It has been a misty morning, after the velvety night at Camille’s with elfin Fanny who gently roots into the luxury of the stately apartment and the depth of the plush beddings, I rode with her to her concealed school where she catches up, according to Camille’s and Hugo’s advice approved by the Powers That Be, with another curriculum than being raised a whore, and Camille knows all the codes and shortcuts firsthand. A service car is provided to the still overprotected high-risk witness on her way to and from, daily.
A tad drowsy but elated, I bring home fresh baked croissants in their butter-soaked paper bag, unshoe, undress and brew tea in the household chimera pot, before stealthily sneak up to our grand bed still deep into a hushed warmth in the familiar scent of geranium-orange as someone has showered before bed. There are two dark heads peeking out of the sheets, Malo has stayed after the so-private party with Melchior, who may have brought round some of his fine myrmidons to endlessly drain the quintessence dew out of my own nonpareil genie.
As I have learned about her sensitive keys, I reach for her feet under the quilt as if I would care for a child; they sure have been titivated for the thrill of the godlike connoisseur, with midnight blue nails polished as Fabergé spoons. Gently huddling around them I salute every little toe bone as I imagine her Far did to induce better dreams up to her soothed head; I figure I fiddle some unreal musical instrument inside her blue garden, I suffuse some of Fanny’s sighs in her silent song.
Before I myself snooze back into the birds’ cloud the worshipped tootsies faintly respond, then play just like I knew they would. She wiggles and grooves lightly and confusedly grabs Malo’s neck and shoulder, then yawns and moans to the moon, waking like a breeze. I inhale some warm euphoria in nosing between their two bellies so they chant the new day and crave for breakfast.
As they flee to the bathroom and pee, I draw the curtains and in the daylight I notice a twinkling detail on the side chest, which happens to be a sleek band of hinged platinum squares paved with diamonds and trimmed with lines of onyx between a few carnal rubies; I instantly feel evil, shuddering at the thought of all the lovely debauchery this marvel has rewarded. My depraved heart digresses into the fantasy of bringing Sarah at Victor’s, as a licentious rewind.
Nowhere else in the world does curled up layers of flour and butter taste as this close to heavenly food; and I should know, because Danish pastry is also an acme of breakfast requisites. French butter, through tough regulations I suppose, has kept a wealth of unmistakable echoes of the land and its rich hays.To many, dipping croissants in black coffee is the epitome of a guilty addiction, apart from the deadly ones. Here we have chosen the sophisticated melodies of tea, specially the heady ones grown by the heirs of the British, for whom Robert Fortune had stolen a few samples in China and saved three of them which have populated the gardens of Darjeeling. Hugo keeps a weak patch for Taiwanese high-grown beauties and we may agree.
This morning Malo is all over me, still enthralled, says she, by my utterly licentious abandonment to Melchior’s dark-skinned assistants who spent all my nerves so much as I can’t remember; she herself took a good share of the expense in her pale languor elegance and we fainted both, eventually, till Hugo brought us up here and sluiced our souls with waters after we peed in his mouth and else. In one of my boro robes, she’s as fresh and mint as dawn.
When we wake up our phones, we have messages from Marie de Chasseline, our valiant photographer, she wants to come up at noon with a truckload of macarons.
This is the place I prefer on earth, and not only because Hugo helps me tirelessly; he attracted the best areopagus of gifted libertines under the high goodwill of powerful men like Melchior, who provided for most of my comfort. Sarah has all the troubling charm of the legendary courtisanes, by choice, inclination, gratuitous vice, vocation. Kate is the disarming fairy who was back from soulless perdition and still is the triumphant whore that flies high, with the manners of a girl and that elusive northern gaze.
I ask Sarah to wear the new jewel at her slim wrist and in her indigo sublime rags just as the ones she lent me she is suddenly so lavishly dressed-up that I crave again for her laser-smooth pubis at once, but the door bell stops me.
Marie boasts a sun blond mane around a radiant smile, in her kiss she smells of chamomile and honey, happy sweat and something more animal and troubling. She sports camouflage khakis and unlaces stark ranger boots like a baby soldier; I steal her white socks and appropriate her minute feet so as to resume my morning crave whilst my girly boy is flirting with the musician, for now.
She goes on unbuttoning her chic fatigues over white underwear and theatrically lifts her tee shirt while laying on a pillow. She says she has some kind of announcement to make; we are all gazing at her white belly when she tells us she is really pregnant. Breaking our stupor, she joyfully explain that for sometime she has toyed with the idea of raising her own child and decided to make it happen without asking for a father.
She happened to be on assignment with a big pornographic production in a lavish estate in southern Spain, shooting animal expenses in various shines of perfect skins, among crews of double-checked male fighters unleashed in their pulsions so she figured she could let any of them hit on her backstage, the main issue being that these connoisseurs preferred coming into her smaller hatch. Anyhow, having had her IUD removed before leaving Paris, enough of the troupe carried the necessary count of vivacious zoons and after three weeks she felt one of them had nested so she came back fulfilled.
She is soon entirely denuded under our caresses, the only difference we note is in her breasts which have already grown and hardened like oranges we jostle kindly. She is crying for joy, I lap her tears.
Happy my little ploy worked, my candid indecency show has defused the dire questions that will leap up from my big folly. For now, we have displayed the orgy of multicoloured macarons on copper Moroccan plates and reached Hugo and Gauthier, I have already shared with Camille who has been impeccably discreet.
Hugo is at first overjoyed to find himself in his little brothel of choice with every girl nude or in open robes; over the abundance of pastry, he sniffs a bouquet like lustful sugary flowers, crazed frangipani festooned in mandarin drops, mimosa wasps in almond milk, until his nose snoops between my thighs. Then he clearly begs for the privilege of serving as my child’s sponsor, for what, due to our mutual past, I am comforted and moved. I am about to cry again, my tears wet an orgeat cake and it tastes good.
Gauthier has brought his sister soul Donovan, whom he tracked all the way to New Zealand out of nostalgia and finally lured to Paris at the risk of the most bitter disappointment which, as we witness, did not occur. His first love on the gay side, amongst the rags and dolls in his father’s castle where his mother and a hive of Polish assistants sewed phantasmagorical theater costumes while their children groped each others behind the piles of fabrics and stuffs, Donovan was there, curly black haired and slender as a Canova, wearing a timeless three piece magnolia yellow suit with lavender stripes only his mother could have had the fancy to make him wear. He had been the cause of Gauthier’s deportation to a catholic institution when some bully snitched his shenanigans to his father. Now the father had just died, unforgiven by his son, and his best boy was here again.
The faint Scottish accent is at once desirable, even were he not Gauthier’s lover. They both look like two young gentlemen on their first visit in a whorehouse, one still in a mourning black Indian attire with a purple shirt, the other as dandy as a yellow butterfly. Gauthier has soon enlightened his friend about the manners herein and while Sarah unbuckles his jodhpur boots, he strips him down as we see pink johnny poking through his shorts at the boy’s own amusement.
There are robes for everyone and Donovan shines in one of Katherine’s ikats, whenas my best Gauthier dons the oversized deep purple terry cloth housecoat that sets off his copper glory.
Mary touts her skin around for petting, with a waist still as flat as the palm and a blooming cunt, like the little whore I had once bought, on a tip from Camille, and watched wisening up since. She garners more wet kisses from the boys and myself; the Ladies are a tad moony, as I could explain.
While the fervent pair tilts the willowy nymphet over with all attempts at her demands, Malo and Sarah about to lull one another off, I huddle in Kate’s arms I haven’t smelled in yonks, as would Lord Bawdy say; she’s in a sweet beastly mood, as she became more easily after the Berlin affair, a slut in her own right, a seaweed in the dark waves, a whirl in a rose bush, the opal fire in a gold mirror. Spent from last night’s women lusts, she wants to be speared and again so wholly that I find might from deep guts to properly vandalise her so as I briefly think of the gilded pill Melchior gave us last night.
Malo dreams under Sarah’s richly adorned arm, her legs pulled up so her ass is offered to any wandering troll; as satiated as I could, Kate now can’t rest at the dare and, letting her legs wide opened for her dripping fount, she darts a pointed tongue into the shrewd little wink, only to watch Malo’s body meander at ease and crawl over Sarah.
Meanwhile, on the carpet, Mary sucks on a British knight as the sparkling rider rocks her tender back alley, like I have my habits. It is not long before the two become friendly neighbours in her vale and I run at her mouth to resurrect. Like a wolf pack we take turns around her panting anatomy until she lays drenched and smelly, eyes in the wind.
The day is vanishing when we emerge back, cuddled up together, hair stuck over our faces, pulling each other towards the showers. Mary glows like victory, we all cover her gracile figure with heartfelt wishes beyond the lust and the rave, I feel the blank future of someone new happening in her eyes.
Camille is sorry not to be able to join us, Fanny hasn’t yet security clearance to come to our house, so we order a chauffeured van, secure the macarons in a basket and bring the cello in its surprisingly light carbon case, to find opulence already on display at Camille’s like a miniature Mandarin banquet.
Fanny wears heavy silk satin Lanvin-blue pyjamas a half-size too long on her bare feet, she greets everyone like the house’s pet genie. Hugo remains quaintly shy around her, like he used to be about me, whereas she hustles him with feather-light familiarity. She hugs the two boys so as to make them smell a whiff of Williamine spirit and Virginia tobacco she has been into at Camille’s whim; already in her intimacy, Gauthier lets his manicured hand wander on the silk as he introduces his partner to the swaying-eyes djinn who might teach him some.
She grants me a lip-lap kiss and gropes me hastily before I find breath to present the new nymph in war attire, her tee shirt replete with bountiful balls she brushes against as she offers her cheeks. When she understands the tale of our celebration mood, she withdraws into a pensive gaze and embraces an all-generous Mary who lets her invade whatever she wishes: she needs to know Mary will keep her baby now that it is being called to life, or else it wood be wiser not to speak about it. Mary knows; she lifts her shirt, brings both Fanny’s hands upon her womb and whispers in her ear for a while until her pants are down.
I join them in the deep garnet sofa spread with dark silk panne quilts and help them to strip bare, excited by their merry new acquaintance, while tea and opalescent carafes are brought along with English china and Bohemian crystal. Camille has begged Malo to play in the halo of a single high taper, Sarah sucks on Donovan’s well-designed tools, Hugo and Camille share the boy of dawn as the cello’s long sostenuto drone searches for the room’s soul.
My family, my dedicated few, do they know I hold them in a spell, forever in their bedazzled memory? Lines want spiral, my bow spins figures through the forests of your dreams, scuffs the frozen mirror of your lives as you fly, panting amongst the colours of your dainty pleasures and I tie all the flowers in your hungry hearts. Through the circles of my harmonics I reach your frights and gifts to a garland of voices you never answer. Like lulled children in rolling waters you follow my unforeseen lead to climaxes I choose only for your beautiful eyes.
There, slow, the gold-headed squire creeps along my spine and fits deep in me as I contort back towards his mouth. Our Grand Master latches on to us both as he buggers the gentle jester in tempo while he twiddles my tits. Malo’s volutes unfurl accordingly, as it feels she scores the whole orgy by magic of her fiddlestick. I watch the pale Scotsman pin down the pussy boy on the carpet like a transfixed somnambulist, and she grabs her own butt cheeks to make way for his thrust; she looks towards me with her eyes swayed.
When it sounds that everyone has reached crisis and back to quiet, Malo sends lyrebirds through beaded cupolas, tiptoes on blue topiary trees of some frozen Tivoli terraces, slews across crystal prairies and lays us in the dying waves of a never breeze.
Everybody catnaps in ravishing indecency, pretty much as in the Radeau De La Méduse, by Géricault, in the Louvre, Sarah slips out first to shower, followed by Camille and her cavalier, I hear low mumbles as I breathe an invite at Malo who has rested her instrument. She crouches next to Fanny and caresses her in long passes from her neck to her muff. Mary takes her hand and soughs her admiration for her music, but Malo wants to lick Fanny’s wet pink smile and Mary lets her open wide. I slip my tongue into Malo’s tight bonny-honey and Mary crawls up to her chubby slit; occasionally our tongues meet, but we succeed at making the virtuosa cry grace.
I feel like a big ball of thrills, as if sharing my life’s wager with the hellfire elite let me elude the matter of worriments to come endless, unabashedly defying my own course of fate, spending my soul around inside a warm crystal like the little girl who stole an invisible bird.
My mother was so young, she couldn’t tell life from trash, but she did not drink or else before I could run and I did not look back. I know there is an amazing realm I never could recall or feel and so I might not want to lose a grain in the hourglass by which my very own rightfully called offspring will grow up. Perhaps it is as simple as that,
Hugo’s reaction overjoys me beyond my wildest fantasy; ever since I was first thrown in his path he played fair to me. I was a rare piece of a trull because I looked so young he wanted to see my identity; it was a close shot, but he went on, the booty was lavish so I let him take his time and he made me talk while reaping off my rags. Savouring the boon, he waited until I gave myself instead of being taken. I was stunned when I awoke in his bed the next morning, I suspected he had drugged me, but I was perfectly fit and clear and he said he had lulled me. Upon breakfast, he overbid my already shiny benefit and ordered me for the next day.
At the same time of my life, I had met a photographer who had been looking for models; he used me in all kinds of ways but I breathed enough to steal from him the basic knowledge of camera work. He wasn’t horrendous to cope with and took care not to bruise my fragile body because he mostly shot me nude. But he was stingy and kept me quite miserable in a hovel when he did not need me around. Once I saw how much money he had banked on my images about what he had said nothing, so I asked some cool nerd I had met in a café to come over and overwrite all of his computer drives and fled, leaving one of my panties hanging at the door knob.
So, when Hugo, to whom I had been addressed by an old hotel concierge who had lifted me up at a bar on the Champs Elysées and wished me well after he tasted the wares, provided for a decent living against a courteous arrangement, I moved in a clean attic apartment with amenities he kindly recommended for, bought myself some equipment and started my search, helped in that by my sponsor who laid me all over his labyrinthine citadel and on luxurious prints he shares around the circle of his libertine affiliates.
As he touted my henceforth couther, gracile person to well-to-do aesthetes, Hugo also delighted in the tales I sold him of my flourishing trade; he had introduced me to Camille who has long sailed these same winds from despair to power. He shared the emotions he fostered around Katherine when she alighted into the dovecote above his lair, where he had not let me nest. Sarah had moved in the maid’s room at Camille’s “L’Etoile Amusée” ,which Hugo and his friends funded, and soon cuddled into Camille’s grand bed like a bowed ballerina before she also dazed Hugo’s days when Katherine vanished.
Then pure-hearted Sarah drummed forth the Berlin expedition when she heard Katherine drown in her own tears, hustled and bruised, stunned in a cage with a blind death-wish. Hugo demonstrated his clout and mastery, the healing fairy repatriated to the château and they all travelled to Venice as a celebration, grasping a disarming orphan on the path, barely noticing it. Hugo recounted any heartbeat of the adventure when I wended my way to the couch he would summon me to while the upstairs artists frolicked with Gauthier or James, an assiduous admirer and sponsor. Then Fanny barged in
It was a hectic and altogether genuine camaraderie under the Spanish sun, the team was fit and tanned and fresh, my entryways available at all times for anyone while my intimate little plot clicked on quietly in my mind, I managed to drench my twat with cum as often as they would, fantasising the tiny shaggy egg cell stumbling down the tube as all the millions of would-be someones jostled like the crowds in Shibuya station at 17:00. I gained a reputation and the producers tried to bring me onscreen but I went on backstage.
One morning, I woke up with an urge to pee and stumbled numbed to the bathroom, stepping over the magnificent black athlete who had eventually dozed there after using me. Sitting on the loo, I felt it dawn on my soul that I might have won and my womb was occupied for a while, fabricating what would end up what they call a bastard. My nerves felt slightly dizzy, the evening had been exhausting, the beast had no mercy, although he performed like an archangel and let me whoop for pleasure many times; I realised I was smiling silly,
She feels serene laying there, smelling her own scent after a quick shower, she refused any of Camille’s perfumes, she does not tolerate any, since she acceded to budding motherhood. She incarnates, she makes me feel unreal and I reckon I prefer staying such, but I like her new assured languor, eyes moves a tiny tad slower in a perpetual afterthought. Yet she responds to my passes with cunning smuttiness, like she is a better slut now, and she is already wet like my tongue.
I fiddle with her body lightly, her feet and ankles, she is a running survivor, a wind flower wearing tough shoes as a ruse, all her joints are sleek and tense, the limbs graciously drawn and the belly muscular, how will she lace such a body with a skin-flask full of a baby and return without damage?
I have always watched my mother’s photos as a young naiad like they were another person’s. She looked at me as a thief until she did no more, resenting my Far’s affection as unfair. But I also knew mothers who could carouse around naked and arouse me; it would be either a matter of luck or taking care, hard work it already is anyhow.
Donovan, who shagged me earlier like a disembarked sailor, joins us while elsewhere, on an opulent chair with large armrests, Gauthier and Hugo court Fanny who offers easy hospitality, then Kate grabs the already fierce young sire for a turn of her hips. I pimp my partner to the Scot but keep my positions as he begs her to suck; then he overthrows us so she licks me and stands on all four, bottoms up at his will. He penetrates her kitty cautiously, but she thrusts back and takes in the whole length of his bobby with liveliness; she rages on my angry bud and makes me switch off. Later, it seems she fires another salvo and mumbles unknown love blasphemies through my tummy, so I grab her head and put it back in my snatch.
Malo has resumed chasing wolves with her soul-bonded instrument con sordina in the flickering golden gleam of the candle. From where we rest naturally embraced, we may marvel at her shapely bum sway on the velvet stool. She sweeps long billowing scarves across the moonlit mirage of echoes as Kate and the bright sorrel pony slow their dance under the spell.
My last catch is eerily calm as I invade her precious cantons in cautious touches and she discloses her foils at will, offering her pretty tongue as a grace. Her short-cropped head seems small in my hand, she is the cygnet and the fawn and the madness of a lilac morning; I am horny as a ransacker in a fit. She holds the spur in a clever hand, imperceptibly turns on me, opens her thighs and shows me to her fancy.
It is altogether heartrending and arousing, because she goes as easy as a brook lily, but I feel I will surrender all my apoplectic effusion sooner than I would think, so I pace down and reach for her mouth and neck her silly for a while, twiddle her twin buds and then her valiant little nub until I burst in the illusion that we came together as she squirts on my balls.
Malo’s bow strokes soar as I emerge back at Fanny’s amused face and carry her to the rose marble shower and ask her if she would pee on me again hugging tight. She feels like she is enjoying herself too, she is free giving, she plays in the waters. Then we wipe each other.
That randy bacchanale should indeed worthily celebrate such an unexpected announcement by our little strumpet Mary sharp eyes. I feel no right to elaborate upon her will and the plot she weaved. In here, any of us beautiful buggers came to life in a manner or another; some in the course of a planned evidence, others in awful nonsense, and haphazardly we stumbled upon each other into the orb of His Eminence and the subterranean hydrography of the Mighty Hearts.
Of course, Fanny trades gracefully with a master like Hugo, and she will, because she was carefully trained in it, be a successful whore in the world, as well a I trod this very path, goodness!
I will trade my life tale with hers, we’ll figure what to make of the capital she owns already in terms of trading it for securities, in the most lavish and lustful ways; first she should be clad in diamonds. Furthermore, she does good in her education, mostly languages and literature, liberal studies, I will provide the rest.
Crew-cut tomboy gives a bold peridot coloured gaze with a darker rim, she shows no fissure of the soul, no crack. Whatever ordeal spared her made her strong, who knows what monstrous kind of atonement instilled itself through the arrangement she grew up in. I feel no self-consciousness while detailing her, indecently rested myself, and I have professionally watched many models who instinctively troubled the mirror in such a situation.
I will work out an action plan for Fanny to navigate a tad more freely between our different haunts, or she would have fled a sun-baked prison for another jail of luxury. If our front door is forbidden, she will go through Gauthier’s apartment in the other half of the building and eventually join us after she crossed the bugger’s bed.
When she asks us to wait in Dr Méant’s cosy salon, we might go afterwards to a convenient evening swim at the public pool where they let us breast-free because there isn’t much to hide anyway!
I often mull over taking a sweet crew to the family house in Kampen, on the island of Sylt, Fanny would love running nude in the dunes under the white summer light; she could meet another scarred soul, my brother Simon. We could sail with Sarah to the Kettelaær barracks on Christiansø, we love island, ask Melchior to fly us to Mustique?
As I read in Camille’s glance, it is about time to withdraw; Malo has ran out of whispering code and swaddled back her dearest confidant; she slips on black silk and rolls up her hair in a bun, kisses everyone and me, picks her case and runs.
Fanny sleeps at Camille’s side when we decamp orderly and take Mary back home. I’m thinking of an early writing session, so I leave the party at their late cup.
The girls are still a tad puckish, so we stay for a cup of tea. Mary is again stripped off first like a daisy after she went to pee and laugh with Kate. Sarah brews white peony tea with my Donovan at her butt; the two of them could be siblings, one is a bit more hairy.
The sound system streams soft and easy ambient music, the kind which leads the hands in warm carnal folds; as I sit along The all-reclined Mary in the couch, I reach for Kate’s butt crack and pull down her leggings as she licks the Queen of the day.
On the other side of the crowded mess, Sarah peels off Donovan who does me; she ends between us two and soon meanders as to be penetrated doubly, her eager face towards mine, cobalt sparkles through her squinted lids,our tongues fighting doggedly. Her leg up in the air makes way for Donovan but some lubricant would help, she reaches under the cushions and finds a bottle of gel with what she smears her asshole using two fingers so as he slides his bobby Scot inside like in a sheath next to my wriggling rod inside the kitty embrace. She is so fulfilled, she groans songfully and slows the dance churning deeper inside her womb. We stretch our arms as to ease ourselves and let her cuddle down between our driven efforts. She collapses faster than she expected and so we frisk further in her exhausted body to climax in unisson inside her ecstasy.
Katherine and Mary emigrated to the open bed so as to content each other’s coochies so we soon hear beautiful whispers and fluted notes, then the music alone flies, it really seems to be the end of a caroused journey. Awkwardly, I bear the leggy tomboy to the bathroom where she douches her lovely paths while smiling at me, then smudges me with their fruity lather and fingers my dookie hole.
I huddle in an upper corner of a vast concrete bunker hall, with many birds alongside me, rucking their wings against mine. They are my nest fellows Marie and Sarah, I read their eyes of amber and cornflower blinking. With a faraway rumble of collapsing walls and erupting storm, clouds of thick grey roll in the space like ashes on Herculanum. Now, the whole structure is tilted and I topple over, stretching upon a fleeing dark snake the scales of which spell red Cyrillic letters. A shrieking metallic voice chants what seems to be numbers in an undecipherable language. I can hear the noise of a train coming, a Berlin Ubahn yellow train with two big round headlights, chasing dirt on the way. The cars are dark, but I discern a crowd inside; behind a door’s pane tattooed with ideograms stands Marie with her hands resting on a smaller self’s shoulders. Under the rambling train, between the wheels I can see Sarah’s bare feet in the rubble, but the train never ends, now its cars are packed with disquieted gray dogs which silently maunder behind the windows. I wear a slate-coloured caftan exotic boots embroidered with silver snakes, I walk towards the rear of the train; the rails climb up some narrow bridge whereas the ballast path leads down to a dark water pond. The train cars are empty now and dilapidated, the windows broken and rags hanging outside like dead; I hurtle down and find child Fanny inside a rabbit hole, waving her hand which I hold. Fanny pulls me inside so I crouch and follow her rosy-cheeked butt along a corridor jammed with derelict furniture and piles of papers and rubbish that fall down after me, chasing rats and all kinds of barnyard animals whispering gibberish. We reach some kind of abandoned chapel and Fanny is her actual self with the profuse head of hair I knew in Venice and her topaz eyes implore. Now Victor, my perverted fiancé, wearing a bowl hat, plays on the wheezy harmonium some dislocated hymn while Sarah, wrapped in ripped net, sits beside him and holds his stiff pecker out of black leather tights, masturbating him gently. Golden rays dawn through the rickety stained glass bays and an old propeller plane approaches, mixing its roar over the music into loud pulsing riffs as Sarah nude rides Victor facing him and Fanny hugs me, breathing Cynthia’s name in my ear, then we dance. A blue bird flies astray in the tall vaults crying shrill harmonics to the rowing turmoil, Fanny holds my hand and leads me to a concealed passage behind a dark-wood confession booth; we run on carpets and graze past heavy curtains and I lose my clothes and she fondles me into the velvet and pulls her tongue into my mouth. Behind her emerges from the dark a smiling Marie with her small self on her back, her pretty feet quivering from under each arm. Fanny slips her fingers in my pussy and makes me shudder with her tongue behind my ears. Marie and the child play with my feet and legs, I topple over in a jumble of soft stuffs and caresses
I followed Marie to the bathroom, on the loo, I press her tousled head on my belly, rocking her slightly, pretending to sing merry wishes and her letting me. Sitting down on her lap, I devour her nightly mouth and pee on her as she moans to let me know she feels it. Under the warm shower, we rub each other’s nooks with the finger tips and no soap. Sitting on the white-wood stool, she wants me to groom her feet with the pumice and the nail clipper, I am eager to oblige, albeit mine won’t need any, for I had the royal treat before Melchior’s visit. I do my utmost from her heels to her gracile and parted toes, I call them monkey feet so she withdraws them then flaunt them in my face as I try to bite.
Kate is still sound asleep rounded on herself, offering her ass, but will not respond to any sort of kisses. I lend Marie a kimono through which I can still watch her, throw on my favorite boro robe and we head for the kitchen to brew a pot of tea; I choose the big greenish earthenware pumpkin and drop a measure of morning Darjeeling leaves from Tara’s garden.
Marie agrees to stay with us for a few days, she will lounge in the studio as we work. James W. Manner will visit and grope her holy womb like an old amateur he is. Being an artist himself and a teacher, he knows how to behave and he likes to read for us, only to beg for favours when he feels he can. He’s the one who offered the red couch up there. Hugo too, will buzz around her belly now that he wants the child to be his in a way.
These two are amazing, like funambulesque fairies in the citadel, roof dancers at the secret carnival, wild souls in a writer’s inner pandemonium; they are alive, generous and fruitful, although fully aware of their utmost privileges and swift like squirrels before the worldly trappings, it would seem.
Am I different? Hugo liked to pay me, I liked to sell myself and still do, he kept it going that way and made me build my mill,would I change it?
It has been quite a trip for free, who needs psychotropics when you have two gentle souls under the quilt? Fanny’s breasts are deliciously pointed this morning as I pull aside the silk, I am sure she already frolicked some with my little indigo master who sits quite indecently too on the chair with her feet pulled up on each side of her soft cootie. They let me gather marmalade kisses on their tongues and tell her the best parts of my dream, the ones when they got raped by navy cadets in the engine room.
Oh, sure, Marie is welcome to live in our bed, she needs benevolent company, and a lot of dedicated cuddles. I am waiting impatiently for the time when the little thing will start to kick around.
One year without sunbathing, not a drop of alcohol or any toxic and all the sex you may stomach, instead of compulsive food binges, and she might stay clear of deplorable stretches on her fine body. And she has a profuse patronage already to remind her to spare her only skin.
James is an old faithful of mine, but here and now he will be served only one of my feet, as a fair courtesy. I know it lets him see my sweet doodle but the day is young, so we bear our studious faces, don’t we? This nicely weathered old Don has once befriended most of the original surrealist generation, at least those who did not die prematurely, he lead us, mostly Sarah and Kate, because in my case, photography is another turf, in the resistance against the derisory bastards of Dada Duchamp in the likes of pop art. Poor Marcel.
I find the cheeky brood in the high nest raving about names for a sure trouble-maker in the works. The culprit, reclined on a grey satin pillow, a primrose yellow kimono, jauntily scribbled over with dark garnet lines, conveniently fallen from one thigh, finely smiles at her own display, expecting me to kneel in awe.
Her slick pubis smells of raw lust, she hasn’t diverted her own scent with any kind of creation, as I kiss her newly proud breasts, I nose into her secretive armpits till she giggles. I can tell she has enjoyed an ebullient yesterday by every petal of her blooming, and I will enjoy the same vivace immodesty if I go down on her studious accomplices.
The kilim upholstered easy chair is all convenient in the light, for I have brought some magazine articles I might read to my pupils for their benefit, if the utterly impious Primaticcio madonna would deign to lay her feet on my lap for a while.
As we need a new plentiful reserve of light tea, I try to figure what is good for an ideal pregnancy, no joke. I believe white tea is less potent, furthermore I will rince the leaves beforehand. I am quite sure she will need to drink and pee a lot, Hugo will provide some more light very soon, I feel.
Kate is engrossed in her intricate graphic convolutions, in the same kind of distressed oversized sweatshirt with sleeves rolled-up and the knitted leggings that I like to pull down so easily; mine are in spandex printed with bluebirds in grey foliage, James’ eyes are on Marie’s crotch half revealed by the kimono, she’s a crafty little slut.
I know this little foot quite well: arched, supple and wiry, well-groomed and, so to speak, artful; you would never say when you see the sort of clodhoppers she usually wears outside.
My intended morning screed was rested on an old article which came to my mind in an intuitive convergence of psychoanalysis and perceptivity applied to art. As my present audience knows, artists may have a case regarding their mothers; some say they strive across their whole oeuvre building the motherly shrine unconsciously. The knowledge of this ultimate metaphor would constitute the last opening of a successful art tale, whenas the spell were enough surreptitiously binding and the outcome universally fulfilling.
James spins shrewd rhymes like wisps in a kaleidoscope or cherry stones in a tin box, and I figure myself playing hopscotch in my corduroy dress, navy blue under a seedling of tiny forget-me-nots, wait, my mother liked this dress but I didn’t; some Gunther had boasted he had watched my knickers under it when I played and I did not get what it was to brag about. James has a point, I must call my mother if I ever find where she is. Why do I never call her? She is an artist as far as I know.
Isn’t James’ spin a boy’s babble? But will Marie be the only girl here? Aren’t we, Sarah, myself and other Hugo’s angels avoiding our fate for a fantasy?
If I introspect the original pearl of my dedication, I fly back to Kampen’s rainy weeks when Simon and me went everyday to the comfy house where lived this old artists’ couple; I know it is where I was struck, an epiphany of heart and soul, whereas a seven years old is usually too wound up to perceive such a long echo. Presumably, family life was unraveling irreparably in our home, in my little girl’s head, Achim had wiped off our father, he had won my heart too. Simon was immature like boys are, but I could not have explained to him that we were losing our Dad. Not very long after, Achim died abruptly. We still went to the art house, in the dunes too, and we cried, and snuffled, blow our noses and wander in our windcheaters. That summer, Poul the old Dane artist gave me troves of clues and all leeway to rave freely on large sheets of paper, offering patience and stealth wisdom, while at home our mother stoned herself to oblivion with whatever pills she found.
James succeeded at putting Marie to sleep by manipulating only one of her feet! Otherwise, apart from the Mother underlying apologue theme, about which I feel I may except myself, by biographical happenstance, or according to a planetary configuration, I followed the thread on the elaboration of an artistic conjuring of the watcher’s capacity to read the artist’s proposition, until it flips the mental dimensions onto what becomes the watcher’s own existential questioning. Brilliant. Might very well stand beyond my reach anyway.
I buy into André Breton’s proposition of a “pure psychic automatism” disencumbered of all traps of dualism, levitating at the equilibrium origin, traveling in concentric orbs, I would say, much like in the best of the psychedelic utopia.
The scope is immense: in 1941, Max Ernst, a major Magus of Art, berths in New York City with a cohort of escapees from the dire madness in Europe, and Peggy Guggenheim, a most prestigious socialite soon to become his wife and promoter, opening a brilliant gallery through which she churned a whole new generation of groundbreakers. From all the researches Max Ernst has already experimented like dripping, rubbing, staining, abstract expressionism will soon spawn while visionary realism continues under the blaring, albeit soon derailed, lead of Salvador Dali. Marcel Duchamp, a well-off dandy, lives in the Hotel Des Artistes and plays chess.
Obviously, Sarah acts out her resentment towards her mother, under the table her cute feet gambol out of step to her ideas; she sure received all the unconditional love one may deserve on both sides of the soul, taken as I will in the sense of psyche. Her all-important father, as far as I know, steered his family barque with the same trademark flair he has the reputation for. There were carefully screened nannies and guardian angels, she still knows where to get good mothering to her needs.
Nevertheless I would not pose as Sarah’s analyst, the accounts she let me hear were friendly confidences; yet I have fathomed that the tragedy with her brother, at the age when it occurred, sealed her personality, and the special school Lars chose for her was the right chance for her to bloom as we know her.
Landing in Paris, speaking in her untraceable accent, she soon found Camille, the reborn protégée of Hugo’s, who mollycoddled her in an intuitive return for the blessings she felt she had been granted, notwithstanding her miserable start, and in pure lust for the utterly privileged light-footed sylphide.
Life spins differently with Katherine, whose mother reigned over the grand Alster Haus with unswerving love to the point that she did not figure out the relationship between the two siblings. There was no father in the realm of swans, only a distant curatorial figure she saw once upon an unforeseen event and funded her freedom.
Would the metaphor hold sail in a joint presentation of their work, as Camille had let me hear, in a near future? I would think they are too young for a far-fetched convoluted speculation like that, Sarah’s creed is more of a playable petition, for whom would discover their universes.
James’ voice drones like a baroque-pitched cello as he acts out his favorite Finnegan’s Wake’ song with lots of fun while he straps me face down onto the padded table in the crimson vault of his greenery sheltered house, my feet wide apart to the heavy table legs. But he is not drunk, he bought my night for the most clearly conscious expenditure, not for skull-breaking waste. He rubs my shoulders, combs my hair and loosens my mouth at his pike’s ease, stiffening while I go soft at his will. He wears dark brown leather fitted pants with a slit-opened crotch, knee-high dancing boots and a matching leather justaucorps. He injects warm milk into my silly bum-trap and lets me flush it out and again. Lyra cocks parade on the ground around his feet and growl in tune with the now impenetrable song; he dances to the other side of the table, quick foxes flurry in causing cackle and shamble as I feel tweazles along my crack. I am surrendering and ready to pee when I wake up, disrobed and exposed, and jump up to the bathroom, laughing myself at my reverie.
Walking back, fresh and aroused, I ask if anyone knows about the black grouse the French call lyra-tétras when Sarah gently jolts and say she has dreamt about them after seing their parade in the snow in a random video.
As I tell my fantasy, James meows of ease, I hug Sarah’s back and shove my hands under her clothes to play with her chicleberries, she might say. I rest my head against hers and close my eyes, like pouring my emotions in.
I feel quite naughty then and yield to my caprice of sliding a hand into Kate’s cashmere pants; not stopping her pinpointing with her nib on the board, she gives me way and moans behind closed lips as I do my best without jostling her. She smells angelica millefiori and some more personal animal note in her snoop neck, I am wet.
She’s back at caressing Jame’s pride with her dinky foot while blossoming out like a shameless orchid so as to make him give up on theory and open his fly to masturbate on it. He hastily sets a date for one of their special sessions suddenly interestingly revived.
A recognisable noise of nail drumming on the door announces the hardy boys from next door, one of which I still feel in my bungie bell. As it happens, they bring sushis rolls in bright red boxes and Marie is overjoyed, offering them her rippling silhouette in a bustling double embrace before running to pee again which we all clearly hear. I smile to the idea that she will become more and more raw and bold with someone else inside her.
As we make tea, unfold a butler’s tray and fondle more of Marie’s, the boys go fetch two more of our garden chairs downstairs, but Marie sits on James’ lap and nastily giggles on his willy in hopes to restore its might.
Donovan is delicately thoughtful around me, pushing me against the wall to press and kiss in quite a raving way. Whispering in my neck, he asks if he hurt me and when I tell him that I still feel him, he gently rubs a wet figer around the rim, forgetting he’s going to eat with it now!
Marie has tied the kimono, the red boxes have unfolded into sleek trays and saucers of dip have been disposed. Marie is rapidly filled up. Now we learn that Donovan is a contemporary art expert with one of the big auction places in London and New York, Geneva, etc… Kate wants to know his catch on our morning topic; he says he won’t partake in the psychoanalysis idea unless it were part of some artist’s argument in a piece of work or a manifesto, because he says he has had so many such mind grenades in his young carrer that he is already all-spent at that level.
However, Gauthier reminds him of many sincere surrealists that he personally likes and would collect more keenly if he had the funds, for many of them, the timing is right, while fortunes are gulped into worthless simulacra, moreover the price is not the subject matter here today. So, the magnetic compass of “unadulterated psychic automatism” is still looking north.
Still, James labours the psychoanalyse point, citing Francis Bacon’s hauntingly successful painterly life’s achievement and, in a lesser focus, that, amongst any other, of Lucian Freud. Bacon tells mischievously on video the seminal catastrophe, which happens in his troubled adolescence, of his sadistic homosexual father barging upon him dressed with his mother’s underwear, beating him to a pulp, then selling him away to one of his pervert comrades far away in Weimar Germany.
As for Lucian, grandson of the prominent psychoanalysis’ promoter who deemed womanliness as obscure and unworthy like Maie Bonaparte’s clitoris, himself bearing his mother’s name, “Lucian” for “Lucie”, he fathered randomly at least fourteen children to nearly as many women and eventually wrapped us, viewers, in huge draperies of obese feminine skin, just like I meant, James concluded on his Freud apologue.
When it comes to British giants, Moore overlooks any other by a long flight, to the point that the rickety dwarfs of the Royal Academy petitioned against the donation of his studio’s contents he granted the Country, just as Turner had done, hence the creation of the Tate Gallery, letting the whole legacy move away to Toronto, for the shame of future British generations. Henry Moore, a solid working-class hero from Yorkshire was the epitome of the modern, bold, individualist, first-degree darer whose planetary presence should bring confluence to all of James’ proposals.
We should rest with André Breton’s principles, don’t you think? He did not make many mistakes, did he? Except on homosexuality, big time, the boys are right. Was it because of his hatred of Cocteau? Like all homophobes, the group tolerated homosexual love for women, because, like Queen Victoria declared; “It doesn’t exist”; I would have died for Lee Miller, wouldn’t you?
James is kind, entertaining and a mite worked up by our legs when he comes here, and I admit he entertains like we were worldly players on the Art scene, fate spare us, we wander along the byways sheltered by intricate hawthorns alive with larks and finches. I will question my best workmate on the pillow about whether we are unbeknownst weaving some metaphorical amnios everywhence and wherever?
All Marie wishes as of now is laying indecent between Donovan and myself and be served and cajoled; she likes his British staff, he shows a noble capacity to partake in conversation while sharing his complete erection at her busy hands. While James is now reviewing his notes on the unconscious means of art, Kate and Sarah remain mostly entrenched behind their pulpits with magnifiers on their foreheads; only, Sarah’s foot has snuck onto Kate’s.
In my time of gathering my themes and arguments for a potential thesis, I followed path in Anton Ehrenzweig construction, and the two main currents of the research at the Warburg Institute, Panofsky vs Gombrich, easily coming round to the latter, shunning the tonnage of the imposing iconological vessels. Ernst Gombrich, who involuntarily fathered the best selling art history book ever, has a very humane doctrine of keeping his conclusions simple, letting the reader pursue at his own will the intellectual ramification, whereas Panofsky strategically piles up the quotations on the way to a philosophically unsettled necessity, given as a scientific truth.
Nowadays, as I rest nude aside a gloriously pregnant awe-inspiring libertinist, who is currently manipulating my friend’s pride, I protest that I would better keep the mental elaborations from our hostesses’ highly desirable souls because the course of their creative streams sprung from the pure crystal of their desire.
Attempting to roam consciously the undifferentiated underworld is vain, unless we drop the magic sugar lump for a pillow flight-trip like we ever did without looking back.
I will personally shelve away the rhetorical babushkas of Freudian delights for keeps so as to elaborate unanswerable demonstrations of my curatorial might, when I stooge philistines into moral scams, all because my now-defunct father once gave me away to bigoted curse-ridden torturers.
Was I ever so thankful to meet, and again, these astounding sister-souls in the realm of Malaquais, singled out by their accents and smells, gay like spring and aristocratic. Kate and Sarah, recovered in Venice, of all places in the world, and their unrestrained invite near Hugo, transfigured my lorn fate but not to the height of their inspiration, I will remain a playboy, willing to emulate their unearthly grace; hence, I would not scratch the mirror for them.
It’s Hugo’s “discrepant dining room”, where no element matches, in dizzying manner and baroque layout. All pieces of furniture are orphans, and the panelling has been composed disorderly around fragments of mirrors and paintings, scattered with silver sconces. A large crystal pearls chandelier in the shape of a cloud is populated with satyres and nymphs holding candles, under turbulent stucco skies strewn with flocks of circling swallows.
Of recent construction and decoration, it is accessed to through a contorted corridor from the Moorish lounge room or other passages from different wings and buildings. This pathway only has the floor leveled flat with a Venetian style colour marbles pavement in disrupted curves. The walls unfold like distorted foils of an expressionist paravent up to the faceted ceiling; all along unfolds a lunatic decor of trompe-l’œil details of velvet and silk garments like the endless robes of fleeing Majesties along a twisted byway. Sparsely indirectly lit, the crimson glazed creases slashed with gashes and stitching, embroidered, beaded, jeweled like a procession cloak, altogether oppress and elate the chest in the heavy scent of fresh spike oil.
Before we went downstairs, we pampered our pretty selves and dressed. Marie wears a dawn three layers embroidered silk chiffon flapper dress, shimmering onto her creamy skin, and nothing else. Kate has fetched an open Uzbek robe of sage-on-eggshell ikat and nothing else. I put on night-blue white trimmed silk satin pyjamas and nothing else.
Gauthier and Donovan came back in black silk suits, white shirts and black velours slippers, one with the sun and the moon embroidery, the other with the moon and the sun. James is his same cypress green jacket and tawny trousers with coffee-brown boots and saffron oxford shirt.
In a whiff, Kate smells lime tree and talcum with some sexy hay in the head; I applied pure neroli and petit grain everywhere it can be eaten like Earl Grey bonbons, Marie still exudes her own girly euphoria.
Gauthier radiates like a summer broom bush on a sea cliff at low tide with afterthoughts of iodine and kelp, whenas the Scot lets me sniff a single malt lavender tweed perverted of bay rum and pepper; James is poisonous Craven “A”, licorice and hashish up to the moustache, of course.
Hugo beams in pride at our awestruck glare. He wears a dark garnet brocade doublet buttoned with fiery carbuncles and holds Marie’s hand. Surreptitiously, from nowhere , well up the all too familiar voice of Malo’s instrument, slightly disheveled with many echoes and phase twisting harmonics like pearly coronas. She would sparkle sensitive glitter warmer if she played in the room, but now she dwells around our brains in clusters of colours.
On chests and consoles, candle chimes ring tiny silver bells on randomly rotating wheels, producing a sugary dust to the ears while other toy-mills cast kaleidoscopic colour wisps onto the scattered collage of the panelling. From inside the cloud chandelier, a swarm of white LED lamps split rainbows in the scrolls of crystal beads. On the white linen-dressed table, a spectacular epergne erects large quartz shards among which gilt nymphs and satyrs play obscene games.
On vermeil and crystal serving stands abound nibbles of inventive earthly sustenance like langoustine bits under orange slices, haddock on avocado cream, shrimps on skinned pomelo carpels in saffron heavy cream, urchin coral on celery shavings, raw fish lace on cucumber, sour grapes, green apple, cauliflower, ginger and melon.
Hugo wants Marie next to him and showers her with compliments while smoothing the silk on Sarah’s breast on the other side as Donovan has a hand in her open fly. I rest my back on James’ shoulder and Gauthier has thrown aside my richly lined robe tails to stroke me panting
Some conversation is advisable in order to postpone the arising crisis and keep some play going long enough, so Hugo tells the best of this proud achievement that none of us has detected. Firstly, he had acquired the adjoining building and began its restructuration, all manutention running through the other entrance, under a tarp awning. A team of skilled craftsmen came from Italy with their secret recipes for masonry and stucco, pavements and mosaics, brought ready in plastic wrappers, as good as real ones. I had myself been hoarding all these fragments, scrapped here and there, in different stockrooms, and skilled well-paid handymen, who lived here for three months, turned the refuse into what you see, a baroque ermitage for libertine banquets!
We drink iced white tea and rose kombucha from disparate Venetian ewers and glasses. I understand that Sarah’s intimate encounter with Melchior has happened in this new ermitage, and some other rich rake might be onlooking tonight through any of the mirrors scattered around, so I recall my days and nights at Victor’s in the infinite lupanar where I will decidedly introduce my sister whore of all lecherous glory.
This music conch alcove is warm and cosy, but I feel it’s time to join company in the flesh, if I may say. So I put my precious to rest and push the padded doors to run and kiss Sarah’s neck madly. She is so overtly capsized on Donovan’s lap that I shiver and tell myself I am in love. At my tongue’s attempts, she regains feeble wits and grants me an unflinching gaze and blooming lips. I wish not daunt Donovan off, I will be fulfilled sharing and watch her enraptured.
Over there, Kate is clasped firmly by James who mingles tongues in her mouth turned back to him, while Gauthier, taut and sturdy, humps her through and through, forcing a moan out of her chest, her arms abandoned and her legs distraught.
Marie is prancing over Hugo’s shaft, her shapely legs at a steady stride tauten her muscular butt and her knotted spine like an athletic dancer. She tosses her blond curls around as she climaxes and show her fine acquaintance of her ballet master. Once she is contented, she rests a while in his neck, then soughs that she needs to pee and she wouldn’t dare spoil the chair they’re sitting on. They slink off through a convenient camouflaged door.
Donovan could be Sarah’s brother, or at least a first cousin in that they share an almost same pale complexion with discreet freckles on the muzzle and shoulders; they share the perfect upright nose with virtually no recess at the root. Donovan’s mouth is a tad more sensuous, his eyes rounder, but it is the same composure, an inner reserve behind the blue shards in the gaze, and thick raven black curls. She never wants to speak of her own brother, she swiftly dismisses the subject, but here she greets his courting almost avidly, and languidly welcomes my sneaking into it. As they reel on to properly fuck, I think of what Kate mused about Sarah’s feet and wrestle to catch one so as to suckle on toes; impaled deep and spread out, she meanders to try and reach my damp minge with her kiss, to what I help willingly.
Maraschino cherries on pineapple beds, candied angelica, almond cream puffs, chocolate shavings on coffee buttercream, nougatine cups filled with pistachio mousse… James is licking the happy sweat on my shy nipples with the touching sedulous care of a fawn, lending some carnal tone to his morning tirade. Fantasise the utter dedication of the chef pâtissier as a mental strategy to retain motherly love? He is licking Gauthier’s liquor and mine from my gladly spent slot, rimming around the wrinkled treat he wants to indulge into, I guess.
He got hold of a ruby red heart-shaped container called “orgy balsam” on a nearby chest, and he surreptitiously massages what and where it is intended for as he bites my earlobes; it won’t be anything new and I trust his arty manners. When he reads my calm and the rolling of the hips, he flings in with bravoure and revives my still radiant womb with another glow, so I climax as fast as I breathe and expect another salvo with him keeping pace not to waste away a perfect regal in haste.
The little loo is all tiled with chips of broken plates found in the wreck of an East India Company retourship off the coast of Portugal. It is lit in turquoise and pink through embedded cabochons; the bowl is an English antique of white and blue glazed earthenware, ornate with pompous roses. I let Marie impale herself again and wait for warm floods; she widens her seat and holds on to my head. She comes twice.
Marie, who is as tall and willowy as us, is snuggled up in Kate’s arms and sound asleep in a showily tranquil stream. Malo is not here, she has fled the scene after she fiddled me ad libitum, not so as to discourage a Scotsman to plough again my garth. I wish he stays along with our copper-headed squire, they share a lovely legend, they might take over the family château, now that the old man has left, invite us chase some slavic elves along the corridors?
Meanwhile my teeny penny purse is sensitised of all the good will it showed and now I roll my arse around like a used trollop. I wish I had some fresh fruit, so I pull foliages leggings, a silk navy flight jacket, black sneakers, rocker’s shades and flounce to the shops at the milkman’s hour, or is it?
We have passed out in the dunes when the stars jubilated across the clear vault, Simon cuddles on my bosom and I scent his tousled head but something is not him. I know we caroused and revelled with a bottle of elderberry lemonade and a tin of cumin cookies, he rose up again a few times in my watering cooze for my enthralled eager soul and I capered upon his smooth body like a flame. Now he rests and I root in the moist sand, I will spawn flowers over his peaceful forehead and dissolve in the summer mist… and Marie frees my arm numb and turns to my face kissing my crying eyes.
She trots to the loo and streams wildly keeping her legs apart over the bowl, she wonders where Sarah might be at such an early hour, or did she go to bed with us? She brushes her blond shock into human shape as I tell her why I cried, so she presses me tight on her belly as I sit peeing in my turn, and she wants to know. I wonder, and inquire, if she will bear with our story, I do not know all of her past, except she landed at Hugo’s door terrified but adamant to sell her young arse.
As a child, I lived at my grandparents’ farm. They were sad alcoholic bums with enough income to macerate in their mediocrity. The land was leased to neighbours and the buildings tumbled down slowly. I went to the village school along with crass riffraff who had been taught to hate anything about my grandfather’s estate. The old man had done something universally scorned, far ago, unspeakable.
And so he was indeed. In the afternoons, while my grandmother sat in front of the blaring TV set, he dragged me to an empty bedroom and made me pull down my knickers and hold up my skirt while he masturbated miserably. He was so totally cold that I do not even remember feeling ashamed or frightened. He did not touched me.
When I was ten, he died an ugly death, in a puddle of vomit and blood. My grandmother emptied the bottle of illegal booze and passed out, peeing herself. Only the next morning did I gather the courage, after having slept in a cupboard in the old laundry room where I used to wash my own clothes, to run to the Gendarmerie in the next village.
I do not know what it is that happens here. I brought blueberries, blackberries, raspberries and fresh whipped cream, but it looks like everybody has been crying here and so I store away my goods and make tea, wondering. Kate hugs Marie and keeps me to date as I join them, there, there…
I fetch an ample and soft alpaca sweater and slip it on over her head down to her thighs, then I rub the heat in and kiss her eyes. But she bursts and sobs even louder and eventually mumbles she needs to tell us. Then she tells us, in a fragile tone of voice.
My family is but a wretched troupe of destitute criminals. My father’s good name was shattered since high school for gambling and swindles, booze and hard-drugs. My mother had withstood at least until I was born when she was seventeen, then he became so erratic and dangerous that she thought I would be sheltered with her parents. She had been the prettiest farmer’s daughter in the vicinity of the Chasseline estate and he had been grounded there after being sacked from his school; he pretended to improve his lifestyle for a season or two, made my light-headed mother pregnant and got married at the château with hundreds of guests.
They had been given a Neuilly apartment and he was set to work with the family’s import-export firm. It took him three years to bankrupt the whole structure by his constant overbidding towards ruin, due to his pathological addictions. He caused his father’s suicide, although it was publicised as a car accident, he had ploughed into a stone wall at full speed out of a desert road. His mother elapsed into early dementia and mouldered away in a state asylum.
My father had mortgaged all the properties before anyone could even think of a supervision or trusteeship for he was dementedly brilliant and morbid. My mother had become dependant to opioïdes, she overdosed when I was four but I knew it four years later. I do not want to know what became of my father. I kept his name in spite of eventual reeks of rancour I may encounter randomly in society.
This capharnaüm of desperation was my sole world in the dilapidated farm. At school, I caught attention of some teachers, I read and learned well for my own little self, mind you. So when the mute howl in my chest became unbearable, and I had to pull my sad pants down for a disgusting slob, I killed him.
There was an old tin of rat poison in the barn, among other refuse. I devised to mix poison grains in a vial where I had poured some of their liquor, then wait for two days and add the potion in his bottle. Thankfully it was not long; he must have been accustomed to weird tastes in his beverage. I was outside in the sun when I heard his body collapse. As my grandmother coughed out, I ran to hide myself in a cupboard upstairs, hoping death would complete its course.
The gendarmes brought me back along to the farm and recorded the death, called an ambulance to carry my grandmother away, closed the house, told me to gather my belongings and took me to the social services for children. I refused to see my grandfather buried. The château became invisible amongst the vegetation, Chasseline is a deserted place to me.
Marie’s in tears and sweat, soon Sarah brings cotton wool and rose water to soothe the face of whom feels like the little girl we just heard of. I apologise, for I reckon I provoked her heavy confession, and, kissing her rose flavoured lips, I breathe I only had a fear to tell about my bond with my brother, nothing of importance, if she will.
Sarah strips off and suggests that we shower all this away. We make a large expense of lather all over our skin, nooks and folds; the throat-wrenching frights ease away in the scent of citrus and whatever ylang is ylang. Long later, we lay dry on the bed and share some tea gone cold; as a reflex, I hold Marie’s hand.
Now Marie needs thick knit socks to wander about, as we migrate upstairs with my morning purchases in a basket; it is better to leave the place for Lena’s care. She feels hollow, she either shuns or begs for looks. I puff up a pillow for her to rest on the couch and switch on our preferred webradio of beat-less electro mist low enough to elide mentally the outer world of the conscious city. Unfocused, she goes pee.
That box room in the barn had been a refuge where none of them ever caught me. Pigeons had soiled the poor furniture until I chased them out. I had found in there weird looking bottles and packets left over from the forsaken farm activities; but this one round tin bore an orange band at the bottom of the label with a skull-and-bones warning, quite inviting. I wanted out, I would die immobile, laying under the triangle of the pointed roof of the empty hayloft, he could no longer climb the ladder to get there. There was a very old dead cat lying in the dust up there, mummified and dry as paper. My tiny soul would elope into pretty umbels like those which burst in july, when school was over and I hid into the weeds.
He would carry on his ridiculous fiddling of himself alone until it would rot down. I lulled myself with my complot for a season, erasing mentally the traces of myself, foreseeing light windy skies over the now vandalised château singing my derisory name for ever.
Was it a blue tit that verily talked to me, perched on a lone post in a bunch of stinging nettles? Or was it that my plot tired out itself? The baker who smelled of sourdough who suddenly gave me a chunk of clafoutis? A frog, tranquil in the rill? The whole world, with all the colours, capsized top to bottom: I wasn’t going away, he would. When I ran, from that discovery, I could hear a tic-tic inside my skull and it felt like the blue tit words.
We sob and sniffle like snotty kids, it is no use to sit at our work places, we crouch at her knees, hold her hands and encourage her for more. Sarah wets a towel with cold water and pats her swollen eyes, whispering conjurations against bygone hardships and deep-rooted praises for her resilient grace. I fetched a hairbrush and I dress her hair back. She closes her eyes, she soothes down and she sleeps. We remain stunned.
I went downstairs and brought back our quilt and pillows so we can lay on the floor at Marie’s feet. I have undressed Kate so we can warm each other inside my robe. Our phones are off, I have mailed to the usual culprits so as they leave us alone for a good reason. I guess Hugo will await news from us. Kate needs a kiss, long and heady, a reminder of our faith in life. Necking like teenagers but still shied by the echoes of the storm we saw, we let the room dissolve into the fine humming sounds as the twilight falls.
It comes to my mind to wonder what would Julia Grant, my infaillible big sister from Saint-Loup times, make of such a situation? I don’t even fathom if it is advisable to let Hugo into the secret; we became unabashedly accomplices and I stand with it but would he accomodate such responsibility?
A gentle foot sneaks in between us as Marie runs for the loo. We laugh and kiss. When she’s back she looks for the switch and dazzles us, then creeps in between us. She apologises for involving us in her misdeed, she begs us to forget it, although she reckons it is not really probable. I ask her about Hugo, who will scent a plot among us anyway. She says we do not want to know if he is aware, and ventures timidly kittenish touches with an instant success. I reach for her smooth pubis as if I quieted whatever reigns here.
Hugo would love to see us again and we are rested and hungry, after all. We make ourselves desirable in foulard printed jersey gowns and silk stockings, mauve slate paisley for me, maroon and navy diagonal stripes for Sarah, Indian summer maple leafs for Marie whose eyes show her grief. We dive into the drawer of sandals.
He suggests a very delicate orgeat drink he ordered along with yet another raw fish and fruits de mer dinner. Soon, Marie pretends she doesn’t know where the loo is, so he shows her to it. Meanwhile we sit in the dewaniya, on low couches covered with silk carpets, and my hand slithers up to Sarah’s poon, for starters. She eases her legs but sits up.
On the low table, with a heavy arabesque-inlaid top, rest some black and aniline-violet maroquin-bound albums, a few precious silver and gem crystal dildos and a silver plate with an art-nouveau enamelled ewer and highballs. Sarah wonders about the albums, pulls one and unlocks the silver clasp. The rigid pages show opened frames into which sepia photo prints of brothel scenes and nineteenth century pornography in preternatural detail, the youth of long-vanished abandons denied by the then-technically inevitable forlorn gazes.
Lines of pearls on snow-smooth thighs, hitched-up open lace pants and underskirts, meticulously ironed, festooning around nascent or profuse tufts; Pompadour heels at polished kid mules obviously not made for walking; precious velvet dog collars bearing diamonds; the hands possibly show something of a woman personality amongst the array of available amenities. The books seem to have been the catalogs for the shy or stealth clientèle of the maison close, of both lustful or heinous memories, irregardlessly arousing our present souls, as my wandering hand may now tell.
My pretty little tramp had indeed some urge, and it was not to water down on my hand, told her deepened golden gaze. She mumbled that I should help her, That she did not know what she had pulled the girls into, and spilled her wits on my chest as fast as she could, then perked back up and said she had never really told me what she just did, that, say, we had parted for lewd reasons, like we usually did, didn’t we? There, my mind parsed her facts and ruled out collusion after the facts, which were obviously prescribed and would never resurface, whatsoever. I cuddled her as normal and soothed her mind out of her guilt, casually assuring her spirits on talking the whole matter freely. She granted me a thorough kiss, sniffed, and, pulling up her gown, peed, anyway.
We find the girls in their only black stockings, enjoying an eyeful of old-time debauchery for sale, like Ms Barney shopping for pussy. I state as calmly as if I had just only fucked Marie that we may now help her appease her gentle soul. They greet her into their midst as I come behind the backrest with a furious envy to unbutton. But first I lay what my limited knowledge in law let me to think that there could never be an actual Chasseline case, come what may. The girls are slipping Marie out of her dress and drill tongues in many places of her body.
Like in many other cases, my friends and I have known that Marie had been unfairly served by fate, and whatever choices had brought her to our doors, deserved another consideration. She responded gracefully, remained in the books of acquainted patrons and thus thrives until now, with an unfazed look on her angelic frimousse, for as long as it should, says I, devouring her foot after ripping off the stocking.
Any threatening shadow having cleared, we bustle at not letting her cry anew, were it not from relief and carnal atonement. She abounds to all of our sollicitations and son, unavoidably, is properly skewered under our cheers and suckles.
Hence having cooled off our plexus and brains, we may taste welcomed crafted bites of seafood and fruit, puff cups of creamed vegetables and fish lace all as perfect as to leave our breath windy fresh.
Meanwhile I recall my ten years, hovering above the edge of the biggest city ever, the dead power station still there by the river, its three tall white chimneys looming. Weed-jungle wilderness was far from there along the Sund in Denmark, in weird countries where I never had time to catch my breath. My sufficient scope of free nature had become where lived the naughty squirrels. Nobody, then, ever told me to lose my knickers or anything of the kind, only myself lured others into kinky shenanigans, or chose to let them do me.
Marie, the “treehugger” as we had granted her, is a disowned orphan saved by an improbable tiny bird on a dumpsite; or was it the scattered sentiment of her own shady origination, fixated in the spectacle of a derelict mansion in the brambles as thorny as the derisory society around her in a mean village. Camille must have resonated with her intimate strings and hidden to others what could as well be washed away for good. It happened that Marie, who had thrust herself into the direst risk I can think of, giving birth, simply because that once she was flying high with us and warmed into our bed, fell for the morbid compulsion to try us into her memory. so I am proud that both of us here stood fast for her.
It’s a chalk grey dawn and I sit in a train compartment soiled with chicken shit dust. The windows are pasted with newspaper sheets that flap in the air. I am cold, my socks don’t stay up in my ageless shoes. All I wear once was my mother’s. I cough, like always. He said I did not budge from my place and he went and he fell from the train and I heard it like dry branches on the rails. My underwear is too large and my coat too. I keep my hand in my pocket daintily clasped on the little blue bird. He said it was dead but I know it isn’t true. The train hurls into a tunnel and the world turns dark and silent. The car capsizes so I am rolled in the baggage net when the roof splits open to the starry nigh when a flock of swans turn their heads to watch me float. Little girls, all nude, curly blonde hair, fly across the black vault, perched on cut-paper airplanes, singing unintelligible television garble which seems to make my little tit laugh in my hand. A pair of soft-coloured jellyfish sway their frills, puffing smoke rings that smell like warm cakes. Little girls, lined up as septuples, mimic some synchrone pantomime to the tune of an ad for pink beans, then they brandish blue steel weapons against a cavalry charge which gallops blindly, trumpeting a Coca Cola fanfare. Sarah waves hello in an oversize raincoat full of squirrels on the look-out from every side. The little girls flee with the joyous squirrels towards a rolling colourful Ferris wheel. Two cartoonish British bobbies seize Sarah who is naked in the Mac and start raping her, but I find a big sack of lemons near me and start knocking their heads successfully so they fall in the void as Sarah begs me to hide her in my pocket. She’s greeted with loud chirping and my hand feels tickled. He flies by, mouth open, his eyes eaten away, his pants unbuttoned and dirty rags drifting off. The gendarmes show their new red kepis as they draw the shutters on the rooms with horrid stains in the floor’s grime. I wonder why they do not play the sirens as they drive through the moonlight while black-and-white shaky television Chinese magicians bend in salute. Sarah and the blue tit sleep in my hand, deep in my pocket, I pick a star and entrust it with my vow to let them dream of me.
Her eyes are open but she doesn’t see, although she breathes calmly and feels easy. Hugo says she does that when her dreams carry her beyond life, when she roams the forgotten wastelands. She responds to my downy ruffling on her cheek but I dare not insist. We wrap her in a vague silk panne shawl and tuck the pillow under her trippy head.
Marie dreams on:
A swag of long benign wisteria panicles has rippled by my face and suffused dawn light among the rounds of chattering swallows. On the velvet bench seat across mine in the flying train, the little girls have rounded together in a rosy cloud and the grey squirrels play tag screaming tiny “cat”. Now they rip my ugly shoes and busy themselves on my feet, licking and nipping with bustling gaiety; they tickle as they climb up my legs and tear off all of my shabby rags and my gaping knickers. They carry blooming roses to rub my skin fresh and moist at little Sarah’s rapture along me, while Blue Tit invites her flapper gang around my forehead with tiny cheering words .
I revel in mild shudders all over my body and roll on the bench, so I see far down the landscape of springtime greeneries over which the wild pink cloud now spirals along the newly winged little girls holding their pet squirrels with aerobatic dexterity. In where, I understand, laid the Chasseline estate, a pond has formed in the shape of that stain, dreadful smear out of His mouth, ajar against the grimy floorboards, buzzing with heavy flies in the low grey light as I grasp the sturdy hand of the gendarme. It smells of harsh booze and faeces, blood and utter ravage; the gendarme pulls my head into his uniform and guides me away from that house, forever. On the byway, peasants and snotty kids who spurned me stare blandly at the derisory play.
When I sit along on the other side of Marie, whose head has been leaning on Sarah’s thigh, she swiftly grabs my hand and mumbles that I take her to the toilet. As she flows, she hugs and kisses my belly.
Marie wants to apologise for sleeping out, but Sarah tousles her hair and tells her there was nothing wrong and she missed nothing. She sees black chocolate macarons in a crystal stand and wolfs it down, gathering our gazes, then savours a white calisson, expressing that she will talk. She tells about the dream, the first she has ever had on the subject. We tell her about her wide opened eyes, she looks down and says Hugo already told her but it is nothing to be afraid of. Carefully seizing Sarah’s kindly face, she asks her what she was doing in that train, and Sarah says she was looking for Blue Tit, and pinches one of her nipples. Marie eases across the couch and sighs that she could either pay rent in a shrink’s mind for that dead-undead bird, or keep it in mind for free.
The deep-garnet cherry macaron dances in my chocolate blackened mouth so well that I want to share tongues with someone and Hugo obliges, elaborating tactics to overcome any of my mock resistance. He mingles the chocolate taste with my honey dew, then, while Sarah and Marie mutually recover from a dark dream, we roll and I engulf his baronial branch into my sinner’s pride with eager spasms and rob him of his finest spurt, for starters.
Marie handles the convenient silver dildo at Sarah’s service, with loving craftiness, and renews her efforts at crashing the artful backdoor with the help of the heart-shaped bottle that happened to be there, again. I myself want to feel the aquamarine shaft and play catch-up with my sleazy glutton that Hugo services at once, but he lets me drive because he ogles Marie’s butt crack and jumps to it.
The shower head is wide enough for us all and we carouse unfettered in baby-like lather. I brought an ebony schmuck from the table display with the intention of buggering the Master of the castle, which I accomplish while he is embraced with the two dreamers, one of whom did not know. Sitting on her knees, Marie swallows the dong like a professional and passes to Sarah who graduated in suckle-johnny and swallows long and lovely before sharing the taste with Marie and me.
Some dreams look like Grande Complication machines to us unbeknownst triggered among a messy arsenal of time bombs. Inner horology engineered upon our seminal griefs and reliefs, wound ready at a standpoint in our intimate chaos, either left to corrosion or preserved by any kind of spell, for a fatidic attainment of what remains of our souls at the right alignment of the wills and events.
Marie licks up little crumbs at the corners of Kate’s mouth, circling her arms around her neck while resting her butt on Sarah’s lap, behind her. From clever alley-cat who often overawed my fairy pair with her crafty savoir-faire, she transfigures into the lithe little slut who feels safe on earth.
I own quite a few notebooks about Marie, scribbled in after she surrendered to sleep, like a spent animal, notations of her youthful improvised babble, rich of budding poetry with troubling undertones I am now beginning to parse a tad further. How did she clasp onto Camille’s soul like a magnet on a set of keys? Am I attracting the floating mines like an innocent ship in the forlorn straits? Were we not sunk yet, in our unlikely trade?
When Gauthier creeps in, he bears the look of vague resignation. Donovan is gone back in the world, for now. He sees Sarah with a renewed lust in her acquainted allure and beauty. Throwing his jacket apart, he lays along Sarah and pulls Marie’s leg open over her, so she’s offered wide. I join and romp about her womb while I help Sarah to untangle the boy from his threads and seize his master nerve. Kate rolls and offers me her butt cheeks as she binges on Marie’s mouth, I see the move as a need for a shag so I furbish the weapon and bash in the dear carnation of both the lain tramps.
Gauthier jollies his pike deep into Sarah’s tighter path from her back, clutching her arms on her chest and breathing in her neck, they meander like one, mingling their feet, she tames his vigour as to revel more of him, she goes off and again a few times before he unleashes his shot, which seing makes me spurt out mine in Kate.
Marie feels she has been under-zealously served; among the collection displayed on the table, she choses a realistic phallus in supple and soft silicone, anoints it properly and drives it into her cute pleated bunghole, all the length, and begs Kate to frak her sweetly, which Her Grace obliges, dutifully, as anyone grabs a morsel to madden it kindly.
It smells of raw jism, spunk splatter; I follow Marie’s small tushie to the emerald room, ask her to pee on me before showering with her and the others who joined. When dry, I want to make fresh tea, Marie comes with me to the kitchen while Sarah wallows at two worshipers’ hands. We choose Ya Bao flowers and a generous glass pot. The kettle hisses as she embraces me tight and suckles my tongue as a lollipop and we dance. In the half-lit room, I sense a presence and see a young thin figure with short blond hair and clear eyes, hip-swayed in tight yoga pants and black and white striped marinière; it is Natalia, Lena the caretaker’s daughter, who has been growing into a most impressive flapper for my taste.
Being spotted, she brazenly walks to us in a pair of unlaced sneakers and says she’s been watching us; she pats Marie’s pointing breasts, turns to me, showing the most disarming smile, then as swift as a squirrel she pulls her pants down, grabs my hand to her cooch and says we made her wet, that I can feel. And she flees.
Slightly stunned, smelling her on my fingertips that Marie licks playfully, I remain a tad concerned. Lena has always been a precious person in Hugo’s realm, managing day-to-day care in a jiffy, and up to now, her daughter only rarely cropped up stealthily in her wake, never to raise any awkward concern of decency towards her youth. But some girls grow this way, suddenly they spawn as objects and subjects of want and lust. In one year they spout up, bony and moony with pants getting shorter by the day, careless and sweet to the teeth. One might unleash there some Humbert Humbert rage and start some reptilian constriction, were some means available, and this house certainly shows aplenty, but here we all play in our own league; save for art and literature, whenas fantasies know little respect for any coveted neighbour, real or not.
Hugo smirks faintly when, bringing the silver tray with the sleek glass cups, I told our encounter with the wildlife in the kitchen shades. He says it had been bound to happen and he trusts it would play rightfully for Natalia’s future, otherwise he could send her somewhere, in Switzerland for example, says he, stroking Sarah’s tummy in her wide abandon. He says Lena gave him permission to take photographs of her daughter, the kind I remember from before he ever touched me. The girl knows she has much more to garner with her grades than with pandering her crack away; besides, she is a minor.
The small flowers in the tea pot sink down, head up. Still lustfully clasped at one another, we open the wondrous albums on the table, one of them presenting platinum prints of full-length portraits of girls for sale, in the utmost alluring sets and attire, if not indecently nude across velvets and furs. Contrary to some other albums, either older or cheaply realised, this here must have been shot on sunny days with a northern exposure, so the eyes did not wink and the gazes are real, expensive-looking.
The pearls on the firm slender necks look real and profuse at a time cultured pearls weren’t ubiquitous. Chances are that the necklace crept from one body to the next, under the doubly keen eye of its owner. Silk shawls with long interlaced fringes shyly unveiling clear morsels of the nude bodies they hugged in their gleam, or pulled aside in swirls so as to glorify the pubis of a real blonde; chiselled velvet mantels seemingly thrown at random on one shoulder as the most part of the haunch dared a creamy exposure; most provocative tease with the offering of the butthole under an opulent fur stole, along with more obvious raw anatomies, nonetheless “chaussées” of fine kid bottines and silk stockings, in order to dissipate any doubt on the subject on sale, apart from the awesome technical work of the photographer, made me revel into the luxuriation of submissive abandon, like I had crafted quite often, possibly for Hugo. Did he scheme somewhat to entice and debauch Natalia with seemingly funny old photos? It had worked on me at the same age, would I complaint?
It is a balmy hour, Gauthier has revelled in me and Hugo relished sharing with both of us, as it went. We freshened in running water and Hugo smoothed my skin and theirs with the dry oil of an idea of lavender and neroli as light as a wink of Kate. The way Gauthier is treating me at his touch tips twirl me round anyhow he pleases.
The tea is slyly evocative and so to speak herbaceous in a sweet way, but in effect I rave on what happened just now in the kitchen, because I know that glow in Kate’s eyes and it is well worth spending, saintly mind.
Marie is engrossed in the lavish albums, as much for the incomparable finesse of the prints as for the offenseless vice they portray. Her dinky bottom mimics just naturally the invite she reads through time, that is a game she has played with Hugo better than me. Kate reaches my armpit and noses in with an approbative hum, and it is all on me soon, as I let go for the three of them, when Hugo seizes my head and reads my eyes, asking for my tongue; Gauthier wriggles into my easy bunghole and Kate ravishes my bitchberries as she learned well, until Marie takes a fancy for my toes. After a short while Gauthier overturns our pair and offers my kitty for Hugo to boogie in, then Marie gently sits on my mouth, before Kate stirs up in her mauve jacksy with a very ornate walrus tusk dildo from the pacific islands, asking the same service from me with a baroque silver shaft out of Hugo’s ethnic collection.
It is a grand festival crisis of sorts as everyone unbars the plexus fire all the way up and down the spine and collapses over me; I pass out in the endless fermata.
Breathless, unraveled, unhinged in awe after the magnificent chorus of shimmers. Sarah rests in her childish clear waters like an unfettered Ophelia among the lilies; Kate clings to her side in the kindly stream of unfurling conscience whereas Marie cuddles for deep currents of unbound forgiveness.
My flamboyant companion in arms buries his face in Sarah’s crotch brimming with animal scents, embracing the long shapely legs. I feel a last passion for their feet, groomed to perfection, unadulterated and witty in their soulful symmetry. Mary’s are runners, acrobats, trained tools of her conquered leeway, they quiver in the caress, they jump; Katherine’s recall the unending sands of her childhood wonderment, beyond all boundaries in the high spheres of northern light, madly transgressive and bold, she wants room for her loose toes; as for Sarah’s toes and slim arched feet, all-time objects of her father’s worship in their sneaky pride, they flee out of any shoe no sooner she lands dry, but they are nonetheless citywise and educated, she lets them climb bare on your lap if you wish in most surroundings.
The whole troupe is raddled out, spent beautifully. Hugo and me groom the abandoned bodies with some fleur d’oranger water on muslin, leaving them fresh as dawn. Kate unconsciously rolls to Sarah’s side while Marie asks me to the loo and lets me have her mouth as she pees. We tuck them into rich silk shawls and let them sink in oblivious fantasies as we secure the camp at the wings.
Late morning, the brood is still buried deep into the multicoloured stuffs, with only one tempting foot poking out of the jumble. I meet Hugo in the kitchen, he wears the grand vellutto sopraritzzo robe with the scarlet Persian lions on dark gold silk; he pulls aside my cover and strokes my chest as he kisses into my neck. He says we will treat Sarah with french toast and cherry marmalade, so she will be as naughty as a schoolgirl; he beats the eggs in the sweet vanilla milk, dips all the dry bread slices he could find and arranges them on a plate under a sprinkle of brown sugar when they are golden. Now It may wait, in the meantime he plays with my dick, until I wish I took a shower and prep up myself.
Eventually, the merry slappers have inundated the bathroom before appearing before us butt-naked in different shirts of Hugo’s, with wet hair and fresh mouths. Sarah is overjoyed with the appetizing reminder of her Swiss paradise and offers the chef an armful of herself. At the yawning and stretchings of Kate, I turn up gloriously hard, for the enjoyable amusement of Marie.
Two pots of vigorous Darjeeling will be necessary as they peck at the toasts in a mess of tangy-sweet cherries, and I know Hugo and me must leave soon for an important sale, so we gather tiny crumbs on their lips and run.
There’s a toe-fight under the table when Lena springs in, apparently thinking that the place is free for her to work. Parsing the late hour and our indecent get-up, she understands and smile. On the retreat, she however ventures a soft remark about her daughter, who might have feared she offended or shocked us last night; I swiftly soothe down the tone and swear that there was nothing to be thought of and Natalia is the sweetest person, only she must know that there are some natural encounters to happen in the upper floors, but Lena knows that already. I invite her to keep on her plans if she doesn’t mind us a little longer. She agrees quite matter-of-factly, then laughs at the shirts we wear and moves on.
Back in our apartment, where Lena has already tidied and sorted everything, we fetch our kind of studio fatigues but visibly Marie needs another round of exultations, which brings us ravaging her again on the bed until she cries for mercy, because we know all too well these manners of trade. She’s beaming in a light cotton gown, a bit tight on the breasts, with woolen socks but no knickers, which tells her mind well.
Among our thriving library wall, Marie has picked an all-traditional treatise on picture composition, proportions and neo-Platonist metaphysics of a unified order of the universe, so as the visual creator, from Veronese to Kandinsky, may asseverate that his demonstrative construction is an echo of an esoteric harmony of the sensible world. With a pinch of salt, it isn’t too hazardous to roam through this once in a lifetime, then wink, each time you parse that you just instinctively played according to one of these rules, like improvising according to one scale or another, like a skilled musician. This laid down, while the muscatel flavor of a new cup unfurls onto my satiated plexus, one may trace back to the conversation we argued with our artful James, in which my bosom pal and me ranked with the claim of surrealism to let our souls, in the lay sense of both articulate mind and inarticulate background, as a living whole, lead our personal cartography of the passion archipelago.
While Sarah has crossed her legs on her seat and meditates on her cup, Marie has fetched a new notebook in our stash, an automatic pencil, and scrawls notes and sketches from the book and the system she had only vaguely known about, through some technical jargon of photography, and she visibly feels she might put to use in a way or another; she’s prettily absorbed, and by pulling up her feet on the couch, she bares her sassy cunt and, realising, smiles to us.
My old master Tudor Weiss taught us that philosophers, like Plato, despise artists because these aim to transgress their mental universal apparatus. Until the defeat of God, artists were submitted, casual victims of microcephalic Savonaroles and inquisitors; then roped into “social” or “national” realism. And so, to dodge the arrows and comminations, they rationalised with an exquisite calculus a godly design only them could extol, provided their complacency to unrevealed sexual shenanigans of the different clergies more or less. André Breton, the “anti-father” with a black diamond voice, rallied beyond death and the sublime dowsers of free thinking. I wish I had reeled all this off to James, but I will.
Now, not only do I see Marie’s happy cookie but also two wide eyes. Little did she foresee the kind of manifesto I just laid out. From where she came, she achieved so much more than we did and kept her head up, whenas I reveled like a squirrel on the lakeshore. But if she wants to stay with us longer, we must order a third work-seat so she takes an end of the table and draw, like Irving Penn or Man Ray.
The slim cadet and me have been exchanging our works, while Marie hardly breathed in her meditation. She scribbled many pages with sketches of frames, as far as I could see. She had covered her fine thighs, for a while. We played ambient soundscapes and drank light oolongs; Sarah “helped” her to pee once, as well as it goes.
We went out and bought some fine fish terrine and chartreuse slices, eggs, a box of fruit salad and a few bottles of fresh kombucha. Marie was already languorous and feline. She bought flowers, a ready-made bouquet of rather rustic varieties of cornflowers, thistle, echinops, columbine, daisies, a jumble of simples and her fetish umbels, that we disposed in a Royal Copenhagen round vase, a present to Sarah from Gauthier. She confessed that she knew she would find that bouquet in that shop, she had slept with the florist a few times and given him a few advice.
The food is welcome and rewarding, a green cream sauce goes with the terrine slices and the soft-boiled eggs I can do. I slipped into a pastel blue light corduroy shirt-dress and nothing, Sarah shows her shoulders in a black tank top and a short denim skirt and Marie chose a lilac oxford shirt and decides it will be enough with black stockings. We mingle feet like teenagers, it feels simple and clear, I wonder aloud how she manages, like the one time she had taken us to the forest, to ease the time being and weigh no more than a blue tit on the flowers?
The way she intended to fill my vase touches me like a dainty dedication and Kate sees it. She tells of the minuscule purple-red flower at the center of the wild carrot umbel, which was her secret confidant along the never-ending maddened years of her devoid childhood; through many dreams, that she welcomed, she never discerned how she was inspired the right choice for ending her misery without hurting anyone but the evil. After the farm was sealed on itself, deported to a Breton orphanage, it was easy to confide in simple social workers and teachers, watch her feet grow, work soap lather into her and other girl’s tender nooks, parry the poison away and let the shudder in her chest radiate like the tiny garnet at the center of the modest umbels. She played with my hands.
Marie stares vaguely, a random glint from one lamp in her yellow eyes, a serene smile for me as she plays footsie, then shrugs slightly and picks fruit cubes from the box and turns towards Kate who is busy gathering egg yolk with a piece of brown bread on her fork. As the French say, “un ange passe” and the city feels very far away; my educated guess tells me she yearns for Simon, or Cynthia in the open vastness of the sand banks. Without pulling my feet, I seize one hand from each and break the silence with a jaded reminder of James’ metaphor about the primal mother.
I remember feeling you two descending upon this house and Hugo’s soul. First he wanted to lure Kate into his party, and Sarah who was nested with Camille. I had been a regular anecdote of his, for years, after a few misfires of mine and a troublesome apprenticeship in photography on both sides of the lenses. Before, I had been raised on public expense, quite honestly, with more of trustworthy tutors than abusive gits, albeit there were, and one is enough to rot your life. Probably because I had dodged fate a good once, I grew up untouched but all the way bitchy as you can tell. No, no, don’t protest, I could show you both. At eighteen, I needed liquid money to buy all the vanities I had lusted on, like a silly blond fool; I had already sold my ass a few times to unaware fiancés, traded my charms for the necessary rudiments of my would-be profession, but my life became far more in-line when I met the circle of my rich admirers.
Camille had spotted me in her gallery, and made eye contact at once, in case I would not come again. After some casual bavardage, she enticed me to bring some of my work, since I had laid that I was more into art photography than reportage. The next day, she craftily crept into my game and kept me well after closing time, dazzling me with her house, her tales, and her dexterity.
She actually knew much more than me, who had nevertheless been cramming the classics and subscribed to the best magazines, about photography as an art. She had asked for the images of me I had stolen from my ex and kept them in her computer. She groomed me, made me feel independent and able in her realm. We reached a mood of intimacy such as she avowed her own origin and heard mine almost entirely, so eventually I chose to follow her path and thus she loved me more yet. She never failed me since.
You sure know that living in Camille’s bed is grand and she is captivating. I could not have enough of her mercenary adventures with mighty but mannered gents, could you? At first, we went together There were a few in cushy hotels or in spacious palaces, in distinguished shag pads or even sophisticated homes like here. She gradually emboldened me in the depraved acting according to what I felt was expected; back in her bath and bed, we felt lasciviously fulfilled and spent. Money was piling, I paid most of my things cash. She reminded me about my cameras, sent me out working, devised my studio for post-production needs, filled my walls with reference books, like yours, except she missed your treatise on picture construction that I must now find, of course.
One day she brought me here and Hugo liked me enough to fuck me in every corner, although I still discover more. With or without Camille, he played me, sometimes with friends of his, boys he craves too, and all the time I revel in being his whore, like I want to be yours. I know he took pictures of you two with his precious collections, but he hasn’t shown them to me, yet; he might give me some advice for doing characters and nudes, I do not feel able in that field.
It has started to rain outside, it plops on the zinc window ledges in soothing rhythm, while on the large screen overlooking our bed a multi-randomised software unfurls lines, ribbons, arabesques and textures upon the innumerable givens of the scrubby input soundscape. In the shattered light of our festival electrical garlands, we round our graces over the satin sheets, in reminiscence of the many previous trips we dreamt from here to “never never land” and back. Tonight, unorthodox medicines are obviously ruled out, for the sake of the betiding One in the zealous womb of our vigilant Marie; but placebo stimulations suffice in our ever-expanded minds to trigger the fireworks and sensations. Soon, my spine feels like a soft pinball machine and my lost kids accomplices scent legendary.
My dream has withdrawn as a tide of galaxies upon white sands, the last rounds of birds hover higher and vanish in the subdued harmonies of a sly trumpet as I open my eyes to the familiar carousel of our playful fairy lights. Alongside of me, a very live filly rubs her butt to my tummy with a faint hum of contentment, her face into Sarah’s neck.
I close the door when I pee, then I brew some Margaret’s Hope and squash two oranges. In the icebox I find leftover French toasts and white macarons in a box; these fulfill my needs. As I pour the tea, I feel a deft hand on my tits and a kiss in my hair, then Sarah sits on my lap and steals my cup for a while. Then she takes place opposite me and offers one wolfish gaze in the midst of her black mess of hair; her azurite eyes beam under rich lashes and her mouth blooms a smile in no words. It is mild enough to stay undressed; her goodberries lurk on her clear- skinned chest.
I drain my bladder and take a quick shower to cleanse dream sweats. I was kept on watch by a gathering of crimson crows perched on ruined walls, and my poor clothes were already torn to rags by the bramble stems, but I pointed my camera on the birds and they pranced around as if nothing. The firemen set fire to the bramble bush which consumed into an upward tornado and I saw myself nude in the middle of lustful fire fighters in their shining helmets. A girl I have known sent me a checkered tablecloth to cover myself, at the rumbling disapproval of the onlookers, but I could not walk because the ground was still hot, so they called a bright red truck bearing a sophisticated contraption supposedly to lift me out of the ashes. I am carried up in a soft red hull and multicoloured lights twinkle around in a theater where I lay in a friendly bed, deserted.
Undecided on what to wear, I find them unclothed anyway, so I can bother them tenderly one by one as they check their Google news and find an invitation to join Camille and Fanny for a stroll in Versailles; I like that and bustle with Kate’s neck and nipples, straddling on her, to hear a yes. As usual of late, I start to bite into the toasts and jam but I can’t swallow much, I want fruit; Kate squashes more oranges and that will do, I feel, along with tea which has infused long enough to enliven my taste buds. I drift in the thought that, in the backlighting of the spattered window, they make an ideal scene, so I jump for my compact camera and shoot, at the AI good will.
In waterproof sports outfits, we walk to the Boulevard Saint Germain to meet the grey van with shaded windows, followed by security detail in a plain car. No sooner the sliding door opens by itself than Fanny pulls me next to her on the back row and cuddles me; when she slides a hand under my sweatshirt, I look for Kate’s eyes and read one eyebrow up and then a swift smile of friskiness, emboldened by Marie’s ribbing at her own side. In an hour’s time we park inside the domain near the Grand Canal in a bright sunshine, so we lighten the clothing down to simple shirts; we all seem like schoolkids on the run, followed by a couple of handsome men in jeans and nylon flight jackets, who ask Marie not to take pictures, to what she gracefully obeys with a smirk, and runs diligently to the car to pack away the camera under the chauffeur’s guard.
Fanny holds my hand now, her French has notably improved, she knows about Versailles history, we now see the Grand Trianon; she says she feels for Marie-Antoinette as a woman, she fantasise her as a sensuous aristocrat saddled with a frustrated dullard, whom she can’t believe waited seven years to concede to a much needed circumcision before he coud discover the intercourse. She wants to know if I like fucking, she is quite straightforward about sex, she watched me being apparently trashed down on the carpet and begging for more, so I joke on what partners may obtain with some dedication in the manners, which Donovan sure had devoted at my own relish, on that night. And my rump still feels aroused. She says that Camille is the sweetest lover she could dream of, I concur and tell her I had been in Camille’s bed for two years before I came at Hugo’s realm and meet Kate. She nods, adding that Camille has promised her as many well-hung men as she would cram into her coot, as her name would hint to a naughty ear.
She goes on asking, jumping to English randomly, about my life and upbringing. She marvels at all I have been through and known already. I explain to her how privileged we are, Kate and myself, but that it won’t deem her of less value in her future, if she rests on solid friendships and parses her given in life with a few principles Camille will undoubtedly massage into her spine safely, (and there, I have to elaborate on what a metaphor is). I tell her that today it may be a terrific asset to have been groomed up as a total whore, since she survived whole and unabashed. She may confer freely with Doctor Méant about the geometry — there I hold her head to my face gently, wait for a few seconds and kiss her– of her soul, to build her own tower of crystal on the shore, to let whom she will decide in, or not.
As we follow the canal’s ledge, I side with one or the other, arm in arm. testing babies’ names with Camille, devising libertine strategies with Kate whose wildness suggests that she experienced more than she tells. I skilfully steal Fanny from Sarah who was sensibly representing some safeguard to the motherless reborn in our course of debauchery where she can teach and more.
She is radiant, lithesome in well-cut jeans and a peridot-green shirt with rolled sleeves, opened on her shy breasts with pale nipples. In her boyish haircut, a touching cowlick at the forehead emphasises her witty berylline gaze, unflinchingly tense and yet almost infant. I feel compelled to fathom her quasi praeternatural survival with eventually the strength to fight out of her misery. She collectedly explains, as she has unraveled the threads with her therapist, how necessary bonds had somehow sewn her together, mostly Miss Novak beyond her own terror, and even the Captain by his few self-restraints until she escaped. Letting me stroke her breasts, she says to my face that she believes there are no such things as blood ties, we root where we are like the gardener’s cuttings; most of the time, one has parents, sometimes one makes up some.
I have to agree with her, although I cannot remember for sure who helped what in my inner struggle, and what was there at the first years, possibly enough as a base to my clumsy construction, enough from what let my second-life tutors guide me usefully? Obviously so, if I review all the soul-searching I did, included the ultimate transgression I devised altogether easily. Or am imposing my overbearing whim upon a conjunction of precious wills whom happened to circle me in their love? As I may know, Camille too, bloomed spectacularly upon a mass grave, only she wouldn’t have thought of birthing somebody, would she? She wisely sublimated her ordeal into art and those who do it, while, as wisely too, she perverted the social consensus at her will. Notwithstanding, I do not perceive any speck of doubt in the round of fairies and fauns who scent me so near and rejoice in my renewed carousing.
I caught Sarah back between us and try to make her blush with compliments, helped in that by Marie whose cheeks beam. We have walked around in the woods and back to some café near our cars, they serve hot cocoa and blueberry pie. At the mild amazement of our official angels, Kate embraces Sarah, sliding her hand to her tootleberries and they laugh stealthily. All agree to finish the day at our place so I anticipate new cavalcades and it makes me wet. They start ordering the usual hatful of relishes on their telephones. In the black seats, we fight again for each other and I find Marie’s hand in my pants.