening slippers and meowed something; enlacing her, I murmured for her to take off her shoes; there was no danger whatsoever; Zev was a master foot cuddler.
Then it dawned on him that there were two of us, nude and certainly complacent, a very promising windfall. He stood up, his considerable ramrod protruding straight forth, a blissful grin on his erratic face on which a boundless desire candidly shed some irrefrangible light. In his convoluted manner, trampling the plumpy percales of his realm of slumbers, he was beaming with the subtle harmonics in the rich alluvium his lonely years had strewn all around his derisory master snare.
Daphne was caught in sideration, as we all had been when Armand Lunel, the armed wing of the secret covenant invigilating over the Mendelsohnn trove, led fresh greedy adventurous harlots to the threshold of this mad imaginarium. And I was the self-interested lure in the whole mystery, under the pervasive eye of the triumvirate, affording my shady trade with my own skin —for as long as the minotaur took a fancy for me and my protégées.
Yes, amidst the magnificent stuff of Zev’s cocoon, Daphné’s feet aroused exaltation, ideally shaped means of the easy perambulations of a privileged youngling gone astray. Zev lept up in a sudden dazzle and ran to fetch a precious casket of intricately sculpted boxwood which he rummaged maniacally until he picked out an antique golden ring, set with a colourful and contorted, baroque abalone pearl, that he threaded exactly on Daphné’s right middle toe; and then he made the box disappear at once, away from my too keen eyes —nothing that I wouldn’t consent so as to peep again into that box.
As yet a tad dizzy after our preliminary visit to Armand’s cachette, Daphné let herself languidly be done by Zev’s frenzy, and her cries were but delight and bliss. Her tormentor let me pilfer, hither and dither, shreds of her shivers. When she begged for ultimate mercy, he handled me onto her and forced his unwaning might into my lesser bumhole to the hilt like the laughing donkey; and my ravaged wisp of fireflies murmured tender words in my neck.
After one last salvo in my drenched entrails, he eructed a final groan and capsized, stunned, breathing like an elephant. We crept out to the bathroom for a well-deserved lotus bath. M. Armand appeared holding us towels; he bore a contented smile, but he demanded a final favour at Daphné’s blooming lips, and I helped him release, mollycoddling his balls. He fetched two fat envelopes from his chest pocket and congratulated Daphné on her new toe ring. It was obvious the show had been a success, she would soon receive an invitation to meet with the higher-up. In the car back through the melancholy of the soaked city, she couldn’t help counting in the mauve envelope. We dozed out enlaced before the God Crow, more impressive than ever.

 

Sarah says:

Daphné was light-headed, but I knew where they had spent a long evening and what kind of beast they had been with. As per usual, Cecile was already downstairs at work, and it would behove to me to enlighten Lauritz’s pretty foundling about where they had been. In the meaningful light of that hefty sum I knew she must have already counted, and the recollection I had myself washed ashore a few times in the lustful creases of Zev’s cocoon, I retold the uniqueness of the Mendelsohnn collection and its patrimonial status.
It didn’t escape me that Daphné’s attention was all the more sustained that my hands were also helping between her thighs. She smelled of faraway lotus. In the air, the rain had woken the fragrances from the tiny gardens downstairs, and Alfred didn’t run out of breath claiming king in his world. We went up to the studio. She didn’t know what to drink, so I brewed some of my newer fad, Bai Hao oolong, in my funny pumpkin teapot.
We had some illustrated albums on aspects of the Mendelsohnn trove; Zev’s genitor had never parted from any piece in his collections; his protean genius encompassed as much of the gist of global trade as the sharpest of art connoisseurship; his fortune at his death had been so incommensurable that the palace had been trusted to the triumvirate comprising the Grand Rabbi of France, the French Ministry of Finances, and our Melchior Panado, who had been Daniel Mendelsohnn’s closest friend, and by the way she said she had received a message from Melchior proposing she awaited in the subterranean pathway that evening, someone would show her in the imperial maze. I assured her this was good news for her, whatsoever.
Fæbian and Plum had been looking for us; with Fanny’s relations, Plum had met that woman who spoke something close to her language, and they had sorted a program by which she might speak French in less than a year, and thus obtain a residence permit, when the matter of her birthplace be solved. Plum was smitten with Daphné; they rollicked across the decidedly convenient futon, while Fæbian came to fondle me in my chair.
This idea had been nagging in my brain since Daphné’s tale had aroused me. I would offer to go, possibly with Fæbian, to visit Zev in his dungeon. I knew M. Armand liked me in all manners, and Fæbian had never known the thrill, so I won an invitation. Plum should now run downstairs and woo Cecile in no words; that was not beyond her magic, was it?
Fæbian and I had time to make ourselves irresistible in Prince Ugly’s court. She borrowed the silk twill pyjamas printed with the Twelve Monkeys and the white Jodhpur ankle boots that fit her. I fetched her the snazzy white padded dog collar with a gold O ring; she sniggered to the mirror, her little pointed tits mocking me under the silk. Opposite to that drop-dead gorgeous flair, I went back to my old radical chic and pulled out my most patched-up erstwhile Boro coat, and black, high-ankle, heavy-sole laced boots; it would be difficult not to flash my quim in any position, but that’s what floozies do in paradise, don’t they? My body was all laser-smooth; I put on a most sophisticated Art Deco platinum, onyx and sapphire choker, and a dash of masculine iris and tar Cologne; I wasn’t cheap.
She bore that shickaria-turned-whore killer gaze, impeccable complexion, long-legged supple loins attitude that set Monte Carlo ablaze, too. She smelled of a chill capture of marsh haze and santal ashes with a violet afterbeat; she was a gleaming poison.
Nought about us escaped our chauffeur, I felt compelled to tip him heavily. The purple sunset was waning, but the air was mild. Petrichor scents effused from the nearby park. Scarce glimmers indwelled afar in the massive ornamental fortress akin to its Newyorchese counterparts, as seen through a little girl’s eyes.
Armand Lunel greeted us politely at the entrée des artistes, struggling to read our style at first, but soon beguiled by our offhanded indecency. My coat held shut with a mere knot. He moaned as I lay back on the little desk, legs up, and Fæbian stood with her trousers mid-thighs. He grasped some lube in the drawer and kindly smeared my holes, as he told Fæbian to climb up the desk and straddle my face so I would lick her while he threaded me in, sucking her tongue. She was trained in imaginative exercises, and she eased her crotch over my mouth so as to profit from my keenness and soon drenched my face with her holy waters, inducing Armand’s discharge and mine.
He was soon in the bare and pulled us into the bathroom, asking us to piss upon him before rinsing ourselves. He was indeed a savvy concierge, wasn’t he? Pampered afresh, on him a new impeccable shirt, we headed towards the master’s lodgings, and we passed a pretty bellboy who certainly knew what to think of us and slid a deft hand to my quim, casually, before his boss chased him off. Heated as we were in these shady panelled walkways, I would have let almost anyone jostle me over.

Alfred must have been busy elsewhere, and it couldn’t be anywhere near early in the day. I felt rattled but elated —and rich, too— in the wake of our all-out night. Somebody gracile and perfumed had crept between us in the bed; it was Plum; when I opened my eyes, she gave me an Eskimo kiss and cuddled up to my belly until I really needed the loo. She was wired; we had done that before; she straddled me on the toilet and peed with me, laughing her heart out. There wouldn’t be room for three; Fæbian waited that we stand in the shower to piss along our legs. We all ended with the scent of Geranium Orange that she also relished on Michelle.
As I made the necessary French toasts with purposely stale brioche, Plum fetched the new toy Fanny had given her, it was a brand-new iPad, and she had already taught her a lot of its magic. Of course, Google Translate didn’t speak Romani, but anyway, all she could read was Romanian, thanks to her mother’s stealthy education which had led her to primary school. And whilst they had frolicked in the sheets with the wonder screen, Fanny had found that she would undoubtedly make giant steps into the Western World. We approved heatedly, and we started the game of telling her what we had spent our night at; thus, indeed, she progressed spectacularly. She would begin classes in French, and possibly English, the following week. Fanny was well ahead of us.
There was a message from Daphné; she was on a big blue boat with Melchior, sailing the Riviera. Fæbian yawned she would return to Mendelsohnn’s that night; I had personally had enough, even if compared with a submissive sex worker’s night, it would seem a mere tickle, and Fæbian confirmed —first hand. Sniffing something fishy, Plum wanted in; Fæbian asked me for Armand’s number.
For then, I felt like a sauna, exercise, and a dive in the pool, maybe.
A sound drew me to the dance cage. Finlan had unearthed a new instrument, and he played along with Azul, ideally nude with her black mirror bass guitar. Josephine and Emeline whirled in their best costume, too, and Plum was awestruck. We hadn’t thought of covering ourselves back, Plum had restless legs at the sight of our godlike grasshoppers whose routines had insensibly evolved into some scored sequences with bouts of synchronicity, the whole adjusted with a proper musical language. The ten-minute pieces were no longer haphazard drafts, they could be recorded and bettered. However, our dancers had kept their immarcescible spell and the feathery touch of their dainty feet. Plum stood bewitched with her arms crossed in her back, hips swayed; Josephine ended up remarking her and unfurled a sequence so as to graze her thin belly and engage in conversation, which didn’t catch on in words, but did not deter their glares. Josephine offered her hand to steer that spry newbie to the centre of the dance floor and dared her to move along with her. Emeline was watching, and Finlan rekindled his Prophet eolian chords at a simpler pedestrian pace that did wonders. Obviously, Plum had been dancing since ever, just like our pretty goblins, on tables and in the dirt of campfires, so it was a moment de grâce for us all, all the more when Finlan threw in loops and motives at his whim.
They ended up in a spirited embrace, and they fled, without further ado, to Malo’s quarters where that dancers’ tribe dwelled. Fæbian had been graciously summoned at Mendelsohnn’s on my commendation, I snuck to Cecile’s, who had been manicuring a black and gold lacquer screen by Jean Dunand, depicting an out-framed heron in flight over a stern architectural cliff. There was my girl, wrapped up in overwashed work drabs, silk gloves and headband magnifiers, the sluttiest bitch of all, mind you. She called it a day and smiled at my unsaid perplexity, then undertook to strip down in the heady mix of aspic oil and Bach’s headstrong Suites Anglaises. Once she tidied her stuff on her work chair, she stood in thin flesh-tone underwear and reckoned the effect it had on me. We rollicked on the crimson sofa; Alfred mocked us while rummaging for worms, and Natalia found us in the sweetest of disarrays. Our lady of the lecherous fantasies wore boyfriend jeans and a poppy red tartan shirt loose upon her shy nipples. She sat at Cecile’s side, throwing a leg over the armrest. She straightaway owned to be a wretched perverted slattern drawn to the utmost transgressive sexual practices, but she ironised that no one had been hurt in the game, and I could taste my soul sister’s quim and find it unscathed, wouldn’t I? As she bantered as a true-to-life floozie, she released quietly the buttons on her shirt, then turned her back to expose her back marked with fresh long lashes, and she quivered as Cecile grazed upon them. Moreover, we wouldn’t believe the angel smile of the girl who did that to her, and the precise ravages they both went through afterwards.

Besides the moral delectation of surrendering her aching back to us, and she had taken heed of my distraught expression, she needed our help smearing some of Hugo’s salve she knew Cecile kept in her pharmacy amongst solvents and varnishes. She knelt nude against the sofa and spread her arms. Her tormentor had not spared her buttocks or her inner thighs, she had certainly rightfully suffered all day of her foolish whims. But as I was overjoyed to massage her burning skin, noticing it had not been deeply scarred, I was overall in two minds, because I had myself willingly tasted flogging a few times, and thus reached depths of abandon, but I knew not what to make of being served by a beast, however clean and mastered it be.
She had pulled off Cecile’s thin underwear. We lazed about in the dimmed lights, ordering a rhubarb and ginger pie with elderberry soda. Hugo’s mixture had done marvels on her hide. Eventually, I did not utterly forswear to being lured to the house by the pond, which already haunted my afterthoughts, damn you.
Anyhow, the night was young, and we had been discussing lewd over Natalia’s devilish bum, listening to the splendid miscreant Jon Hassel that Cecile knew where to find. We agreed to go and try to spark off an orgy at Fortunat’s. Cecile pulled out a long high-slit, variegated jersey, backless gown. I lent Natalia a black silk panne mid-thigh shirt with bishop sleeves, that she would not care to shut. I slid on the easiest night-blue rib-knit silk tank dress. I wore onyx plate choker, bracelet and anklet. Cecile wore a breast-long abalone pearl necklace and matching anklet. I buckled to Natalia’s neck a shiny black over-stitched leather collar with chrome rings, with matching bracelets to her wrists and ankles. We all wore light evening slippers and worldly perfumes, we took on some flimsy cloaks for the taxi ride.
A new ceremonious black butler in tails stared keenly at each of us and asked for our pass cards, after scanning which he became a heap more friendly, and, not knowing better, grabbed Natalia’s bum in a courtesy manner, pushing her apart. She came back later holding a glass of Indian Tonic, I could assert she did not taste bad. The most explicit manner to advertise we wished to stay together was to make out openly, with smiles. Many clubmen we met in rich parlour houses wandered by in herds (whereas, however, my best shots had been lone riders —if not lone wolves)
Those were Swedish attorneys, I could greet them in counterfeit Stockholmer that my Admiral uncle had spoken in. As my little dress was somewhat hitched up, the ice was broken at once, and a deal was settled before my girls knew it; we piled up in the lift car. Maurice, the butler, had given us a large room on the third floor. Bare ashlar Paris stone, Dutch painted leather screens, verdigris velvet plump armchairs more like exercise props, fake fox fur square bed, large tapestry ottoman and teal-grey carpeting, the acme of a brothel playing field was bathed in the shimmering light of silver sconces.
They might have been cute in their seafarer youth, blond and tanned to the balls; now, they kept fit between bureaucratic hurdles, and we were part of the program. As the senior alpha male had seized me and slid off my dress in one move, he soon unmasked me as a weird kind of Copenhagener, as they commonly think of us. Therefore, I mixed on in German, French, English and American, like a seasoned UN upper east side slut.
There were four of them. Natalia, whose whip marks had waned off, had taken on a pair that looked like brothers and to whom she was teaching the necessity of lubricant; the harnessing accessories did wonders on her tapered features. Once our studs were assured of our unfettered pliancy, they shared boner pills and offered us MDMA, but we refused, lying that we had random blood checks —there had been ugly accidents at Philippe’s, Sami had warned us. My burly cavalier did not insist; he was calling me a boyish Dane and made me try poses in the armchair; he liked licking the thinner nooks of my skin, in the popliteal fossa, the armpits, the nape, and all around my smooth coochie, he was unquenchable. Tightening my wrists in my back, he pushed me over the chair’s rounded headrest and buggered me like a sailor, raving about my tight white arse. Unsurprisingly, he spewed his jizz long before I could feel him, and it wasn’t any of his care, was it? He went to the bathroom to wash his taut rod and came back to shove it in Cecile’s mouth, tilted back at the edge of the bed. I, too, went to the bidet, a pretty polished tin pan with copper taps, and suddenly this jester was pissing on me, laughing his head off, pushing his peen downwards on me. He wasn’t unsightlier than the rest; he bent down to kiss me deeply and led me to the wide shower, hugged me and danced me around like a fiancé. He led me back to the fur bed and asked me to straddle his pole, which I did fiercely, aiming for my own orgasm, damn it.
And our clocks ticked so that we exulted in unison, and he took great pride in being wetted by my gushes. In the bathroom, Natalia was dancing all lathery, and they told us to slither on each other like mermaids, like eels. Her whip-inflamed loins quivered at my hands as we offered the punters a sight of candid passion. The bellwether called it quits, in Swedish, they would have an early flight the next morning. Cecile joined us in the stream, and we pampered ourselves for another leg.

Downstairs, after we left our shoes at the vestiary, we secured an envelope with our bulky common wad in a safe. A thin, young, long blond, curly-haired guitarist was weaving the gossamer furls of his inspiration with an Ebow upon his strings. He wore a college ring with a deep red stone. His instrument was a Koa wood electro-acoustic guitar, and he tapped now and then on a command pad for loops and effects; he was taking possession of the salon space like a starling murmuration.
We allowed ourselves some tea brewed by yet another samovar maid, in a mere apron, whom Cecile had an instant crush on —black eyes, pale complexion, another hopeful runaway from whatever ghetto. She also dispensed macarons; her hands were manicured and had not been damaged by squalid chores, and her nails were black.
Natalia had got rid of her clothes, setting off her accessories and thus, her nudity. A pair of laidback black buddies clicked on our obvious attitude and hurried us to some privacy, but we forced them to savour the macarons first. They offered champagne, but we explained our comfort in the clear teetotaller stance which never hindered our natural lechery. Cecile had eloped with the maid; she still possessed some ingrained class codes that would circumvent the rightful caginess of her prey, who had anyhow stepped as far as teasing clients half-nude in a brothel, mind you. I had a fair idea of how that whimsical fling would end.
Meanwhile, we led our drooling amorous pair to room twenty-one, in the hardy wake of the Swedish Navy. They called themselves Tord and Erland. They were Norwegian junior lawyers who had been referred by our neighbours at 7S; they had already visited Philippe’s, and it was their last night in Paris. As they were disputing in their language as to who would shag who, I couldn’t resist telling them in Danish that they could have both. They knew the brothels of Copenhagen, where they spent many of their weekends; I didn’t look like a Danish whore, they said, to what I retorted they didn’t look like Norwegian lawyers.
The room was hung in grey velvet, with a square mauve padded satin bed, and Art Deco leather club armchairs to bounce on. The tall marquetry headboard stylised a palace porch open on an opulent park with lightly dressed leisurely women watching antelopes drinking in a pond. Silvery satin drapes at the two windows produced the illusion of a waterfall reflected in a majestuous Venetian mirror across the room. On the fourth wall hung a modern mannerist portrait of a lady in a silk stole as her only vesture, holding a white cockatoo, against dark stormy skies. I had a hunch that her eye concealed a camera.
Our johns wore steel and charcoal grey bespoke suits, silk shirts with college stripes ties, and impressive-size dark-mocha shoes. They were hung like beasts and smelled of Belgravia Flair; I could fancy them in Camille’s bed. But meanwhile, I could hardly swallow a beakhead that formidable. They wanted to watch us performing cunnilingus while humping hard into our loins, which was a win-win arrangement, so to speak. They managed to last long enough to swap a few times, so we girls gushed at each other’s faces like we do. Having stretched our passages for their massiveness, I thought it could quickly become addictive; I had never sensed that much with our Erik. They were the methodical kind, they did not lag after they filled up our entrails, thus it felt. They dressed up as fast as military men, after a blitz wash-up. We were still enlaced when they fled.
No wonder Cecile had eloped with the personnel; we knew how to water our horses from the towering gilded contraption. There was excitement foreseeing yet another shy capture out of the famed cubbyhole or the ward of a God Crow. Now that the Opera had shut, the ruling class stags would be aroused by Violetta’s death, and thus, in need of willing flesh to assuage their fantasies before sailing back homeward to whatever drab career we wouldn’t care to know of, they would shore into our velvet anchorages, with musing smiles.
Two prominent clubmen in black silk tailcoats with white piquet vests looked like escapees from a première herd; however, they had manners and manicured hands. They smelled of costly scents. They sipped Pimm’s N°1 in hopes not to zonk out. They had confabulated on our looks —we were both casually naked, now— and attitudes; they came to sit on both sides, and Albert rested a soft hand upon my thigh. They had grasped we came as a pair.

A volubile team of Italians were celebrating some business success, and finding us wallowing au naturel had whipped their senses, but our johns took us to N°27 by the stairs, fondling our butts tenderly. They were cousins, in aeons; they overtly vaunted our shapeliness as they would have with their horses, manipulating our bodies and kneading our joints with skill, so I came to think they were surgeons. We continued our affectionate lesbian number like we didn’t bother about their oafishness, but it was time to pull out their plain manhood to light. After the Norwegian ravage, we unbuttoned two honourable staffs of noble wood I did not shun to gobble up while the bearer stood in silk socks. Bold and doubtless, he soon gushed in deeply, no sooner lauding my stoic dedication and promising a steadier course after this needed dick starter.
Insidiously, these offhanded comments were beginning to drain my nerves, reminding me of my own loathed brother with his mates and what, in hell, had ensued for me. In Natalia’s ear, I wondered if these two weren’t a tad too oafish. She agreed, and we began to give the boys the cold shoulder, to their dismay because I could tell they craved our snazziness. Olivier, the other one, overtly called for a truce but asked us if we were hirelings or not, for our price had been bulky, in the least.
I dropped they might be refunded and risk being noted as poor bedfellows, for what they cared, we weren’t streetwalkers nor junkies. Good sport, they improvised a pantomime and came on their knees to lick our pretty feet. Like savvy swordsmen, they knew how to defuse the tension, thus they repaid in kind our self-worth. Albert licked greedily my haughty, though propensity-prone, quim still stirred by Norwegian wood. There was no manner of apologies, but the forthright endeavour to bow our best chords and trigger our best smiles.
That room was clad in peach-fuzz moire with black-striped window drapes and grey Art Deco pattern carpeting. The bed was thrown with fake beige mink; two plump ash-grey leather armchairs offered their rounded armrests to spirited acrobatics. Once unclothed, our French rakes showed no older than us, and were play-worthy, like our own home squad —only they were born to pay. After the rude telling-off, they nonetheless earned a thorough cavalcade with each of us unabashed courtesans.
In the precious mosaic bathroom, I was nigh on the verge of spilling the pearls about ourselves, but I did nought on that way. We groomed them back in their outlandish vestures, and let them venture a goodbye handful. Maurice had spared our clothes, but he demanded a fair last moment of fondling our butts and tasting our mouths. He confirmed that Cecile had abducted the tea damsel with the blessing of the landlady. We pocketed our well-earned hefty stash, and we called a car. I begged Natalia to sleep with me, whoever might join us in the course of what was left of the night. Alfred was already rapping in bird gossip.

When I touched down from the land of green steeples, I was outright alone in the house. I went to Cecile’s, her door was open, and the bed smelled of bliss. As I peed pensively, I decided to slip on a tracksuit and climb up straight to the studio. It had been tidied up, the futon rolled back into the closet, and fresh towels in the shower room. I brewed some Oriental Beauty and played Jon Hassell. My labia and anus were touchy; I fetched the pot of magic salve and blessed Hugo.
Sipping my tea, I cleared my list of messages. Fæbian had reckoned at Mendelsohn’s that she be a bigger slut than she had thought; she thanked me for whatever I did not suss out. Most importantly, my old Saint Loup school captain Julia Grant announced she would be at the Parkside-Rivoli hotel along with her memorable twin nephews in a week’s time, and she hoped we would rejoice, for old time’s sake. You bet.
Plum cropped up in artfully overwashed shorts and striped singlet, barefoot, and wired. We made out instantly, and I stole her shorts. She smelled of Malo’s peonies, her thighs were smooth as porcelain. We did not pull the futon out yet, but she remained bare-arsed, with a smile. Pulling Kate’s chair, she sat close to me with her precious vibes.
With whatever shreds of Mid-European languages I knew from my most cosmopolitan schooling, we tentatively combobulated our nights. She had swam in bliss with the holy telepaths, and left them to their dedicated training in the morning, counting on me to dress her up for her day on town with Fanny. She knew I was the general costume provider, bar the naked ballerinas, of course.
There, it wouldn’t be a matter of wooing her future teachers, as of yet, anyway. She agreed to a neat black pantsuit, a white shirt, and a black and white striped tie, with black loafers and white socks—something as far as possible from her vagabond youth, to frame her socially with whoever she would rub elbows with in the nonetheless easy-going institution. Fanny called from downstairs; it would be a busy day. She had seen the money I had tucked in her little wallet.

Now, Daphné was back from her introductory cruise trip with the Benefactor himself. She was overjoyed at how easy it was to please the old man, and thus she would be permanently dwelling in an apartment next door to Adèle and Rose’s. Gauthier had been commissioned for the interiors; he would, no doubt, appoint a visit in his company; he was always partial to M.’s new patronages.
Sunbathing nude on the yacht’s decks, she had gained a lovely honey tint; M. had constantly applied suncream upon her precious skin, listening to her personal tale. She had won him over. M. made no mystery that he had peeped at her rollicking along with me or others and that he would probably keep on because she was so naturally gracious at it. I made fun of that we all knew we were spied on for kinky reasons, the only matters we could possibly share with the nanoverse mogul who otherwise extensively monitored his high-voltage realm. In that manner, I retold her some dishevelled orgies we had candidly fired up onboard the sundry 7S aeroplanes we flew at no other costs. However, there had never been any evidence that our apartment be wired, but M.’s technological might was limitless, and, after all, if he liked watching me do the naughty for his own relish, I wouldn’t object. I had been the long-time lover of Camille, M.’s windfall associate in the SEVEN STREAMS almighty conglomerate, and I trusted her on my life about our global protection, provided we wouldn’t go wander unattended territories.
Natalia had stealthily returned from her appointments and was bedazzled by Daphné’s supreme youth. She added in a gourmand manner that the vetted network we pertained to offered enough unfettered opportunities to feed our inner dragons; she would reckon. Say we call Liselotte, a most forgettable school budy of Kate and Sarah’s turned most acquainted procurer in worldly power circles, any mid-afternoon, to avail ourselves to a gainly cinq à sept, chances were we end up being expended in the most poetic happenstances without risking our lives or health, which are not expendables.
Liselotte had said we should dress like well-to-do bourgeoises abducted outside the Bon Marché, no undies. The air was fair. I dressed up the debutante as a society cygnet, a powder blue moiré taffeta shirt dress, mid-thigh, left open, fluttering over the lace hem of her white stockings. I did not remember any of us wearing these pale blue suede Maryjanes, but they befitted totally, and voilà! Natalia loved my sartorial compulsions, since always. She laughed and told us that, still in high school, she had once read about Natalie Barney raiding the fitting booths at the Bon Marché for fresh white geese, and thus, she had, looking slightly more than her age, cruised candidly the lingerie department until she was eventually wooed by some lady who smelled expensive. She had long crept by herself into our bed here, and she hadn’t missed any of our teachings, therefore she had been a most successful Bon Marché jailbait for a few seasons before Liselotte managed her academic cursus. She borrowed a close-fit terracotta rib-knit silk short dress, she preferred to go bare legs in raw-hide Greek sandals; Daphné couldn’t help her hands on her thighs.
As for me, I knew all too well how to look urbanite chic, and I could have hit on pill-popper swans in Bergdorf-Goodman’s salons undetected. I sussed what Liselotte meant; that was her taste, anyhow. Avoiding the too-obviously provocative blazer nudie, I pulled a midnight blue silk velvet midthigh five-button redingote lined in poppy red and black striped satin, black taffeta corset, black veil stockings, black suede Chelseas, the whole torpedo shebang. We exuded rare nightly blooms, amber, and irresistible quintessential pheromones. From the front seat, Liselotte was amused by the living result of her altogether baroque dress code suggestion. She had an instant crush on Daphné.
It hadn’t been a long ride. Then, we had driven down some no-through pathway leading to a three-story mansion in ashlar Paris limestone, implanted askew, with four classical open façades to an inscrutable rewildered park. A golden glow from the high windows hardly grazed the ivy overgrowth in which stone nymphs drowned. Liselotte announced us to the camera at the front door, and only an electric buzz responded. As we stepped in, the lock clacked drily.
We crossed a small greyish faux marbre entry, a second door opened when the first closed, and we had slid our pass cards in a slot. In the striking black and white marble foyer with a windrose motive on the floor, the heat surprised us. Liselotte sniggered that we wouldn’t stand remaining dressed long, and she enlaced Daphné to begin stripping her deftly. Two sorts of prim theatrical lackeys in black twill vests and breeches, frilled white shirts, black knee-high stockings, and court pumps with silver buckles, rounded us in an impressive en dehors walk with the silent intention to disrobe Natalia and me.

Once our clothing was tucked away on hangers in a side closet, they beckoned us to move on to whichever of the three doors between the white marble Greek columns. They did not avoid gazing longingly at our thus exposed charms. On the walls, framed silhouette medallions depicted the libertine mores of ideal shepherdesses and fauns. While cuddling Daphné in her wing, Liselotte explained swiftly that the place had been a posh parlour house for more than two centuries, run by some unassailable dicastery through hassles and revolutions, notwithstanding a legend of unaccounted-for disappearances.
Arm in arm, we followed Liselotte on the right in a salon lit by faux candles in gilded candelabras, entirely painted with a whirlwind of celestial beings lifted in heavenly debauchery —another unbridled revenge by the cohorts of migrant Italian artists bored with the prudish decors they earned their living with, in churches and theatres, as we had seen in Isidore Pointarien’s extravagant, untouched erotic theatre on the Boulevard Du Crime.
In the many purple-black buttoned tufted wool velvet daybeds and sofas thrown with dark faux fur plaids, sundry nude nymphs, much to our taste, wallowed at the hands of caring men of all ages
—more or less covering their indecency under light robes— languidly offering them the treasure nature had blessed them with. in casual immodesty.
Time to garner hearty cheers from those who cared to look around and saw us, we had not, at once, noticed some pretty boys being freely fondled, and more, by their elders, nor had we relished the sight of that young milky complexion nymphet simply held on a leash by a silver short-haired lady in a black lace slit bodystocking. Liselotte was pervertedly passing on Daphné from hand to hand, but not so ostentatiously as to make it a heavy-minded chore; I did not need to intervene, as the girl was amusing herself, too; her audience had manners.
Some distinguished rakes recognised Natalia as one of the rouée bitches they had watched being served by the Weimaraners at the bottom pit of depravity. Such encounters had been bound to happen, as Natalia is not one to be forgotten, and she wouldn’t shun the wandering hands —soft, unspoiled, manicured hands of privileged debauchers she grew on, like the wisteria on a cypress tree. She assumed her uber-deviant prestige with spunk and mischief —she knew we would die for her.
A limitless oceanic electroscape hovered around in high-resolution sensuality. I was swiftly wrestled aside by a pair of burly thicksets, unerringly buggered with my arms in the back —as if I wouldn’t have relented— and another stiff dick wildered in my throat. They felt utterly vigourous; thus, although I barely rested my knees on the bed, I fleeted weightless between their hands and weapons, the perfect willing ragdoll belching splattering noises, soon to be soiled like a carnal mop.
One of my satiated bulls gallantly carried me away to an extensive water room clad in bevelled mint-green glazed tiles under a faintly lit stained glass ceiling, so he could play on with my limbs and joints like the sensuous prestidigitator, hug and shag me more in the tepid rain of a wide shower head. As I could read his face in the running water, I recalled he had possessed me before, possibly in the bustling bath cellars at Philippe’s or other subterranean steam rooms where Liselotte procured us safely at our whim.
When he had his fill of me, I dawdled randomly in a darker room wholly painted with an unleashed vision of Saint Anthony’s temptations once he had yielded altogether. In a nightly decor of tumbling architectures and rocks, à la Monsu Desiderio, herds of unabashed sinners flew in swaths of obscene embrace, as a backdrop to some other restless tangible carnal games of all genders amidst which Daphné suffocated on an oversized schlong between mischievous teammates; and I knew, when I went to check on her, that I would be caught for yet another round for the sake of Saint Anthony.
Back by the mild inexhaustible waterfall, they circled us and asked us to kiss and piss on each other while they, too, hosed us, laughing. Then we splashed us all with orange blossom water, and they carefully rinsed our entrails like savvy connoisseurs. Liselotte found us on the way out, just recovering herself from a heated corps à corps. She was overjoyed that Daphné looked still so fresh, although I told her what she had boldly withstood.
Our matron led us to yet another decor of Arcadian dawn with a pearly round of fluffy clouds over the serene pediments of erstwhile temples as dreamt by the Esprits des Lumières, and troupes of demigods fornicating with nubile vestals and ephebes, amidst the wildflower. A couple of comely maids in mere aprons gently dispensed beverages and unassuming little bites. I smiled at the thought of our recurrent Samovar girl syndrome, but I could hardly help myself touching under the apron and reckonning they weren’t insensitive, whatsoever.

Liselotte also mislaid a hand under the starched lace, telling me that these vetted interns, though fiercely coveted, were strictly off-limits for male visitors, but given the nature of what they witnessed, they could find some release with willing slaves like us, said she while forcing her victim to lay beside her while wanking her expertly. Daphné wouldn’t dare slide a hand, but I sussed the girl had a little crush on my not-so-innocent companion, whom she could have seen used together by a bunch of avid jockeys moments ago. As I fondled her buttocks, the apron happened to flutter aside under Daphné’s nose, and I winked so she could seize the instant to graze the smooth virginal-looking pubis; then I managed that they roll together on the furry couch. They necked like schoolgirls; I nuzzled my way between the bare thighs till I could lap at her clit and make her sing, then led Daphné down in the wide-open thighs to claim an easy win.
Her name was Oona Brahe, she spoke Finn, Swedish and street urchin English. Liselotte mocked me, and our appeal to slanky tramps; this one had been vamped up to my taste, moreover. I retorted I would owe her big-time if she negotiated Oona’s transfer to my team, for Baltic sake. She said the nipper was free to go nest anywhere else with her recommendation. As of then, I had had my fill of fireflies buzzing in my underbelly, I rid Oona of her laces and took a dive into Baltic parlance.
She wasn’t shy around me; whatever submissive routine she had played by with the clientèle, she liked being hustled softly, and so it went with me. I drew her to a shady corner and subjected her to questioning, mezzo voce. She was born in Helsinki to a castaway branch of a noble family. Her father, Göran Brahe, a praised software designer, had been diagnosed with autistic spectrum disorder; her mother, Karolin Arenberg, had died of a Fentanyl accident before Oona was one year old. Like most little imps we had collected, because of their beauty, she had been raised in the turmoil of a dysfunctional family and sundry limbs of an institutional octopus.
She wasn’t the Slavic type, with thick chestnut hair and light tea eyes. Willy-nilly, she had been educated by morally sound teachers and educators in the best school system in the world, until she bloomed early into the adolescence crisis, which led her on a ferry to Tallinn and a nigh deadly voyage through Europe as an underage backseat toy. She had been left for dead on a roadside in Zingst, Germany, the first time a swine injected her heroin, which, however, saved her from a junkie life.
The police had taken her, soaked and reeking, to the hospital in Stralsund, where a woman intern from Berlin had fallen for her and brought her home after the summer season. She was bang eighteen, and she refused to be repatriated to Finland, but she would neither be a house pet. With enough German pidgin, she worked as a waitress in Prenzlauerberg but soon ended in a much more lucrative position in a bona fide brothel where the owner of this historic Maison where we were now chattering, enlaced, had found her and brought her back in his luggage.
Finding that I was so curious about her fate, she retorted a heap of questions about me, who she said did not feel like the other visiting harlots. Without unfurling my whole curriculum, I told her we were independent libertines, acquainted with the cream of meta-finance and I could take her to our elitist phalanstery in the heart of the City Of Lights.
On my wink, Liselotte came to cuddle with us and said I could bring back Oona home if she wished. Although, by vice, I would have relished watching her shag one or two clubmen on the spot, she led me through service corridors to the closet where we dressed up. She wore a long black jersey gown that moulded her tight pretty bum, and black Chucks. She admired my sole velvet redingote and murmured I had no more breasts than she. Liselotte had gathered the troops, bar Natalia who had encountered one of her rich regulars. Oona had caught Daphné’s eye, they hugged delicately, and Daphné couldn’t button up her dress. Liselotte let us go, musing she had a flurry of lustful ideas with my kittens.
Shortly after, on our sidewalk, I thought I had a moment. The streetlights were extinct, the moon was hidden, and seldom stars twinkled in the night. The girls looked up, and I nosed in Oona’s gracile neck; she smelled of love in a haystack. A tad because I wished to bedazzle a good once Oona’s judgement about our standing, I proposed we take a dive in the pool. She wouldn’t know it was for real. She was a bit scared of our subterranean realm, we stopped a few times to kiss in the mirrored corners, and then she watched us undress by the still waters. I helped her pull off her dress as Daphné unlaced her shoes. She was an excellent swimmer and noticed the absence of chlorine. Once she had unstretched her nerves, she came to swirl around us, overjoyed to learn that we could dip ourselves anytime we liked.

Oona was more amazed by our installations than the extravagant decor where we had brought her from. As we wiped each other, her hands came very much alive, and so did her smiles. I was happy and worn out, but I needed a last cup of tea. In the lift, I found myself loaded with clothes and shoes while the kitties made out frankly. While I brewed tea, Daphné showed her fling around, except the God Crow temple which was closed. I served them before the sofa where they revelled in each other, and I went to bed. The next morning, when Alfred called me back from the Tudor terraces, there were three of us huddled together under the comforter. I went to pee and meditate on the responsibilities of parenting. Was I breeding a team of cosmopolitan harlots?
Daphné came on and, as we had done before, straddled me on the toilet and pissed over my quim while kissing me. Her mouth tasted of fennel. We realised that Oona stood wondering what went on. I laughed and took us to the shower where I hugged her and told her to piss along my thighs, and she did with abandon.
They both showed touching rings to their eyes. Oona’s frame was narrower than Daphné’s, with not much fat over flat muscles, and no more breasts than me. Daphné was, on the whole, smoother, with dove-wings breasts and blushing areolas. Neither had rounded hips, and Oona showed arousing drawn abs. Daphné’s feet were arched like Canova graces’, while Oona’s were slender and tapered. They honoured my toasts.
We browsed our mail nonchalantly. Cecile sent a photo of a faceless gracile body, commenting that Lourénie would be on stage that day. Daphné explained what Cecile meant, and who Lourénie must be. Oona laughed at the idea that we collected the Samovar girls on her good looks, however blushing to include herself in that category. I shunned the idea of visiting the workshop now, sitting sessions were a bore; I proposed we go upstairs where they could lay together on the futon while I would scribble my soul away, waiting for Cecile and her crush.
From a nearby gable top, Alfred buoyantly approved of the new trainees, which earned him a handful of raisins and peanuts on the studio roof ledge. Kate made a surprise return from where she did not say, and she warmly approved of the new pair she joined on the ground after a shower. The younglings heard a flowery version of our long relationship, and they were amazed to understand that Simon was Kate’s own brother. We showed it wasn’t a matter. Kate was perfectly tanned, like what you get running in the northern dunes. She was overjoyed babbling with fresh newbies, whatever seasons they had forgone in their budding lives; we had heard a few before, hadn’t we?
And Kate lit up expectations for the kittens’ new life of unfettered polyamory, as she could already tell. Cecile and Lourénie showed up with rhubarb and ginger pie at tea time. Lourénie wore a mismatched almond green and peach rose sweatsuit embroidered with “Strawberry Fields” in silver threads. She was more relaxed—and for a good reason—than I had caught a glimpse of at Fortunat’s. Had Cecile cut that fringe?
Lourénie Dupas was born in Bordeaux; her parents lived in Ambès —nothing to long for, but children find treasure in wastelands. She had been told her mother had gone before she reached her first birthday, so she was raised by her grandparents, who owned a hotel in Montalivet, ten minutes from the naturist beaches, and did nothing to bring up that she wasn’t their child, she had never seen her dad before she was twelve and it went wrong. Until then, in the heady scents of pine groves and the ocean, she had been a candid, popular nymphet in the naturist community, but as her dad moved in to help at the hotel Dupas, she became his sick obsession, unbeknown to his own parents. He was a sturdy and sly man, he would stand on the lookout for her in the old house’s nooks with his penis drooling, and he had developed a habit before she found the courage to tell her grandma. A fit of ugly anger burst into the family, which ended at the bottom of the cellar’s stairs, where her father lay in death throes for three hours before they called for help. No investigation was ordered. They shut the hotel, and they remained in their endless shame.
Lourénie was sent away to a Christian boarding school, where her grown easiness about nudity caused turmoil until she ran away and fell at the hands of a young Czech lorry driver, with whom she lived passionately until he put her to work at a lorry park on the German border. She did not relent to alcohol or drugs, she was in high demand, but being underage, she couldn’t have found safety in a German or Swiss brothel. She needed proper contraception, and thus she was singled out by a male doctor who lured her to his home and treated her as his mistress servant until he was killed by her previous pimp. The murderer was caught, but not her. She had stolen enough money to reach Paris, where a snazzy woman flushed her out on the Canal Saint Martin’s banks, brought her to Fontange’s, where we saw her, and where Cecile, more or less, had bought her out, to her willing consent.

Kate, who had already disrobed to wallow along with my girls, offhandedly pulled down Lorenie’s trousers and poked her nose in the pale lower belly, forcing her down on the sofa edge for yet another homage to her already swollen quim. Trine called on the private chatroom; Michelle thought of throwing a last-minute party, with boys. When I told them there were three newbies they were thrilled. I did a presentation on our all-important neighbour and her entourage for our adventure-avid nymphets, mentioning that they would probably meet quality non-binary persons, a situation of which they had vaguely heard, mostly in the manner of transvestites, of what we undeceived them.
And so was time to dress up, be it to undress so soon, as they did not guess yet. Dapné would go nigh bare in a swarm of gold flakes on a dawn yellow silk shirt and tight-fit grey spandex shorts, black- -lacquered nails. Oona went bare in a so-short, flimsy, creased, black silk jersey fourreau, black-lacquered nails. I went bare in an iridescent, purplish silk jersey mini dress that hitched up already at any lesser move, deep-purple lacquered nails. We didn’t need shoes, said I. I let them choose their perfume, warning that these were strong extracts and thus one puff here and there was more than enough. Daphné’s skin di wonder with perfume, like adding a natural evocative musk; Oona smelled like the magic in a British hedge after the rain in May, to what a Florence iris brought the carnal tease. I sprayed some of that dark-minded gardenia with a boyish pencil-shavings afterthought. Kate put on a light layered beryl-green waistless chiffon bloom, nigh flush to her pubis, like a not-so-candid Victorian fairy. Like us, she went barefoot. She wore her misty marsh lily charm and kept fondling Oona. Lorénie came back from Cecile’s room in an oversized glazed indigo Tuareg shirt and a thin black yoga short she would soon lose. Seeing us, she kicked off her sandals, her nails were shiny black. Cecile wore an antique cream linon and lace see-through lady nightshirt she gave to ironing in one of Paris’ last true blanchisseries; she was indeed the barest of us all, and Lorénie craved that, crouching down to slide up a gentle hand. Cecile smelled of some extravagantly expensive scent once worn by Evelyn Nesbit. She breathed in my ear that now she needed dick.
The lift car was too narrow, so we did it in two trips, and I found myself able to grope Lorénie’s bum at whim, with a promising smile. They did not grasp why we continued downstairs as we led them in the mysterious underground passage along the sinister oubliette, nonetheless walking on thick velvety wool carpeting and through armoured steel doors that we commanded with our fingertips, towards more and more luxurious spaces and up to the real TRÆVIX palace and its outworldly decors.
We had visibly nought to hang in the vestiary, but the Middle Eastern Maître d stood watching in awe. Would it happen that he might eventually help in some manner? As for me, he had, more than once before, beautifully. A bunch of the usual culprits stood already in the grisaille salon, where the most refined fruit drinks, lemonades, and kombuchas were poured into blown-glass tumblers. We made a foreseeable sensation with our scantily clad damsels, as much with the savage hunks and the Cossacks as with the little court princesses,
Gauthier, in an ecru flax befitted suit, off-white tee-shirt, and blond Oxfords, looked enamoured seeing Daphné, his most urgent client, did he lie dashingly, and I had the hunch they had shagged like animals on the cardboard floors, in her future home. I went moist to that thought; she was no babe in the woods. When we moved to the grand panoramic salon, Oona was stricken dumb like a toddler in front of the Xmas displays, so much so that Delff, in a tight golden suit and no shirt, took her hand to show her around with funny comments.
Serguei, in jeans and a golden-brown corduroy jacket, with walnut brown jodhpur boots, had found words to entertain Plum, enough to slide his hand up her thigh. Gwen, in a one-shoulder ash grey alpaca jumper dress as short as a haiku, has caught my gaze from an embrasure; together, we reckoned that an age of wide-eyed Samovar girls might bury us alive, albeit here, at TRÆViX, officiated a Samovar boy. We sniggered, but we admitted, while petting each other fondly against the armoured glass pane, that we wanted dick. She recalled the time when she whored at a quaint quayside hotel in Brugge where from Kate and that Heather fairy had charmed her away, with her elusive companion Finlan, the Irish Dane who now played keyboards here with the dancers’ posse.
New sleek-hairdo American graduates appeared in grey Armani garb, silk socks and Allen Edmonds mahogany loafers. I reckoned they couldn’t be Michelle’s employees. Therefore, it should be an initiative from a higher altitude, with her blessing and for our enjoyment. Gwen reacquainted herself with her long-lived memories.