9 – Katherine Sophie – The Squirrel On The Lakeshore





Sarah tells:

After the great London spree along with Far and in the aftermaths of my revelation to him, back with my hat and gabardine, my pant’s hem now two inches above my ankle, as thick as a whip and tall as the great hemlock but seemingly not as poisonous, I was granted three weeks before moving to Geneva with whatever stuff I needed, Far commanding substantial means of transportation; It took two trunks, large enough to hide myself in them, to cram in all the affective burden of a trampled-on little brat and the necessary fineries of a well-bred New-Yorker.

I had been nicely popular at the International High school, there were sweet souls I did not like to part from, be it with the promise to be together again for Xmas or anything festive; there had been idylls and conspiracies while the attempts and achievements had furthered our look on each other; I was betraying a family because another family had betrayed me, and I had to carry that away in my trunks.

Elsie Chautempt was a hazelnut eyed, honey cinnamon coloured Caribbean wonder, daughter of a consul for a confetti republic under the sun and the storms. She was the Queen of dance classes and brilliant in humanities, she wanted to do politics. From the beginning, we made eyes and mumbled small talk in the showers after gym or dance; until I dared invite her home one afternoon. She lived with her mother in Hell’s Kitchen so it was a quick bus trip for her; for reasons beyond me, I wasn’t allowed in the bus alone.

She arrived with an orange-glazed carrot cake with my name on it, from a family bakery on her street. I was so touched I displayed the pastry on our kitchen table and called the nanny who happened to be busy. Elsie was stunned by the terraces we have over the river and the United Nations. When my Far – my dad did I explain – bought the grand apartment, no one was really sure about the power station behind which it stood, defaced like an old roaring twenties faded glory; but now that I had had, under my eyes,  the long epic of the plant’s dismemberment, we embraced, for the while, an opened view of the rising sun over Brooklyn.

She was impressed, and I eventually cornered her in a Gothic nook seemingly out of sight, except from any urban telescope as we had one, I kissed her in a gamely careless manner, the New-York sun played into the breeze and the unending sirens shuffled their rumpus in familiar echoes.

She yielded to my embrace and stared trustingly as I pawed her muscular tummy belt under the yellow jumper. I ventured some candid compliments to her beauty and babbled some ineptitudes about not being a lesbian or whatever, to what she gave me back a true wet kiss. I slowly hauled her willing soul to my room and locked the door. There we held each other’s heads and tongued like wild game; I paused as I held her belt button and she did not flinch, so I went down and dropped her pants, noting that she had wetted her panties; she pulled mine down in turn, and pushed me onto my bed, unleashing her mouth over my belly and thighs. She was smiling as she pulled off my sneakers, socks, jeans and my knickers she brought to her cheek, eyeing me.

We both were elated in our young nudity, palpating every muscle and joint, watching out for happy shivers, thirsty for more and more. Her black hair had flown free and covered her shoulders, her skin shimmered on her chest as flat as mine and we laughed to that before we bustled over the cunning little fruits and exhaust one another alternately in the golden light of the timeless afternoon.

I found my way to her vanilla brook under the podgy ruffled mound and I had been well enough experimented to crave on seeing her panting. At the bonfire of bright eyes we traded tit for tat until we heard some life in the corridor

That had been then, and many times since, unbound complicity  among the privileged offsprings of international elite, perfumed conspiracies in the mingling of our heated skins, already.

Elsie was helping me decide what, among my rags, would valorise best a newcomer in the midst of a distinguished set of kids, not anyhow different from this one I was leaving. I had told her she would be whom I would miss, and I forced her to bend as to fit into one trunk; we had frolicked as ever, then a stone hardened in my throat, a fist clung in my plexus, I lost breath. I whispered in her neck that there was something I wanted to tell. I pulled her inside the walk-in closet and fixed the door with a hanger; it was dead dark; I collapsed in tears and tore her down on me; then I mumbled my story, the whole reason why Far was taking me to safe haven. She cuddled me, we crept into one another to rest our bodies in an imaginary tomb, we cried mute.

Nanny found us when she brought freshly ironed undies, thinking it was some of our predictable shenanigans; she understood we had been crying, though, and, helping us up from the pile of shoes, she hugged our heads with soothing words. I ran to the bathroom and splashed my eyes with cold water; I felt Elsie’s hands on my tummy, to my neck. She kept her word forever, she graduated at Law School and is a brilliant international lawyer these days; I wouldn’t think of telling her one tenth of my life.

I had to warn the class about my fleeing, but since most of them were somewhat in transit anywhere they perched, nothing awkward came up and we exhausted the funny routines about Switzerland during the last weeks.

A few other boys and girls, with whom I had unclothed and more in the mingle zones of the physical education or the warm nooks of friendly homes, moved me deeply with their tender farewells. It wasn’t yet the realm of worldly texting, and trading phone numbers wouldn’t mean a thing from planet Mars. I promised I would write.

Wandering Soul

Wandering Soul. ©Katherine Sophie

I could have dissolved into listening to Radiohead’s “Exit Music”, or any “Wandering Sar” by Portihead, if my father had not been on the watch-out, and warned the nanny and the security about me. He planned other exciting dinners in town, grilled or raw fish, Danish or Japanese, the Oyster Bar at Grand Central, eye candy in the Hotel Edison, lobster at the Metropolitan Museum along with a real flesh Swiss diplomat who knew expertly the Saint Loup school.

We had gone to the clinic for the required medical checkup, I candidly raised the question of a contraception mean, but it was settled that I could better be prescribed for one in Switzerland, my freedom on the matter had already been signed for, and so a heap of dreadful clichés on restricted education fell off the table and I rested my feet on Far’s lap.

My mother had gone away with my brother and not even spoken with me since I had been back from London, a devilish me fantasised I had got hold of my far for myself. All of Martin’s belongings had been moved away by swift professionals, the door to his room remained opened wide, staring at my sorry eyes.

It all occurred easily. We flew business side by side and I slept over like a marmot, Far pressing my feet only thirty minutes before landing, the bitter smell of airline coffee rattling my dream away. We carried light luggage, my trunks had been dispatched three days before. I wore my black gabardine over a red and black striped bodysuit, black schoolboy’s shorts over red leggings and black Docs. Far liked my hat very much. We took time for an untimely breakfast in a sleek and beige restaurant, the croissants were freshly baked and the coffee Italian, we were merrily boosted.

A pristine grey saloon car with a suited driver took us to the Palais des Nations first, where Far took pride strolling around with his black-hatted offspring; I was even presented with a few badges to pin on my headgear. He showed me his office, of Swiss protestant design in blond wood and leather, serene sound-proofed den, smelling of heather beeswax. He explained he would also spend time in the Palais Wilson, by the lake shore, and travel a lot as usual, but then he hugged me tight and kissed my ear, whispering he would always be on the line for me, with all the necessary clout if ever. He wanted me to see the Council Chambers with the José Maria Sert panels; arguably because of the official solemnity of the place, those were less exciting on the moment, rather contrived instead of sturdily orgiastic as I had sensed the long gone ones in the Waldorf in New York.

The Ceiling Of The Salle Du Conseil of the Société Des Nations by José Maria Sert ©Katherine Sophie


On the short trip along the Lake, the blue exclamations of shards closing the horizons, he held my hands and played with them like he could have my feet; he insisted my boarding so far from where had become home was no manner of distrust towards me; he would better raise me an European, and Saint Loup was an exceptional ground for any calling I would consider. I would detain his written promise that he would pull me away if the school made me unhappy, which he gave me in a formal headed enveloppe. During the past weeks, he had already praised how Saint Loup was some kind of heirloom for the well-advised milieu of international servants, an innovative hothouse he could afford.

I was impressed by the guarded portal, Far had to show his passport. Like on any campus, groups of adolescents gathered under ancient plane-trees and peeked at the slow moving berline for a second. We stopped at the steps of a massive yellow four floors convent house where a tall pony-tailed woman greeted us and liked my eyes, tilting her head. She wore riding boots, pine green corduroy jeans and a kaki sports shirt, her handshake was wholesome and inviting; she smelled of lavender and hays, her squirrel brown (not the Tudor variety) hair whipped the air around her simply proud head. Her name is Armodie Crozin, everybody calls her Harmony. As she and Far had formalities to fill regarding my stay, she introduced me to a Julia Grant, a welcoming blond said to be Mayor of the Lupins.

She sported a wealth of maple coloured hair, light hazel eyes and a rosy pale complexion modestly strewed with oat bran speckles, her gaze was exhilarating, she smelled of Mitchum mint like the chewing gum she had spit, American apple, cockney ginger and sex.  She grabbed my shoulder and took me for a fast pace tour of the Lupine realm.

There are roughly one hundred and twenty boarders at Saint Loup, (the name must have been a singular custom for staving the looming predator away with mock sainthood). The youngest can be twelve and the elder eighteen when it’s time for prep school or else. I stayed longer because I could build up my Art School application file still in paradise. One hundred and forty individual rooms are distributed inside three main eighteenth century convent buildings; one for girls, one for boys and the younger crowds stacked in the upper floors of the main structure. At a distance are modern annexes comprising classrooms, workshops, restaurant, gymnasium, danse floor, theater and swimming pool; further on are kitchen and flower gardens, then a fifty horses and poneys riding club with its retirement refuge.

Julia wore two plaid shirts loose over a Massive Attack flammable tee shirt, black leggings and red sneakers. Her wrists were banded up with lucky bracelets from the kids she herded in her wings. She sprang about like a fencer but I knew she would do me soon; she squinted just the adorable tad of irresistible.

We snooped through the corridors along the classes where family size groups debated, peeked at a gym training with multicoloured kids, went over to the stables, and she clasped my hand, pulling me into the scents of straw, hay and piss, kissed me until I responded, rubbed my chest hastily and told my eyes a feverish welcome.

I had let it happen, skipping the approach towards a full speed running team of privileged breed, certainly not in any sense of genetics, but in the obvious results of social replication; Julia was born in a well-to-do lineage of politicians, just as me. She furthered her greetings down in my knickers and murmured that she would love me.

Ms Harmony and Far waited up in the restaurant, were we told, with tea; we ran to the wooden pointed roof hall like a spacious sheepfold smelling of warm bread and stew. Winded by the jet lag dizziness as much as Julia’s lips, I made heated comments of the stables and the horses, peering into Julia’s clever eyes. Far got a whiff of the collusion game and almost took my hand, then, without glancing at his watch, asked if it was fine with me to stay. I took his hand where the Kettelær ring was, with the intaglio showed a glove pointing at a star in a sapphire, and I wet my eyes.

My trunk had already been transported to a poetic room under the roof of the girl’s lair. Far came up and expertly checked the living amenities, pressing me for any critics I could find; wedging the bathroom door so as not to be heard by Julia, he told to my face that the place was so expensive that I should be remorselessly demanding; I hugged him.

The driver was crouching with a group of card players but stood up at once, revealing the soldier he certainly was. I clung to Far’s wing, unable to recollect my mind to present time, as lost as a sparrow in high sea. It was before the all-mobile era, I didn’t even possess my own telephone, he would really be away, only would I type a few lines to his timeless address, but it happened to build up as a big success in my heart and soul.

Ms Harmony, seeing my eyes roll easily, spared me the introduction talk until the next day. At diner time, Julia caught me in the line and helped me chose a plate of creamed morels on toast along with cheesed macaroni; she already knew I wouldn’t care for meat. We sat down at one of the round tables with baby soap smelling devils courting their Queen. They shone wild free, telling their day in rather hoarse voice, boasting the honour of speaking to the new guest, whom, by the way, was near fainting.

Kindly considerate, Julia exfiltrated me to my room and carefully undressed me; I wanted a shower to rinse away the travel strain, so she took full advantage of my consent to lust and, nude in a blink, soothed all of my daft joints in the flow. She had found some weird patchouli rose shampoo that made me feel libertine and I peed on her hand so she bit my lobe. She wiped me cautiously and combed my bobbing head as I was unable to return the favors. She slipped a sleep shirt on me and pushed me in the sheets, breathing she would sleep with me some other time soon.

A muggy dawn hovers on Tudor Ascendancy when I, the Knight of Winsom Tower, must spawn my own being over the misty chasms. Behind me, the high smoke shafts of the überedison calliope bellow through flocks of white griffin gulls that peer onto my open belly wound. As I keep hold of the last guardrail, it uncoils into a shivering snake that pulls me over the brickwork cliffs and grotesque pinacles and my blood splatters on the scared birds in great carillons of trills. I need to call out but all my might leaks through the camellia veins of my gnawed off entrails in a growing murmuration of crimson starlings. A blue eyed eagle of embroidery silks claws on the dreadfully potent snake so then I fly up whirled into the cackling ruby birds I feel are all mine.  From above, the Uberedison plant rustles and swooshes like an epileptic céphalopode in the wading pool trying to embrace a reluctant cornemuse. Rainbow scarves from the powdered gold clouds furl around my chiming head as the snake’s tail skirts alongside my groin. The shimmering satin stitched eagle flaps its wings and pecks into the grit eyes of the snake which twirls in pain in my strong grip until it dies into a rusty cable. I fall scooting round towards an impenetrable purple forest over which soars the black condor with a boar mask.

A galaxy of bird songs greeted my first ripples of sentience and, like I did each time I had phased off a dimension of my universe, I stood still in the linens and recapitulated my perceptions and feelings. I had never so tragically bonded with Far and his eyes so similar to mine, nor ever had I reechoed his words so strong now in my plexus, as the sun was overwhelming the safe-heaven of the lucky handful. I stretched again and again like a cub when Julia jumped onboard and cuddled me round.

Mouth-poking my neck and searching for the night lukewarmness in my pervious furrows, she muttered that I should be about to come alive because the cooks had been at the stoves for hours, already. Then she dropped I would not guess what she had done in the night, to what I yawned that she probably got shagged. She burst in laughter and since I had thrown my arms overhead she delicately smoothed the skin on my breast and woke up the twin toodleberries. When she knew I was lit up, she slowly raved about Udo, who had Down syndrome, smelled like fennel and fucked like a leopard. I was struck off guard, of course she had been on the lookout, but I sensed her truthfulness down my nerves and back, I stared in awe and then begged for a kiss. I was beginning to know Julia Grant.

The school baker was French, covered with flour and talented. Not only did he bake croissants, pastries, baguettes and sourdough loaves, but in the morning every bit that had gone stale came back in the trays transmogrified into French toast, almond croissants and the glorified “diplomat”, a mishmash of all the clean leftover pastries, mixed with candied fruit and raisins, baked in sweet battered eggs; at hotplate sheltered real buttered Scotch porridge. Young ones had fountains of hot cocoa, café au lait or Royal Blend Tea to be tamed down with cream and sugar; the sassy old crews could brew their own fresh pots of Italian moka or Darjeeling picks; as it was considered courtly to replace whatever you had broken, the crockery was infinitely diverse, funny and loved. The fruit buffet was supplied for all day, juices provided in chilled punch barrels.

Julia spent time introducing me around, young scallywags hugged me and nosed into my shirt; I had put on a musky cypress and balm stunner I felt would impress the hopefuls. Tongues in exotic accents were bawled, then UN French or English as I had always known. it was a cosy congregation, and she was the undisputed medium at the source of it. Quite a few cinnamon and saffron skins, as I had always mingled with in my old school, gave it the UN chic. I wasn’t paying attention when I felt a feather light squeeze to my left wrist and suddenly a big pair of coffee brown eyes smiled into mine as I was trapped into an ultramarine blue bracelet tightened with two silver beads. That was young Ayla Naveen clutching on my soul.

Regardless of my fitful cottony sentience, at times, the day’s task would be the basic reckoning of my intellectual worth. Harmony lead me to a small study, next to her office, and handed me a thin bundle of leaves, on a desk, near a linen blind.

On one page was a dozen lines in English that I should translate in as many languages I chose, on blank leaves. I boasted my five vernaculars, Italian being a bit far-fetched but sentimental. I brought the results and she gave me algebra, then a series of Q&As in geography, history and natural science; with all that accomplished, she told me to relax, gave me some Swiss mountains water and asked me to literarily write, in any language, a dream of mine. I think I beamed out; I had played this game since kindergarten, she would be served well. Out of a five pages draft, I squeezed out three neat paragraphs of my best cosmic routine around a colourful planet reigned over by squirrels and crows, ghost ships and trains, knights and sex and music.

Harmony complimented me on my jet lag performance, after warning me I would sit again as for my plastic talents, she freed me for the day and I went for lunch.  I wore a white tee shirt, personally distressed jeans and yellow sneakers under my refuge gabardine with the sleeves rolled up a bit; Two Germano-somethings accosted me on my way in the restaurant with quick-wit about my hat’s pins, and I could fire my glares at their candid smiles; I could smell they had been riding on fine leather and I shuddered some.

Julia was there suddenly, very lightly covered by a fuzzy prairie printed high-waist cotton gown and tasteful Jac sandals; she enlaced one of the cavaliers so as to show me that together they went back to old moons. She smelled his neck, rolled her eyes and told me his name was Baldur Ferdière and was a champion dressage rider in the tone of all the innuendos. I felt like a salad with cheese, which was the best Switzerland could grow. I told about my exam and she relied I would still be grilled by the teachers on the next day, then chat in deep with the Lake psychologist, because he had a dream cottage on the shore and a sharp insight on the teenage caboodle. The second boy slackly sulked at Julia’s demonstrations so she pulled him by a shirttail and introduced us, he was Nord Silas, a guarded but slinky viking blond with a tempting fuzz on his cheek; I did not quite get if he was jealous about his pal or offended to be let aside, sometime later I let him jostle me behind the straw bales.

Julia advised me not to yield to drowsiness yet, she would obligingly cradle me later, she had a thing for sleeping beauties. for the moment she craved to see me swim and we went fetch the adapted outfit. The indoor pool opened widely on a clean lawn under plane trees, through folding glass panes; it was a bit longer than a tennis court and did not smell of chlorine as I had feared. A dozen splashy cygnets huffed their lungs out and the rumor cranked up a bit as they saw I only wore a simple tiny black slip when I long-dived into the smooth waters; at the end of the length I noticed that Julia did not wear bras either; her baby moobs bore no tan lines. We torpedoed into the restless shoal of mermaids and were greeted by happy hands and submarine petting; they were light-hearted and beaming, I had a good long kiss with an ambiguous mischievous angel, while another one was obviously in my maillot. It were crafty minutes in a crystal bowl and it lasted like a damsel flight.

Nude creatures now laid around on the lawn like Denmark with more sun, I was beginning to adapt at a  steady pace and I stretched out in a plexus call to my Far whom had signed me on for this dreamland with a right to opt out; I betted for letting the stream float my hazy self on, rain what may.

In the vegetable patch, big enough for a colony of aristocratic guzzlers, it was cherry-picking time and we could not desert. Big firm black fruit already filled willow baskets and the lighter climbers reached the taller branches. Up on a scale, a pair of busy legs belonged to some hidden fawn and I dared a hand up in the shorts; I was surprised to find a rather green dwiddle with two silky pellets, so I withdrew my risky hand, but a cunning face with blue eyes and black curls looked down through the foliage and, widening the angle of his thighs, asked me if I were interested. As I fondled the young stiff prick, I wondered what kind of gaffe I was incurring in, but the slick brat had now unbuttoned his pants and asked me for lip service, so I obliged, thinking I should clear my attitudes with Julia later.

He had heartily gushed without warning and, still standing at attention, asked me if I wanted more, to what I replied by asking what he would do for me, so he climbed down and told me to show out when he realised I was a girl. We giggled, he dived in my pants to check and told me to reach the gooseberry bushes and followed me, lowered my jeans and sabred my wet lily, like a hussar, slow and deft, panting on my nape. He was Pierre-Yves Chasles, my age, he really had the complexion of a girl, with no manly hair. He was to become a jolly mate of my dainty debaucheries.

Once the cherries stacked in the cold room, there was another brief encounter with Pierre-Yves and a cute redhead jack, when he told him what we had done and that snoopy stooge wanted to finger me, but I did not do him, I ran for a shower, then dinner. I smelled of blackcurrant leather and Peru, like a rich boy. Julia spotted me and assailed me with question, so I soughed through her chamomile mane that I had been shagged in the gooseberries. She beamed up and rubbed shoulders as we captured a pan of dauphinoise gratin with nuts, elderberry lemonade and buns.

We sat with a team of geeks who had played against each other in the network room somewhere; they looked stoned but lovable, somebody played footsie on me, I wore sandals. A few tables away, Pierre-Yves was telling his good fortune to his approving buddies. I had to narrate about my life to my own table, somewhat coached by Julia. At one moment, Pierre-Yves leaped out from nowhere, in a patched alpaca jumper, holding a bouquet of honeysuckle in a glass of water that he placed before my plate, causing an impromptu round of applause and shouts of “welcome Sarah!”, so I had to stand up and smile; it was warm and congenial, then they let me finish my meal. A bare foot caressed my calf and I pictured I would most probably love all of them at a moment.

I almost doddered, up to my room, with an amorist American lioness on my heels; she stripped me expertly and opened the sheets, then stretched along my rump and told me to sleep out and let go.

An indistinct twilight glows upon a silver sea under plain slate skies. I lurch and sway on the Taarbæk grand piano which cries confuse chords like the day Martin imprisoned Tschups, the house cat, inside the instrument. I wear a black tutu embroidered with cherries and I have lost one of my ornate golden chaussons. My bare right foot is tickled by a garnet jelly fish creeping across the mirrored black wood. Far on the horizon dangles a purple beacon I have never seen I wonder what boat would dare, when an emerald whale pirouettes up in a gerbe of iridescent scintillations, like Tivoli gardens. A sinister, glaucous, submarine surfaces along my howling raft and I fear for Tschups who can’t swim. Gallant officers in gala outfits and champagne glasses rise from the turret and stroll away upon the ship without seeing us; they rummage into each other’s pants and engage into sheer sex; a few fall into the shambolic waves but are lifted back up by the orphéon whale. I want to call because Tschups is getting frantic, but the carbuncle jellyfish is now over my body and shuts my mouth with a taste of sweet mango. On the ubåd’s deck, the lewd merrymakers have erected red-trimmed white canopies with cherry motives. Now they cheer at me laying undone on the polished lid and offer their willies to the swarming electric flickering crimson jellyfish. Jammed with luminous filaments out of my languid slit, I try to reach the keyboard so i could attempt lifting the lid and free Tschups before the piano sinks totally; doing so, I realise we have landed a small sandbank with an antique carrousel turning on it. The instrument cracks lugubriously and splits into coal shards as Tschups jumps onto my lap and rounds in purrs. The sailors in tattered uniforms call over in the doppler winds of the roundabout, I want to untie my only shoe and the kitten helps with its claws. A handsome redhead, whom I pick out as a lad I avoided in a corridor, offers to carry me to the party, but I object that I cannot leave Tschups whom I only just rescued from a sinking cacophony; he grasps the tuxedo pet’s neck and let it scratch his shoulder to the blood that I lap, shily. White and red standards and banners with the cherries escutcheon flap to the wind on the whirling contraption, but I wonder why I only feel a mere breeze, and a coumarin scent in his hair as he humps me like a fierce Triton. From a corner of one eye, I see tiny crabs gathering on the grey sand and I start up as my jolly assailant wants again; flocks of hooded crows croak from far above and descend upon the island for feasting on décapods, they preen along my flanks while I receive more jolts of elation. Tschups whirs his best drone in my neck as I moan my song to the opening skies, he rests on my chest as we hover through to the golden canopy accompanied by the swarms of ruby-hearted birds and their innumerable clamour.

I kept hidden behind my lids in the scarlet vault of me unborn. Under the sheets I smelled the dubious smell of sweat and saliva melted into animal scent and brought back childhood fervour and blind want. Julia sighed in my armpit, I let her swim a little more although the daylight felt like waking-up time; her first move was to reach for my crotch and fondle there; she mumbled my name times again, then hushed into my ear what a great sleeper I had been, and she did not want to love me that very much, and everyone would die for my fool nuggets, and she suckled on them and I seized her head through her ruffled mane.

Under the shower, I attempted to describe what I had salvaged from the night’s labours and she called me enchantress, then witch as she held my sluices and made me pee on us; I tongued her deep in the mouth and asked for the same warm flow along my legs. We groomed each other, she spent time gazing into my eyes, saying she would cage me, so I told her to watch out for the crimson crows. I sprayed a preppy cologne of lavender, néroli and jasmine; she was enthralled by all the perfumes I had carried and said one could not have guessed that from me. I let her try some musky rose with a lotus ghost and gave her the flask if she still liked it in the evening; she answered there were still some intimacies around she would crave to invade by the power of some heady philtre.

It was already warm, I played girly in a knee-long sleeveless striped black on white cotton dress, and sandals; for a while, no one would mistake my current genre. If needed, I could easily show my nasty cotton panty. We were greeted by a volley of gracious hellos to what we cheered around. I felt my left hand firmly captured and recognised the dark look of Ayla, the first one who had tied me, I hugged her tight, that morning, she smelled angelica and sweet orange, she slipped her tongue in my ear.

I scooped two slices of French toast on a plate and poured hot water on the dignified Darjeeling first flush tea I had spotted in a funny Indian kitsch tin. Ayla, unfettered, sat not next, but alongside of me; Julia laughed aloud and said I was a true Lupine already. The nifty young mug was quite curious about me, she looked up to me; actually, she was snooping for sex nuggets. Julia taught me the safe handling and did not lie about our night, the dark eyed imp was already well learned in these dainty clues, and she had her hand on my thigh.

Other scruffy souls had gathered at our table and proudly claimed on their own love tokens at Julia’s wrist. I told them about Tschups, but absent-minded little males fingered their itching knobs. Pierre-Yves and his friends shook our hands and kissed, on the mouth for me, while the puppies bragged their positions. Harmony smooth-landed in the group and greeted my quick popularity, adding that she would wait for me in her office half an hour later.

In an hospitable wooden panelled meeting room at the back of her offices, Harmony greeted me to an antique oval table were she introduced me to a set of teachers. None of them wore formal, they had likeable looks and forthright handshakes. She summarised the review of my papers by a satisfactory round, concurred by nods and smiles; Albeit I had counted on an easy pathway from my previous cursus, I was released not to face up any cumbersome transition. Each of my teachers would help me fit in the appropriate group regarding my level. For physical teams or creative workshops, there weren’t actual frames, groups gathered according to games or projects, hopefully leading to a synergistic round-up of sorts at year’s end, as I would attend in a few weeks, giving me a head start for next year.

I was honoured by the personal briefing I was granted, even if it remained a tad fuzzily articulated; but they all acted doubtlessly confident and I just needed to embrace, and love my way into a quite fathomable community, of which I already had tasted a very palatable hors d’oeuvre. I relaxed and candidly served my best grin around. I noticed some fast peeps at my derisory flat chest, but I knew it fostered the indulgence of many a grown man, particularly under a loose-cut tank top. A help had brought a trolley with coffee and tea, I answered the writing teacher, intrigued about my short fantasy piece, then Harmony thanked me and let me go on my explorations of the day.

It was a perfect day, with no banana fish in sight, on my way to the sports floors I was abundantly courted but lightly enough to only arouse me. From the gymnasium came a flow of rhythm music, a slightly derailed obstinate loop in the manner of Massive Attack whom I had grown up with. I walked in and found some  twenty warmed up spandex clad jumping butts barefoot on gym mats softening their young joins in perfect cadence so evenly that I felt my rump grasped; as I was behind everybody I could danse my soul out but I wore a dress I was hampered in, so when they suddenly spinned round, they stared hilariously at the newbie making a fool of herself; good enough I had practised a few years with Sterling Peck in New York and could indeed move, but There, I almost unclothed to show some legs jetés but instead tried to stay funny, and bowed.

At the door, I stopped, stunned by a tall black-eyed oriental chieftain who eyed me down in a real wolfish smile. Before it might feel agressive, he offered his hand and said he was Safa Eskandari  and marvelled at my eyes, wondering where I took them. I told him and visibly he did not believe me. He pivoted on endless legs with riding boots and breeches, his muscles quivering in a white polo shirt, he only missed a whip; he smelled of grapefruit and cedar, he had been perspiring lately, it was intoxicating; he saw it and pulled me towards a storeroom and kissed me out of my wits. He lifted my dress and in the brown glow watched my body, telling me to pull my panties down, slowly, as he unbuttoned his fly.

Safa guided my head to the suffering rapier and took his pleasure in my mouth, not letting me escape the catastrophe; I coughed. He did not return the geniality, he buttoned up and kissed my forehead as I fumed and cursed him to his amusement.

Julia caught me in the restaurant where I freshened my mouth with apple juice; she saw I was tweaked wrongly and extorted the silly truth which did not surprise her. She said Safa often behaved like a boor and it needed to be addressed somewhat. She admitted it was a waste of liberty and most good girls saw him from afar due to his reputation. She offered compensation and her eyes showed she would be all too happy to oblige and take advantage of my misfortune. In the shower, we peed in each other’s mouth and then she feasted in my avenged cootch before I played French in hers. She borrowed some more musky rose but refused the gift, saying she’d better come back to my room, because she would never betray me; she never did. She was forging a cristal shield around my ruby heart.

After the lunch, where I could snub the Persian mufle, so much Julia had fulfilled the urges he had held in contempt, thus defusing my frustration, I was to meet Pr Achenbach, the school’s psychologist. His almost full time practice took place in a singular turret  in an angle of the central house; one had to climb three floors height of a spiral staircase to reach it; around the circular room, five small windows shed light through the bookshelves, remparts to the sanctum, as it felt, where sturdy age-patinated wood table and chairs in the manner of Gepetto’s workshop in the horrifying film someone showed to me alone a long time ago (it must have been in Singapore), invited unfailingly to confidential talk.

True to what I could have known of the ways of psychology at the time, the Professor was a quiet man, I did not scent anything from his person, but the book buttresses suffused the dry redolence of eternally oxidising paper and bindings; he bootstrapped me from the “Princess of the pinnacles” as he called my stance in the written composition I had committed. As he did not stop me, and as one, I craved to unleash my whole Capharnaüm, two, I was still a tad strained from the morning sexual mishap, he then heard the whole tragedy that had brought me to Saint Loup, and more.

He had been scribbling on a spiral notebook all along. He remained silent for long minutes, then he very softly asked me for how long I thought I had been sexually active? Rather disconcerted, I released matter-of-factly that I felt I had always lived along that line. He glanced briefly, then, again absorbed in his notebook, he asked about my parents, and I knew I was on for a full year, with all I felt I could not freely divulge of my father’s life. I told the Professor I felt compelled to remain within my father’s loop since he had granted me unconditional trust and love, this side of the universe. The Professor pointed out that I had already unburdened very reprehensible events before him, but he was ready to remain solely concerned with my present and future unless the past happened to hurt me. He made clear, in any case, that if my situation revealed unlawful abuse on my person, he could meet the legal obligation to refer the matters to his own ring of peers. He raised his eyes, they gleamed vaguely, quite like the lake, afar in the small window next to him.

Offloading my harrowing ballast on a Ritz immaculate table for my father had been, not so long ago, such an accomplishment that my dreams had returned to their entertaining profusion, I smiled at my mirror and my plexus beamed from the inner foyer of my expectations. Playing dumbstruck, the Professor asked me if I ever knew my mother?  I did not introspect my relation to her, it felt like she had always shielded herself behind my father’s underlings, nannys, sitters, guards. She smelled utter femininity, roses and gardenia and the daturas in a hothouse in Denmark, she wore fresh expensive lingerie for me to hug when her face hovered too high for my reach.

My Mor resented the connection between my father and me, she smirked at his knowingly carefree petting with me, my feet, my hands, my head. Far told me once that it had always been the only way to quiet me as a boisterous, exhausting infant; it might very well have evolved in an incestuous liaison but I had no sentience of any such deviance, I would not live by it otherwise.

My brother Martin certainly lost some of his privileges when I was born. Firstly, my mother was forced to rest in the Kettelær house near Copenhagen during most of her pregnancy, secondly, she suffered horribly during the delivery labour, and thirdly, her husband was totally overwhelmed by the baby girl with his eyes, whom he served and wiped devoutly, forbidding for my Mor any other concern than breast-feeding, thus eating, whenas she would have fled from that solitary drey where I made her fat.

I may have sounded harsh, and it never had been so badly suffered, I was reconstructing my side of the glass in hopes of eventually sealing off the inexpiable. In my early life, I had soon been nursed and cared for, while my Mor could go run again. Far came and went, but his rule was unwavering onto the household, all the more when security became a side of the polyhedron and I began mingling with sturdy quiet men in polyester suits who smelled of Old Spice in my own home.

So, my mother ran. The Professor offered more listening time, on a weekly understanding, at my will, if I promised not to stand him up, and give notice with his secretary if I was to skip a date.

Outside, the clocks had run, too. Swallows chirped at me, as I felt it, in the powdery golden whirl of incident light; the troupes were transporting tables and chairs out of the restaurant, Ayla Naveen ran to me and gripped my hand with shakes of mock-tremor as if I had neglected her; I granted her a heartfelt kiss and locked her head against my flank, driving her in step at a playful grand pace towards the gathering. The Pierre-Yves crew greeted us onboard, that nifty pageboy would boast his precedence for ever, but he would not shame me; his Celtic curls like, say, frantic swags around the cornflower keynote of his look, the satiny sheen of his skin. I stood loose and rifled through his head while Ayla bugged his smile with a grass stem.

There were vessels of stuffed cabbage under a crust of cheese, schools of sautéed lake fish, and more creamed morels under mops of chervil, on crouton slices, along with an inspired pink grapefruit juice. Some teachers, not frankly differing from the elders of us, had mingled among tables, pursuing some academic disputation or controverting on the depressing incline of Portishead. Another hustler cub had hooked its emerald and violet colours to my wrist and stealthily groped me; she was the vanilla and liquorice with aniseed sprinkled gazes Stene Merul, thin and narrow framed blond shoot with an orderly fringe and a retained smile I dreamt at once of cajoling. Under the vague sleeveless shirts, kidder cloves hid and sought, thrilled already like were the cheeky birds after our crumbs.

At the ground floors of the dormitory houses, besides the club-like libraries, were TV dens with state-of-the-art sets hanging overhead and expansive couches, which lead to unexpected encounters, of the loose kind, or not. In one, within the mild smell of socks, a Buffy binge had started; in the next, Jennifer Connelly did not, or did she? foresee her perdition. Julia seized my arm and lead me to dark stone stairs down to the shady basement, hushing and fondling me at every turn. A heady confusion of lavender and moisture came from the laundry room, where hung ghostly crowds of our washings. She brought me in the blue darkness and stripped me entirely, covering me with jewel kisses and tongue arabesques, making me open my thighs against the whitewashed wall. Surreptitiously, other hands and mouth joined, nude silhouettes pulled aside the hangings and reached out over me as Julia again breathed me to let go. They carried me to the softly padded ironing table and used every pleat of my skin to meander their pleasure once I had encouraged the lewd knightage of me. I could not know how many of them gave and took advantage, Julia guided the fleshy goads into my sodden sockets and watched me shagged silly before some demanding tadpole arrogated her lips or mine.

When she decided it had been enough, Julia ordered the pack to lick me clean all over, making me smell like bleach and sap, a plain warm wet mop in hell’s sink, still wanted by their inextinguible stiffness, a last once more roamed through in my gently distraught arse before they ran and left me panting on Julia’s peaches.

We went to a gloomy toilet to leak away the spunk and piss out the youth juice, eating each other’s face like pups, exhausted fine like performers. In the night, we tidied as much as we saw the scene of a flesh feast, hoping the stage itself would dry up till morning. We sneaked up, nude with our stuff on arm, to my room and foamed up together in sheer sluttishery, mollifying our spent slits with refined face-cream and lotion.

Brushing and combing her thick head of hair, I was thinking out loud on the difference between  the utter debauchery to what I had just assented for my enjoyment, and otherly a rape, under the enfeebling drunkenness, in the middle of a wasteland, committed by whom might have been thought of as the guardian of my physical safety, whereas one could savour the utter transgression of the crime as ultimate food for depravity, that shredded my beating soul into a haunting misery. She mused that while plain boys fuck mainly by the glans of their manhood, women involve the whole cascade of their effusion, the complete cosmic medusa of their being.

Although it had not been wilfully weaved by her in such an assumption that I would overcome the damage in my soul through an ordeal of unleashed delights, she had kept her head on and chosen the sires knowing they would withhold their strokes at her command if I had only whined or dithered. They craved not only Julia’s easy sleazy sheaths but the shenanigans she knew how to foment. So, as I let my own sham harlotry unfurl onto the good soldiers, I had beamed among the stars from inside the damp cave of secrecy. We embraced intricately and she kept a hand upon my tender rim.

It has been a harrowing trip across the Sierra Nevada, tugging along this rope net full of trinkets and knick-knack, and I face a concrete maze in a moonlit night. My shoes are teared and stained as those of a street bum I wanted to give alms to but I had been pulled off. I wonder if all the rattle my load stirs up on the rocky floor will wake the Guardia di Finanza and their dogs. My jeans don’t hold much, either, and the nylon bomber I must have fished out of the war field stinks of grease. Further on, the walls become higher and dobermans cross my way without noticing; they wear heavy riveted collars and their balls tremble. On the walls, rusty red stencilled words don’t make sense near vertical arrows. Out of my knickers, I pick up a small folded bill on which is drawn a cryptic diagram showing my route but I can’t see the faint lines unless I crouch near a small glowing cluster of crystals through the meshes of my burden, then I know I must take right. When I stand back up, the skies clear out and blue salty peaks glisten afar over the walls edges. Heavy stealth owls hover as the dobermans track them. I reach a large bomb crater with a black heap of twirled scraps in its center; a checkered red and white crushed sphere shows it had been a water tower; the dogs gather and show their yellow fangs but they fear my plunder sack. The owls fly onto junk beams and stare at the quieted hounds. From a corridor behind them, Pr Achenbach walks up in a mountaineer lederhosen outfit with my hat on his head; as the birds salute, he apologises  that he has misplaced his glasses and will come back next week, after hesitating, he calls me Ms Tschurps and trots away. around the wall bearing  “Indkapslingen 40” is an open field deserted market of bric-a-brac like a  Salvation Army depot; owls converge from the horizons and circle me from the tops of dilapidated furniture. I notice a rolled carpet and struggle for wrapping my hoard under it when my attention is caught by a shining wire among the trifles so I grasp out Pr Achenbach’s spectacles, perfectly clean. I tuck the carpet in with my feet and feel released, the owls roll their heads, the dobermans stay at the field’s edge and yelp. Suddenly, in a bustling rumour, shadowy rats scuttle through the chaos, their little red eyes defying me. The owls hurl themselves together on the dark rodents, claw them out and peck off their brains, causing contorsions. I hear some of them have taken refuge under the carpet and tinker with my clutter, so I ferret out a heavy rod and use it to beat the brown heap when Pr Achenbach hails me, from atop some wooden riser, and asks about his glasses. The birds and the dogs have coalesced on the death of the rats, horrible crunches and cracks, fading yowls and hisses herald the ongoing massacre, my pants are covered with blood spatters. Armed with the rod, which in a moon ray reveals to be a narval tusk, I work my way to Pr Achenbach, who wears a white lab coat and nods when I give him his glasses back, then hurries to a trapdoor in the rocks unveiling an orange-lit stairway; the steps are cluttered with dead umbrellas and I stumble across, with my sneaker’s laces entangled, down to a low vault where the dobermans follow and rip my clothes into shreds. They lap my skin with eerie growls and puffs; they teem around and attempt to mate as they pushed me on my knees; I brandish high the tusk and skewer one throat thus beating off the gesticulating pack of them. I sneak along a ramshackle corridor where I hurt my bare feet and lean along the saltpetre covered walls, encountering metal doors gnawed by rust with portholes at eyes level; I spit and rub to clear a peep hole in the grime; I see a long room in grey light where a stiff old man sits up at a miserable desk with a shabby typewriter and a dingy telephone untouched for ages on it; he looks dead until he turns his glare on me and stares from his deep orbits. The last door is ajar and squeaks as I push it through the rubble. I face a large balcony, bathed in a pearly crimson glow, washed clean by repeated deluges and overran by moss gentle to my feet so much so I want to lay on it. Beyond a sleek polished aluminium railing stretches a dark purple forest under the galaxies; the sweet racket of an endlessly tuning symphony orchestra fuzzes through the thick foliages; birds of all liveries sleep snuggled together on the high branches like the ethereal glass decorations in the Tarbæk Xmas tree. My womb aches, I nestle down on the moss cushions while violins screech the sound of splintered windows and a fuzzy ghost sweeps away on the scratched walls.

Julia was wiping my forehead tenderly, she ad-libbed in baby talk on my face and features when I met up back behind the scarlet veil of my eyes, and I let her, for a delicious while, before I fought the daylight and looked into her irises made golden. Chewing my saliva out, I mumbled that she was obviously falling in love with a brat, so she grabbed my belly and made me beg for breath. Later, reliving my dream, and the outrageous spend before it, I became curious of my holy vale and ran my fingers through it, relieved that it felt as fresh as a prairie spring, and so I went to pee first.

A palpable humour of intimacy floated in the restaurant room as I spread redcurrant jelly on my French toast. I earned a new sunflower yellow bracelet from a cinnamon-brown rascal of all charms who pretended to kiss my neck. Other big bandits came and kiss, I recognised some fragrances and eyed the new faces; my rump shivered.

Mr Tudor Weiss, the art teacher, asked me in the studio anytime in the morning for my interview; he was a British Renaissance dandy whereas he originated in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, somewhat. He sported a tickling moustache and wire glasses; his Florentine-blond hair was cut with a high nape, like Royalty boys. He smelled of spiced-up bergamote and mushroom, an envy to unbutton in the wet woods; he felt like young and earnest with a fancy for immaturity. It was him who had arranged art along corridors, all by former students, some going back to the foundation in the seventies. Browned-off collages from skin-magazines, curvaceous typography of the pop front still claiming through the pieces many revival waves; touching portraits and daring nudes, art teachers had succeeded to one another and picked up successful attempts, be it skill or luck, most of it was heartfelt and welcoming. Differently, the girls’ home was adorned with nifty tapestries, on which ages of sensitivity to fibers had passed, weaving together successive patterns, not all of them the work of women.  Tudor, as he was casually called, explained that many boys fell for Melanie and her workshop’s atmosphere.  Eliah Schpung had supervised some Tingueliesque contraptions and Vigor Decize dedicated most of the pottery kiln to let students elaborate wall mosaics such as those which could be seen in the restaurant, with a famous vulva well in sight.

Julia quite obviously complimented the laundry gang, with radiant glances at me; I had yet to learn the naughty routines of the damp cellar. I showed up at the art studio in my art’s attire, trayed through and oversized from top to toes, smelling of neroli and patchouli perverted by tubéreuse, I knew I had killed Mr Tudor when he peeked into my gaping collar and swiftly corrected into my candid eyes. He showed me the supplies’ drawers and asked me to draw a tree before tea-time. I shone all I could through a last glance to make him sure I was not trouble but fair lust; he lifted the left eyebrow.

I found all I needed as for paper and pencils. It was a great heart-lifting climate in the sky-lit room where students of all ages came and worked on their ongoing projects, but Ayla sniffed me out and poured her kittenish heart on my back, sliding her hands into my sweatshirt and mumbling onto my rib cage; She commanded she would let me quiet if I gave her one true kiss; I replied I could not do that there, so she said she would wait for me in the broom’s closet and she ran. Reckoning that she would eventually win, I went casually and entered the small dark room where the devil unleashed the most accomplished slutty kiss in one go, finding all the same a way into my baggy pants.

At lunch time, I modestly covered my unfinished work and went, hoping there would be more mushrooms, but I had an herbs omelette on fried bread and a large bowl of salad with nuts. Julia wasn’t yet there but my table was crowded, with one who had to keep her promise, three other wrist-subscribed fans, and three sharp cadets, that, I understood had had me the night before but desired to get properly acquainted, as  we did not say they did anything wrong, au contraire.

Hillar de Bodil was an athletic dancer of mixed Baltic descent with long umber lashes on viridian eyes; he showed a light amber complexion and wore long, curly, tangled hair of palm-wood brown colour, by which I acknowledged him in the round; his mouth was drawn as a feather and he had used it, he spoke of wild poetry and swam for hours; he was seventeen.

Malte Rieff was a bony wrestler with cropped hair and high cheekbones and brows around black eyes, he would tan to coffee dark ; he had been the one with the toughest knob and awfully skilled to schlank it in. He was a tennis buff and an almighty geek in the computer hall; he was seventeen.

Aalu Peters was half Sami, sandy blond and slit golden eyes, his smooth triangular face kept an allusive grin under his messy fringe; slender and supple, he had been the sly double trouble on saddle, he was a genuine horse whisperer and a dressage expert; he wanted to pursue research in anthropology. he was nearly seventeen.

Lusted after by such a chosen areopagus, I was beginning to parse out the grand design some wise scoundrel of my kind would benefit from a suave haven like Lupi Sanctorum, in a dearly plural sainthood. I had not even yet called Far to express the kind of awe, that had mixed with travel dizziness and true life raptures, in which I had whirled since he left me. I promised myself to do it in the evening, whatever the clock he would sit under, as well as I would report to my Elsie, so as to feel spoiled.

My tree enthused Mr Tudor, he devoured me with his fawn and green eyes and wished I would grace the art studio with my smart attendance, and lazzis stopped his tirade that flattered me anyhow. Ayla, who had camped wisely quiet in my proximity since she had furrowed into my jeans, gabbled, behind her primitive image of someone she had been working at, that he was hitting a tad hard on me; he preferred not to have heard.

She would not leave me, we went together to the pool and she exhibited her maple syrup coloured figure by walking head-down and spreading her long legs so as to offer me her cunt in black spandex to my nose and be pushed in the water. She could swim under quite a long time.

Around dinner, Julia met me and pulled me through some deserted thicket to a tall lime tree in bloom, she daintily lapped at my neck as I raised my head to the enthralment and felt some animal titillation when Ayla flushed us out. We had no time, but she lifted my easy black and red striped gown, pulled my knickers down and busied her arrogant little tongue while Julia found her delectable and bare ass ready under a pansy blue dress.

The food continued to fit my tastes and the cook, a French lively brown-eyed fellow, had singled me as one of the no-meat clients. He called me, asked for my name, and offered some gratin of macaroni and morels under a good layer of Swiss cheese. Ayla loved it, Julia added chicken breast, two boys I did not know yet had country sausages along. Sour apple juice went fine, and the nosy young doe did not keep her happy hands while we poured custard on a nut brownie. Mr Tudor had not dared join.

I snuck out to the third floor of the girls residence and Ayla was following, I told her I did not think she was supposed to be there, and they would check on her, but she begged for a tiny moment and she wanted to see my room; I warned her I was going to call my father but she wouldn’t budge, so she crept after me and as soon as she came in she undressed and offered her poppy. So it went, I called Far’s number and crawled from one interlocutor to the next while the gracious animal wandered on me over and again. So then I was utterly smooth when Far finally spoke, and I delighted him with all the details except what was going on presently on my bed, or in the pool, the thickets, the laundry or the broom closet. I asked him if he would grant me some shopping day in Geneva on his next visit, he promised. Julia had wormed in and liked what she saw, she threw off her leggings and shirts and almost instantly made Ayla moan so i waved a hand to shushed them. Far was in such good mood that I came right after he hung up.

We saw Ayla to the main house, she told me she would dream of me, so I snuck my tongue into her ear, she wriggled and ran. Julia drew me to her room where the two boys from dinner were already at ease with each other I had not yet seen much of lads together so it disconcerted me a tad, but she denuded me once more and pushed me to the bed where the two mates picked me up with the appropriate dexterity like a bunch of lilac.

Ysac Beaumont was as short-sighted as a black puppy, but it gave him a velvety black disarming glare, all the more so that he squinted a tiny bit on one side; he had a narcissus pale complexion and softened features, elegant legs but discreet muscles; from a bush of black curls burst a straight and tight johnny that smelled of coumarin when I played with it, he stopped me before the crisis because he wanted in me.

Raine Beresild was a redhead mix of Swedish and Russian, delicate as a girl, spiced up like Bay rum. His peener was scarlet pink out of Ysac’s mouth and Julia straddled it at once. The pale knight asked me to turn around and he prepared my shy hole with a lotion, but then he asked if he could wash the way. We went to Julia’s bathroom and he said he could pee in me, it would be warm and cosy; I let him do, I felt the long shot and then I spurted in the bowl, he slid his whole hand in and also reached my twiddly dah; I was blooming as a pink lilium when he took me at his imminent pleasure.

Raine had surrendered to Julia’s cavalcade but he wanted me as his buddy had, so I let the cowgirl lift my feet high so he could thread in as I was mouthing her tasty dessert rose; he was sturdier than the previous assault and he lasted longer, feeling like he slit my womb open, I brimmed over twice before I felt his ultimate jolt and he rolled to the carpet.

We smelled of sublime sweat, they spread me across Julia’s bed and acquainted themselves more, adagio, with the new slim toy, now that the rut was soothed; Julia was sipping from my eyes and complimented on my neat lashes, Ysac was twiddling my feet and biting my toes, Raines was coveting my modestly hairy nook and became willing to have a go in my wet vagina, eased into deep and slow as the two others cheered silently upon my bramble twins. That was a princely treat, I frizzed transe a few times before he discharged, then he invited his gallant acolyte to slide in his spunk and tootle for me, rattled as a bauble.

The frenzy of days cranked up, I cleared out contraception matters and saw a pleasant woman gynaecologist who, after a few welcome liberties on me, set up a copper coil in the midst of my devilish uterus rather than the oestrogen implants she did not favour for young girls. She taught me how to feel the two minuscule blue strings out of my nifty cervix, once in a while, and she set a six month routine checks schedule where she would gladly meet me again. She digressed inquisitively but reservedly about my sex practices and was eventually impressed; she only had a few bits of advice on toilet methods and products, she was undaunted talking about the enema practice and only suggested some sugar or Epsom salt, preferably in warm milk, she was unfazed cool. So, I was ready to revel around in the safe corral of the Holy Wolf.

Except for the unreasonably unyielding types, the drinking or drugs fiends, whom anyhow wouldn’t encrust very long, I reckon that I challenged every flavor of living skin inside the campus’ whereabouts. We were Lupins, we all shared some motives whatever our age or inclinations, sex was easy trade, and Julia Grant kept her weather eye open.

In English, I caught up with a group of fifteen who read and parsed “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath, In French it was “All The Mornings Of The World” by Pascal Quignard, and in German “Undine” By Friedrick de la Motte Fouqué. The book method made everyone appertain fast to the matter, and all the teaching followed suit, grammar, vocabulary and all related topics. In maths, I would have liked to find algebra sexy but it felt like playing chess and it did not distracted me long from my neighbour’s crotch, in a word. Physics was fun and forthright, we had sophisticated labs interfaced with the astronomy, computer and photo-video workshops. Philosophy was mostly a peripatetic sport around a given topic, and choosing a topic was always a topic, Miss Russell was a hell of a dialectician, only the elders stood up to her; she was terrific on aesthetics and used à contrario the contemporary hocus pocus as a plateau for ethics and morals edification; she would love to herd us in nature, or in a swell cave she had elected in under a farm building of the domain, where we would dispute in the light of candles, instead of groping each other, for a while.

Conveniently distanced from the classes, the music studios looked upon a vineyard, eastward till the lake, teachers came from Geneva for paying students and were shielded apart. Physical education, sports and any flavour of dance shared a modern wooden building with six halls large enough for training twenty parading flamingos at a time each; locker rooms and showers were, almost, separated, serving as well a tall indoor arena.with removable tiers of seats and an honest theatre stage. They could invite moved parents at summer break for a most applauded closing show. Outdoor grounds for all purposes could be readied on occasion by the staff of gardeners who fed us.Under the almighty rule of read-bearded Eliah Schpung, some industrious Niebelungen could manipulate real tools on wood or metal, under the dexterous Melanie Rose, you could weave your dreams into anything fibre, stitch your jeans or openwork in your shirt, patch-up a flag or a tapestry like the one in the main entrance hall or embroider your magic kimono.

Far sent a car that morning, nothing yet unseen in Lupinland, a fast Lupin was sent to call me; struck by a whim, Julia decided that she would come too, I wasn’t to hold her back, so we hopped in the cool berline and headed to town; I had packed up for an overnight stay, she had nothing, it was fun; she smelled of white flowers, pussy dreams and iris powder, I let her say hello to my dewy sly, the chauffeur saw none of that. We landed at a grand hotel on the Quai du Mont Blanc and asked for my dad who showed up and impressed my friend; in return, he inquired what kind of Grant she was and he nodded enough to please her. I told him I would very much like riding boots and chaps so that I could ride or only wear the cool jodhpurs, a girl had told me they sold them rue du Rhône. He granted permission and entrusted me with one of his credit cards, asking me not to explode it, which I reckoned conservatively. He would meet us around dinner time at the hotel, he asked if we would share a bedroom, to what we concurred promptly for his amused eyes.

The shop glistened with fetish-heavy leather, bronze and chrome. Julia was quite savvy in horse manners and wares; she marvelled at grand saddlery and styled out the proper boots for me, dark tan leather lined in soft veal with the chic strap around the ankle, Far would love that, even if I jumped up looking at the tag; along with nice chaps, the bill was a bit hefty and so I shied off, leaving the decision to him. She wrapped her arms on my chest and whispered in my ear that I was only so adorable caring for my dad’s money that she would do me right away. Next door, I found Liberty shirts I still own after years, dark blues strewn with myosotis and dew drops, I forced Julia to accept a sketchy buttercup yellow and anise printed shirt I had tried on her in the booth because I craved her peaches under the impalpable cotton.

We strolled about but eventually settled that the district was not ours to roam in, so we had lunch on the lakeside at an expensive terrace where she teased me with her baby breasts. She felt like a fugitive, albeit they would quite soon know her whereabouts; she told me how she had the phobia of being raised in an invisible cage, how the school was also some kind of a prison camp, where no one should cross the fences; I felt awkward, except in some unlikely places around Denmark, I had always seen some amount of security around me, and it was Far’s world, according to his orders and the powers that be, fine-tuned by his blue eyes, the same my own soul saw the world through.

Just when I would say we would bore out here, when we could have been ragged happy in so many hideouts at school, she lit up with the idea of getting a haircut, she knew a cool salon with desirable coiffeuses and we sure needed a freshening-up. We went to Versigny’s and waited for an hour with creaky magazines and giggled at our own nasty comments on the worldly people depicted; I wasn’t sure I would not encounter my own mother in there. A truly radiant chestnut-eyed girl did me a boyish face with her very sharp shears and I was thrilled; I ruffled them out with my hands and felt sassy in the mirror; Julia was the same confident self but shiny, her mane was her trump card ever, she loved me and kissed me for good before the two stunned girls who earned a fat gratuity anyway.

Far was already in the bar, drinking something gin, he smelled like tweed. He loved my head, held it as I loosened; then he was moved by my hesitation as to the size of my whim, accorded that we would go in the morning together, which, as such, was an acceptance. We had mountain trout filets with braised fennel and courgettes, then iced nougat dazed with candied fruit; he did not propose wine to me, but Julia eyed a yes for a glass whenas I was provided suave orgeat by a grand dad of a sommelier. As we had a last cup in Far’s suite, Julia noticed his usual game with my feet and felt aroused but remained casual

Far was already in the bar, drinking something gin, he smelled like tweed. He loved my head, held it as I loosened; then he was moved by my hesitation as to the size of my whim, accorded that we would go in the morning together, which, as such, was an acceptance. We had mountain trout filets with braised fennel and courgettes, then iced nougat dazed with candied fruit; he did not propose wine to me, but Julia eyed a yes for a glass whenas I was provided a suave orgeat by a grand dad of a sommelier. As we had a last cup in Far’s suite, Julia noticed his usual game with my feet and felt aroused but remained casual. He wanted all gossip and news about school, the management of which he watched after more than it showed. There was frankly no rebuke to be phrased, and since the independent controls scored high enough, we should not wish any changes. I knew his kind concern but I wanted to assert that his choice had been the right one.I did not really know what Julia might have told her parents, but she witnessed a keen bond and liked it.

Our room was plush, next door to Far’s, they had not cared to give us twin beds, this one was vast, compared to those we habitually frolicked across; the large bath was tempting so we foamed our asses up like loose harlots; when we wiped ourselves we smelled of Clinique Happy like Maryland debutantes. She was reclaiming my toes when peremptory knocks on the door shook us and a male voice calling Miss Grant put a smirk to her fresh face. She told me to enter the bed, fetched a peignoir and opened the door. Two men in black suits and ties apologised but firmly chastised my lover for her disappearance. They ogled me like they would either kill or rape me, I had the telephone in hand and called Far, explaining the assault; he asked if Miss Grant had warned anyone she was going to town, he got the whole fuss and said he was coming, and fast. He waved his credentials and made amends to the disconcerted agents who spoke with an unmistakable American accent. Julia, who let the robe gape insidiously, took the phone and punched a number, then give orders to reach Mr Grant, to whom she plainly described the situation and the location, then, metamorphosing her tone, simpered and regretted her candid mishap. After a minute, she handed the phone to the apparent alpha who sputtered his service codes and stiffened to order, then grinned and told his colleague they were leaving, understanding that she would be brought back to school by an official UN car the next day, after some petty shopping under Far’s watch, and theirs.

Exercising one last time their ingrained professional eye in the room and my body now uncovered, they fled. Far looked up to Julia and clicked his tongue, but smiled. He sat down on the bed and chased my feet inside the soft blanket, he murmured regrets that such a heavy lifestyle would weigh on us, and he ogled at Julia’s prying mandarins.

When our so lusted after bodies crept back onto the rich garnet coloured percale, we were all thirst and desire, bloomed out in heat like animals. We exulted in unum spiritum, a long breath holding sob; I woke up my nose in her warm groin, smelling of newly scythed hay, lost and fulfilled.

The black suits sat at another table for breakfast. Far played über-nice and considered the thermos of coffee as a reward. I could tell he had planned our moves already and would be entirely devoted at my feet in the saddlery shop;.Julia gamely hit on him and seemed troubled by our likeness; she played with my hands. The coveted boots had been kept apart; I wryly asked for a pair of cashmere socks to try them on for Far who slipped them on my ticklish dancers, then bent each boot in and out, before putting them on. Spanish made, they were exactly fit in length and width, he felt it and bought them, with the chaps and also a snappy crop, with a silver handle, that made Julia stretch slightly in some fantasy. She thanked for the shirt he had been eyeing over and over, he replied truthfully the pleasure had been his. Before leaving I hugged him very tight and swore he had made me happy, providing all the care I could ask in a neatly rounded little world.

Julia was in for a good tongue-lashing, the FBI had followed our car to the portal and Harmony had been briefed rather drily, although she would retort that she was no  secret service. She begged Julia, whom she loved a lot, not to snap again like that, whereas she could have at least planned the trip with my father as well. For my own concern, Far might have deployed his seductive tactics, because she complimented me instead of reproaches, and digressed on my new hairstyle; she might as well have gotten me laid me in her office.

I harassed Julia with questions, how she would have known the domain was monitored from the outside but she bluntly replied I did not wish to know in what extent it was. But she was vibrant about our little jaunt and, on sunny days, she wore the Liberty shirt that set her twin mounds so keenly, whenas my fiddle-berries kept concealed in the pleats for the amateurs; and justly, on the first time I went back to the stables sporting my new attire, I was ambushed behind a sweet giant draft horse by one of Pierre-Yves buddies who slayed me, face to the wall, my jeans half-way down. When he was finished, and I was not so overwhelmed, I noticed a young stem with his modest peener out, wanking. I felt beastly, mainly because of the main dweller in the stall, and waved him around, he could barely have penetrated my tied up arse, but I suckled his hard little john with no hair to conclusion; he capsized almost, and I was standing as a mater dolorosa, half bared bum, embracing an unbuttoned boy when Cyr von Galen, a cavalier emeritus with a large frame and a tight bottom intervened and held us two. The tiddler knew him and obviously did not fear, he turned to my face and kissed me, realising, half-happy, that I tasted of him. Cyr pull his pants down, eased me a little more and took his turn in me while caressing the lean lad who still kissed me; he was gallant enough to start me up bountifully around the time he literally inundated my crack. As I headed for a shower, the cadet followed me and said it had been a first for him; under the running water I promised we would do it together truly soon. Shortly, a couple of unmounted hussars showed up tautened as bayonets and circled me as I flooded my petty cache; but I felt available no more and told them so, to their offended disbelief. They had pushed my sweet page away and seized my arms, but I hurled at them that this would be rape, whatever they thought had happened before it would be a crime and cost them dear for a botched unwelcome screwing. I went in a logorrhea of despise adjectives so as my voice climbed as I doused them around. Innocent onlookers called for truce and the dicks flopped down. I was let to wipe myself, young Poul timidly asked if I was still raged but I cried with him. That was a bit of the end of my sluttish aura, I strapped on my new boots and studded my new chaps and walked away nauseous; would it be the end of the party? Was I distasteful because I owned my body to spend it as I liked and not let it available like a spunk mop? When she was retold, Julia went in a surge of anger after Cyr but I spilled my marbles and disculpated him who had hustled me in fair game, and Poul.

I wore a night blue with stylised gold swallows corduroy high waisted and vague dress with a modest round lace collar that Julia had approved along with my white sandals, she craved me girly for that dinner. I smelled jonquil and angelica, undeterred virginal, I looked pale and brave. The cook had mixed mushrooms and crab meat in a cold flan, with raw fennel in yogourt sauce on the side. She gathered my fan club, Pierre-Yves and friends, Cyr the fresh one, Poul at my side and Ayla the other. We ostensibly shunned the shower scene but laughed in detail about the Geneva ramble, forgetting about the black suits. Towards dessert, Pierre-Yves let it out that some he knew, and I had spotted them across the restaurant, were sorry for the bullying spree they had thought would be casual but admitted now went awful; they said they should have stopped at the first signal. I was left embarrassed; I sidestepped, asking Cyr if he would coach me on Yuri, a kind enough black holsteiner; reckoning that was a possible peace invite, he laughingly agreed; I muttered I would shower on the green, along with the horses…

I eventually caught Miss Edna’s attention on the matter of sexual consent, and gallantry protocol, promiscuity and self-consciousness; she did not rebuff me as it were a sting question between the accountable adults and the honeybees in the hive. Consequently she funnelled talks on desire and the lack of proper doxa regarding the would be desired party of that very human dialectic, starting with the incommensurable failure of the Freudian scholastic on “dark territories” and Marie Bonaparte’s clitoris. In good fun, I was able to confront again my assailants, of whom , at least, one was gustatorily doable. Between Miss Edna handling and asserting the moral threads and Pr Achenbach shielding behind the professional secrecy, Julia and me churned out our libertine loyalty for the better good of many a good soul in Lupinland. Not that all attempts upon the feeble or the disoriented naive would have lastingly ceased, but natural predators met earlier responses to their sexual charades, should they frown away with a disgruntled cock and wank into their sheets. Also, damsels made openly aware of their desirable traits and intimate venues sussed out the stealth clout running in their veins and attitudes; there were no less comings and goings in the Lupinland detours, only no one was unfairly bruised, or at a steep risk. There were conversations when one could ascertain that however slutty the pussy were, the right to close shop was prevailing at any time, even before a stiff knob, whatever the tease had been, and it went for boys, as well.

The season wheeled along like a rumbling mill, I was stupidly infatuated with Avril Lavigne’s little butt, although I complained about her low-ride jeans that killed her legs. Ayla still assisted me in the art studio and proudly snuck into my bed when no one was lulling me; she made me proud, she was growing smart and straight, I kept her wristband. I gave Poul what he deserved when he tired of my mouth only; it was glib, odd and tender, in the sun, beyond the tennis courts. It smelled of box-trees and roses and he served me twice. For the summer break show he danced neatly with four other leggy niceties of his kind to Slim Shady, they were all sweet-natured.

The dance studio smelled slightly different according to styles but one note was almost ever there, that of embrocation; I dread the urge of straining muscles and joints in the heat of a cadence, I know it is bad debt to the future body and, anyhow, it reads as contorsions or at least acrobatics, a mere pretext for hypocrites to ogle slender elfes; after all, the back stage of the Paris Opera once was stealthily connected to the Jokey Club who owned the ballet stars. Who needs that today? I contemplated to jostle the leotards the following year; yet I spotted some graces in action but I longed to see them bare feet.

Gallo Fuks was (still is) the irresistible body master, altogether with a forthright soul even if some murmured that he trained peculiarly some of us in some places. Dark brown like an expresso with close-cropped hair, he smelled unburnt tobacco, honey and vanilla sweet, his skin was a dare to the touch. In life, he wore bold wide striped waisted jackets and dark icebreaker jerseys, black chino pants styled to fit his sturdy thighs; he ran on sleek black leather sport shoes. On the technical floor, bare feet, he sported a strict bodysuit that wouldn’t have hidden an erection. He beamed as we counted push-ups or hung gesticulating to the ladders. He confuted the use of chromed contraptions and sought ensemble emulation or mirror exercising, He collaborated with the dance studio in the nude-move spirit that brought us to our brut-poetry performances, later. At all times I tried hard to make him to grab hold of my butt.

Gallo was a gym wizard with an eye for ill-developed bodies and the means to correct the mistakes. He would advise Doctor Selen Bonte who prescribed the scans and all the medicalities, but he asked and obtained from our young anatomies the rebalance and proportions, I owe him my allure and my moves, my rump and my legs. His touch felt like music, whatever harsh might the labour he ordered be. Julia and I did an abdominal muscles contest; he liked it but defused the competitive part, matching us with others for arms, thighs or head-bearing. The steamy showers of the gym studio saw a lot of lewd politesse occur, too.

Their year was wrapped up, most of the students went away to their families or exotic camps, I was staying and Julia too, I would travel later in the summer to Danish waters and their sagas. Some forty of us would find the place almost empty, but happily, we travelled Swiss. I have told at other times some unforeseen marvels we met amidst these mountains, I will not rant about the weirdness of the Zwingli attitudes and the blind eye the Swiss laid on their own nazi-connected turpitudes, some loudly vocal nationals have done it irrefutably. To me, the Geneva county was the sexiest province this side of the Styx, which, as everyone knows, doesn’t flow into the Lake.

Julia, who had preferred to plan the summer along with mine, had dared me to get Mr Tudor in my pants. He was our guide in this cosy bus that negotiated the engineered bends of the Swiss roads. So, I sat next to the art teacher on any made-up art topic, like the supremacy of the arabesque in French epic art, or the ambiguity in the effectiveness of “golden number” structures when in fact I was exposing my crotch through as little fabric I could scheme for his torture; or, wearing shorts, I crossed my legs and candidly brushed his thigh wit my toes until eventually he started to stroke that foot and fell into my honey trap. I am proud of the feet Far made me, I usually buy AA shoes and my toes can spread like monkey’s.

We slept in boarding lodges with sometimes a lot of spare room and that is where I netted the thirst ridden teacher; in an empty corridor where I had gathered a good mouthful of fervour, I pulled him into an empty room where extra bedding were stacked and I locked us in. He cuddled my head endless and wafted lovingly on every nook, mouthed every catch he found and astounded me whole. He swiftly rid my leggings and shirt and snarled like damned to my crotch The overstuffed space sounded like inside the brain, spread upon ten mattresses, I offered him my hesperide lure while he freed a sizeable truncheon and seized my chest in his wide palms, mumbling on my trouble berries. I answered to his clutch when he spouted unpredictably all over my belly in a warm scent of debacle. I choked at all I had missed while rand to find a towel. Then he overthrew me higher in the piles and started to point his tongue into my merry caches, also onto my lower abdomen where the shudders are deep, drilling between his rounded hard lips. It turned out it was not such a fiasco, the man was disorderly but persistent, he succeeded in firing off my inner drone a long stroke before he resurrected in all manhood so as to dwell in me snug and wet for a farandole suite through my festooned innards.

He contemplated me under the shower, asking me to slow the intimate toilet as he watched and arched up strong again, I sucked him in the flow and he told me to creep a finger into his butt hole, thing I had never done, as ribald as I would feel. Still with my tongue, we wiped me and carried me face down on the drooping heaps; he tried to force himself into my stingy purse but it would have required more than spitting on the rim so I asked him to cavort once more in my swollen crib. He bumped and bombed frantically to regain victory, I spread wide my thighs arching up for my affooled minge to receive his whole length and the third ultimate benefice whenas I couldn’t tell apart my own pulses of tremor anymore. When we woke, the trails had dried all over, we had collapsed in a maelstrom of pads, and Julia had found us; she was actually licking my precious cunny cunt still moved and bruised. When she saw my eyes blink, she soughed in my neck she was proud of her harlotee girl.

Tudor was mumbling, then he jumped up when he grasped that Julia was enlaced to me; he stared madly and grabbed any rag to cover his dumbfounded self, wild eyed. She kidded that she wanted to safeguard the body of proof, just in cased he felt so guilty as to strangle my frail neck shut; he stuttered half distraught but we did not let him topple to drown, I ventured that we were sluts, indeed, but not snitches however, and on that I seized his dick and bantered on its valiance while Julia was creeping at his other flank and frolicked frankly, but the warrior was all spent and flaccid, so we nestled like sacks and I fingered my accomplice to console her while Tudor wandered a kiss and a tad more on her. A few hours later, I saw dawn raising and I bustled the other two out of the crime scene. Tudor reshaped roughly the piles and we ran to our rooms, Julia cradling me round.

Our travel followed its course, Tudor steering clear of my path, mostly, except when I felt cruel enough to entrap him and make him acknowledge that he made a very horny victim; he was granted a few times more in my fluffy dollhouse, but never more so furiously as the first unbridled rush. Becoming to know my ways, and noticing my frequent swerves into the lucky bushes, he reckoned his good fortune after all and found friendship bearable, all the more when he happened to shag another Lupin and guardian angels saved his cool. And Julia confirmed he had a hell of a dinkle. He was a good teacher, though, patient and generous, bringing up documentation in times when Internet was not yet fully deployed into our minds. He accepted the doctrine I had laid with Master Verunin in new York, so unhindered that I still seek; but I kept gathering all the tokens of a well read socialite, in case. Moreover, my uncommon features, my lifestyle and my Far set me aside of the vulgar rut, mind you.

And so went summer, Yuri needed company, so did those with no available folks to relate to, or who’d rather not. I picked Annelise Devers in front of Nip Tuck and she did not baulk at following me up to my room where I played Radiohead and wrapped her up in a cashmere shawl because she shivered albeit a mild July night; I slid her genteel feet into wooly socks and twiddled them, as I felt her uneasy, and she cried silently, big drops of heartfelt loss. She drenched a few packs of tissues and eventually leaned on me, wordless. Thom York searched his soul and she sniffed laboriously; the mascara had trickled down under her lids, so I fetched cotton pads and undertook removing her makeup. She had blue eyes with a very deep ring around the iris; she had dyed her hair raven black and her skin was impressively diaphanous.The lotion was revealing a younger face than I thought; she asked me if she interested me so I hugged her and played my feet with hers while I kissed her long temples. She looked up.

Julia did not warn when entering my room, she did not stir much air either; she saw the bed and grasped the tension; she kissed my temples and called Annelise as if it had been a nice surprise between girlfriends, sat next to her and squeezed her hands.The black child scowled away like despondent but accepted my holding her head, laid back in oblivion. She acted as a perfect patient in a deploration act, Julia kneeled on the floor by the bed and rested her head on her folded arm, watching, almost insolent. The raven kid weighted little in my catch over, I dared her mouth and she responded wilfully, clumsily sliding her hands under my shirt; then it went casually, so to speak, and she found herself bared and cajoled as Julia played indecisive. Annelise murmured that she wanted me but she could watch or whatever, and so she warmed and pulled my pants down while the lioness unclothed herself.

Annelise was a borderline bird, a wasted marauder of affection depriving herself of life stream, but some stealth after-dream had let her dive into my rays. She had lost her mother before she knew, and her father, a shadowy high-flyer trader of all trades, did not encompass the trade of fatherdom and so paid away the peace. She had money and could afford the best guitar teacher on this shore of the Lake, with a collection of fine-picked instruments. She used me brilliantly, from the moment she grasped my buttons and Julia’s high-hand, she was a great fucker with a scar. Through these first summer nights, as I feasted on her transparent skin, sharing her with Julia, I sought for stigmata of bad drugs abuse and she deciphered my scheme laughingly searching over my body in retaliation. Her evocative perfume was an incestuous veil of incense and mulled-wine with an afterthought of magnolia. She had that sort of straight long nose at a right angle with her profile, a pointed chin and a nicely receding forehead where a witty cowlick denied her moody expression. Her circled irises of pure blue stroke through heavy lids and rich lashes (Julia saw some resemblance with my own marbles but I denied, mine are scattered with lapis-lazuli nuggets), Her mouth was lavishly Egyptian, with lustful rimmed lips. As a nascent showgirl, she fitted easily in our kind of game, complacently letting her body being offered when she foresaw how to retaliate on us, she traded my arse to a gardener against his young boy toy. When the season came to conspire on a new pantomime for the coming year’s epilogue, she swore she would be ready with a song and we banked on it.

Tudor, Julia and I, set aside our tricky libertine arrangement, fomented, with Harmony’s approval, the patchworking of a one-piece mock ballet involving every Lupin in Lupinland. including our three or four syndromes in the garden, our elfin ballet rats, the judo bullies and a squadron of desirable queers. In Geneva and Lausanne, Tudor unearthed astounding copies of Bauhaus and expressionist pantomimes on film, and mostly all that the Prince of Serendip would gather, related to avant-garde theatre and dance. There were wild sessions in the big hall when Tudor could afford the school a dignified projector and sound system to read the digital formats. It was also great for groping new game, as for Elme van Holt, who revealed neither sex but a sizeable clitoris on an closed unfinished vulva, but a truthful urge to plant it into my fanny; unable to think of a pronoun, but excited by novelty, I let myself drawn to Elme’s room, hearing some muttered unfit lazzi I would recall.

As the butler would say, we smelled balsamic and mossy woods in a rather girly sweat, we showed a smooth oval face with slanted golden eyes and flat thick fringed sienna hair, whatever rosy tint of fawn it would mean. Our hairless skin felt creamy smooth and that toy peeny was thorny hard when I sucked on it, Elme warning me that the spurting duct was under it and would splatter my eyes, possibly. But it insinuated itself into my most adaptive slit like a hummingbird foraging into a volubilis. We kissed silly while I wanked on the stiletto and felt it splash on my ass-hole. Elme was a brilliant companion and, once confided in me and my buddies, became a brain-force of the great event; I was also tipped about a few other intersex niceties, the school’s policy allowing queers as folks in its midst, at the knowledge of other parents. Choice had been made that queers would be lodged according to their chosen identity. Loutish nags were not so much natural Lupins, or would become so. Those who had sneered at my first date with Elme had to meet me in full text language and heard a tough epigram about finding love.

We campaigned for the Années Folles, played Erik Satie and Shostakovich, Stravinsky and Schoenberg, but we eventually decided that the music would be composed and played by our own music workshop. We studied French in Apollinaire, German with Kafka, English with only some of Joyce (could we have fathomed Molly Bloom’s monologue?) I made spectacular progress in Italian thanks to Alberto Savinio. Tudor heralded the futurists and the vorticists and the surrealists, Max Ernst was so popular with his creative techniques, dripping, rubbing, pasting-up. I involved myself into costumes and decors, there were colourful mixtures perambulating in the restaurant some days. Ayla, who returned from Corsica with seven more centimetres of height, pointing tits and no tan lines, never had enough of designing, cutting and trying on élucubrations, nor did she tire of the broom closet, good golly!

Aalu Peters, the Nordic faun whom Julia had offered me to, and who chiselled his ravages like a deer hunter, had been in the wild a few weeks with his elders and relatives among the birch woods and the swamps, missing us, said he while seizing my hips. He craved my hip bones, but he was proposing more excitement. He knew I had been kind to Elme, because Elme told him. He wanted me to meet Kerny Blomst, another gentle queer who kept a keen eye on me; he wanted a trio but I wanted some foretaste so i suggested the pool. Kerny was whitish beside Aalu who had run naked through his homeland’s mosquitoes and gleamed as copper; he had peroxydised his hair and was as slim as me. His eyes were hidden by black contacts, his nails were neatly varnished black, toes too. We dived along with fresh crunchy Lupins and watched each other move then we showered and got closer. he had a small flute and beforehand told me he was special in the sense that he did not respond to androgens so he would never be more of a man than what I saw there. Aalu was already pressing his dingy to Kerny’s bum but we had to refrain when wide eyed puppies ran in and splashed life around. I wondered where Poul was.

We followed him to his room and he made white tea in a silver pot and served us in white china. He disappeared in the bathroom and came back in a sumptuous lilac dawn kimono.scattered with favrile petals. He sat next to me on the bed and slid a hand to my crotch, a tad raving about my class and beauty, he lifted my shirt and nipped my foolberries as Aalu helped him prying me bare. They told me poses, they told me to wank while they drank tea, I asked for the kimono, of which the heavy silk tingled my spine, for their contentment; then the swish warlock pulled me on the edge and played my sugarbud, an instant, handling his peeny, then he pushed it in my poonie before Aalu slayed his buttered sheath deep, and he was whelmed in rapture.

We rested up a quiet while, tea had cooled, resting my head on Kerny’s silken thigh, I was scrutinising his rare shrunk down apparatus, which now looked like a closed up vulva of soft satin with a baby knob on top. He inquired about my awe, but i mouthed in the crumpled gimcrack and it bloomed back into a playable goadlet.( I assessed that most penises look crappy when defused ) that I teased and sucked stiff till he turned me over and slid into my discreet hatch as Aalu was lapped up and gulped but soon rushed his long hardy into my mystic shell and there I was busy on a trip.

Kerny joined the tohu-bohu conception of a no-strings school opera, bringing a hard-learned otherworldliness to metaphors and parables we shuffled over as a mad libretto. He liked the company of young girls, Ayla told me that he smelled of wisteria and touched like a bumble bee, she had lured him to the box trees.

It was the time when personal computers became a key commodity, and a tutelary mightiness granted the school broadband connection up to our rooms. Mobile phones were still bulky and too expensive in international traffic, we had efficient landlines at our bedsteads. Only Fergus de Malestang, the son of a french admiral, rejected from all sorts of conventional schools before, owned a satellite phone which did not make a long-lasting impression but allowed him to talk to his dad away on the oceans. Far admitted that I needed of of those transportable contraptions and took the best advice to gift me with an universal Windows beast at the top of the market, except for a lousy track-pad. I had to bribe heavily Mikin Prüss to coach me though the arcanes of DOS logic and software mayhem, which means that he would seat next to me in front of the potentially blue screen only if I wore one of his own pyjamas with an open front and let him casually finger me; but he was a brilliant pedagogue, so I soon deduced that I would better fuck him up front and get a really focused lesson, moreover he was not a square nerd at it, smelled of broom flowers and stood up long in me, the price was fair. He was blond and wary of the sun light, his face was bony with thick eager lips; he gave me a taste for boys’ pyjamas.

We were lent a fully equipped operation room and started gathering documentation for the vision that was mostly Julia’s and mine of a Midsummer pow wow for whom it might concern. Tudor was enthralled, as were many teachers. We sat around dance classes, music sessions and writing courses, to finally wish we had drama teaching as well. Harmony interviewed a few old crabs but found us Evgeny Greiz, a true cosmopolitan maverick with a devilish suggestive power, who could dance the words out of anyone’s chest, and also knock over boys and girls in eerily theatrical intimate poses.

Tudor operated a highly functional colour printer, he scanned and printed whatever the group found in books or the internet so we could paste it all over the situation room in which we would have been the only crime committed, reversing the thrill to the moustache of Andy Sipowicz. We all craved fancy costumes, a stirred up notion between such different trends as hip hop, ballet and modern theatre. We collected costume history, phantasmagorical or ethnic, rejoiced at Oskar Schlemmer, Sophie Tauber and Hannah Höch, Julia brought up the incomparable world of the Hopi Kachina dolls so much so that we invaded at once Melanie Rose’s emporium of stuffs samples and Eliah Schprung’s factory in order to fabricate magic dolls and write their songs.

We squatted the TV rooms to screen and scan a lot of dance, pantomime, circus and vaudeville, but very often I would better get warm in someone’s pant than chomp on the lucubrate contorsions of mean entertainers. We saw what Royksopp Maldoom had done with troops as diverse as ours, were awed by Pina Bausch drawn glass emotivity, moved by poetic clowns as Sasha Polunin or James Thiérrée. We avoided the heavily produced Bolchoï-Vegas behemoths, U2 would have been more likely.

Mérine Berce, whom I targeted since I had seen her legs, came up with a brilliant lead. She took us, disparate congregation of remorseless fiddlers, to the great hall where the sound system was mighty, and warned us about Karlheinz Stockhausen, whose mere name was already cool enough, and a short piece he had composed and mounted together, Gesang Der Jünglinge. In the dark, she blew it at top volume, like heavy steel. Although Ayla had caught me, we were a bit stoned out and enthused at the thought of what kind of shock it would strike on our cool parents and elders. Mérine relighted after a while, possibly to let the lickerish ones readjust, and explained that she had been thinking about working on the piece with a timeline, giving time to the electronic music workshop to compose on the same course. The colourful projected patches still in our ears like Chihuly mushrooms from a ceiling made us espouse the dream of fluid groups intervening with or against each other, in varied styles, like in a furiously baroque bouquet.

We formed in groups at our will, with a number each and a plan of the stage. Meline held a strange partition and told the numbers to start, alone or in an ensemble. Soon we did without the music following a metronome; the hip hop gang needed more time, but she asked that it wouldn’t become a standalone cameo, they had three fast evolutions. The music team, educated by the orignal piece, found its expression and chiselled-up a rich composition of their own. We were uncovering the distance between the tops of our heads to the tip of our toes. Thirteen minutes weren’t much, but it embarked all of us in hard work. Julia had picked two quick lads, I kept Ayla and we chose Pierre-Yves, or he chose us because he had an eye on both of us.

As for costumes, once my trio’s brains had stormed over possibilities of colourful, bold, asymmetrical and twirled outfits, but not as to disfigure the bodies or reduce them as toupies, (none of us would have accepted to play wearing a mask, neither) we unearthed some arousing leads in early renaissance paintings of Carpaccio or Uccello, might it mean we should cut and piece disparate halves together. Melanie knew how to do it.

Julia pursued her declination of the Zuni dolls and folks and was carried away by the Inuit charm of Aalu who deployed some of the midnight sun spells on her. Aude Bille, a ravishing speckled weasel with plentiful mahogany plaits, who smelled tuberose in her neck and armpits, had destructured the expressionist tin puppets into a platoon of young cosmic toys. Others had considered the vocabularies and spoken in the Volapük of Slumberland. so as to design Dada elegance, but Melanie wanted to see some body forms, so they lifted some elytra.

The firebrands in the stables were only amused by our grand design in the amount of looking at dancing fawns in funny colours, a tad more impressed by the hip hop addicts, quite a rare expression in our spheres. Fergus swam into my stomach once in the pool, I could not judge if it was willingly; he apologised flippantly and remained in front of me, floating and holding my hand I did not remove. Next, he told me I was attractive and he liked my legs and the rest of me. He wanted to know if I would play casual and reached out to my pants and pulled; I had already decided to let him have his way but I dived deep to swim to the ladder. He followed me to the showers and we kissed adamantly on both parts, he had a jolly spur ready to ram but I wanted him in a bed so I gave him my number and ran.

Unlike many girls, I did not keep a hidden bottle of alcohol and I will never drink anymore, but the tap water was exquisite and I had elderberry syrup. Anyhow, he peeled me right away and devoured like a prey, but I vanished in the bathroom to groom myself a bit; he saw me with the enema and smirked slantly, then he grasped why and made me suck him. Back on the bed he could no longer fool around, he pressed his glans on my shy vulva and breathed deeply when he gained ground of soft flesh and was all inside. Then I started to move my best and contort my vagina, he looked stunned and, as I expected, blew hell in my womb then collapsed in joy. I rejoined him in a matter of hand trick and, when we both quieted down, I parted his wet black curls, half-expecting him to doze out. He smiled, his chestnuts eyes in hide behind thick lashes like a woman’s. After the bath and the rush he still faintly smelled of laurel and vanilla in a sweetly peppered sweat. I unabashedly soughed in one ear that if he douched like me I could be a real slut for a moment, at what he jumped up and mumbled for help, which I did, and the rest also.

After a treat of rose leaves, which he returned honestly, while he polished back his prick in his hand. He turned me up on all fours, to service me from behind with a spit on of vaseline, when I saw the door ajar and Ayla who watched on; when she grasped that I knew, she swiftly slid in the room and locked. She acted like a little tart she was and disrobed herself as I could not react with a bull in me. She swayed near and kissed me as Fergus saw her and maddened in my tight vessel, she crawled to the action and manipulated all the jewels like an ardent courtisane. She helped me through my rapture with her deft fingers while she held his goolies. He huffed out deadly as he stilled, she climbed back and held my head to her muff and asked for elation.

There were rainy mornings, waking out of a swift brush-off makeover truth in a vertical province of sneer names scattered on a family banner. In a teardrop blink it had made sense. By chance my constant window had remained ajar, and the whirled tapestry of country smells descended upon the lost perfumes of the passengers in my sheets. I stretched my legs and pressed my hips, my feet escaped the padded quilt as I felt at any one time rooted and freewheeling, dirty and clean as the rain.

Ayla was proud as a swan when she wriggled her narrow hips at the breakfast table, not that I could afford the same humour; she had gone astray and could have caused the sending down of all three of us, but how could have I reacted with a flesh tusk already up my arse hole? Beyond the hilarious situation, she had to reset the grip of her own lust a bit, until the year next when she would be my neighbour in the henhouse. She sheltered alongside my wing and promised anything , mindlessly. Then, she smelled gingerbread and pencil shavings, and although she pretended to stay wise, she fired blazing eyes like polished agates. Dr Selen Bonte was in charge of first eventualities among the herd, she would give the morning-after pill to any girl who thought she needed it; she would not inquire, since most of the fillies were fully-formed. Those who asked were not complaining of abuse, or they would have sought Harmony in that case. Otherwise, blood checks were mandatory twice per year.

Geometry was sheer pleasure, it felt really Swiss, In geography we had started a complete survey of the lake, which I discovered is so really deep, along with natural sciences. History was essentially sequential and European, with more developments as we got closer to present times, in a rather social-democrat angle of vision; economy would tangle the ropes later, for those who would pursue in hard-core colleges. Miss Edna could very well summon open talks on general topics during highly praised afternoon teas in the restaurant, nevertheless she reviewed the suitable program of the age classes and asked for written and oral tests. We had nothing like homework, only some reading ahead and rummaging for elements in the cacophonic communautary operatic endeavour. Or the licentious twists and turns of our capillary epic.

Julia could not come along to New York for Xmas, she was expected to bore herself to anaemia in Maryland, so I flew alone with Far, blew Elsie’s mind out with my tales, and I fainted with pleasure when the snow graced the terrace angels in the tumultuous night. She agreed to stay and Far beamed at this announce, he never commented on our sleeping together. He kept on stealing my feet, restrained from stealing hers; she saw it like a tad kinky, but she had always had a crush on Far; she only playfully mimicked my way of running around the house bare feet. I missed Mor, she no longer lived in the vast apartment, but the Nanny and the guard were still in place and greeted me like I had become older or something. LeDell, the athletic man who waited around us, was a black bald-head who smelled Sandalwood of Lather and Wood in the lift when I swear I could have let him stop the cabin, were it not for his duties; he magically escorted us through odd places like Bloomingdale’s, Saks or Goodwill; he constantly refused when Elsie invited to sit down with us, I had warned her. We had a full week of a talkative romance; she had scored almost as many troops as Marlene Dietrich, she had graduated in anal sex like a pornstar, otherwise she had the best grades in everything, she was already plotting her carrer, considering a scholarship, whenas I avoided the genre and saw myself rather as a Dada muse. Far treated us every night in fancy casual eateries with dim lights and vegan food. We promised not to forget our friendship but the terrace angels laughed in the cold.

Far had gifted me his Mother’s watch, a platinum Rolex tank with art déco figures, polished anew, on a navy blue lizard band; I was supposed to wind it every three days. It was conveniently engraved S, v K, since this ancestor who never knew of me was named Sophie. Julia was utterly fond of it on me, but dropped that her Tiffany was in a safe and she would better wear disposable swatchs, then she grabbed my waist over a vintage Missoni sweater and said I looked like I had not spent my time alone in town. As I laid back on my bed, I told her about Elsie, so she unravelled me nude and wished me a happy year. She swore that at the next opportunity she would offer her feet to Far. Her crotch smelled of lemon pie, verbena and pipe tobacco.

The situation room had lived through the holidays, On a wall were now displayed photographs of costumes by Lavinia & Schulz from 1923 with a small manifest about their tragic life; they had killed themselves after the completion of the costumes. Although it did not entice to follow them, it showed of what might be attained with miserable materials to start with, like straw dolls. Next, someone had worked on different sets and accessories with scribbled annotations. The chimera was transmogrifying in time. I met Gallo who took me to the gym carpet and manipulated me while talking about the show. As no one was in sight he let himself wander and gave me surprise pleasure so as I wanted more; the broom closet was visited too often, he had an office with a personal bathroom, so we went. Erected, he was amazingly membered, my two hands dit not contain the whole shaft. He would not cease to pluck and tug my nerves and muscles, stretch only a tad more of my limbs, watching in the misty mirror. After a breaking havoc tongue play he asked if I wanted him and I only begged him to do slow.

A first draft of the music score came out of the gloomy smelly electron ridden laboratory, deftly regulated along the first pattern, lacking only the textures and colours that would suggest the constant dream of the players. Our trio went easy, spruced up by the baby fairy who jumped like wild oats. We had three moves alone, three others synchronised with another group, and many collective tableaux. We repeated separately, trying not to fall over the nasty little tease onboard too soon, but trio shenanigans were exquisite between us, Ayla exhaled a clearing of genteel simples and tasted like fraise des bois.

Twelve clusters of eccentric stooges perambulated among unsettling props in a willingly distorted perspective à la Chirico. Teams of makers had mulled over their fantasmic chessmen and built them in the resourceful workshops under the clearance of Master Schpung. The giant head with the blue brain was inhabited and moved a few times, the electric swan was radio commanded, the laughing piano floated up and down while long mauve clouds hovered in the night under a talking moon.

Bambi Krepps was a lean stem gone to seed, with strands dark amaranth hair unfurling on her ivory rose shoulders; she had teamed with Adaline de Sacre, black fringe and Brittany green eyes and firm arrogant breasts; also with Gry Forêt, foggy blond hair and sandy eyes, long dainty hands, long willowy silhouette with round buttocks anyway. They had chosen marine shapes in Haeckels’ encyclopaedias, They had built stupendous hats like medusae on acid; virtuoso calligraphic algae of double-layered dyed rag, and evanescent painted leotards.and tights. Ayla saw my stir about the sirens I had not yet acquainted and as an aside,she bragged she had been in their sweet smelling sheets. At that moment, she knew she had me under a spell and began to trade her influence on my pillow or at my feet.

Ayla had lured Bambi in the swimming pool and was petting her like a viola, as nude as dawn. I tiptoed by and warily sat on the curbstone, lecherously feasting on the young looks who proudly read me as she enjoyed being adored. After a moment, I whispered how lovely the scene was and the emotion it caused me, letting aside all shades of irony. I slipped into the water and pressed my chest on Bambi, biting her ear lobes while fondling Ayla’s toy buttons, then sliding down on her, telling her who I was, low and inviting, served by a sensationally devilish faunesse. She let me untie whatever useless fabric still clung to her. She conceded feebly but we should go to another place, so we dashed up to her room where she would fear a tad less, with our bundles of dripping clothes. Her self abandon was gracious and Ayla was already in a hearty binge. I stared at her black eyes with a killer squint but she stuttered something like I would tell her being a slut to others, how cute a prudishness when a debauched young squirrel is already nibbling your jewels. I soothed her singing I was the biggest of them all but I would never betray her intimacy, be her foolishly worse, and I kissed her copiously and slid along her, Ayla on us, beaming.

Bambi has a smooth brow, she must have dreamt of daffodil gardens on a June island, she was born in no pain; fresh from the pool, she smells a trace of acacia honey in a cup of white tea, which is such as breathing a butterfly on the blank page of her high temple. Her nose points up candidly above yet untroubled geranium lips where I ask for mercy awhile. She plays, she tilts my shoulders over and roams my skin with her open mouth and I feel the floating stroke of her breast on me like sheets in the prairie wind. I lose, she asks for my thighs to part and reaps my true moanings that Ayla plunders like candy.

Having earned Bambi’s trust, I gentled her set of fairies with Ayla running front and winning affective clout, at least among girls, albeit she ogled bigger game for her diminutive bum, asking me to braid her lush flow of hair. I crossed Adaline in the stairs and we talked French; she acted as she knew her friend had rolled me over in her sheets and not disliked that. She lived on the second floor but I mentally pushed her up to my place for tea. Now she played shy, it was easy to take her hand and at once kiss her jaw, she awaited. Kneeling at her feet, I unlaced the sneakers and did what my Far had long taught me, they smelled bitter almond in lust, warm and moist, she was off guard when I crept up her snappy worn-out jeans, she let me pull them down and search the cherubic white cotton knickers. She bent for kissing, her aventurine eyes in the shade of her low fringe wanting tenderness. When she was nude, she disrobed me skilfully and embraced me totally in her wider frame. The music was Rufus Wainwright as we danced and Ayla found us with a tiny giggle, throwing her clothes around and clutching on us, she smelled black chocolate and rum toddy, we ate her. Adaline’s brooklet was deep, her pubis was lush and smelled of forgotten lotus, rain in a honeysuckle bush and a hint that she might have been masturbating earlier; as I tried to maliciously joke it, she blushed wonderfully and wanted to wash but I refused straight, keeping my tongue pointed into her while Ayla roused my merry vale. Adaline was a squirter and could not help cuming in my mouth; it did not taste like piss, it was more like watered down sperm, and because my joke had embarrassed her, I made her taste my mouth with a heartfelt smile when Ayla blew my pearly knob up and I arched like possessed. We recovered our breath in the time of two songs, mutually touching our faces, eye in eye, then I suddenly seized the lustful young lass, toppled her over and shared her with Melusine, whenas down below she was lapping at my drips again; she happily spurted at our faces. When we finished washing one another with our keen tongues, we smelled of pure vice, then, as we dried, the stealthy gold of desire.

Julia had been looking for me, she met us at the hot plate counter where I chose artichoke bottoms stuffed with morels in a rich Mornay browned in the oven, along with linguine. She touched my shoulder and then smelled me, musing privately about whom I had been shagging, to what Ayla laid out how grand it had been. She was not close to the sea life fairies, but she glared at Adaline’s distant eyes with some envy, making noted she understood we smelled the same as the fidgety nymphet and she whispered it was lovely, so as anyone could have thought she meant it about the cooking.

Ayla would sit at my side, as it had been notorious that she was my pet, and read by the teachers as rather profitable for her. Pierre-Yves on the other side sniffed my nape and neck and was hiding a blatant erection. Bambi and her court had appointed me now reputable and more, Gry gave me silky eyes of grège as she would not wish to stay outdone or shunned; with bits of talk I made it limpid that she would be most welcome anytime, and I thought pleasantly she had been on Ayla’s agenda. The day was tied up, though; after a brief shower in my dishevelled room and a whiff of bluebell rose on my pubis since I wore a black flowy tank dress flaunting that I was merely available for fooleries, running on mismatched sneakers, one red and the other black; I felt fluid and nude, I went for Apollinaire and Kafka.

Namie de Rejung was a wholesome teacher, with a chiselled diction and an elegant gesticulation, she did great with young students; she currently smelled some licorice and blackcurrant soapy cedar wood, wore untucked shirts and slim pants. She moved fast in sleek ballerines. That day, she made me read a risqué letter to Lou and I acted out as if I was Apollinaire’s fantasy of the easy damsel. The group of sixteen laughed and I saw that I had hooked Kir Bojan, a supple cavalier of the stables gang, and my crafty pilot fish Ayla had noticed, too, so she read the next one with even more sexiness for the rapture of Miss de Rejung, who might very well have an eye on her. Obviously, Kir followed me on the way to the restaurant for tea, in French. Digging into a slice of blueberry clafoutis, he drew me into erotic literature and the salacious “Adventures Of Prince Mony Vibescu” that I had not yet read. I knew I was in for a ride and I affected a loose body language, opening wide my legs in the black jersey dress, letting my pup-nipples blink at him, listening lucidly to his ways of telling sex before I could taste any of his.

Not unpredictably, Ayla was already lying on my bed, wearing not much other than one of my used tee shirts and listening to Massive Attack. She had hastily tidied the room and the bed, she smiled when Kir and I entered. As he shied off, I grasped his hand and bantered about my kitten kid and told him she wouldn’t bother. As he needed some stronger incentive, I slid an undaunted hand in his pants and observed that the kinky situation had not quenched out his arousal. Dancing against him I exposed a valorous trophy that I wanked already; he pulled off my dress; the cat was nude and helped herself; he ravished my mouth and detailed my face in a mad mumbled dithyramb till we fell on the chuffed cat-girl who knowingly offered her capucine to the party going. He had been riding in those jeans so he smelled of leather, as in oakmoss, amber and Lucky Strikes trashed in perspiration, it overwhelmed me when I went south on him, while he could not help but savour the other kitty’s gumdrop.

He was hairy but soft, brawny but slender, kitted out with the most elegant flesh rod and goolies. His main hobby had made him hardy loins and sure hand, but dressage is an attentive art in which no rude force is ever used, as a rule. He arched me back and forth easily, told Ayla to ready me as he used my mouth then ordered me to content her as he was sliding long shots to my womb; but then he was tempted by her smiling, hemmed slit and turned things over, so as to service her on all fours while she pushed a hand into the place he had deserted. She was astoundingly happy with her little farce when he spurted in her, but I felt more than slightly cheated, given again what I possibly disposed of at anytime by her, whenas she floated high her colours in a grand whisper.

Kir wriggled back into his pants and fled rather abruptly, briefly addressing me bright eyes as he slipped his boots on. Wasn’t I the one who allowed the situation to evolve like so? Ayla was in sweats and evidently fulfilled, she would claim all the cocks in the polite world, cum what may. I loved her in the running shower as she dripped sperm, I made her outbid herself with some grinding rage and then found the peace before dinner, calling her names, on her twat.

I had a large salad bowl in which I asked for an avocado, tomatoes, rucola, Fribourg cheese, a hard boiled egg and a handful of cashews, available at any time; on that I spilled Modena vinegar, olive oil and begged for two slices of fried bread, crouton style. Ayla wanted the same, of course. We sat with the medusae mermaids, Raine and Fergus; she was witty and fidgety so has everybody wondered what was into her. Julia brought her potato and herbs omelette and stole one of my browned slices. She pinched Ayla’s tits, sensing that she had flied high. I wore a satellite blue cashmere jumper, chocolate white leggings and moss-grey Birkenstock Gizeh sandals, and so I felt somebody’s foot on mine. Gry was looking back at her tagliatelle with revealing circonspection, I responded to her advances by releasing my toes and read her very personal eye play and half-grin; a third foot came briefly as to approve her sister.

She had been told of my ways and she did not wish to fall into a trap. After the tiramisu, we went to her room. She wore an ankle-long, large striped, cypress and grey jersey dress and raw hide sandals; surprisingly nothing else. As we played in the stairs, I smelled her of iris, hay and some mystic resin on her own sweat that I would fantasise was caused by her daring excitement; she was a bouquet of lust in the dark, nude at once. She did not switch the light on, she lit one candle on an ornate battered copper oval shaped sconce that reflected in the small room and on our skins. She begged me to spare her, albeit she stood naked against my chest. I understood she had grasped that I was a heartless philanderess who would throw her in feed to the wolves. I ate that, and realised that perhaps I was playing on thin ice, so I chilled, took her hands and reminded her that she had quite inviting feet as a candid maiden. She coughed slightly and explained that she wanted to shag with me but feared I would take advantage of her because she was so naive. Meanwhile, she was dearly arousing, now that my eyes had conquered the darkness and I coud read her wide opened pupils rimmed with a golden ring, I was ready to hold forth all night to let her open her fine legs, whatever the promise she would care. I explained how we had, Julia and me, elaborated our morals fitted to our terrible lust, that it was my way to redeem my crumpled soul, as wicked a philosophy that she might have fathomed. I asked her what her soul sisters had told about me, if I had been unfair to them as the play went; was I not right to think that she had fostered lascivious pulsions after what they told? Would she say for what reason it would be wrong to yield under her own desires, as long as no harm was done? She did not know how to spell out her fears, but, resenting the awkwardness of our dialogue, she finally confessed to her virginity and looked down. I breathed heartily, embraced her and swore as kindly as I felt that I did not hold it against her and she would behold her life as she wished, would it be it to remain intact, whatever choice her soul see fit, and furthermore I was no tool to solve the matter. She risked that I had brought girls to lads for them to use, which I would not deny, it was part of the slutty fun but she did not need to participate as long as she had enough with me, honest, I would not force her, and I made her circle my biceps with her hand.

Letting her unswayed on her feet, kissing her hands, I whispered that I esteemed lesbians as highly as any, mostly when they craved me, who was a pansexual debaucher. With a light frown of confusion, she leaned on my shoulder and led my hand to her fuzzy mound, giving her tongue on my lips, more vanquished than convinced. As thirsty as I was, I swore to myself that I would not fail her. In the gold bubble of the candle, we rolled over the overstuffed bed and I bid my honour at making her moan and tremble until the little flame died out.

Pr Achenbach heard my querying about abuse like I had lived through, foremost making sense of such a different outcome in somebody I had known along for my whole life without sensing any backfiring of whatever it was, or had been. I laid out the bittersweet tale of having found myself inspiring awe to ingenuous Gry whereas I had felt as candid as a lark, or a wolf? The Professor conduced me to recap my ordeal as I resented it in this moment, calmly searching the pages of the spiral notebook I figured held my vision of the life I had lived, (while trivially wondering where the other Lupins’ lives were stored).I did not feel like enacting once more that sad wet blanket in the cold dawn sand I relived through my worst bugbear terrors. He let me turn to my lost brother instead, venturing that unless I would throw myself into a vow to deface him of any pulses towards any other person, there would be no redemption through revenge for me, only tiny increments of my own personal morals, whatever the sour taste, the heartfelt endeavour in an unburdened fate. Wasn’t I soundly richer of my magnanimity towards this shy girl? Hadn’t I benefited of her own respite, so naive her preventions might have been, didn’t she give me the love she freely would?

The soul healer of my American Indian tales was throwing dices and tokens in the sand to read them out for me, letting me breathe out my little vagaries with the entomologist wonderment, or so it felt. He asked me what we had been ingesting on that fateful night, he knew I had then contracted a solid phobia against alcohol, that I could stow in my play box with relief, for the only merit he bestowed on alcohol was sexual release and so he wouldn’t seem I needed any more of that, but there might have been pills or nasty substances in the drinks, triggering the boy out of himself. Had I heard of crystal anything, or met? His attitude led to think he might have been on the hellish wartime murder drug as I would have been dozed out with a rape drug, which made him a not less despicable perpetrator, but would alleviate doubts of a birth flaw. or any inconsistency in our home or upbringing. In any event, all my personal screenings had showed a satisfactorily brilliant missy and he acknowledged that I was surely provided with beautiful liveliness in any sense. He concluded our meeting with the suggestion that I might like to accompany him to his cottage by the Lake, later in the season, when the new cygnets would venture out. I liked the idea and ran, all perked up.

Albeit the bumpy start, and being called a queer many a time, I liked the stables, and the horses comforted me. The tarred wood and saddlery smells, the raunchy piss on straw and fresh droppings scents shook rightfully the backbone of the city brat I was whatsoever. Julia had been raised her childhood in a fully geared Virginia ranch, shouldering the appaloosas and napping on their necks, carousing through the haystacks and straw bales with a host of cousins. I had another aftertaste of cousins, but I did not shun the sweaty crews cleaning their bridles and reins after their lessons. The monitor, Barry Aisling, would have harsh words for those who left dirty saddlery in the tack room, up to refusing to teach them their following lesson. I had cajoled Far into offering me the saddle Barry had recommended, I was light enough to be greeted by Yuri, it felt wholesome between my thighs. Barry had gently groped me, even my bare ass, but he did not open his breeches and remained playfully soft; he seized opportunities and I let him do; it stealthily earned me status in the horse club.

Ersard Lorgemont had kept a grudge on me from the shower assault where he had been one of the rebuffed partakers, but he visibly liked me more than a cheap lay, and I myself ogled his nervous butt, in a sidelong way. He eventually hit on me with distanced flattery, so he knew at once that he stood a thin chance at my pants. I happened to let him know I would wander in the TV salon of the boys’ building that one night. Sipowicz looked tense as I nonchalantly left the couch where hands crept under the belts already. As we had started incognito, he drew me to the service door down to the cellar, this one housed no laundry room; in a smell of mouldy wood, under feeble filament bulbs entangled in spiderwebs, a vaulted corridor lead to a dark boxroom visibly organised for orgies, with old carpets on crates and the floor. He squeezed me and lifted my knit trapèze dress. He smelled English lavender like a British officer I had brushed past one time, I was naked and scented tuberose like an expensive whore. He swiftly stripped himself, the lights went off; only a faint greyish ray glimmered down from a dusty window. He soon was in me as I was readily drooling on my lips . He humped me like I had expected, with style and thoughtfulness, reaching the bottom of my womb in finesse. I climaxed easily a few times before he fired his load while pressing on my rump with one hand. He stilled but did not slump down, he was kissing me impetuously, locking my arms in my back, stroking my body from the neck to the pubis, feeling each muscle.

He pushed me back on whatever I was laid on and grasped my feet to bite them, then opened up my thighs to penetrate my back snare, to-ing and fro-ing in both alleys to lubricate his shaft. Again, he drove like a gallant knight and I thought he was riding me like a pet mare, I helped him as exactly as I felt and exulted again and again, so when another unforeseen rod found my lips I was defenceless and I sucked dutifully. I did not possess myself anymore, I did not wonder how many they were, Ersard had splendidly won and I was endlessly elated at their will. They used and abused of me like a rag doll but did not hurt me, I was as available as he had made me, covered in spunk..

Later, when all the stooges had done revelling in me, he came on again, lastly, so as to show he mastered my panting frame, and he steered one last go inside and I found the pride to come again. He slowly wiped me with clean linen and carried me to a pantry where we played with a hose and warm water. He was washing my cunt, ass and head with grace and aplomb, I was feeling a carillon in my tummy. He brought my dress and my slippers and said he wished he could come again whole night, so I cuddled the sleeping thing just enough not to wake it and told Ersard what a bastard he was.

Ayla was preened as a dove on the car’s large back seat. She had won to come along and meet my Far for a day in town, she had volunteered for a paper about the many UN agencies, as a subdued mean to assist my shopping. She had no siblings, her family equation was even more contorted than those of most Lupins; she had not seen her small-time movie director father since her diaper times and her mother had difficult times in Rome. Her tuition payments ran unvaryingly late, albeit never Harmony told her any of that matter; her mother used it as argument against her father, in case she would fancy making him a hero. That bright morning, she wore an over-the-knee horse guard red waisted serge coat on a black corduroy dress with preppy white trimmings, white socks and cute black Mary Jane shoes; she showed me immaculate cotton white knickers as a tease, the dress was lined with poppy red satin. She smelled of almond and white flowers like a Tuscan orchard, she had a plan. In the role of the big sister, I had donned my black gabardine over a royal blue bulky shetland jumper; slim, back, well above-the-ankle jeans and black wing-tipped oxfords shoes with white cashmere socks. One of my black hats rested and glittered of many pinned-on charms, on my head. I had spread Scottish broom and lavender, although my pullover was haunted by many a scent, and Ayla liked it so much that she sniffed in my armpits like a puppy, whenas I tried to remain off the sight of the driver, an imperturbable, kind man.

We arrived early at the hotel; we signalled ourselves duly and went along the sunny side of luxury streets, mostly mockingly. In the winter, Ayla Naveen was paler, her dark chestnut eyes grew bigger, she had cut her thick black hair at shoulder length with a straight fringe; she was growing into a slender debutante, in other times she would already have been courted for good. Be it the spells of Gallo, her legs shaped into witty lianas, the back of her knees scooting around in a spirited upstroke. Her ankles had thinned and her feet stood steadily forthright, I craved her and she made me proud, we strolled arm in arm to the places I knew would suit her youth. I dropped casually that Far’s card would catch fire, and we looked for the tights and leggings we needed for the dancing, didn’t we?

When Far punctually loomed in the lounge, he still bore his formal stone mask, but as soon as he read our faces he beamed up. He enquired about our life and asked Ayla if we were happy living and studying at Saint Loup, to what she frankly laughed and hustled my shoulder. I sat near him to show some of our morning bargains; he smelled a radically timeless English fern, finely tuned with the casual misty blue tweed he wore, but a subtle afterglow of muguet evoked a woman he might have recently closely acquainted with; I realised I was fantasising and I savoured the superimposition in my deviant way. From a sleek case, he fetched a thick manilla envelope he handed to Ayla, softly telling her there were hundreds of agencies through which the UN worked at trying to implement the Chart’s principles, with unequal success; she would find food for thought in the pile; and he was holding her hand. He added that in his position, all he could have spinned to her would have been a lesser yarn than the finely redacted language of the official brochures. I regaled in their flirt, I could not call it else, in her consciously modest attire, with a thin trait of white lace around the collar and wrists of her night blue dress, she looked frail but game, like the fool-headed kid roe confronting a cunning wolf on its territory.

We had crayfish with skinned pomelo and saffron heavy cream, mesclun salad with sesame oil and lime dressing, almond and rose sherbet. Back to the sandy beige couches, I knew he would insensibly get to my feet, so I took off my shoes and nested up next to him, curious to see when he would loosely lay his hand on the woolly white doves. Ayla was aroused, she elaborated about a future, revealing her candid immaturity, yearning for some fatherly guidance in this impromptu bubble, irresistibly plotting to steal these mighty hands from me, which she sensed were recalling me to wonderland; she had unbuttoned her shoes, she could have haphazardly showed her panties, but Far’s phone buzzed, recreation was spent, some ordinance assistant was sending for him, he squeezed my foot and stood up, telling little Ayla that he would like to meet her again, wishing us a lot of finds. He was off, in his public stature again, and she came seat near me, saying she loved my dad..

She had been chilled, bedazzled by the steel composure of Far, but then left to her own family debacle, so we cuddled up daintily and I massaged her delicate feet, because little girls do what they want in deserted hotel lounges. She sniffed, I went to the bar and asked for tissues, I brought our coats, left our bags with the concierge who was all solicitous with us, and we headed on in the sun. We had a few hours to cheer up my pet lassie, I bought her fresh red sneakers, grey alpaca leg warmers and the white and red spandex leotards she wanted, preferably the sort unbuttoned at the crotch.

In the car’s backseat, cradled in the low hum of the expertly tuned machine,she had pulled away her knickers, she wanted mine and smelled it as she affected to watch the sunset on the lake; I stroked her warm nibble in the dark and sniffed at my fingers; she turned snappy eyes into mine. She said I was Far as a girl, and asked if I thought her nose was too long?

At dinner, Julia was captivated by Ayla’s wide eyed mood and shared ironic niggles on the Kettelær charm, implying some diplomatic concerns over my person. To the unawareness of the other diners, I conceded that the matter could be addressed on neutral ground, the closed swimming pool showers remaining accessible through a tampered security door. The cauliflower and walnut gratin revealed a nutmeg secret, the chocolate fondant dreamt away in a pool of custard, we cleaned the table and dashed away to the pool building in the chilly night. Ayla could not disappear later than ten but she was already naked in the dark begging for smooches. Hot water was generously available and Julia ordered that our hands would suffice instead of soap; indeed, I was intensely rubbed over by two fevered animals and peed all my love on Ayla Naveen before I overturned her on Julia’s body. Suddenly, we were rounded by four younger studs, already nude and conspicuous in any aspect; splashing each other, they bantered that they had planned to play with themselves but we might join in. They were playful and debonair enough to let them near, Ayla seized a pair of stiff antlers and, sitting on her ankles, sucked for good while I reached her crotch through running waters. No sooner did I feel starkly penetrated and churned in with breathtaking cheerfulness as Ayla was pissing in my mouth; then she turned to let one service her cunny while keeping the other in mouth. It was a tight knotted party and reached climax fast; Ayla revered twice in both slits of convenience. As we stretched out, spent, they congratulated each other’s unabashed bell-bangers and eventually fetched soap to ease into one another’s arse, quietly; standing up, I was granted a complimentary run. They were boundless and gracious, Julia kissed each of them tight and tried to get a good look of them. Ayla, ragged and rapt, had to run to her dorm and gave me a last frenzied tongue. Julia preferred my bed with its oversized comforter, we still had heaps of petals to share on the way to slumberland.

I must have maundered an overlong age in these stairs of grey decay, my raggedy nightshirt smells like an ashtray and some kind of critters run on my feet. I don’t recall if I’m climbing up or down, but the lower steps have collapsed in a twirl of splinters. The squirrels are climbing up the rocky walls, hissing and jeering. I hold firm the flag shaft and feel reassured while I run up the tower in a maddening bedlam. The squirrels are perched on the higher beams, watching me as they gnaw on lumps of coal, making burning grit bits that fall on me and in my eyes. I wave the night blue flag bearing the Kettelær gauntlet and the silver star, so as the squirrels run around the walls, causing a cloud of dust that blinds me. Now they lick my eyes and comb my hair, constantly mumbling yackety-yak and puffing. They claw open a tiny window in the wall and I run to it for breathing. The view on the lake is infinite and glittering although I can’t see the moon but only an astonishing star amidst the galaxies. Holding the staff with both hands, it’s easy to float as a flag, although I do not feel any wind. I cannot read if my pursuers rejoice or fear when they flutter up with their tiny paws. The lake is ridden with pearly strands like twirled paraphs and the swans parade, like vaudeville soldiers, for an audience of suit politicians in gilded chairs on the quay. Showing the public my bare ass, I throw my legs up to ride the flagstick and I feel it along my cunt like a dressage curtain; so now I ride at will and hover on the carnival. Crystal balls like frost bubbles are thrown around me and explode in rainbow spirals, in a fury of glockenspiel glissandi like lemonade beads in the Geneva giant waterjet. The furry league of Tudor City watches from the top of the Palace Of Nations throwing confetti high up as I stumble there in a discordant harp streak and a hailstorm of icicles shoo them away down the facades in funny disarray. I pickup my flag which is a glorious bomber jacket now but I have nothing else to wear, to the lustful eyes of the platoon in white gear which marches along the cornice and boards a shiny metal airplane that hisses and tailspins over the lake causing shimmers through the starry skies. As I run down thickly carpeted stairs, I try not to trample on herds of small, gentle, grey tailed animals which talk to me in radio fuzzy tongues like a boat transmitter left unanswered. In a meeting room I rip off the silk of a lampshade to wear it as a dress under my heraldic jacket, the restless little crowds like it so I boogie some steps for them when I suddenly notice a wall poster of a portrait of Ayla with a ridiculously long nose, heavily staring at the watcher; when I turn away, I see the reflection of the lovely face and the nose is right, I am not sure she blinked. A brigade of butlers in fir- green spencers rush in pushing some sort of chests on wheels from what they fetch tablecloths and linens to dress up all pieces of furniture. I run to a small bone-laid cupboard and retrieve my hat. Elegant couples in timeless evening fashion meander in the room and I am not sure my backside is decent so I walk along the walls, followed by a discreet army of hairy hoarders. A loud bell, not unlike one heard at Klampenborg station, has everyone turn to the windows behind which a huge train brakes with an endless shriek. I feel a hand in my bum crack but I do not dare turning back. Two tall black intricate silhouettes slide out of the train and face the window, pointing at me with some sort of thorny sceptre topped with a glowing blue shard; the society murmurs like a hornet hive and looks down on me. I can see the women are nude in their satin sheath dresses, their pubic hair shows through the silk.The tail wagging troops are lifting the linens under a side table and call me in. I crouch and follow them as the voices raise; somebody fingers my arse in a familiar way. It is a tiny theatre entrance, scarlet red with gold trimmings, a gilded crab waits at the booth, clipping stamps and arranging them on a board as a portrait of Ayla with her nose a tad too sizeable in my view. I’m about to tell the busy crustacean but it clicks its pincers to my nose in a manner to shut me off. Its eyes are set on mobile stalks with long black lashes, they stare beyond me as the elaborate creature deploys its many pointed legs into a back move then collapses in a fast moving pie-shaped object and disappears. Followed by what I suppose must be an impressive animal, I roll down a sloping corridor padded in velvet. I overturn myself and open wide my thighs for Julia.

We went skiing in Saas-Fée, except for a few who joined their parents. It was a time for ornithological faces because of the goggles, Ayla was an owl-monkey with a neat little beak and smelled of treacle dew once peeled off her down jacket and Swiss undies after a day on the slopes. The pine clad chalet was big enough for sixtyish Lupines but we piled up as eighty on top of each other, which was great for shenanigans, and moreover adults dwelt in a more logeable annexe. The cook was delivering loads of melted cheeses, potatoes and motherly soft large loaves of bread, smoked and dried meats for those who ate that, gherkins and pickles for me. Heavenly treasures of creamy chocolate and nuts would have stuffed us like piglets were it not the spending of life zest, down the icy valleys.

Evenings got steamy, MTV garish manner, in the smell of wet wool and feverish intimacies. Bon Jovi received a storm of rolled socks so it left a harvest of available toes for a lewd reaper such as I. Ayla was entwined with Poul when Avril Lavigne bared her precious little fangs, Julia cuddled with the lesbian medusae as Michelle Branch danced bare feet too. Pierre Yves and many others slept already. I remembered I had spent drifting evenings with Elsie under the toxic spell of the American MTV , shunning my brother’s watch in the family lounge whenas he might as well have peeped in silence. When I dozed out on gaudy pop milled as cheap ice cream, I chose to plug my Ipod into my head with my own chill-out playlist and go nest deep in my bunk.

Sliding down the  Valleys in the bracing altitude Swiss air might have lulled me out and away more than my usual ability to flee the hard matter reality of things. The bed linens smelled of eternal snows, my eyelids rested like the new moon on a cloud. I had been dreaming across the universe along with flights of favrile effusions like I did when my plexus radiated of peace. Like shattered glass thrashing through spacetime, flurries of black shards spiralled over my falling body like a heist of famished crows on a cadaver and pecked at my arsehole. It hurt sharply and then, like lastly breathing out of drowning, I figured something was trying to rape me dry and I shouted at the top of my lungs and it stopped, the lights were switched, it was two in the morning. From the upper bunk, Julia had seen a shadow running, Ayla was sound asleep. Julia climbed up and cuddled me as I sobbed in rage, she eventually kissed all the way down to the very wound, then shushed me into another dephased dream, grey sands in my mouth and blood red clouds over the lead sea.

I walked into the dining room all dressed and ready for the day, walked to the large window and faced the busy tables where breakfast was beating full.I shouted hellish til everybody froze and stared. Steel-driven angry, I stomped that I was no wispy lass and they all knew well, but some heck of a swine had tried to rape me in my sleep and I would not rest on that. It was not game at all. I would camp in my bed and wait for the culprit to apologise at my feet. Girls exclaimed spite, some lowered their eyes, one threw a spoon across the table. I spit the details and shouted it had hurt and who had done that was a desperate selfish ignorant thug, then I went back before he could see me cry.

Julia took over the matter, in no time she brought Petrus Wald to my bedside, defeated and blushing. He was one year ahead of me, with a childish German poster boy face, blue eyes and blond curly hair and smelled of toothpaste; I did not have to say anything, he mumbled excuses and said he had been totally smitten by me but I would never pay attention, I was so fucking New York proud with my VIP cars and pansexual snobbery. He blabbed up for twenty minutes and I felt the busses wouldn’t leave with the rest of the crowds if the affair wasn’t settled there. I stood up and asked if he would agree to meet Pr Achenbach with me when we would roll back down. He agreed with relief as I told him I would then further keep silent about what he had done, smirking he was a dick because he could very well have obtained what he had botched like a retard, but he would foreseeably never appreciate. Tea had cooled out but I composed myself and slip into my ski shoes then hobbled to the bus, followed by one who already wore his ski-mask and goggles.

In the bus, Julia invited me next to her, we reviewed the incident and I decided to rest on the arrangement, letting Petrus get away once with this kind of deranged pulsion. Since I shouted, I owed Harmony an explanation in regard of her responsibilities; I would also inquire of Pr Achenbach’s advice, because I had no title or merit to summon him to rule wisdom in the case. The boor was poisoning the delicate Lupin trifle. To defuse the mine, we decided to corner Petrus in broad daylight a few times, so as to show our comrades the shame was not beyond student’s reach, if Petrus responded wisely. Also to let him reckon he would be under watch from an informal web of trusted partners. Because he was pleasurably built, we would teach him the principles of free commerce, would it start with a mingle-all in a dark place to let him feel the different manners of sodomy.

Julia never hid her mane from the sun rays, because it soon bleached in a glorious halo and gave her a wild allure; under my own trophies studied cap, after landing at 3000 m, my own business was to find somewhere to pee, which I eventually did in the men’s toilets, standing; Petrus saw me, but after all was he so sure of what I was? The real explanation was in the lowering of two zippers and an elastic band, looking at the urinal.

My team was of medium strength, twelve tourists wearing a silver wolf head badge on a rainbow ribbon that made me proud, allowing our monitor to count us, Ayla, Poul, Kerny, the three jellyfish graces, Gry being easily rather keen of me, now, as well as three or four of those I had not yet considered, bitch of me. Julia belonged to the fast elite and boasted a black strip around her neck. I would not have felt like breaking a leg, we had seen the stretcher express slide down full speed a few times. As a matter of fact I never trusted my body to the risk, just as I stopped volley-ball a the first sprain. I made my body in the swimming pool. And, by the way, sliding safe.

Back on the lakeshore, I felt compelled to spill the icicles to Harmony about Petrus’ attempt and assault. She had inevitably known about my haranguing amidst the pancakes and demonstrated more concern than it would seem; however she asked me, in her den, to write down my complaint; she would summon Petrus and demand his written report and apologies, then talks with Pr Achenbach. Being understood that her alone was responsible for what she had happened to know. She promised me there would be a full confrontation of us three in her office to let me agree or not on the satisfactory resolution of my grievance, regardless of the indisputable legal boundings.

Harmony was a beautiful woman, still very elegant in a pair of 501 jeans. She made tea and sat with me in the salon part of her office. She described how I , Sarah, attracted sexually a sizeable share of my environnement, with my uncommon features and beauty, my footloose appearance and laid-back communication. There I collapsed in the armchair, wondering if she was already hitting so hard on me. She retorted that my ungrudging surprise would be one of my best spells; but I should better beware of the indefatigable Cerberus out there, unforeseeable and unconscionable, hungry for submitting whatever its ego might see fit; thus I should as well prepare for a long harrowing fight alongside a rewarding fine life. She acknowledged that all my attitudes and responses in the school’s realm were as benefiting as those of a Julia Grant, whose charisma and forthrightness were a beacon of the best fulfilment enviable. She also praised my unfettered openness towards some unwonted cases and diverse singularities the school greeted with the wholehearted support of a distinctive patronage of educated parents. She deliberately gambled on the self adjusting play among intellectually privileged offsprings to bring generations at the required college level, spared of too hefty a load of complexes and inhibitions; insensibly, Pr Achenbach from his tower top kneaded fussy souls into civilised brains with all the desirable animal extensions at their rightful balance.

Harmony stood required to forward my paper to Far, and she urged me to visit him and explain the concern, since I did not wish to formally accuse Petrus and cause his eviction. The boy had overstepped my bodily and moral integrity because of gross ignorance of what it meant, that was a patent failure of the school’s awareness regarding one student. Now it was dawning on me, considering how he felt, that I might teach him the lesson he had been lacking.

Far came over early that day and I was proud as a swan when he asked for some tea with me in the restaurant; the crowd had cleared but the buzz went lower, parents’ visits were uncommon. Ayla, who had antennas, rushed up and kissed Far on both cheeks for his true enjoyment, then he stood up to hold Julia’s hand with a lot of amusement in his eyes. He wore tweed and smelled like Robert Redford, some older boys resented a dominant adult for breakfast, but I played the prestige in my hand. Soon Far went to meet Harmony in her office while I dressed like I went on a date, layering on a white tee, a night blue Liberty shirt scattered with myosotis, a pinstripe vest and my gabardine coat, over slim black corduroy pants one size too short, white cashmere socks in black penny loafers; my hat had earned some more mountain badges. Together we drove alongside the lake, he enfolded my shoulders and questioned softly about the trouble. I spitted the whole sequence in one rational stance and also the decent part of my conclusive action. Far guessed that someone was in for a rough time, but as always gave his blessing, with a kiss on my forehead. There was neroli, and again the subtle ghost of a rose, in his neck.

The first floor dining room was half empty as we sat by an arched window on the misty lake; the long tablecloth let me play our favorite deviltry with my feet away from peeping eyes. We had Brittany scallops fainted in golden butter, frilled with chervil on polenta couches. Far drank fendant, I dared ask for some green tea and was rightfully rewarded; the day reached perfection when molehills of marron mousse under slopes of vanilla cream appeared in generous vessels of dawn porcelain. Far had stolen away my socks and I was just a little girl. We roamed Denmark as if it was my dreams. He had still heavy burdens in the family’s shady repositories. For once it was time to tell about his own father, who had died a lonely death contemplating our grey sea. Far would let me learn the shame from which himself had had to emerge from and probably why he reset to America, but then it was too early for me to comprehend, too boring to cope with, and eventually had been swept off to the Baltic sea. I wanted to go back to our old house, he said it had been redone in the same colours and nothing had been removed; he had lent it a few times to cousins, at the thought of whom I felt shut away for a moment, like a rag in the cold sand. My mind drifted to Bornholm and Christiansø on the Admiral’s charts.

Grand Far had been someone important in the Realm of Denmark before the last invasion; I had seen black uniforms and embroideries of gold and silver, all enshrouded in camphor closets within the smell of unavowed shame. He never spoke when I was brought to wearisome family gatherings in the antique townhouse from which I could see the green roofs of Rosenborg Castle. Now, relaxed in the velvet armchair, benumbed by seraphic food and the immemorial practice on my dreamy toes, I was hearing the low humdrone of bells from the lake’s depths and gazed at silver dragons, in the afternoon haze, chasing a lonely boat sailing home.

Far was sipping Armagnac from a huge balloon glass and I could smell its devilish garlands it unwound from across the table, they had brought more hot water to my tea leaves and I had already gone twice barefoot to the powder room with a sense of luxury. He spoke in a very soft confidential tone, musing on the pride I gave him. He said that Mor and him had met in wild times, when a lass would have remained silent about assault and rape because she would have been blamed and shamed as it was still the case in most of the countries he had to account with. My mother had fought all through her college years, vindicating the rights of candid preppy girls preyed upon by campus bullies. She was not content with the current situation. She had resented that Martin needed further guidance in his lifestyle, so she coached him, never too far from where he tried to grow up. His deeds had derailed a cool marriage as a whole, now Far and Mor sought counselling on their guilt.

I told of Pr Achenbach and the clues he offered me, the chances of solution in my own right; and the genuine forthrightness of Julia and her posse, the naive trust of Ayla a a few others, Saint Loup was up to whatever secret hunch had led Far to confide in it as a shelter for his cracked little girl. I missed Mor, though, I had lost that other steady beacon, even if she had long became distant, disappointed, I guessed, that I would grow up so much like Far, my colours, my ways. Far, who was still toying with my warm feet, explained once more how it had became; I had suffered a difficult birth, Mor had been disoriented and separated, merely consenting breastfeeding me with some pain; he had then volunteered a full year to my devotion, lulling me as no one could, holding my miniscule feet as magic. Hence the ritual.

Not long after we had repatriated our souls, and spring was looming, the exhilarating bloom of the first prunus and the vermilion kisses of the early bush outside the pool made a mixed troupe of early birds buoyantly busy. In bed, I cooked up with Julia my plot regarding the redemption, or not, of Petrus the rogue. She vividly approved but because it was rather evil she forced me down on her and I obeyed among an abundance of phosphorescent roses in her musky blond scallywag in advance punishment.

Had Petrus been a stark-jawed, thick-browed, potato-nosed brute that he would have packed away along with my grudge; but he was only one of those I would have invited to the box-woods or, seasonably, the boiler room at the pool. So I needed not many rehearsals to compose a truce offering face, calling for an “explanatory” secret meeting in my room. All readied, smelling of Craven gardenia, barefoot and draped in a knit black-and-white striped hostess gown to the ankles, I waited for him to scratch at my door. I had lit three candles, and one in the bathroom in case, so he walked in on eggs, searching for my eyes that shunned his. He wore a loose plaid shirt over his tee-shirt, baggy jeans and casual sneakers, he smelled fern and briar like I would forget my keys in a Dartmoor night. I pulled him by a sleeve towards the cushion on the carpet by my tidied bed and then I played my murder scene, ordering him to kneel down. I had a bundle of those straps you use in the garden, or in television; as cold-blooded as he was dazed, I tied his hands together and his feet. Now I whispered he would have what he had attempted to steal, but he would comply to my needs, first. Before he could think of calling or whatever, I was nude before him, opening my thighs and ordering him to lick up my alleyway as thoroughly as a Mövenpick Vanilla Dream.He complied, not so convincingly but willingly, and I held his blond head down when Julia reached for his pants from the back, muttering that he would show us his evildoer. As she lowered his briefs, she disentangled an elegant jester and brought it to spitting crisis much too soon, but with no loosening in the young branch. Since he was well busy, I lectured him on the mutuality of pleasures and the benefits one would earn at offering as well as reaping in synchronicity with the desired chosen other. Julia had fetched a dildo and pressed it, dry, where the bugger had done it to me, just enough nastily to let Petrus anticipate what would be about to begin in his own butt. After I tongued his pretty beardless mouth, I pursued that this very way of doing however was not ineluctably wrong, given necessary thought and care. Julia had been applying vaseline to his nervous hole with such dexterity that he was beginning to doubt his self-awareness; so when she pushed kindly the dildo in as she would have in my silly arse, he stood in awe but let be fucked and she pressed the vibrator button.

He received the full anal degree, which is anything but demanding for a rightful bred stud, in our days. He enjoyed eventually what he had firstly botched and almost torn and after we exhausted all his bodily might, he cried out of his own stupidity, at the midst of a small capsized bed with two vindicated little whores. We furthered the agreed plan and I let Harmony read my behaviour towards Peter as auspicious. And it was Pr Achenbach’s routine, anyway, to thread through our tangles of unleashed desires and let us mend our nacreous little souls with our scattered words.

Poul wanted to dance in our team, he was enthralled by Ayla’s little bum and she fanned his embers like a smith fairy, only to retell me the delicacies of the tortures she crafted; as long as she shared unrestrained debauchery with me, Poul could well earn his crumbs at my window ledge. Instead, I engineered a new set of three between him, Petrus who very often made eyes at me, dawdling around the dance floor in black tights and fuzzy shirts until I might squeeze him into the broom closet, and a Philou Pachon, black haired, square cut, round obsidian eyes outlined with rich lashes in a rosy clear complexion, to compose any trio they fancied among the ongoing charivari, three months before the representation.I improvised a bit of coaching, before Merine interested eyes, I got them to touch each other, clutching arms and shoulders in doodle moves, sensing they would crave for each others in any order, sooner than later; in the square we formed it smelled of blue hyacinths and eventually Petrus rubbed his nose on my sweaty plexus. I spelled out the rules of the game and asked them to design their costumes along with the little hands in Melanie’s realm. They watched the current practice, whispering into each other’s ears till the trio caught on together.

The music was shaping up into twenty minutes, plus three hip-hop breaks, during which the main troupe would would cheer in the shade; musicians and nerds had congregated and raved evocative scarfs along a continuum like a slightly syncopated gamelan or a prayer mill. We gradually peopled a set something between the Amerindian nomadic camp and the full fledged Dada tavern. My cluster and me had first elaborated protruding asymmetrical fins of sorts, beakheads and protuberances which mired our attempts to craft our symbiotic moves; we slimmed the silhouettes, Pierre-Yves kept some swerved aureole across his head, Ayla swung two antennas with golden eyes at their tips and I could deploy silver blue wings under my arms. Our leotards were parted in two halves of opposite colours, as for the tights, one leg as ornate as an old clock, the other striped or spiralled like a Venetian mooring pole.

A sweet game flourished to the recurrent sound of portable players around the school’s floors and lawns, sometimes dedicated to dance only. Poul and his trio, who would be clad in satin scales of deep forest hues of green and blue, one of Melanie’s strikes of inspiration, practiced along with us, inasmuch as Ayla kept from Poul’s tights for a minute, leading me to try a pas de deux with Philou and her peachy modest bosom, whenas I observed with gratitude that Petrus would gladly share arms with a gentle French guardsman. Only Julia was missing, then, and she more often sensed it and ferreted out our lewd little troupe, accompanied or not. She too was kind of proud with Petrus, or what had become of him; and he was quite a gentlemanly libertine, now, wooed from all sides, as it might.

There was a rough place at the far end of the garden, an old barn that the hip hop crews had emptied of its jumble and the school had floored safely for the kool dancers’ joints and skulls. Gay was not praised in the vicinity, for boys anyway, because they all thought that dykes prefer cock, don’t they? They wore falling baggies and white boxers, they liked easy sluts like me, behind the sound system or in the open night. The dance sets were impressive, obsessively rehearsed and crazily fast, I did not last more than an hour in the torment, at a time.

At this period, Ayla was using my laptop for mails and chats, I came to the conclusion that her mother could not afford her one. As I was summoned to execute a damn service pack that would leave me stupid in front of a blue screen, I surrendered to Fergus’ funny fetish once more while he tuned the operation in no time, before baring my butt from his own flannel and shagged me just like I had foreseen. I asked him to find and update a good machine for my little gal, not letting her know that I was paying. He wondered if I would let her play with him, in the opportunity of a palatable deal, as to what I let him know that I would let her feel his snug pyjamas only if she pleased. He laughed and jostled me again on his messed up bed. A week later, Ayla told me in confidence that she had been chatted up by Fergus who said he could provide her with a computer if she played funny games with him; he wanted her to come to his room in boys’ briefs and tank tops, as a start, if she would. I laughed on her satin belly and told some of my trade with Fergus, so she began to like the naughty plot but asked me to step in and help her, at crunch time. Accordingly, I stood guard by Fergus’ door in due time and heard faint casual dialogue, I thought I would sneak in if the talking ceased; I did not know when they had started, she would soon be missing at her dorm. When the exchanges became shorter, I opened the door and saw my papoose in white boy’s underwear, her hair tucked in a red cap, smooching Fergus who foraged inside the jokey brief, in a quiet manner and all in front of a computer laid on a chair; I crept on tiptoes to the bed and reached for the nerd’s big hook, gently wanking him before he knew what happened. Ayla felt what she had been expecting and grasped his head stronger, as I whispered that I had hoped to borrow one of his pyjamas. He was panting and drooling already, together they smelled Zanzibar in the rain, he spurted on her thighs quite a long sob and collapsed. I throated his real joystick that wouldn’t fail while Ayla threw off the shorts and readied to ride, for good measure; I ripped his jeans off and guided him into the puny vale of the dancing little tart that I embraced when I gave him my own to munch on. He was some hearty nerd and gave her another robust round she liked down to her toes.

All quivers and coos, Ayla pranced about when she grasped that the thin blinking contraption was hers to keep and use when her name appeared on the welcome screen at a new restart Fergus commanded; but he inadvertently dropped that I was the one to thank, I suppose he did not wish to account for an unlikely generosity on his own, she hurtled over me, biting my bosom and crying warm streams till numbness; i licked her eyes with delight and played down the windfall, explaining that Fergus knew how to fetch second-hand bargains and refit them, but she was now the rightful and registered owner, it was his trick to knock down little birds like her, she needed not tell anyone, or any vague tale would do. He was totally lavished with lust at the sight of his new sweet regular, who would undoubtedly ask again to visit his room in boy’s jokey briefs, software was capricious, still is.

On midsummer night, or solstice if one will, an attendance of three hundreds was expected, including all the Lupines. A large stage had been bolted up and draped in black fabric, to be used first by the ballet rats in second skin bodysuits and prosthetic satin chaussons, where feet might have livened up their tiny cabrioles, a choir in black tees who did Paul Simon, Elton John and Queen, then us because we were the main show, and ending in rock and klang with that desirable drummer Gahr Syspel, who never dared beat my sleazy fanny, when I might give it away, even in the box room, to propel some rather effective funk into the pagan masses, along with two other percussionists and the rest of Lupine musicians.

Music for our nameless pantomime was to be delivered by an acousmonium of five, two girls and three boys, facing the audience before the stage, like a proper orchestra but only eagerly reading on their screens; they had been joined by Ripon Ortiz, a fully electromagnetic guitarist with shimmering long black hair and an entrancing queer allure I swore I would topple somehow as I felt the right kind of vice in his or her unfurled solos; Sara Berman, a blonde saxophonist had wished to blend in with dreamy paraphes and loops and it worked. for the staccato intermèdes, Gahr stood low, for now, but in the final ball he would thunder onstage..

On the glory day, cars had invaded the domain, shrinking it as a suburban joint on a Friday night, Far did not wear a tie and was close shaved; Ayla had slept a long night and was radiant, kissing him like her own; Julia gave her best Bacall impersonation, then we all went for the long dress-up and touch-up before the late afternoon performance. Helping Julia fit the details I teased her about not seeing the black-ops skulls, so she rubbed my buds and said she was there incognito only to rape me. In the hall, the lights dimmed out, except on the orchestra, and the leader spread his arms to ask for silence, after the corps de ballet had rejoined their guests or sit on the floor at front row.

First, a slow rumble of intertwined blankets of toxic harmonies unwound from the clean and powerful system without machine noise or hum; the two towers of speakers had until then played the nutcracker bits in all discretion, but now revealed a cosmic depth from the high resolution digital streams, insensibly strewn with strangely familiar fragments like written shards of torn letters. In another tone of air the high-strung guitar strangled by Ripon’s feverish hands playing away for his own life, oversowed by the ultimate analogue breath of Sara’s alto golden dragon that she could lead to the ledge of a dark abyss and let die. Each according to a deliberate syncrasy, our groups appeared from the sides, at random, while a great triangular golden sail was stretched across stage; a duet of wavering half harlequins of yellow and blue pushed a truncated column at the top of which a sea-blue balloon began to inflate up. to monumental proportion at the end of the show; a red pyramid higher than us moved on its own diagonally to the left, opposite to the sphere. Clouds of harmonious tolls, frilled with jingling crystals pushed us to life in unpredictable equations, duly rehearsed however. Ayla, Pierre-Yves and me had monkeyed some of Charlie Chaplin’s gesticulations, only to acknowledge how delicate they were, and the crafty little elf could bend down so suddenly and present me with her tiny malignant arse at any time.

As all-over trainer of our prized limbs and joints, Gallo Fuks had, in a manner of speaking, handmade our well balanced body frames and moves, backbones stood like scions in the soundstream as we solved our playful algebra. Merline Berce, sort of à contrario dancing director, had read through our hunches and tipped us on how to render the moves larger, emphasise our figures in group or solo, offering professional touches to our idiosyncratic whims. She marvelled at the Cossack-boogaloo beat-through vignettes on fire stomp swing; some errant Zaporozhian fury had met Kaduna frenzy heels-over-head, not the battle savvy tough animals but the spring-up sexy fauna with endless stamina I had sometimes mingled with in the laundry rooms; to whip them along, Gahr beat ahead of tempo in breathtaking alchemy, only to stop briskly at our echo in the wondercloud, shuffled and spinned.

The aim of the parade argument was to grow in Brownian agitation, then freeze the whole except some who executed their small routines, then blended again in the jumble and crash up three times at drum rolls to eventually cheer at the barbaric herds in their most erotic rumpus. At the lights console, Alfa Berlinski had synchronised the search lights on the score and we all hoped that we would eventually jump in the right spot, counting that otherwise a chaos might be interpreted as another abstract will, by a most complacent audience.

Eliah Spung built the whole stage, the mobile column in which an helium bottle would fill the blue balloon, and the red pyramid, more pointed than that of Giza. He provided cut out wooden words in the overall shape of clouds bearing totem words like peace, love, freedom, tolerance, and a big one Harmony, whatever blush she might beam, I was proud of my asking for this one. the Nuclear disarmament, the feminine and masculine symbols, the testosterone, the oestrogen and the ocytocine formula and diverse planets, all sculpted in the round and gilded. The large sail was only a painted old latin traditional sail of Lake Geneva which dried in a nice curve and was suspended upside down. The rest of the set was as black as absence, to set out our snazzy characters.

Melanie Rose and her hawthorn brigade, all of whom ambitioned Saint Martin’s College Of Arts And Design, had excelled at all folds of creation, elaborating eleven exercises in high style I still wonder at, given the mere size of the institution. Tudor had fanned the sparks, fed the documentation, taught many flimsy phalanges how to hold the right pencil and give out just what one had glimpsed all the more easily that it would be worn in parade; some even learned to sharpen a lead with a knife. The good ladies who cared for our linens, and never knew what might occur upon the ironing tables at night, patiently schooled those who wished in the magics of the thimble and needle, overhand sewing the patches upon the standing mannequin, and taming the Singer beast, of which they kept some orgasm-inducing mechanical ancestors for beginners. A few boys, enthused in the sweet smelling riffraff, bloomed unfettered among the body-patting fairies and the stuffs sculptors, openly queer as I like.. Melanie knew how to order truckloads of fabric rolls from the finest Milan factories where she had acquaintances, the attic above her shop was an inspiring realm, be it even for cornering some cute apprentice. Other than our trio in modernist coloured, revisited renaissance tight ass and doublet attire with surprise iridescent wings, Melanie’s bosquet of busy bees had rippled the rumps of the three dawn mermaids; overgrown Poul’s team of lianas with chintz silver-lined leaves under which I knew how to furbish their dodging puppets even onstage; dolled up Julia’s gang of Zuni wizards in bold Kachina style graphics; scattered multicoloured dots over half black half gold body suits; star sprinkled moonlight blue velvet leotards for Ayla’s dorm angels with silver top hats; let nude almost under floating embroidered tulle layers a triade of dainty fawns under the spell of the longish Leonie whose feet I ogled like prey; tailored from prints collage patchworks tramp oversized suits for a team of volleyball gazelles whom I very much regretted for the showering time; adjusted a folly of lapels in green and pink wild silk on queer knights of the box-room I had dizzily tried on; unmistakably dressed up the squad of buttercup yellow boys, of whom one was a buzzing mimosa girl of Kerny’s room memory’s, who cleaved together through the stage as a distraught Apollo’s team of horses, on screams of Sara Berman’s saxophone; finally, armoured some Chirico ghosts with satin padded baroque escutcheons over vermilion and emerald quartered leotards and contrasted slippers.

It went astoundingly fast, we did all our little mimes in time, the musicians transcended space gracefully and none of us fell down. On the set it smelled like the enchantment dell, I had loved all of them under one star or another, we paraded a Panic ritual, as opposed to the archaic undercurrent, still wired among even safeguarded crews like us, like the mighty Rhône through the Lake, and which made the stables’ cloakrooms repelling or appealing according to the moment’s whim in my spinal chord.

Backstage was a grand debauchery if there ever was one, not that anyone actually fucked any trippy soul undressing from the fiery minutes in the sweat of the sublime, as we could have revelled in the moist cellars, even Gry would have loosened her guard for a genteel enough musketeer. Kerny was beaming and remained quite exposed in thin white tights; our oafish cavaliers themselves behaved finally in front of so much intimate cool, but we gave ourselves three such tender strokes that they could not have intertwined. The queer gang was kind of gently coming out.

Far was overjoyed when we joined in the hall where most people danced to pop honestly sung by choir members or appetising crooners. He was keeping me embraced in his Jermyn street scent of mythological briars and lavender, I frowned my nose under his arm. I noticed that Ayla had followed me, like on that day she had no one to turn to,I felt a pinch in my plexus and so, grabbing her in my wings, asked Far to take us somewhere for dinner. I touched her abundantly enough to chase any self-consciousness, she wore the poppy red dress and tiny ballerines, she had stolen a whiff of freesia, she felt like fuck. The night was thin, like the golden crescent that followed the suns after it had finished powdering the Mont Blanc, the terrace where we sat had warmed all day and hovered upon the rich velvety train bordered with glittery pins, I gave him my feet and she cuddled at my side, they served us crushed peach granita, his with champagne in it. I wore a dark blue Liberty shirt-dress sprinkled with turquoise feathers it was so light that she touched me in the shades when Far mused at the skies, calling our attention on wandering satellites. Over a far flown turbot infatuated in hollandaise sauce, she effectively hit on him like a six years old and he cracked for her candid black eyes, she owned both of us. At Xmas time she would disappear, her stuff would be sent for and Harmony could not tell me where she had gone, she had not been told. I feared money was the cause and grew guilt thinking of her lively ways and my lighthearted thoughts with her. Across the internet her name does not exist. That night we had nursed a melting orgeat sherbet, I still feel her incredibly artful hand along my thigh, as my father’s hands massaged me out into oblivion.

Julia gathered through her own network that Ayla’s tuition fees had been long overdue but that the school had not even thought to expel her, not even told her anything. I was overwhelmed and went crying on Harmony’s bosom, whom tried to enlighten me a tad on the little clockwork of Switzerland versus the whole harsh world. I went up to Pr Achenbach and begged for guidance, I cried nights in Julia’s arms, wasted myself out in the stables’ toilets, giving head to the coarser louts and coming back with a swollen pussy.

One day, Ayla’s bracelet disappeared too without me knowing, and I carefully avoided to be caught in another one. I fell for other younglings of all kinds, Julia never failed me until she went away to some serious prep school because she reckoned that she wanted to join one of the top colleges; she later went to Harvard but kept as licentious as I had known her in our correspondance, she is a chosen sister.

Albeit being utterly mad about my little butt, Tudor understood well my disarray when Ayla took off. He had witnessed how she had totally bewitched me and it had aroused him infernally too. He remained a fair lover and knew how to fulfil my needs, and he enjoyed my debaucheries and whims with all genders. He was a stealth companion, only we could not advertise our trade. At full moon, Gry would sneak into my bed; if I was in it she would cuddle my body like a wisteria in the breeze; if I wasn’t she would wait and reap me before I would wash, literally inebriated into my sex smells and enthralled of whatever shame I still fostered about being a slut; she would then give me a kitten toilet, and I fell into sleep through that pervert scent of licked skin as she killed me out again.

Kerny became an earnest accomplice, introducing me to various conquests as queer as they were kindly scented and daintily mannered. In his tasty lair, under the auspicious eyes of Oscar Wilde on an authentic photograph hand dedicated “To E.M. of Brighton winds”, he staged sophisticated playlets where his guests lost their attires one by one in a raving narrative; I often played a naval attaché if I had wore pants, or an incognito royal courtesan if I had on a dress, or a nightshirt, fanciful title holders characters had a endless variety of urges to unleash from their suave groins. Kerny often embodied the wily Madame touting her timid catch to the depraved customer, punctuating her licentious advert with indecent exposures of the subdued subject’s body; I would wet myself in both attitudes and repay Kerny whatever lewd price he asked. Occasionally, Elme would bargain for my arse with enthusiasm or even ordered me tied on the bed in various poses before splashing my butt cheeks in her odd way; she had passionately craved Ayla’s narrow hips, and spent hours making her exult; she cried when it became patent that we would never see her again roll her gait.

Growing up in a unique safe haven under Far’s grand supervision and providence, I gathered grades good enough for whatever fate I would envision; not ruling out staying forever among the gracious Lupins and frolicking in the boxwoods. Although I resented the wealth of humanities that were taught me, and the solid structures in five tongues, I shunned steadily any lead to whatever ambitious career like I saw some of my best lovers covet.

Tudor lived in a cottage on school’s grounds, judiciously sheltered behind a bosket of evergreens, like those of Harmony, Edna Russell and others; it meant I had different ways to his door and knew where to find the key. It had been deftly settled that, if I happened to overhear any interesting situation, I would only let myself peek and enjoy. In any case he still desired me and I would undress any time he wished, but also I needed the copious library he was collecting from all the online book sellers, on art, crafts and erotica; after he wrote me a very serious letter by which he engaged in not publicising any, he took many photos of me indecently reading his books all over his den. It was there that grew the idea of living my artist’s life in Paris, like Lee Miller, Meret Oppenheim or Valentine Hugo, like a heroin in an Anaïs Nin erotic fantasy, like O’s lovers minus the whip I do not worship so much. New York was still mine for holidays but had become unbreathable for artists, London was a boozy banker’s green carpet, including the Saatchi freak show spawned in the wake of the new National Lottery, mind you. Berlin could have been easy but history weighed harshly on souls there; a million STASI confidants still haunting Frankfurter Alley; a strain of toxic waste creeping up many beautiful veins.

Paris was still attractive, albeit expensive, but I had been born easy enough for it. Between devourations of my navel or my foolberries, Tudor coached me all he could towards the Beaux-Arts and Far approved, too, he would have gladly kept me around Geneva for a cool sensuous course of life, I could have patronised the posh hostess’ bars and polish my vices like expensive jewels without my father hinting the merest reproach, but I fostered other premonitions.