14 – Katherine Sophie – Convolvulus in the thorns

 

©Sarah von Kettelær @katherine-sophie.eu

 

Sarah says: 

Understanding that I would keenly cicerone the young Liseron through the best nooks in Paris, on a dainty mission for Louis, and otherwise Simon was eloping with the recently subjugated Ansy to Sylt, Kate opportunely made up to go along them, bringing the all-willing Fanny, still under the spell of the fairy who gave her salvation, back then in Venice. Camille was mingling through the aftermaths of the show, and revelled in all sorts of gossip with her rich network of æsthetes, she agreed her sylphic blonde pet would greatly benefit of a week running nude in the northern dunes, even if her new find was snatched away from her in the same move, that sad emo Ansy she had well foreseen before Kate undressed her at her dear brother’s want. 

 On the evening before the day Liseron was to come and join me, Hugo picked me up for a tête à tête of almond gazpacho, croutons and fruit, from Alizzaro’s, sprawled upon silks in the most openly immodest posture, so he could stroke me while talking. He wore a Matisse-worth robe of timeless lushness, opened on his thriving person, tanned from some days of lizardry on Melchior’s terraces at Cap Martin. He smelled of befogged hesperides and the whole maquis on a storm’s morrow, his fingers were light and polished.

He already knew about Liseron, Louis had touted his catch,  she was craftily framed out of any misery she might have been spawned from, unbeknownst to her precious little head. Hector, Louis’s missi dominicus, had altogether bought her from the junky boyfriend whom he had supplied hard stuff beyond his means. She was too young to know or suspect any of all that, the almighty “Circle Of Liars” wanted her, and I wasn’t one to fear for her. 

First things first, I would love her unrestrained just like she would move in with us, if that taxi ride I had enjoyed in her enthralling smells had sustained Hector’s tastes for her, all the more so that I remembered how he had revelled in me.  Therefore I would lead her arm in arm to the clinic where we did all our check-ups and tests, vaccines, implants and whatever cleared our libertine manners of life.

I would then show her many playgrounds she might not even have any glimmer of, let her feel the rich harmonies between unleashed cravings at the apex of their resolution, all in the shelter of my forewarned wing, no risk taken.

After the long-lived hullabaloo caused around our show, Hugo finally came aware of my Far’s silent passion for me, somewhat summarised in the infrangible entitlement to my bare feet, whenever we chose to draw the impenetrable curtains of privacy upon our own immemorial bell jar. Hugo said he had been struck by the sudden aloofness in my gaze, as soon as my impenetrable father took hold of them, as I would have insinuated them anywhere at his reach. Champing on my edible toes, he conceded he would never be granted my Øresund stare, but I retorted he had been allowed to many smiles upon my silly person and to him, child Sarah was only a glint in the brook.  As a salute, he resolved to serve me as much rapture kisses as my eyes could cry, and then took a long dive into my shivering bung until I passed out.

In the morning, I was alone, wrapped in lilac percale, slack as a kitten, and I smelled like a shrub of honeysuckle. I went to pee and looked for the clothes I did not remember wearing when Hugo had lured me in. I met Lena and she did not resist cuddling me for a while, then I ran up to our forecastle; Kate had slept with Simon, and whomever they craved, in the new dovecote under the roof. I brewed a large pot of vivacious Puttabong tea, swashed two oranges, put my feet up on the table’s edge and fondle my tiny tits in tingles. 

Liseron was expected in the afternoon,  Hugo had said he would not see her before his peer Louis would gracefully send her along. I had time to varnish my nails in “arctic night”, after a thorough courtisane’s toilet, and I slipped in some fluid dark sapphire blue pyjamas with silver trimmings.

I kept on the honeysuckle note, with unequivocal  wafts of seaside lust in the likes of broom flower, Scilly narcissus and carnation in a light berth of sandalwood, a well proven spell custom designed on my skin by Hugo during a dreamy summer night. I had once unraveled Liseron in the back of a slow car, I wanted to bind her along in our pearly legends, like I failed to pursue with Ayla.

Liseron called from the street, I gave her the number, the code, and I rushed down to meet her; she beamed of youth and joy like I was chasing doubts she might have fostered.  I led her through a few doors and we hugged furiously, her hands sliding on the silk. She smelled of subway hustle and frank cologne, her garçonne cut left her nape and neck fresh, she wore a fast runner outfit, striped marinière and navy blue hoodie, fitted jeans she had grown up in, high classic black and white Chuck sneakers.

Our stairs are carpeted in thick wool, the ancient steps are deep enough; she surrendered, half undone, her only underwear was a thin white cotton shorty, she was thoroughly waxed, her sweat enthralled me. In tatters, we ran to our bed and overspent our passion.  

It was obvious that we had groomed ourselves like avid brides, or rich whores, for that matter; she swam into the unmade bed with her pants half-way down, like a foxy porn actress, inviting an ultimate tongue tip into her bootyhole, so she would never be allowed to say she did not know me; I untied her shoes, new ones I guessed, pulled off jeans and socks to champ on pristine toes.

Liseron’s feet cavort, unscathed, spare from the running, manicured as marble idols, availed to my lips and tongue as the sheets’ froufrou hover in my elated mind. I mete all I learned as the transfixed patient of my own father, when it comes to feet; she sways her eyes in awe, then wakes in disbelief or fear, gazes at me through her deep brown agates pupils and reads the worth of my devotion to her I know so few.
“Nice catch!” goes Kate’s voice as she lurks from the open door frame, for I should have guessed she would not depart without a glance at the little runaway, and more, as she lays down at her side and ventures her cheek on hers; she expresses her legitimate libertinage by kissing me full mouth, then, grazing Liseron’s dainty flat chest, she tells her she would keenly have her, too, as my little sister.
Fanny smiles, mouth shut; she wears an off-white soft linen shirt over trippy light-blue leggings and raw tan ankle boots; she would not niggle ever but she’s on the go, she wants to see Holstein and run nude in the wild sands, breathlessly. I reach and make her sit and introduce the kids to each other, so they kiss and Liseron blushes a tad as I nose her belly and explain the departure; Kate succeeds at really kissing the new one before they run, wishing us all thrills.
Liseron doesn’t peel me off the satin she brushes onto my skin, like a schoolgirl in a hasty hideaway; she reminds me of my girl Ayla, eager eyes and thirsty lips, I would almost cry, I promise myself I will bring them together, later; her ankles and wrists are slender, I catch the beats of a wholesome heart, and as I begin nibbling at her tasty lips, I pull the small talk towards her true story.
She is the unfortunate daughter of a chartered accountant and one  very young foolhardy intern. For religious and other superstitious motives, termination was never an option, a balanced upbringing for her neither. Her father, a married catholic, schemed along with his confessor a secret arrangement by which her mother was granted an allowance inasmuch as she remained parted. She doesn’t bear her father’s name, has never seen him nor wishes to.

After her birth, her mother spiralled into depression, helped in that by the will of her grand mother to get her grip on the baby. So she grew up between her mother’s bleak, eastern Parisian, three-room third floor hutch with a view upon a wasted terrace-roof where she watched for rats at nightfall, and the two-storied brick pavilion between a cemented yard and the poor garden of her working grand parents. 

Depending on her mother bouts of despair, in which she unconsciously resented all the weight of guilt, the attempts by her grand mother to legally become her tutor, the indecisive choices of the irresolute and overloaded administration, she never rooted in safe ground, grabbing here and there a mosaic education up to state college, willy-nilly. 

In her soul, though, albeit she was becoming a true beauty, moral leprosy was straining her will. Many of her mother’s erratic words had scattered sand and ashes upon her little girl’s dreams, she heard them repeated in the subway’s din, so much so she developed a phobia for loud noise and constantly wore earphones.

Then, at an unthinkably early age, the grand father, a retired security guard with a steep penchant for anise, started pinching and touching her legs, her thighs and all he could grab under the stupid dresses her grand mother insisted a young girl should wear. The old sod would bunk steady in front of the TV set, and watch whatever she chose, imbibing his liver with so many little goblets of yellow drink, offering her to join him. Because she had free rein to escape into whatever crappy shows the other kids, not smarter than her, talked about at intermissions, she figured it might be somewhat acceptable to let the bastard play while he masturbated slyly. She could not figure her grand mother did not condone the least her husband’s shenanigans, she sat in her dedicated armchair, covered in a nightmarish crochet  cover, stepping up two or three times to go to the loo, where grasped later that she kept her bottle of vermouth.

As her mother was becoming unsafe for others and herself, Liseron was left at the old couple’s ward. Against promesses of an Iphone and flashy shoes, she did not raise any complaint to the judge when it might still have been time. For what she could fathom around her, the other girls her age were not happier or safer; she reckoned there were unsaid practices in the education of girls. At the very least, her abuser did not take the risk of getting her pregnant. Came a time when it dawned in her mind that her own mother had endured the same life as she underwent, but it was too late to try to elaborate with the senseless wreck she rarely met, at some doctor’s demand. 

As, with time, the Grand’ma collapsed drunk earlier, the old bastard pushed his abuse further; as Liseron loathed to be groped with dirty hands, she forced him to cleanse them and to pay her to clip his nails, she established a derisory ritual according to which he smelled soap and paid her good pocket money. When he insisted to be given fellatio, she therefore could afford rather classy outfits, and since she had been more or less promiscuous among a few students and friends, she earned a subdued reputation of being an amateur prostitute.

When she was sixteen, her grand’ma died one night of a cancer she had fostered for years; all she concluded was that her abuser became her puppet, she made him buy Habit Rouge, shave and lick her while she watched MTV, she rightfully sucked his pension away, but he smelled good.

She met Eric during her first year at college, all in black in an oversized parka and a grey knitted scarf, he struck her with his dry appeal and she fucked him the same day; under his sweater, he smelled Grey Flannel, he was clean.

They moved together in her mother’s apartment, she saw less of her destitute Grand’pa and became more expensive for his senile needs, unbeknown to Eric, who found her delightfully easy, and already hatched libertine schemes for her.

Eric started to deal in recreational drugs on campus small amounts to cool consumers, until he let himself be caught in the hard stuff that comes along the same networks but where nothing is cool anymore. He dealt heavier, tried hard to put Liseron to prostitute in bars and eventually met Hector who singled her out and started a plot that would very much excite his boss Mr Louis. For a few months, Hector let Eric fool himself with a constant flux of the best possible opioids, becoming a smart pusher at Hector’s account, while the latter made sure Liseron did not hook herself. 

At a moment when Eric did not even realise how high he was flying, Hector gripped Eric’s throat with the tab he owed, and matter-of-factly laid the offer that he would wipe clean the slate if Eric would sell Liseron to him. There was a premium of a few month’s stash but Eric would never see his girlfriend again, anywhere. It did not take until the end of the day for the deal to be struck, and Liseron found herself seated on the Connolly leather of a very silent berline, under the spell of Hector, who began to draw a potential future for her, and did not attempt more than his fingertips through her hair. She had the hunch that she would never hear about both her tormentors, she had no idea where this grand vehicle led to. She had been sold.

Hector didn’t mince his words to let Liseron know right away that he was not her benefactor, not even so as to steal stealthily some time with her on the appealing back seat. He already knew plenty of her, let her know that he had scouted her out for a powerful overlord, made up the drug scheme designed for Eric, whom, in his opinion, was hopeless, past the choice he had just so easily made. He told her she was free and would remain so, come what may. 

After a voluptuous ride of the nightly inner boulevards, Hector brought her to the ground floor of Louis’ hotel in some luxurious suite opening on a well trimmed garden and told her how to lock herself in or find her way out. He told her this was an indefinite temporary arrangement and she could have anything from her place brought there and later moved further. She had lived there since, served whatever food she asked, and attended to, like a character in a novel, by likeable, if reserved, persons in black dress. 

After a quiet week or so, Hector had brought her upstairs to meet Louis. She had found an older man in far better shape than her toad of a grandpa, who smelled an engaging woody-fruity and watched her from her toes up with unequivocal lust, but spoke in crystal clear words. He had requested, in the most urging manner, that she took her shoes off, although they had been minutely cleaned by some stealth genie, to walk on the otherworldly silk carpet, himself wearing monogrammed slippers. 

I fully knew what world she had been admitted to glimpse into, it felt so fresh to relive her wonderment in her words, cuddling her like a daydreaming child, stoking her smooth chest over the tranquil beat of her heart.  Invited to drown into overbearing down cushions covered in chiseled velvet, she had heard the ogre’s proposition in the most colourful terms, while he knelt before her and kissed her feet. She playfully grasped why, the day before, a courteous asian woman had insisted to manicure and pedicure her. He had drawn some tempting agenda, beginning with the visit to our show, where I met her. Louis had described me as one of his preferred hétaïres, who lived inside some secret fellowship where both sexes indulged some unbinding, augmented manner of freedom, any way she might see for herself, if the hunch he felt about us two happened to operate. We had to reckon that, once Louis had given me the go, our affair had fired off in no time, and there she laid, bare in our sheets, surrendering already.

The day was young for the few chores and flutters propitiatory to the invention of a new Lizon, shorter name I suggested successfully, that could have been born as well by a courtesan or a Duchess, there we were. First in order, I had been deemed responsible for the supervision of a full thorough bodily check-up, the soul aspect being left to mine and Kate’s testing. 

Before we ran to the clinic, we had our time to dress. The weather would be mild all night, I had my fantasies about that gracile frame of hers. Apart from the medical operators, it wasn’t yet time to denude my treasure for anyone’s eyes, only probably to tease some while she would attend anything remotely. 

After she came a few times at my expert tongue, we lathered each other under the shower, and, out of the mists, she confided she had never loved a girl before; she sought my eyes, I guessed it was not the shower’s tears, she mumbled she wanted a life, we kissed a soapy kiss.

Then I held her in the terry cloth like she were a rescued cygnet, I resat our play wondering aloud what perfume we should wear, pushing her witty bum towards the toilet cabinet in the bedroom. She was stunned by the quantity of bottles and vials, so I explained that perfume was one of our main patron’s hobbies, and he offered us all the refined ideas on which to fly if we wished. Hugging her tight for a while, I tried to grasp in her neck the hue I had perceived from our first dance together, she was still too cleansed, yet, but nebulous ideas spawned that made me wish for some ancient Danish tobacco McBaren’s that my father might have smoked in the long ago, bewildered by chamomile, lavender, bergamotte, Hugo’s unnamed transparent magic (did she know I will serve her up to his whim, some day?), now she smelled like her dark eyes tell, she will break all ties to her miseries, a tribe of us will help her, there is mist on the lawn in Saint Loup. I asked her if she liked on me a supposed blend of blackcurrant, cannabis and frankincense that turns Kate beastly upon me, and it worked, I wondered what would become of our taxi drivers?

Her ink-brown hair is uncommonly fine and thick altogether, like a puppy, all she does is toss the locks of her head crown around and fire her gaze, there she is. Nevertheless I allowed myself some combing her shock of hair. Lucky devil did not need any other mean to matte her resplendent complexion, but she agreed to some touches of mascara. She had a gaze to die for.

I drew her into our vestry, where she played fainting in my arms out of astonishment. Kate and I are very proud of this room, it takes somebody’s half-time workday to maintain what it contains. I had to promise she would try all she wanted, as long as she loved me, to be able to fit her with a thin linen collarless boy’s shirt from my family collection, there even was a crowned K embroidered on her heart, sharp white silk jersey leggings she felt so good in she said she would wet them, and over that one of my antique marine student black tail-coat with silver buttons and trimmings; I found black varnished flat court shoes with a large band of taffeta, and I fell in love with whom I saw, another me. Before I wanked for good, I pulled a pair of black twill high-waisted bell bottom fall-front trousers, showing Lizon how to sneak a hand in by the side, a white jersey tee-shirt and a close fitted spencer jacket, also with silver buttons;  my slippers bore the pointed gauntlet to the star crest I have found in my family’s archives, embroidered with silver and blue threads, I donned silk knee-high stockings.

As we were managing our essentials in the many inside pockets, I suggested we share each other’s personals, sending photos of our faces and IDs to our email accounts in the cloud, that we did. so I learned that she is almost twenty, she noted that I am Danish and this is my real address. That tiny ritual to alleviate her mind apropos of what we might have been about to do around; I did not point that, for what I knew concerning her, no one, on earth, would eventually care. 

In the drawers of the apothecary cabinet, I fetched for her a sleek and smart Art Déco parure of platinum, onyx and diamonds, thin articulated plates, in a supple bracelet and a neat dog collar, that made her speechless, other than to muse she could be killed for these. She watched me pull my threads of sapphire, for my wrist and neck, and understood there were lots more in the trove. We could taste a fully clothed kiss before running down to the car.

Sarah vo Kettelær @Katherine SophieLe Bal Des Toupies  ©Sarah von Kettelær@katherine-sophie.eu

On the short ride to the Chaillot hill, we behaved like lovers (which I often do), the chauffeur was dumbfounded, to my greater pride.  I whispered her name in her gently protruding ear, she read my irises up close and asked if I were true.

A young blonde operator in a pale blue lab coat and no bra greeted us at the austere teak-and-leather reception office that made me feel like places I had seen my Far perform in. She knew her mission and led us to a rosy surgery with a reclined examination chair on which to draw blood samples. It smelled of some highly trustworthy disinfectant. I led by example, dropped my coat and offered my arm where it was easy to see my veins; with my right hand I held Lizon who, in turn, had to slip off the coat and shirt; the operator joked that anyhow we would have next to strip entirely. In a small salon, turquoise robes awaited us.

Next, we had to open our thighs to a stylish middle-aged woman doctor, under a glaring lamp, on a heavily technical, richly padded, gynecological chair, the kind of which my beauty child had never seen; Again I went first, still holding Lizon’s hand, well aware that nothing harsh would be inflicted to me, other than a few swift and benign insertions observation and rubbing of some swabs; then  the doctor announced that she preferred to perform palpations, that were all over the body, standing, without gloves, for more efficiency; I better understood her practice when she then took hold of me and all of my provinces into the modulation of her expert fingers, in no time she brought me on the verge of orgasm without penetration. Inviting Lizon, I felt she took some time all over her and her lower waist, she sure liked her patients happy ; she asked if we were related, grazing both our chests, not in a manner of examination, this time; she joked that the DNA might reveal some surprises, by chance; she earnestly complimented us on our appealing looks  We were offered fresh towels, in any case.

Back at the front office,I had given my card and my finger print, Lizon was new to the program and I asked her to let the computer read her ID, her health card, her face and finger print; I could not yet have explained why or when this all would be used but she trusted me fully; somebody had subscribed her name to a lifetime of health prevention.  She would receive reminder emails in due time. I thought that whatever her future, it would be beneficial to monitor her health for free in such an advanced laboratory. Tea and cookies were displayed for us, while her card was fabricated. It arrived in a small black wallet, it was sapphire blue and I wondered if the colour changed with years. All blank, It bore only a six digits number, I kissed her welcome to the club. I explained how, from any connected computer, she would create her digital id, just like a bank card, and access her medical file. I asked if she wanted to see mine but she laughed. For the while, I only showed her the tiny booklet of instructions inside the wallet.

It was time for an early bite at Philippe’s, the distinguished eatery at the Palais-Royal. The city’s hum shut off when we reach the shelter of the Galerie Montpensier. We are ushered through the hospitable café salon to a diverted, singular, tent-like round venue, dressed-up in cream and maroon panels, draped to to center top, where a faux-coral branches bouquet ball hung, out of which protruded low-intensity lamps inside glass bulbs. Three curved booth settees of coral red leather isolated three round tables, dressed-up with sea green table linen and celadon tableware.

The lightsome Maître d’ had grasped me, and us, at a glance, and came up with a rich smile. Reading my confusion, he knew how to mingle a plateau of meatless delicacies which satisfied Lizon too, she liked when I explained our mostly vegan diet with a few eggs and seafood, most of all ready-made; she was like already reckoning what life with me, would taste like. The caviar on cream and potato was a gentle attention of Sami’s, our devoted waiter. We drank Japanese iced tea out of high flutes. After an almond orgeat sherbet in crisp biscuit nests, I showed Lizon how to lay our mysterious cards in the small tray, along with a nice euro bill, and watched them respectfully come back. An uptight couple had taken place at a next table, I took Lison’s hand and led her to a shady recess, next to the tent-like room,  where I pushed a small door labelled “Privé”. The rest of the restaurant space being partitioned in fancy grottoes and tent-like alcoves, patrons cannot notice particular movements of two well clad young women, except in appreciation of their elegance.

Sami waited for us in a small, grey panelled, corridor, which thick dark red carpeting muffled sounds; he wanted to kiss me right there, I agreed but warned him not to touch at my little cadet, he agreed and unfurled most of my brain already, while Lizon’s eyes widened. In single file, we weaved to a very dimly lit narrow staircase and climbed down a few rounds, me holding my apprentice’s hand. I knew where we swirled down to.

When, in 1780, Philippe d’Orléans, that same scoundrel whom, under another name, voted death for his cousin, the King of France, developed all the housing that stands magnificently around his garden, still today, he sold the plots of land to mainly his libertine entourage, so, given the lifestyle of these patrons, some of the hotels that were then built shelter more hollow walls than Venice’s palazzi, which became very useful in the subsequent troubled times. 

Thanks to these historic reasons, we reached a landing, climbed up a few meters further, down again, and became lost at Sami’s mercy, who stole me another kiss against the wall while I played with one finger in Lizon’s palm to quiet her. Eventually, we reached a small salon clad in black waxed wood mouldings and purple velvet, up to the ceiling, included, in which a spacious padded purple sofa took most of the space, before what seemed a black mirror. Sami invited us to sit down, and went out; I did not know this one, but I knew what it was.  

Unbuttoning her shirt one nacre after the other, I eluded Lison’s questions kissing her with my awakened lips. The deep sofa was homey and plush. the wide mirror showed us in our lascivious pose until the lights died off and the black pane inside the frame began to slide down silently, 

We were laying inside a voyeur room, and an optical trick showed another room slightly from above, where a large bed was circled by low marquise chairs and pouffes all in gilt-wood and vieux-rose velvet. On the thick Sienna carpeting ran a large pattern of gold yellow ribbons, entwined with lianas of blue ipomoea; on the walls, a dark blood-red moiré taffeta upholstery sprawled around large sculpted gilt-wood framed mirrors and paintings of lascivious and ungodly scenes. On the ceiling, which certainly stood to be observed quite often, a dull yellow sun-drape of silk satin stretched around a crystal basket chandelier, filled with tiny LEDs, echoed by all the lubricious cupids holding lamps on the walls. There were two doors in the corners we saw, and no sign of any window. Other peeping salons surely existed behind the other mirrors.

I had been seen inside these singular premises before, in all the plans of the looking glasses, in any costume. It had mainly been Hugo, of all Masters of debauchery, who showed Kate or any other of his protégées my own ways of stealthy lecherousness. I slid off Lizon’s frock and her caleçon, nosing in her scents, wedging her into my neck for the thrill of this muffled theatre.

The narrow door in the left corner was faintly pushed towards us, by the uptight couple who had sat near us for dinner. The woman, in a strictly tailored expensive gun-steel blue suit, fetched her tortoiseshell glasses in a black crocodile purse, to examine the details of the decor. Her face was long and narrow with a generous mouth and a pointed chin, her eyes were silver blue, her skin was spattered with freckles and she did not wear makeup, only blue eyeliner and black mascara. Her skirt did not cover her young knees, in silk veil stockings, she swayed nicely on her heels in the thick pile of the carpet. Her free, parted, half-long blond hair seemed natural, she excited us, she could have worn kid gloves in a Hitchcock film. The seemingly husband donned a pinstripe, double-breasted, bespoke suit, matched to the woman’s colour; he could have been seen reading Punch magazine at Smith’s, he certainly was a tad more muscular than his tailor had let be seen. They sat on two marquise chairs on the left, breathed for a while, and then we heard in concealed speakers that he asked her for her knickers. Elegantly, sideways, without letting her thighs be seen, she obeyed, lowered the black lace wisp to her feet, and handed it to him, who held it lightly, and sniffed, like a liquor.

From behind the right corner door, a gracile red haired girl, stark naked other than heavily padded leather restraining collar and bracelets, with locks and rings, on her even, rosy pale, young skin, snuck in as if she enjoyed the soft floor. The well mannered man stood and took her hand to his lips, asking whom he was pleased to address, she did a funny curtsey and retorted “Clara, Sir”; he invited his lady friend to join and merely pushed them to kiss.

Sami had followed this Clara and stood at attention, in his all silk matte black outfit; on a hand sign, he seized the maiden hand and led her to the bed, showed her to lay down, took her wrists and ankles to tie them to sturdy karabiners that he had fetched out from under the bed case; the all-passive, and half-smiling girl was stretched, her pink quim facing us, her feet gently fidgeting to find an easier strain, her arms extended and her head resting on a pillow, crowned with reddish curls, that Sami had cared to display around. In that position, the few of her breasts were flattened and her nipples showed some arousal.

Lizon took my head aside and asked if the girl would suffer; I pressed her in my neck and said I knew it would not be that kind of show. But wasn’t it voluptuous to look at a defenseless beauty at mercy of some lavender-type geeks who privately traded undies? Of course, in real life, one should beware of Hitchcock blondes, but I had the word these two had not paid for a hard suffering patient. Then Lizon fully realised we were frolicking inside a clandestine whorehouse, she wriggled vaguely alongside of me.

The blonde nosed all over the strewn body, poking her tongue into the sensitive folds and chinks at random, still clothed. Sami had withdrawn and shut the door, the man watched the scene, eyes squinted. Then the blonde started to operate more intently on the vulva and lips of the maiden who mulled softly in response, while the man started to lift the skirt and the pearl grey lace trimmed satin underskirt. The jolly bottom thus revealed is exquisitely rounded, of pale vermeil colour, deliciously parted, responsive to the manierist regards it accepted from the worshipper, widening its wink and oozing wet. The man, in his shirt and socks, bore upwards a strait and long penis and threaded straight through the offered greedy slit, undisturbing the blonde’s servicing of the moaning maiden. In a matter of minutes, he stopped his push and stilled, in shivers, his discharge overflowed down her thighs; undeterred, his weapon still tense, the swashbuckler aimed at the timid bunghole and thrusts in steady rhythm while the moanings raised. when he was in, she collapsed upon Clara’s body and devoured her mouth in shared frenzy, her thighs wide opened, her inners ploughed in a few assaults, splashed again abundantly. She panted over the wet girl, he seized her long hair and forced her to his indefatigable rod, telling her to shit his cum in Clara’s mouth, fucking her mouth to silence her.

It was weirdly dirty for a few minutes, Clara swallowed without thinking, coughed more like a signal to be remembered, the blonde moved forward, pumping her best on the terrible shaft, a long harrowing time after two rough onslaughts; she gargles when he spurts deep down her throat. She tilts down, spent and silly, content. Soothed at last, he smirked and unlocked himself Clara’s harnesses and cuddled her head, lulling the young tart into sucking him more, only for the fun, said he.

He freed Clara who had been sucking on a soft stem, he held her aback to give her some folded bills and took a last kiss from her. They dressed up and Lizon noted that they better had macs to conceal all the stains they displayed. He acted considerate towards her, re-shuffling her hair gently. In the soft words they shared, he called her sister, which gave the turbulent scene we had witnessed a whole new tone, as we acknowledged the suddenly evident resemblance, the attunement of the voices.

Lizon was very aroused, we sucked each other’s toes, poked our tongues in our sides, where it is jumpy, drank lust from each other’s gazes. In the black, a door opened, Sami was pushing a butler’s tray on wheels, holding a carafe of iced tea, and a bowl of anise macarons, he asked if they would like to meet Carla, they just saw perform. He left and brought the fresh girl, without bonds this time, curious of two nude unknowns, at once smitten with Lizon, whom she kissed full-tongue, while I played with her bum.

Sami watches me, a tad frustrated with having looked on others unbound lechery, cups my chin and tilts his head as an invite, or at least I read it so, and thus I reach his groin, let him pick the puller of his zipper and release a suitable circumcised pecker I bend to, while the two brats roll across the couch. I suck with enthusiasm as I am not sure he wants else, so, in fact he gushes like a teener and I struggle gulping all, but soon smile, clean wiped. unlike other men, he revels to his own taste on my tongue and lips, makes his hands canter down on me, and deliver a masterful wanking to my vagina so as I squirt bravely upon the two nymphets in heat.

His flute still at half tide, he embraced my waist and offered to lead us to a quiet little lair to end the night. Clara had another trick scheduled that would make her a mite richer, and she would eventually find our address if needed; she ran, with one last touch at my girl’s wet quim, she ran, like a mouse in a familiar cottage. Having decreed that our clothes and belongings would be attended for us, Sami held us, by whatever he fancied, through pathways and cramped corridors, taking advantage on us and Lizon in particular, whom, thus, let fade of Clara’s carnal spell for a deftly male hold on her senses. Dizzy as I might have been, I kept watch, and he knew there were boundaries, but it was on my mission too, to let her frolic and test her spirits.

Along an all-padded gulley of ecclesiastical purple velvet, a row of black-framed much pornographic etchings could turn, on precision hinges, and allow a view on different promiscuous lodges. On the inside was a faceted one-way mirror set in a large frame to match the diverse decors without causing suspicion.

On the bed, a young beauty with long auburn strands wass getting humped and bumped like a sack of wheat by a muscular black sprog with an exuberant smile. The accepting attendee beamed an ecstatic glare through the tremors of bliss. Behind them, in a coloured silk velvet robe, an older fogey handled his mid-soft peener, chanting gently rogue cheers for the breathless whore. He approached, stroked her forehead and slid his timid choad in her mouth, while the stallion pounded on. She soon exulted in unison with the glorious athlete, and it made the compadre spurt into her swerved mouth. As the lewd scrummage hurled on, the old bear laughed and held her nape, his old peter drooling.

Sami was trying to force himself in my butt, so I had to tell him that I had already served him free and that he should leave us enjoy our tour. He smirked and said he would wait for us at the end of the corridor. In the next room, upon a canopy bed fitted with black sheets, a nude, lanky, pale, black-haired teen appeared sleeping at the hands of a stark naked middle-aged man. He manipulated kindly all of her fine features, fingered all her holes, she did not react, lost in the deepest of slumbers. He kissed her avidly, whispered naive compliments she would never hear, rested her body in the easiest of posture, she showed serenity. After the previous charivari, Lizon felt shudders as to lay along side the sleeping jaykid: observing it was no comedy, she asked me if I thought it was dangerous, and I self-consciously said I had let myself get into that kind of game with people I trusted with my life.

That client had paid for the whole service, he crept against her back, seized he left leg and made her thighs open wide for us, as if he had known he had voyeurs, like we had done once in Victor’s car with Kate, and he leant his weenie upon the closed vulva, slowly rubbing to obtain reflex lubrification, that would even fail less in the realm of limbo, and in fact, it looked easy, as we cuddled ourselves on our side of the mirror. He entered cautiously, unaffecting her expression of bliss, stretched her legs and shagged her properly and damp. Then he fetched a small transparent bottle of anal fluid, to bugger her too in there, and visibly concluded in great ecstasies. His woman puppet still absent to this world, he did to her a cat toilet with some black towels, massaged her feet and legs, laid himself along her back and pulled a duvet over themselves.

My Lizon was exalted, she climaxed at the lightest of my hand’s frolicking upon her lovely brooklet; nevertheless she wanted to see the third tableau, we laughed at our inundated thighs and went on. In the new room, there weren’t much décor other than torture tools upon raw stone walls, a dungeon, in a word. Sturdy contraptions, less sophisticated than those in Louis’ laboratory, of vertiginous memories, but obviously of more frequent use here. A the time we were about to call it quits, a bald sturdy man, bare chested, wearing only black leather crotchless pants, displaying his shaved penis and balls in their best attitude, and impeccably shined knee high black boots, walked in, pulling an apparently resigned, young, mid-fawn haired girl, on leash from a hide collar like the one we had seen on Clara, hands cuffed in her back; totally nude, well drawn, her legs taken to perfection, the fine muscles of a modern dancer, the belly as flat as a guitar.

The man led her to a padded top sort of table, high to her hips, mounted on linked screw-jacks operated with a side crank; the table was ended by big wooden jaws in which three holes were intended to hold the head and two wrists of the patient, maintaining the low part of the body available for any use.  He forced her head and wrist onto the pillory and adjusted the height by a turn of the crank, so her mouth could easily gobble his johnson. He clenched her ankle bracelets to the table’s feet on each side so her legs stood opened and her bunghole well exposed while he made himself well, thoroughly sucked while caressing the curls of the subdued girl; he moved and came to bugger her, carefully, deeply, helping himself with lube when she asked, –thus making remember we weren’t looking at porn show, but at private service, the fucker being eventually some highly paid executive, perfectly on the clear with his therapist, eventually. Alternating both charming carnal paths, he fed her both ways and more, Lizon noticed some men did not stop at the first salvo. She would have liked to insert her fine hand into the girl’s quim, without asking.

One last peep hatch overlooked a clear cosy bedroom, hung with clear bouquets printed fabric, carpeted in pearl grey. A bed “en corbeille” invited to whisper privacies under a fluffy, rose buds scattered quilt, three rosy cabriolet armchairs, and risqué boudoir scenes in willow green picture mounts, all these requisites smelled of feminine intimacy. Two gentlemen, as mellowed as life peers, awaited in dark terry robes and ornate slippers. Entered a young maiden, all dressed up as a Victorian country damsel, with ribbons and ringlets and a creamy skin she let the two fogeys taste on her wrist. She acted as an accomplished professional and sat on one’s lap with quick natural. She had to answer questions about her day, and mostly the naughty details she probably did not invent, while the hands of her hosts disappeared into her lingeries, grazed her white silk stockings, fondled her petits feet. Jumping from one to the other, she was as talkative as they were animated so as to rummage into her opened pants and practice themselves all that she had boasted in her faintly reserved tone of voice. The two partners, who might have ignored each other in some other sort of club, traded her cunt and her mouth in a whirl of linon and poplin and lace, while, unbeknownst to their Lordships, we slid our wet fingers into our exasperated holes.

At the end angle of the corridor was a rather small wood paneled room with an alcove deep enough for two or three, and concealed amenities, a tub, a bidet and a loo, all of it in the subdued shade of rose and softness of a giant vulva. Sami appeared, out of the wall, no doubt, spry and winning, his hands unfettered over our heated rumps. He enlaced my half-dazed sidekick and licked her pouty mouth, and her tongue as a manner to feel her surrender to lust, along which she had wandered all night. As I disposed myself towards him so as to deviate his whim, he donned a wise smirk and made us kiss each other, asking us if we had noticed all the mirrors, apart those through which we peeped? We had been quite a sensation among the regulars, highly approbative of our tomboy finesse, the bids were dizzying, if we deigned. Stroking his crotch to appease him, I repeated that we already had a winner for the while, whom only dispatched me for probing any ticking of Lizon’s soul, heart, and rump on the free society arena, the libertine playground. Did Sami know which of his boarders would lose track of her own life? Of course, it was not his sacred duty, in a buzzing brothel, but it was, regarding young Lizon, somebody’s concern, and she might as well be sent quietly to some botherless homework. She sulked; Sami was riding his impulse and bent me back with my thighs open, she sucked my tong til he turned me over on the bed, freed his ramrod and buggered me with not much lubricant, forcing me to beg Lizon to help with her mouth, which she, and of course him, reveled doing albeit my previous sermon. When he had collapsed upon me, and regained his breath and composure, as I hugged my godsend cousin, I asked him how many wankers had watched us right now, and he lowered his eyes. Lizon was only amused, we alleviated our souls in perfumed lather. Then we dived onto the down cushions, we embraced each other till extinction, except for somnambulic expeditions to the pot.

I had been beautifully lost in time, I danced on tightly mowed grass in Tycho Brahe’s cosmic garden of Uraniborg, circled with gentle fireflies. The scarlet crows fly in elaborate circles around the towers of Kronborg castle while the tall ships in the strait boast memories of none other than wind and human suffering, as Far said to the jumping little girl who ran off and piss on the dandelions. I brought Lizon aboard “Hereby” and already she moans of Ivo’s and Eilbert’s humping into her appealing jewel box. We have lost Ven and drift towards sands when Debussy’s first arabesque pulls me out of the lilac smelling pillows and hold my phone from Clara’s hand who happened to be there between Lizon’s thighs.

Hector was amused of the few I had the morning nerve to narrate, when he informed me we were late afternoon, and keenly awaited at dinner time in another folly, rue Judas in the medieval Latin quarter; he texted me the codes and let me guess that Sami had reported our happy arses with, at least, some jocundity.

Sami pushed a cart with a large silver bell-cover and a teapot under a galant toile-de-Jouy cosy. How could he know of my crave for french toast and apricot marmalade (not jam)? Were these shortbread hearts for Lizon? Would Clara steal from both, as she did of free kisses? Did he expect a carnal reward? He just showed us our clothes, folded on the chairs, wished a most welcome return for us in these byways, and , caressing her head, reminded Clara she had an appointment in two hours. He added that we could not miss the way out, with a surprise.

Lord Metropolis

Lord Metropolis  ©Sarah von Kettelær @katherine-sophie.eu

Pressed by Lizon, Clara did a quick summary of her way of life as a young clandestine prostitute, after she stressed that what she performed there, in the Grand Montpensier, was obviously not comparable with the “skin slavery” that the despicable hypocrisy, or worse, the moral imbecility of all flavors of French prohibition maintains in the sewers, because, like it or not, prostitution is unavoidable (same goes for the gentle cannabis), and so, she was a student in performing arts, she craved debauchery and being used beastly, and she had found in the Hellfire Fraternity the true spillway for both her natural naughtiness and her financial neediness. Thanks to Sami and the tutelary powers, she had emboldened her want under the cover of an almighty social fortress, and she could come out as a theatrical might, or not, free to her.  

She fled through the door we had came in and closed it. We took a mutual shower with a Neroli Dawn gel soap and fun. She repeated that she loved me, I hurried her. Once dressed, we followed the other way, climbed up and down a few and pulled a heavy portal on rue de Richelieu, rather far from where we had entered. A cab took us with a smile to our door.

Back in our cloakroom, nude and still aroused of our night, hands all over, we tried medieval of sorts, ethnic loose, forgetting of any silk barriers to Lizon’s quim, and mine. I loved her in my fine linen rich boy’s long shirts, they are a treat to sensitive skins, evasive nipples, smooth chests. I dared a precious Shimura kimono in a gradient of moonrise blue, she would not know how to wear it and, without a belt, be all the more awkwardly exciting; we found nude sandals with iridescent straps, she was yet again irresistible, she would astound Louis. I kept up with a long silk robe under an extravagantly patched up and mended boro long coat so worn out that it felt like ears of a doe on my skin; I wrapped Lizon against my womb. Then we perfumed our slut bodies, I wished something more childlike for her, bergamote and blackcurrant, rose in the marshmallow end, a most palatable girl with a thrill of incest, another present of Hugo’s. I proposed to wear some attempt at recreating wisteria on a Baltic island, with smuggled rose and incense guilt, one of my feverish traps when in heat. I like my feet in invisible sandals, it is a sinful bind, for me, to my Far.

The mint smelling car drove us spot on the eroded doorstep of an immemorial private hotel, which vaulted door displayed a small grid with a camera behind, and a number pad; I had the numbers on a card, a buzz blared and the motored door recessed, to let us in a metal-clad sas with another set of controls. I had to hold Lizon’s shoulder for she was panicking; the second barrier slid aside and a swarthy giant in a vaudeville Turk costume with a gold-trimmed vest over impressive smooth muscles, and a likeable smile. He knew all about us and led us to a dark antechamber, floored with antique rugs, as scarcely lit as a New York joint, it seemed that the whole venue was blackish and subdued. After some visual adaptation, the multitude of LED devices concealed everywhere created a festive and intimate world, easy to navigate. Amir, as he said he was called, took our cards and let the machine read them before holding them back. He typed a line and hit “enter”, watching us, toes to head, approvingly.

A young maiden, all nude, and depilated, her long red hair unfurling over her frail shoulders, closed lips smiling , came to us and began to undress us; she did not speak our languages but kissed me on the mouth, lightly. She hung our costumes with care in a concealed closet of the dark oak paneling, smiled again and started caressing us in detail, grazing her modest breasts against us in an altogether welcome kind of dance. She demonstrated dexterity and we were soon both as wet as the Holy Source. Then she led us, at a lazy pace, still questing caresses along intricate passageways opening on all kinds of tortuous alcoves, all populated by nude people greeting the newcomers more with their hands and attributes than words. I was beginning to regret not to have made Lizon wear some kind of briefs, code for off limits, so I held her as my own lover and protected her bum as kindly as I could.

Across heated gatherings of petting and mellow smelling, some of whom whispered they knew me, we reached quieter shores and silky ottomanes; a middle aged man with silver curls called me by my name and said he had been at our vernissage, he regretted everything had already been sold; cuping a hand under Lizon’s chin, he said low that he remembered her well, too, as the date of his friend Louis, and wondered how in hell she perambulated with a refined libertine in the midst of this goliards’ hive, bum naked? I let him draw me to the soft silk Kashmir rug and gently start wanking me, as I held Lizon’s waist at my side. Eventually, I told him to do me all, and watch my girl, as he liked, but not fuck her. I took pride that he desired me, he told Lizon to hold my legs high as he buggered me and I licked her plum; he stole many deep kisses that she did not avoid.

Gentle onlookers offered cheers, mainly to Lizon who wasn’t so busy, she distanced herself gracefully and stayed near us. One voice, and a hand in search of my clitoris with unmatched dexterity, put apart Kate’s, woke an alert as I recognised the lustful tone of the one and only Liselotte, very keen about my bellboy, busy to come in my mouth. By the time I could emerge, she was already enshrouding my protégée with all her nifty savoir-faire, astounding her with compliments, until I cut peremptorily, only to play lewdly with Liselotte to whom I introduced my magical cousin, letting her touch and kiss. My all recent partner, he was turgid and wet, knew Liselotte of always and reminded me of the orgy with Dr Y. and how my blond sister and me had shagged half of the crowd in a row! He might have been right, I had a boldly depraved recollection of that evening, laced with drugs, but, all in all, warm to my womb, as I let Liselotte feel about it. She grabbed, as a long time matchmaker, Lizon’s situation; she congratulated me and warned that she would lie in wait, but that, I had already guessed.

Everybody there knew Liselotte, by face , or else. She showed us around, embraced like her little girls, her hands all over Lizon, whom I should have made to wear leather shorts. She was in high spirits, the free flying canoodles all over her, in the watchful shelter of now two mother geese that shooed off any unease, let her laugh heartily. Must be said the air was subtly breathable, the well studied atmosphere in the labyrinth only hinted of some balmy moss, the breath of an immemorial well from where suffused a cloud of distinguished lust, and any inappropriate manifestation of unruly testosterone would have, as I felt, been very soon been banished. More tall dressed-up waiters patrolled the aisles with a debonair but impressive presence ( I bet my arse that they would not be left frustrated beyond some humane charity, at some point, I won.) Laced into the hourvari of bodily sounds, stifles, and bash, a crystalline ritornello chimed like moonlight over dark seaweeds, in lines of surreptitious pearls and winks of diamonds, connoting hints about which fairy had danced inside the drinks witchy Liselotte had served us. I had known that, with her, but none beyond my trust; in the whirl of the moment, there were no scarlet crows to fear; she later avowed spiking the drink, but since she had drank as much as us, that made her somewhat innocent; I reckoned that she remained an expedient broker of sorts, was a great fuck, and there had been sophisticated music boxes under the ottomans.

Upon a Ghom silk couch, a rosy Brit sporting a straight long knob offered with an irresistible “Globe” diction to let him ride in my butt, it would let Lizon drink at my brook and Liselotte’s tongue all of hers, while she would, herself, offer her famous honey holes to the first bidder. Casually, Lizon’s mouth rambled from my blooming cunt down to the touchy gent’s balls, and he meowed melodiously into my neck, enticing the connoisseurs to come and cheer my lickerish angel with kind hands, and tongues of themselves. When Lord H. came, Lizon was not shied away and lapped up all she could, earning a few deep kisses in the audience, but Liselotte, as fondly helved as she was being, herself, kept her precious holes unspoiled.

Liselotte begged us to take her in our bed, she was utterly smitten with Lizon whose arse she had courted whole evening. She was thrilled that I told her the nymphet belonged to some mighty whom had tasked me to look into her spirits, or leave her alone. The scheme computed well with Liselotte ways, and mine, and Lizon up to then. We played a honeysuckle shower together, and collapsed into the fresh bedclothes.

In the subdued glimmer that poured through the curtains, I gazed up, and yawned, and my mind jolted jolted, unknowing why; then it beamed that I was looking at silky blond hair and honey-tinged skin I did not go to bed with. It smelled youth, and amber, and sex like another creature of Hugo’s, so as I woke and grasped it was Natalia, sleeping in bliss with her forehead upon Lizon’s tummy. All I found to do was to wedge myself all along her and babble in her neck, low enough not to blow her dream up, just only to make her wave her butt. She was home, after all, in any bed. It had been time, streams of warmth flew into one another’s conscience like telepathy. Lizon smiled wondering, read my eyes and searched for Natalia’s kiss; Liselotte, who looked younger with no make-up, rolled her eyes in wonderment, and queried reasons in mine. Cuddling her head, I whispered the names and went to pee and make breakfast. Nonetheless, Liselotte was flabbergasted and bestrode on my lap, and peed on me peeing, asking who was the blond apparition. I joked I would tell her, when we were dry.

If Liselotte needed nothing else than to see Natalia make out frankly with me, too, she raised an eyebrow and kept squashing the oranges for all. Lizon wondered if this was a girls’ house, I said yes, a chicken coop, and she did not really know what that was, but many a fox visited, and we fostered our special breed of roosters upstairs, Natalia had met one she did not know of, the day before; she asked Lizon if she was to stay in the house, betting she would not sleep much for a while, if so. While the fillies went to romp under the shower, Liselotte chatted me up and slid her hand between my thighs; she had sussed my manoeuvre about Lizon, and implied that the new fledgling showed rich potential, if ever. Responding to her sweet manners, what a desirable slut she pulled, I laid down my scope about Lizon. First, I had fallen in love with that godsend cousin, and I had persuaded myself it was reciprocal. Inevidently, she was a long-abused orphan, a survivor of bleak territories far from our green paradise, ferreted out by some deft mercenary, at the bidding of what kind of might she could easily guess; reveling into Lizon’s gaze, I had brought her to witness and feel rum goings-on, testing her soul. She was not indeed the first rescapée whose beauty would ensnare one of us, would it? Liselotte practiced a looser wisdom, in the realm of unexpected fairies, not letting them nest in her chest, after suckling at their honey.

Natalia, rightfully posing as a daughter of the house, had dressed themselves with long shirts and leggings, and proposed a tour of our domains, probably in hope to tempt Lizon into her bedroom. Liselotte wouldn’t let me adjust a short legging without her hand in it. Eventually, we climbed up to the studio where Lizon was stunned, for this was beyond her idea of personal luxury. She dreamt in a few whiffs in Kate’s chair while unwearying Liselotte already pawed Natalia on the red couch. I gave her a taste of our sound system and pulled Lizon upon my chest to dance, at once followed by Liselotte who robbed a long kiss to a dizzy Natalia. The day was warm and quiet, Lizon wondered in my ear if she went to Louis’ that night, I said it could not be other than exciting, and, on my word, safe; she could come back to me anytime, I would await for her, sleep on my phone. Next, we visited the new extra room, still smelling of the throws of Simon and one atoned Fayelle Chevasne, once Anisette Pullmann or Anzy from Emoland; I pushed Lizon upon the bed, stroked her belly and she played sniffing with me, undoubtedly wood, and patchouli, narcissus, pepper, wild rose, poplar, apples in the rain, little girl’s sweat, pavement violets, laundry shop, lilies in an empty church… she raved , at a time fingering my face like a blind child…  Yes, she could live there for a while, if she needed a new tribe to belong to.

We climbed down, then up again in the lift, to reach the paradise of lacy souls, Natalia’s perch, along with other rarities; she let us in her den, which smelled of a pot-pourri of amber apple, dried roses, and butterfly bush, we all needed to hug and kiss her. She brewed tea, silver needles in a great glass pot that her Australian neighbour had offered her. She called him, by any chance, but she knew her roommate Beryl would be in bed with Gauthier so she let them enjoy. Lizon was overwhelmed with the need to unload all her moral burden right here, and sleep forever in my womb, I told her it had more or less happened to most of us, except Liselotte, who was a honey-trap for the Powers That Be, and all the more laughing; with a stroke on the cheek I sweetened my words, all in all I never had to complain about her.

At a special knock, Natalia sang for someone to come in, and Theo walked in almost on tip toes, as he would. He liked what he smelled, pecked at Natalia’s mouth and waited to be introduced to Lizon and Liselotte, liked obviously the first but looked at the latter straight in her eyes. I counted my words laying straight that Theo is Australian, gracefully non-binary but has chosen to dress as a boy, and did not mind being described as a he. Theo also is a writer, an art-critic, and loves Paris. He sat casually on the second arm of our chair, where Lizon and me were seated, closely embraced. He smelled like a freshly baked English cake, with an Ylang-ylang flower on the top, and Lizon, who was getting versed in our sensual manners, followed her nose into his collar, causing him a shudder and more smiles. He dared not ask about her, enough was it to consider we were freely petting. Liselotte had ideas about Melbourne, and was turned on by the ambiguous character, however not enough to desert Natalia’s bum.

Theo wore a timeless three-piece suit “à la Tom Wolfe”, of lichen-green Prince de Galles worsted fine wool, a celadon poplin shirt and a verdigris paisley silk tie, matching socks in double-buckle terracotta brown oxfords, a poster boy for “literary gay grand tour’s” squire; he was Cynthia’s envoy and I would coddle him; I unbuttoned one on Lizon’s shirt, and pulled his hand inside so as he faintly caressed her delicate skin, and he mutely cried in my neck, to Lizon’s awe, for long minutes, while Natalia was, on the other chair, enraptured by the mistress witch savoir-faire. When he caught back his broken breath, Theo soughed that Lizon could live alongside with him in the empty room, and himself would merely be as bothersome as a butterfly, and let her have whom she liked around. I beclouded his impetuous declarations and raved on our threesome parties, or even calling on Gauthier, the golden knight, to lend us a happy sword, for I knew Theo had some crush for him. As the celestial gold burnished over the ancient roofs, I ordered boxes of finger-food from my fellow countrywomen in rue Perronet, and it would soon be time to let the bride preen up, for Hector would come and drive her to the other side of crystal.

We had time to lay new scarab luster brown varnish on her nails, wax out details in he crotch, puff up her obsidian brown hair, brush on some blush on her cheeks shade her eyes and mascara her lashes, for she was to parade under Louis’ grand lights as I had, and I wished she brought down the house, or fled with panache. I picked a maddeningly fine-stitched white linon night shirt from some of my otherwise frigid ancestors, to which I had been inspired to attach a daring lace plastron, to be worn under a black light silk brocade, square shoulders caftan, trimmed with a vivid purple and pearls ribbon; out of the split at the wrists in the long fashioned sleeves, gushed lace cuffs, the ironing of which ought to have been dainty. I worshipped her toes in finely crafted pointed violet sandals; other than these, she was all nude. I tied a purple velvet dog collar to her neck, with a line of pearls sewed in its middle.

Capital Octopus – ©Sarah von Kettelaer @katherine-sophie.eu

Lizon tells:

Hector called from the door and awaited in the Silver Ghost, as I sat beside him he smiled with what felt like pride, not hiding that he watched most of me through that gown.he had always eyed me desirously, albeit never attempting anything beyond. He said he could read that my hours with Sarah had been rich, and however Mr Louis was already happy to have heard I came back to see him. At a red light, he cuped his hand under my chin and gave me frissons. In Mr Louis’ hotel particulier, I had never seen the curved marble stairs on which ran a thick red carpet. Once the ground floor doors shut by Hector, the city noises vanished entirely and I climbed alone, amidst the chorus of an armload of proud lilies displayed on a pedestal in the shadow of a life size marble dancer on the deported newel. The grand chandelier was dimmed, but a golden gleam flowed from a door left ajar, whereto I slid like a spy. Suddenly, Louis was in front of me, in a cobalt blue shaved velvet smoking jacket, contemplating my own dumbfounded gaze at the splendour of the place. He offered his hand, held and kissed and smelled mine, and kept it, playing with the lace cuff, leading me silently around to visit. Most impressive was a tall glass box sheltering a floating display of innumerable objects mounted together into a solid cloud, over which stood standing a life size nude lascivious woman, bearing troves of jewels and pearls; the whole pandemonium in a dull, whitish matte colour, like an antediluvian apparition. Louis said it was an assemblage by an artist named Kris Kuksi, and that it had been a wartime Hullabaloo to transport it to where it stood, through the window. I let Louis wedge on me, nose my nape, as we turned around other glass boxes with wooden corners in which rested rounded black shapes entirely formed with feathers, sleeping in their mysterious sheen, as if monstrous animals could, any time, spring up in a black furor –or was I only projecting what I could expect from my host, whose hand was currently running along my spine. Kate McGwire may only use legal remains of farm poultry, it’s enough though to let her to generate otherworldly chimeras of our convoluted libidos. On the walls, against the panelling, once more inside glass showcases, the maniacally devastated books by Georgia Russell, a first edition of Anaïs Nin’s “A Spy In The House Of Love” finely lacerated into a rich bloom, pages still blooming off from the back binding, as for an “Histoire d’O”, flickering metaphors of written texts into our mental galaxy. Louis was flattering my butt when I discovered the pictures by Sarah, intense and elusive like her, he asked me if I had liked her, and he seized my move to kiss me full-mouth.

In a sort of black uniform, Hector rolled in a butler’s tray bearing an ornamented golden samovar, with its little flame lit, and a few tea glasses in golden filigree glass holders. Sarah had finely warned me not to be afraid of Louis’ supreme tea, and reminded me know that tea is a diuretic, at a moment we were playing water games. We sat on elegant old rose velvet chairs facing a low oriental carpeted ottoman on which Hector deposited small golden trays with the tea glasses for each; it was exquisite, indeed. I did not care that my caftan had spread and almost exposed me whole, Louis neither; before my glass was empty Hector had swiftly filled it again, a few times, thus I soon should ask for the powder room, and Louis offered to show the way, and the caftan opportunely fell upon the chair, spreading its regal yellow lining. 

The waxed black corridor, filled with daguerreotypes too small for me to take time examining them, for I was in some hurry already, was a tad narrow so Louis embraced me closer and in no time my shirt had flown off. Before we attained a heavenly all-gold mosaic rotund with scattered blue birds and lotuses, Louis was nude too, hugged be strongly and asked me to let go of my pee on him. I did, with deliberate pleasure, like we had done with Sarah. Then warm water gushed from gold fixtures in the wall, he was anointing every inch of my body with sacred lotus oil, all the way to my crazed anus, and I believed I was as good a slut as my beloved Sarah. In my boring life, I had never heard of enema, so, Louis explained that he would be asking to use my rear to bugger me and it would be nicer, whatever DAF de Sade wrote, if it were unnaturally clean; he showed me a supple black canula he sucked to demonstrate its innocuousness, affixed to a flexible hose which hung from a glass tank, the size of a galon, supported in a golden tulip-shaped contraption, filled with a white liquid. Louis explained that the simple installation contained lukewarm, sweetened vanilla milk, as I could taste like he did, after turning the little tap on the side, I did too, following his play, totally inoffensive milkshake he would let inflow into my rectum, and I would soon expel into the gold bowl nearby. He seized me and laid me across his lap, sitting on a wooden stool, he pushed open my thighs and I felt the tiny stem enter my butthole, then warmth like he were pissing in me, no pain, nor discomfort, he was cuddling my head; after a minute or so, I felt my bowels jolt, so he brought me to the bowl and I let a large vanilla diarrhoea flow away in a whirl of waters. I accepted another flood, he did himself, swiftly, too, and we moved on with clean arseholes. I was thereby so slacked that he buggered me full before I could think of it; Eric had done that to me before, he liked it; the other old bag of muck only fiddled while he made me suck; but there, in light of the free tour my blue eyed mentor had dragged me into, I felt like a true little whore, and there was yet no shame nor restraint in my soul.

Louis, visibly enthralled with my face he kissed over and over, led me, through a curved padded pathway, to some spacious salon under a chaotic ceiling, disheveled of iridescent stained triangular mirrors, a mad Moorish antrum of disorder I gazed at, while he reveled in my neck. The walls were upholstered with azure and gold, asymmetric, futurist-patterned brocade, patched together in apparent random logic . The rug was as thick as a bed, with a toned-down motive of giant pastel blue pointillist eddies. Large Dado paintings sniggered in architectural frames, as to dare the onlooker to act on their beasty whims on the spot, as a set of furnishings in the center of the room, pearl-blue leather divans, ottomans, benches, stools of many heights made simply possible. A door was pulled, and Hector appeared as nude as we were, holding a gilded tray, with more tea, which could have hidden his considerable erection, until he laid it on an ottoman. Louis said plainly, still holding me near, that it was Hector who had singled me out, lured me away from a wrong deadbeat, entrusted to Sarah like the jeweller to the gemologist, and proved his intuition of me til here, and so it were only fair that he own a few petals of me, showing us to a bench at the edge of which heartbeats jolted Hector’s dignified shaft, where I let myself be impaled while a hint of vanilla gained my mouth.

The bustling duo went way beyond what I had dared fancy of what awaited me, save the beatings, which are not Louis’ taste, apparently, and for which i had no training. But I was strapped, in many different ways, positions, and attainments; blindfolded, stretched, pee over and in, I did like to be restrained, bound, trussed available like a wanton thing, wasted. Once, I was left in a soundproofed padded room, under subdued blue light, nude in a straitjacket, a small drinking fountain in a corner, a pissoir hole in the other, until I felt losing measure of time, then hooded, and raped, by what felt like a horde, and silently washed, and left to sleep. When I woke in clean satin sheets, on a tomb-deep mattress, in a Zuber fantasy room that smelled of orange buds, I searched my whole body to feel any damage, ran to find a mirror, and found my face appealing, peed lightly and hurried back to the elation in the four-posted bed with an embroidered phoenix as canopy. Sans doute alerted by my use of the loo, or any possible device, someone knocked at the door, and then it dawned in my mind that I could answer; Hector brought the tea I had adored at Sarah’s, and a saraband of macarons in a crystal bowl. He wore a creamy-white crepe long shirt, black trousers and black varnished court shoes with a gros grain vamp; he smelled the balmy sweat I had surrendered to inside the madhouse cell, whiffs of urine and straw next to a dash of gazoline, he looked at me and we smiled, he reached for my feet, Lizon…

“Are we friends?” said Hector after he deposited the tray over my lap and I let him ogle my miraculously fresh quim. Beside breakfast, laid a thick Florentine envelope I took at first for a book; as he busied himself displaying my newly ironed gown and my caftan, plus a gold yellow vest I did not know, bearing a stitched label “Don’t get Cold”; I glanced into the envelope and gulped at the sight of so many euro bills, he pretended he had not noticed. He asked if I would stay with the happy crew at rue de l’Université, but I had no clue about that, sure, I wanted to see Sarah today, but we had not really talked about my future. He asked if I would mind sharing an apartment with a very kind character in the upper floors? I realised he had been speaking with my magical cousin, I called her at once and begged to see her now, Hector smiled and I ran to the shower where he still watched me.Very soon, Sarah was downstairs in a rented car, he nonchalantly slid a finger along my slit before he let me run.

 

Hugo says:

Recently, the Château stood near ablaze at the news of a novel windfall marvel, in its walls. Natalia snuck in as far as my study, where she knows she wouldn’t unset me, anyhow, and raved about that new would be boarder Sarah would have in her bed, so tranquil, so decent, boyish, smooth, enviable, doe-eyed, pale, easy-going, pouty-lipped, ad libitum. Howbeit, before she barefoots upon my morning rugs, Louis was spinning for me his arch erotic voyage into Lizon, our new pillow-klatsch at the expertise of an all gourmet Sarah. Then a fully-dressed Theo reported how struck and moved he had stood speaking to Miss Lizon, in a deeply inset intuition, and the contemplation of her hands and feet, the magnetism of Sarah on her, some epiphany of wild candour, like a heady new perfume, so as even he had fallen in true sisterhood.

Therefore, I had ordered in an Imperial triumph of pastries, worthy of the great Carême himself, and stood ready with my Yixing teapots and Kombucha ewers, when I heard the soft call of Sarah’s velvety voice. Indeed, at the first glimpse of the May Queen, shy in a white martyr shirt, the torment was instant, if that were a sharp metaphor of the helpless surrender to an invincible, native charm, of the kind Sarah herself, or Kate, had struck forever in my stunned constellations, gravitated around by all the gentle avatars in this fathomable hemisphere.

Not overly prudish, she sat on her legs folded aside, clutched at Sarah’s neck, still disoriented by a whole new town of Paris which was opening door after door for her, in soft ceremony. I suppose I guessed I could allow my whim to hold her feet before she flew, that quip I let rip as I seized a foot or two in a kidding passion. Sarah helped me, in the know of Lizon’s tantras, so she could calmly retell her somewhat salacious debuts. I avow I was amply rewarded of my bells and whistles, and I did not let go of her slim feet. Of course, I had heard that she had been earning money in the back of strangers’ cars, dark alleys, and toilets, at the game of her life, for her addict lover turned procurer, before Hector supervened, just in time, to buy her skin out. And all the more, she had long lost any blinkers in regard of men’s lust, or women’s, for that matter. Then, it had been a breeze for Sarah, once Lizon had been proven sterling, to give her the first runaround of prime debauchery and listen if her precious metal had any fissure? All the way to Louis’ mental torments, Lizon’s soul had shown sound resilience, and though her ordeal had, and would never, besmirch her person beyond duly consented games, there she was, in my hands, with flying colours. Soon, I could ask Sarah to show me Lizon did not bear any trace of her hellish trip at Louis’ fantasy.

The summer light was dozing out, in my new antique Calais window lace, Lizon’s poplin had long been hiked upon her gracile province, Sarah was as draggletailed as I fancied of her, we were in love with the stray orphan. I was still wearing an exotic regal gown, of uneven lazuli blue, with a pair of embroidered runners inclined to the left side, trying to fetch a fleeing bird on the left shoulder, in silver crewel; as an assertion of the maker’s will of asymmetry, the right sleeve shows other birds overflying bent reeds; in my back is a large mystical sun disk, on the right side; the gown is ample enough to have, until now, dissimulated my considerable erection.

And so, it was Sarah who told me to drag us to my grand bed, embracing Lizon closer as her shirttail refused to cover her apple-shaped bum. I led them to my lay-room, currently clad in Kashmir silk rugs under an intricate cedar wood ceiling; at a corner of the large divan stood a tall feminine angel only just recently re-gilded in white gold, burnished and patinated over black, her wings spread one to the ceiling, the other to the wall, her hands raised like holding some invisible wreath, nude and slender like a Bayerischer Engel, one foot across the muzzle of an agonising beast, the other lightly offered to a sinful kiss. As always on these SpätBarock wanderings, the crotch had been left as smooth as the palm, but the chest was a tad more rounded than that of the two damned who joined their mouths in the dubious shadow of this errant glory.

With my stiff penis protruding through the aperture of my gown, I stood like the crèche idiot waiting for my opening treat, which did not miss happening, for Lizon asked to pee and I asked her what she had foreseen, and Sarah inserted the enema nozzle , too, while I shut her mouth hungrily. The shower was already steamy, Sarah pissed in her groin, too, we were all clean like lunatic worshipers, and we did. Her rosy cyclamen dripped of frangipane milk as I pushed into it as slowly as an assassin, she pulled her tongue for me to suck on. I discharge and it made her loose the liquid Sarah had injected, so she did an “O” face that made us laugh in the flows until total foam and rinse. We collected fleshy cushions and Lizon made herself available at my greedy want, while I questioned her, tactfully helped by Sarah who was obviously enamoured of the languorous orphan. Therefore I reckoned she was a forlorn castaway, the dedicated bait of all possible mishaps, mostly eligible for our interested investments, of the kind testified by our faithful visitors. Lizon would possibly quench all her thirst for truth, head to head along with Camille, Marie, Gauthier and others, eventually, she too might nest in the top floors, some new passages were still to be uncovered.

 

Sarah says:

Gauthier must have had a hunch about some interesting novelty at the noble floor, or some domestic genie gave him a heads-up, anyhow he rang his distinctive tune at Hugo’s door while we were reviving the dragon again. All innocently, he was bringing a bunker load of fresh petits fours, buzzing in my ear that whatever wind in his sails brought him had nothing impromptu. As he was hugging me nude, I stole his shirt and trousers, and tousled his beloved mane before paying my respects to his most reliable golden prick. Hugo let be seen they were casual lovers, and the whole congregation pillaged all delights about her in an almost cruel game of making her pass out. She shuddered most when we rashly kissed, while the two buggers took her both sides. Gauthier detailed her as a Cranach nymphet, made plans to have her body scanned and milled in wood or marble, so much so I became envious, mind him, was he casting me aside in sight of my own sweet crush? I fully demonstrated to him that I could still swallow his load in no time, and I had Lizon taste him.

 

Lizon says:

Time was fleeing me, Sarah had steadily opened realms of wonderments and endless spend, and in all, she remained lovingly attentive, unfazed, explaining all my futures in simple words, was it motherly? Kate would be back in a day or so, I was to stay in their grand bed, come who might. I was already painfully stricken when I discovered there had been a message, on my long silenced phone.It came from the police precinct of my real dwelling, asking to appear before them as soon as possible. Sarah’s face had transformed, she said she would come along, in any event. The staid officer I reached knew nothing, or did not want to tell. We announced our coming in an hour or so, we dressed blandly, with city boots, warned Hugo, ordered a car, and drove.

The offices smelled of floor cloth, chewing gum and faintly piss, the officers, trumped in thinking that we were family, only checked Alison’s identity, breathed absently, and went on; five days ago, they had been alerted by neighbours about a weird smell in my silent apartment. There, I understood brutally, and nested in Sarah’s bosom, mainly lost in horror, not overwhelmed, or crying, stunned. The officer grasped that I knew what had happened, he stopped his account and began questioning my whereabouts then, to all of what Sarah answered firmly. He declared that Eric had died of an overdose of diverse opioides, of which a consequent lot was found on a table near his body. I told him I knew Eric was an addict, and I wasn’t. He asked if we would comply to a test, and we did not oppose, only Sarah asked that it would be done at an hospital. After a short drive in a tobacco-peppermint tired metal banger, a biddable, almost blonde, nurse drew samples of our warm bloods, like in a last salute to a miserable evildoer, like it made us blood sisters, and I took refuge, like for ever, alongside of Sarah. The Police said we could not enter my apartment yet, I did not wish I did.

A driver had delivered my shoddy bag from the hideaway at Louis’; the sight of it made me cry, as if it were the real remains of my deplorable life; and Sarah treated the poor thing with simple respect, like anything of me. It took me two days to find out what Louis had deposited in it, one was a book, a beautiful edition Georgia Russell had spared of “Le Livre De Monelle” by Marcel Schwob, the other a marbled paper envelope full of euro bills. Sarah grabbed my butt cheeks and roared that I was rich.

 

Sarah says:

Had Hector known he was murdering Eric? He probably knew. Lizon was not his to keep, and the drug had already accomplished its deed, “Quantus Tremor Est Futurus”, grief to those who missed their word. Suddenly there was a sibylline message from Ayla, of all my wonder few, asking me to call with no delay. which I did, with the secret hope I’d be distracted from Lizon’s mullings. Far from that, Ayla was devastated because Esther had been badly beaten by a man in a hotel, and was taken to the hospital for surgeries on her face. I stammered childish consolations, already engineering a fastest transportation to Zurich, because she had called. I promised I would be with her on that day, ran to Hugo, mindlessly clutching Lizon’s hand, retelling him the tragedy, obtaining what I wanted, Melchior’s airplane. Three of us were set in minutes, Lizon was upset but I swore I would let her know all. We dressed as rich kids in jeans, Letterman inoffensive UN jackets and sneakers, as if it made us faster. My idea was that we could ever find more appropriate whatevers in Zurich, if needed. I couldn’t help looking up at Lizon’s distressed gaze and love it, and I saw Hugo under the same spell. Up to Le Bourget, the white jet was already whistling, the two young pilots affected worried looks, in regard of the hurried orders. We soon bathed in the preternatural light of heights.

We did our best to explain to Lizon that we were flying private to attend a prostitute who had been mauled by a john. She read my pain, Ayla was a sister to me, she understood when I told her the bracelet game, with old Saint Loup emotional words, but part of her was scared through the hustle and bustle, she felt beyond her depth, I embraced her and did not let go anymore of her, knowing it did little to quiet her.

In the black berline on the way to the University Hospital, Hugo sat with us and held us embraced, the driver must have thought somebody was dead. Ayla was called, she wore black, and shades, like a widow; she had been crying for long, Esther had been in the operating room for hours, and she had not wanted to look over; I remembered Esther’s beautiful face, now I held two girls on my chest. A nurse told us gently that we could sit in a nearby salon, Ayla gathered her spirits and told us what she knew.

Hugo felt stupid, he let Ayla lean on him, as she grasped at once what Lizon was to me, and smiled pitifully to her. Against Ayla’s advice, Esther had schemed an appointment in a grand hotel in town, for a hefty reward. The john was a Middle-East diplomat, in an expensive suite. Not so long after she had entered, the attending staff had seen a nude girl, with a bloody face, run blindedly the corridor, caught her into the service room and called for help. The hotel detective ran in, and, at the sight of her, called an ambulance and the Police. The perpetrator had fled. They found a leftover pyjama for Esther, not willing to enter the suite. At the emergency room, they observed the damages were beyond mere stitching, so they warned the high speciality network, and two surgeons stood ready for facial restoration, followed later by the top authority professor, called in by who knows whom, Esther apparently was their star. Ayla even provided Esther’s high quality portraits from her phone, just like a star’s.

Ayla could not have a room in the hospital, we begged her to stay with us in some hotel suite in town, the Schweizerhof was minutes away, she was about to pass out, I did not want to think about the surgeons’ alertness. We swore that we would come sit first thing in the morning, we agreed with the staff who promised to keep us posted, but convinced us that, if nothing would go wrong, they had better let us sleep, because Esther would, for a few days at least.

It all went so swift at the hotel, like some genie, probably in Melchior’s orb, had sent orders, even a full smorgasbord awaited us under silver bells. But first, I felt like we needed the Victoria Falls to cry under, I undressed the girls and we all worked away Ayla’s pain, whatever little success we garnered. She still was the thin animal who owned me, she swung her half-lemon breasts in my face, she turned to Lizon, pulled her muzzle to the water and told her to be wise, any manner that she would sell out her sparkle. Her hair was long and dense, she let me wash it as she made-out with Lizon, mumbling languages until she responded with her hands, when she was thoroughly rinsed I joined, it felt like some conjuration ritual.

When she jumped up tp fetch her phone, I felt that her witty arsehole was a lucky one. She was seated on the heels and listened attentively, she repeated thankful phrases endlessly; she rolled over me, rapid-firing that Esther was out of the OR and everything had gone right, surgically speaking, only her nose would be a tad straighter from now on. They could not let me with her before noon, and she would sleep for a few days, depending on her scarring. I groped her like I had always; Lizon slept like a child, Hugo was gone.

There was time, we had ordered tea and croissants, Ayla was listening to Lizon’s cruel story, straying her dainty hands on the girl’s satiny skin, as her mind was temporarily alleviated of her grief. She had always been a fiddler groper, for some success indeed; she repeated that Lizon had been caught into the right cobweb, if she would, and that she could rely on me, and all my tribe, did she know Kate? She said she had only met her shortly, just enough to be given the eye at, she laughed. Ayla did not give much thought to the Eric part, she told Lizon to leave it with the bygones, now she was in the jet-set, wasn’t she? A propos, Hugo was back, he was hungry because he had seen everyone in charge and hired a lawyer for their protégées, alluding to the fact that he knew Melchior had flown to Zurich, before.

The diplomat Z. had fled Switzerland already and was signaled through interpol; all forensic proofs against him having already been filed and put on record, there would be no profit for anyone to further pursue Esther or Ayla; but the scumbag would cloak under his diplomatic immunity, only would he be advertised by all means as the bastard he was. There was a chance he could have perpetrated before, even killed, that was one delicate matter, because Esther’s description could help, on that. Moreover, the hotel concierge, a senior “Clés d’Or” member, had ensured that this man would be secretly flagged in the whole world and could find anymore company or anything through the network. Eventually, Hugo offered his help for Esther convalescence, in his home or anywhere safe, I demonstrated my approval with lots of kisses.

I floated –so to speak– the possibility of the quietest and safest refuge I knew, that is my uncle’s house on the smallest island in the Baltic, the fortress of Christiansøe, which my father had restored. A month there, fed by a local, would seem a proper cure, wouldn’t it? Ayla knew about my remembrances of the island, but she preferred some highly medicalised bunker, and she knew of a few of them in Switzerland, as safe as money vaults. She could then possibly continue plastic surgery to perfection. She had not yet glanced at the horror, it would fortunately take weeks.

At noon, she ran up to the hospital and we found a terrace — schipfe16, on the water, where we were served vegetables, bread, Lizon had seen fries, and a very black chocolate cake; Hugo was dark, he had loved his visits to the fine harlots, Ayla had made an impression and Esther was a gem. In Paris, she would have been an unlawful embarrassment, not worthy of any protection, in trouble with justifying her money, or would she? I was only ranting, because I would have liked her nearer, trafficking her pretty arse with Liselotte or Camille, wouldn’t she? Hugo retorted that such atrocity could happen anywhere, perhaps not to me, but to Liseron in the street or else; Esther had been trapped by a psychopath, and he would send him back to the desert. We were impressed, Lizon stopped eating, he shook his head like someone who had a vision, kissed the girl’s hands and looked at her like he had, on his precious rugs.

In the evening, Ayla was all spent, we found a good captation of Arnold Schoenberg’s Gurre Lieder that surprised greatly Lizon, who eventually surrendered once she was nude in the middle of the sofa, she soon had visions of endless Hayao Miyazaki enchanted forests, which was certainly not absurd, ruled the learned trio who tamed her, like the cat of the house. Ayla dosed in her tears but would not let go of Lizon who dreamt already, so we threw a sheet upon their moving tableau, lowered the sound for whatever music would follow, and Hugo overturned me inside out, on the bedroom’s king size grand, we unknoted each other’s nerve arrays, and he solemnly unloaded into my keen twinkle. After a shower, we checked on the dreamers, switched the TV off, and went to curl up together in the bed.

 

Ayla says:

Esther had not been able to speak a word since her admission at the ER and her being put under, now, who was I legally to attend her, her spouse? None, and I knew she was shunned by whatever relatives there was. By happenstance, I had her wallet and I would not show it, the police did not pay attention. When she came up to conscience and morphine, the surgeon wanted me removed from her bedside. she had been all pasted up with tubes springing out here and there; three ribs were broken, too. But a wise nurse —one who might have seen such disaster before, gave the poor thing a notebook and a ballpoint tied to a string, and it wasn’t very long before she knew to write my name on the page, several times, and nein about family.

All I’m left with are Esther’s hands, one nurse lent me cotton wool and diluent to make her innocent hands. Once the surgeon had figured me out, he described on the x-ray films the extent of the damages; he commented that he had come across such ignominy in marital abuses, and eventually obtained the truth as to what Esther was doing in that hotel suite; he did not react, looked up at me, made a commentary on blind violence as a moral dead end in some men’s mind. He warned me that Esther would not fully recover her true face before at least six months, but he swore that in a year’s time, it would be undetectable, he scrutinised my straight glare, and read I was then only reckoning on her well-being; otherwise, no one in the hospital ever mentioned money, I did not ask.

I obtained to be able to help for Esther’s toilet, and it was so easier for me to slide the bedpan and then wipe her noonie and poon, as if we had one of our plays, the aides had better let me do, and I had remained modest and friendly with everyone .

I developed the same irresistible crush as the other two on mysterious Lizon, she was like a buoy in a sea of tears, she smells of fresh bread, of spring rain on white peonies, she puts me to sleep on her womb and Sarah lets me. They would leave, now, however, Kate was back home alone, they promised to return as I wished. Hugo brought up an article in the New York Times, about some diplomat Z. who had ransacked an apartment at the George V and officially been expelled from the country; it was said with many details that the man, protected by the Vienna Convention, had caused disturbing incidents in other capitals; his country of origin had let be thought that he would be stripped of his mandate and be recalled home. He is filthy rich, I will never be appeased as long as he lives. Esther will change her name, the Swiss have a way for that, or Melchior has.

 

Sarah says:

Ayla went home to Seefeld, she did not plan to make herself available, or then only to those special regulars who craved her ostensibly with considerable benefit. She would retell Esther, whom was a greedier whore than herself, said she. In the airplane, the idea dawned that Lizon would have made a striking model over the luxury beige leather of the seats, but all I did was to open her fly and nose her under-belt crease, in Hugo’s supervision, she smelled of fern and hawthorn, like in a remembrance of a rich man’s hotel soap, British as hell.

Kate was home, alone with Natalia, with not much upon themselves, radiant. Hugo had lured Lizon inside his home in such a play of gazes that I had understood he wanted to revel in her alone, and she showed me she agreed, like a wispy little slut she is. Kate had beautifully tanned, honeyed, flushed without any tan-lines, and she had just fucked the house fairy, it seemed. I was hastily disrobed and sniffled at every nook, berated for having hidden the one who smelled so enthrallingly sexual. I let go of my carcass upon the bed, took and give, benevolently, curbing their hurry until I could only start telling our trip, and before that, and more, with aquatic intermissions and rêveries into Natalia’s muscular butt; it was dusk when the black in black boy from Agnete & Sanne rang and brought up a carton of finger food, and tetrapaks of elderberry lemonade, took an eyeful of us, and a fat folded tip.

No way could I poach off the delivery boy, but the wink I took of his pants made me wish for cock, and I fancied it a funny whim to avow, at my partners’ giggles. Natalia mused I should know a respectable whorehouse, but I refrained telling about Philippe’s, if she might also take a tour or more, her time had not come yet. Suddenly, Kate jolted and muttered: “Fulgence”!  She had met him earlier, coming back from Camille’s where she left Fanny, and he had flirted, like he had not forgotten us, and he did not know what or whom…he had typed his number in her phone while she had left it on, at the show reception. Did I want to call him? They would be happy to watch. I thought she was more apt to call him, and she did, in the most shameful sneaky way, so as Fulgence would climb our stairs, fully turgid, in ten minutes. Like a good harlot, I went to wash myself, slid on a night blue Tana Lawn shirt-dress he could peel-off in a breeze, and set the table like a dedicated housewife, who knew, he might be hungry, before all? Kate was literally in heat, as I read in her gaze; Natalia had all intentions to participate, and confirmed with her hand that I wore no knickers, to what she earned a full-mouth kiss.

He was resplendent, a short sleeved white rag shirt in light jeans and K.Jacques Greek sandals; he smelled styrax, pepper and a hint of coal-tar like the antique British soap, no flower, raw sex between my eyes. Kate was enlaced with the magic babe, he came to me and slid his hand, unflinching, and gave me a killing smirk; from there, I let him play my buttons one by one, I was sure the other two were as juicy as peaches, I untied his jeans, the reward was as valiant as I remembered, it smelled of seashore and mushroom and soap, he had just washed, I teased Natalia before gulping the glans, fragile and daring; since I had seen him at Victor’s —which was a bastion of the Hell Fire Club—  I asked him if he had tested, he said yes, a week ago, Victor had thrown a power party and needed trouncers for a ballet troupe, heavenly drugs had been used to exhaustion. I led him to the bed next door and started to suck him duly, but he refused to come as yet, telling me he wanted to watch me while humping my depth; he liked my twisted tummy with my abdominal belt muscles responding, then he upturned me and made clear he wished to bugger me, so I asked Kate for Swiss Navy goo and let him slide in, all he wanted. Natalia had escaped Kate’s hands and, suddenly nude, cuddled my head while exhibiting herself to the throbbing steed who points a slipping forefinger into her own butthole.

Kate, drained by the heat, opened the windows, and pulled the shutters ajar; down under, into the foliages, Hugo was frisking about the maddening green eyes and slinky hips of the windfall orphan. She joined us before Natalia unravelled her soul too fast, it was true that the fairy child had used Kate as a conduit towards the whirl of debauchery she had long known, since she had possessed all the keys, always. Kate has this gaze that promises unconditional love to rightful souls, like these strays, like Fanny from her faraway planet, like Lizon from the rats prairie, Beryl from inside the world processor. She justly texted Beryl, asking her to join all of us, as if she prayed her to shield Natalia better than she could. I was too played havoc with, inside, to even think right; sure, we had overlooked this swindler, once. I was coming like a May Queen under the stars, breathtaken; then Kate took hold of his soaked truncheon, revived it like a trapped eel and stuffed it again deep into her hatch, with a saraband of tremors, while the beautiful ruffian embraced an all willing Natalia, and played her tongue like fire.

Just when the sylphic Natalia seemed vowed to the throes of Fulgence —a mannerist turn of saying she was in heat, the sounds of bustled glassware, and voices, came from our main room, then a call for Kate and Natalia, then laughters at the door when Beryl read the scene in action, like one to save the virgin character in an exotic melodrama, moreover recognising the hero of the bed, for having served him so many times. She stole Fulgence for her own profit, losing jeans and teeshirt on the doorstep, keeping Natalia at hand, then trumpeting she had not been alone and calling one Bjarne over, who made a small giggle at the sight of the orgy. He was a sun-bleached Swede of the sailor kind, thin and well built, Beryl ought to have had hard work to garner a windy kid like this one, matte tanned skin, dolphin blue gaze, straight little nose and innocent lips, she wanted us to rave at the whole animal, so she jumped to undress him, and throw Natalia in his arms, and incomprehensibly save whatever the situation was.

Fulgence was somewhat exhausted, but hardy and humorous, his plenty of sweats smelled beastly, hellish, heady, I drank it and showed him to the bathroom where Kate joined us under the shower; because he had remained straightforward boyish and used me unrestrained, I had flashbacks of the stables at Saint Loup, but Fulgence had no setback, once spent, nor however preternatural capabilities, just a friendly dong Kate went proud of, because it had been her idea. It was warm, the younger fauna was bare, we did not try to cover. As usual, I had ordered twice the need of food and stuff, that was then being merrily engulfed. Bjarne was plain erect, because of the two sweet derrieres that rubbed along him each side; I joked that the girls were a tad cruel and so, Natalia, whose mouth was being empty, bent down, and unflinchingly sucked the boy while Beryl hurried to make possible to kiss, her dainty mouth open; he slid hands into each crack and soon politely mooed his pleasure, although we saw nothing. Natalia then picked-up a gherkin, with a smile.

I checked my phone, there were messages among which I opened Ayla’s. It was fresh, it proposed some skype time to lift Esther’s spirits, please. they agreed, I ran upstairs and brought back a laptop and fired it up. Ayla giggled at the sight of all these nude beauties, she gave me an hunch that Fulgence and her had been no strangers. On our side, the picture was ravishing, in Zurich, Esther supported no more permanent tubes but looked like a ball of bandages with three holes, like a toddler’s drawing. She could whisper in Ayla’s ear, and said we were all too desirable and it made her proud to know we thought of her; I couldn’t help crying, Kate and the others touched me, Fulgence ran his fingers through my hair, Bjarne understood only to look down. Ayla said that Melchior was in town for her, and heartfully helped her nights, some of us knew what it meant. She explained that we could not talk long, but Esther showed one valid hand from the side of her sheets and we sent thoughts and wishes until next day, I barely saw anything; when it was over I ran to the bathroom to rain my eyes out, Kate hugged me under the water.             If Melchior was there for Ayla, it meant that a little prostitute would be attended to by half a dozen of world renowned big wigs, in the deepest silence and the most expensive collaborative efficiency. And nobody would ever know. 

Another text message was signed by an avatar of Hugo’s. Lizon and him had already fled to the Islands of Scilly, didn’t it mean something? There was a chance that this summer would renew its miracles for the green eyed orphan pixie. All the rest was to be guessed. He thanked me for my highly moral tutoring, of which he could reckon the imprints along Lizon’s reactions to life, and he thought I knew what he meant. There was a proposition to move her in the high floors, it was all for her to decide, she had sold her apartment and her grand parents’ shack. She loved it with me.