Sarah says:

Though she is now courted and fulfilled in most ways she had foreseen, Natalia still knows where our key stays, and picks it up to sneak in our door, tiptoe to our bed and slip into the warmth of whomever dreams in the linens. If there is still a star for lovemaking, she might watch, only, or sit by. She is our girl. She radiates the same candid presence as Ayla spent thoughtlessly upon us all, pulling the wool over her angst, dancing on invisible embers. Except this one foxy pointed-face imp is well and truly pegged to our lines, under the sun or the moon; by the bye, she thrives under the crafty yoke of the the Brunoys, curly blonde Adrienne made her taste her voluptuous assumption of mathematics, she smells like a lark in a chamomile bush, with a laugh as clear as a silver bell. I would crave to tip her over somewhere but Kate and me conspired to let her feel it, and make sure it wouldn’t topple the salutary balance she brought to Natalia.
One day she had been called to Vienna, Ayla sent an enormous Sachertorte in its neat wooden box, specifying it would keep for weeks in the refrigerator; we brought it at Camille’s where Natalia met Fanny. They spoke French, wrapped up their personal stories with much uncharted territories, but gave trust in each other’s manners and ambitions; they climbed the same big art deco armchair up and down, sniffed their armpits and did what we were doing, too, for the great delight of Camille’s who shared chocolate with me, whenas Kate cuddled showing Marie, who asked all details on Ayla.

One morning, after a gentle training in the gym and a broom flower scented shower, I ventured in Hugo’s and found him in his bed on the phone with some apparently important caller; as he made a gesture asking me to wait on, I went to his kitchen and brewed a pot of Darjeeling. Lena came up, all smiles, and laid her hands on my warm shoulders, like comrades do; She whispered that I was a good person and fled. I brought tea to Hugo’s bed, he asked me in and started to grope me some. I wanted to hear again about his somersaults with Ayla, so he dealt that I would ask all I wanted in return for giving him a morning fuck, and he turned me over. He was stiff in his morning glory, softened my bunghole with Lorenz’s miracle, and buggered me steady till his conclusion. I needed a tad more, so his provided an expert complement of hand polishing that I spurted on happily. In the bathroom afterwards, he gazed in my eyes and asked what it was I had had behind my forehead in all this. I warned him it was a fantasy; he was a connoisseur, he should find a dedicated patron to prostitute me to, like he practiced with his circle of friends. He laughed, but I knew first hand that he was aroused; however, he casually explained that I would have first to have a blood test and carry an electronic card updated weekly, like Kate had recounted of her episodes at Victor’s; some thrills in my tummy told me I was in, for real adventure.

I went to our usual clinic nearby, they fabricated a shiny black card with my name on it, bearing a chip where all the useful contagion data were to be stored and would green-light the way through a small reader. The check-up should not be older than a week, there are a few labs in every big city, the network has been used by the porn industry for a long time, now. Camille called me up, wanting to set business details with me, not letting me say anything over the phone. When we met in her office, Fanny was away at school, she kindly raped me on her desk, calling me names and mostly sluttish ones. She told me I had a first magnitude admirer I would love to whore to, provided I swore to tell her all about the encounter, a collector who owned some of my drawings, who had seen me in the gallery and made insinuations to Camille about inviting me to his Wunder Kabinett? He would pay a hefty sum, and still behave properly, if certainly not bridled over my body and soul, as she was currently demonstrating for herself.

Kate was into the secret and was as wet as myself, she swore that if I did that she would bring me to Victor, bound hands and foot, wasted. She pampered me, manicured me, dolled me up. I did not need to tease my client, so I chose hi-waisted Katherine Hepburn style trousers with a fitted jacket, in powder blue baby cashmere, an inspiration of Gianni’s that Kate tested as lewdly functional, the fly opening all the way down to the perineum, and the whole outfit with only two buttons. I had white richelieus and light turquoise stockings. Wetting our fingers like schoolgirls, we decided I should at least wear a pair of open underpants, so as not to stain my crotch; as i wore no shirt, I would very soon run in the nude. I wrapped all this and myself in a cloud-white gabardine coat and called a car.

The suit was a wholesome caress in itself, all lined in sleek cotton satin and fitted like a peel on a fruit. The building is a later-years aristocratic Faubourg Saint Germain hotel, with overworked balustrades and pediments, but built in the best fine-grained limestone, the whole weighing as heavy as the memory of three wars. I had called from the car, the concierge booth was lit, the heavy door opened softly as soon as I rang. At the other end of a vaulted entrance hall that smelled of straw, beeswax and incense, a door was ajar atop three large steps, next to a life-size gilt bronze nymph spiralling up. A tall greying character, in a red and gold lampas robe with those satin padded lapels and three rows of silk drawstrings, took my hand and started right away to ogle me like a yearling. He spoke in a subdued tone, with promising compliments while a beautiful young burly man with a butterscotch-hue complexion and curly black half-long hair takes my coat. Louis-Guillaume is the name of my host who grabbed hold of my shoulders and treated himself with a wide kiss in front of a stunning antique painting of a fierce rhino in a fancy jungle. He repeated that he likes what he sees, unbuttoning my jacket on my pale skin, calling me a sweet boy while unzipping my fly and sliding a deft hand to my undoubtedly girlish slit. In a few minutes, as if he needed confirmation that I were his slave for tonight, I stood in my turquoise stockings, letting him kiss and suck whatever he wished. He understood that my fool-berries would numb my spirits and he played with them gallantly. The young servant, whom he called Hector, brought a silver tray with an English tea set steaming vapour; he raised an eye on my crotch when he placed the tray on a convoluted table with two matching chairs, in amaranth wood and horsehair upholstery. I remembered that he had not operated the mutual card control, so Hector handed me back my jacket and I fetched my black token of health to cross-check against his as they laugh; he asked the boy for his, and showed me the green light, so I understood that I had two partners, while sipping a heavenly tea, naked with two buttoned-up gents.

Louis bantered finely that it was of peculiar interest to him to let me drink a lot of tea; he waved around and explained that all I would see in this part of the house had been scavenged from shut down historical brothels; the large beveled mirrors, in their ornate black frames, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, are two-ways and come from the notorious house of Mrs Blanche, in the rue Bailleul, near the Louvre, where the “Emperor” Napoleon III had a stealth entry, like in most pleasure places in Paris. We stood up and he held my nape, admiring my head and trying to parse my ethnicity, to what he failed, galloping astray between Ireland and Italy, stirring his tongue in my neck when I told him what I know of my family, pulling out a jolly morsel of hard flesh from his open frock. When I told him I needed the restroom, he roared that he was waiting for precisely that to come. He called Hector and ordered him to take my shoes and stockings off, that he did, unequivocally groping me in the process, massaging my feet with talent, for I can tell. Louis drew me through a darker corridor upholstered in purple chiseled velvet, carpeted with a mad peonies pattern, peopled by a crowd of licentious portraits of women in obscene postures. But he pushed my but towards a golden gleam which radiated from a rotonda covered in mixed gold mosaic strewed with blue water life forms and ending down in spiraling waves of deep blue. When I woke from my astonishment, Louis stood naked against me, hugged me face to him and ordered me to piss on him while we kissed and he fondled my butt crack. I let go with true relief and managed to flow on his dick which was splashing on my belly. He loved my mouth for a while, then he drew me to a warm shower. Now he wanted to practice an enema on me, there is a bowl in the same mosaic protruding from the wall, he seized a fine hose, felt the temperature, made me stand legs apart over the bowl and slid the rounded horn end into my ass, waited for me to expel, went in and out again a few times, kissed me again as I dripped, and in the end he inundated my arse with a vaseline-like, lotus-smelling gel from a tube, telling me to keep inside as much of it as i could, for my comfort.

One or two finger in my butt-crack, we entered a dramatically lit salon, under a mahogany and gold mouldings coffered ceiling, a deep purple room of English chiseled velvet, interspersed with large silver sconces in which burned wax candles before convex mirrors; concealed spotlights beamed upon paintings, framed in Dutch ebony and tortoiseshell frames, representing orgiastic celebrations, by an obviously anonymous old Master; everywhere stood apparently nonsensical contraptions and furniture in amaranth wood and bronze presenting padded cushions in different inclinations. The whole extravagant array was duly dusted and polished and oiled like some utterly precious Niebelungen workshop, and Louis announced that these awaited me, while riffling through my curls. He invited me to sit upon some recliner armchair with a dividing seat, operated some cranks and wheels so as I felt smoothly tilted backwards, legs parted at the right height for his mouth as he sat on a leather stool; I saw then Hector, undressed and prettily aroused, who soon jaunted his fearless dick over my face, waiting to enter my mouth, which he did simultaneously with his Master pushing into my arse patiently, so there we went and I obeyed simply in the quivering of lights, taking turns at Louis’ will until their contentment. The machine was so heavy that I had felt flying around my butthole in total silence except the splashes of squirt and cum; Louis fetched thick white towels while Hector wiped the seat; he sniffed me all over and came kissing my mouth over and over. I smelled of pure indulgence, sweats and discharge; he manipulated me endlessly, Hector, still physically at attention, brought the tea tray and I did not object to a few more cups, finely glancing at Louis’ dark pupils.

He ordered me to sit backwards on a “voyeur chair” with a padded elbow rest and a shallow seat which let my butt overhang; Hector then sat on a second chair which he pulled against mine, thus readily buggering me again by a good length. Louis strutted his half-baked weeny in my face and made me talk about my childhood, he regretted that minors were off-limits, except in very few countries; he showed me photos of little girls involved in old-time, sepia toned orgy compositions, with crafty little tongues. So, while the Egyptian servant went slowly to and fro in my arse, I made-up silly tales of schoolgirl naughtiness, in the manner he wished, at once false and true, without giving him clues on my real whereabouts. He rode high again, eventually, and asked for my kitten tongue before taking Hector’s position and rush in, while pinching my kushberries as hector was forcing the bottom of my throat. Soon drenched in cum and drooling like a spent horse, I mumbled that I was about to pee, so Hector carried me to the rotunda, Louis fetched a wooden stool, sat me across his lap and waited, licking the indecisive slobber on my face and eyes until I streamed upon his rested prick and dripped of his own cum; he asked Hector to shower us then rub and cream me. He wiped me again, carefully; he wasn’t as spry as his server but he was still standing up, after what I could evaluate as a robust assault, though his unguent had tenderised my ways and healed the stretching. Nevertheless, I let see I had somewhat enough for the while, massaging my womb and my perineum but showing some smile. I began pondering if Camille had known she was selling me to a double bull who, admittedly, smelled good, but also was about to flatten me out! Hector carried me up and to a golden green salon with a large ottoman of buttoned leather on which he laid me down, and backed off. The room resembled to some kind of arena, with deep armchairs all around; Louis sat next to me, combing my hair, inventing poetic compliments I had never heard, licking my toes studiously, as if someone had snitched on my weak spot.

Hector, his dong still half aware, brought the tray, with pyramids of oriental pastries on plates, and more tea. Louis was wielding all parts of me like I was a new toy, he did it with skill, sliding his fingertips along ligaments and joints and making me jolt and relax. The sugar of the dates, almonds, honey gave me a slight rush and I stretched my body, to his lust. He palpated my shady pathways and applied plenty of balms, I felt all the more debauched and whorish at his will. He embraced me and in a long kiss held me on top and rammed inside my cunt which had not yet been jostled, so it took a few minutes to adjust to his tool; I heard Hector take away the tray and soon he was homing back along his master in my arse as they shuffled together. I was feeling mashed up and spent away, engulfed; images bustled behind my lids, scarlet crows over the thick and dark forests hurling shrieks so far away, my veins running cinders and sharp crystals from my pumping womb; my heart like a dragon devouring the arteries of my neck as I suckled this man’s tongue in a black cloud of oblivion. The clear blue efflorescences of pleasure beating against a chaotic night in which porphyry angels spiraled among the glittering red flocks of flying shards, pulsing from the nethermost of my cry, exhausting all streams of life, and I blanked out.

Weightless, I swam in skeins of agitated black weeds in black streams of echoes under a vast riddle of emerald stars. My longing underbelly felt like a swarm of slow whipping wisteria racemes and smelled of vanilla pear. I stretched my limbs like searchlights and threw my head backwards into the silky night as a relentless vibrant thrust filled my well to the rim and rested, warm, at the beat of my tranquil heart. From aside, in a mad array of silky crow-sheen quilts, Louis was lurking for a glance of my eyes, and hunkering deep in me.
As the chain-lights on a toy train, my consciousness bloomed up my spine, from my reveling womb to my hovering brain, and I twisted to beg for a kiss.

Except for his ardent spear snug in my sheath, I could not fathom the pit in which we paired again. The sounds of touched bronze singing bowls twirled around as Louis found enough lever to jolt my innards by way of his loins lunge. The multitude of pinpoint lights of blue-green reeled when he came and pulled me along, devouring my face with lip tips, avidly sipping my tears. When he slipped out, in a rush flow of semen, he carried me back to the temple of healing waters and played injecting my holes and anoint my intimacies.
Offering me orgeat in Venetian goblets, he nevertheless acknowledged that my eyes tilted back to oblivion and so the night was over. I candidly mused about what exactly had the pastries spiced with? He unabashedly retorted that Hector was a master at space delights, laced with the purest cannabis this side of the Ocean, didn’t I know? Didn’t Camille tell me? Did I suffer? I was already too spent to argue that it felt like an entrapment, besides, my brain cells had conjured harder headspins, notwithstanding rape as such, and I showed him that I would have had preferred knowing it, in any manner; I wasn’t so sure I would recommend him to my girlfriends, if that had been a fantasy of him. He helped me redress but begged if he could keep my underpants, as I sure wouldn’t regret, said he; I granted him the innocent fetish, reckoning It wouldn’t be of much use on my way back home. He handed me a tote bag, with a funny little drum tin box inside, decorated with multicoloured butterflies, explaining that was more of the space pastries, in the event it would remind me of our night. He stealthily slid a lilac envelope in my inner pocket, grazed my troubleberry on the way and kissed my mouth like a lover, saying that a car awaited me.

There was a powerful limousine in the deserted street, and I recognised Hector, driving, so I opened the passenger door and smiled to the boy who had shagged me four or five times an hour ago. He drove marvelously slow, the seat was heavenly soft, and I could foresee what happened at the first red light, he groped me gently, scrounging for a kiss, I let him rummage in my pants for a few seconds, but reminded him that the clock was off and I needed to sleep, really. He geared forward but smelled and licked his fingers. He bantered that he was not the wealthy one, but if I ever wanted pastries and shag he would oblige, as much as I wanted. I left him, after another invasive hug, a few doors past ours, and tried to disappear while I heard the discreet engine pull away

.I dragged myself upstairs, undressed, and tidied my suit, feeling the nonetheless heavy envelope, and opened it. I was sort of flabbergasted, the sum was astronomical for a little arse like mine! I slid the pay dirt between two books and postponed to later the thinking of it. I read it was nearly five and I pulled myself to bed. Natalia was there, embraced with Kate, it woke the devil in my chest and I crept behind her, stretched myself along her still dream, not troubling her in the least.

It was then around midday, I fell down from such an abstrusely concatenated mental farandole that even myself could not spin it into a dream, so I woke up, only to feel my arse had been rammed like an old sock, when I walked bent forward, to the loo. But at once, touching myself, I felt it wasn’t bruised or the kind, only touched. I showered loosely, I was indeed clean, and cranked up for the day. While brewing my first pot, I called Hugo, then Kate, who were working but wanted to hear my confession forthwith, and so they rounded up at our table. They fought to hold me on their lap, in my Boro rag robe, having checked I was intact, so to speak. Hugo would catch my mouth every such phrase, Kate needed to coddle my crotch, I finished naked on a chair opposite of them and bragged that I was the sneakiest slut of the left bank. Hugo wanted to take notes of events and the many rounds of play, but I eventually broke down nervously, we went up to the studio, played some ambient not so different from the singing bowls I tried to describe. I warned Kate about the tin box in the refrigerator, but suggested that we might try some together one day. Hugo wasn’t surprised by the boatful of cash I had reaped, he told me Louis was really loaded, and generous towards beauty, Camille had aimed right, and besides, he was a collector of mine. He begged me to give him one of my nights, I agreed I would be all available the next day.

I called my facilitator Camille and went to meet her in the afternoon, while Fanny was at school. I noticed a new assistant in the gallery, an upcoming art-school sensation named Anisette Pullman, which sounded westerly of adolescent ingenuity, another sheer sample of Camille’s fondness in girls; a clumsy, appealing, tall, leggy, dark garçonne hair, swaying coffee-brown gaze, and pouty mouth; my eyes already were unclothing her from worn black jeans and hi-tops, white boy’s shirt with unbuttoned wrists, no bras on visible nascent breasts. Camille embraced me so as to let Anzy –as she would call her– infer on our manners of relations, and let bloom a tiny irresistible dimple on her smooth cheek. I wondered were she had nested this new seasonal catch, but for then she was eager to know my gossip on Louis. She drew me upstairs for tea, soon pulled away my leggings and knickers as if I might be a foretaste of her soon-to-be new bedfellow. She had known Louis’ refined cabinets and contraptions, the unmatched water rotonda and the thorough washes, she upended my complimentary bottom allegro vivace, calling me her best sister slut. One leg over the couch backrest, I floated anew in last night’s unfettered moods, but nevertheless I mused a comment on, one, they had been vigorously more than one, two, Louis had drugged me, unbeknownst; he had raped me, even if the awakening had wiped the bitter taste Camille knew full well would haunt my mouth. She apologised, it had slipped of her conscience, albeit she knew and had herself been toyed with Louis’ medicines, and asking for more, the hell of it. But the aftermaths of her sequence with him had alleviated any harsh judgement on his over-devious cravings, she had kept only the endless grasps of her soul, and she artfully made me squirt on the plaid.Also, yes, there had been other assailors at Louis’ orders, demanding indefatigable young bulls, for he wanted to watch his whores fully spent and mollified, though not bruised or hurt, was I? I avowed to my crafty inducer the stealthy thought I had fantasised in Hector’s car, while he was fingering her ultimately, that she could offer to bring along Kate for a game; Camille mimicked choking, seized my waist and called my phantasmagoria brilliant and utterly debauched, if I would set it up. I mused that Kate would rave upon Hector’s Egyptian spear, and I took some immediate revenge on Camille’s twat.

I left Camille by the time Fanny came back, but on my way through the gallery I was titillated by some hint, and whimsically trespassed Anzy’s private space, pushing her to a recess on the way to the toilets, forcing my tongue into that mouth, with all the folly my spend with Camille had triggered; she let me, she swaggered and she responded, just like I had foreseen. She smelled of rain on leaves in the urge of early spring; winning, I told to her eyes that she was beautiful and I would ravage her once; she wanted another of my kisses, before I ran, I told her to stick with Camille, as I had done, fortunately; and so as to make it clear, I slid my hand in her pants, she was deliciously wet.

Kate was avid to share the account of my carnal expenditures and had already set up the bed tray for a sushi binge, if ever. She was unclothed, and stripped me off while I told her about the new imp in Camille’s web, making her smell my fingers, like a twelve years old, at least in my school. She had pampered herself, here and now she smelled the perfect balance between boxwood and roses, elderberry, angelica, pool water, rubbed skin; she had her nails polished and clipped. She caught the wind at the demonstration of the pleasure or pain contraptions, asking me to take the pose, to contemplate how to abuse me thus, and she did, and I revived some scenes in my room in New York alone with Elsie Chautempt, the cinnamon skinned imp, tied one after the other in long confuse shenanigans until we fired up and touch our diminutive pussies and teach ourselves the key to bliss just in time to get dressed again in a hurry. And indeed that was no longer the case in this boundless bed of the light hearted shores of Paris. She wondered about the “arena”, sitting an audience around my sweet ordeal, a shadowy crowd of voyeurs breathing heavily, wanking surreptitiously, as Hector unerringly ejaculated inside his devoted booty, moaning in ultimate rapture.

As we kept raving heatedly, I became more engrossed in my figment of luring Kate along with me in Louis’ lecherous athanor, all the more so as we fiddled each other’s shuffle and stir to exultation repeatedly. She bit at my fantasm, but instantly retorted that I would, then, submit myself in Victor’s pandemonium with her, in turn. We sniggered a lot to that trade, but I remembered where she eventually spun off to, from Victor’s castle, and I wavered, some instants. That was when she unveiled her plot to recapture the über-geek’s favors, with my own arse as an apology premium! That was a proper whorish conspiracy, mischievously refined of her; she reaped hard labour on my girlishness, for it, and I reveled intensely in all our flights of fancy.
We finally reached our exhaustion, smelling of licked sweats, into what chimeras of our two perfumes diffused lewd apparitions, as we embraced close on the way to cloud nine.
Long later, in the dizzy pearls of morning, our usual passenger rummaged with her dainty nose in our underbellies, inebriated with some hinted folly as yet unknown to her; she cuddled between us and tortured our rib cages to learn more, but she had no time to hear all our lies, she had to run to school.

After our reckless night expended at fancying of mutually prostituting our bawdy skins away, the day nonetheless became dustily sunny like the best of these local skies, as they glow in landscape paintings sensed under them. Brewing pots of evocative tea crops, as for some languid water-games in the shower, self-emblazoning our own enamoured creatures, we endlessly procrastinated through desultory comments of what was now simmering deep as a double contrivance in vice, for our sole enjoyment, and that of our accomplices, Hugo most of all. Listening to our playlist, we scribbled and chased the dragons in the grain of paper, floating up ideas more licentious one of the other; then she received a shock; in a message, Victor playfully thanked her for her roses and proposed a date in the following week, answer? I was snared with my own lustful noose and, pivoting her chair, she was sliding her bare foot between my legs; smiling, I nodded. She typed a few volleys, her eyes twinkling at the responses, then she hung up. Victor was now expecting us any night at our choice, aroused.
Meanwhile, I foresaw a night of either backbreaking submission at Hugo’s whims, or, otherwise, a rich garland of sprinkling climaxes if I drove him to his better imagination. Meanwhile, Kate would pick up Fanny at the school’s door and begin groping her in the car, she would grant her a whole new array of devotions, and let her deploy her young weaponry. In fair balance, I wondered if Camille would have already unraveled Anzy’s shyness.

Hugo had set up a red harmony with blue trimmings, like some no-fault colonial pleasure house, Kashmiri shawls and harlequin quilts, outrage roses and frivolous irises, all which made me feel light-hearted to wear black, a silk velvet fit and flare dress, lined with ultramarine satin, and black nail polish, a black pearl choker and my onyx and diamonds booty bracelet, as a mindful reminder of my meeting Melchior in such premisses. He was charmed, kneeled down to kiss my bare feet and stroke my smooth thighs.
In the glow of silver girandoles, he had displayed the pink grapefruit and shrimps in saffron cream; the raspberry mousse strewn with candied blackcurrants and deseeded redcurrants; bigarreau cherry juice, all in faceted crystal ware and swan-like ewers. I felt like whom I was, we played with each bite, he took his time to unbutton the dress; I did not regret my time making up my eyes.
As it were, he knew Louis and his wunderkammer, he had participated to some most refined parties along with couth harlots and gentlemanly amateurs. As he had peeled off my clothes, he begged for my comments and followed the steps, he blessed my narrow path with Lorenz’ balm, and embraced me endlessly, listening to my girly raves, kissing my neck from behind. I laid down easy over his mild thrust, I liked it and told him so softly that he came early, and had to help me shoot my own while he remained strong.
He made the unwonted request that I stand on all fours, turn back and front, lick his salacious arse, in ways he would not have dared before my further debauchee emancipation; I had serviced many arseholes in my busy life, provided they were clean, more those of girls but the holy wolves had demanded the treat in return for their keen efforts. Hugo’s carpets were bulky and soft, I arched my back at his will and he played in all my ways, between poses of my blooming pink.
At the evocation of Hector’s pastries, he fittingly asked me if I would risk my life at his hands, fully. He craved to possess me fast asleep, in a word, drugged out. I explained my afterthoughts about Louis’ entrapment and the bitter taste it had woken in a young girl’s mouth, in the cold sand of Jutland; he backed off, shut up and kneeled on the carpet, kissing my arse, in his turn; I agreed to sleep, whatsoever.

I woke up in one piece, clear headed, snug in the quilt. The room was dark, silent, I felt like morning and needed to pee. My intimacies and my whole body purred in unison with my spinal stream, this molecule was a dainty one. In the faint gleam of a single led point, I found where the bathroom was, let flow and saw myself in a mirror, clean as a newborn, dumb. At my left wrist, I wore a new bracelet bearing two lines of baguette sapphires around another of deep rubies.
I stretched, rinsed my teeth with a finger and headed to the kitchen where I was greeted by the evocative scent of French toast, and wholehearted caresses. I let myself go on his chest and thanked him. Nude as a nymph, perched on the table, I sipped my cup, ate my toast and fled to the gym to enjoy my pretty joints and breathe high; after a shower I climbed up and found Kate in the stairs, gazing at me and bursting in a huge kiss. A washed-out Calvin & Hobbes sweat shirt, white knickers, grew tights and vintage sneakers, I was up in the studio and I had some to tell Kate.

From start, Kate announced that she had seen Anisette naked and she seemed like a younger sister of me, outwith the eyes. Camille had made out with her on the couch, taking advantage my undressing Fanny, she had naturally stripped the slim newbie who revealed not so dumb, at once. Things did not go as far as some kinky reunion, but watching had been lovely, Fanny had been aroused; there was a new chick in the yard.
She whistled when she noticed my new bling I had kept on purpose; while re-focusing on my long term work, nevertheless, I told her my night, and my sleep, and the new genre of cravings in our mentor, my elation at wake with a chestful of relief. My womb had been overjoyed all night, included during the unconscious bout, but this time there had been no visions. She asked me if I was wanking, for my legs were apart and my hand in my knickers.

Katherine says:

I switched my phone to silent mode, because Victor was bombarding with propositions and salacious double-entendres, even as he didn’t know yet he might host a double feature. In the hearty mood we showed both, I bid that a jaunt to Camille’s, that night, would kindly blow in our wings, as I saw the lushy glint in Sarah’s eyes. I suggested we might accept Victor’s welcome on the day after next, might not we? On her side, she laid a proposal to Louis, both of us, in a week or whenever he would.
Camille and Fanny have been thrilled, Anzy did not sulk, it seems, at the overture; I offered to bring a bucket of vegan Chinese noodles in their soup, so Camille was to order a saraband of deserts.
Fanny played the house girl irresistibly, with her mix of profligate and good-hearted, in her phase of balancing her life into a rightful soul. She’s fond of Sarah and she knows how we sail together, she ought to. Camille held her lanky new pet by the waist, lopsided and defying, long bare feet, black slim jeans and half undone white shirt, acknowledging Sarah and kissing her, checking on what it might mean to me, probably in the afterglow of what I could watch last night. I playfully grabbed her shirt and gently made her feel that we were conniving, now on, for the best, hopefully. From behind her, Camille unsnapped the studs of her shirt and went on with her fly, while I did not let loose of her neck and face, trying to catch her crazed eyes. Sarah had danced away Fanny, and undone her white trousers and her bluish blouse, in an eager trade of her own togs. Camille still wore a long jersey gown and predictably nothing else; it was mine to pull it over, she hugged Anzy tight, I groped her heart-shaped bum and whatever I could grab of her two. We were all set.

Since it had been my idea to start with, I took care of the rich soup, along with Fanny; I carried the big Victorian silver tureen, the one with a lying nymph on seaweeds on the lid, and she disposed silver-rimmed wooden bowls, and silverware, to play food. The lowliness of the table forced us all into showing animal moves while fishing noodles, mishmash of vegetables, mushrooms, cashews, and miso cubes.
Were it for novelty, I felt as tickling a crush for the gangly new kid as Sarah had, and we manoeuvred to wedge her between us two before the soup was finished. But we all wanted a piece of her, who almost swooned at the tips of crafty tongues, she became bit by bit more demanding herself, she wanted Fanny’s little cunt and arse, she fiddled Sarah’s twin pin berries, she opened her spindly limbs in demanding more pleasure.
Camille seized Sarah by the waist and threw her in a wide armchair, to question her about her trip in the purple brothel pandemonium; she had herself known it in many manners. Yes, she had known Louis’ taste for psychedelic dives, had it been any anguish?
I kept busy with the kittens, Anzy looked appeased by Fanny’s tranquil relish; if these two were to build a breathable companionship, it might provide some leeway to Camille, in her daily schedule, possibly allowing Fanny around town. They possibly could meet with Natalia, even. When the effusiveness relented into a lovely laid-back stream of talks, Anzy eventually opened up and told, in a subdued voice, of her life.

Anisette Pullman, born Fayelle Chevasne, was raised in Meudon, in the western suburbs of Paris, her father a gastroenterologist doctor who had married an hospital nurse. The couple had turned to become a passive-aggressive stalemate and so she did not see much of her dad in her prime youth, being merely tolerated by her depressed mother inasmuch she was the hostage for her material subsistance. When she reached thirteen, she tried to appear on her father’s screen, popping up in his hospital service, only to learn about a stranger’s many lives and finally be considered as a funny brat with an interesting butt.
She had kept aloof of his paws, as long as she physically could, but it only rendered him more obsessed in her. Her mother had spiralled down in a daze of booze and pills, she wanted her dad to lodge her somewhere safe. He did, except for the safe part. She could move to a small apartment not far from her high school, but now she had her weird father stalking her, not in a fatherly manner. She felt mostly ashamed to be his daughter, parsing his game of petty tyrant around.
One of her schoolmates, who had confided to her about some similar ordeal in her home, had slashed her veins in the bathtub. In the sore hubbub that followed, she heard of other family rampant disasters, from troubled girls, but it began to appear they all were. She decided to nerve up and confronted her father through her friend’s tragedy, trashing her fear. He stood mute and she never saw him again, however keeping a lasting grudge against him.
As far as she could from her dad’s intellectual territory, she snuck into art studies, supporting herself with odd jobs, and raids on her mother’s home.
She shyly haunted galleries with hopes of garnering the energy to apply for an assistant internship, but what happened was that Camille laid an eye on her, as punkish-looking she might have been, and made a pass at her. She had been out with girls before, and found it more liveable than boyfriends, so she let it be and now was beginning to like the manners hereby.
But besides the pussy games, she had not yet fathomed the situation; she was meeting rich desirable women, she liked how they treated her, how they smelled, what they made in life. Camille had recounted where she had survived from, as to why she would offer her more than just a fling, because she had gained confidence in her.

Now she was crying, softly, her eyes in mine, spread opened to Fanny’s cuddles, her small face surrounded by dark embattled hair, her cheeks heated by our kind jousts. Her rounded forehead over straight brows showed will, her long straight nose conferred character to her otherwise childish traits, her mouth prone to sway aside in distrust but wholly generous in her kiss. I twiddled with my tongue tip in her ear and made her twitch out of her sorrow, gaining a cute square-mouth smile. Her breasts were stealthy dunes in a scape of even, pale satin skin. Her rib cage was apparent but she wasn’t too bony, only elongated shaped, with long hands and feet, too. Her hips were tight and her pubis bulged, for Fanny’s delight, she, or Camille, had waxed off all hair. I rested my head on hers and listened, so to speak.

In the car on our way back home I checked my messages and showed Sarah an insistent invite from Victor, and dared her again to join. She yielded but panicked at the thought that it would happen so soon; I grabbed her stomach and rubbed her courage in, she kissed me.
Natalia already slept in the middle of our bed, we wedged her between us, she purred without waking. She smelled of new hay, lavender and bees, she looked busy in a bustling dream.

Sarah wore a black corduroy knee-long shirt-dress with sapphire blue trimmings and buttons, strict black stockings and black Stubbs and Wootton deerskin slippers embroidered with the sun on the left foot and the moon on the right, with blue trimmings. I wore a blue-grey zigzag silk jersey shirt-dress with grey mother-of-pearl buttons, over dawn grey stockings and Stubbs and Wootton mist blue starry slippers. I had chosen a rejuvenated tuberose with Florentine gloves, she had spread me all over with fumes of lotus in a drape of roses so carnal that I wanted to wank myself.
A München grey berline berthed for us on the quai Voltaire and Victor opened the rear door. The silence was impressive, it made the Louvre float; he glanced a few times, overjoyed, at me, then he said Sarah’s name and welcomed her to the realm of abandon, might she decide. From the rear view mirror, he asked me to uncover a tad my girlfriend’s legs, Sarah played, she lifted my dress up to my belly, we started petting like schoolgirls.
On the right bank, he soon reach the byway to his lair, the garage door pulled up, and he parked the car near the elevator door. He clicked off his belt and turned towards us, discovering Sarah’s eyes, her white body in the opened dress; he watched my eyes in a most friendly way and reached for my knee.
Inside the lift, Sarah watched his sharp featured face, his mocha dark eyes under striking brows, his tall forehead and combed-back curly black hair, while he was diving into her blue gaze and groping her firm body.

The reception rooms felt bigger, less bare metal to be seen, real precious carpets, two life size raw wood groups of standing human characters in sexual scenes, the kind they can scan and mill with stunning detail, wall size live screens displaying some apparently random bustling of textures, shapes and colours, from one screen to another, reminding me there would soon appear some blue powder.
Sarah had kept her stockings, standing against the large panes, with only the roaming lights of the scenic boats on the Seine.
Victor wore a black, tight fitted, wool and silk suit with a white silk tee shirt; he unzipped his fly, brought out his unmistakable dick and asked me to suck him, pushing a cushion for my knees, I did my best while Sarah came near so he kissed her.
Some fuss grew behind a door, evening dressed people burst in and cheered at Victor, who introduced us two while a typical orgy maid, wearing black stockings, hi heels and a mere apron, brought coffee on the wide grey leather ottoman. The guests kissed us and slid hands overtly in our crotch; a couple of chic middle-age characters pushed Sarah to a leather bed and the lady pushed her tongue in her mouth while the man licked her.
Victor called for attention and pushed a black lacquered cart on which stood only another new jeweled box beset with aquamarines; as he opened it with keen precautions, it started playing its tiny music. He asked me to go first snorting the blue powder, reminding me that it was potent.
It dizzied my brains and I happily fell into someone’s hands and gluttonous kiss. Victor brought Sarah to the powder and helped her, saying two spoons would be a hefty lot, but worth it.

Victor had fetched a shiny gold object and put it in a place without carpet on the floor boards, it was a penis, he told us it had been molded on his own and cast in massive gold; he said we could not guess how heavy it was, and asked me to lift it with my vagina, he would give it to me if I could pick it up. Already in euphoria, I went to it and slid it in me, it was indeed heavy; I tried to lift it, insisted, so it seemed obvious and I believed my vagina to be muscular enough, but eventually all i obtained was an orgasm, plain and frank. He invited the maid, who tried with her arse but could no better, so he concluded that gold being much denser than lead, no pussy could get a hold of the thing; he replaced it by its platinum twin and asked Sarah to step over it, which she did and engulfed the whole 25 cm and got it that the piece wouldn’t budge, so she rammed herself to climax beautifully and left the ingot drenched; the relative density of platinum is 23.5, that of gold is 19.6.
Victor was now in Sarah’s kitty, playing gold. A gentle woman in a couture suit and jabot blouse held me on her lap while her fully clothed partner licked conscientiously my arsehole; she caressed my face and my hair, as the man overturned me to fuck me, I snuck my hand up to her wet twat and fingered her as she said nothing and rounded her eyes. He was a fast shooter, she straightened her pose, keeping an eye in mine while I wiped myself slowly.
Three nude young cavaliers entered, and we irresistibly sniggered when recognising our old mate Fulgence, his familiar dong upwards and so it was for my booty hole, but not without ointment, Mr Rotor, he buggered me like a horse, to the admiration of the still plain-clothed guests. His acolytes were here for that, they humped the maid, a brave little blonde girl with a snub nose and grapefruit boobs, both ways, and one dressed gentleman used her mouth, too.

Fulgence Rotor was the one alpha male I would condone in our affinity group at the Beaux Arts. He is physically statuesque, with an indefatigable, bent-up dick that will rifle through your womb like a saber in a straw bale, leaving you stupefied of your own guts. Unlike Sarah, who froze rapports at first because she sensed the chaos-monger she wasn’t willing to harbour, as a wise libertine, recovering from an ugly intimate crash.
Fulgence had been a thrilling over-thrust, a few times, on the slope where Annie Loyseau loomed, so as to confirm that Sarah had seen right. Now he was telling me that he had been the unbeknown conduit that brought Victor to approach me, during that art performance where he had known I would attend, in all available worldly sluttiness, my word.
He smelled his own lava mix of Peru and Zanzibar, it would seed its gems of grit into my lower back beacon, we roved through the maze Victor has laid in search of a bed. Like in an action game turned real, corridors and tunnels lit up, doors were locked, others offered more corridors and we found shelter in the vermilion glow of a high hall offering a velvet divan, in front of a bigger than life elephant, bejewelled with all manners of bling, like an apparition of Ganesh into a gold-sprinkled black lacquered box, taking up four fifth of the air, watching us licking our arse holes.
We would be tripping for hours upon the spadeful of powder we had thrown into our skulls; he reveled like a mad puppy, I was all dispensable and easy, after repeated orgasms, he brought me to annihilation, stupor, bliss.

Snuggled inside a deep garnet rose,I can see the town capsize over slowly in a star field. I lull a baby upon my belly, its hair is pearly like Xmas ornaments, I wonder how I will feed it, but for now it cuddles me, eyes closed. Crystal sail ships fly through the night, stippling twinkling lines and figures and birds hover in their masts, as the city and the whole planet pull away. The soft petals around me falter away one by one, in my arms, I now hold a stone-green tortoise that is trying to lay eggs into my wet pod. I swim back away from it, to the luminous balls in which the children chase each other with clear calls, like Midsommernachts under the moon, on the beach with Simon. He draws me to the shore, his prick in erection, and means we can do what we want in the water. We embrace totally, he tastes of vanilla, he dares me to let him in. In his eyes the stars take colours and the moon pulses like I feel in my cherished slit. We sing, Onkel Achim swims by, we can’t hear what he says because his head is under the water most of the time, we sing louder, Simon ejaculates and I come, too. He pulls me under, showing a blue submarine with searchlights and guns and nazi flags; it doesn’t move, its gills wave. Simon holds me at the waist and rubs his nose on mine, Onkle Achim swims to us and shows the surface, we shake our heads. Deeper, there is an amusement fair, crowded with dark blue fish and water babies chasing them. On the merry-go-round, Cynthia laughs, stretching her legs, showing her daguer. We fool around together so they partake me in a well of bubbles, bustling in my neck and hardening my nipples as fish bite my toes. The submarine swims up and his enormous periwinkle eye glares at us with its tiny frenetic pupil. It contorts itself and opens a luminous mouth in what we fall on spongy tongues and frolic, at Cynthia’s will. A gang of rosy seals bump us around to a pearlescent tunnel through which we are thrown up in the crumpled sheets and I catch my breath, and kiss another girl, and recognise Beryl, grown up Beryl with the same candid smile.

She had brought tea, she knew, I was laying in a dawn room, with air light as childhood hopes, she was a fully grown decided girl, and caressed me, as if she needed to reassure herself that I was. She let her hazy night gown slip and embraced me. We cried. She sobbed that Victor had thought I was dead, that something or somebody had killed me. When I reappeared, he asked her to come over and see me wake, bring me closure on bygone errors, boast what she has become; she is currently mastering in modern literature at the Sorbonne, mind you, her mother is overjoyed about her, so is Victor, the big bad wolf.
I couldn’t help yawn, stretch and grope her. She asked who was the slender tomboy with Victor? She remembered Sarah very well, she liked that we were still together. I summarised the ugly months gap when the brave little cadet had rescued the lecherous tramp headed for perdition. I never mentioned Annie.
She pulled me by the hand into the labyrinth to a sort of control room, with many screens, on one of which she showed a bed, in night vision, where Sarah laid alongside a hairy Victor, both fast asleep. They might have watched Fulgence and me catapulting our spirits and fluids in supercharged mode, I asked Beryl if the system records, she said she didn’t know, it is operated from Victor’s main desk.
She smelled of mandarine and roses, like a demoiselle; I felt a tad sluttish again, I asked her to find us a bed; she retorted we might join the sleepers.

We found Sarah alone in the large bed, tangled up in light tatters of vanishing sleep, her hands on her crotch. She stretched and took a thin voice to wish for a shower, and so we helped. At first, she did not parse about Beryl’s presence, but we headed for the grand kitchen in merry company. There was tea, fruit and kisses, Victor was anywhere, hunting in the cyberspace, I knew the groove, a lady in black brought us our dispersed outfits, neatly gathered on a hangers trolley, along with a black lacquered box of which I knew what it contained. Beryl slipped a short indigo trapeze dress on, a grey camouflage parka and black sneakers, bare legs and white panties; with aviator shades under her chestnut fringe, she smiled like a celebrity on the move.
While hugging Sarah and rubbing her happy loins, whispering lewd compliments in her ears, I was musing about introducing Beryl to Natalia and possibly our other young hinds, if only to talk them into safe paths. As she was bewitched by our delicate slippers, I asked the chauffeur to stop at the new Stubbs & Wootton shop so as to spoil her tanned legs; she walked out with a few galaxies at her tiptoes.
She sat on our couch with an art book about Christian d’Orgeix that Gauthier had left; a few times I stared at her panties and she noticed. Sarah brewed a pot of “Long Red Gown” oolong.

Sarah says:

Salad night at our perch, young peppery shoots in olive oil with balsamic sweet vinegar, croutons, soft boiled eggs, saffron monkfish slices, and grilled cashews. From “Danske Leverancer”, with care, in separate cardboard boxes.
Hugo was touched by Beryl’s knees, who was also touched by Natalia’s bare feet and tights. We recounted most of our bawdiness of the night before, to the amusement of Beryl and the scrutiny of Natalia who wasn’t all sure.
Later, when I saw Hugo’s hand on the bare crotch of Beryl, I caught the younger one’s toes and made my way up; when she proudly showed her butt and all, we crashed into the couch across and watched them; Kate reached Natalia’s mouth.
After the first burst, I talked so as the schoolgirls found common topics, sat next to one another and Beryl found the tone to entice the damsel to the bathroom, where they helped mutually to wash and more.
Hugo was overjoyed with the new faces, and he had not yet met Anzy; when he left us, contented, the four of us gathered in our bed and talked further and yet again. Our students took complicit dates, we lulled them in our midst.

I received a message from Louis in the morning, eager to meet my girlfriend that night, I was not late to answer that he would await for us at twenty-one.
Handwork went smoothly in the day, under swarms of harmonies and tinkles out of the cybershere. Kate foresaw a weird carnal carrousel and expected lewd mayhem from my description of Hector, his mighty manhood and his magical pastries. We focused on our outfits, I opted for easy dresses, with a touch of lacy perversion, I dithered about bawdy open pants but reckoned that it were the patron’s choice when we should wear costumes? I had a silk crepe, navy, Peter Pan collar dress, with cute white trimmings and collar, short sleeves, that would fly off at the slightest whim; high shy white stockings and black ballerinas, on top of what an ample black hammered cotton capuchon. Kate chose a multi layers willow green jupon dress, short socks and black varnished Mary-Jane sandals, under a light-turquoise raincoat. I put a thin, beaded, black and dark iridescent blue dog-collar.
At seven, we started to doll ourselves up, make-up our eyes, paint our nails, black for me, Veronese green for her. I put on perfume of dazed jasmine and clove, she put some foolish wisteria, all the way to her butt crack. The driver would be stunned.

Hector was waiting for us at the street door, he showed us the way, after a formal salute. Louis wore a classic evening jacket with satin lapels, black crepe trousers and black braided boots. Only his salmon-pink silk shirt with a Nehru collar did that he did not look too mortuary. He kissed me on the mouth and turned to Kate, who granted him a craftily manufactured ingenuous look. He seized her hand and played with it on his mouth while he was already frisking between my legs. He drew us side by side and asked us to show how close we were, which was an easy prologue and set us underway as we were becoming seasoned trollops. Hector brought the tea tray and stood, in a powder blue modern livery. Louis told him to take our coats. As we drank his miraculously suave beverage from paper-thin cups ornate with obscene illustrations, he uncovered Kate’s butt and fingered her as she swayed her hips. One button, and her dress fell at her feet. I put my cup down so Hector, who had already knocked me over many times a few days before, helped me loose my frock. He served more tea. Then, Louis pushed us by the butt towards the brothel’s laboratory, enthralled by Kate’s mouth and using it. He laid her down on a padded bench with a recess for her head and Hector turned a wheel to lower it and make her mouth level with Louis’ shaft, which he started to offer to her tongue first. He told me to lick her on the other side as Hector had deployed two devices to hold her legs up, I would be seated on the reverse chair. She did well, he was stiff as a billy goat.

Hector was now calmly sliding our stockings off, picking our shoes; he offered us more tea, while Louis had vanished through some shady recess, I knew why. He came back buck naked, proud as a war ship, and cajoled us towards his golden rotunda for the water follies. Kate realised that my tale was authentic, and played like an otter, pissing on Louis brandished spear, injecting my butthole a few times and offering hers. This time he rubbed us with a lotion of neroli which he said tasted as good as it smelled. He led us to an emerald green room where were hung five mesmerising drawings by Hans Bellmer on fragile paper, framed in malachite under beveled crystal panes. We had leisure to watch the masterpieces, two of which on criss-cross sheets torn from notebooks.
The shamanic dance of inexorable spirals around the obsessive hole in a stretched butt, near a mean wandering hand, an eye in disguise. I suddenly feel deep Unica Zürn, as if we, “pure psychic automatism” marauders, my blood-sister and I, braved the last big jump. This gigantic wizard holds the unmatched pencil, honed to perfection under the razor blade, possesses her deliberate entrails so as to shape the eternal doll in preternatural overthrow of language, as if beyond the bland two-dimensional grid of frail blue lines bloomed in dehiscence the unhinged urges of animal species’ short-circuits.
I can close my logorrea onto my sister’s lips, and feel the mastery sleight of hand dress my avenues with slippery goo, the all-tangible pounding in my womb like the giant bell humming in wait for the flight of doves.
There on the cypress-green field of the stage-bed, we could not have escaped gravity, mingle ourselves as totally as Bellmer still summoned us to. Kate panted, Hector was encroaching in her holy tripes with might and obstination, she searched his beat through her breath next to mine, the assailors’ practice at the swordplay ascended in our spines with carnal pulses of sparkles, the two men’s flow exploded in the same blink and lasted till elated void.

There’s a raw fleshly relish in carnal expenses’ aftermaths, beastly smells, under which perfumes lay trashed, but new sweats withhold the truth of accomplishment, the back trail of desire, for worse or best.
The men carried us back to the dawn-like springs for rinsing, Hector still in good shape, as Kate grasped, before she was taken up by Louis to a colourful Divan room scraped from a defunct Moroccan maison close, of the protectorate era. Hector and me, after he took a small turn in my back yard, followed to the richly decorated room, surrounded by slim alabaster columns, behind which a mural painting depicted orgy scenes with slaves of different shades. Hector laid me on the all-round couch upholstered in Turkish lampas threaded of gold and silver; he fetched a small octagon table inlaid with nacre and silver on which were displayed chocolates and candies. As he went again ravenous for my lower belly, I mused out loud that these were laced with drugs, to what Louis agreed matter-of-factly, smiling at me, as in “I know you snitched”. Reaching for Kate’s thigh, while Hector tentatively humped me from behind, I briefly retold the cannabis adventure I had flown through during the previous session, it was nothing more, and besides, Louis was part of the Hellfire Club, for that matter, he wasn’t about abducting us. The men ate one each, I queried the gazes around, found Kate’s consent and Louis’ good faith; I chose a chocolate with a candied violet on it, and munched it, it tasted of sugary almonds, a tad cloying.

This time, I knew what to expect, I wrested out to Kate’s arms to let our eager pulses beat in unison, while our fanciful patron, Louis, took fun at kissing our heads. As Hector insinuated a tongue into my butt crack, my spine was wheedled up in a snake dance to what Kate answered in her belly. Beautified, in a fluid embrace, we offered our entertaining little bud vases to the exigency of the hairy priers intensely meticulous in their efforts.
The intricate coffered ceiling, painstakingly ornate with Moorish patterns, shuddered along with my chest in a wavy moan entwined in Kate’s. My servant whiffled tickling puffs in my neck, causing me to let my entrails flourish around his stubborn spear, for a long forthcoming bliss. He unleashed, and I heard an echo from my sister fairy, who swooned.
Inside my present mood, the sight of swirling arabesques naturally fused with the previous rutting of the fierce riders, the visions of Bellmer’s infinite embraces, and my intimate dive in Unica’s notebooks. The perpetual motive of convulsive vulvas and eyelids, sprinkled with meaningful minutiae and lacy words, swamped over the skin of my most significant muse.
Time was unbound, I was concerned not to let my arse drip over the precious micro mosaics and embroideries, so I slithered upon my funny hands and knees towards the golden wells, asking for rain. Kate had wiped herself in a random kerchief, but felt like splashing around again like an wonder otter.
Decidedly, we had to revive the male prides by ways of our mouths and other drolleries, inasmuch we did not too constantly drifted off course. The Alpha, and his minion, whom, in open nature, would have serviced the whole herd, jolted us to a hazy-blue pillows stash with music, or so it felt.

Clung together like drowning, Kate and I had fits of giggles with the animal tamers; they watched us fuse our souls in the heavenly scents of fairyland and glutted their every urges out of our dances. Hector was again insatiable, when Louis sought telepathic brainwaves and womb currents, whatever incantations to our inner follies beyond pleasure.
Hector was awfully skilled with his maypole that we forgot our reason, and Louis came to drink our tears of delight. I absconded behind my eyelids for the parade of pearly blooms and beaded palms, greeted by my own timeless genies, squirrels in the boxwoods and twiggy elves in white socks, long boats on the lake with only us, raspberry tinted lips meeting my own pale fragile offerings.
Slowly tossed about in the bales of hospitable linens, I sank in millefiori of granted affections, little girl in a short white dress flat on her stomach on long boards of sunlight as the sea breathes through the open windows and no draft will ever slam them. Barefoot on the lawn chased by the hedgehogs who look so candid when they run. Later in life, drenched in the rosy sunlight on the terrace in front of the dead chimneys for the angels to rest, says my Far holding my feet as I will doze in the armchair.
Kate showed that smile of hers, from the indistinct realm of dunes, the wild armfuls of light and the blurry blasts of wind. She was nested with the sacred swans of the Alstermeer, which let her closer, by magical derogation, with Simon whom she had broken in a grey freeze-frame.
Defuse, sweet soul, breathe back with colours! Louis had grasped the torment happening and massaged her cranium on his crossed legs, I did her all the carnal treats I knew for her, Hector spread her legs and busied his mouth in her till she swayed and responded and took Louis’ slumped dick in her mouth and earned him resurgence, to what I joined, festooning with the tip of my tong all over his testicles. My best slut of a soul-sister was back on saddle, Hector deep in her. Louis sat me on his renewed ardour and drilled me hard as Kate licked our arses madly.

The high moods were withering away, Hector had fled and Louis half-slumbered with a wholehearted smile. We found the way to the golden springs and peed on each other in the shower with exhausted laughs. Naked through the hall of contraptions, we reached the entrance salon, knowing nothing better than to dress. Our clothes had been of course tidied, we took time and yawned a lot. Louis appeared in a black satin gown that made him look like Lord Byron; he wanted a last hug and kneaded our butts, kissing Kate’s face keenly, begging us to return. I felt the thick wad in my pocket.
Hector wore a black town-suit when he lead us to the car and opened the door. He drove otherworldly the silent car, saying to me there had been two of us this time, but he could yet again shake us, all wet. Once alone, I slid my hand in Kate’s clothes and found another bunch of bills, we were getting stealthily rich. Natalia had found some other teddy heart to cuddle in.

Later, in the pearly wee hours, drawn from the kaleidoscopic dew in a Swiss orchard where some dear pals had pulled their shorts down, I raised to conscience that Kate was unhappy on her own, sobbing in her sleep. We both unwound from the psychic trip we had experienced, and it certainly wasn’t novelty to us; apparently, some unseen grain of sand had derailed her stream of invention towards the dire straits in her past, albeit the oversewing work daintly operated by Doctor Schubert and the labor of time should have healed her bruised soul.
I promised myself to ask her to spit it out to me, if she will, in the morning, or come along to Dr Méant’s with me? I lulled her as good as I knew, she eventually dived back into graceful flows, and I joined her.
At the unsurprisingly late breakfast, I seized her idle hands and told my reading of her night’s fears, regardless of the number of humpings she had stood up too, rewardingly, as it seemed. She smiled meekly and caressed her twat with a satisfied nod, but she recounted the distressing tatters of bugbears that had haunted through her slumbers, unforeseen, sharply concerning Simon, bringing back hellish strains in her chest.
I petted her along the nerves, as I figured them, also convinced her to ask Simon if he would come and see her for some soul-searching on memory lane. They exchanged all day, apart from me, as if her brother had already sussed the spell out.
At one point, she asked me if I would welcome Simon home, she grasped my heartfelt relief and added that she would let me enjoy a piece of him, since we were to lay in the same bed. The rest of the day was beautifully alleviated, there would be an all-girls night at Camille’s, with Beryl.

The night had been a diaphanous midsummer beehive, at Camille’s. She was overjoyed, dishing up all these flat tummies and podgy pussies with regal sushis, in a heady garden of lustful scents and the undertones of pleasure. She had a crush on Beryl, who wouldn’t let go of Natalia, who kept an eye on Enzy in our keen midst, who liked the casual abandon of Fanny. I clasped my claws a little further on Enzy’s heart, while inviting Kate on her; this gawky one will thrive among the gallery crew, she’s unfolding from her chrysalis, her skin is silky.
Beryl ended on Natalia’s perch; we dared not kidnap yet Enzy for a night; now Simon was en route.
He had been sailing around Rügen,his short hair had gone blond, at the collar of his tee-shirt, some white skin line would show, randomly. He cracked a wholesome smile, embraced Kate who was about to cry like a fool. She offloaded frankly the angst that had coiled into her mind, acknowledging that some substance might have ripped her rivets off; in any case, she felt all rekindled touching him, kissing him. She remained clung to his mighty shoulders, they really had the same eyes, except hers were misty.
He was proud to let us see his scars, which had been regularly treated with micro-abrasion; I could not help stroking them, he was becoming muscular, athletic, all the more desirable. His minor regret was that in the summer dunes, buck naked in the free light, they would reappear like a photograph in the developing bath, because scars don’t tan.
He wanted one of the fashionable Danish salads, and ginger kombucha, I stole his shoes and socks first. He gave a hazy report of his becoming into the Fraunhofer galaxy, letting shine his pride to have surpassed their father in skills, Kate’s hand was on his tense fly.

Because she was hungry no more, at least not of vegetables, she soughed their small potamus routine, to what he responded, letting her strike the “Washington” signal. She was cool enough not to ditch me already, as they undressed fast, we wore shirts and leggings, he wore white jeans, we danced together to the bed. He was starved, he ransacked both our bodies at once, but shagging his sister deep, first. I had my turn in due time, and again, till we needed a recess and running waters.
As we gathered at the dining table for a fresh drink, the two schoolgirls, who might not have known Simon was visiting, –and anyway, didn’t Natalia creep in anytime?– walked in, like daisies, merely wearing oversized tee-shirts and white knickers, and peeped on Simon, a tad befuddled.
Beryl is a crafty little slut, she reached out to the sailor, making faces not to look at his dick; Natalia is still some kind of a virgin, but she acted like the brave little house girl, the way she knew would arouse everybody, until I wrapped her in my arms and frankly groped her breasts. We made the presentations, Kate and me on the lookout for the moment when they would catch who Simon is. Beryl was rightfully first to understand, she was seasoned enough to steer clear, unabashedly; Natalia, who had parsed the attitudes, prettily stepped into the matter and dared ask, so she got the truth, as naked as we were, and did not know better than begging me for one of our usual kisses, so the good mood resettled.
So, that was that, we made some tea and lounged on our couches, Simon keeping an eye on the frail white not so innocent knickers. Beryl had more or less claimed property on Kate, who had her hands under her shirt, tempted to slip it up and share with her brother, Natalia was nosing me like she did almost every night, I took her rags off and rubbed her satin smooth body so as she stretched like a kitten. Simon ventured compliments on my little toy doll, seized our feet and shuffled them, meanwhile Kate undressed the very consenting Beryl and made her undulate upon her body, she dared Simon to pound them, between kisses. He felt enabled to risk his hands on Beryl’s buttocks and loins, he bent to gather some tongue petals.

Katherine says:

My Simon. He came up as if it was the best idea in his life, reliable and openhearted, my all-German hard-wired engineer, with the same live putz, up for play. I feel that he likes our steady pair and the sweet-smelling web of affection we live in, although he would like to see more of us in Kreuzberg and Kampen. He is even hankering after taking over the Alstermeer villa, if Mother was to retire somewhere near the Bodensee. He says that she grieves of my shunning her, that she wasn’t aware of my becoming at the time after the accident, and that weighs on her heart. He says she has been keen to him, and however she knows more or less our lifestyle details, without judging, as much as he can parse from her comments. I fancy that I would invite her to our next hanging in Camille’s gallery, so she could step into our magic pond and test the waters, as I see her. Our father is also ready to give us the house in Kampen, a hefty charge, if we will, and he would like that; he is ready to settle as a real well-off Hamburger who puts his Porsche on the train on Fridays and sails the whimsical northern winds, or shags us aboard, as whatever lazy-jacks secure the boat, on sunny days. Sarah loves to get laid on high seas, and he is smitten with her, too.

Notwithstanding, Sarah crafted a courtly dinner at Hugo’s with the two students, so as to let Simon an me, head to head, if that was the word. She did not appear before the next morning.
All the way in Washington, we recapped again, from whatever had hit me from the deep in Louis’ pillows; psychedelia dreads of half-baked harrowing tales, obviously I still dragged along my guilt like a torn fishnet caught in my propeller, and since he was the living cause of that blame, I would beseech him to vindicate my befuddled soul, again.
Like old days, eye to eye and bare-butted, we raved wholeheartedly in our language, letting stealth bits of the rich narrative find their righteous perches.
Irregardless of the life plans he had laid before pertaining a posh standard of living in Hambourg, he confided eventually that he was not happy at all; since his body had been defaced, he was distraught towards girls or else, and ended most of the time masturbating while fantasising me and what he knew of my life.
When he had been pulled out of the coma, stitched and sewn over, he had wondered of my whereabouts, but by the time he could question Mother I had already fled and they did not grasp that I were in Berlin; he had only been terrified of what I could do to myself. He never had bitter thoughts on me, but when they learned where I had been washed up, unaware of Sarah’s and Hugo’s searches, he was already in deep depression because of his shattered pelt.
I remained dumbfounded, he was drained by his release of the real ordeal he had lived through, I began to mull over what kind of therapy regular visits with us could bring him, Sarah, too, would undoubtedly devote herself and others to that kind of salvation.

We were clean as the beach at dawn, we smelled of the angelica foam of the soap I had used on him, too. His eyes were calling for some redemption and that’s what they received in the ways we had crafted by ourselves. I sucked him up dedicatedly while he handled my crotch full strength, till he toppled me over and slid the perfect gauge in my cunt, in the same timeless manner we knew. Effortlessly, we came together.
Soon unwound, we silently congratulate each other and drink kombucha, he wants me to tell the details of our debaucheries, so while he plays with my feet, he gets plenty. He wonders if we have time left for working, I brag we do not have much else to do apart from work and fuck. I propose we climb to the studio, so he will make sure we did not turn full time whores.
Up here, he likes our exploits, especially when we traded hands, which might spook the collectors, but not Louis. He likes the room and infers that we would have no reason to wish we lived elsewhere. He’s sprung up again and draws me to the couch for an eager kiss, he says in my neck that he wants my tiny burrow with jelly and he is overjoyed to observe that we have some at the work place; I claim that some of our patrons have irrepressible whims that we wish not to frustrate, as he can assess then.
He keeps buggering me, for some long while, he has gained in strength and kept his young drive, he makes me turn my back on all fours and chose the depth and rhythm as he masturbates my nub in circles, I will peak as soon as he discharges, and he collapses, moaning and smiling.

Raddled but gratified, we sip a last cup before we huddle under the quilt with music around. Later, one has subtly slithered to Simon’s side, rubbed one’s chest upon his back, picked daintly the morning pride, and handled slily the foreskin over the glans, as steadily as one may, until one half-rapes the sleeper by straddling over. I do not wish to wake fully, but I want to pay tribute to her dear arse with wigwag fingers, and let be.
Sarah is fussily caring of us, she has bought croissants, toasts and marmalades, she begs for mock pardon and garners a sugary kiss. She fires up her vivid blue eyes towards Simon as if she had sensed his hidden unease, she grasps the untold and makes no more pass, alleviates all tensions, reaches for my hand, asks whatever she might come to know about, inhales the steam of her tea.
She has understood; a scarf of reflected gold sunlight dons her lissom body, she still plays footsie with Simon, but is it not the very matter we mull over? She decidedly agreed that a few more visits would loosen up his unease, so to speak, and she heartfully applies for a position in the plan, all the more if that were along with me. After what she gleaned that morning, she is gallant and reaps many smiles, we shake our languor and slip on fresh togs, with grace when she pulls up the tights on her crotch in front of him. He whistles at our new slippers. Today we bring our tray upstairs.

Simon slid on an antique white shirt of Sarah’s collections and remained in his trunks; he had not foreseen to stay longer than this hectic day, but was now willing to meet girls at Camille’s tonight, on Sarah’s sly prompting.
Meanwhile, I fetched some folding table for his computer, as he could not skip one more day in the cloud. Our hazy music did not bother him, he shifted his eyes to introvert mode, just like Kate would in a matter of minutes, and ran his fingers on the silent machine.
With pauses for tea and grazing some student mix of nuts and raisins, the day whizzed by in abstract concerns, secretly holding our horses until evening. When time came, we twiddled our buttons in the shower, all the same, eager to carouse, a tad. I chose a black tank dress flared wide enough to be readily pulled over, and buckskin slippers; Sarah swirled in a black Liberty Lawn shirt dress, strewn with myosotis, elbow-long sleeves, a short pied Afghan vest scattered with inlaid mirrors, and black repettos. We walked to Dalila’s for stuffed dates and other tiny fabrications in nuts and honey.
The trio was irresistible, bare-feet, mini-dresses black for Anzy, azure for Fanny, and gold for Camille, they smelled of jaunty wild bushes at sunset, Anzy had let Camille style her hair with a side parting, she wore a few Celtic silver rings on her long hands and an ankle bracelet that caught the attention to her also long, sensual, feet. Fanny shone all by herself in a fair-weather blue bell dress, candid and available like the day she entrapped me in Venice, her eyes had been finely lined with a striking effect, she also might wear some blush. Camille donned a high-waisted dress flared from her breasts in foulard-patterned turquoise and gold twill, with a turquoise choker necklace, wrist and ankle bracelets; she beamed like some sort of northern fairy would would have bewitched a couple of lost maidens inside an opulent brothel.

Simon craved these bustling pussies under their corollas, he showed an obvious bump in his white pants. Kate had lent him a cypress green moleskine jacket with badges of Papua New Guinea. He tentatively sat in a wide armchair, only to see Anzy land on the left rest. She had heard of him last night, she played remarkably clever, he felt like making a pass at her, she did not shy off.
Sarah was already up in Camille’s bare legs and hips, like old times, untainted story. I hustled Fanny down on a couch, she was always so willing, her eyes ready to sway aside, she scented of honeysuckle and apple flower, had no underwear; I twirled my pointed tongue over her belly, to make her slink and moan, in her poignant wild mind, she would see me as her saviour, as randomly as it had happened.
Simon conquered all he wished, Anzy’s butt was round and white and consenting, he pulled the dress off, she checked his eyes for an idea of what she inspired, he swallowed her labia and rummaged to ferret out her pretty bud.
Seing that all others were handsomely engaged in plain lubricity, he undressed, wary of Ansy’s reaction to his body; it happened that she had been warned already, and she judged the damage was more of the sexy kind, she gently kissed a scar on his chest and spread her legs widely. When they collapsed in their embers, we were all wanting a piece of that. She clung to his neck as if she were in love.

Anzy wanted the bathroom, and Simon followed her; we decided to rest our throes and feast, Sarah played the house girl she had been just before she slipped herself into my bed at Hugo’s, and eventually rescued me from a shady path; she went to the kitchen. Camille joined us on the couch and inhaled our tepid fragrances into the gap between our clenched bodies, she savoured, like a connoisseur of rare peonies in a meticulously tended garden.
Sarah had brewed tea in the biggest pumpkin shaped yiking pot, she brought platters of nifty canapés and the sweet confectioneries from Dalila’s. The elated pair, who came back with a whiff of white scents from the shower, and a still brazen nob to share, smiled and eluded our stares. The thin Anzy shimmied more girlishly than she would have thought, she obviously craved cock.
I fussed into my brother’s hair while I read bliss in Ansy’s lowered gaze, my hunch had been fulfilled so that he would at least gain some heartwarming, unexpected clemency spell, beside our luminous bond, for the while. Was it not the reward for having flown readily to my side when I said my threads felt ripped?
Sarah wanted a taste of Fanny’s sweetened lips, and then some. Four girls mingled on the couch opposite the one where the smitten ones kept to themselves and shagged, again. On this side, Fanny’s candid bum crack swaggered for attention and reaped wee bits of tongue strokes; Camille fiddled with Sarah’s long limber legs.

Camille had been shrewd enough to let Simon and his catch (or was it the other way?), sleep in one of her bedrooms, coveting a share of their overflowing revel, on occasion. Fanny also laid eyes on the springing dick in the house, both events were bound to happen, if Ansy had grasped the streams of current in our neighbourhood.
At home, all evidence showed a possible new romance in the upper floors, Natalia was no longer our nightly pet, Beryl would soon recount their fling. I wished to give time to Simon’s good fortune, would he be able to rapture Ansy to his northern estates, if only to rebuild his once glib assertiveness?
But then it seems his future shines upthere, and I doubt she speaks German; here I go, weaving their bedazzled lives, whenas only one night has burned, yet.

Simon came back from Camille’s alone, Ansy had somewhat flinched, or he had not known better, they would meet again, or not. Then Natalia and Beryl turned up, arm in arm, and stood charmed by our likeness; my bidding went on Beryl, because I read her crafty looks. She neither paid attention to the scar that showed on his neck, she acted as she were in Hugo’s, she frolicked for him the feline way, while I bent Natalia backwards, she smelled of mint
Along the small talk, I did my best to show him that, again, it was free buffet. Beryl laid her hand on his crotch, and grasped what was there, cunningly; no sooner had he left Ansy’s lips that he measured up to those of a masterful she-devil for the game of it.
Sarah emerged, unaware, grinned interrogatively, then sided alongside our best phantom and slid her hand.
Dumbfounded, Simon let himself drawn by the overjoyed imp to our bedroom and we heard the swish of clothes unbound, the wet flits of petting further, the soft moanings. Natalia was aroused for two, we let be of Simon recovering his lust and pride, we undressed her and she stripped our tights, poking around like an otter in the stream.

Sarah says:

Simon is, at heart, as unfettered as his sister, but his mind is all set on hard reality, all the more since his fanciful all-time lover brought him, unforeseeably, to near dismemberment, my word. He has parsed our private planet and reckoned it is delicious, all the more to a nerd like him. He will soon be back at Ansy’s cherry arse, and eventually steal her, taking her away to the dunes.
Time was set for our joint show at Camille’s gallery, it felt like some lunar wedding, we raved on it, I wanted my Far, my Saint Loup family, most of all my little whore, and I would ask Far to inquire about Julia Grant, what became of her exceptional personality. It also meant that Hugo and his club would attend in full, giving us shivers.
Apropos of thrills, we returned to Victor’s headquarters, with Beryl, and he promised we would meet Fulgence again. We had another turn in the outrageously sensuous berline, to a meeting roundabout in a suburban forest where we misbehaved while Beryl sucked him on the front seats. Back to the château, after a binge of blue powder, we were given to masked dark-skinned executioners, I found myself chained to the wall in a mute black room, wearing a leather helmet with pinhole goggles, letting my mouth available, serving all my holes to a number of warm bodies, cumming endlessly until I fainted.
Internally panting, I waked on cerulean sheets, tied to the bed, face down, legs spread. Some skilled hand was my innards with mellow cream, easing the way for those who ransacked my well, more gallantly this time, after the hungry herd, older, it felt.
I was carried to a warm marble hammam, together with Kate and Beryl, who had sustained the same devastation and slumbered, like me. Fulgence entered and kissed us with pertness, mocking our languid mood, anointing our swollen cunt and arse with lotus. Beryl wondered, Victor would not let her enter such games but had told her where she could find us, after enjoying her tight body.
The steam room, alternately with cold showers, rekindled our bones, eased our muscles, and restore suppleness to our pleasure sources. Fulgence, who once was a rough dog, showed dexterity and patience, wiped us and led us to a vast hall under a luminous ceiling of subdued aquamarine tone.
An array of moss green terry cloth seats and benches waited in the center, with a few welcome crystal faceted ewers and highballs on ebony pedestal tables; I wondered if I had relieved myself at any moment, he showed us an oversized bell button, a young, absent looking curly maid, in black lace over a black dress, brought a large silver vase and waited.
He disposed us comfortably at his fancy and turned around our group, penetrating wherever he felt like, more often into Beryl’s untrained butthole; we cuddled each other while he ran his random want, eventually, he came intensely deep into Beryl’s loins and huffed.
He wanted to profit the very most of us, like one who knows he will have to return the keys, but soon he was humping sleeping beauties.
In what might have been morning, the hall was daylighted, and on one side a wall had slid aside, opening the view of a lush winter garden of dark green velvet, gleaming of silver crystals under silent storm skies, which must have been cast on large seamless screens.
Beryl was struck, she had not known this room, a scent of musky cypress exhaled from it, and a tea tray awaited on the deep green structured carpeting. Not all convinced our sleep was finished, we drank in platinum-trimmed porcelain and wondered where the loo was.

There was a regal bathroom, with a round white marble pool large enough for us three, overflowing warm water waiting for us; we straddled over and sat on sleek benches, massaging each other’s feet. Thereafter, we checked the washbasins and found new wrapped toothbrushes, lotions and hairbrushes. Beryl shared with me and stared at my eyes, she begged for a real kiss and fingered me. Once fit to fly, we found Fulgence in the garden, in a bespoke black vested silk suit, along with the maid who pushed a silver coat rack with our clothes and shoes. She had been wearing an Ikat kaftan emerald and carmine on white, and emerald stockings and court sandals. Beryl wore a short turquoise bell dress, white stockings and ballerines. I wore a delft blue, fit and flare, opened dress, matching blue stockings and posh slippers with silver snakes embroidered.
Fulgence revelled in watching us dress, Kate seized his hardened prick and muttered dirty words in his ear. He looked now like a fashion model, with dark curls, strong jaws, aquiline nose, square shoulders and a steady pose, his mouth was together firm and generous, and he could kiss like a girl. Under the thick prominent brows, he kept his moss-green eyes squinted.
It was another car, silver ice white and tinted glass. He called Beryl in front and asked her to show her sanctum once more, that she did with her pointed smirk. Fat mauve envelopes had been hidden in our dresses’ inner pockets.
Fulgence asked us to pull out our telephones and he sent his number in our contacts. He warned he would not call, but he said we could.

Since we slept away most of the day, we felt peppy at dinner time with Hugo, whom ever awaited our recounts of the turpitudes we would have thrown ourselves in, and moreover in the flesh. He had called for baskets of sophisticated salad and creamy relish pots from Hydroponics Inc. with an elderberry kombucha from Oued Ourika’s; soft-boiled eggs were homemade, and the seeds bread was from Roncin’s.
As often, he was taking notes, probably more to delay the part when he would better participate carnally to our reenacted quivers. He was curious as to the blue powder, which, in our know, was only a superior kind of cocaine, that would not trigger Kate’s angst. She concurred, and retold of her downfall, when other substances had been forced on her by Annie Loyseau; the blue powder was a powerful stimulant, an antidepressant and an aphrodisiac, so it left the body strained, spent. Louis’ space sweets were laced with refined THC, like a concentrate of soul dragons, desirable or evil, full size, unfettered; it had woken the wounds ingrained through her memory, beyond the healing, in the inarticulate chaos of the mind library, where the bland hours of her spineless addiction had been recorded. Nothing of the kind in the blue powder; it’s effect, though potent, did not tilt over the gravity node, only did it make easy to transgress one’s cultural behaviour, as if sluts like us needed that anyhow. I ventured we should try not to snort anything, next time, if there was any.
When we finished to nibble, we had also lost all clothes, he steered us towards the grand bed of maroon percale and thrust aside the quilt, so as we fell, embraced.

Katherine says:

Sarah has indeed kindly spilled my beans, now she’s all honey to my mouth, and we are such an outstanding couple, all by Hugo’s craft.
He is altogether proud of us, he likes saying it, he cuddles our butt cracks while we kiss. I plot another one of my whims, which dawned in my mind when Simon stayed with us. I know there is more space behind our bathroom, Hugo told me, once; wouldn’t it be neat to have another bedroom in our apartment? I venture my idea as my legs are wide apart, at his face; he annoys my bud a while, then comes up to my face and nods, saying that he sees. He explains that the space I speak of is his writing hideaway, and, besides, it would be impossible to access from our living room; but, possibly, he could arrange a room next to our studio, with his magic wand, while some other comes foraying into my kitty, and Sarah is openly laughing.
As a skilled courtesan, overjoyed by these news, I made him come in a few sways of my hips and contractions which make me come too, all in all, we too, are perfect lovers. I wish my Sarah exults, too, so I slide two fingers in her, and aim at her Gräfenberg spot, a sure mean to see her squirt, so then she devours Hugo’s mouth.
He has perfectly parsed what led to my demand, after Simon’s visit, he wonders why he would no more sleep with us, should we order a larger bed, if that exists? I say our bed is as big as his, and we are currently three on it; four would be uneasy, once the orgy appeased.
I tell him the moving encounter Simon did at Camille’s and what makes me wish I could buoy up my brother’s self-confidence. He likes the story, I can tell he will beat the waters till the new trout comes swimming in his pond, for a while.