Dr Cynthia Möhlitz wrote:
Dear unforgettable Katherine,
As close back as yesterday, your slinky brother Simon, whom I had eventually traced to the Fraunhofer planet, told me all of your harrowing ordeal and the good hopes anew.
Never would I lose memory of our unleashed youth around the Alster and across the sands of our islands, we have been unforgettably formidable for these few years, and you gave me and some others strength to confront our awkward fate.
When my parents, who had devoted their careers to me and my then unorthodox fulfilment, moved to these antipodes for a position where they could endeavour the cause, I was struck by the primordial necessity to involve myself firsthand with it.
I have kept in my chest the biting remorse of having lost you and your dreamy eyes, your easy soul to swim with and your brilliant brother, your overwhelmingly touching relationship.
Simon says he recovers daily from his bygone wounds and fosters no grudge towards you, he parsed the whole event and is determined that, as wasted as you said you had been, it was none of your fault. He loves you and your friends dearly, as you may tell.
Today, I want to ask you a favour. For a few years, in Melbourne and Sydney I have smoothly befriended Theo Flannery, who is a beautiful soul of ambiguous genre, a somewhat perfect companion for someone like me, apart from you, of course. Theo wants to be a “he”, knowing he never responded to male hormones and grew up with mostly feminine sexual characteristics, and a smaller penis with resolute erections, though.
Theo is a writer, a poet. He always fantasised about Paris, better than anywhere else, and he wants to spend a year or so in your city, as I learned, could you help him find some kind of perch somewhere safe? He lives rather well-off and speaks French, he is no cumbersome company, you will know at once. I would bet you will not be long before you thank me for the encounter, and I know you well. I remember how your family worships swans of the lake; here is a beautiful black one, will you shelter him?
I already revel in the expectation of sharing glints of your life, Fairy belle, Simon brushed a very arousing portrait of your sister soul Sarah, I wish we met again before it were too late, on any island, this one here is big enough.
It buzzes in my chest as I again write that I love you always.
Faraway star of a sister,
Resurgence of Wonderland, Cynthia wrote out of the ocean blue and revived a heap of emotions all over my soul, urging me to reunite with you, and Sarah, and all the realm.
I narrated for her the accident and your returning to Paris, without whatever details you will feel like sharing with her. She became an impressive character, you should see her on Skype. I think I will visit her, when I feel assured I would not constitute too much of a disappointing surprise to her who pretty well knew me, then. She is a Doctor, though, she would overcome the sight of a few scars, as you did, pearl of my dreams.
Cynthia said she would like you to chaperon a sweet friend of hers coming to Paris, will you?
I want to see you both soon, I have secured some free time, tell Sarah I want her too.
Be good, Kate, as you know it.
My Rothenbaum rake,
I kept such a fervent trust in you that I think you know you may ask anything and I will consider it a joy to oblige, in all my means and will. We have extensive resources around here, it should not raise any obstacles to lodge a gentle person around, in the best surroundings in Paris.
Yet, I hope you fathomed that since our school days we did not quieten the least, and we actually live in quite libertine ways. Nevertheless, rest assured that no one I know in life would take exception to gender-free ways of life, all the more in the kind of character you would recommend.
Although there would no longer pass quiet days in Clichy, not by a long chalk, the city remains inhabited by enough captivating minds and informally driven by clever networks of all in all morally sound might; I wouldn’t extend to the medical powers, which are still entangled in greed and bigotry, worse than those your parents fled in Germany
As for the question of intersex, Switzerland seems to have opted for sane regulations, eluding the social pressure for reassigning children genre, as if there ever had been such thing. Only educated adults may consider such a leap. In her Swiss school, Sarah befriended off-gender students who won their pride socially, in the school circle at least, and besides, it was some uncommon Swiss school anyhow.
So, it is exciting to await for some new acquaintance; not so long ago, we greeted a fugitive from the aftermaths of the Balkan wars, a young orphan of nowhere who had hustled me in Venice, on purpose, and helped corner a gang of evildoers. We can’t be totally sure she is not mentally maimed, but she is working her way and I am proud that she chose me.
It would clearly be a brilliant idea if we met again, on a free island, all of us, and it is not unfeasible in our loose schedule, it would certainly be your call, tanned amazon of Amrum. Have you ever had any news of Aenne Anker, our shy gay protégé?
Simon said I should call you by Skype, to look at you; he was impressed!
Send us your debutant, lovely, you can imagine all the intimate thoughts it spurs up, talking of old times with you.
My love and deep respect for who you are and what you do, Cynthia.
I referred the letters to the Lord of the Manor as first person susceptible to see to a means of accomodate Cynthia’s candidate in our snug part of the city. Hugo remembered well my story with Cynthia, and seized the occasion to lay me in his office’s couch and fondle me gently; I let him do and joked I was ready to prostitute for my friend’s request. He made me feel like he already agreed and we had a light-minded aparté first, then he told me that Gauthier could see a new neighbour on his floor who might meet his tastes, possibly? Would it be close enough to me? As an answer, I played whore and remained on all fours at his will, he only needed to lick my arse a little. We dressed back up, I only wore a polka-dot black and white silk twill dress that slid back on as fast as it had slid off, he fetched some keys and pushed my satisfied bum towards the stairs.
On the third floor of the other part of the building, in the evocative smell of fresh paint because everything was new or renewed, he opened the door next to Gauthier’s and greeted me in a cosy little apartment of three rooms, a day room with a kitchen counter, a bedroom and a study, with a lavish bathroom with a convenient walk-in Italian shower, in which he pushed me against the mosaic wall and wanked my still drippy gash for a tender moment after what he opened a cupboard and gave me a towel, holding up my skirt as I washed in the bidet, he reveled in the whole sequence. The view was on inner courts and gardens. He suggested we helped Theo furnish and decorate the place.
The main access was from a different street. I was very proud of him and said so, he bit my earlobe and said he hoped he would meet Cynthia, too, one fine day.
Sarah liked the idea of a newcomer with a mystery, she wanted details of my whorish request to Hugo and almost asked for a reconstruction right away on the studio floor, but I told her that I did not wear my slutty dress, so she contented herself with my licking her standing up and me kneeling.
We wrote the good news to Australia and asked if we could start to arrange the place so as it would be liveable as soon as Theo landed. Were there elements to be avoided, being understood we could let him see by himself to the fabrics and colours, if he chose.
Sarah was wired with the idea, and so she groped me at any occasion like a mad puppy.
I had heard so much about Cynthia Möhlitz and it reminded me about some gentle characters of Saint Loup’s sleeping quarters that I craved to make a new intersex friend, for a start. At a time when my Far had parsed my psychological bruises, due to my brother’s unforgivable abuse of me, ferreted out, through his networks, the prized advice about Saint Loup, near Geneva, one of his customary stations, it had been a windfall of blessings to find, inside Julia Grant’s orb of sway and the stealth conspiracy of many all-decent adults, Harmony be praised, all the promising buds of tolerance and leniency towards wild fawns like me. I reckon today that we had all been wrecked some way or other and were luckily granted another chance by privileged parents. Among our fuzzy troupe, the uncommon sexual cases came to be regarded as interesting souls and worthy desirable characters, as all of our parents had been advised in the school’s chart, Far be blessed for that, too.
The Aussies soon green lighted our nesting ardour so our days’work soon summarised in surfing the web for ideas and directions while eventually petting each other like otters in a bath.
On photographs, Theo was a boyish, coffee brown-eyed, half-long fawn haired, one dash more laddish than Hilary Swank, that which set me expecting already.
What sort of matchmaking had Cynthia devised? There was no doubt about her knowing Kate’s sensuous dispositions and nothing had changed at that, Theo wasn’t being unbeknownst lured into an unwelcome partnership and he would readily learn about our liberal ways, wouldn’t he?
Kate was confident that Cynthia was granting us a big favour, as well as securing a fruitful venture for her friend.
As early as ten in the morning, we met them in Skype, it was obvious they were lovers, just about the same as us over here. Cynthia resplendent, short straight black hair over the ear, piercing green look through the same thick lashes as Sarah; she displayed neat square shoulders in a jade green shirt.
Theo was kind of hiding his boyish smile behind a blond forelock like a wild poney but spoke smoothly and wilfully, with a gracious twitch to send his hair aside, in a charming and relatively high-pitched tone of voice, in fact like us girls, using distinctive vocabulary and turns of phrase. Beside Cynthia he appeared as tall but willowy with long animated hands; he wore a black shirt opened low on a tanned chest.
They were overjoyed with the answer given to their query, he had no requirement to ask, after hearing the description of his lodging. He was cutely shy to meet his future neighbour but took our word for Gauthier’s perfect manners. Having researched our address, he had understood that he would dwell in the midst of a legendary literary land, even if nowadays only atypical writers like Hugo could afford that vicinity; we did not elaborate on the landlord’s social status.
Cynthia had a few fits of nostalgia, looking at me alongside Sarah who revived the tale of the young Alster lovers and our mad trio into the dunes of Sylt and Amrum. We exchanged promises of never losing track of each other again, I clung to my distinguished cadet and swiftly caressed her kitty, off the frame of the cam.
There were three weeks until he would land, it would be superfluous to wait longer, and enough time to gather the necessary stuff, a big bed, first.
We have ran and bustled like squirrels and now the apartment is most civilised and inviting. We spent like there were no tomorrow and Gauthier went puzzled about us, but was circled a few times in the new lair, and eventually helped us in good will. Hugo lent some paintings of his own collection, visibly aroused by this new recruit to come.
Now we wait at Roissy airport for our boy, who finally shows up with three suitcases on a trolley. He is stunningly beautiful, tall and slim, ethereal like a dancer, I want him at once and he reads it in my gaze; he reads the same in Kate’s smile. We cram the heavy bags in the car and head to town.
He’s rather drowsy but enthused to see Paris, albeit we drive through kilometers of rubbish land until we enter the city by the opposite side; once crossed the boulevards the views get Parisian for real.
At home, help is afoot to carry the luggage upstairs. Theo is bedazzled, he agrees to a cup of tea and is stunned to see that is is brewed in his own kitchen with his own crockery; we sit with him on the couch and armchairs and watch him doze out and sleep. After a while, we take him to his bed, take his shoes off and let him alone. Like two malandrins with a big loot, we stand guard; and like two lustful slappers, we kill time on the couch with the best of our abilities. Cynthia’s protégé found a new shelter.
Hugo’s people did marvels at our choices; beige satin rendering on walls, old ruddy tiles on the floors with antique carpets, maple shades on the windows, deep leather couch and armchairs, ship wood low tables, maple shaker round dinner table and chairs.
The study has been lined with bookcases and a spacious maple desk stands in the middle, with three working chairs, in case of literary conference.
The bed is high enough for fucking on the side, the mattress is of the extra-thick sort. A wall-to-wall mirror hides a huge storage. A triptych painting of elaborated intricate textures in deep warm tones sets a scape of subterranean sabbat over a dark chest of drawers, two other paintings jolt into an undecided space random details of seemingly young models in rapture, gazing at the viewer. Thick carpets, designed after traditional patterns of the Tibetan stylised tiger skins allow to possibly fall from the bed and roll around.
All lighting is indirect, concealed and adjustable the eye never meets a dazzling spot.
Our “wallaby?” will likely ensconce himself in here, courted by the whole house and more, attended on by the same help as his neighbour, two minutes away from our hospitable bed. In a few days we will start updating him to the amenities of the voisinage, stores, caterers, macaron genius, sushi wizards, late night cries for help at our doors.
If he woke up now he would find Sarah stark naked licking her friend like a heart of barley candy.
After a few exultations each, but we know there is no limitation to this, we came to yawning wide, understanding that our duty commanded that we sleep there. the teapot was empty, we had eaten most of the treats we had brought, he was still sound asleep when we deftly stole his clothes, did not yet peek at his crotch, we left him in his underwear an buried him into the sheets and quilt, tiptoed away, after taking blankets for ourselves.
I still like cuddling into Kate’s arms closed on my chest, I passed out in bliss.
It’s morning on a first heatwave on forty-second street, I walk in the nude escorted by an agitated brigade of squirrels holding tiny red jingle bells; they babble together but, as usual, I don’t understand. Drab exhausted characters smile at me and my court of rodents which salute at random and collect chunks of candy bars. Around Grand Central, the buildings are draped in curiously mended tarps and trussed up. Upon the bridge running elephants, decked in motley rags, trumpet joyously. I walk inside the station in a hullabaloo of jungle, steam and bird cries. Three men in dark Amtrak uniforms and cap circle me, to the instant disarray of the squirrels which climb into palm trees; they undo their ties and show me to cover myself with them, and so I do unexpectedly well, piecing together a very short mini-dress which seems appropriate nevertheless. One of the employees orders me to wait there and brings back a pair of black varnished round-tipped escarpins I had been wearing once for some marriage ceremony in Helsingør. It is June, I am still too small to look over the tables and see if anything would be palatable, but the squirrels are jumping among the plates and the crystal glasses to bring me dragées and raisins and jewels of gold and pearls. They tickle my neck and shoulders when they try to fit the necklace, they play with my ears and nose, then Kate pushes her tongue between my lips and I find myself in front of young man in an African blue djellaba and gold embroidered black babouches.
After responding to Kate’s kiss, I recover my wits and realise that we are already laying nude before a mere stranger who might be scared off, although he doesn’t show. I cover myself like old times and grab some clothes, not sure if it is mine or hers, Theo drops in an armchair and looks amused, offering some tea. I can’t help but stretch out and I see that he peeps me over, interested. Kate takes her time to slid on the sweat shirt and shows her bum, pulling up the leggings over no underwear; he nods, I wink.
Theo wants to call Cynthia in Skype with us, he has already called his parents on his phone. He asks if he can sit with us, we let him in between us, he smells cinnamon, like I could lick his neck; he opens his laptop on the low table and asks for the connection password. He is very fast on the keyboard and quite soon, the tone rings and Cynthia appears, in nightly lights. She comments on the scene she sees and we tell her that not long before we have been caught in the nude, sleeping. Theo declares it has been a true Parisian delight and it made him feel at home right away, like the best of omen. Cynthia responds that she can’t venture about one of the hosts but she knows full well about the other on how he should get along with; I tell her there are a few more around us he should appreciate, too, and I give her a rapid insight of the fine tribe, with timid hints about the manners and habits, testing sideways Theo’s reactions. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were slyly rubbing along the cute brunette on the other side. We greet plenty of bliss on both sides of the world, promise to talk to each other every possible day, and kiss.
I have not been seeing things, these two touch each other and might soon be kissing, actually, she deftly jumped the gun, as a little streel, would you say, one who learned in the best school, indeed! A tad disconcerted, I decide not to withdraw and begin to comb with my fingers, the long strand of hair across his forehead, as if to help his face be kissed by Sarah, and it works; deliberately, he wanders both hands on both sides and finds her mouth all available. Yet, I am not in the mood to step aside, so I poke a nasty tongue in his neck and ear until he turns to my face and play. After a few more return kisses, his long robe starts being pulled up and eventually fly off with our shirts and tights, so he may blush as a virgin at the hands of succubus sisters. Skimming around his sleek chest and thighs, we jointly let him breathe to his own heart, live his own lust, smell us around his own soul.
His weeny still sulks in fright or disarray, but he meanders under our skillful strokes like an otter on the shore, and Sarah says low peaceful words while I guide his thighs apart and reach and swallow this knob so as to wake it happy and going.
It is a stiff and forward plaything with not much of a ball-sack, but cute enough for me to fondle it in details, as well as his bunghole Cynthia must have reveled in for long.
If Sarah straddles him now, I am left at pleasing her rimming what she offers wide and vice versa. Theo moans movingly while we both interweave upon him, then he bucks up and, with only some slobber, threads into her unprepared back hatch and humps bravely till crisis. I have been capped alright at the post, but I admire his firm butt, as genderqueer as Sarah’s, yummy.
My phone cries a new message, it says Gauthier asks at our crush’s door. I inquire and give as much details as I feel will entice Theo towards his flaming neighbour, he says we might only take a shower first and that is what I type.
We befriend loosely under the water, he fingers us with baby soap and we smell like a prairie when Gauthier comes in and congratulates our freshness with a fine innuendo and a wink.
He carries shiny red boxes of macarons and avoids to ogle Theo too obviously but I can tell that he is in heat already. Sarah brews a pot of oolong and fetches four wooden bowls. Theo has never tasted any pastries like these. He now wears black moleskin slacks and a grey paisley print foulard silk shirt, shows his fine feet, like us, to madden the coppery headed gentleman, when I take them in hand. Sarah jumps and gives him hers, playfully opportunist.
Conversation rolls on about the trip and mutual memories of jet lag, but both are already engaged in eye tango, with us two jaded for the while, only Sarah jollies Gauthier, with her foot on his fly and a cute smile.
A call from Hugo offers a welcome reunion in his den later this evening with a heap of delicacies, if Theo survived.
Meanwhile, Gauthier has hopped at Sarah’s side and opened his pants in a proud response to her, but also a deliberate dare to Theo, if he were so minded, too.
But as Sarah is on to another easy shag, Theo clings to me ostensibly, disrobing me again and frolicking over my body, the girl way. Yet the gold knight is no beginner and ruse with Sarah’s consent or not to sneak inside Theo’s shirt and make him surrender his mouth while I pull his pants down.
Theo asks for truce, says it is all too fast, offers some chat in the nude, visibly Gauthier frightens him; I give my best to comfort him and cover his crotch with my hand.
Gauthier subdues himself, keeping his galant attitude towards Sarah who pets his noble erection and slides the other hand under Theo to come pat my nape. Eventually she opens her legs and takes a firebrand into her ready play sheath while Theo kisses her mouth. Good excuse for Gauthier to slowly twirl caresses over both busy faces as he keeps rummaging deep into the familiar magic.
In this rather abrupt manner, an however mild acquaintance is threaded between the beau neighbours and after Sarah has drawn her splendid bow in an arching climax, two wolves wrestle tongues upon her chest and in her mouth. There is still a place where I can play and I bid my pride at recalling Theo’s letch and bring him to yet another spend for me. In her haziness, Sarah must have felt some carnal debt towards me and so, as she leaves the new buddies exhaust their mouths, she crawls to my wanting clit and tortures it to an end.
There, there, Kate feels involved for a reason in Theo’s welfare from her old lover’s commendation and care, originating from her knowledge of his intimate social frailty. We discoursed on this thoroughly and there is not a pencil-thin shadow of a confusion in my mind as to how she lives her responsibility. Plus, she knows full well that I already dealt with non-binary comrades honorably since my early teens.
Come, come, we sail clear waters and there aren’t any clouds upstairs.
I happened to fall for the dark eyes, which might also squint an adorable swaying little bit. I hurtled to his face a little wildly, but he responded as lightheadedly as I wanted and did certainly not complain afterwards, did he?
On the leather, we smell like fornicating animals, but I like it on Kate, while the young stags explore each other, Theo strikingly feminine at Gauthier’s hands, on an armchair.
Time coming, after some lewd water sports, we groom again our asses and leave the boys for our lair to put on whorish easy-off attire; nothing Hugo likes best than feeling in a brothel scene, nothing we agree better than playing sluts with him.
I have this dark purple silk redingote that Gianni cut close fitting so I can wear it with nothing but sleek cavalier boots; I might hold a riding crop. Kate ties a long marine satin gown that leaves her back nude. She picks azurite-jewelled sandals, gift of Hugo’s, and remains without undies.
She wears a lush composition of youthful roses he once made for her; she certainly wants him to use her. I keep on the leather inspiration with a masculine blond pipe tobacco scent like in the McBarens tin that had remained in a cupboard under the roofs in Taarbæk, aggravated with soot of wood fire and perverted by cinnamon and Hugo’s fantasies of me, if he will. for once, I touch my eyelids and lashes with a bit of mascara, then puff a veil of powder; I do her, fingering her slit to watch the right expression on her beloved face. We laugh fantasising the boys doing the same kind of preening upstairs.
Hugo has been inspired by a charivari of silk flowers once sublimely crafted by Trousselier, four high bouquets spring up from new illuminated porcelain vases in the troubadour taste, only they depict gracile nymphs in the depth of waters, their ovals bordered by elaborate laces of gold. All the more in the brothel taste, says I , feeling his hand inside. He is thrilled with our inspiration and almost rapes me right away.
The boys show not long after, Theo in a bright scarab green textured silk jacket on black tee-shirt, slacks and boots, Gauthier in a thin night blue suit, assorted slippers embroidered on top with seashells, and a light white silk tee-shirt.
Our host wears a garnet and gold brocade robe fit on his shoulders, burgundy trousers and black thin skin ankle boots.
As I introduce Theo whom he doesn’t yet know, he keeps his hand and admires it, then sounds tentatively the dark stare and suddenly becomes almost shy, breathes and then speaks welcome words, explaining how I had vaunted his fine reputation and bid my life for him. He shows him to a couch and offers drinks of subtle savours, as we tell our day all to the host with more and more details, enticing him to nose playfully into our clothes, accordingly.
His complete leeway upon us tests Theo for his keen eyes, he craves the boy in his salon. As we avow a string of lewd villainies, he slowly undoes us just as we foresaw.
Theo smiles from across the low table where cristal food stands offer the full scale of exquisite delicacies, the one bite at a time way so suited to orgy. Gauthier wisely holds his hand and make funny comments mezzo voce.
Reading our eyes, Hugo is very soon aroused, all the more by our half-nude outfits, so he murmurs in Sarah’s ear and she goes for his flute and obligingly plays. Gauthier’s hand is soon all over Theo and mostly in his pants, then he does what Sarah did and sucks his neighbour. I hasten to his peen and work it into a proper staff of desire until he spits a loving spoonful of slime. I am proud of him and myself and he pushes me back to the other couch to return me the favour with talent, I take note to offer my comments to Cynthia. But while he fulfils my joy, Gauthier pulls his pants down, uses convenient lubricant and pushes inside his folly ring inexorably, without troubling his tongue searching, only giving him the idea to gather some drippings to send three fingers in my own arse at my full bliss.
Preterhuman is such a rare neoteric word and yet I wish I draped young Theo with it, his miraculous immaturity, like the white cheetah of the Serengeti, doomed, whereas he reigns in Faerie more real than the day, were we not to purvey the exceptional, the needed oneness of a veritable oeuvre d’art.
Far above the hollow skulls of the gnawing crowds in vengeful fear, have these ineffable beings been, for centuries, fantasised hovering in the music of total forgiveness. Yet, the social rule of the dominant culture will despise the nature of the unmatchable, the life ways of the ambiguous, however gainly they might evolve. Read my words, angels have always been of unattainable beauty. The conspiracy of lecherous hypocrites have strewn the ceilings and ledges of their lucrative soul ambushes with representations of undetermined characters that still overwhelm spectators like me and my crews.
Otherwise civilised nations, still today, tolerate the utter brutality against gender-queer newborns, butchered by medical bullies and fooled parents for the sake of a normalcy they cannot fabricate whatsoever.
This shapely fornicator, currently misbehaving on my carpets, has never been taught to live Joe Bloggs’ life and will hopefully breeze past the ticket booth of conformity without damage, so help him the consolidated fraternity of rightful libertines.
Sarah senses that I lost her on the way to ethereal baroque angels, she doesn’t deserve such an affront, so I log back to her azure eyes and watch her mindful face rewind to the great fucking we do, she spreads her thighs wider again to let me properly ream deep and come with her only, my classy teddy girl who scents of Danish perverse poisons as blue as her soul. Then we roll and I hug her into the snug corner of the couch for a wealth of kisses, forgetting the other wild trio.
Theo is a slinky boyish ride who knows manners of buggering with grace. Kudos for Melbourne’s reputation! Or is it Sydney?
Humping the best of two worlds, a cadet honey child, a newfound sibling for Sarah, who knows also how to make a fairy shiver!
That swaying rump in sweats at the tip of my urging rod kept on all restraint because I need not an expeditious shag and I can feel he revels in it till now; I want to become friends with the angel next door.
I warn him when I sling my shot as far as I may into his guts and it seems to trigger Kate’s release whatever it tastes in his mouth.
Everyone has been served at heart and changes partner, pecks treats and gulps kombucha from cooled pitchers; Hugo has grabbed Theo and strokes his shoulders gently; I can tell he is impressed.
I push the girls to the bathroom and we pee ourselves laughing in the shower, then recover our loving humour anew, bustled and fresh.
Hugo and Theo join; the boy, at rest, is indeed smallish of the prick and shies at first, but we all pet him and I, the perpetrator, give him an orange blossom enema while the girls flit around his mouth.
Back in the salon, in thick terry robes from limitless Hugo’s collection, we sprawl on each other and Theo dozes out, his head on Kate’s thighs.
I walk in dry white sand from which, at each of my steps, slither small wriggling coloured straps of seaweeds that sink back in deep. Tall windows show the blue sea on each side and I think I follow the length of some meridian of the planet because I have been alone. In the sunlight I discern three gold tokens of undecipherable origin with the number twenty-three, seven and twelve. On my right, my father, so much younger, in shorts and tank, say it adds up and I should keep them in my pocket, but I know my pockets are holed so I keep them in hand, warm and buzzing. He says they have looked for me but it’s fine and we will find a way home soon. He grabs some sand and sends it fiercely to a banded snake approaching in meanders, then he takes hold of me and runs through a window to a black tarmac lane painted with a big yellow twenty-seven. He hugs me and gives me to drink fresh from a metal gourd, laughing about the deadly snake. Over our heads kites are dancing in bright colours, bearing Greek letters, I ask my dad what it means but he says it will change all the time, unlike his caring for me, oh, Theo! I want to hug him, so the three gold tokens fall on the tarmac and melt, leaving the figures which are not the same, twenty one, six and four, but as he embraces me, I let it go with the numbers. We hurry to my mother who lies in an aluminium lounger amidst a bed of marigolds wearing a saffron bikini, shades and a straw hat with a striped black and white ribbon. She says marigolds fool the snakes, but my dad sniggers and caresses her feet she lets him have. I am sitting against her tummy and I pick up her magazine which is filled with numbers, when jet noise grows loud on the nearby airport and I wonder why she came here as the huge airplane takes off, losing tens of snakes down from its wheels as they retract. We all cover our ears and shout our lungs out within the blare and I jump for joy seing the marigolds fly like a flock of lemon butterflies. Once the carrier jet has vanished, the ground teems with glass needles twinkling and chiming under the feet, so my mother fetches my shoes in her arlequin bag and, before putting them onto my feet, pulls a kerchief, wet it with water from a bottle she kept, looks at me, rubs my cheeks and mouth, then my feet and shows me the yellow colour on the tissue; she buckles up the sandals and I laugh at their girly canary tint but they are snugly fitted and she plays with my showing toes and croons my name. My father drives a bright buttercup coloured truck and calls out, runs to us, picks me up in his warm strong arms so we sit in the cabin as he gears up and the car jolts on the pebbles while I hold on to my mother who kisses my forehead many times. As the skies have turned darkish and we head to a wide wooded valley, knocks multiply into a loud rattling noise on the cabin’s roof and windshield so we see the hailstorm surrounding us and the snakes jumping mad above the brush, so then I hide my face onto my mother’s underbelly and she holds my head until the racket quietens out. The engine has stopped, the silence is so deep that I hear the faint grazing of stuffs on Mom’s skin. My Dad has shifted near us and I feel his arm on my back as he embraces Mom and I want to cry.
It smells so sweet, transfixing rose in skin exhalations just like Cynthia’s slumbers, and my mother’s resting shelter in all memory. Creamy satin all free for my face to roam in as I still delay allowing the real. Kate responds, now, lazily, and rummages my hair like parsing my dreams, deep into the bed sheets, upon her womb, as I embrace her legs and Sarah presses along me because she must be kissing her friend.
As the breathings become woken, after a few yawns, I slither up to their faces and blink in daylight in a bush of kisses and an armful of hugs. I tentatively reckon the night and miss the reason why I lie in their so inviting bed, to my inquiring they tell how they carried me up with Gauthier, so flimsy may I be; and no sooner said they make merry on my skin, not avoiding my weeny bit, in case I thought they had mocked. I mumble in Kate’s neck how overwhelmed I am that Cynthia foresaw unmistakably just what I am reveling in now. Kate answers she will retell me all they did together with her brother, to show me how far they go back, happily.
Sarah is really sucking me, morning style, so I soon let go in her mouth and she swallows like a well-bred girl, leaving me taut-up as a cello; In gratitude I devote myself to her discreet little patch with obstination while Kate minds her cootberries for thrills so, together, we blow her out in bliss as fast as that. She has a revenge under the shower while I finger her arse again, our day is settled.
They have excellent tea, make rich fruit smoothie and gathered some of last night’s sweet bites. Snugly wrapped in precious robes, we banter like sixth-graders talking sex, and apropos, I take Kate’s hand and ask her if she found it weird, the first time she got into Cynthia’s pants; the best way I thought of to ask them how they see me. Kate understands at once and explains that when Cynthia invited her in her room, she already was quite knowledgeable in the psychological and moral aspects of her uncommon nature, whereas myself lived this happily uncommon relation with my brother, so I was no white goose and since I had teased her thinking she was a girl, she unveiled an even better truth, with skill.
Sarah jumped in the conversation and, like a cunning newlywed with a hand in my robe, let me know that from the age of thirteen, she had lived together with all kinds of lovely freaks, and learned gender tolerance in the very flesh without damage on any side, only regrettably after her own brother had disgustingly betrayed her; a bygone story.
Reassured by her educated attention, on which Cynthia had been expecting, I told them how I had grown in the full glare of happiness, with undisputed love from highly educated parents, my father a physicist researcher and my mother a professor in psychology, both at Melbourne’s University. My life had met a sour turn at age seven, when a school doctor had detected an early sign of dysfunctioning endocrine system showing that I was not responding at all to the male hormones, whenas I have been born a true boy. My parents did not like the lectures by the different medical authorities to which I was submitted; they undertook their own research, read different opinions as to what kind of life awaited me. By the way, they read from Cynthia’s parents upon this occasion. Very assertive specialists bullied them on that I could not be let in such a state and I should be reassigned physically accordingly to my inner glands, although they had to confess that it would have made of me sexually an empty travesty, with no real organs at all, and no hope of any sort of life. Raising their voice, my parents warned the whole faculty against the practice, until they made sure that, at least in my case, I could be left alone with my forever underdeveloped penis as you know it.
Bless the wits of Cynthia’s. Fulfilled to heart, between her and Simon, for these few golden years, I had let the most precious sand of the dunes flow away, and a fistful of it has spawned up here again with one of her angels.
He says that he knows she had missed me dearly, eventually coming to conclude however that she had some mission, together with her hard-working parents, for the sake of all of her invisible peers in infortune left at the mean will of mere butchers, actual and moral.
Overwhelmed at first by the easy going, tolerant philosophy of Melbourne’s society, she soon probed the networks of students and schoolkids with the topics of gender awareness, queerness and ambiguity consciousness.
With the same candour which I had readily fell for, all the way into her bed, she rallied a disarrayed troupe of socially shunned souls, under the generosity of the rainbow banner, prettified with new ribbons so as to herald intersex causes.
When she met Theo and his parents, they had been so long at odds with the faculty that it had taken a moral toll on the family, albeit they kept the cell bound together; they joined the circle and met the Möhlitzs for their great relief, reporting and learning together, with a chest full of hope
The German Amazon with a flapper haircut was our leader, meager band of disparaged characters mostly at odds with their own parents, some already irreversibly medically damaged and suffering, held in contempt in the dirty area of self-conscious wary others, always prone to suspect our disturbed views upon their derisory inseam, or worse, to expose ours.
Cynthia chatted with anyone in all good faith and respect, solicitous about reversing the flow of shame and anger that plague the hearts and souls of most of us, seeking out signs of self-inflicted injuries, conjuring auto-deprecating attitudes and allures, exhorting us into emulating the gay crowds in their long acquired pride.
It took time, during which the struggle followed course on ethical grounds, in the circles of education, psychology, justice and state-of-the-art medicine, when tools of genetics and endocrinology sideswiped many certitudes and revealed a much greater number of nonlinear logic to human biology.
All in all, I was one lucky sprite in the forlorn nation, I could rest on my parents full support and I also reveled in Cynthia’s bed and all of her inventivity, that is how I enthused into writing my soul out in gay and queer zines, gave readings on our Youtube channels and televisions, testified in front of frightening panels in suits of power and helped, as feeble as you see me, our continent to pioneer a conscience of tolerant welfare for all beings, were they weird to some inhibited castes.
Theo is not fully landed yet on our hemisphere but he needs so much to show us how articulate he became in Cynthia’s orbit, and worthy of our hospitality, of which he has only seen the preamble. After mixed fruit squashed in the blender by Kate, sweet crumbs and Darjeeling, we migrate to the studio and scarf down the city noise with indefinite sound textures, not obtrusive enough to help us from speaking.
He watched us slid on tights and sweats but he asked me if he could stay in the boro coat that smells me; I answered that i would watch him. He browsed our library, chose the heavy catalog of Hieronymus Bosch and settles on the couch, body exposed down to the underbelly. After ten little minutes, he asks if we want to marry. It takes a good few seconds for us to discern if there was a question. The actual answer is that we have never thought of such a contingency. We have been together like forever and nothing ever occurred that would have raised such an option. As for me, I cannot envision living permanently away from Kate; in my long life, I have left many dear souls behind or they did of me, but ( and there I actually miss my Far) no other being has better imprinted so deep into me. Our seats have rolled towards the other and we kiss a strong deep one.
Theo says Cynthia wouldn’t marry him, that the best relationship she ever knew was the trio on Amrum and Sylt islands, and in fact, in Melbourne, she was involved with two other girls he knew and he slept with, too. Only, his parents’ image rather obsess him and haunts the fictions he writes in a way that won’t fit with his life.
Kate then tells him that he most certainly will be granted the opportunity to steal some precious lights from Hugo who very obviously lusts after him. He grins in near disbelief, but we both laugh and bet him a round bliss that Hugo will offer him some sumptuous trip somewhere, in private, before long!
Privacy time with a successful, seasoned, European writer, that would make for some pure bliss course; Hugo emanates some singular drive of lust, it should be mellow to let him enrapture my days and nights as a theme of study, I would dedicate myself at making it reciprocal. If I wake enough of my mind upon what I lived since I nested among you, I parse like a garden of delights, masterfully sourced from a flow of voluptuousness, beyond contingencies; I long to read his writings. For now, I will borrow this book and try not to pass out into its pages, I keep your spellbinding coat, Sarah, with great care, for a little while.
That crafty little head is already at work, in its antipodean literary field, with an intricate backdrop of nonconformist life, undoubtedly heavier to burden than my favourite tomboy ever was regarded as, but Sarah has long known all differences, a shrewd activist of free and easy sexuality just shy of the border hazards she met a good once.
Theo only just trampled upon some gossamer agreement that has existed since I almost unravelled myself down the drain and she called for the cavalry to my rescue. As of yet, he reads us as mere cis persons kind enough for him to be recommended to, mistrust should alleviate as fast as jet lag, I suppose. By now, he might be on Skype with Cynthia, teasing her to fly over here and shag our pretty arses.
Through the music stream, I have somewhat drifted from my course of graphic lucubration and I realise that I contemplate Sarah’s profile engrossed in some fine execution of hers, undisturbed by my candid indiscretion. Once again, I am seized by the fantasy of subjecting her lissom figure to Victor’s realm of indulgences along with myself. I will send twenty-seven yellow roses to his address and wait, she will like to sell herself against his sort of gold, just like she wetted for Melchior’s.
And now I have to creep to her crotch, like a bitch, to luxuriate in my raffish thoughts about her, I will unveil my plan later and watch if it urges her to retaliate somewhat in my blooms. She lets me pull down her tights but wants to continue what she is at, only she opens wide to let me operate. Quite frenzied at the thought of bringing her to a den of stylish vice, I make marvels into her foliages until she perishes of rapture and tastes like happy tears. While she catches her breath back I overkill my act on her holy feet so well as to make her guess something is spinning inside my dirty brain. She slithers down to me, disrobes me and starts to tongue-bugger me like the Bishop an altar boy; in a matter of minutes I collapse on the floor and she proudly comes licking my raggedy mouth and we lay spent, smiling.
Under a well deserved shower I reveal my fantasy to her childish face; she dares me to arrange it.
I had been staring at the Øresund from the Kettelær estate, waiting for the northern lights, but only silver airplanes drew curves onto the crimson dawn, boats blinked messages in double entendre, while the squirrels played with my toes. I stretched myself and breathed a familiar breeze from the waters, felt along my side the soft mellow skin, timid and animal as always had Ayla offered like a precious gift. I can smell cinnamon rose, almost a boy’s scent, though, with a gleam of ylang-zibar and a sweat of jasmine? Who is fondling me with immaterial tips, if not my lost squirrel of Saint Loup? I wish I would not open my languid eyes and remain so for ever, but on the other side of me I can feel the Princess in a deep spiral of oblivion, while another girl, as her pubis on my butt told me, is hugging me rather madly. It is still in the blue hours and I assume at first that I am tripping on some delayed benefit of a drug I would have dropped sometime, but it, apropos, dawns on me that young Natalia is very finely raping me in my bed. Seing my lips move, she gags me with a slow, skilful kiss and pulls my thighs open like a devilish courtisane. She then whispers to the pillow that nobody was in the house and she had craved for us too long, besides, she is the age of consent, were I?
She is wired as a fawn, but deft and attentive, now that she has won. I hold her garçonne head with an exciting fringe and a pointed chin and let her frolic on my ember berries beyond any kind of wisdom because I want to taste her teeny poon. Kate has been awake for a while and smiles at our unbridled hand-to-hand to which she can’t resist either; she is in a better angle to lick our heated cunts and dookies so as to soothe us for a long stare into each other’s want. Then Kate seizes her lithe waist, playfully grumbling that she’s here again and she won’t swerve. She revels in Kate’s puckish manoeuvres as I keep roving into her dark gaze and I kiss the squinted lids, stealing her pleasure tears, reminded of the rhymes I lulled Ayla with in the garden of Eden. Her breasts are proud fruits too, in the feast of her sleek womanly skin, she jumps at my puppy bites, twirls at Kate’s crafty hands on her deep young squirting spring.
Overcame in her wish, spent and smelling of licks and sublime sweats, she rests contented in our midst as we regain consciousness of the outcome of the beautiful charivari, as for the peace of the household. She reminds me of my own effrontery at even younger age and I reckon on all the lucky guidance that found me after I had fell. She tells us of all the demonic teases she spun around Hugo’s pants and the sort of arrangement he granted Lena about her. Is the worst she might fear a few years among the squirrels?
Trying to re-tune my clock right earthwards, I balance my moods between resenting estrangement and unfurling debauchery, as foreseen by Cynthia. Hugo beckoned me to his awesome lair in the morning and while he lightly coddled me, without unsettling any of my nerves, he proposed a trip with him to some Atlantic islands in the Gulf Stream; I know now what it would mean in detail, and I feel I would like to whore, for a gentle while, with him. He said Gauthier liked it and again; we should fly in a week or so. Meanwhile I will comply to any whim of my new neighbours.
Now I need to walk around the city with the GPS and whatever I will remember of my readings in French, like the missing ghost in Balzac’s world, on dry land, compared to the cesspool he described, of which most was razed as shown on the Marville photographs. And could I afford to dream of Rimbaud, who was not as sadly intolerant sexually as the Zeus-like Breton? Would I have nested in the shady demi-monde of houses where Anaïs Nin (real or not) traded her skin? Sold as a rarity by one of Pascin’s procuresses, my underpants opened for the lust of some drooling john?
Were it not be for Cynthia’s absolute trust in Katherine, and an intuition she had grasped of a tight bonded community worthy of sending me to, I would personally have shunned Paris altogether and cruised London at my own risks; now I am intoxicated with all their lavish smells and manners, I doubt I could land better over there, bar a fireside in some Oxford coop where I would be courted with Stilton and Port!
I opt for the Louvre, across the Seine and the dusty gardens; I buy myself a year-pass and walk straight to the “Virgin On The Rocks”, only to find that the Angel in London moved me more, infinitely more. On another planet of the Museum World, the Rollin Chancellor is still staring at a butter-face extra holding an ugly toddler, in a bejewelled loggia overlooking an inconceivably chiselled view of a fantasmatic Jerusalem or any unutterably wealthy city in Burgundy. I looked for the Astronomer but I find the Land of Patinir and remain struck, happy, like I had found why I have flown for two full days. A very soft voice reaches me in the blue mountains, it is that of an elegant man in a black silk suit, who knows at once that I would not understand his French and soon invites me to a nearby ugly pretentious café but keeps me under a very tangible spell, seizing my hand from time to time. He actually succeeds to draw me to the Palais Royal where he lives in a sumptuous apartment decorated like Sissi’s, with a crowd of benevolent ephebes in bronze, marble or gold, and then he starts to kiss me, which is not unpleasant but far enough for me to warn him before his lust gets flamed up. I jump up on the carpet and have time to stutter about my confusing nature so as to calm him, but he becomes all the more maddened and falls at my feet embracing my legs and soon nosing in my crotch. Having said what he could expect, I succumb again to his tone of voice and feel like a defiled whore; he is carefully unclothing me, pecking kisses on my lips and grazing my hardened winky in my shorts.
Florenz Marc is a handsome cavalier with wavy swept back silver hair smelling of real musk and cypress; he shows a dry muscular body with impressive pectorals and abs to a sylphic boy like me. Sweeping around the salon where we stand naked, his other hand flattering my butt-cheeks, he avows being an offspring of an antique dealers lineage, hence the showroom in which he claims I defy concurrence, this morning. He fondles expertly all of my hairless skin and swears he has never met such miracle, from toes to lips and back to my straight dinkle he sucks so well he gets a salty reward he still tastes when he kisses.
Still subduing my foolest part under his irrepressible voice he must have long tested in his prestigious decor, he devises he would rather fuck me and shows me to a rosy marble bathroom where he intends to give me a gentle enema, and I comply, and sit on the most ornate bowl, sucking on his honorable stiff staff. The towels bear his own green cologne as he pampers me and carries me to a bedroom all draped in creamy rich lampas, he tells set off my childish complexion, before pushing me upon sheets of percale, poking his tongue everywhere. He fetches a jar of ointment in a convenient drawer, as well as a box of condoms, while I offer my unrestrained self to his preparations. He tautens a gold coloured French “bite” with silver frills at my willing joyhole he must have regaled with some sly drug, for I don’t remember feeling so aroused on this side. He pushes daintly, his eyes trying to catch every sight of me from my arse to my eyes, easing out, so not to discharge too soon, asking me to roll to all fours, banging deeper as to let me feel the curly muff and the clapper of his balls, claiming victory like a stag bellow and slapping my butt as he slides out with his cum in the bag. He hands me a fresh towel and wipes his own affair, then rolls next to me, holding my head, wild eyed.
Unlike many other men I have been shagged by, he remains attentive and plays on with my willie and fingers my gaping arse as if he needed another go. We talk, he likes my story, he might know Hugo, if not only by name; he wants us to revel again, offers to walk me around in distinguished private homes, to lay me in historical linens and legendary gardens, but eventually warns that he doesn’t care for any steady relationship and he will love me all the more, knowing I shag with my left bank posse.
We shower, he asks how my rosebud feels as he plays in it, the sensation is still quite vibrant and I tell him he must have used some tricky medicine for it, he smirks and says he will let me have a jar of it if it makes me sway my butt like I am doing. Once dry, he dolls me up with some heavenly talc, smelling like one Claude Monet summer prairie, all over me, hard again so obviously that he sucks me again to an ending. He draws me to an impressive library where I feel frail, disconcerted. He as tied on a dark green silk robe and he still manipulates me like an art piece, speaking of my career as a writer. He opens a wire-netted door and fetches a leather-bound volume that he gives me, insisting it is a gift. I open and read the frontispice of “Les Fleurs Du Mal” by Baudelaire, elegantly, but cautiously, dedicated to “A young friend”, the book being forbidden at the time and until 1949; this fine 1920 Swiss edition must be worth a fortune, but all Florenz answers to my scruples is to tickle my little balls. He says in my eyes that perhaps I have been lucky today and he hopes I will become accustomed to randomly be screwed in his gilded gallery, as I seem to have liked, but nonetheless, wake to the dangers of cruising among grown men in Paris, even if he trusts Hugo to advise me. I give him one of my email addresses, he gives me his private voicemail, in case I would have kept a desirable souvenir of today. He helps me dress with furtive hands and wraps the book, drops it along with an opaline jar and a cypress green kerchief, bearing his perfume, in a blank tote of the same colour.
We had forgotten about our doorbell to the studio, a sprinkling silver carillon for a dolls house or , as it was, a whorehouse… Theo smells of a sunburst upon some spring embankment in a British dream and looks rosy fresh. As he kisses, I feel him pampered as a Lady; we both await for a tale of schoolyard smuttiness. Falling on the couch in a laid-back pose, he says he has been slutty, in his own will, and starts telling roundly from the Louvre encounter. As Sarah and me have more than once threaded adventures from the palace’s galleries, our pré carré of sorts, it becomes at once girl talk, not to say whorish gossip; we want details, we beg to try the magical balm in our arses, we eventually crawl to his fly to scent the luxury talcum inside the crack and commit lewd exactions on this consenting prey.
Theo soon dozes out after his double success, Sarah reaps his shoes off and massages his fine feet as I finish her again like an easy slut. I lay a plaid on the boy and we watch him meet up with his lucky slumbers again. Sarah brews some afternoon oolong, we plug in a chill-out stream, grope each other a little more and then slid back into our gossamer trappings, funnily bursting at quotes of his first epic in Paris, envying some of his privileges.
Back from peeing, I can sniff a settled cloud of all our desirable animalistic whims, as I rub my pubis against Kate’s shoulder, without bothering her more. In her compelling tone of whisper, she comes again on her fantasy of prostituting me to the Victor’s circle and watch me revel as a slapper. She means it, with all the safety requirements and the random rites, albeit she swears she would team up unflinchingly. I wonder if, given the regal relationship we enjoy with him, we might chat this with our mentor, whom we know participates in such debauchery confederacies from where he friended Camille and Marie, among others. She says she will beguile Hugo into her idea, were it in return for letting him play us, at his own hand, too.
I am all wet again, like I would open my thighs to rub against my seat, like a beast. I recall the nights when Julia Grant gave me away to the horde and I finished soaked with young cum in the laundry rooms at Saint Loup; she had been there, although she picked one of them for her own, to set the tune on score for frank depravity, albeit bar the weirdos out. Decidedly, Hugo would have some perverted pillow talks, in the next few nights.
Incidentally, amongst a growing mood of lecherous fantasies, Hugo took Theo to a romance in Bruges for a few days. I needed a night with Fanny, and Sarah bumped into her old acquaintance Liselotte on the place Furstemberg and it went unexpectedly smooth. Liselotte is still Professor Y.’s bitch and became a lot more palatable to Sarah’s taste. She invited her to her low-ceiling top floor apartment for a cup of tea of the best provenance; good marks added on Liselotte’s slate when she made obvious that she did not wear undies in her intricately patterned zig-zag silk twill front-buttoned dress. It was not too difficult to lead Sarah’s hand down the button line and steal a long kiss while she wrestled with her casual jeans and sweater, they were nude and wet before the tea was lukewarm. Sarah liked what was happening to her and retorted her best, fisting Liselotte’s easy arse so as Sarah thought she had been prepared for some buggery when she met her. It was a hell of a cup of tea, as a matter of breaking up, Liselotte insisted, her hand again on Sarah’s burning clitoris, that she would arrange with her master to take her on a visit to Dottore M.E. at his hotel, so she could make a very powerful ally in the art field, wouldn’t she? She seemed in a hurry now, but she took time to lick her toes, thus obtaining her phone number and mail address.
That was what Sarah told me that morning when we met, me from my Fanny school ride and her down from Gauthier’s apartment where Donovan had been, too. She was radiant, I was moody, I would have wanted Fanny over here. Fatally, Liselotte called on a plan she had and tried to sell to my Sarah, all abandoned to my tongue and mouth so as she had to tell the other one she was cumming. It was an invitation to a worldly party in a suite at the Hotel Morand and she wanted me to join in, swearing she would make amends for whatever I might have not liked of her in school days. Sarah having described her as sexy, imaginative and libertine, Fanny and Camille going to a therapy session, I nodded and went back to Sarah’s amazing legs.
After our sizzling morning, ninety minutes of sweating on the torture contraptions, another shower with lucky hands, we worked and talked until seven, with a gingerbread break. We expected anything for the night, from bland to repulsive, but Liselotte had been more than perfect during the hour she took to convince me. We plotted an easy strategy. First, we would behave like close lovers, both dressed in black silk shirt-dresses over the knees, no bras; black stockings and tight knickers; sleek sandals. One ring each, tennis bracelets, sapphire for me and aquamarine for her. Dark lips, pale face, some mascara and eye shadow. No handbags, vague black silk satin vintage evening coats, all attires revamped by Gianni.
The hotel belongs to an Indian dynasty and retains the polish and patina from a bygone era, much like my Far showed me in London, to the amazement of an army of shaky ghosts denying their cirrhosis with an impossible accent. We reached a muted suite in the upper floors where a jazz quartet played cool with a muffled saxophone, a koa Les Paul guitar, drums, bass and a load of pills. Lights were as low as New York’s in copper reflectors, most of what went on was shaded. After giving our coats, we sat in a curve and started kissing. The voice of Liselotte, a tad drawling, greeted Kate from over my shoulder; she was all nude, except black varnished hi-heel escarpins of good make, and a velvet padded gold-locked collar to which was clutched a long gilded chain held by Y. who kissed our hands. She sat on her heels, legs apart and her lips in bloom; she ostensibly small-talked while her hands searched our dresses, a hint of disappointment when she found our doors closed.
She was resplendent, in the music and the reverberated lights, her pussy opened, she impressed Kate and was rewarded kisses while she lifted her dress to the waist, fondling her thighs. A girl with long black unfurled hair sat a Kate’s side and unbuttoned down the black silk on her pale skin. Liselotte, bolder, seized deftly the belt of the knicker and pulled it away in one move, then tasted her trove avidly as the newcomer ravaged her mouth with savoir-faire. Y. stood impassible, bar his prick out of his pants, stiff and shaky. As my fingers were finding Liselotte best hole, he moved and stuck it to my available mouth, preventing me to see who was unwrapping me so fast, stealing my pants and starting to wank me for good. We had fell in a masterful trap and it looked like we were going to like it. My shoes and stockings and garters went on the same pile, as some apparently small hands slid in my bum and inserted one of the fetish tails of Y. who was still ardently fucking my throat and spurted fully with no warning, grasping my head firmly for long immobile minutes. When he went limp, I took pride not to show any expression, I looked him in the eye until he insensibly thanked me, tilting his head I would have rather slapped.
The new generation of art students who had, here, volunteered as bait were, by all means, scrumptious. She who had swiftly disrobed and animalised me, tasting her owner’s cum in my mouth with her daring little tongue, swayed her big black eyes under theatrically drawn lashes, lids and brows, as overwhelmingly as an expressionist film diva; she had beautified the mere grapes of her tits in the same claret colour as her lips, labia and nails. I wanted her badly, but she was the one harnessing me up with a collar, large cuffs to my wrists and ankles, while fingering on in my slits, my hips bewitched by the music of the onlooking artists. On her side, Kate was now preyed by three elves, a girl with moving mandarin shaped breasts, natural drawn brows over soft-brown capsized irises, visibly tripping of some sort, two boys, one dark skinned with the most intrusive member, the other dark ginger with honey eyes in long golden lashes trying to offer an elegant straight stinger in the dolls’ faces who eventually let it join their game while the black trouncer drove his stake all the way in, on tempo.
The setup was efficient, my black assailant had crept under me and was now inside my back alley, ginger boy was serving me duly in the lily while the artsy delightful infuriated her mouth about any part of me she could loot, mostly excelling on my feet. The music sounded like it had been edited upon my emotions, the musicians had opened their shirts and reveled in a high. People, mainly young, were grouping and undressing, helped by Liselotte who revealed herself as the rouée instigator of the event of us. Sarah was being pulled to a padded bench and hitched to it, face down, wrists and ankles at the heavy mahogany legs. On the marron leather, she showed as alabaster pale, the dark tail fidgeting up. Her lovely tamer took a paddle and started to discipline her butt cheeks, while, on an order muttered from a couch where I singled the notorious Dr M.E., an elfin blonde brought an ornate silver bucket, pulled it under Sarah’s dismayed face whenas she still twitched at every paddle strike. Stretching out her labia, the fine little slut took funny care at peeing into Sarah’s mouth, as she was surrendering completely to the lecherous theatrics; her bum was scarlet ripe when the first guest pulled the tail off and used her with good manners, like many; some others peed in her arse with another vase, the tempo did not flinch until the host asked for rest.
The young diva torturer unlocked the cuffs but let them on Sarah; she fetched perfumed towels and pampered the dizzy star of the performance while my own handmaid did me too. M.E. begged Sarah to join him, he still wore an ample white shirt much like old time’s nighties. His impressive choad still pointed up and she understood she was meant to sit on it so she cadged for some cream to her arse, which was brought and applied in by yet another delicious student.
After that many assaults, she took him fully and faced the crowd with her thighs wide apart; I would not resist and went to her perversely arousing defiled face, wiped the mess while she was being bumped, and found myself with another one in my own, who had missed the first charge, I presume. Now that the boss was at manoeuvre, the orgy restarted; the musicians had rested their instruments but not the kind I felt pervading my womb, some had a taste for the boys who did not balk. M.E. jizzed with hurrahs in my Tommie’s already dripping hatch and so did my unknown gentle minion. Extras brought some finger food and fresh beverages, eyeing the strayed fauna in their beyond obscene attitudes and understood it as a one-of-a-kind invitation, dropped their pants and played game. M.E. had taken hold of us both, asking if we were married or else, liked the answer and went on fingering our bruised harebells. When we needed the bathroom, we talked and decided to flee; we told Liselotte, she agreed and tried to help collect our things, but we found the dresses, the shoes and the coats, enough to ride a cab home.
We somehow caught our breath back in the shower, after a soothing orange blossom enema, a thorough shampoo and long shivering hugs; I was almost passing out, we slept until late like two devastated marmots, but thanks to Hugo’s divine pharmacy, we barely felt any ache or stiff, our impish byways blooming like orchids. Next to each other at the breakfast table we couldn’t help cuddling and giggling. We did not go down to the gym that morning
Later in the afternoon, Liselotte called from our door and came up for the first time; she wore a striking coat of black and white large houndstooth pattern over a tight-fitting black oblique-strapped jumpsuit and black varnished mocassins. I was kind of jaded on the minute, but she was yummy, no make-up, keen eyes. She allowed herself to grope Kate a bit, remembering all we shared the night before, but did not became heavier. First, she was bringing a large book of M.E.’s, dedicated precisely to me, and in it two unsealed letters, stamped and addressed, and it took me some time to grasp they were letters of recommendation for two high-valued prizes of the arts realm. I was awe-struck, the old fucker-toad indeed had kept his word, whenas I had scattered my arse like a pea-brained dope? A manuscript note invited Kate to show her work during his next visit, Liselotte would certainly oblige? As for now, she was triumphant and stole me a large kiss aggravated by a hand in my tights.
Reading want in Kate’s eyes, I untied the knot of Liselotte’s top, with the result of letting all the supple sand-washed silk to collapse at her feet. I winked and Kate grazed the perfect belly with the back of her hand that Liselotte seized to pull her forward and thrust her tongue into her mouth, like a true slut. Then she joked that we should go now to the post office and post the most precious missives, before rushing to bed, shouldn’t we?
I posted the letters, registered and tracked and insured; then, as we had tacitly obeyed to Liselotte program, which was to revel on our own selves, we began with a spree at the utmost macaron emporium and retired for tea; we had some wonderings about the ambush and the wild crew, the talent of which we could still feel, couldn’t we? Casually fiddling Kate’s touches, she told the affair. She was now acting as Professor Y.’s plenipotentiary in the worldly affairs, and that included sex embroilments most of the time; she also wheeled and dealt into providing fresh souls to be damned; as I knew well, she had a knack to let herself be underestimated, only to lure young beauties into Y.’s office for his gently perverted ceremonies. Notwithstanding, he genuinely considers the art work beyond the moment’s lust, for whatever importance art may bear in today’s world, and sometimes refers it to his mentor M.E. who, I will comprehend at my own benefit, albeit with a little occasional pain in my arse, is a very potent operative of what you could deem as the universal art scheme, including the most revered institutions and museums.
She was unbound, while rummaging randomly our savories, carnal or else, she elaborated on all the cute butts she had lead to M.E.’s truncheon, but mind, for nothing worse than a little stretching of the sheath, for the bugger is skilled, isn’t he? She stroked Kate’s smooth chest, scenting into her armpits and asking if she would come in Y.’s office? Kate laughed and capsized her half-stripped, pulled away the silk, and munched her to madness. I bestrode her enraptured face and, while giving her my perineum to kiss, asked her if she would return the favour to our own mentor with her lovely burrows and rillets for his fox-hunting? She shouted yes and embroidered my crack with her tongue, as I tickled Kate’s sensitive arse.
Liselotte asked to see our working place, so we went upstairs, undone as we had become, all feverishly promiscuous for she was wound up as a kid. She decided my work was so worth it, and she was pressing on my back, if I was ready for Y.’s deranged manners. Sarah laughed and trumpeted that my arse cleft had known a world of deranged lust, but only short of real deranged, and she hugged me strong. We extended our gossip to manners and ways of prostitution in a worldly sphere. Liselotte told us that her hairdresser arranged lucrative commitments for her, only safe encounters because she was too good for trashing herself. She went only in the best hotels, with 24/7 room service and fresh linen; she was reputed among old gents for whom she had to execute more pantomime than athletics, but we had watched her perform with aroused stallions in M.E.’s suite, she was no bluestockings.
Liselotte was becoming more and more interesting, and her face grew all the more salaciously candid as her stories were debauched. I was reckoning she might very well join us at Victor’s if some company was useful. Am I not a whore, Sarah? We did more watersports in the shower, she wanted to fist me but I was still a tad sensitive, so with two fingers she forced me to squirt my soul out and it felt so fulfilling, and she did Sarah the same bliss, she was quite a beast.
She leaves us rather breathless, we grasp she has appointments. She says she will arrange a meeting for me with Y. because I should not shun an easy opportunity, as easy were my current situation, I could not insult the future. She looks lovely and even more provocative in the silk which lets her pussy be drawn and her nipples point. Her medium length thick dark hair seems wild; her olive brown eyes have an irresistible little squint, her complexion is creamy and her mouth easily pouty, with generous lips as I can tell. Her most distinctive feature is her brows, bold like I like, boyish and styled, mobile as she speaks.
That evening, pecking into our special provisions, we silence with a faint smile on our reclining faces, Kate still groping me some times and dancing faintly with my absent will. We soon sleep like spent children. A few hours later, Ayla is here again grabbing hold of me, nose into my armpit, rubbing her feet to mine stealthily. As I wake to Natalia in waves, my plexus rings of bliss for that tiny love of the wee hours but I do as to lull her, pulling the quilt over her and closing my wing on her; she quiets down, slides her hand to my crotch and we fly. In the morning, Kate stares at me and asks me about Natalia being in our bed; Through the steam of tea, I realise she says the truth, so I confess again my resurgent grief about my little lost girl, and my incapacity to scold Natalia who feels rightful in asking our love like Ayla was. I touch my wrist a if I only now perceived that her gift band is lost.
At work, enthralled in searching for my own fringes, it dawns on me that, despite my stone solid rationality, part of me believes that Ayla too is calling on me, and it would not hurt to search for her. Kate, who recently received generous news from Cynthia, is in the mood to encourage my quest. First, I mull over what might have been her name, Ayla what? A voice resounds in the school restaurant, someone shouts: Ayla Naveen! of course! Setting our works to rest up on easels, we open our computers and start to call everyone we can reach in Saint Loup. Kate is eager to inquire a little more into my childhood paradise, she offers me big stares of trust, penetrating an inch deeper into my soul. Two hours later, I speak to Harmony, all humbled by the reproaches she doesn’t speak. After I sketch my rather happy fate to her, albeit I still harbour somewhere in me the question of what life I could have pursued by the Lake for ever, I ask her about Ayla. In a rather short time, she remember the astute little face and also the sad story she couldn’t help. Ayla’s father was an indie film wreck who had died the year before the girl came to Saint Loup, the mother was a part time junkie who stopped paying the school a year before Ayla fled, although someone had, later, through an attorney in Geneva, whom, contacted, could not help Harmony find her. Nonetheless, she thought the art teacher Tudor Weiss had been in touch once or twice, and said she was somewhere in Switzerland.
Tudor is a rightful person, a graceful soul, I lived with him for five years and he knew all of my shenanigans. He helped me parse my priorities, since I was lucky enough to be able to chose. I asked Harmony to pass him the message that I needed to speak to him. That had been a big step in my mind, Kate came to cradle my head on her belly which grunted funnily. She asked all about my Swiss wonderland, I warned her that it had been only a pinpoint near Geneva quite certainly overseen by my father and the likes of him, for privileged kids with bruised souls and broken wings, under the dedication of dream teachers, and the goodwill vigilance of a lioness called Julia Grant, but what of her, too, yet?
Tudor called at sunset, with a lot of questions, first, on my becoming. While we spoke, I send pictures of my work and the best I found of myself, in a reflex of teasing him a bit. He finally avowed that he knew where Ayla was, in Zurich, but before he gave me her coordinates he needed to ask her, and think it over; as he was quite assertive, I agreed that he would call next morning, and perhaps gather other adresses, Julia for example. He still sounded his same old self, still enthused with the coloured crowds and the nifty intrigues in the boxwoods at dusk, he was still very much in love with all of them.
There was something overly conscious in his speech when Tudor called back in the morning, I could hear Swiss birds in the background, so he was somewhere in the fields, away from the school ears. He said he had been talking to Ayla and she sent keen regards and late apologies. She had asked him to probe my willingness to hear the bare truth about her fate, so he kind of beat about the bush as to the reason why I wanted to hear about her, what souvenirs I kept of her, what I fathomed of her stealth move some ten years ago? Tudor and myself had long had a cozy understanding since I had condoned some errant ways on me, reckoning I had been myself accessory to the soft abuse, of which I kept no scar or grudge; so I foresaw rather fast there was some kind of moral modesty to his report of Ayla’s current conditions. He moaned about such confidences being easier in person, the telephone making it look like bad, merciless gossip. He eventually laid it out that she was currently living as a call-girl, which is perfectly legit in Switzerland, and that she was not envisaging any other career, given her chances. She would keenly wish to speak with me, provided that I kept in mind she was a willing prostitute, not seeking any kind of redemption, for that matter.
I recorded the most sincere message on her voicemail, letting it sound as if she could shun it if she did not wish to confront any shame before one she had known hitherto as a lucky junior miss. I knew she had been somewhat appeased by Tudor, since she gave a number which, I figured, might be safely uncirculated. Near my heart, I had the cold void left by a boisterous soul in need, who had fled rather than beg for her life. Presently, another nervy damselfly, fooled by our sensuous manners, had flown blindly into our sheets with all that she cognised to make a desirable pixie, all herself, reaching out for the golden moon. I was already disheartening Ayla’s resurge with the worrying fate of someone else she had never known; I was bidding for some cold shower, wasn’t I?
Ayla called mid-afternoon, I instantly cried to her voice, Kate rolled her chair next to mine and wrestle as she could to hold the best of me, then draw me to the studio couch and let me talk upon her chest. Ayla crumbled the same at the other end, I could not mutter better than that I loved her. Kate’s fingers rummaged through my hair, there was some time, here. Ayla shuffled out the tale in rags, I could not help her, I tried my best to let her feel she owe me null; I jumped on her silences to address the one I had at once taken in my wing, like for ever. She threaded the events together again, first, the money unpaid for good, the letters to her mother returned unopened, that long unwinding shame; then, the unexplainable, miraculous bright spell, and Harmony swearing to her that she was fine with the school. She burst in harrowing cries of love, kept mumbling, she threw at me that I never parsed out that my own father was taking care of Ayla, for the sake of me, for the greater shame of her own disgraceful birth. When she gathered enough hints and trails, it was at the memorable show we had cobbled lovingly together, she dared ask my Far some money, as an ultimate dare, using whatever she knew she could fire up in her gaze, and he gave her all that he carried with him, watching her run away.
Kate was listening, terrified and overwhelmed; she hugged me so tight I was shaking. Ayla went on with her rambling the Swiss many squats where her mother had squandered all she could, only to learn that she had died of a miserable overdose of trash, in a dumpster. She never cried of that. She crashed in a cool Zurich youth hostel and began cruising the neighbourhoods, until she guessed the sexual workers and made herself obvious. She was accosted by a woman named Barbro, a handsome tart she adamantly claims is her new mother, with no fault, albeit having pimped Ayla’s arse with her own johns, but that was what she asked. Barbro taught her the basics of squeezing the banknotes out of the pocketbooks when the lust was still blinding the billies, then suffer the least during the ensuing bustle. Barbro loved Ayla like only a whore can love, she took her home, she showed her the regular socialization of the trade, made her thrive into the best whorehouses and networks, until now she shone in an exclusive ring of expensive escorts under the full shield of the Swiss wisdom, for the years her skin will radiate.
Barbro had reveled in Ayla’s tight butt and sold her as a special extra to those of her clients who could afford to pay double. She had soon grasped the scope of talents my little alley cat had nurtured at Saint Loup, without the ugly downside of self-depreciation, guilt-fueled death-wish leading to substance abuse and morbid alcoholism. She was such a sane whore that she kept her regulars, went on vacations with them and afterwards shared the best of chit chat with Barbro. Now she owned a stately condo in a quiet neighbourhood, drove a sleek convertible and pay her taxes, like any of the executives she fucked. At least, Fortune had dealt her with beauty and wits; thus she sometimes reckoned that her mother had kept clean while pregnant.
Since I was still listening with a keen ear, she offered that we met in Skype the next day, because she had appointments. We parted endlessly with garlands of best wishes, I promised I would tell her all my own life of an amateur harlot myself, so she wasn’t surprised and laughed out loud. Kate was all aroused about me and what she had heard; she readily despoiled me of my rags and made me warble like a virgin. We fantasised all evening on Ayla’s life and considered, for one that she sounded like she had made the right decisions, two, that we, lucky brats, were not living such a different life, only missing the little pinch of not knowing who will fuck you, next, because that is what you do.
We ordered a spinach-ricotta pie with eggs, a wholly self-contained feast with dark creamy Keemun tea. I wrote to my Far the most gentle acknowledgement of his gesture towards whom I regarded anew as worthy, however astray the fate she revealed. Touched at heart, I needed to talk to him as closely as we had accustomed in my Swiss bubble time. I made it clear this new reunion was my deed, an urge from inside a dream, not any kind of reckoning of his caring for me. Kate helped me sound kind and detached of after-thoughts, just only happy to reconnect with a lost part of me, whatever it meant for my present life. We had cried warmly about my ingrained intimacy, we let flows of warm water heal remembrances with lather of citrus and ylang-ylang, she missed her brother, we wrote him a poem.
Unavoidably, Natalia happened into the lewdest scene of debauchery Ayla’s tale had stirred in my shady soul freed by sleep. Although I was laid on the left side, she cuddled over me and fiddled my rakish berries patiently till she was part of the dream. I drew her slowly to nestled between us and sleep after Kate had made her squirt craftily well. In the morning, she had left a wet spot with a smell of rain.
Kate was nursing my feet, clipping, filing and polishing nails when Lena wandered in, casually gathering laundry. She showed an open, witty face and eventually ventured some question about Natalia bothering us or not, because she had grasped her goings-on, seen her sneaking up nude to our door in the deep of the night and stay till dawn. It weren’t that she might disapprove, she had openly laid the matter to Hugo who gave her confidence as to her daughter’s becoming, but she feared of a surreptitious misgiving in case we, worldly girls in view, might tire of a maid’s offspring. We both quit our slovenly stance and rushed to her, making her put down the bale of linens and look at her hands. Indeed we enjoyed Natalia’s shenanigans, because she had grown beautiful and smart and she knew it, but shame on us if we sneered at her social or wealth footings, as Hugo unfailingly must have told her, if anyone in this chosen community laid eyes on her child, one committed oneself to her fate, henceforth at her own free will. Lena granted us a weary glance and asked that we watch at keeping Natalia on track, for she was grateful of the situation she held here, but was overflowed as for her kid’s goings on. She gave us leeway as for Natalia, reckoning she had not herself built much more than Hugo allowed, mindfully.
Far’s message came in the floating lapse in which Lena had left us mulling. He wrote he was overjoyed with my overall thinking of Ayla’s. Yes, he had known her whereabouts and whatabouts, and he had shunned telling it to me, for prudishness, mainly. It was easy to keep an eye on Ayla, although she did not seem to need it, nowadays. He concluded that he would be delighted to meet his real daughter and whomever she felt fit at the Hotel Caravant in three days. With love. I deserved a major tickle by Kate, so much my abs went tense of the joy all these news caused.
Without some more foot care from me, Sarah might have blown her top, or else. She set the show on our bed and ordered me to attend, in a most becoming black tank top and leggings, herself had unearthed a starry-night blue Liberty shirt from her Swiss days she was so proud still easily fitted, over black moleskin shorts. It had been agreed that Ayla would call, so we prepared a tea-tray with tangerines.
When the Skype fanfare sounded, she almost panicked, so I had to set the computer over the sound system. Ayla also sat on a large bed with wide striped black and white pillows doing a dynamic pattern. I scented some code in her outfit, very similar to Sarah’s; she too showed heavenly legs and shapely feet, wore not much more than a black corduroy shirt, with a single button fastened, and tight satin shorts.
Ayla is a captivating pixie with medium long thick black hair, swayed on the side of a sleek forehead, natural bold brows and dark chestnut eyes ensconced behind long lashes in brash gazes. She asked who I was, I told her myself and Sarah kissed me demonstratively enough. Ayla asked for closeups of our faces, while she held her own cam near, she whistled her compliment as Sarah was blown. Only just sexy mauve shadows in a teenage face, she lost herself counting. Ayla played with the button and opened the shirt, showing her insolent little diddies to which Sarah swore she had kept them intact, only a lot of groping had ripened them. She lost her shirt too, I knew where this was heading but I was only guest. As we gamboled a tad already, I took away the tray and then dared to undo Sarah’s shorts’ button, cheered by the Swiss contender; it cost me my top but earned me a sweet comment on my shy lotus buds. It turned into some sex chat and we gave her a peep of our daily life while she cared to caress herself. She has fine feet, she must have impressed Sarah’s dad, who knows to what extent?
They revived an old camaraderie about which I shied at first, they had shared unfettered with many souls. Yet my own lecher drove me to unbind and I found myself as wide open as them, still feeling my arse bustled from a few nights ago. She was explaining her debuts as a real hussie in a sex house, some using extensively cameras and screens to ease the customer’s fears, watch for the girls’ safety, and sell to peeping toms. One of her first constant regulars was a quiet gentleman who came on late Thursdays, checked the three or four numbers she had scored and had me warned, as soon as the last john left, not to wash, for him to smell me defiled, drenched of sweats and squirts. This one was rich enough to make her consent to three stooges, good operators and smooth fuckers, visibly and sensitively overjoyed to ravage such a young and pretty game and leave her, all spent, for the use of the delighted weirdo. she played as submissive as he craved, but also reveled in his madly thorough licking and enjoyed giving him all the dripping and pissing he could take. This is no exceptional service whores do, although this man made her quite rich in a few years before he suddenly disappeared. Some teams of business partners wanted her together, because one of them had boasted her livelihood or whatever, these were high value hours, provided she duly lubricated herself, and drained their balls fast. Then Barbro estimated she was sly and trained enough to follow her tracks in the palaces corridors, at the pleasure of the over-privileged, with the benefits of around the clock service. Most of these are enthralled busy men and only wish for a complacent young girl to suck them while they battle on the phone, they all taste the same, and they tip you grandly if you swallow casually. Others want you to wander nude in their suite, turning when they wave a finger, taking them up your arse when they find themselves erected, fading away with your enveloppe without saying a word.
I was only of legal age when I started doing for money what you had known me to do for play, and it was very young, hence the high demand Barbro managed fairly. When the age was raised, I fit in too, otherwise I had had some offers in Austria. Look at me, all in all, for the catastrophe I came from, I still do well, I perform two, three, maybe four times a day, I allow myself to cum on the job, Barbro cares for me, fuck the Swedes, they make girls like me miserable in their shitty country, and the French who copy them are shameful hypocrites who go to whorehouses at everyone of their borders. I know French girls, here, who fled unspeakable family and social nightmares in France and make a good living for themselves, with benefits, for a few hugs a day, whenas they had been raped and beaten by all the men in their stinking families, they would die rather than repatriate, they learn German. As regarding drug abuse, prohibition is never the solution, Swiss is a beacon, as it was long ago about contraception and abortion, as it is, nowadays, about barring surgeons from touching intersex children like the French scalpel-mongers still do freely.
Sarah, I became squeezed in shame and guilt when I realised in Harmony’s office that your dad certainly paid for me. I love you, and I felt I was stealing from you on my parent’s behalf. I should have been your little sister, but I didn’t know what your immense dad would be willing to make of that, some more years?
You have bewitching legs and feet, a face and body worth more than the millions they give you, but I know your soul, I wore your bracelet in paradise, little sister. We need to find our big sister Julia, she tutored me all the way down to the laundries, did you go? I would say she though like you just said, and she was so fast to make up her mind. As for genderqueer persons, my Kate here had one as her lover back in Hamburg who moved to Australia and just sent us an intersex boy with all the feminine sexual characteristics, save for a small penis and tiny balls we can play with. Kate can also be a frank harlot and likes it, could you see us in Zurich?
We enjoy a stardust living around here, we became to shun the heft of city trappings, like high-heel shoes, off-the-peg look and cuisine. We are subjects here of a most stealthily influential monarch who provides for bespoke excellence and perfume as we practise the most genuine soul-searching. Tudor is proud of me, mind you! My Kate has drifted a few times on lethal byways for she is so beauteous, these days she longs for a maid child she saved from the slavery she had been bred for, from birth, and that is dedication and reveling, all together. As a last addition, now I have a pixie of the kind you were, with dainty little fingers like yours, who creeps under my quilt in the middle of the night, and, by the way, inspired my new search of you in the manner you know. I haven’t yet devastated this new little one as much as I did you, fox face, you may smile.
As she gave us the address and codes to shop for her online, like true whoremongers, we remained on the bed with the computer screen connected to our large wall-mounted monitor. Ayla had warned us that we should have to trust our debit cards numbers, telephone and verified email, but she swore it was as safe as buying books on Amazon, if we were. We navigated an austere set of windows, visibly designed to bore away unaware visitors, until we punched in the first sesame code she had given. So on, back and forth with my mailbox, we accessed a choice of desirable hostesses; for each, we could have explored levels with numbers of hearts and stars, corresponding to the price of the contemplated service. We stayed on Ayla’s menu, but I was dumbfounded when I saw that she was advertised as Sarah Woolf. She had not warned, but of course she could not tell her name. Kate immediately frolicked with her newfound slag for a sweet minute. There were sets of images in the usual decors, hotel room, night bar, beach, forest, etc… She flaunted a singular presence to the camera, she really had it. We browsed the two-stars videos in which she masturbated and sucked cock and snatch with the same equanimity. One star up, she was shagged in the whole repertory, her long legs thrown like wings for young well-hung models we could have done for free ourselves; she made it look like and endless carnival. Three stars involved her well-known childish arsehole, nonetheless willing to engulf considerable whangs while her smile remained unfazed; she was letting them drill her rump like Sunday Mass in Heresyland, with the same rapture eyes as the Bavarian angels. Some beautiful black athlete was treating her so considerately that I think I know how many times she climaxed before he stood, transfixed, sunk into her butthole. Now we fetched our assortment of toys and we practice, having hit replay on the Mandingo prestation.
Kate has scurried out of the bed and caught the intruder on the threshold, she draws back a defying Natalia, splendidly bare, at the peak of another orgasm. Dumbfounded, I realise we should have foreseen that, how much has she seen, is it so worrying? After what her mother told me, should we lock our door to her? Kate holds her like she’s not hers, I push the toys and order her on bed. She’s still attracted by the spectacle on the screen, I switch it off and lay her down, eyes in hers. I tell her who is in the video and why, I feel she can coffer the truth, but I also lecture her on the fact that she will put us in trouble, eventually. Damn, she’s so lovely that I do not refuse her kiss. Kate has joined and grazes her nape with her lips, she tells her she terrifies her mother, who doesn’t want to flee that place and can’t afford rent in the center of Paris. Obviously, we are as caught as she is, all nude, smelling of guilty gardenia we used in the lube, helpless before her almond shaped hazel eyes, we treat her in broad light like we have before in the shade, but she wants to look at Ayla’s dance and flows endlessly with the large vibro in her butthole, she came generously, she’s in our possession, now, with all it implies.
Sarah asked me to join her meet her dad at the Hotel Caravant, an art-deco sleeping beauty near the Etoile. I found them in the lounge, inevitably she had kicked her Todd’s and let him fiddle with her feet I had readied and polished. She was bright-eyed, he was spry. As before, he looked through me like he would have me anytime, so I acted as if he was, and Sarah sensed it, so she held my thigh. She said they had parsed out the sad story of Ayla and come to the same conclusion, he would try to meet her in Zurich, in any case. We shared some of our concern regarding Natalia, so he smirked, saying we attracted forlorn damsels with our easy manners, no blame intended. He told he had read excellent reports on Fanny, gazing my eyes and tilting his head, it seems she chose the appropriate lifesaver, and Mrs Stern is a trustworthy asset in her life, too. I wondered what amount of insight would serious services collect? Did they rightfully ignore deviant lifestyles so long as educated consent was respected? Himself, lulling his ravishing daughter by her tantalising feet, had he grasped any hint of her penchants and drives? Would he know how she would earn the Wiltshire Grant and the Kaltenbrandt Prize?
He spoke about their land, he was freshening up the Taarbæk house, the Admiral had finally passed, leaving the old barrack to them, which he was redesigning, but saving the map room and the archives; we might enjoy it next summer, bring friends far from mass tourism? That was a loving father, like I never knew one, till Hugo, in a weird way. But looking finely, aren’t all real human relations weird? He questioned Saint Loup for Natalia, if her grades weren’t exceptionally promising in the French system, there should be adequate professional help to make her catch up. Was there a topographical move, inside the seemingly vast house of Hugo’s, allowing some breathing air to the boisterous damsel? Sarah evoked Lena’s feeling of overflow, sensing her daughter obsessing on our lifestyle and convincing her pretty head that it would be effortless, meaning she would put her body and soul on the block. As she literally did with us. Mr Kettelær finely pointed that there was the heart of the matter; we had let Natalia root her hopes in our nest, so we had an undoubtedly charming monkey on our backs, with some parenting to endeavour, not sweeping her away. He wrapped my hands in his and said that in his own situation towards me, he had found no other solution because I had been trying impossibly to root into him, and he had a better idea of being a father. A telephone rang in his pocket and he left us, telling us to begin dinner. I craved Sarah when she met her dad, she revived some old Nordic attitude that called for moral jostle, whereas she was more cosmopolitan than I ever was, I took her feet, and talked about Natalia; Hugo would be back the next day, regaled with his new minion, he would decide.
Whatever crumbs of his life he would grant me, I had a real father. of course I would no more run astray to make him spend a head spinning week in London with me alone, but the bond still was. He offered us to come over to New York before any evil endeavour came obscure our terraces on the River; he touched Kate’s hand and told her he would take us to unthinkable places, and I was fantasising them making out in secret hideaways. I cannot behave. We ate lobster in saffron cream with peeled grapefruit carpels, just what I like most. Far came back in good mood, “something” had been unlocked, probably; he recommended the frozen nougat, and that let me think he had been there without telling. He wasn’t even sleeping there, a jet waited at Le Bourget. He watched me, wearing a deep blue purple silk taffetas open shirt on black jersey leotard and leggings, Melchior’s gift at my wrist casting all its fires, and he beamed out, his lips on my black varnished nails and the family crest of my ring. My foot reached Kate’s under the table, she wore a carmine and green over white ikat vest over a blurry white embroidered linon knee-long dress, carmine sandals, a Welo opals choker and her Venetian green opal ring. Two men in black approached our table, we stood up and hugged, Far smelled frankincense, cinnamon, patchouli, tobacco, Denmark. In the taxi, Kate confessed she had wetted; I checked, she wore no undies.
Back home, we played a game. We undressed, put on some random “Soma FM” drone zone music, which was preset, and shut off the lights, drinking white tea. It took fifteen minutes to our hotel rat to deftly turn th knob and sneak in nude too. We saw her elusive shadow running for the bed, scan the room, retreat and collide with some warm body she scented in tthe neck and whispered Kate…who pushed her open on the bedside and kissed her jolly molly while I crept from the other edge. In a smallish voice she asked to see again the girl of last night. Since the pleasure was still alive, I complied to her whim, trying not to let her see the code, and Ayla-Sarah smiled to the superlative organism with his master dong almost stiff already. I fetched a bath towel and spread it for her fountain to feel free; She was installed against pillows, scrutinising any single move to detect some trick, but the picture was hi-res and Ayla really did enjoy the piece in her. Kate was doing her the biggest of our dildos, so I caught her hand, lubed it and showed her to push it in me, deeper, deeper. Dashing and young, she came quite a few times for the glory of the mandingo hero and rang my bell, too, after what I sodomised my best Kate’s moonside as the baby tried her untrained anus vainly. Remembering Hugo would be back the next day, and we wanted to parse this little hoe’s fate with him, I whispered to Kate’s ear that it was time to quiet and sleep happy, so we all went to the shower, noting that the towel was drenched.
Hearts have bustled in our home while I yielded at the wonderments in Theo’s clear soul, not even risking to write down any sort of observations during our diverted trip from the Scilly islands to the sleepy shores of Bruges, so entralled my compagnon had revealed about the magic lights of Flemish images, spellbound by my friend Florenz in a Patinir dreamscape. Theo had been a foppish but dainty lover to please, keeping the untold for his journals and poetry. He would enrich greatly our realm, in all his extraordinary delicacies kept unspoiled by Katherine’s providential fairy, now unfortunately estranged from her. The unfazed bond between her and Sarah takes roots in the lasting harmonics of the unlikely trio she lovingly perpetuates.
And now, predictably, Natalia has bitten in their somewhat candid hearts and thrown herself, and her mother, astray in the realm of debauchery, as I hear. As I read the soul of the enviable culprit, there are all good reasons to keep her in our tree, while alleviating the worries of our indispensable Lena. So, I will nest another tenant at the care of Gauthier and Theo, she is mature enough to live and run on her own with the failsafe network of us all, isn’t she?
Sarah came first, she has access to my private nooks and wanted to whore a tad as to how to revel in Natalia without distressing Lena, whom, whatsoever, was all but naive, herself. I grasped she was indeed poisoned, she smelled tuberose, neroli and gardenia I recognised as one of my old lecherous attempts, and fitted her morning seductive venture in my bed. After having enjoyed the genderqueer squire in a plush refuge for some days, it was a tiny exoticism to enter a proven vagina, be it that of this rangy tomboy. She earned an honest spirt and seemed to come off easier than usual, in some perverted manner I greeted so as to rekindle the conversation while I contemplated her slit dripping. When I laid the offer to lodge the nymphet in the new rooms, she felt like she had won it with her ass, and she wriggled her rump in elation. I bantered about preparing to snag every poppet in the conspiracy and wanted to hear the tale of their reveling on Natalia.
Then it wasn’t over, and she was still gently wet. She asked me to remember a young pixie girl she had lost in her Swiss parenthesis, and I recalled her telling the heartily depraved couplets she associated with the dubious smell of boxwoods. Her waist was swaying like a trout in the stream of my bespattered sheets. She had become troubled by this girl’s fate when Natalia’s daring manoeuvres reminded her vividly of Ayla’s.
Prettily worked up, she unwound the tale of her young harlot of a friend, sharpening my appetite all the more when she said she could reach her professionally and show me the videos which had sent Natalia over the top. Casually groping my rested peter, she disclosed a scheme she had, at my will. If the presentation of her on the site excited me, Sarah was asking me to go to Zurich, score with her all his content, and offer her whatever help she might wish, or not. She knew I would bite in it, she took another shimmy hard one up her wazoo.
That evening we went for dinner at Florenz’s with Gauthier and Theo, and I was relieved to let the cadets perform, so much Sarah had drained my balls. Gauthier was superb, his gladius tense, and Theo obedient to any necessities of the choreography. On the way home, our car smelled of Cabyria nights and lotus, too bad for the jaded chauffeur.
Early in the morning, Kate dived into the new set of sheets, seized my erect peter and swallowed it, in and again, almost whole, and swallowed my night provisions, like the perfect job. I tasted my own on her swollen lips, then she spoke before I could retaliate over her smooth body.
Of course she too came touting about Natalia, whom, I told her, did not need that to arouse me and others. Clasping her arms in her back and grabbing hold of her gracile neck, I whispered in her loved ear all I had already promised Sarah and she knew well. She wrestled with her legs parted and worked me until I penetrated her, poking her tongue on mine, extorting another unload in deep.
When her breath quieted, I took her in the shower and we preened each other, smiling. In their animal ways, they were both equally committed in Natalia’s fate, at least in the near future, depending only on the girl’s will.
I asked about Ayla, she retorted she did not know her, but she had wanked fiercely watching her perform, I should go and smell her, she bet I would enjoy. I wiped her long legs slowly and eventually slid my tongue into her buttonhole, just to watch it bloom open.
In the evening, Theo had been invited to the Opera by Florenz, I ordered salad bowls from “Lustful Nights”, whatever it spells in Chinese, and a perfect fruit basket to their place. They showed great keenness and Sarah led me to the bed for a tour of her treddle friend. Her pictures already had me hardened, and the successive scenes, given the relation to Sarah, turned me into an eager client of the girl, sometime soon. When the scene where she served the three musketeers before others, with grace and spirit, so to speak, unfolded for our eyes, I badly needed to bugger Sarah’s little butt, to what she readily complied while Kate licked the twin berries. At the truce, Sarah recalled the forbidden orgies in her old school, Ayla brazenly ahead of her age and miraculously unaffected, suddenly looming on her jewel little feet, in places where she could not fend off from her baby kisses. I enthused to the idea of going to Zurich for a first appointment, not ruling out her coming here once the confidence would have bonded.
When Natalia slid under my nightshirt, I felt her heart beat and was about to cry. Kate had reminded us earlier that her own blond pixie slept in Camille’s bed, ten minutes from here. I pulled my shirt and embraced the daredevil gamine, dazed her with kisses and gazed in the deep of her eyes, asking what she thought she was up to, what she wanted her mother do? She stayed mute and big tears rolled with no end; when her lips ended trembling, she only could tell me to take her. After a while, I asked her to cool down her ways, to make amends with Lena, sleep at night and better days might come. I had promised not to tell her about an arrangement before Hugo had laid it clear with Lena in due form.
Natalia had stolen some perfume at Hugo’s, or he had perfumed her during an encounter, she smelled of wild roses on a sea cliff, she was wonderfully dangerous.
Hugo called us mid-afternoon to his salon, where Lena and Natalia stood wild-eyed with cups of tea. Clearing his voice Hugo said he had wanted us two to witness the conversation and take some part in the decision he was about to grant Lena and Natalia. The latter would move, herefrom, to an apartment nearby the boys, upstairs, to live independently on a monthly allowance he would provide; Lena had been of indisputable help to him for many years, he estimated he owed her this reward, hoping Natalia would profit in her studies. He had hired a retired prep teacher to see to this with her.
We all followed Hugo upstairs, Natalia insisting to hold my hand or wrist, Lena giving me a glance of relief. In the lift, a mischievous hand groped my bum. We gathered in front of a door in front of Gauthier’s, she would face the rising sun. There was a small entry with walk-in closets, a square living room with a kitchen corner, a bedroom with a comfortable double bed, lots of closets, a shower room and a small study. Natalia, who could not have complained about her room in Lena’s ground floor apartment, was ecstatic; I prevented her from jumping on the bed. Hugo smirked smugly exactly like the one he made about a coveted acquisition, Natalia would soon enter the round, like us, and we would help at it, wouldn’t we?
Anyhow, she stared at all the new fixtures, the two settees, the round table with four chairs, the large monitor wall-mounted, the floor-standing speakers, etc… she accepted her mother’s hug and cried. Hugo laid the set of keys and a card with all the current codes, recommending asking for help to the neighbours. We left mother and daughter together, I was so sure she would invade our quilt next midnight.
In the lift downward, he told us he was going to Zurich the next day, in a palace overlooking the Lake. My friend sure wasn’t cheap, but she sounded like millions. He thanked us for our attitude towards Natalia, she had a few more harsh years, if she wanted to become something steadier than a party-girl, it belonged to us to make her parse the components of life as it goes; he would not fail her, anyhow. Things said, he went. I beamed to an idea of swimming during dinner time, when the waters are clear of cumbersome bathers. We ran the kilometer it took to the brilliant public swimming pool we paid our subscription to and undressed as usual in a cabin, not yielding to the current bra simulacre whereas there is nothing to either support or hide; we wore convenient boyish black boxers and did not let ourselves be gazed at too longingly. Wet, we would have caught eyes with our legs, but they stayed mostly in the water. finally, we weren’t there hustling or cruising, so it went smoothly and we disentangled our synapses in swirls of energy.
On our walk back from the evening pool, we shopped for vegan bouchées at Margit’s, a girls’ must near Saint Severin, with her Baltic blonde assistants behind the daily displays and her art-deco willow- green boxes; the only drawback being that they did not deliver, when you did not feel like dressing up.
First, another shower and massage with Hugo’s recipe of Macadamia oil infused with skin care quintessential, after our corrosive marinade. Liselotte called to invite Kate the next day meet Pr Y. at his private office, she elaborated drivels to recommend some womanly dress code, like a dress, if Kate figured the point? In short, she was telling her to appear half-nude to his kinky simulacre; which lead to implied invites from Liselotte herself to her beauty salon and somewhat beyond. Kate agreed smoothly to the said appointment with Y. and gave thought to further masquerade parties if I was welcome too.
We had wanked our arses off watching Ayla and her colleagues all evening, so I did not wake when Natalia joined and eventually slept with us. In the morning, she was dewy fresh and witty proud, arched back and jumpy. She knew nothing about tea but dipped her toast swiftly, letting a drop of marmalade run on her baby breast only for me. I texted her neighbours, in case they would like to befriend the new ship’s cadet. Gauthier ran at attention promptly, in a sunny yellow tracksuit, bare feet and loose; he did not know the newbie would be so young, and almost nude. He greeted the news of her moving from downstairs to skyways cheerfully, getting interested and spreading jelly on the next toast. As he felt in our mood, he even went on the play a bit footsie with the wise little rascal who let him do. I saw what was churning there and couldn’t see bad, Gauthier is a brilliant gentleman altogether. Theo was already dressed with a fresh white shirt and a brown checked tweed vest, his beige flannel pants cut sleek. I anticipated his encounter with our master tailor Gianni. he even donned elegant lounge slippers; he puzzled Natalia with his refined manners, she almost sat on his lap. The pair, who had acquainted each other in perfect tone, begged for the honour to help at the decoration of her place in whatever taste she might claim. Natalia came and sat on me, one arm over my shoulders, I had to show pride, but I hid her pussy under the shirt she had grabbed in haste. That way, the air cleared, Gauthier was still teasing her feet, and we laid the plan that was to help her succeed in some studies, the caveat being that an old teacher would haunt their corridors, at times. after having picked some shorts in our closet, she took the boys home for a first evaluation, her apartment having been left drab white.
In the morning, Natalia wasn’t in our bed, Sarah was hidden; it would be some masquerade day, I had let it happen. although I had not paid attention to Y. before the salacious plays Sarah had told me, and the just recent charivari. I was ready for any lame accolade of my coveted villainy summed up in the necessity to sodomise me in a more awkward position than Y. had fantasised, as far as I had estimated the level of vice in the character. Sarah yawned and asked me in what outfit I thought i would lead Y. to his aneurysm, and she sat on me. In her time, she had been taken off-guard, just letting the half-rape go to completion with no real part to play, other than loosen her pretty arse; that fit her beautifully. Came up an idea I could have used at Victor’s, I had somewhere a lace dark-bronze crotchless bodystocking I could sport in an Uzbek Kaftan with gold embroidered Moroccan mules. Sarah bantered that I did never used that one on her, and I owed her that, now, sometime in an orgy. The tea was heavenly, she peed on me with, all ingenuous. She pampered me like a new bride, drying my hair in volume, laying new varnish on my nails, chasing any re-growth of body hair, massaging all evil in my evil body. I had decided to show Y. a flash key with my name engraved that he would copy or give to M.E. if he enjoyed my delivery.
When Liselotte rang, I had been parading in the apartment in that obscene and ostentatious outfit that Sarah had wished she could sell me in. She appreciated the desired effect and dared, since we were mates in debauchery, now, finger along the uncovered parts like a connoisseur she was. We called a car, she continued to finger me, with a witty smile. Climbing the eighteenth century stairs gave me the feeling, I knew, of a Hogarth Trollop. The apartment smelled of immemorial benzoin, like the crowded pot hideout I had tripped out in during my art school days in Hamburg; beeswax too, was Y. submitting tenderfeet slaves to polish his furniture as a prelude? All the shutters and curtains were pulled and it took me a few minutes to parse the scene. As he lead me to a padded stool next to a perfectly tidied desk, I saw three silhouettes entirely sheathed in black leather, wearing mirror glasses. I had not noticed that, under the back silk trench coat, Liselotte was harnessed in leather and silver; Y. tested her kitty, smelled his fingers and came back to me, offering a hand to take my coat. As I stood up and opened the richly ornate silk, he stilled his move to grasp what he saw, then made me pivot to unrobe me and watch all sides of me. He mumbled a litany of compliments, palpated, fingered, got it that I was really ready, so suddenly called “Roby”, who stood up from the settee and walked to us, Liselotte attending to unzip the tight pants and ease a tense manhood with considerable balls, oint the tool and shove it in my arse to my better release, for I knew they would all have me thus. by the bye, he called “Flens” and “Rifles”, who also brought considerable artillery to my attention. Y. was predictably transfixed, his pecker stiff as I had seen it. The mad dogs did not take long to inundate my shattered rill and bend back, breathless, shown out by Liselotte, with some smile. Y. was sniffing me out, slumped on the stool, dripping. Liselotte wiped off the gulps of jism and masturbated me with some cream, smelling of lotus; she easily sunk her thin arms deep in me, finding ways to reawaken my pleasure. Y. held my head, gaze into my eyes and said something about Sarah and me, plunged his tongue in my mouth a few times, sidestepped and, Liselotte keeping hold of me, began buggering me with time and method till I almost passed out.
Short-breathed, I flounder in a trough filled with black floppy damp gloves and feathers. In the next stall, horses buck on planks, and neigh, out of despair. Wiggling in the slimy peat, I push to extricate my right fin out of the box, but any move slips. The side door of the wagon we’re in cracks open by the whacks of the dirty grey horses that run distraught. The train is dismantled inside a tunnel where innumerable cables run along the concrete walls. Four grim, tall, greenish-black dressed men, wearing top hats and whitish gloves, gather next to my overflowing crate, try to grasp it, and spill the sludge on the rusty rail tracks where all the gloves fidget frantically to creep under the brownish scree of the ballast. They turn me upward, grabbing my gills, and start butchering me out of the fish that scatters down on the pebbles, releasing the stench of gas oil on seaweeds. The three foaming horses gallop back towards us, stumbling on the firing stones, chased by swarms of bats. The top hat four shield me out to a beaten door and push me in an obscure corridor in which I feel carpeting under my bare feet. They bustle and hustle through to a feeble light reflected by a polished copper plate saying “Zurich”. Pressing the button, they make two steel panels slide aside, opening on a glitzy booth I remember having seen, lined with gold-toned mirrors in which I find myself desirable, like it seems, moreover, to be the taste of my keen personal detail. In howling of cable scraping, we reel about as the booth feels like it sways course sideways until it stops, springs open onto a ballroom of inconceivable luxury. As my escort, whose outfits have spectacularly rejuvenated, their hats whirling of reflections, run to stand at order before every door, I begin dancing for the mirrors in the gem-clad grotto, illuminated by four crystal chandeliers. I smell of wisteria dawn and in my chest an enthused thrill vibrates from my perineum to the focus point of my skull, as if I flew up into the alembic of pure love.
My eyes are delicately wiped and I see Liselotte,as nude as myself, inside a richly upholstered closed alcove dimly lit by two diamond shaped gaps in the doors. In the dark, her eyes are black, she seems not to have enough of cuddling and licking me she does otherworldly well. Were it not for going really to the toilets, I tell her I could spend days in that box under her caresses. She pushes the doors open, and I see a small low room paved with ancient azulejos, she leads me to a tiny cabinet with a tiny window behind the seated toilet. When I estimate it suitable to go out, she gently pushes my bum to a shower not much bigger in which she rubs on me and washes interminably my dirty ways with her long fingers, whispering that she has wanted me for a long time that way, and she hopes it will come again soon, she has views for us. She sprays me with some androgynous “rosewood – blackcurrant” heady enough to trouble Sarah. After we share a perfect black Keemun tea cup on a small table in the cozy boudoir she explains was Y.’s daughter’s dream, where he helped Liselotte carry me, when I had passed out of all the ravages I had been through, She helps me slip the bodystocking back on, with regrets when I hide in the kaftan, and she shows me to the car she has ordered for me. Still a tad befogged, I let her believe we might do over. In her simple black and blue cotton dress with white ballerines, she is indeed palatable, her long nose is strait and thin, her eyes deep and sharp, she could figure in a Klimt.
It had been ages since I was completely alone for a whole night, I read part of the “Psychoanalysis of Artistic Vision and Hearing”, by Anton Ehrenzweig then, again,”The Book Of Monelle”, by Marcel Schwob. But what had they do to Kate? In my time, I had made a fool of myself only a few hours, to their delectation. She arrived, in her grand “pavement princess” attire, and she smelled beautifully like a Doge’ s mistress in a shady casino. I raped her, like a teddy bear, and she was totally submissive. She retold what game had been of her and let me feel her pink bloom, but her eyes were utterly mischievous, she had reveled all the way to exhaustion, like the crafty scoundrel she is. She stole my feet for a long fiddling, we devised of what had been of Natalia and Ayla, in two far away galaxies.
A message came in from Hugo, with a photo on which he hugged a visibly bare Ayla, as ingenue as a cygnet, that I hastily saved in my memory. He thanked me for the introduction and imagined that we would all be together sometime soon. The upstairs crew descended on our quiet, Gauthier’s team would invade Natalia’s crib for a few days, so she was asking refuge to what I answered that I had missed her while she debauched with the boys. She took a pensive pose, muttered that she had learned quite a lot, and rubbed her puny hips between the boys. She wore slim white leggings under a pastel blue shirt so big it must have been Theo’s, who donned a natural beige linen suit and a willow green tee-shirt, while Gauthier was in a pair of baggy jeans, a white tee-shirt, and held a passed brick red safari jacket. Theo wore tan mocassins, Gauthier wore a new pair of sneakers. I entertained the company in my sleeping apparel, Kate had been surprised naked while coming back from the bedroom, she remained so, for the amusement of Natalia who went to hug her, then to me, pointing out in all innocence that we did not smell like we had slept together; Kate told her that she had allowed herself to be despicably reprobate, in another house, and that was what she smelled. Theo came near and sniffed Kate with restraint first, then openly when he was assured to claim a sincere enchantment about this scent of debauchery, he let his hand graze down her shy nipples, and went behind me, caressing both our girls’ napes, which simply bent for a kiss. Gauthier fully embraced Kate and hummed, she agreed but let know that she was spent, pushing him into an armchair and sprawling upon him, with a tender smooch, promising to tell the whole torment she had endured. Theo declared he would start his day in the Gustave Moreau Museum, at the heart of the old literary Paris. Natalia was all aroused by the sexual innuendo of the talks, she began to slid her hands on me, I would teach her a rewarded lesson as soon as we could be together alone.
In another message from Hugo I read while in bed with Natalia, without letting her see, he was again embraced with nude Ayla and also with another girl, blonde with short hair, light blue eyes and the neck and shoulder of a Canova, she smiled all glee, too. He wrote that someone had a three days appointment with some Leo D. Bronstein, whomever that was. I shut my phone before Natalia could be appealed to a sheer extolment for whoredom, about what she would have to read some more. As of now, she reveled in full moral upheaval, having shared half of her night with exquisite, fragrant, touchy-feely princes of the inner crystal ball she had grown up next to. Murmurs and giggles from the sitting room let me think other scallywags had read Hugo’s impish bantering, but it could sound like they were casually tickling each other. As I snooped near carnal pleats exuding that very special “Fleur d’Oranger”, I knew that the bright-headed squire had gamboled, not in the least minding his lustful tracks. Eventually, Kate crashed by us when Gauthier was called in the apprentice’s hutch, she languished in the giddying sensation of having fired off all resilience and yet wiggling for more; Natalia arched her back between us, quenching Kate’s fantasy on her mouth and mine between her thighs, in total blamelessness.
Before he flew back from Zurich, Hugo asked us to invent whatever feast we might for his late arrival; he would love to gloat about his extraneous encounter of one of his best little prostitutes as yet. He is not the man for big ones, notably. Our difficulty rested with Natalia, whom we could not bring and hear a highly licentious report. She neither could spend the evening in her room, wrapped up by decorators and infested by solvents. From the studio, I called Theo and laid down our quandary for him, hoping he had not already been asked. He retorted that he was fond of the nifty debutante and he would love to invite her out, if she agreed, then entice her to his home and try to reach second base, if ever. That said on a jolly tone alleviated my embarrassment, moreover when the invitee loved the idea.
Hugo was enthralled with the shrewd little Swiss harlot; while pecking at tiny stuffed pouches from Albertine’s, he assaulted joyfully Sarah, who had slid in a thin ultramarine corduroy gown and was swiftly ass-bare for us; readily apropos too, my ample jersey chemise that held on to me with four buttons, two of which were already undone. Ayla had exacerbated her prestation with all manners of tales about her childish romance with Sarah, all the holy hive and the wolves; so as so Hugo revisited his fondness for that lithe pale tomboy Ayla had cunningly evoked, among them. We longed to hear about the blond pixie of late hour, he told it had been Ayla’s inspiration, or possibly a plot to get her, Leanne’s foot, which was deliciously pampered, on the ladder, as they say. In any manner this probably novice courtesan had been foxily groomed by her sly facilitator and she had not baulked to any of his ways, none of them thuggish, as we know. He might consider bringing them over, for one of our celebrations, might he not?
Although it had been some night and morning, he had craved Sarah’s crafty little soul until now and he buggered the boxwood genie with friskiness, while I exerted myself on the bling berries and the pink little knob and made her water off with two fingers. He also told us that he had passed the tip to Melchior, who else? And a reservation for three full days had been concluded in Zurich. Predictably, I dozed out before I could tell my adventure, he was happy to do the same with me in his arms. We woke up in the morning under shawls, smelling like tramps.
I had left Kate in Hugo’s arms and, after a geranium-orange shower, rounded in a dream with Ayla, on the slopes of Saas-Fee and the diamond strings of the Milky Way. Early at dawn my arse was amused by a flickering tongue and I let some time roll before fishing out a merry daredevil Natalia. I opened wide my legs and embraced her, she put unusual nerve to her all over groping, she had something to say. Theo had been an angel with her, he had explained many things clear like spring water, they had played, she had asked and insisted so as to take his childish tool in her, they had shared her two slits to her enjoyment and he had flowed into her behind, was she no virgin anymore? That was so amusing that I hugged her tight and slid a finger into her, again. We babbled it and gossiped until Kate returned and Theo showed in a honeycomb white bathrobe, blushing, smelling of a sleek patchouli. As I was still in bed with the gamine, I invited him to sit and gave him a tell-all kiss. We did not have to retell the bound-to-happen night, Natalia posed indecently over my hips, I ordered them to kiss, for good, and I winked for Kate who had all figured already.
Mr Brunoy, that is Emeric Brunoy, had, in order, met with his client, Hugo, Natalia’s mother, Lena, and was sitting with us having tea and rich financier cakes from Chalmont’s. The main suspect was at her school. The retired teacher appeared to have been a young retiree, smelled of a refined pharmacist’s Cologne, showed no weird habits or twitches, spoke elegant French, English, Latin, Greek, and German. Behind frameless spectacles, the gleam in his eyes told the glamour he had envisioned at the offer by the labyrinth’s overlord, and his breath was soothing down as he parsed that there would exist no power play among the areopagus of the adults concerned in Natalia’s well being. He had not yet met the subject, only scanned through her school reports, with no fright. Two hours, five days, sounded like a sure course, up to him to make it last all the time needed to embark the princess on a safe career, this deliberately pronounced by two bona fide non-conformists he pained to read–understandably. We knew it would take some time for him to accustom to the peculiar gravitation laws inside this private dominion and its satellites; he would reckon, for his own peace, that all he needed to scrutinise was our work, and at that there were threads to weave, if he dared. He had prepped generations of the French elite in the finest institution, not far from our home; he would care to acquaint with Natalia’s teachers. He would come and go through the other staircase, thus not interfere with our Olympian lifestyle.
For a moment, I feared I had crossed some intangible line circling Natalia, although our hanky panky had never felt unlike what I had smelled out between her and the girls; besides, she was not underage sexually, although only slightly. Happily, she acts out as no harm is done, and I have watched her being as loose with Gauthier, who owes me a report on her behaviour in his bed, sensibly less innocuous than mine, mind you! Besides the carnal niceties Cynthia had foreseen around Her Faerie Queen, Paris keeps offering venues for accomplished vows, like this dark easy path along windows for prints where I encountered Rodolphe Bresdin, one of the legendary figure in J. K. Huysmans’ “A Rebours”, as well as a young art student who needed to be fondled in his medieval attic and did not care much about who went on to suck him out; he smelled of cinnamon coffee, his pubic hair was blond.
In addition to the sturdy public collections, what strikes me is the number of art and antique galleries, again notwithstanding the vivace hustling to what I am a tad too often mistaken for, I will need training from Lorentz about codes, before my clothes are ruined! I saw how Gauthier behaved in a posh gallery by the Seine, but his mere stance and the golden mane transfixed at order the same attendants who would have jostled me to some dark closet for a quickie, or was I the one inviting to such nastiness? Cynthia merely joked when she witnessed me unleash unwittingly lewd manners; or perhaps should I learn sexual discernment from whom had it ingrained from long: fairies, that is, Kate and Sarah.
Together with Hugo, in the luxurious hotel overlooking the canal in Bruges, life had been so light to bear, in the midst of such wealth of devoted art, one hour from the legendary “Mystic Lamb”, which was chased all over by nazi black SS, denying in ourselves any moral order upon our good pleasure, reappropriating the least of the lay morsels of the obsessive lawns under the sinners’ feet. He had called for the hairdresser, the manucure, the pedicure, the dermatologue, etc… so as to worship what he called my nonpareil body; we had lied down in mute rapture after long courses of heated relentlessness, listening to the placid heartbeat of the flat country. The heavy silver limousine had lulled me, in a flutter of lashes, back to the sweet sheepfold, where everyone is one’s own lamb.
And amongst the pastureland of these floors, the golden piper –whom wouldn’t he play with?– has devised, in accordance with the woman-child of the new heights — on his part too, much coveted– her homely staterooms with colours. His staff of decorators have in no time spread the fantasia. The living room walls in toned down Sienna earth, against what the subdued blues and mauves of sofas and chairs sing; a slate counter, parting the cherry wood and black steel kitchen corner, the lavender blue enamel on the refrigerator . He had sprawled an autumn bliss carpet on the terracotta floor. In the bedroom, he let a pale, mauvish, pastel-blue reign, with red ocher accents playing the counterpart to the sitting room’s palette, and he thought of thick warm desert sand carpets in case Natalia would roll down on the floor. The small studio was pearl grey with sleek white shelves, a maple desk and a very comfortable silver painted office chair, as good as to skip the unconscious excuse of awkward sitting.
On the walls, the pictures must have come from Hugo’s reserves; a wall-high Stängl made a killing of scattered playful touches about a mental dismemberment of an absent-minded nymphet; some vermilion horse defied the wind in the sunburnt hills, by an undetermined artist; some epic Lakota drawings, and in the bedroom an important –it was my idea, it cost dear– deep garnet Australian Aboriginal dream tale of dot lines and spires. In the living room, a wide west-coast American Salish Indian mask hovered across a wall-mounted monitor; wireless speakers stood in the corners.
When the miracle was accomplished, Gauthier’s artists could encompass bigger challenges, the little Mistress happened to be wearing a short cornflower dress of nothing and maybe the minimum of a thong; she danced around and hyperventilated like a toddler. Everyone in the Castle came running, watched her and forgot the plainly successful decor. Thanks to Sarah, who purveyed, she could make tea and display almond macarons. Lena was together moved and shied, considering her dumbstruck baby in her own perils, heading to whatever her revealed little arse would mean, under the potent gaze of our Squire.
Sarah says: M. Brunoy gave us his sincere report on Natalia’s scholar levels and showed hand-written tests she had passed before him; opportunely, he suggested a second chair in the studio. He was in no way worried, she wrote articulate French and English, she understood concepts of history and what now holds place for geography, she was ready for assimilating concepts in philosophy, politics and soft sciences, showed appetite for natural sciences and, moreover, women studies. M. Brunoy avowed his incompetence in aesthetics and art, but would let that domain to us; he did not hold in high esteem art education, my ironic pose let him tell out. Eventually, he spilled out that he could recommend his own daughter for mathematics and physics; she was in the process of writing her doctorate thesis and he felt she could tutor Natalia efficiently.
I mulled over the many good people who had tutored me almost safely in the same age years Natalia enjoyed, feared and somewhat shunned in the stream of her days. Sooner or later, she would amble her tight little butt in the studio, distressing our workflow and questioning its necessity, What would we protest if she found it an appealing manner of living? Were we mature enough to demand from her that she genuinely tried other paths, now that she was shielded from hardness? Would’n it ever be still time to sell out if need be? Inside a black scribble in my mind rested the idea of a last resort with Dr Méant, but I erased it, for now
Katherine wanted to sleep with Fanny and Camille wanted to watch them; Hugo was with Theo; Gauthier had Donovan, so I told myself I had not yet rummaged around in Natalia’s new linens. She invited me swiftly as soon as I mentioned sushis from Yoshitake that came in a basket itself in a refrigerated black lacquered box. She had adapted her outfit with her new living colours, having found an ample indigo-wash and chalk striped jersey gown sharp on my taste of her. She had made up her flecked amber eyes and let her hair puff up naturally, thus impressing me more like of a made woman, albeit she rolled on no more shapes than I do, flat as an Arcadian shepherd. She would tan easily, but here she was, silently boasting her unlawfully sleek legs and feet to my nose in the most palatable creamy complexion, so, irrepressibly, I seized one and shivered at the still novelty. While I massaged, unabashed, every sweet cog in her foot and ankle, as I have been long taught, I summed up, staring at her momentarily docile eyes, M. Brunoy’s conclusions and our frankly trust in them. She has moved towards me and given both her legs, I revel in their lightness but vaguely intuit, in the now, that the contention could spawn from a Miss Brunoy, if ever. I keep chattering, as if she had expressed her hesitation, requesting her viewpoint on the required skills in hard science for most nowadays careers, my ambush being rested behind medicine, hers in our life’s example. Currently allowing my eager self upwards her singularly smooth legs, her being dark haired, and too young for having afforded herself a laser treatment, I bluntly lay that us two always knew and acted like spoiled offsprings of wealthy families, and none such question ever occurred through our course of so-called studies. But still, might not she keep pride to wrestle out a fate she might call stringently hers to the face of the world and the love of Lena?
She has pulled off her gown as simply as she should, her parted legs ensnare me as she quietly masturbates. She rushes for a moment, then releases, pleased to show how fast she can do, fixes back her gaze in mine and , with a whisper, tells. Along the years, her mother has grown confused, embarrassed with her, inside a house where she knew well the libertine philosophy prevailed, at the good pleasure of Master Hugo, although she never witnessed any other wrongdoing than ignoring the traditional rules for mating or relating between habitually handsome persons of any sex that happened to appear in it. She had figured out that a number of visitors were prostitutes, but also became possibly freewheeling regulars and more or less confidants, like a secret society of debauchery. Lena appreciated her position, comprising an honest apartment at the garden’s level, and the salary was far superior to any she could compare. Her only misgiving was exactly what was happening these days. Natalia had been an easy child to care for, and she often told her that, at least, she had made her beautiful, later helped in that by the free gym and dance lessons at her nearby school. But like in so many children’s books, not only the pretty maid would not go unnoticed, but the high life in the upper floors would come to fascinate her, as she snuck more and more often upstairs, she fantasised debauching along with the the charming persons she greeted on the ground floor. Eventually, Lena taught her daughter all the safeguards she could think, for the case she found herself in an intimate situation with the rich and powerful; then, not a believer herself and not having mentally crashed Natalia under cumbersome metaphysical fears, she waited for the proper time to speak and allow the obviously appealed Hugo to consider her daughter, with full knowledge whatsoever. That told, Natalia capsizes me over, pulls down my tights and unbuttons my shirt, muttering that she is also good at mathematics.
And so crafty was her that she had parsed that she would have the luxuriation, rape these art goddesses, sell herself to the rich man, and meanwhile protect her indispensable mother in the place. We had a shamelessly wanton evening, so as to ascertain the whole scope of our pact. Late beyond exhaustion, a message rang in, I had some idea. That was a picture of Ayla nude, her eyes a tad ringed, wearing a sumptuous choker of diamonds and spinels. Leo Bronstein could have been none other than Melchior, and she had undoubtedly outbettered me. It took some delightful time to put Natalia in the know of why a young prostitute bragged her new treasure to me, I asked her if she would dare send Ayla a picture of us two, because she was my treasure for the night, and so we did, but after that I had to lull her down to sleep.
I mulled over Ayla’s choker, and my wrist-band, and I would give Natalia a line of gems for her lithe neck, yellow gold is certain, diamonds are a sure choice, but she is too young for that, I would conspire with Hugo, he would love that and wouldn’t tell. I dreamt of both little girls, for Ayla remained how I fondled her in the boxwoods after a swim in the pool, how I watched her unleashed in dark nooks or in my room. Whatever Natalia chose, she stood on better grounds to confront mathematics, or not.
My three massive trunks of books have arrived, recommended as heavy loads to the transporter, who accordingly translated to heavy bill. I will stow them in their storage once I sort the contents in this gracious study of mine. A few years back, I boldly strove after an academic work on the post-romantic philosophic order after the actual defeat of god, coinciding with the worldly genocide of indigenous peoples and cultures, figuring that my birthplace, Australia, constituted one of the most appropriate cauldrons to boil that poison matter in. Then, my own poetic essence taking precedence into the priorities of my will, the impressive corpus of hard labour involved lately in the very cause, I deflected towards literature, and aimed to rehash the hidden narrative in journals and memoirs written by the lucky few enjoying their depravity in the staterooms of the empires on the move. This pompous program boiling down to attempt at spilling the beans on the brothel’s carpets, to write the best literary pornography, per se. Paris once was one of the biggest purveyor of graphic pornography; when Pierre Louÿs’ estate went up for auction, large boxes containing thousands of photographs were sold unopened and have disappeared because of their now illegal content, along with eight hundred kilos of unpublished manuscripts. Really great writers of the triumphant Capital of the arts have been avid collectors of such, long before colour videos were streamed into our cortex full time from the Inland Empire or Saint Petersburg, healthier than sports, anyhow.
My personal library consists mostly of the nifty references I can’t yet unearth in the world wide web, or make me feel safer on smelly paper, like the Kinsey report, for one. What comes to light today about gender ambiguity, however, is very well online and fighting, but that is Cynthia’s war and I am no warrior, I was happily spared conscription, from the beginning. I am a white girafe. With three trunks of fetish books.
In the French language, Hugo has already shown me shelves of naughty literature in his Wunderkammer; translating the volumes he would recommend might be an excellent start, I will at least scan most of it. After our escapade, the bijou neighbour has been busied with schoolwork, by M. Brunoy and his daughter Adrienne, an athletic blonde who moves in long strides; my radar has blipped when I crossed her in the lift, she will do mathematics, indeed.
Hugo wants to invite Lorenz for dinner, they know each other, and our lucky encounter offers an opportunity for them and myself to extend networks bonds; he suggests Gauthier would make a perfect fourth; indeed it would let me not be the only one coveted in a party of wolves, it would be arousing to watch the golden-headed one respond to the advances of another curiosities baron. At my question of possible other guests, Hugo feels that since Lorenz is not personally interested in feminine intimacy, it would create an awkward climate for everyone and, besides, he is not known to care for recent art, yet least in the making. I concur he wasn’t too keen to take me to a show of the Rite Of Spring at the Théâtre Des Champs Elysées next month and since I wouldn’t dare to ask Hugo, I thought I could try with the fairies themselves. He finds it an excellent program and we should go, the four of us, in hopes the Dutch might revive the old thirty minutes gem while upending its plain stupid story, or elaborate their sublime bodies along with unheard soundscapes, eventually, far from Lorenz’s fragrances?
The fairy sisters eagerly wanted me to meet Gianni Capodimonte, the exclusive couturier, tailor of the house. Naturally curious, actually, I had noticed, while pawing one or the other through some of their elegant attires, other than the usual sweats and tights I would promptly peel off, that the finishing touches were impeccably handmade and the structures bespoke around their features. I had found the name, threaded in gold on black taffeta labels, in hidden pleats or pockets. There had already been privileged times when, exhausted and yet formally dressed, they would allow for some shuffling of the fine stuffs about their bewitching skins, the smell of their young sweats enlightening the trails of different perfumes they had worn in the secret of the linings.
He greeted me as his two patrons stood half-nude, all the more arousing to me, at his will; a young slinky black-suited boy fetching for him anything he needed without much of an uttered word, in a sexually cryptic ceremony, as I saw it. Had they been wearing any knickers earlier? Flitting to and fro, he began considering my own body and Kate teased him to dare undress me, for I might be more of a wonder au naturel. They knew their cunning part, Sarah swiftly disrobed me and caressed me all over in a way to open up my stance, so as to let Gianni awestruck. He grabbed a notebook in his inside breast pocket and otherwise started to measure me every which way, unabashedly groping me in the process with the result of making my peen more interesting, sort of –he measured it too– and held it so skilfully that, to the overjoy of the fairies and the amazement of the apprentice, I spurted some drops on the carpet. The girls kissed my temples as Gianni unfolded a considerable white kerchief he had drawn from his pants’ pocket to wipe me thoroughly. Sarah brushed off my stains with kitchen towels. As if the event had been self-evident, he casually spun on around the three of us, enthralled in his own inspiration; he tried on a Marlene Irish tweed three piece suit on Kate, which he deemed correct. Sarah awaited, like a Giacometti alabaster maiden; he helped her closely to slip in black silk crepe pants and a black moiré silk dinner jacket which teared off a cry of wonderment out of my breast, so smooth it set out her bare skin inside the cleavage. Gianni was in some nervous trance, holding hands to both his models; he jokingly advised me to redress myself before I became besotted again over Sarah’s silks. I went to wash-up my again humble peen, and clothed back. He told me he would refit for me the never worn wardrobe of a young Lord that had been kept in camphor-wood trunks and eventually given away to him after the owner was killed in a polo game accident, ages ago. Holding my butt pensively, he muttered he would only need to round things over here, and phrased a compliment for my Melbourne tailor, who happened to be Neapolitan, too.
Gauthier has not had yet the favours of Gianni’s indefatigable hands, but he wears bespoke. When it is time to show at Hugo’s door, he checks on me, steals me a long kiss and pats my bum to the lift. He smells of amber and cedar wood with a pirouette of osmanthus that pulls my hand to where it stands in the small cabin. Lorenz appears somewhat tense in another Monarch stag’s intimate territory, but mellows instantly when he is able to touch us, and show how intimate he feels towards me. Hugo, munificent, smiles; he has displayed a few of his recent finds, and those he thinks might tickle Lorenz’s yens. A finely chiselled gold statue of Tibetan Tara radiates of peace in a bubble of light; a twelve folds lacquer screen presents a wind-bent cherry tree, by a gentle brook, against the wide-spread gold of dawn; a gilt-silver reliquary in the shape of a young maid’ head with loose long hair and a mystic grin contains the menace of being opened on whatever sordid carrion the counter-reform might have conspired. Silk-road vividly abstract ikats have been hung over his permanent trove to create an opium-eater’s best dream embalmed with south seas sandalwood. Having announced that there could not be alcohol, he offers flower drinks and cold tea, which are eagerly greeted by Lorenz, whom I knew favours these soft drinks. I read a glance between Hugo and Gauthier, who starts petting me, softly but overtly on the couch while the big males talk market, then we are invited to one of the rooms where an octagonal table is dressed-up in vermilion table-cloth. A young asian extra in a red dragon on black vest swiftly composes a wealth of small lacquer dishes chartered with bite size delicacies, for it would be an untold settlement that it is the way Hugo and his chosen kin play house.
The dark mahogany chairs are comfy, so the conversation may roll, from Gauthier’s lively presentation, double entendre commentaries on his education and asserted bisexuality, the blissful reunion in Venice with Katherine, Sarah and Hugo about the time the antipode city of the many lifts burned, again, to my unswerving love with Cynthia who revealed my true nature and the manner to live along with it, my vow to spin into literature of mine a passion I had for post-romantic Paris, in times when my own ancestors had been deported as far as possible from dirty Albion, with unwritten leeway to commit any genocide they would. And again, it was Kate, high school lover of Cynthia’s to whom she sent me with the warmest commendation, and in turn introduced to the generosity of our host. Lorenz listens keenly, but he also has craftily grabbed the pants of the young extra under the red dragon. Hugo teases that he knew he might do, and has dealt with the boy, who keeps a dreamy smirk and ends on the man’s lap, his fly opened. We moved back to the drawing room and slump upon the heavenly patinated and stuffed leather. Hugo soon teams with Gauthier on my submissive little self whenas on the other bank the boy’s pants went down on palatable sleek legs, as the dragon shows a dark stem of desirable size that Lorenz entertains with his skilled mouth, trying to stop at each fatidic moment, till he has to gulp, letting the boy pant. Hugo has whispered in my ear and so I go to the toilet and prepare myself in no time, ready to let Gauthier steadily shag me while Hugo sucks all of my jewels to completion. We rest content while the nude boy serves some tea in glass bowls, and as he shows me his butt, I slide a hand is his crack, wank him softly and wait for him to move back on me; we embrace and soon hear raves upon us; he is touching, I like his ways, I part my thighs so as to let him in me as hands are groping us in every way, it lasts a long, dear time and we kiss all along, up to when I feel him discharge deep in and stay quiet until he slips out. When he goes, Hugo takes the place and asks me; I feel totally whoresome, dripping cum as his familiar truncheon takes its ease and carouses in my unfettered bunghole. I exult at the instant thought of retelling all this to Sarah and Kate.
Dr Cynthia Möhlitz wrote:
My unrivalled Katherine Sophie, Theo has sent lovingly worded stories of his grand settlement among you and your friends; it is so generous of your mysterious sponsor, my best hobgoblin is jumping clouds in his so anticipated city of Paris! Thank you, maiden swan, warm caress in the dunes, I swear you will soon be mine again! We have good connection here, why not see ourselves in Skype? I never saw your sweet Sarah, I am sure she is as graceful as Theo says she is. Send pictures of your work, revel in your days, I love you! C.