James, Camille and Gauthier have been cautiously kind to the magic lyrebird who is not shy to speak out. At work, Kate has been quite talkative as she was at school but we play lots of music, until she grabs me or I trick her into little gems of debauchery, however there will be material to hang at Camille’s show in a few months.
The season is softening as an old wool and Bach sets the time. At the end of every day she pulls the pad and connects in video with Simon, eventually asking me to join them. He wants to watch us and she gives him what he wants, undressing me and showing how docile I am; then the screen will show only his face for a while.
Next to our bedroom door, a wooden palisade has been fixed against a wall but Hugo won’t tell what it is. He has prepared a special evening with the easy crew. We gather in our flat around a cheese and fruit on bread meal from Androuet. In the narrow space, we mostly sit on one another. James and Camille have stolen Kate’s pants, myself and Hugo dispute the Golden Boy Gauthier’s willie.
Hugo asked quiet before we go down to his salon, Kate and me go barefoot in our light Liberty dresses and enter the mostly dark room where reigns the Bulgarian Rose, he ushers everyone to a seat, he would be between Katherine and me.
Imperceptibly, a glow on a wave of dark red hair and a faint hum, a swift purple spark from an amethyst tells us Malo is playing. As the bird ascends from the cello, her nude body gleams in the pallor of her skin.
Another vague halo begins streaming down a strange black silhouette of silk and jet beads, now moving up to show an emaciated face with black eyes and hair. The man stands still in a suspended phrase of Malo’s music, then invisible hands open and take away his long glittering cloak and a small fairy appears at his feet in the light, wearing what seams to be an array of dragonfly wings at the centre of a sun-like designed floor.
The puppeteer is entirely covered with tight black silk, except his face and hands. The gossamer threads hang from intricate dark metal contraptions attached to his wrists and fingers, then invisibly into the ivory-like flesh of the marionette with Bellmer-like ball articulations. The face is altogether that of a baroque angel and an Egyptian semi-goddess, the parted lips of the unspeakable smile revealing small pearly teeth.
Arms wrapped around her chest, after a brief salutation, the little dancer slowly raises her eyes in search of ours, tilts her head crowned by iridescent feathers and opens her arms on a shiny jerkin spangled with scarab’s elytrons like a Thai treasure.
Hands and feet are chiseled in a royal style, and as the cadence begins to drive a languorous dance, the puppet sways a rainbow in it’s own gravity like a kitten in a diamond dew.
Malo’s bow waves motives like a silk flag drawing our stunned breaths as we all melt in awe. Nonetheless I stealthily disrobe Her Grace who lays on Hugo’s shoulder, whom also plays in Gauthier’s purse. Fabrics slide insensibly until I find myself spread opened to a few furtive hands.
We keep silent, I can tell there is narcissus on Katherine’s labia, someone other is making me smile in the dark.
The nightly manipulator never robs a gram of the dancer’s life, giving the feeling that he is the one following Malo and the fairy who lays down in lascivious invites, responding to our own poses. She shows an exquisitely detailed inseam as her gracile thighs deploy on the polished balls of her miniature butt.
At a slow tempo, she even rotates and bows down until she stops on a sharp whisper, opens wide her arms looking up when her chest explodes in a flock of golden butterflies her master agitates with the left hand like a whip and then spirits them away to the dark,
The music has faded and the lights too; we remain bewitched for a little while, untying our embraces to finally applaud in a scene where only the puppeteer an his assistant are dressed.
I wake up in full bloom amidst the balmy crew quite amazed by the tiny jewel of a show the puppet has given. She salutes endlessly to our great amusement.
Malo is totally pale and a tad transfixed along her dark instrument. I emerge from the black velvet quit we laid down on and embrace the nude cellist who soon childishly bites my ear.
The assistant has fetched a long black box with metal corners and opens it on a display of purple velours cases, where the dancer seems to walk in to her rest. Calmly, the puppeteer unties the lines from his hand, gathers them into a skein and lodges it in a narrow rill around the dancer’s sarcophagus, ending by setting the precious command contraption in the appropriate casing. Now he undresses the satin white little body, letting us see a delectable anatomy with all the charming details and folds her costume and accessories in a box next to her. He gently inserts the bald head in a teeny stripped silk bag and covers the puppet with the suitable flaps before tightening the intended bands over the whole magic and secures the case the assistant carries out. The butterfly whip that had sprung out of the dark is slid back in a tube. Hugo starts the applaud to the delicacy of the manoeuvre.
Malo asks me to help her do the same bed down for her warm companion she shrouds with paddings in a futuristic metal ghostly trunk.
As she squats, my hand swiftly goes down on her; she smells balsam and gardenia in her sweat in an evocative symbolist fashion, with the irresistible pull of papier d’Arménie, I devour her mouth and she slackens against me like a volubilis on a rose tree. I draw her on the black cloud of a black swaddled armchair and we kiss like manic.
Hugo has lit candles, his own outstretched by Gauthier’s finical nursing. Sarah is the abandoned toy of both James and Camille, The puppeteer is delicately disrobing his assistant, a tanned-skin Brazilian looking ephebus with a stiff dart and no hair, himself shows a moorish complexion and an impressive membrum, his body is elegantly sinewy. On a sign from Hugo, they join the centre of the couch where they are lusciously greeted. Sarah already spreads her hands on the younger one’s chest while the master is in search of her wet patch and little rabbit hole.
Camille wants a bite of Malo, she captures the left hand as if it was a sleeping dove, with feathery kisses, the right one is clutched to my nape while her mouth is harassing my face with wet twirls. Meanwhile, we meet at the jubilant grove she kindly opens for us. Now she lays back on me, turning her lips to mine; I twiddle the arrogant nipples on her heavenly chest and Camille is feasting on live hems and fringes in our widespread flesh boudoirs. Soon, Malo faints out singing softly and I cuddle her eyelids with kisses. I winkle out of the chair and push Camille down on the sleeping beauty to reach for her own pearly trove where my already devilish tongue annoys the pleats and shirring until she rejoins the haze she has sent Malo in.
The strings puller wants me to taste his boy, holding my head as the slim runner forages mightily with his tongue in my mouth, my whole body and my welcome spots. I give the lad the same but soon he is deep in me tight and strong while the chief kisses my mouth like a giant strawberry, then throats me with the long narrow dagger that smells of incense. They both furiously palpate my body and astound me wide opened; on our side Hugo reins Gauthier on his wang and hurls his pleasure. The golden knave reaches out for my tiny tit berries and eventually the puppeteer’s balls at the same time Hugo seizes my rider.
The master softly commands another arrangement where he has me on top of him and skewers my womb, opening the small wicket for his aide and letting Gauthier fill my last harbor; they are rife and supple around me drowned in pulses, colours and smells. Hugo attends everywhere and whispers into my ears, licks my eyes. Dreamingly, the three runners attain ecstasy together and I seethe for good in the semen overflow.
I am covered and filled with sticky slobber and the dubious redolence of human drips. Hugo helps me drink the slime of my face and, holding my head, draws me out to the bathroom where we pet each other under the running water. In the lather, he wants to twiddle every fold and recess but comes back to my flooded eyes and hugs me silly.
Katherine appears in the mist and shares the foam, soon to be followed by the whole crew in the large enough shower stall. James is still solid as marble and makes it feel to Kate’s butt while we dance like wisterias in the squall. Nibbling her long darling neck, he is quietly pervading her shy backway whereas Hugo is reviving in mine. Malo has a hand to the wrist in Camille but the puppet accomplices decide to play her as they harried me not long ago, in different portals, so the latter captures the sunshine boy and lead his troupes to her arch, fingering his arse simultaneously.
The storm is over, we have rinsed and combed the birds and the bees with shiny looks and smiles. Hugo has decided we should concoct Bellinis, so we peel all the peaches in the kitchen with feline dedication. Levani and his apprentice Koka find a breath to tell their names with a colourful Georgian accent. I tell the becoming of our little performance on Hugo’s idea and the possibility to produce it on a cabaret stage, wearing a dress. Camille is very complimentary about my music and Hugo says he is proud of me, kissing my peach-drenched fingers.
After the blending and filtering, we fill a refrigerated crystal pitcher with the opal juice and bring it along with Krug to the salon, still licking each others hands. Hugo has thrown away the stained quits and arranged cushions on the leathers couches and armchairs with the help of his house fairies who sit entwined when the Murano glasses have been filled for all.
Hugo opens a stone inlaid cabinet and says he wants to perfume each of us, starting with me and a mysterious leather-ish arabesque of amber and lotus he keeps in a black cruet; he tells me to test the Mädchen and they playfully capsize, asking if he can use it in my intimates, which he does generously, enticing the crew to invite me around and nose every area of my person with a hum of desire that makes the parfumeur proud. Then he brings an opaline flask to Camille and says he has invented a nightly offspring of tuberose as he knows her faith. he proposes a drop on her wrist, waits, an on the blooming of her smile he touches every joint of her light freckled body, giving a goldsmith’s attention to the rosy inseam where Gauthier comes to worship and bless, so the chemist wants him to try a reminiscence of the great Michel Morsetti in the coppery scent of vanilla with lavender on a blade of musk to what everybody agrees and that makes me kiss his deep little hideaway.
To James he grants an episcopal fury of tolu and benjoin dissipated by ylang-ylang, musk and patchouli Kate takes an unconcealed pleasure to massage on the doodle, bells and bud, smelling her hand afterwards. He offers narcissus and cedar to Levani and a daring tousled cinnamon to Koka,
Comes Sarah’s turn and he fetches a deep blue bottle with silver ornaments, telling he has been searching on the muguet’s trace and kept in mind the tomboy’s slender silhouette and pale complexion to gather white flowers like jasmine and honeysuckle. She has first the eager silent look of her own mystery but greets the fragrance with animal keenness, throwing up her tapered legs and feet while Kate gives her a long deep kiss as he anoints the laps and folds.
Hugo goes to Katherine with a Lalique nymph and sprays minute puffs on her languid body in Sarah’s hold, completing the tohu-bohu of scents with an evasive ghost of childhood mimosa, holidays lime, playground fever and cotton underwear. I’m aroused and struggle to reach for her still puffy chalice to dart a little word. He embraces us three, turns towards Camille and says he feels he has found the soul of Ishtar for the rest of his life, then he rests his cheek on Kate’s forehead.
Katherine says: my will has all diluted in tonight’s extravagant spend, my blue knight still finds the desire to bend my neck, to lift my arm and taste my sweat in the bitter oils Hugo has sprayed.
Some rare warm summer nights, on Sylt, Simon and me escaped after the last bite of rice pudding our caretaker Herta made as well as the red fruit marmalade to go with it. There was a lot more free space on the island twenty years ago, the moonlight changed the dunes into a blue maze. We knew the less visited areas, except some furtive couplings if we were lucky because watching would metamorphose us into horny devils, otherwise, according to the moment’s mood, the magic words could take sometime, each of us rivalling in imagination to aggravate the desire. Then the signal sprung out laughing and then we did not wear a lot. Simon was always stiff as a gun, I was wet at the first fateful words of our routine, we kissed a lot with our hands busy. One of the students who loosely watched after us during the vacations had once clearly explained everything a girl should explicitly know about sexuality, so I never let Simon in until some girlfriend from school lent me dirty books and we tried the tighter way, and once we had found the proper lube he became insatiable. He rewarded me with his lovingly skilled mouth and tongue. Satiated, naked in the moonlight, we would stare at the night waiting for the shooting stars. Tonight’s beauty brings me back those moments that I had vowed not to forget, I know shooting stars eventually pass by, I have Sarah’s pretty mouth and Simon is back on earth, I need to cry for a while, hug me.
I play Purcell very low on the system, I grope absent-mindedly Malo’s round breasts as we comment the evening with Levani and Gauthier while Koka is gently shared by Camille and James. In Sarah’s arms, Katherine seems asleep.
The puppeteers dress up, call for a car and leave with kisses for everyone. Camille slips her stockings up first, then finds her ramages skirt and blouse of copper hues, her panties must have been lost upstairs, she waves and leaves with James. Malo wants to sleep with the mädchen and takes her bag and instrument, gives me her mouth and follows the sleepwalkers upstairs. I keep the slender knight.
It is the days at boarding school in Switzerland, I wear my beloved Scottish wool skirt, white pantyhose and the cashmere sweater my mother has sent for her birthday, but it misses one sleeve and I notice bristly hair on my right arm. The light is fading in the park where plenty of golden leaves are falling although there is no wind and a blackbird sings triumphantly. The school’s bell rings and resonates like it roams around the park, I walk hastily to the large yellow house. Tonight I have to enter through a small dark blue door to the basement but leave my shoes outside the door. It’s a greyish room with a high ceiling; a woman in ancient outfit is turning her back to me, I wouldn’t swear it is my grandma. As I move inside the room, the woman keeps her back to me. Without shoes, I make no noise at all, the blackbird still babbles in a most baroque lucubration I wish I understood. Walking around a dining table, I approach a door near a far corner and open it, on the other side it is gloomy emerald dark, I am under the sea with printed Haeckel creatures sliding sideways making fast machines noises. The old woman has followed me but still turns her back. The water has made my clothes heavy, I fight off them and wonder if I should keep my slightly oversized panties on, which make a blue medusa laugh shortly so I pull it off. Fish come by and look at every part of me, some so close that I believe they kiss, like Edna the pale British girl in Falsterbo, whose blue veins impress me to sobs. Now I’m flat too and the book swings closed; it is darker but I see a picture glow on the page and creep up to it. A lake shimmers between blue mountains and the high walls of great cities, I leave the water when three rottweiler dogs appear barking and I regret I lost my panties when whistles lacerate the picture I’m in and I fall in a lorry full of sand where Edna says she will bury me to the neck. The trolley tilts and I slip down with the sand on a railroad frack where three young Swedes I know ride their fancy bikes along with a frolicking golden retriever which licks me like I am candy and Edna calls the boys but there is the noise of a train coming in the shape of the old woman’s back. I cannot move, the boys say I’m split into parts and I see blood on my thighs but feel no pain, so I seek Edna’s eyes but she won’t look at me and now she wears the old woman’s costume. She hands me fluffy rags and shows me to wipe the blood and hide myself in a hut outside a train station. The three Swedes are in there wearing the Haeckel medusa masks, they have dropped their pants and they show small weewees which I tease with one finger. The door creaks, it is night outside, the silhouette of the old woman trembles as she dangles sideways to make me understand to go with her. On the station platform the paper rips to pieces and Kate appears with her best smile whilst Edna and the boys turn into squirrels enmeshed in colourful hanks of wool. She draws me inside the tiny station where she opens a wardrobe and tells me to dress with the master’s black uniform with red trims I recognise as those of a marching band I saw in Copenhagen. She helps me and everything fits wonderfully, she slides her hand on the shorts with a whisper of appreciation, pulls a lavender shirt over my head and tugs all the extra fabric inside the pants, adjusts the suspenders and asks for my arms into the tunic she buttons up, admiring and caressing the fit of the shoulders. She seizes a pair of high boots with flaps and pulls the shoetrees that make great noise on the floorboards with a cascade of hazelnuts reclaimed at once by the squirrels which draw an Edna doll along. Like I remember my father doing for horse riding, I pull up the boots with strong handles then I stomp a few times, frightening the Swedes away. Kate picks up Edna and tells me about the veins her finger follows on the tiny wrist, she lifts the doll’s chiffon dress and admire a precious rose button between the silk legs. Edna pops up and cries for her doll, so we annoy her but she raises her big blue eyes and Kate kisses her on the forehead, letting the doll go. A long whistle announces a train, I understand I’m needed, I fetch a little red signal with a white star in the middle and walk like a Marshall towards the train from which an army of blond kids run shouting holding silver spoons like weapons. Edna is followed by porters with shiny trunks which are embarked while she kisses Kate on the mouth impetuously, I take a whistle out of my pocket to warn out the passengers, but it makes the sound of an harmonium and everybody laughs. Edna steps in the old fashioned compartment and a troupe of squirrels follow her. I can’t see Kate. The Swedes circle me on their funny bikes, they want to know what kind of boy I am, they grab me into a service room and finally pull my pants down. Overturning me, they want to stick a daisy in my butthole but I crawl under a car through a whole in the wall and run with no more clothes on to a chapel become hen house where Kate is painting in a large book. She invites me to sit next to her and make her colours. Birds are everywhere and cackle, one lays an egg on my lap, Kate wants it, kisses it, make it roll down to a bed of moss…
These two birds make a nonesuch couple, their bed is touching as a baby cradle. Beyond all the fragrances they play with, their antics in the fresh linen unfurl a cloud of spells. I woke up head to feet between them in a light sonata of toe-licking and puppy bites, the following tickling contest bringing up the necessity to go pee, but there was no room for three on the pot, so we mixed ourselves under a quick shower. Katherine makes tea and coffee for me, I dip my toast, letting some marmalade drip. All three nude, we watch each other obviously; seated on a stool smaller than her bum, Sarah puts up her feet on the table and I envy her long delicate toes.
I am in no hurry today, I ask to stay with them in their studio I heard of and they like that. They dress me with a grey tank top over a black tee over a black polka dots dress over white boy’s trunks. They allow black and white striped high socks. They touch me a lot. Katherine loves my hands.
They ask me to bring my instrument upstairs. They slip on funny drawers, tees and babouches, once upstairs they pull on bistre smocks. They show me the red sofa if I like. Again, Kate brews some tea and coffee, The high-ceiling white room smells of new paint and feels homey. As I see them timidly rummage through their material I guess they need to work, Sarah wonders if I would play along, for a try. I unleash Andrea from his starship and accomplish my petty rituals on the bow and the big boy with some conscience that I have an audience to please.
From where I sit, I see Sarah draw little patches of colours in an intricate arabesque, so I play furtive pizzicati to start my improvisation as a warm-up before I spin slow arpeggi over sustained voices, I search for the room’s acoustics and let the harmonics bloom like there’s no tomorrow…
The door was ajar, Hugo has snuck in, holding my stuff, and sits quietly at the other end of the sofa. My public doesn’t work any more, Kate rests her head on her hands like a bemused kid. The light is auspicious, the little bit I saw of Sarah’s work has started me on a thread of mental analogies I do not wish to curb.
Andrea is warm now, I am proud to look into Hugo’s eye and see what he thinks of the sounds I unroll from the marvel he once gave me. I fly a few more leagues and spiral in an undulating finale. As I raise my head the bravos burst and Hugo kisses my hands. Katherine hands us cups. The instrument goes back to rest.
It’s a morning conference in the studio, where we learn that Malo, Levani and Koka we’ll perform, as we saw it or a little dressed up, in places of the world like Berlin, London, New-York, San Francisco, for selected audiences. Hugo seems to foster the project and caresses the musician who reclines on the red mohair with her cup of coffee. Willing to go, she dresses back to her own city outfit and I pivot my chair to watch her do that with some help from Hugo. Black leather and chestnut boots ready to go, she gives each of us a long kiss and wishes she will be back with us.
Hugo pays respect to our works, holds the Faerie’s head on his chest and salutes, I switch on an ambient web-radio for now, she agrees. We engross in work as light-hearted as the lace-makers in the sun. The reclining boards on each side of the table prevent me from watching her too often. There are new colours on her perfect face, she radiates when Simon texts. I get my double entendre phrases too from the boy of whom I remember the mild manners and the same lust as his sister.
Now I try to collect the pictural impressions of the little dancer, to start with sketches in the Kandinsky way, vertical sinuous bow strokes through multifaceted clouds…