Camille says:

Fanny fostered this wish to live along with Kate, for some sweet dedicated time, with whom she still regarded as some windfall saviour. Albeit the privy limitations, the Kate & Sarah exhibition and its aftermaths still stirred our daily existence like Jupiter clouds and threw us both in fits of sexual hunger. She heard that Kate conspired to flee north with her brother and the newly landed Anisette Pullman, whom he preferred to call by her real name Fayelle, born Chevasne. Another seasonal bird, like Lizon, from the Parisian sidewalks into my select showrooms, instantly sorted by my lustful watch-out, softly chatted out towards the hush plush of my office, uncovered, naked in my arms by a shining Fanny, who swept her all in a promising gaze while she untied her weary sneakers —all she had kept, as if per usual.

When she’s not in fugitive stray mode, hood down and hips swayed, Fayelle cast a lewd submissive under-gaze in her cliff-blue eyes. She smells of some forgotten Armenian tobacco aftershave she scavenged in her late grandfather’s room, a hint that she comes from such a family that may keep a room for the dead. Her half-long espresso-brown curls freely hang over her forehead and conceal some wild glances.

Like a savvy horse-trainer at a yearling sale, I had needed twenty seconds to stir up my senses at Fayelle’s standout features, under the shabby oversized rags of street culture. She seemed to have been rebuffed by the trite rants she heard about the mere person she had grown into, be it in mundane life or art school; nonetheless, her frame stood out balanced, her legs drawn curvingly up from the tight ankles her sneakers did not always hide.

At first, Fanny had ferreted out Fayelle’s feet, keeping her in the spell of her persistent glare, just as I had taught her to keep, from her strangest upbringing. Once pared, the delicately whitish urban feet had felt all that lickerish tongue meant to their toes; Fanny’s finely manicured fingers had ventured up to the fly’s buttons, and, next to me on the velvety couch, my new crush was being peeled off naked like a chrysalis.

In a move to demonstrate for Fayelle our easy-going polyamorous kind of family, I fetched for Fanny’s zipper and showed her thighs while she booted her slippers off, shook her pants down and knelt to seal a full kiss on Fayelle’s stunned lips. The willing victim still wore her vague sweatshirt, but her boyish cotton panties had just been stolen, it made her all the more desirable, but as the heat rose, all of our fineries flew off and it smelled like a brood of quails.

Katherine says:

Fanny is artful enough to know she owns me, ever since she followed me inside the cabin of her deserted shop in Venice, a few seasons ago, like the real Biennale sensation was to finally happen, there, in the perfect spot of the labyrinth, oh, it did. And she garnered my number.

Now that, another person altogether, with a new name and not much more past, officially, she’s free to roam as she may, after the whirls of our exhibition, she has devised me and her will go along to my homeland in Germany because Simon wants to show his giant crush Fayelle there, and Fanny likes my relation to my brother, she says we both radiate, and she saw us fuck. Camille thinks her protégée needs to see the world, away from the Mediterranean, for now, and Sylt makes the best contrast, in the safety of our own immemorial milestones.

On the night before next to our flight to Hamburg, Simon could not wait to drag away his passion fairy upstairs, we pecked in baskets of finger food, as Fanny never tired of hearing the minute events of my past life. It felt like she measured, now, what she had missed in a long sun blazed silence, at the sole dedication of one man’s want, and the mythification of out-worldly magazines, and literature. Her own multiverse she had parsed and again in Camille’s bosom and Dr Meant’s receptive mind. Whilst stroking her lively legs and feet, I hurled myself inside at giving selfless attention to her drifting, her voice and accents remain heartrending to me. We had left the mellow sunset light take possession of the living room, the only light coming from the sound system plugged in Soma FM, blue and green; impressively, the entrance door cast a bat-wing shaped shadow, as two familiar goblins’ heads showed, and readily nude nymphets joined us, laughing.

Beryl sat upon Fanny’s lap and introduced herself, at once grasping permission to kiss, as Fanny felt her smooth neck and down. Natalia had chosen me long ago, she licked macaron crumbs around my lips, she offered her opened thighs where my hands wouldn’t miss to touch. We tiptoed to the bed, we played in the bathroom, I rekindled Fanny’s recounting, some of what the pair would have heard before barging in, because I trusted deeply no soul there would betray Fanny, could it?

Natalia, who knew and guessed all of what had possibly unfurled in this house, was nonetheless captivated by Beryl’s forbidden adventures inside the high castle of Victor, whereat she had always saved her dainty skin; but both were awestricken by Fanny’s calm story, while she let her flows divided by our savvy caresses, and breathed her orgasms freely.

Notwithstanding the soothing song of her manners, like with the others, the PTBs, the Doctor, Camille, Hugo, she is paying upfront, dearly, for the damage she might cause, because her own soul knows no limit. Sarah and I may hear all and any of her dreams, like owls in the forest of perdition, we will always bring her alive on the shores of dawn, what I saw in our sheets in the enthralling smell of crushed petals, licked creases, happy sweats. Fanny owns the tiny ember for her own redemption.

Yes, it was holiday time, none of us had to run for school, only to frolic in the running water and even pee on one another’s feet. The geranium-orange shampoo drugged us like a breeze of Posillipo in a Victorian gay novel. At the breakfast table, where somebody –I supposed Lena, had brought fruit and croissants, Fanny was the toast of the village, she had slept happily and reckoned her wits in front of us, assuring the girls that her life was being rebuilt, and her past, all torments considered, was lighter to bear than Camille’s. The roof dwellers joined, famished and bright-eyed; they smelled both strangely of chamomile and lime tree, Fayelle was already wet. Simon hid his scars in a girl’s size robe he would have stolen in the studio; my temptation was insatiable to pull him aside and hear of his visibly profligate night; only to feel my gaze upon him made him hard already. I deflected my thoughts towards the relation between our two lovers, and Fanny took a lead part in quips and cajolery, however leaning her tone so as to let feel she was touched, firing up marvellous smiles of the nifty pair whom she had obviously won over; these ran soon to some house in Saint Cloud where a friend of Beryl’s had a pool. Then I noticed that the little butts were tanned already.

Naturally, Fayelle came on my lap, facing Fanny, who sipped her tea with played compunction, and strayed a foot on her calf, distinctly enough to draw a gaze, and some wink. When the pot of distinguished first flush was dried out, we decided to run shopping.I wore a flared William Morris “Blue Anemone” Tana Lawn dress, with no more than comfortable cotton knickers, and white Egyptian Birkenstock sandals; the two waif-likes their tee-shirts, jean shorts and sneakers; my athletic brother hid his martyr body in sun-bleached shapeless marinière and jeans, ankle-high sneakers.

My card was loaded, most of the shops were on sale, I took care of Simon, who lives in Germany  —what?  The younglings helped each other, soon carrying considerable tote bags full of new disposable niceties. We imagined that some of the stuff would be shared with Beryl and Natalia, who were mere students. Sitting at the terrace of “The Cottage”, we gathered some sneaky handfuls of tenderness and shameless kisses in the neck. The city strain was easing out, there would be a season of escapades.

Sarah didn’t need to shy-off Louis’ debutante, with whom she was on a mission, so when our bags of fresh-smelling lingerie were buckled up, we ordered poke bowls and kombucha to the top nest where the only male had a puzzle of who to shag first. he was smitten with Fayelle and she was sure of that; Fanny and I had not stood eye-locked together for so long, while the other two spent all their primal energy in each other at the far end of the bed. Over here we needed manicure and pedicure, otherwise, Fanny’s body had been so heavenly looked after by queen bee, her pubis was as smooth as Hornum sands under the moon, where Simon, Cynthia and I had known the pure ecstatic embraces of three genders. I promised I would tell the girls all.

 

Fayelle —also known as Ansy— says:

The car that drove us early to the airport might have been a spacious black berline, nevertheless, Simon was coerced by girl power to watch us three from the front seat, with an almost poor smile. Kate was titillated by showing she could sweetly tame me right under his nose, and the elfin blonde helped, too. The incestuous cloud they fly in is fascinating, it gives me bitter regrets, I could have interlocked, so to speak, like so with my own brother, but instead, he sold me to his schoolmates, fifty euros a stealthy handjob, snatched kisses, near rapes, elusive gazes. I would think I will never see my brother again, might he stay far away in America.

As for now, Simon is a Prince to me, might he shag his beautiful sister and the other graces of this uncommon realm. He says he wants to show me the places he belongs, where his accident brought him back, while Kate flew further away, horrified by what she thought she had done, shamed into nought, says he. Sarah had been her last-minute saviour, out of a shamble of piled misunderstandings; Sarah is a magician, I could be her slave if she liked; she speaks in accents of such distinction while she doesn’t even notice the gleam it casts; she must have been in courts and high-flung vicinities wearing up that delicate chin and steering those intense blue gazes.

From the Lufthansa satellite in Roissy, Simon wouldn’t let go of me and I felt all downy through my veins; the time longing by, he unshoed me and played with my toes, just like Sarah would; I nuzzled the skin into the neck of his shirt, as lightly as he would sleep, feeling the creases of the scars, he turned the exact same boundless grey eyes as his sister, I could cry.

It was an hour flight over flat land in a delirious sun. Simon had craftily cornered me and lifted the armrest so only the safety belts helped us not roll further. In the motors blare, he spoke in intimacy, briefly telling me of the self-consciousness he had woken into, considering his body after the accident, and the escape of Kate. He said I am his first open daylight bonding since he returned from the dead. I read more clearly some unsaid, on Kate’s part, and tiny slips of her gazes over Simon and me, scraps of mist flew away.

From the airport to the house on the lakeshore, Kate conceded to sit on the front seat, at the visible approval of the oriental driver, who ought to get some eyeful when she bent over to us. Simon ostensibly cuddled me, but on the other side, Fanny, whom I know he shagged, sometimes, had playfully slid her hand into his waistband and held his hard prick, she might have enjoyed making him stain his pants before we met his mother, Fanny excites me.

The house is huge, pale yellow with white trimmings, well maintained, rich. I haven’t encompassed yet how people may own chunks of landscape like this, but I suddenly grasped a whole geometry of the pair’s body language, let’s say a manner of bearing her neck, sometimes, or giving her gaze to you, really.

An impressive middle-aged man took hold of our bags and went straight to the house, as the mother was coming out to meet us with wet eyes. Simon still sported a hard-on, but Kate interposed and enjoyed the very special tears of her mom for some time, then she hugged her quieted son and turned to us, in French, delighted to read some awe in our looks. To make things regal, the swan family who owned most of the garden showed up, just like they would have singled Kate, their longtime admirer, in the group of us. Mrs H. warned us to leave them at their demonstration because they thought we would intrude, Swans are sacred, not only in Saint James’.

 

Kate says:

The house still smelled of the interlaced volutes of my mother’s aspic turpentine, escaping her studio, and the reseda potpourris she collected, here and there; great care has been deployed not to be bothered by kitchen scents, anytime. Our rooms were kept as fresh as time allowed, with deep comforters in which Fanny dove before rebounding to strip and head to the shower, stretching and kissing; we revelled in 4711 foam and she peed between my legs. She donned the easiest jean shirt dress, I told her that my mother is an open-minded cool person, but she preferred to slip on white knickers: as the house was squeaky clean and the floors are polished, she might run barefoot and I liked that.

The cook, Saskia, had gotten the vegan motto, she offered zucchini flowers fritters with sweet and sour sauce, stuffed Parisian mushrooms, orange and carrot cake, I had said eggs were not avoided. Quantities of herbal teas were kept fresh. Maman was struck by what I let known of Fanny’s life, and she saw how she was relating to me, understood the dedication of Camille, even if she had long grasped the convolutions she preferred not to parse, for sake of my beautiful freedom. She had felt painful backfirings during my harrowing Berlin season. Moreover, she was moved to watch her once damaged son unmistakably in love with that endearing French damsel with tiny frights in her gazes.

At the end of the kind of informal, laid back meal, I had not lived, there, for years, Simon heralded that he had restored the family boat, one I remembered Uncle Achim piloted around the lake with us, tiny pirates in our bright orange safety vests; one more thing that had waited, forlorn, since Achim’s death. Simon was proud to invite us aboard, in the small boathouse under a weeping willow tree that had grown to Wagnerian proportions. The silky light was subdued, an uncompleted moon was rising above the water, Fanny had caught my hand, she had no shoes on, the air smelled a soft mix of peat, seashore and fuel, but in the neck of the found girl, I breathed the hayfields of heaven. Once inside, Simon took his pride smirk, went lift the rear bonnet and sang some fanfare motive, then shouted “we’re electric!”, while releasing a cable that coiled itself on a wall-mounted reel. It really felt like he had repossessed some quarter of our childhood realm, some we both knew was altogether uncommon, beaming and wild, so he wanted a supreme kiss, into which I brought my pretty firefly.

Our splendidly silent vessel slid towards the middle of the lake, letting the city’s rich quarters whittled off in the widening gleam of the moon. Fanny undressed, telling us she always danced nude for the moonlight among the olive groves and the stridulation of cicadae; she dared Fayelle, who sat on the fore bench with Simon. Before long, we all spared our rags and saluted the quiet celestial body which bears the name of one of my unforgettable lovers, Cynthia, and in German is of masculine gender. The benches had been upholstered anew and were wide enough for us four to make good love, and Simon, in top condition, honoured both of the damsels before he washed up on me, in a heady perfume of sperm and sweat, while both the does lick clean each other with laughter. My tongue ran the healing paths of his memory, I drank the sap of his prowess, the whole boat smelled of raw fornication, Fanny held Fayelle’s head in her bosom, Simon went to enlace them so, he grew hard, again, I sucked him the best I can.

Fanny dipped a foot overboard, but Simon firmly asked her to forget the obvious temptation in our circumstances, the Alster is poisoned, said he, enough not to take risk of soaking our pussies in it. He fetched two good terry towels that smelled lavender, held one to each of his present lays and gave a thorough kiss to my disappointed Fanny, whom I convinced smelled suave. Fayelle had found some abandon, and I wished to taste her lower belly, now, which Simon enticed me to do; with nice streams of cum, she was achieving some uncommon initiation, wasn’t she? On our glide back, Fayelle was stunningly singing “Creep”, by Radiohead, in Fanny’s arms, when the neighbour lit up his projector; “Schön dich zu sehen!” (nice to see you!), did he apologise.

At the breakfast table, in a nest of paper napkins, were a bunch of apple fritters, and next to it a bowl of blackcurrant marmalade, my all-time preferred treat, in this large, light-bathed, white and yellow room overlooking the garden where the father (?) swan was stretching his gigantic wings. Simon and Fayelle, who had dared ask for coffee, sided close together; Maman ought to have gotten up early and work in her studio, Fanny had disappeared, but I was guessing; they both showed up beaming, one in a long ash blue multilayered house gown, the other one nude as the dawn, which climbed on my lap and touted that Claire had drawn her –I knew my Mama was a skilled sketcher, I also saw that she had drifted her fingers in Fanny’s curls. We all agreed that the best insight of today’s Hamburg city’s personality would be gazed at from the Elbphilharmonie’s terraces. I did not recommend climbing up there unclothed.

Fanny sported a light grey sweatshirt widely stamped “unavailable” in red, front and back, over loose white cotton shorts; her ecru sneakers were immaculate. Fayelle feared wind and wore a red tee-shirt under her ash-grey hoodie bearing the green eye of Horus across the back, black jeans and high sneakers; but she felt comely, she let me caress her nape and garner a kiss on her lips the marmalade had purpled; she smelled cologne and her own animal angelica dew. Her look retained some of the moon’s excitement, Fanny enlaced her, she kept her hands in her pockets, smiling. Simon wore a free-floating long sleeve white shirt under a reclaimed black vest, sunbleached jeans and mismatched lilac and dandelion sneakers like he had seen Sarah and me do, he smelled cologne and his own musky sweat I crave. I myself had brought a travel flask of what Hugo calls “wisteria in a lime tree” extravagance, and with that, I wore a free flared dress, flesh-toned knickers and minimal K. Jacques sandals; I wished I were groped.

It was a half-hour ride along the lake, again, I sat on the front seat and let the driver ogle my thighs at our lives’ peril, while I contemplated my soul-twin enamoured by the view of the two pastourelles pecking each other. On the landing, a man in a bright blue gown sold baskets of black cherries we would not resist. The air felt vigorous, the sun was young, Fanny clenched my side, quivering with joy, holding the little white fruit box like a lamp, offering cherries to a wide-eyed kid who turned to mom for permission.

Asking Jacques Herzog and Pierre de Meuron to extravague upon a mundane remnant of the historic port had been a brilliantissime hunch, and somewhat I would love my distant father only for that, and furthermore to surpass all accounts in support of an outsized realisation. All the citizens of “der Freien und Hansestadt Hamburg” are vindicated in regard to the “Ode an die Freude”, as the hymn of the European Union, which was played in this staggering vessel for its inauguration. Sarah and I cried together, watching this on television, and she is mostly Danish blood. Naysayers will justly regret that, as the main purpose of the whole contraption would suppose, the acoustics of the venue is still wanting, and German best voices refuse to lose themselves into the white nought of that stage. I would nag my Papa, if only he could single me out, to lead his peers into spending another shipload of gold so as to make engineer some magic conch onstage able to thrust the sound of the voices onto the audience?

Thanks to Mama, we had tickets to the Plaza, the uber-elegant solution of continuity between the historic block of warehouses in red bricks, and the eerie glass sails above. Fanny loved to slide along the gracefully curved windscreens and was warned off touching them, so she complained to me, and I kissed her cherry-red lips as revenge on the guard. It took us some two hours to envision all sides of a more bustling universe than I would have had a feeling of, and Simon was much more knowledgeable about the whole of Germany than I would ever be; I was starting to perceive shades of angst into Fayelle’s looks, Fanny did not let go of my wings reach, she insisted that I went with her to the toilets. The café was ritzy but faultless, we sat for true lemon pie and cumin cookies, coffee, chocolate and tea. Simon was blushing with pride, but let bubbles of silence grow; he wondered aloud if, in fact, he wasn’t losing us, girls, through the all-phallic forest of his Frauenhoffer multiverse, same as he had felt, many times, at loss in our fantasy clad fairyland. I did not know what to parse out, in front of such a grandiose landscape of German reality, but I reckoned that Simon would not make the life he had foreseen along with Fayelle, were her as smitten over him as he thought she was. In this epiphany, I would have loved to ask Sarah’s wisdom, and I would sure do; all I could swear then was my faith in my brother and, on the other hand, my loyalty to Camille’s friend, by the way, my lover, too, in the polyamorous garden of ours.

We lazed in every nook we could until the moon would show, a tad rounder than before, in the blurred gradient at the darker side of the sky; it was golden, it enthused my Fanny, she could have danced nude for all to see, but she seized my head and kissed me, long enough for a middle-aged tourist to get a hard-on, for the amusement of his wife.

Back home, a table was set in the garden, waiting for us, under a dragon cloud of tiny led lamps, sheltered from the neighbours by bushes high enough. Fanny asked me to come with her in the shower, as some game, but I discerned some of her untold spells, triggered by any detail of a brilliant day, and I decided to deluge her with love, and listen, relentlessly. Yes, her tummy was unusually tight; In thick foam, I manipulated every bit of her body, masturbated her silly until she cried for tender mercy, wiped her on the bed and so she dozed out with a gentle face. Mama was calling, I left some lights and went down, to tell the others some more of Fanny’s story. I went back three times, she was beautifully peaceful, but she had told me what dreams could overwhelm her soul, unexpected, so vividly absurd that Dr Meant was caught off guard. I wasn’t acutely alarmed, the guard incident had not sent sparks into my standby consciousness, but I could fathom out, how, possibly, her sneaky little genius would have spent the day over-compensating some fatidic spot on her page. I would speak with her, I was her chosen help, and call Camille if I still felt entangled. At dinner, everyone felt shied, so I did not lay out the whole maze and went up to join Fanny in her moon orchard.

I didn’t expect to find her next to me that morning, and she ought to have drawn the shutters, so I woke up late —in the idea that we took the afternoon train to Sylt. She had scooted off to Mama’s workshop, so as to tell her sibylline tatters of her unrepeatable tale while exhibiting her heavenly rump, in a disarming random attempt to gather some elements of sense of her fate, but garnering wholesome tributes of unrestrained love and attention. Since she has fled the bedazzling dust of her prison, she has kept running inside her wheel anytime she encounters her own rootless free will. There, limpid, in the raw, at the fresh linen breakfast table, she acted out her gaze towards mine and dared me —still a tad sloppy-minded, parsing elusive signals of my own dream,  I walked to her, pulled a chair with noise, and cuddled her again, for all I knew.

Fayelle smelled fresh sex when she trotted in, wearing some ancient Simon’s boy trunks and a white shirt closed by only one button, she beamed, for once, read the situation fast and pulled a chair of her own, nosing Fanny’s neck while grabbing one of the palmiers on a porcelain plate. Saskia smiled wholeheartedly at our trio of girls when she brought a richly scented pot of coffee for Fayelle, and she ogled us frankly. Entered Simon, in only white shorts, daring the spectacular scars across his nonetheless healthy and muscular chest, a prelude to frisking into the dunes, he was beautifully tanned, already. Fanny was no accustomed to these signatures of hurt, she wanted to brush over them, she found the perfect smile for my little brother who found himself pressing both heads upon his shorts. On his back, a dark crease ran down from the base of his neck to the top of his bum. I joshed mildly before they got carried away, and told them the departure time from Altona station; time to pamper up and dress a little.

I chased her upstairs and onto the bed where she posed as the noyée, spread out, aloof, totally convinced of her power over me, and she was right. Amongst a wealth of kiss buds and cheek nuzzles, I was still mulling on a way to let her speak of what had caused her crisis, but I missed arguments, pretexts, and teasers; nothing came up; all I gathered in my chaotic soul had always rested on a substrate of quiet blocks of unconditional love, as I could find still here, in my birth home, after many grave misunderstandings that had sublimated away in a breeze. Looking elsewhere with her most frightening blank gaze, she avowed that the admonition of the guard, justly when she felt herself fly upon the glass waves, had like flushed her soul away, erasing her patiently constructed markers, mixing her languages with terrifying scrambles. Shaking her head free, she granted me back her first-day glaze and the invite she confessed she had crafted long before, but she swore vividly that I, only, had enabled the whole stratagem to work, and why did I give her my real number? She had inferred it had been pure magic. Struggling not to sob away, I repeated my oaths towards her, appending my promise that she would see my mother freely and I would plead with her that she called her when in Paris. I inquired about her work with Dr Méant, she stuttered she found him somewhat wanting, eventually, representing to her that, hearing her like so, he was out of his field, but asking her to use him, for any good, all she would; the good name of the Doctor was in itself heavy enough in Paris to value that proposition.

She wanted to smell like my mother’s cologne, so I gave her the bottle, in Mama’s name, and I would provide more at home. I sprayed Hugo’s Wisterlime all over my body, and thus an otherwise distinguished gentleman blocked me in the train corridor, sniffing my neckline with a wasted smile until I stomped upon his foot, spilling out fake excuses. The four of us in this plushy, mute, gliding salon through the flat, industrious Schleswig-Holstein Sarah von Kettelær would have said was hers, foremost, I soon dozed out into a greyish-blue epic of the girl from nowhere in the shabby maze of Venetian alleyways, subliminally arousing and soul-testing, her luminous grace chaffed at by Banksy rats holding dark lanterns atop crooked staffs, or else blithely violated by leather-clad soldiers upon bales of decayed magazines and soiled rags, her delicate feet jolting like a lily on a murder scene… and Simon soughed in my ear, my face was sunk between the cushions and I drooled like a beast at the pain. He wiped me, and I could see Fanny and Fayelle enlaced in one seat, sleeping head to head, their hands lost into their threads. I asked Simon for an eternal kiss.

I had stolen their shoes in their sleep, to fondle their young feet, at the great amusement of Simon, so when we had to wake them, they told me to hold them in my bag, while they ran bare. It was low tide and the air was still, the anticyclone had been steady for days. A ten minutes taxi ride brought us to the house, with Simon at the front. A retired couple, the Päske; they took my bigger bag and walked us in the flawlessly maintained traditional thatched house, that felt to have subsided in the hollow of the dunes, or to have grown a tight wealth of shrubs, hydrangeas and wild roses, that Fanny said smelled like Camille, some special days. Although four rooms had been opened, we dwelled in our usuals, with their faded memorabilia undisturbed, and a lot of moving instants to retell. Playing “The Pearl” on the boombox that surprisingly worked, I was pulling down, as we danced, our sweaty frippery, keeping the vice of licking her pits and nooks in the sunset gold. Hearing Simon’s voice downstairs, we shared a kitty shower and I chose our outfits. It would be enchantingly mild, so a vague chiffon waistless dress would fit Fanny, with a skin-tone Brasilian to spare the attendants, I donned my Missoni almond green zigzag silk long sleeves dress —my shoulders weren’t yet coloured enough, without undies; the golden nipper craved feeling my butt crack in the jersey.

There is charming wrought-iron furniture set in a round garden niche, and it had been painted anew in pristine white. We sat in the balmy breath of the vanishing day, Simon enlivened to see me there, the two nymphs at their hand games and dewy kisses. We walked to the kitchen to fetch the tableware and motherly plates of wholesome spice and veggies cooking, a large omelette and sugar bread that Fanny dipped in sauce like a genuine peasant girl; litres of aromatic lemonade stood in glass pitchers; pies: angelica and preserved pears, raspberries on custard, rhubarb and strawberries in quince jam, awaited under stiff white towels. My heart pounded like old times, I wished Simon fucked me under the hydrangea, softly, not to get caught. The proud cook Emma brought herself a green glass jar of brandied cherries, of which the two light-headed younglings indulged before I took alert and see them drunk with bright eyes. While they frolicked so sweetly, Simon and I cleared the table and wrapped every leftover in the large fridge, hiding the green jar away. Like in the tradition of country banquets, the damsels were defenceless, if they had ever been on guard with us, and we only had to watch them pee, and bring them to bed for mindless fun. It came to me to switch, nothing very new, but Fayelle cast well-capsized gazes, and huddled into my lap, laughing.

I woke out of one of those faded blue still views dream, Cynthia my lithesome mistress squinting at the horizon. Two entangled live marvels laid flanked alongside me, merely breathing, in heartrending candour. I could not start my day crying, I crept out and played Anja Garbarek’s “Balloon Mood”, before reaching the shower. Before very long, I felt one little soldier grabbing my shoulder, then two –they danced that it was beyond their control. They did not remember much, except they had been nicely fucked. We had to share a toothbrush, then through the walls percolated the mindy smells of breakfast. “Balloon Mood” had been a gift of Sarah’s, what was it doing there?

Instructions had been sung over the lines, Fayelle’s coffee was black, brioche slices were to be toasted, butter was soft in the boat-shaped butter dish, apricot jam hid bitter kernels, redcurrant jelly looked like an edible gem when the kettle whistled I counted twenty seconds and poured the tamed water upon my mama’s trusted Darjeeling. Fanny was very much in love with me and wanted to bite all my toasts. Fayelle’s ethereal eyes were rimmed with lilac shadow, like in an opera passion; I played footsie with her, she was awake. Simon showed up from the end of the garden, he had already run to the sea and he smelled animal, which interested Fanny who brushed his thigh, he sat next to her and stole her cup, as soon wincing because he is the only one around who likes sugar in his tea. He was still thrilled about their night and sought the girls’ gazes affectionately; they looked at each other and giggled affirmatively.

Pitter saluted the table around, enquired about what looked like a happy night, and bluntly said the bikes were ready for us; Simon thanked him in our name, with a sign towards the sky. The burly man floated the question of possible fish for dinner because he knew where to buy some, we agreed, meat and poultry were the only food we shunned, we had eggs and dairy as well. He looked reassured and smirked, concluding in his funny accent that he might even dredge up a turbot for us, which made Simon and me burst in enthusiasm. Our old bikes had been restored like precious relics, tuned and oiled, inflated. I could not resist, seeing Cynthia’s ride all shiny turquoise green, sending a video to her, with cheers from the troupe, and a radiant leggy Fanny on it. We wore all kinds of marinière stripes and unironed shorts that we had found in the old marine chests, we were ready for the widest textilfrei beaches in Germany. The answer from Australia rang in: “oh, my! You beauties! Who are these?” —”blonde, Fanny, hit on me in a fashion shop, Venice, stood at my doorstep a few months later! Fayelle, art student, big crush on beautiful Simon” . Then, Cynthia: “green with envy, I should catch a plane to you, big love!”. Fanny was all moved by the introduction I had made of her, without any indiscretion, we hugged very strong and then she avowed that she did not know how to cycle!

Fanny is a fast learner when her stars conjugate, but after the third capsizing into the wilderness, Simon offered to carry her on his shoulders, we only walked to the beach. In our found bleached out backpacks, we had stuff and towels and Thermos bottles of Emma’s lemonade she now prepared in a big “steinzeug topf” jar with a tap, in the basement; she had wrapped lemon cookies in a blue striped towel. We saw her leave in her camouflage coloured electric utility cart that, with the Dantysk wind turbines forty miles offshore, made her carbon-free. Simon had engineered the whole heating system, invisibly. On the beach, once folded every piece of clothing, we ran to the cold water in shouts, hearing strange words by Fanny exhilarated. Simon was already in a vigorous crawl, Fayelle and I were so hesitant that we ended enlaced, splashed at by Fanny, so solar in the crystal sheaves. We finally entered the streams and I recaptured the magic of groping under the salty, opaque waters, I enticed Simon to fuck me in breathless episodes, he really was all there. No one observed, yet, the nymphets plunged on each other like otters, until the cold was enough and we all ran ashore. We wiped, rubbed and massaged mutually with suntan lotion and began a party of ring-frisbee which neither Fayelle nor Fanny had ever played, but had all the spring to dance at. A tall, sunbleached-haired German man, my age, casually joined our set after having watched us, and mostly Fanny, inevitably. When we all needed a break, he introduced himself as Lauritz von Peck, whose name rang familiar, neither of our youths speaking real German, he went on in fluent French, which made him all the more elegant and smart, all nude might he be. He was slender —and well hung, smelled of leather, tobacco and patchouli, but not poisonous, something like my father’s vest, when he still loved me. Rapidly, we parsed out that we had crossed each other our whole young time, and he said that we had been some legend, Simon and me, for freedom and beauty. We blushed.

Although Fanny spent most of her time flashing her honey pot to the well-provided man, he kept phlegmatically flaccid for hours, all the while serving her with gentle compliments and catching her gazes. Simon was less restrained in the matter, and entertained a sound ardour against Fayelle’s bum, at her visible pride. The random encounter contained more and more sex to it, and Lauritz found a stylish manner to give it a spin, he proposed to take us to the northern tip of the island to enjoy the full moon; we could all squish up in his small car and be there in minutes. Fanny’s enthusiasm killed any reticent attempt, Lauritz ran up the pathway he had emerged from and waved bye. Now, as nobody loomed, Simon was having his way into Fayelle’s behind and she was resting her cheek upon her crossed hands, White-hot, Fanny demanded a full smooch and was served.

Pitter had found a big turbot. Emma concocted to cook it in a salt crust, and creamed braised chards that my mother knows I like. After the big red radishes and fresh butter on brown bread, the carving up of the large white crust in one piece drew raves, and the dark blue fish was peeled up and divided fast, I insisted peremptorily to set apart Emma and Pitter’s shares of the festal piece, but they showed me that once the fishbone would be lifted, their share would lay under. The girls had not yet seen such spectacular service, and the fish was tasting fresh and wild in a lemony beurre-blanc. Fanny sipped her lips and rolled her eyes. Simon had an appetite and I made a face to stop him from trying to make Fayelle eat more, there was no rationale in that; the girl read me and laughed while I felt her toes on my feet. Fanny wouldn’t want a big piece on her plate, but she wiped it clean, what well-bred kids do not. I nosed in her chest, mumbling silly things. Her angst had thawed away.

There was an old crackled earthenware cake mould in the kitchen, in which my mother had made clafoutis for centuries; Emma had mastered this very simple recipe, found black cherries, and had not pitted them, as one should; watch out for your teeth into the creamy bliss! Fayelle was a tad less squeamish with the clafoutis and it made Simon smile lovingly. Our comments were rolling when suddenly a jaunty little fanfare rang outside the house; it was Lauritz, in time in his sleek white Tesla convertible we couldn’t have heard coming. The day wasn’t done yet, only Venus shone impudently. Simon ought to part his legs to fit on the back seat, Fayelle embraced him and they fell aside; Fanny climbed on my lap and let Lauritz know she wore no undies in the oversized powder blue sweatshirt she had found and made her look delightfully appealing. The ride was unreally silent and soft. Lauritz was proud and groped Fanny’s knees with his free hand, Simon, who was all cuddled up by Fayelle, let it be known he was bluffed.

The moon rose up, all-round and golden above the flushing sands of the tideland; the seabirds would now go and the sea breeze rise, kindly. The two uplifted sylphs abandoned their vestures, to dance together in the solstice euphoria, Fayelle improvising in striking notes, and it was not the first time I heard that voice. Then, predictably, Fanny caught Lauritz’s hand to enswirl him around her and make him lay his hands on her, take her to the car, while I picked up her rags, and found myself alone; the other two hidden in some convenient recess to shelter their best meditation. As whiffs of breeze roamed like lost souls and the moonlight filled the sky, Fanny called me, and again, she wanted me with her, but she meant to play, magic tramp, and share the beautiful knight with her, he called me too, beau joueur.

I don’t know how the two kind puppies ended together on my chest, waking me off a suffocating dream where I drowned into a silo of green pills, dead donkeys tied to my ankles, under the luftschiff Ferdinand, ready to be sowed over the Noordzee… Fayelle’s hair smells arousing, sex and fern, she’s stranded like a body of seaweed, both naiads now breathe into the warm sheets. In my drawer, I glean up a CD someone made-up for me, once, I can’t remember, but it is enticing, all ultramarine blue with only my name in ribbon letters, I slip it in and it flows on my head, it starts with “Song Of Tears” by Adiemus and it was snuck into my bag by this genderqueer person who wanted to befriend us, Cynthia and me, and I feel guilty not to even remember the name, even though they were at the show and I gave my numbers. This music suddenly sounds so weird that four eyes ache at reading me as if I had turned on the Dyson; I hold firm because I am almost crying already, these silly choirs in languages unknown catch-up on me, like I let Cynthia do during these troubled years. I run to the shower to wash down the tears, but mindy Fayelle has grabbed it, she joins me and makes me talk, and we end, three of us fresh and wet upon the bed, the window wide open, with the tale of Cynthia.

 

On the breakfast table, under a cloud of clean linen, rested a tepid mound of French toast that looked like a period folly, and, because it was baked with sweet bread, tasted unmatched. My inner self, already rocked by the chants of Cynthia’s, and the recounts I had had to give my juddering fillies about, poured into a void I suffered vaguely, along with my heart, left by our parting with Sarah, each of us courting the pretty candour of another rosebush. I gathered that our Sylt lair would hollow without images of my willowy tomboy stretching in the morning sun, baited by a fresh toast in hoarfrost of sugar crystals.

Her mouth sprinkled with sugar, Fanny edged her face very close to mine, as if to read my irises. She showed an inner glare and rosy lid shadows from all she had given Laurits to play with. I did not fully recall in which order the moon spree had unfurled, and how he had corralled us back home, but I had found a calling card, engraved with LP and a mobile number handwritten on it, inside the kerchief pocket of my light, so light, dress. Fanny mused that I sounded like I had lived an endearing story with Cynthia, then elaborated that both were like nobodies, with forever fake ID papers, shrubs with their roots capsized, as she had read in some of Camille’s esoteric references. Camille would always tell her that our fleshly origins meant nought, she had taught Fanny to scrub off her brain works of unnecessary questions, that they had both grown spared enough to be able to cast bines through the human comedy, and mission Dr Méant to scope for unsound overhanging; otherwise, the less be told, the better. All the while, It was as if I could see her sweet pale wisteria tendril mingle in with all the others in my wealthy heart, I reckoned it had been there since I had erred into the sacred alcove she had bedecked just for me, inside the comely trap on the Rio terra della Mandorla. Once more, I surrendered, bag and baggage, and I renewed our collective vow to keep her safe, through thick and thin.

Bringing back the teapot from the kitchen, I switched on my telephone and, in beautiful synchronicity, two messages squeaked in, from Camille au Sarah. The first wished us fruity waves and signalled that the Melchior Wings would be available the day after next in the afternoon at Flughafen Sylt, the latter proposed a mellow reunion in Hugo’s quarters, she had loads to tell, happy or not, and she could not begin recounting them on the phone. Fayelle had looked over and soughed that she wanted to come with us, grazing my nude shoulder in a fond request. Not long later, Simon ran back from the shower after some exercise and I told him the course of events, fearing to see disappointment sour his appetite. He tilted his head, looked at Fayelle briefly, drank some tea and said he would remain in Kampen for a week or so, working and roaming, whatever; after that, he could join us in Paris, if it was fine with us. Fayelle had been clutched with Fanny, she climbed up on one of Simon’s knees and groped him to make him laugh.

Mama was a tad sorry that we did not enjoy more of Kampen, she reminded me of long wild summers of ours, and she did not know we were such high-roller jet setters! I asked her about the von Pecks, she answered that they had been on the island even longer than us, and owned numerous properties around the Wattenmeer, as far as she knew, they were correct people, but for them also, there was a blurry spot in the middle of last century. They probably lived in a preserved area of Hamburg, hence his being with us at school. She tiptoed about Simon’s projects, he had been quite passionate about Fayelle’s affection for him, but she knew he would live a life of a high-level engineer, and Mama knew first-hand that it is not a perspective nowadays women crave; if Fayelle had sensed our Boheme modus vivendi, she would give her soul to stay with us, I laughed that she would be allowed to keep her soul. Mama said that she would come to Kampen and speak to Simon, as she had, always, since the accident. After a second of pause, she reprised that it had been a mere accident, wasn’t I sure? I told her there would always be a room for him near us in the splendid hive where we buzzed and work, and more… we parted good friends.

The family kept beautiful antique long chairs, impeccably maintained by Pitter, and about which I had always heard repeated that we could not step on them, by fear of tearing the wickerwork. Foliages on yellow printed cushions were fit for the seat and back, with an enthralling smell of lavender sachets and pinewood of the coffers where they laid almost eternally; after rolling them out on the lawn, I admitted that Fanny could sneak along my side at no harm, or go to Fayelle when she called. We took as long as we deemed fit to rub suntan lotion in, and in my whim roll every little bone on Fanny’s feet in my fingertips, which she requested the same for Fayelle’s pinky toes. We would start the season in the proper colours.

We could not bake overtime when the zenith dried us beyond what could be quenched by tea or lemonade, we retreated to the cool shelter of thick thatch, on creased linens, and mouthed each other like a litter of foxes. At the sound of my own revived Robin Guthrie festoons, we improvised a long trio of sensual legerdemain, without so rushing for an orgasm, so when Simon finally ferreted us out, he found all the available lilies trumpeting for his glory and gushed two good salvos into the girls’ butt holes before I sucked him clean. It was a full bliss to watch the two pert arses drip along their thighs, the sheets were inundated, the scent of cum and sperm mingled with that of drying hay and kelp from the opened window, I reeled out loud of the summer fortune and nosed madly on Fayelle’s unaware tummy. It had been warm, in the shower, when we peed on each other the stench was laughable  —we had done that for ages, worst than animals.

Later, on the beach, in sunlight, subdued by a high atmospheric veil, Fayelle and I watched Simon teach Fanny how to swim, and I hazarded out some intuition I had tripped on, and again, that she loved the boy but feared becoming his pet wife. Simon was not free-wheeling like us, as she would have believed, envisioning our little society in life. She knew she could be spoiled by a rich partner, but she would long for some personal secluded place, where to parse her soul in four dimensions —or quietly masturbate out of the world. She knew I was on both sides of her dilemma, but she had not gathered the nerve to open to Simon, only to decide not to live in his marks. I took time to show her the different paths on which each of the women she had crossed from her landing in Camille’s bed had led to some brokered liberty on all levels. She went somewhat bare-assed in life, but worse had been frequently reported. I chose to be as blunt as the pavement stones, she was there because she was pretty desirable, and she would have to compose with that. And yes, she could obtain in earnest the lifestyle she sensed amongst our crew, and I would show her many enviable outposts to the realm, all she had to do is move on in her lust and build her faith in wholehearted human beings —yes, I would take her back alive to the castle.

It wasn’t uneasy to enlighten Simon’s high prized brain as to what clattered in his affair with Fayelle. He resented he had been out of phase with me since the otherworldly times when Cynthia had worshipped me. He confessed that he had then responded to our father’s overtures unbeknown to me, and thus, rewardingly thrived in another field; but he swore he had always wrested out promises that Papa would spare me always —that he had retold him on his hospital bed before Simon could even breathe properly. I remade myself as smooth as when I taught him caresses and demonstrated that he detained a privileged entry to a most sophisticated Parisian henhouse, for free, provided he let the cast emancipated.
It smelled hellishly good out of the oven, Emma had spent hours swaddling up some alchemical mixture into cabbage leaves, cram as many as she could in a terrine and elaborate a cheese crust over the whole clutch. Inside was an unctuous stuffing of chopped mushrooms, nuts and fruit, we commented vividly till Emma blushed. Impossible not to dip chunks of soda bread in the concentrated juice. For dessert, she had bought a bucket of blackberries from a neighbourhood kid and whipped enough cream for a Viennese operetta. Simon already acted towards Fayelle in the incestuous innuendo he had lived in, after all; I manifested that I was in the game, too, as Fayelle checked my gazes and Fanny played on her plate. It wasn’t time yet to group-improvise on free polyamorous life, but my brother had relaxed a notch.
Simon walked us to a house facing the wild, in neat moonlight shadows, humming of bass pulses; he said it was one of Sylt nights getaways and I had not known it. Beyond the double-door entry, the sound system took on the chest and the lower waist, it was brutish. Fanny and Fayelle, who wore fuzzy shirts and jeans with new white sneakers, made instantly their way to the barnyard frenzy and swayed their hips against the beat, garnering some stir and envy. Fanny could enter manic mode on a flip, and throw her arms up like flames with the freshest of smiles, Fayelle was restraining a kontrapunkt of inner jolts and acted borderline crisical as the cold light made her an eerie mask of trance. I would have wished Sarah to be with us, she had this power of tearing me to pieces, otherwise, I would trigger my bunker fits, and skid. Simon had revived his athletic frame up to a thoughtful Berliner choreography I had not yet admired —showing it off to Fayelle might have been a reason why we stood now in a steam room of privileged sweats and musky wants. Then, faster than a secret service predator, he was diving out of the tempo and caught by the hair a bulky villain who had been trying to rape Fanny in a dark nook beside the tall speakers. He had torn the shirt and the pants and held her down like a dove in a sewer. Simon was harsh, still grappling the man’s hair he pushed him with his foot in the kidneys towards the house bouncer who seized the culprit and took him outside. Fanny was scattered down, crying silently in the still running electro pulse, I carried her to a chill-out room where people were making love or else, someone gave a fresh black tee-shirt stamped with a condom brand, one emo-like character came up with a new tack-on belt button, inserted a black book in Fanny’s waist and punch the button with a star on it one centimetre east of the hole, it held. She asked Fanny’s name and wrote it in her black book, I took her shoulders like they were wings. Later, Simon came back with drinks of iced tea, the raven girl smiled at him, I knew her.

 

In the morning, the three of us laid stroking each other but altogether defeated in the cries of seabirds which, as everyone knows, aren’t sweet. I knew there was a copy of the Fripp & Eno’s —then antinomic, album: “Evening Star”, we danced that. Fanny coughed sometimes because the beast had strangled her while he tore out her clothes. Eventually, we came down to breakfast, Simon had slept elsewhere, my phone had a sibylline message of good-bye, I took it that he had enjoyed the colour black; Otherwise, it was announced that the bright jet of Melchior Wings would be waiting, on time, five minutes from the house. Emma, who was a bit disappointed to see us leave, had cooked Danish pastries with my preferred “apricot masks”. The girls had no appetite, I could not tell if Emma knew, she would, sooner or later, and the perpetrator would be doomed. At the doorstep, I crammed a fat envelope into Emma’s hand, then gave her a fast kiss tchüss. The taxi arrived before Simon showed, we drove in a dark mood, but he had been waiting at the airport by the shiny aeroplane, along with that Zelda Van Nuys, the emo fairy, who kissed us and spoke into Fanny’s ear secrecy; even in daylight, she seemed likeable; she smelled tuberose and Lapsang Souchong tea, violet and blackcurrant, I remained in her neck longer than politeness and asked her if she wanted my name in her black book, I gave her my number, too. Simon winked.

Melchior had stayed inside this full-blown luxury cloud not long ago, his smell was jostling away the dark underwoods of that of Zelda’s, for the blooming of Havana and Armagnac in a Tuscan sunset through sun-baked cypresses; but when I moved, like a size 34 closer to the window, some lavish rose, which was neither Fanny nor Fayelle’s, fondled by the usual culprits Ylang and Jasmine on a bed of lewd niceties, I snitched and we three fantasised about whom had been undressed on these seats lately. The silence of the profound berline that picked us so fast at Le Bourget did not help to quiet us, Fayelle was in throes of pleasure, my hand was soaked. Once home, we would not part, the apartment had been cleaned and tidied up, a bunch of hundred deep red roses in one of Hugo’s large chiselled silver buckets that stunned Fayelle of whom I gently groped the butt. Fanny was all weary, I peeled off her stuff and pushed her to the shower with us, the first gush was cold, as it is, and she clung to my neck, followed by the other one. We remained in the raw, which was suited for the roses that reigned on the coffee table. I ordered a vegan smorgasbord and brewed some Oriental Beauty tea in the big Yixing pumpkin teapot. There were ugly marks on Fanny’s neck, I cautiously applied balsam, which did not smell so bad on her, so we kissed, always.

I did not know where Camille was, and I would not be so proud to retell what had occurred on my watch. She would be devastated, and as long as Fanny stayed with us, she, her tutor could enjoy whatever free time she had wished. However, in harmony with the girls, I called Dr Méant who offered to meet Fanny in the evening, when I offered to chaperone her fully to his home and back. And so we went, Fayelle was not angered to wait alone with me on the lounge couch. Fanny was somewhat comforted to reunite with her regular confidant; she would have asked, anyhow. In the comfy pavilion of that private alley where Dr Méant lived, Fayelle was more and more impressed, now she felt she had lived a boring life in a bleak suburb, unmotivated by a botched upbringing, with the only luck of her appearance, and she was beginning to reason how it would have turned, had she not owned that. She was convinced that she had had not a chance in hard knowledge like maths, physics or biology, only art, or rather what remained of it, had once in a while glimpsed at her, while she glimpsed at it; she had garnered enough vocabulary, and she had fucked her way through to the same funny nonsense as us, her two current hosts, came from, with a nagging obsession that she was walking along a cliff-edge.
I have no recollections at all of my own redemption at Dr Schubert’s care, and I will never try to, but, as Sarah does, I shelter the conviction that I may obtain some healing relationship with someone if I may touch whatever I feel, all the more with a lover. As soon as we nested in the golden green velvet couch, I deliberately untied Fayelle’s sneakers, stole her socks and started to please her slender feet while I read her misty eyes. Her aloofness doesn’t mean that she loses the good of an argument along, she might have been brilliant, had philosophy kept its value in the modern academic scales, at Aristotelian studies, but then she would have had to cut short on precisely what was steering her, Hic et Nunc, into my arms. She needed to hear a tale of our becoming whatever she craved, and not shun my shortcomings, in the picture.

When I whiffled out that there wasn’t much more I could unveil of intertwined biographies and the garden of junctures they grew in, Fayelle was almost undone, her shirt and jeans unfurled like a strayed lily, smelling the girl like a London boudoir. She dared not fight back and her passiveness was all a game which she saw aroused me, she had thrown her dainty hands overhead, and, damned, she was mine. By the time Fanny woke up in the doctor’s study, we had chastened our attitudes but slept closely together; she might have joined, but the couch was only a crippled antique, we fled surreptitiously, leaving only our scents in Dr Méant’s velvety lounge; at this wee hour, a taxi was too happy to collect a fluffy trio of seemingly party-goers. Once home, neither of us would talk much, Fayelle kept kissing Fanny’s neck, I unclothed them, they unclothed me and we returned to Slumberland.

Of course, Camille has keys to the castle; she brought butter-sweating gold croissants and timid raspberries. I brewed some Darjeeling, readied the percolator while she was enjoying herself with my bum, and I offered her all of my morning fuzziness. She snuck into the bedroom, breathed deeply the mists of wake and nosed into the sheets for more, like a thirsty animal. She said nothing, she viewed Fanny, who was afraid to see her hurt, too, and her knuckles whitened in spasms as she dared not meet my eyes. It was Fayelle, by some moving age solidarity, who shrunk her blue-toned voice to engage that “it” had been an accident, and that Simon’s reaction had been bullet-fast, to what Fanny embraced Camille and tried her best to wipe off the strain. Then I did my best to confirm what Fayelle had said but couldn’t find another rationale. Rubbing Camille’s shoulders, I lead us all around the table and poured some tea while Fayelle’s coffee goblin whistled and spat.

Was Fanny doomed to pull a security detail after her as she had for months? Stupid, there was no reason, except we would begin to expect her to be the one who stood under the next piano which fell from the window. The downy hair on her legs shone in a glint of the rising sun, from a higher pane through our veilings, I caressed her sleek feet, of the kind one would fancy it ran fast, like the purebred fillies, when danger loomed. Camille embodied her queen bee wisdom, and, while she pretended to discover the refinement of Fayelle’s hands, declared that Fanny had nothing to relate with the out-gush of a human hyena, whom, in her enigmatic words, had better find another island, at least for a few years. To leaden the conversation further, she told us why Sarah was still in Zürich, and it brought up questions from our hereby damsels, who learned first the unlucky, but the resilient fate of young Ayla, then the threads of her trade down to Esther’s skid to near death. Fayelle did not even know of Fanny’s life before Camille, she was more and more dancing on eggshells.

Liselotte called me, after having tried her preferred Sarah, to devise a crafty dinner in a new private place, which could not have existed without her, and she did not even have to blog to do this. But when she heard that I was followed by youth, she could not picture anything unsavoury, she begged to let her join us up in a while, Camille was amused. In the soundscapes of Harold Budd and friends, the petty grooming of worldly belles wiped away the hours until the flashy black and white presentation of runner Liselotte amazed us. She wore a short white shantung minidress, squarely flared under a sleeveless bust with mock-military black striped epaulettes and same pocket trimmings; White opaque tights in patent leather court escarpins, no undies but a slit that made Fayelle blush, already. She could have worn kid gloves for Horst P. Horst. She smelled of white intents gone weird as jasmine and datura entwined. She landed all lightly in one of our couches and marvelled at the roses bush, playing as to guess whom they were for? In her oversized, distressed tee-shirt, Fanny was more than nude and she literally bewitched Liselotte, who flimsily stippled around the girl’s neck, muttering that something very unacceptable had to be done, there. Fanny had her distant glare, Liselotte begged me to fetch some velvet ribbon in our hoarding store and some appropriate larimar cabochon to affix onto it. Fanny followed me, Liselotte was right, I did exactly what she had devised, with night-blue velvet and sparkling aquamarines. Fanny came back in the salon as undressed and glorified as Manet’s odalisque, but we wouldn’t wear mules, would we?

Somewhere snug and quiet in the Ile Saint Louis is a Mars violet lacquered little door between an easily overlooked perfume shop and an antique shop specialised in ancient toys where one could manipulate a roman jack set or rune-inscribed flat stones. Liselotte owned a purple blank plastic card that she inserted in a discreet slot above the reach of scallywags and the door opened like solemnly. Then was a long panelled corridor floored with thick mat, lit by a line of points towards a copper double door, a couple of bends further. Liselotte, who seemed to have existed mainly for Fanny since she saw her —then, in a silk jersey tee-dress above the knee, some of Sarah’s cobalt blue flat sandals, and a narrow vest in indigo black, beaten-glazed cotton strips, her eyes amused in the midst of her shimmering curls— nonetheless being our guide, asked us to bear with her. She pivoted and whiffed at Fanny’s hair, which suffused Ylang Ylang and honeysuckle along with the dryness of chamomile on a sun-beaten chalky road, she rolled her dark eyes like a stoned Marchesa, and the glimmering doors opened.

The place was built in large blocs of hard stone and vaulted low, the ground covered in rich caravan rugs and furnished with low black velvet divans, dark low tables and black lacquer screens; chandeliers and compositions by Lucio Bubacco, was I told, suspended all over the space, crowded with little lampwork glass characters, well-hung or gracile, in acrobatic figures, the lubricious revenge of Murano upon the Nevers style courtiers. Fanny was elated by the virtuoso work of the grand ribald master glass-blower, her delicate hands flew in admiration. All the personnel wore some sort of loose black bourette pyjamas, women and men, with an open fly held by one ribbon, and no underwear at all, barefoot. They could have only stood for some bad taste mock revival of the “red Khmers” genocide, but their manicured hands and feet, black varnished nails and fine jewels defused all comparison, they all seemed quite willingly serving –knowing Liselotte, I wondered soon how far. Among the arrangement of the pillars and black folding screens, other groups soared in their aloofness, somewhere in the dark, a tribe of Hang drums and gongs droned in peace, Fayelle needed me, she slid her hand inside my dress upon my heartbeat, Liselotte was kissing Fanny like a Royal Mistress.

Our low oblong table was spread with a thick plum velvet printed “à la Fortuny” in rich interlacings, seized by the house’s geist, Fanny rested her unshod feet, pale upon the rich fabric. A tall waiter brought vermilion plates with gold rims, when he bent, his almost rested dick showed out of his pants and he did not pay attention but Fayelle pinched me. In her circumstantial low tone of voice, Liselotte –who was now hitching up Fanny’s dress to the waist, without causing any reaction to the face of the waitress who was bringing a silver plate loaded with petits fours, and looked, politely, at what Liselotte showed– this was a very exclusive club of fetishists willing to serve and be used on an agreement or the inverse; large sums of real money were spent and earned there for the game of mere conventions, or disguised prostitution, but until now, all exchanges had been kept in the private sphere of consenting adults. There were caravansaries like this almost everywhere, outside of the territories of no human rights, the only limit would remain merely prophylactic, wouldn’t it?

Obviously, Fanny had been gently inflamed by our guide, and she had a want for the dick she had seen, so she very stealthily called the waiter and slid her hand in his fly, where the thingy was bigger than before; she was a skilled manipulator, she kept her gaze on it while Liselotte was denuding her completely, and she finished the happy gent in her mouth, leaving no trace behind.. Between them and us, Camille was aroused, she knew almost all of these Parisian stables for vice, but she was new to that one and watching her pupil emancipate on her own was some treat, after the recent despicable episode. She took away Fayelle from me and displayed her parted thighs for a new waiter whose willy soon showed out. Letting Camille please Fayelle with her tongue, I pitched on that straight long Johnny and sucked it first, then asked him to cover himself and chose his way in, turning my newly tanned backside on him, so as I could still kiss Fayelle while being humped, she finger-tipped down to my mingy, and the man’s balls. He muffed his pleasure, at the smile of the others, who came to peep our table for the while. He had been deep and valiant, I had gushed on my thighs, Fayelle was happy of that, a black stallion was in Camille’s bunghole wholeheartedly. When I wished my gentle fucker to show me the restrooms, he showed me to stay like I was, and I could see that all the other tables were nude. They had the pleasure to see us one by one, I could see men shagging the waitresses in a pair, and guessed more combinations.

Fanny was fierce as if to ascertain herself that one sicko had not yet hacked her apart and she was not only desirable but thirsty. She became the toast of the club, one waiter brought a yellow rose in a flute of crystal and was deliberately sucked and fucked, she did not act feverishly, but she went for cocks where she knew they were, after five of them, she smelled beastly but looked playful, I took her on my bosom and kissed her lids down, her heartbeat on mine, her arse was blithe, I shushed her for a while. Waitresses were bringing hot wet towels for our thrashed bodies, now we smelled pure jasmine. Liselotte was proud of herself, she had drawn an aces’ full with a pair of rare birds, she owned some respect, there. A man, whose pyjama showed some hierarchy, came and kissed her hand, she introduced him as LS, owner of the house, but not the souls in it, said he, showing a keen desire towards Fayelle, who had not shagged any but swayed her gazes into Camille’s neck, letting her butt available to the newcomer’s hands. LS asked her up, she gave her hand and let him pull her softly and dance slowly, he was talking in her ear, she was rolling her head, she waved and went with him, clenched to his side, he was fully erected. We had not many comments to give, Liselotte gave her word that nothing bad could happen our the girl. Five minutes later, a soft-spoken waitress with a flat chest to my taste, I touched her, came for Fayelle’s clothes, soon, she came again, for me.

Fanny had been the queen of the house, she already slept in the taxi, content. We dropped her and Camille at their home, Liselotte stayed, she wanted some pussy, she smelled like a runner in the underwood, head in the moss, I let her savage me and we crowned our follies under the running water, she’s a Royal bitch, enough to lull me out in the true nought. Many fluffy clouds later, I emerged from a blue lawn at the unknown scent of iris, violet and lily of the valley, some rich vintage perfume, methinks, still in the mists of some Avalon, until Fayelle, in person, pushed her tongue between my very lips. She stretched upon us and asked me to unclothe her, that’s what we do, don’t we? She bantered how LS had led her to his sleek black marble suite, made her four times differently and given her a hefty wad of bills on the promise that she called next week. Suddenly, I ignited, how was she here, she didn’t call and had no key? She nonchalantly said that my friend Sarah had made her in and would join us later, and she was hot.

 

Sarah says:

The lovelier dreamer I met downstairs smelled like she had been ransacked all night, and it did her well! Some week with Kate and she turns up whorish like a star, what gaze! I just abandoned my filly to an old mage and this one thrusts out of the woods. Was she not supposed to be like wedding, or so? I heard more than two lives in our bed, given the hour, I brewed Darjeeling Puttabong and peeled a kiwi. I could have had an idea that a nude Liselotte would enter onstage as deliberate as an admiral. She had thinned down and had taken whatever time to freshen up her face from the labour of sleep. She did not expect to meet me, but there were enough memories to grope me right out and taste my mouth. That laid out, she sketched up their night and the successful outcome for Fayelle, for it was, as she saw, our pale intern was a resplendent harlot, in the veins of the grand gold mine. I liked to see her play madam, as I knew her weak tropisms, and I caressed her thighs so as to make her denude me. Then the two sweet tattlers came up in no clothes either and Fayelle smiled wonderfully to me. She had been evoking how LS had prepared her bum for a thorough buggering, so she hesitated, at the breakfast table and we laughed like weathered courtesans, and Liselotte acted as she could not have enough of her. Through her course in our dirty Alma Mater, Fayelle had not shunned all of the ungrudging art, these wholehearted researches despised by the inauspicious following of Duchamp, for the sake of easy conundrums and loose gambits, so, she revelled being sabred through in front of some genuinely lewd Lempickas, the first real Bellmer she had ever seen, framed like the Vatican, unthought-of erotic drawings by Valentine Hugo, once owned by Anaïs Nin herself, and the original watercolours by James W. Manner for “Trois Filles De Leur Mère” by Pierre Louÿs.

The most enviable Fayelle was stepping on our very chessboard, now, we feasted of her, she smelled of licked skin and altogether vice, she was a treasure for keep, a sister. I wondered about any work she might have stored somewhere, she mocked she had nothing at all, every bit of artwork she had deposited on the sidewalk when her parents moved away. Academically, she was like AWOL, officially eligible for State charity. I knew Kate was thinking that was a heavy start and would possibly fall back on our feet, but she was young and eerie, she Ionged to bring her together with Lizon in Victor’s pandemonium, as a start, but she had already climbed the first step, last night, hadn’t she? Camille had such perfect taste, I asked for Fayelle’s gourmet feet, narrow, long strung, with well-drawn toes, she was madly ticklish and that told for erotic talent, while the other two babbled and amused her button tits or an arousingly flat navel, I counted the little bones that will run, upon my crotch. Liselotte was in no mood to leave, but she asserted that we missed some dicks. She instituted we chose one each and we partied, in our lair, with that, she fetched her organiser and finger-scanned for applicants. I asked for Fulgence, whose dexterity had amazed me, Kate concurred, Sergei Belitski had some smarts and was well tooled, we nodded, Yaguil Roustang was infinitely dedicated to pussy, and a selfless Indian, we nodded, at the name of Florent Sannezant, Fayelle woke and rolled her eyes, we nodded too. Liselotte craved for Beraud de Fourchez, why wouldn’t we nod? She added that a greater number of dicks would play for us, and named Nathan Vidal last, he has a tireless column of flesh.

 

Fayelle says:

This day is promising to be warm, over and above well debauched, I wouldn’t think of so much fucking in an elusive while, so as my new mentors seem to be willing to hop over. Agreed, they arrange the consumption of passions as an easy carousel and the spend is free willing, you reacquaint with yourself unscathed and only light-headed. Shutters drawn, like in the old whorehouses, all nude and aroused, we laid rich bath towels of chiselled velvet on the seats and couches where the officiants should make our pleasure gush out. In the wait, Sarah, whose gazes throw shudders down my spine, retells her fine days with the fresh debutante called Lizon, of whom I caught some glimpse, all the way until she would throw herself over the windmills, with a good friend of hers, who had precisely asked her to inquire about the readiness of the maiden involved, showing her a few of the debauchery stables at the heart of Paris and see her reactions. Sarah had craftily brought me to her side in an armchair and the others smirked seeing her do me, with her tapered fingers, fiddling along with the thin pleats across my tight belly. As she read my eyes a tad uneasy, she boasted that Lizon was currently sharing her lissome body with our own Hugo, who had known most of us, in the tiny fields of the most horticultural islands of Scilly.

I was wondering how the superlative pair of demi goddesses had overcome the mock ordeal of neo-art school without depression. Kate loved me for this and advised me to keep attuned with Camille, while Liselotte offered to float me in the back-waters of official culture, promising not to push as far as where it stinks hard. For that matter, as a layer of sociality, a few months of pleasuring myself among her address book would set a fit plateau, for a beauty like mine. Before I could trade any formalised idea from the top of my soul, I would craft my living from my bum, so to speak, and she could help me avoid the false notes and the wrong players, ask around? Sarah, grazing my flat chest, like it was silk, confirmed that Liselotte is the smartest procurer alive —Kate let her grab her between her thighs, like some naughty farmer girl, “but she will never talk of money, with you, anyhow”.

Isn’t that the kind of lucubrations I have produced in my solitudes to explain most of the self-called artistic lifestyles? Now, if it were all mock, faux-semblant, planetary abuse, doesn’t it feel cosy to join a conspiracy of pure players and bid my arse and pussy properly? That’s what I hear Liselotte and Sarah lull me with, and I’m going to sing along. One by one, the good Indians rang in, they smelled soap, some afforded sandalwood and grapefruit in the heath of their own hair, one gave me the thrill of rich amber as his sweat, so as I untied the simple tie of his creased canvas pants and gulped his ready prick as if he had justly come for that. It earned me sweet cheers and a second servant licking my quim; Sarah had been subducted by Fulgence in a tongue fight. In all likelihood, these roughnecks had not gotten their dicks wet for some time so they dipped their fancy here, there and again, till it was Yaguil who gushed in me soon after he might have felt me do.

And now it smelled acrid and primal, like piss on warm flintstone, and I needed to wash out my arse to pretend again it was a daisy; Sarah came to the bathroom and we rinsed each other’s virtues, in moments like these, she has irresistible gazes, you want to kiss her and die, but all we did was to drip and wipe and spread open wide. Few are the concerts that go tutti all the course, we had breathless halts, and a few tea breaks with nations of macarons, or cupcakes some of the fuckers had brought. Incidentally, Liselotte disclosed that since she had picked only Victor’s regulars, she had been able to check everyone on the network, but we had already ploughed in each other like demented, so it went to show that she was the smartest procuress in the loop, rave on! Fulgence had savagely capsized Ms Kate, like an Olympian swimmer, then he had regained his slow beat and he started me, with spoken compliments on everything me, and he won at making me blush. Bent back over an armrest, I swallowed him whole so he could not help spout far inside, growling like a boar, I was very proud, he said things that Sarah liked for me. I did not accept to swallow the next sword, but he found my arse so cooperative that he filled me up. After a friendly wash-up, we decided that the bed was only enough for four women enlaced, so the male troupers had to play top-to-tail, free for them to dribble their balls.

 

Kate says:

I had been tiptoeing in the high branches of a Babylon garden, my sensitive minge kissed in all acrobatic ways by ornate monkeys of biblical times, methinks, however searching for an appropriate crevice for me to pee in, until I could not avoid switching out of sleep and stumble to our bowl, let flow acid summer pee, and feel morning, brushed my teeth in case. High pitched giggle warned me of some extraneous presence within the menagerie next door, and full awakening dawned on my brain as I knew who was frolicking among the couch warriors. Of course, roof doves Natalia and Beryl had been up and kicking, under their privilege of entry at any moment, and they stumbled into a regal display of male nudities, such as ought to have been expected in the high-rooms of Fontainebleau, but are mostly missing yet. I foresaw the blissful smiles at the faces of our victors visited by the heavenly nymphets, I shrugged and walked to the scene. Nought that I saw would I deem inconvenant, the two pixies played their charms on the readily unsheathed weapons at their will, I walked in, kissed everyone and rolled Natalia’s nipples in my fingers, as I do.

Fulgence and Florent volunteered to run for brioche and fruit, they brought back a mouth-watering swish heap of colourful victuals, meanwhile tea and coffee had lured the other servants of Titania to the round table, and as we did not possess enough chairs, many had to sit on dicks, their appetites notwithstanding, or else. I plugged the Drone Zone sound, to mix life into a heady smoothie, just like Sarah did in the food processor. Eventually, I found myself impaled on Fulgence with a smile, and Liselotte helped Natalia engulf Beraud’s literal truncheon and revelled in the young dissolute disciple, licking her sweaty body with her strawberry tongue, watching her climax to self-oblivion. Undoubtedly, I was being a bad warden for the house kid, but I did not fetch them to participate and they were not really squandered away, judging upon their smiles –I self-disciplined my half giddied self to keep an eye or more on the fillies and the armed forces agreed to a softer consensus that moreover allowed to keep uninvaded the mellow efflorescences with other means than the cock.

Fanny rang around noontime, exhilarated, she called her hen mother to tell her the kind of animal farm she had found, while she was being undressed radically, and much admired; she still wore the deep blue dog collar, now with a filigree pansy stitched to it. Beyond her natural aloofness, she was a tad shied at first and looked for me, straddling over gentle figures; Liselotte remembered her nocturnal prowesses and kissed her foot lovingly. She nested in me, Fulgence was properly impressed by her eerie gaze and asked for her hand to cuddle and kiss. She leaned her head on my chest and told me she had had better leave Camille alone today because she told her that she was seeing and more one of her regulars and she wished not to have me participate, time would come, eventually. I joked, to remain in the good mood of our jaunt north, that now we missed only Hugo and Lizon if Robin Goodfellow were up to his nifty name. Florent caught her eye and pulled himself so as to nuzzle her thighs and let them open on my very lap, he was afternoon-slow, minute, dedicated, she offered him her unmatched candour and he believed it for the better good of both, and mine; Fanny was turned over to my mouth, but we offered both our honey conchs at his bon vouloir, it smelled of bergamot, clove, and Gyokuro tea as the coyote lapped at our shudders.

So then, unavoidably, some feminine hand knocked on our thick oak door, I thought of Lena, and I wouldn’t know what she would make of our use of her daughter, although I felt she was the one using us, all in all. Before we could have answered, Lizon had pushed the door and stepped in the capharnaüm of flesh, like Alice boarding on “Le Radeau De La Méduse”. Sarah jumped up and embraced her madly, reading her Channel green eyes, kissing her and almost crying. Fanny whispers that she told me it would be so, I revolt, in vain; as she is been shagged, Florent’s balls beat my nonnie in good rhythm, she chants high and comes together with him, no less. Lizon beams, in our subdued light, now that Sarah has untied her fluid British smock dress printed in pale William Morris olive branches, and she’s left with so palatable willow green knickers, I can tell that Hugo has been his best gallant poet, again. She came up in no shoes, she has languid feet, long and slender, Hugo would spend dear on these, too. He who wanted to acquaint with the newcomer had to take both, there too, like here where Fanny revived her player in her mouth for another shot in me. Yaguil and Serguei were up for sharing a pair of true reptiles they brought to the ground, Sarah rummaging in Lizon’s minute bunghole with her nifty tongue, being buggered herself while Lizon was face-fucked nicely by Serguei. After that, the two rascals, not yet extinguished, stole away the novice and fucked both her sides at one time.

Once she could eventually breathe again, she wanted to tell that the whole crew was welcome in Hugo’s salons for treats, savour and favours. She was still a tad jostled, Sarah took her to the restroom for a grand toilette. It was still early, we begged her to retell their Land’s end islands tête à tête. She took a softer tone of voice, and a balanced flow of words, to penetrate herself of the tranquil hours, listening to a possibly renewed future life, at my inclination, in safe propriety. And she heard the immense breathing of the open ocean, so soothing at these invisible boundaries that she wouldn’t know of her own soul. Certainly, Hugo had been endlessly hungry all over the riches of her simple plunder, but it had never become unbearable, he knows his powers so finely.

From a higher stand, I had flown through the same clouds, someday, attuning my course on Sarah’s, my natural accomplice, and we had since befriended all the regulars, each of them perfumed by the Castle Wizard. Decked out with the minimum, barefoot, we stealthily moved our sublime shantytown downstairs, where it smelled Zanzibar after the rain. Hugo had unearthed a thin long coat of gold-threaded silk, with a gossamer white shirt, a line of pearly buttons down to his feet, It felt like I kissed a nude Hugo, by the time he had hugged the whole crew, he had already stained the silk at the middle. He showed kindness to Lizon and shared her with Sarah, lightly groped Fanny whose piddly vesture fell off itself, stared pensively into Fayelle’s eyes on my chest and came between us two, to breathe that we were inspiring him, Liselotte had not redressed, she stood in a single tees-shirt and it fitted her, like Hugo told her as if he had known her long, and he creased the shirt so as to denude her and show her splendid arse to Fulgence, whose biceps he palpated. He obviously knew Beraud whom he groped casually, Nathan too, who obviously needed to shag anyone, out of pity or friendship —his febrile black gazes torched my innards, when I let him shoot daggers on me; it was then that I reckoned I might have overlooked the lascar, but had I not nodded, too? I simply touched his dick behind me, as an invite, for whenever.

The dining hall in the “new wing” had been changed by the addition of large panels, of white gold foil over black lacquer, by Jean Dupas, author of some of the most stunning features in the liner Normandie’s first class, some today scavenged at the MET in New York. This masterstroke find had hauled a series of inspirations in the intercontinental salerooms, bringing in furniture and art works through the newly conquered porch on the side street –Fanny smirked. We all now could sit on white gilt chauffeuses once made in Indochina for a Buenos Aires brothel (where some legendary Lady had once sold the prime of her charm to some promising officer), the low seats had been re-upholstered in the same chiselled black velvet from Lyons. The thick carpet in subdued blue silver tones figured phantasmagorical sea depth with half human lascivious deities. Against the silver-foil ceiling reigned a wide rock crystal chandelier in shapes of seaweeds, from the lobby of a ruined hotel on the German Baltic coast, rewired in low-heat leds. Behind all this, were hung stylised silver and black waves, whirls and frills motives in silk velvet, and some of the most troubling paintings by Stengl in Hugo’s collection, lit in their white gold frames. The high contrasted scenes with the trademark delirious nymphets and ferocious dogs shouted through the theatrical nightly decor, just as the floating interjections in Stockhausen’s “Gesang der Jünglinge” !

Two of us, narrow bones, could creep into the splayed wings of the chauffeuse, Fanny had rid me of my shirt and lolled along me as trophy; she was all baby play and gave me real tender gazes, not the eerie ones. Large Siberian lilies in silver vases dispersed their heady scent and made me giddy, when I rested my head back on the padded chair, I felt lavish and when Nathan’s schmekl dripped a tiny sticky pearl on my lips, I opened wide my mouth and pulled my tongue for him, the hands and lips of Fanny massaging my neck like a kitten’s tummy; for sure, he had waited, so he discharged after a few deep drillings, and i took in every smeary gush of it, then gave a taste of him to Fanny. She did not let the scepter scowl down, at Nathan’s wonder, she steadily suckled his glans till it heralded buggery again and found me legs up, conveniently lubricated by my own little goblin’s whole hand. His fiery black eyes reveled as he pervaded like my whole rump, and Fanny preened my pinky pearl to make me gush as I felt his flow somewhere deep, and he did not recess, he ploughed still into swampy hot tremors, and released a last deadly bash and fell upon the rug, as Fanny hurried with a towel to soak up the rough smelling goo out of my shuddering bum. The archer rested, cross-spread among the fantasy fish, content, with some vacant smile and a wet schlong. Fanny was proud of me, it only came to my battered mind the hope that they would not ravage me like that one by one, albeit…

 

Lizon says:

Since she first showed me around places that probably wouldn’t exist, Sarah has drawn me into her inwards-tauten grace, some sheer quant-à-soi, says Hugo, who is French, when he raved on his “double muse”, upstairs from his secretive study, here in the Castle Maze, where, seemingly, corridors run through deaf buildings towards stealth addresses. After my uncountable time in Louis’ operatic decors and mental overbalance, altogether beached upon the unknowable suavity of carnal afterglows, unending ardour, like, then, a child with falling socks, I fainted, watching the black thunderstruck dad, in the yellow triangle riveted upon the smelly dirty brown metal trunk on the sidewalk where my faceless grand dad always peed, and where disobedient sprogs would be stacked and forgotten; they had carried me to the pharmacy, eyes opened, vacant, made me inhale mint alcohol, and stared at me, appaled, when I stood up, frowning, with a runny nose. Like some finely engineered drug, Louis’ legerdemain had unclogged bends of synaesthesia in my soul, enpowering me to drop, on a wintry inner sidewalk, the dark grey plastic bag of my sad begetters, for the mauling truck, with the running fluorescent trolls around it, to chew away.

I had breathed a tad more lightheartedly, when Hector, who had sated himself of my feeble skin, had asked me to read the numbers in my bank’s app, he was laughing when he drove me back to Sarah’s, telling me to ask her back with me, whenever we felt. When Hugo took turn at my knees, so to speak, Sarah’s seductive contrivance had done its spell on my expended spirits, I was the whore she had nosed out and I smelled good, first to her. A private airplane, in which he dissolved any misgivings, and bustled upon me like a high-school lucky calf, a taxi to an understated property in a manicured garden, he had pilfered all of my attire on the doorstep, and watched me move, holding my fingers. I think, then, that he fucked me upon anything that would bear my weight, and it never became awkward, he attended to my whole body like it were a million euros artwork, I’m sure I will never know a better honeymoon. Now, he had offered me an apartment in this hive, large enough for the years to come, and let me to reckon if staying constantly at armslength of him and his fantasies constituted a major caveat. Before I could envision the deal, he had laid out that, if he would consider me as a free-will boarder, I should agree to the polyamorous modus vivendi I had been free to wander in already, until of course I would chose to perch elsewhere, for a reason all mine. I had not singled out the current tenants, apart from Kate and Sarah, and there were quite a lot of dandys who all momentarily fondled a piece of me, and we arrived in a sumptuous salon, like I had never seen before, even in magazines; in the regal settees and chairs, the chosen crew went wildly oral on one another, I understood that I was the last girl with some rags on because they had seen I was eagerly eyed upon by the Lord of the place.

Hugo waived to show me to sit next to him on the black velvet, he disrobed me soon, and soughed in my ear to ask if none of those dicks would shag me? He teased me that he would crave to look a me fuck one of the troopers, so, at the sight of Sarah pumping a straightened puppet, I felt assuredly whorish and gave the eye to Fulgence, who had obviously ogled me and crawled on all four to my quim and licked me skilfully. It must have been a manoeuvre of Hugo’s that another player seized my nape and made me swallow his knob, since I only had to let be done for a while, until Fulgence brandished his considerable manhood at my wet labia, and thrust in. This was one I could confide my life to, and a smoother, a long glider, a soft gazer in his moves. Hugo asked us to topple, me backwards on top, Fulgence carefully in my rosebud and Serguei at once in my quim in bloom; he leaned on me and threaded sparkling little compliments to my ears while niggling at my tits. When my two lust expenditors discharged in fury, I dozed out dripping, and my Hugo carried me to the silver-mosaic bathroom where we showered and scented ; I had just been shagged heads and tails before him and he told me to stay beautiful.

In this young life, I have encountered such rough waters and unsound shores, Eric had hurtled down to organise his deadly trade with showcasing my thin arse around, offering it for debts or money, and so on to his own loss. Thus I have been myself on the chopping block more than often, maybe not long enough to parse the ways and manners on this new play court. For days, Sarah has been sucking my apple and I never caught a wrong glance from her, deceitful words, like the Egyptians used to say, she is “rightfully voiced” —and she smells like the moon. Hugo was drooling at my crotch waiting for the get-go from my inventor Louis, he really had me to himself, in the blue, but, all in all, these shenanigans, which could have caused me repeated suffering, glided upon my hide, just like Sarah had forecast, and there she still was, fingering my butt.

 

Hugo says:

On all accounts, human beauty is the steepest ascent worthy, for a righteous soul —if you would agree on my acception that soul is the synergistic whole of my current life, mind, sentience, affects, determinations, and elaborations, whomever could read into the sum of anything the ordonnator secured under my name— and, from the tremours of heights, to worship entirely. Albeit, soon retorts my respected friend F. you may know of droves on the public stage whose awe-striking beauty shelters an unfathomable silliness, whose stunning presence bears only in happenstance and leaves one wanting. So then, the whim took me to skim the mental album of the real considerable personalities in twentieth century art, those who caught on my will to shape out my unbound fantasy, and at the summit the surrealists —albeit today the word has been defaced by the commercial media into a mere cliché meaning “utterly absurd”— and around, and find there the most wholesomely desirable personas of their time, higgledy-piggledy: André Breton, Max Ernst, Dali, etc, of course, but Lee Miller, Leonora Carrington, Meret Oppenheim, Anaïs Nin… only a few of the true stellar cohort well fashioned to comfort my aestheticising plea, isn’t it? Yes, one of the most influential geniuses of the time was not particularly… suffice to say that ne particularly regrettable surgeon damaged Peggy Guggenheim’s beauty irreversibly. Nevertheless, through a century of miseries, massacres and hideous genocides, someone like André Breton was all along morally impeccable, and lauded, courted and shagged only beautiful women as an ideal. My friend F. let me say that, for what it were worth.

Nonetheless inauspicious palavers about the season’s laureates, so as to regally relish one’s swayed gazes and soft dismay, at the tipping point of unravelling one’s harrowing angst, inside my own garden of torments. Lizon had let the yarn spin haywire in the mellow breath of the resting ocean, her diaphane kite had flown off as a whiff and she had rendered what she wouldn’t fathom as her own life, to my whims. And I do that, infatuated with Monelle’s orphans in fields of white narcissuses, and patching new plots to my realm, like the little rooms on the map of the Isles of Scilly.

 

Back home in this Pré-aux-Clercs bastion —whenas her nigh sister Fayelle is still wet out of the backwaters of incurable neo-neo-academia, already lodged in the upper floors, Lizon had been snatched-up just in time from the dire alleys of an addiction-ridden dump, just like a Lalique elf were to be found in garbage, but it remained to be parsed out which fields she might want to gravitate into, or naught.
Upon the soft low tone of her spoken voice, her words when we roamed aimlessly in the pathways of Saint Mary’s island, let me wish there is one wholesome soul behind the unswerving eyes, not a mortal substance.
She had been, to say the least, scrutinised day and night by Sarah, who had been missioned for that, —and obviously loves her, since, so much as to pleading for her steady installation in our hive, a nostalgic token to her own lost green paradise of Saint Loup. Yet some old awareness would await, say one unfettered course at Victor’s, along with Kate, or a full fling with Camille, detailed journals appended , wouldn’t it?

It happened I had, yet, set foot into another adjoined building to mine, from basement to roofs, thus with another address in Paris. There was now a path at the end of Natalia and others’ corridor, leading on, three steps down to a crooked landing with a small window and three doors on small renewed apartments. One more week of my emergency star team’s work, and I could eventually cosy up someone in there. Lizon owned virtually nothing but was getting richer all the time, she would undoubtedly fill her closets, unless Sarah would like to go on and play doll with her. From what I saw, there was some kind of a swop market around the fairies’ store, it was arousing to recapture the feeling of a clothing on someone else’s skin, with the kinship of perfumes and smells, like Natalia would naturally conjure Kate’s, most intimately. So, Lizon would spend a few more nights in circumstance beds, like a dreamy little tramp among the manes of seaweeds.

Once I was convinced I had availed myself with like a new masterpiece by one of my heroes, with all due certificates and affidavits —namely the bewitching beauty of Lizon, Pr F. called and asked me what reasoning I could make of the photo gallery of Ted Bundy’s victims, all indeed young, witty and beautiful, massacred in no time by this self-centered mediocre slacker?  It would only give out that Bundy had a taste for something he could not even care for, and erased as fast as he grabbed the innocents. Pr F. reckoned I strive for my tribe of affiliates and promote liberally their stand in the spheres they wish —more than Picasso ever did for the exceptional women he kept. At any rate, Pr F. was telling me that my shuddering petition for human beauty was merely a vow of my own unfettered tastes, obviously shared by numerous well-heeled literati, many of them morally questionable. I took it as it was served, given the highest purity of my friend’s career, and promised myself to frame a portrait of Ted Bundy to hang somewhere in my study.

 

Sarah says:

Lizon needed to feel my clasp upon her wings, and hear my voice on her nape, it was neither angst nor boredom, she had been approached by everyone mildlier than she usually was by party people her age, and she reckoned that I had not lied to her, even when I demonstrated that Louis’ world would sweep her away further than she had ever fathomed, in life, and leave her, somewhat, asking for more, then, Hugo was offering a life like ours, no less. After thorough grandes eaux ablutions, we follow the lights to the bedroom Hugo wants us to visit, how keenly! on satiny, pearly grey primed walls were hung heavily rock-crystal framed mirrors in which our reflections seemed out of alignment, labyrinthine, untrue, so to speak. From the top cornice up, a shuddering flock of greyish Mister Finch moths had gathered over the whole ceiling, in a council of utterly frivolous urgency, under what we stood, nude and embraced, when Hugo toppled us onto the Mister Finch fluffy bed cover.

A crafty device had been concealed into the 50 to 70 cm models so that they shivered slightly at random, or else they might be alive, like moths, totally innocuous. Hugo gathered some savantly frayed velvety cushions to sit against, and let us cuddle ourselves in his lap, watching upwards. We had overspent our content all day, our maiden roses had blushed and panted, we were beaten happy and wished only to rave on life. All that Lizon hoped was to thread in through with me, and everyone I was threaded in through with. Hugo liked her way of declaration and started to coil our curls innocently together. Grazing her elusive tits with my fingertips, I whispered she had not yet seen and done all, pretty debutante, she retorted she trusted her life to me and begged for a real kiss.

Hugo was first to nod out, then Lizon reached a slow baby breath and I still had to creep out to go pee, in a round little silver, where I sat, loo led to with a snail path, silently ventilated, where I sat with my intimate affairs, watching myself in an oval mirror until my head brutally fell aside and I had to stumble back into the moth bed and the moth world.
Then, there was snow upon Saint Loup, random fluffy flakes whirling in the dark morning, and Ayla wore a red flannelette floating pyjama full of her tiny smells of toiletries, toffee, and carnation. Switzerland was a pretty snowflakes ball in which we stood groping each other in our fluffy old cottons. The birds, the rabbits, the squirrels had forgotten that day to come, some lost wild-eyed goblin would jump in and sneak its pretty feet under our covers, hoping for hot cocoa but unwilling to saddle up to the canteen. We played a Britpop compilation some suitor of mine had left on my bed with a love poem so poetic I had made no sense to it, Radiohead churned the hazy flakes and Jeff Buckley had snuck in some wine. I kept Ayla’s lithe honey-golden body enwrapped and wished I never grew old.
Lizon was desperate to wake me, for she said I had been crying; she was licking my eyes, I joshed that is what girls do; I asked her where she had been to school.

I had no memory of having gone down to the Mister Finch cosy nest, anyhow we met Lena in the grand kitchen and we realised we had no clothes, she laughed and offered us French toasts that French Lizon did not seem to know. She preferred coffee, so the frightening steam machine blew its long whistle, while I knew where Hugo’s best Darjeelings were stashed, and Lena patted my bum, she is a fine-looking woman; she said Hugo had gone early, with Theo, and had been joyous. Lizon was shied, I asked her to rather sit by my side, and told her Lena was Natalia’s mother, she smiled to her, probably rethinking of what Natalia and her had done last night, that visibly Lena did not ask to know.
It would be a day of Gianni’s, who would be thrilled to discover new silhouettes to undress and palpate so innocently, but Kate found that, given the weather, it would be good fun to welcome him in the nude. The dignified old gay tailor smirked and took to our game, inviting Lizon to tango first, then Fayelle, then me that he had a soft spot for; when Kate came back from the bathroom, she strongly smelled of galbanum, incense and iris, which made her look as the assenting odalisk of whom I craved the gazes from below, Princess style; Gianni ran to brush off any misgivings and skimmed the tall body like it were a length of the rarest silk, and waited for a smile, that bloomed with a furtive stretch.

A tad spooked by our “pinch of salt” kind of ceremonial with an older, most elegant, bespoke fitted, gay, unfazed character, our two nymphets enlaced each other at the waist, hips swayed Canova style, and Gianni loved that. He had brought light and vague see-through chiffon dresses, that we donned at once, surprising the youth, for whom we ran and fetched previous models of Gianni’s he thought of fitting on the girls right away. He was delighted, already in shirtsleeves, with his wrist black velvet pincushion, basting here and thereupon the girls, like fitness models. After a few hours of babbling, tea and biscuits with the hard-working tailor, our elfies knew what it felt to wear a fitted hand-sewn outfit, and became adorers of Gianni’s, who caressed their feet and agreed that we should go get the proper model of Smith & Wooton sneakers, what we did, after we signed the bill and Kate slipped an Italian envelope into his breast pocket; our doe-eyed brats were stunned, they slipped on their jeans and Chuck Taylors, oversized shirts and we walked to the shoe shop. They smelled summer hay and happy sweat.

Neither Lizon nor Fayelle fitted in our shoes, a half-size more or less; we had to reckon we had been lucky all along, swapping our wears and colours. In the shops, they both became fussy fashionwise, but we agreed on dolphin grey, round-tipped, velvet slippers embroidered with stray rag dolls for Lizon, whom the salesperson made to blush, and Colefax & Fowler designed azure, asymmetrical peonies on Fayelle’s lean toys-with-toes; together, they felt dizzy learning the price of our whims for them.
Then we took them to Brigitte’s emporium, for all the close-up tortures such as manicure, pedicure, total wax —neither had ever done laser, yet. We, ourselves, in addition to our nails and toes, found ways to use our time, along with them, in beauty masks and peelings.
On our way back, we stopped at Agnete & Sanne for our dinner in bed. a bucket of grapefruit, sweet peppers, mushrooms and grapes seemed fit, along with different seeded bread rolls and elderberry-blueberry soy yoghurt, we kept spot-on vegan.

 

Kate says:

Back home, nude and idle, Sarah played provocation with the two girls, making them taste the all-new feeling left by the expertise of Brigitte and her helps, from the tips of their tongues, they admitted that thorough depilation made them feel even more nude, available to desires, deliciously helpless but deeply responsive. There, I began to lay down my depraved plot for next night; I had called my long time accomplice Victor, of whom Sarah could testify too, to carry us four to anywhere of his realm to use us or have us used, unrestrained, short of spilling blood, tearing or breaking any bodily part; I, and then Sarah, had played quite a few times, Victor is part of the “Circle Of Liars”, anyone partying at his want would be fully safe and tested, and the reward was usually hefty, always had been. Sarah had been wanking Lizon and I could see by the gleam of her come that she had been as aroused by this swiftly said program, as Fayelle at my side.

These two wondering frippets felt like stray sparrows at our nonetheless cautious hands, and they needed to ask numerous questions. All stretched and bare as the truth, upon our undone grand bed, Sarah and I had to tell our stories, slidings and spirals, in a manner, if not fully comprehensive, at least openly wholehearted. We were plugged into SomaFM, and captivating visuals by G-force, on the wall screen and the sound surround,  in the darkened room; I might have been near-sobbing while trying to recount the stupidest of my fails, but on the flip side they both wished they had been sent to Sarah’s squirrel’s heaven by a feet wizard almighty father, and she demonstrated how to tame a damsel counting her toe bonelets. The mess of us smelled of the new arrival of geranium-orange Neal’s Yard Remedies’ shower gel, and exaltations of indefatigable freshly groomed quims, in fits and starts to reach animalistic climaxes, collapse, glide sweaty skin on sweaty skin, and doze out.

Both sister souls, in the sheltered lenity of our bed’s brooklet, as visions of Klimt’s, sensuously divagated at our whims, vowing perpetual allegiance with us, trusting their new lives to our most libertine faith. Befuddled by the easy train of carnal jolts, reading us like compelling guidances of life ways fit for their idea of themselves. Their career into the confederacy of lust, to which we professed to belong, would step up through the next swoon-over garden of Victor’s, from where we had fostered the most adorable free Beryl electron, upstairs with Natalia, our promise, inclined to creep into anyone’s sleep and thighs, anytime. Since she was virtually born in the house, she has all access, like Beryl, daughter of Victor’s most trusted all time cook, was always there wherever I woke, inside the pandemonium. A dew of anticipation beaded at their foreheads when they surrendered to sleep, Sarah’s eyes sprinkled sapphire specks when I told her to play my bitch.

 

Sarah says:

It ought to be morning, an enchanting scent perfused through the pulled shutters, moist and petrichor, from the overgrown garden under Hugo’s bays, when I saw Lizon’s eyes staring spell, and my lower belly started to stiffen and ache, until she blinked, by reflex. I dared cup her still face and I felt it was warm like life. She was truly fascinating, like some Victorian legend out of her frame, and then I saw, there, sentience emerge and the mist of a smile float towards my tears; I felt dumb. She later explained that she had always done that, and she did not know it, but then on, I could watch her be absent, and moreover do to her whatever I fancied. From the far side of the sheet, Kate and Fayelle almost fell off, was it from laughs?
In the living room, the roses cried lust; some generous soul had brought French toast —I owed a lot of Cheshire grins, downstairs— also nectarines and strawberries, and an exotic smoothie in the refrigerator. Natalia too, was there, nude as a Cranach with a sharp knife of a toy, and whispered she had not dared use the loo, yet; as of what I heard she met Kate there, in the mood for watersports. As we watched the tea brew, Lizon was cajoling me, as if to be sorry for inflicting me the sight of some untold flaw of her; I had to wholly wake and straighten my gaze in hers, to assure this frail fawn-like stray that watching her little self-resuscitation had been an emotional trip, which I tickled out of her ribs.

In his rare drawn glass manner, Victor had written that he would pick only the two younglings to his night tour, and us all in three days, if their returning tales were to arouse us. Owning the right to Victor of his want, we, nonetheless, felt a cold wind and therefore wrote to Liselotte, letting her feel our wide availability for the night. Meanwhile, Natalia, with all the grace of her hips swayings, was raving on Victor’s infinite inspirations, such as told to her by Beryl, who was the long time pet in the Master’s maze —her mother was the chef, there— and had seen and been with the most hair-raising parties, which she loved to retell to her lustful apprentice. She was bustling on their laps and took pride at making her elders salivate, and more.
When this teapot was empty, Kate led us out to visit the upstairs, firstly to Natalia’s whereabouts, letting her know of the new connection with the next building. Natalia, no sooner had she seen the planks at the far end of the corridor, that her crafty mind had known new boarders were to come, and who knew what arrangements Hugo might imagine; for her own sake, she contemplated another path to their scented den of girls.

After some furtive animal beats on Natalia’s bed, in their appealing student atmosphere, under the peaceful gaze of Lee Miller sitting nude across the bed she shared with Man Ray, a real print given by Hugo, as a token to femininity, in a sleek frame, all along nude as the midsummer night fairies, we climbed down to the studio, and Natalia went on kissing Fayelle full mouth in the lift. These damsels were stunned by our “Palacio Mentale”, including the modern amenities, and, because it was summer, we all gathered under the wide showerhead and I wanked Natalia, laughing in her smooth tones of voice. Switching on our spacy sound system to Saturnian layered music, I thought I read some envy in Fayelle’s larimar gaze, so I took her to the red sofa and told her she was welcome, I thought, in school days memory, if we would think of her becoming.

 

Kate says:

Natalia sat beautifully in my chair, and I nibbled at her perfect toes, imagining the two kittens upstairs, grooming each other, in their ethereal nymphaeum; Fayelle had kept wondering what to fear, since the announcement that they were to go by themselves, and indeed, she was far from seasoned, as a casual libertine, on this nightly planet of pleasures. I had no better to say than she would anyhow enjoy herself as she had at Louis’, only the amazement ought to be greater, given Victor’s reputation as the most flabbergasting contemporary art collector, in the wall-to-wall category, although relentlessly teasing himself with live beauty objects, such as near-candid nymphs, richly motivated. Now both eager damselflies, in colours, tickled me to spoil some features of their upcoming mystery ride; I wouldn’t. I retold them that Sarah and I were regulars at his stupendous kind of club, and for a goodly reward, mind us. In the meantime, we needed to go to a routine blood check and make a party pass for Fayelle, Natalia whined that she did not have one, I told her she did not need one to stay with us.

After she read my message bringing to Liselotte’s attention the presence with us of some unfledged nymphet, naggingly appealing, said I —and Liselotte knew our house pet and had picked a taste of her bum— sometimes, the aforementioned imp frowned and set her feet up on the studio table, waiting for us to return, listening to my old favourite by Alpha, “Come From Heaven”, a gift from Cynthia.
It was warm but dry and windy; we preened our fillies, knowing full well what awaited them. The dresses Gianni had fitted could have flown out of a Wedgwood blue jasperware Greek revival villanelle; attuned to their eyes colours, one was “midsummer haze upon the Wattenmeer”, strewed with printed intertwined ribbons, with no sleeves and a round collar, widely flared from the breast down to the knees; it could be lifted with one hand —Fayelle wore no undies. In the same azure tones as her peony slippers, she needed a childish vest for pockets. Lizon swayed her hips in the pleats of green sandbanks, three layers of flimsy chiffon stitched to a slim willow green trimming opening front on her pale and flat chest and edging the shoulders; the anime-inspired forlorn dolls embroidered at her feet made fun of her princess outfit, a tiny silver-grey piqué bolero shimmered at her neck; it wasn’t very difficult to see her shy pubis, either.

A slow, impervious, moonshine-grey limousine drove across the Carousel bridge and awaited before the galleries of the Quai Voltaire to catch away the two elfies like in a movie scene. We bought raspberries and returned to our mindy pet girl.
Natalia had her thick dark hair cut swimmer-short, showing irresistibly dainty ears, amber-tawny eyes under lucky long lashes, and, then, she offered purple lips. She was still very nude, I started to dress her with an amethyst dog collar necklace, and assorted anklet; in our closet, she picked one of Sarah’s jean rolled-hem shorts, naggingly baggy, which truly made her fawn legs, and an ivory silk lingerie top that highlighted her tiny nipples; flat strapped sandals let her worshipped toes do Punch and Judy.
Sarah was in a lewd mood, too, she pulled a feather-light Mali indigo-stained shirt dress and blue Egyptian sandals. She was still gardenia white and eager, she let Natalia wank her lazily. I slipped on an ancient collarless boy’s shirt, from Sarah’s collection, over tell-all black yoga shorts, and white laceless sneakers. I too, donned a necklace and anklet, of black onyx
Liselotte called from a car downstairs, and we were taken to the flowered suburbs.

On the leather back seat, we had a bustling monkey all over us, for the amused interest of Liselotte and the driver up front; it triggered Sarah’s comments about the young and restless Esther, who had recently been assaulted and injured by a demented pig diplomat she had wanted to score. The horror had rand alarms through the high courts that do not exist, and while Esther’s face was fully bandaged, the brainless criminal became no longer a diplomat, nor anything, in his shamed homeland; he had been formally expelled after a fit of rage in a palace hotel, because he could no more obtain extra-services from anyone, he had thrown furniture out of the windows.
Natalia had not lost the part when Esther would have “scored” the diplomat, and force was it to elaborate on Esther’s current occupations. She grasped swiftly, and went on saying at least three of her classmates did earn money in special online chatrooms, and not only tips; one of these girls even had dragged her onto her stage bed for a few hours of pandering to some eight hundred peeping Toms who had clicked-down their tokens fast to watch schoolgirls play with each other’s gashes and stuff. Now she said it had been a one-off, but I could feel an eager dew inside her shorts.

The whole trip, Liselotte had bent over towards us, gaining one or two of Sarah’s feet she had come to worship, too; I smiled thinking of what she let the driver ogle of her; she mostly devoured Natalia’s candid face, with occasional winks, at me.
We had parked in a deserted avenue lined with French-pruned lime trees and buhrstone walls; while the car glided away, Liselotte neared the smaller of two violet de mars lacquered doors of the imposing entrance to a deeply wooded estate, the concierge pad lit-up, and she slid in her own blank card; bigger lights meant that a camera scrutinised us, then a dry clap signaled the door opened.
The park smelled the arch-evocative blend of boxwoods, roses, and the kind of murky scents hinting of a nearby pond. Sarah was enthralled with swarms of reminiscences from paradise; low, shaded lights, were just only enough to see the path that meandered through well maintained high foliages, Liselotte was taking the most of Sarah’s boundless emotional puff, raving in her neck on the night to be. I was hand-carrying Natalia’s meager outfit; lit from below, she appeared like a girl fay, conjured by an Edmund Dulac.

Walking by a curve of the paved road, there was some eerie heavy breathing, shuffling from under the bushes; we regrouped and turned to Liselotte for a clue, she knew this place. She seemed to be as spooked as we were, and spluttered vaguely. So then, a pair of, as yet nonchalant, great mastiffs stopped and scented us up, two white doodles on the patch of mowed grass. Natalia was shaking, clung to my side. Then a very high pitched sounded from nowhere, making me realise it was night, for good, and the dogs leaped away silently. Natalia had peed on her feet. Liselotte mumbled apologies, but we moved on.
The one-storied manor was eleven bays long, in clear limestone, the most classical French way, overlooking an English designed park, with a curvaceous pond. There was no moon to be seen, but the stiil, starry night above the black silhouettes of the trees and in the water mirror. The festive interior cast glimmers of candle lights and crystals as we neared the perron, on the paved terrace.

A well-built young man, with a bushy tawny mane tied in a catogan, in a theatrical Grand Siècle outfit, the white stockings and black patent leather slippers, hurried down to us and kissed our hands rather informally, mostly those of my puzzled pet imp. In the muted rumour that suffused from inside, along with scents of marshmallow and violet, some string of notes hit a nerve in my chest, and I knew Malo was playing for the party, I cried out joyfully, almost forgetting my poor Natalia begging to find her a place to wash up her pissy legs.
Yes, Malo was there, with only one candle, nude on a precious rug with her gleaming instrument, only she had now affixed microphones clipped under the fingerboard, and she was improvising along with two lovable Hang gongs beaters, namely those who accompanied our night on the Saint Louis island.
Firstly, Natalia and I needed at least a shower, the tuft headed boy led us to a bathroom, and stayed; the spacious marble clad recess was lit from behind wavy surfaced glass panes, and a saturnine crystal vortex to the ceiling. Natalia wanted more than running water, and, obviously, the management of this house had displayed a hoard of all the miniature toiletries you may find in expensive venues, she chose a man’s classic “Habit Rouge”and I approved, and so the comedy valet, whose breeches really showed his enthusiasm, then; —and were conveniently closed by a fall front where my soapy hand did marvel— I was to tell him not to try to shag my cadette, when Liselotte found us and came in the flow, highly approbative of the scent choice, which earned Natalia a gluttonous kiss. She helped the servant lose his pants and told him that the young one was there to watch and be watched, not much more, but she took the availed dick in her bunghole, hardly standing to the humping by a young blood .

There again, things were going terrific, five minutes after we had entered this house, we were already shagging in the restroom, along with a nude nymphet we had brought. Liselotte received eagerly her due, the tepid water flowed and Natalia was teasing the undeterred cock into shape again.
Sarah ought to have been captured and not defend her pretty frame against greedy hands or more, Liselotte was asking me what I waited for, speaking of the windfall willie that Natalia presented me. The attendant had a curvy mouth, I pulled him to kiss me while I sat on a commodity console and he also penetrated my easy cooter, delightfully taking his time with his second round. Meanwhile Liselotte ensnared my pet sister out to the depth of the party.
When we had both reached our vapoury glows, and again washed our glory anew, I asked him his name, he was Josselin Le Fayel, whom I then singled out as one of Liselotte’s courtiers at our show, and she would know how to touch him, perchance; he knew things about me, and Sarah, we had patronised the same alma mater, in our salad days.

Sarah rested lewdly on a large oriental cushion, at Malo’s feet, accepting the heavy, sculpted, shelam and sucking the flame given by a coppery-skin, erected, fine-feeted groom, blocking her breath like old times, capsizing in a Bernini smile. I loved her terribly. My eyes crossed Malo’s gaze and she stitched an elusive ornament into her improvisation, showing me the tip of her tongue. Sarah was already swimming slow into foreplay with the flame genie; I had not inhaled any dragon’s tail since my Berlin collapse, but I knew what gold fishes she was coiling along with, I remembered our project of doing a full-blown psychedelic trip together, in the safety of our grand bed; after two more puffs, they shagged like godlike feather-snakes, I had been erased from Sarah’s sentience, he donned a beastly muscular back  —it was her fucking turn.

Natalia had been searching for me, she showed me the vibrant red plastic bracelet that Liselotte had sealed on her wrist, sign that she was only an undergraduate at the sciences here in motion; nonetheless she told me that she had been abundantly palpated before she saw me. We heard some eerie laments, and it weren’t Sarah. Liselotte signed for us to follow her to a further salon, where an all-blond creature was tied to a knee-high bench and thoroughly licked by one of the molossus met in the park; she wore a red leather jumpsuit wide opened at the crotch. All of a sudden, the animal climbed on its forelegs and presented its pointed weewee in the bum-crack of the not-so-unwilling patient, and humped frantically all over the offered butt without finding its way in, until it did and managed to slid in a monstrous flesh contraption, and gradually steadied itself, fixing down the overwhelmed maiden, letting itself drip overflow, tongue dangling. Clenching my little pet soul, I wouldn’t have known what to elaborate about the caligulesque orgy, but Natalia could feel my quim was again drenched —I made sure about hers—.  Bestiality, as often mentioned in good erotic literature, were a transgressive hunch beyond human eroticism, then and there rashly shown as feasible. The dogs belonged to the girl, told us a shrewd lad who would know the kick that kind of outrageous demonstration produces on an unaware libertine audience, he was already fiddling in my butthole; when the spent mastiff collapsed aside, he jumped with his stiff dick to bugger the red damsel. I would not have shunned the licking part of the game, but I mentally shied the veins-ridden monstrous truncheon I had seen insert itself into the pale kitty of the leather-clad blonde.

Liselotte dragged us into an all-black boudoir, rummaged through soft-lined drawers, then I felt heavy strap leather handcuffs that she locked together in my back, telling Natalia to affix another pair to my ankles; she said she would shun the bit, to let my mouth available, and buckled a sturdy collar around my neck, kissed me full-mouth, palpated me over and clipped on a leather leash, with which she whipped my butt; she then bedecked Natalia of the same accessories, making her giggle and wring by her unfettered abuses, and finally link her collar to mine, saying that the filly should remain with her mare, for the time being. By the leash, she pulled us, willy-nilly, Natalia jostling a bit, different metal rings, hooks and snap-links made brutal sounds —though the wearing of the harness was altogether comfortable. A side door led to black helical stairs up to a black corridor feebly lit by the inner gleam of crystal mirror frames, in which I relished to see us two bound together. A double door opened on a dark muffled and misty salon, haunted by respiration sounds, that smelled strongly of cannabis and opium, as I whispered in Natalia’s ear. After a while, being displayed by our nude procurer in the center of the rug, lit by four dark lanterns, and a round of pipe lamps —although it seemed the assembled immortals used more modern contraptions to free the drug dragon and inhale it swiftly. Skinny younglings ran around the pipes to attend, crouching in a way that showed their illegally young butts, except for Liselotte who caressed one, who raised a small scion, just like Cynthia’s; that one was shaved bald and offered blooming lips to Natalia, as I wanked in my back the undetermined peewee the way my lover had taught me, before kneeling, with all the rattling sounds, to suck it thoroughly.

Appreciative rumours hailed my amorous tribute to bygone seasons they would never know of, while I drank the liquor that spurted from somewhere at the birth of the valiant little stem, and made Natalia taste on my lips while our windfall semi-god stumbled, then granted us a fond black gaze.
A rough male voice ordered a bench be rolled in, and a few more nude kids bearing diverse leather accessories like straps and belts, all pretty and on-task like circus extras, both sexes, buckled me, my body, upon the black leather padding, my ankles lifted high by two chains from the ceiling, so as to offer my dripping sanctum to the crowd. Natalia was kept close to my head, the heavy smokes had turned us on, Liselotte held a lunge whip while wanking me masterfully, the young genderqueer imp played tongue upon my lips, I was reckoning that my old angst had not fired up, I was expecting the whip, and the cock.
Liselotte checked the strength of my ties, and, after another kiss to Natalia, whipped my chest, my belly, my thighs and between, deep in the crack, until I yelled out of accepted pain, at the chants of the stoned attendance, who had stood and circled up my torment. Natalia was sobbing, Liselotte stopped, my filly’s tears flowed in my eyes, I whispered low that this was all a game, and that they would now fuck and bugger me silly, for her to see, or not, it were always time to stop, if she would better. I knew someone was fondling her, over me, and her kiss was winding; her hands brushed over the whip marks, firing pain and delight; a taut manly jigger-mast possessed me like a gust through an open door, it was the first of so many more, I saw the relentless charge of the moon horses, the flights of swans over the dark forests, and the jewels lines inside Natalia’s brightened eyes. More of them pulled my hips up and reached into my butthole while others devoured the young body with their tongues and made way for those who discharged in my throat, that repulsive savour of filth, incomparable yet addictive as the lashes of the whip. Slow hands were creeping all over my sweats, mean coyotes lapped up my armpits, my feet, my neck, I was a river of bodily scents, I drifted in an tideway of humming oblivion.

When I regained my spirits, out of the waving tapestries of my own unfathomable pandemonium, I were lying on a vast sofa bed where the last comatose shagged ought to have occurred, a purplish blue gleam bathed the room, I ached in my bones and joints, but Natalia and Liselotte applied upon my valorous skin some legendary witch balm, along with my new genderqueer conquest of whom I remembered keenly; the name was Delfan Vigery, the eyes, swift and witty, aventurine green, by the colour of the eyebrows, only pilose remnant about the body, this beauty’s hair were acorn blond. I loved that otherly sweet skin, this bony square frame, not unlike my Sarah’s, one’s mouth was deliciously gallant, too. Then and there, I was spent, Natalia was wild-eyed and revelled in Delfan’s novelty; Liselotte –who had been eventually as much savaged as me, reclined her cheek on the thighs she had martyrised; still ornate in leather, steel and bronze, I decided I wanted to find Sarah, and took the two devil kids with me. The whole house was sleepened, now, eventually I unearthed my “Doppel-verträumt” inside a vortex of white linens, ensnared to Malo, both smiling in their sleep; I knew it was preferable to soothe her back from her towers of Rosenborg flights, I invited the party in the bed and uncovered the cloud gliding couple, Malo’s hand rested on Sarah’s pubis. Natalia an Delfan were enthralled and aroused, I foresaw the thrill at the discovering of one’s candid eyes and irreal body. One had, en passant, hinted of the latent shame one bore on oneself, why one craved being shagged silly endlessly, for lack of wholesome love, because of one’s exception, and I had tried to beam on one all the liveliness that night had left in my spine, kissed one whole and held one’s lovable eeriness in my fingers. And that is while in a such moment the mindy squirrel revived from her faraway shores and stared at Delfan, read her whole, grabbed the catch and smiled, in full trust of my mental whereabouts. I made a thorough presentation of one, whom she jumped and hugged, singing some gibberish alleluia, starting to grope whatever she could of one’s.

Delfan had slipped on baggy jeans, an oversized tee-shirt, and a light yellow, business-like, double-breasted jacket with rolled sleeves, shoed cute beaded white mocassins, for one had been invited at Natalia’s. Liselotte was proud of the whole sequence of unleashed debauchery, her clout among them, Panado affiliates, should raise to the scope of an imperium, even when an unforeseen windfall the likes of a Delfan grace would transfigure a mere tourist attraction –these whip marks stung like endless nettles, didn’t they? Malo was in a hurry, in a short black and white checkered dress over white tights and black patent leather slippers, fresh as a pre-dawn dew, smelling of wild rose, she was running to the taxi outside the park, promising to visit us, kissing bemused Delfan and pulling her cello case’s strap across her shoulder.
The red leather blonde and her two companions had zipped back her crotch and played her toes on one of the twins’ throat, who showed the same stale boredom.
Our train of angels wrested itself out of this informal bordello of sorts, increased of an intersex applicant that would not return to one’s hotbed and had become Natalia’s overnight’s pet, thus an in-law of mine, too.
Led with maintained bravura by Liselotte, myself arm in arm with a dreamy Sarah, we walked away along the still dark meanders, saluted by the earlier blackbird mocking us. The car was one of these German minibusses with all the road comfort, Natalia hurtled to the third bench with her catch, whenas three of us mingled in each other’s slumbers, softly jolted by the humming black whale.
We reached home in a glorious dawn, Delfan was stunned by what one called our grand stand, as much as our wholehearted kindness, one said one never would like to leave our nest, and Natalia served herself a heap of tender bits about one’s soft-hearted person; I knew she would reach Hugo any price, her own mother if need be, to obtain a pass for one to settle, and she only had a faint glimmering of the decisions involved. For then and there, she longed to lay nude in one’s arms and eventually doze out.
Liselotte mentioned that we wouldn’t mind her staying in our bed after crawling at Sarah’s feet in the shower —begging for being peed on, a last time.

 

Lizon says:

I had never ridden such luxury, by reflex, I took of my shoes and sat on my feet; the gliding cloud smelled of dark red wood and black orchid inside the tweed jacket of a beloved uncle, when you are not taller than where his heart pumps. An impressive man was sitting beside us, causing Fayelle to lean on me to face him. He wore some thin black double-breasted suit of matte silk and wool brocade, as it felt, with a silver gleam vest and an open immaculate shirt, he could have brought a glory days producer to bankruptcy, for what I knew. Right away profiting of the road bumps, he led his hand into Fayelle’s nude thighs and disposed her moody blue creases upon her belly. We had only met, he transfixed us both with squinted dark eyes and thick lashes, and he told us to make love to one another, as the car reached a shaded corner of some park and other heavy cars parked along ours to let voyeurs enjoy our tiny pantomime, as Victor cradled our obedient heads in his streamlined hands. Some of the johns took pride in spurting on the windows. As he told the turbaned chauffeur to roll on, he unbuttoned his fly and asked us to suck his dick, which loomed up from white silk satin. Fayelle went for it with abandon and I loved her for it, as I sought some blessing in Victor’s glare and reaped a mindful kiss. He wanted us to swap, and Fayelle to lick my butthole while I throated him as deep as our contorsions let, and I began to feel whorish and wet as I would never have known otherwise.

He gushed in deep and told me to swallow all, kindly, so I went on with my slutty persona, letting him guess I relished his whims. For years, I had been more or less sold by Eric to his junkie pals who used me as an offloader bag, and somehow, the vertigo of my own worthlessness, after the miserable enslavement to my own granddad, had kept me back from what Eric headed to, with his tremors shivers and convulsions. Since Hector had ferreted me out of the glue, surrendered me alive to his dragon master, I had been threading anew my elements of lust and lost gradually the mould of my poor soul, in harmony with the free birds of the invisible castle. After that speckle of gold in my chest, Lizon succeeded, almost in spite of me, to elate my eager womb and taste my holy flows. Victor patiently stole away our attires, the sun set over endless fields, where windmills waived any remorse.

Down from the bare industrial grain and beet fields, the car slowed down a greener and fresh valley that smelled of heady poplar leaves. An iron gate’s robust wings swivelled asides at the command of Victor’s telephone, a river led to a centuries old monastery, with moats and fish basins. Installed in a long prairie where placid horses paid no attention, stood a large copper sphere, greying against a curtain of tall trees, it was four or five times higher than the horses that grazed at its base.
At the coming of the car, another heavy portal started to open in what felt as a defence wall beyond the moat, there were creaky noises in the wood bridge, and we rolled through a paved courtyard to a stately door in a corner; The sunset had chilled the air and an ethereal mist hovered amongst the tall trunks, but the ground remained warm under our bare feet, we breathed carefree, we danced together before our host.
With all his sartorial splendour retightened, he embraced us on each sides and led us into a vast and high, round armoury, –although no arm were to be seen in the palace, where the main feature was a planet sized blown glass mirabilia hanging at the nexus of the stone vault, the fiery work of the Irish Master Chihuly, in all the deep, gemlike colours of transcended carnal passion. Under the prodigious halo spawned within the exploded efflorescence, a thick and soft carpet, woven in cloud shapes, already called for lust, under my toes.

Echoes of a fluid melody flew in all directions and he told us the water was playing it randomly through an ages-old revived contraption. As he was playing kindly with my arse, he led us to a small round marble clad chamber, lit by a rain of tiny prismatic crystals in the hollow of cupola; on the ground, a black and white optical pavement radiated around the pedestal of a “pietre dure” table, only furniture of this cosy kind of oratory. The top of the table was one round piece of clear Carrara marble, overran by a jumble of inlaid fauna and curiosæ, polished to a high luster, all figured running away from a central black sun.
Out of a secret niche I had not seen him operate, Victor fetched a small gold jewel box, engraved on its six faces with enraptured nymphs floating in the endless waves, with no groove to show where it might part opened. The thing was heavy, appealing to the hand, infinitely finished, like apparently everything Victor craved, and he brushed over my baby tits with the virtuoso ridges of the small masterpiece, while Fayelle pressed her flanks to mine and groped me like I were part of the art piece.
Victor spoke of what was inside the casket, it was his own recipe of an ultimate blend of psychedelic drugs, one he had been crafting along with the mind tweaking prophet whose ashes float in space today. From what he was then feeling of my intimacy, he knew I shied off, and he made me retell my fright, helped by my sister libertine. He did not insist, told us what, other than cocaine, was in the mix, and jokingly warned me they might, as well, snort the powder themselves, and dose me up with their kisses. Setting down the shiny box upon the black sun, he pressed a succession of precise details, a foot, a hand, a face, and then one of the larger sides lifted up along one edge, letting shown a stash of pale dawn blue powder in the mirror sleek gold inside. A tiny jewelled gold spoon was half-buried in the impalpable dust.

 

Fayelle says:

For what she had confessed of her previous damned life, I knew Lizon would baulk at a drug proposition, and I understood the panic fright it might spark off in her bones. yet, our elders had talked about the wondrous blue dust, even Beryl had advised not to miss a chance, and she had experienced since her petit rat days in Victor’s grand Parisian fortress.
Victor did not start a palaver about the anecdote, after inhaling a good spade load to himself, he matter-of-factly handed me the trinket spoon and pushed the open box in my direction, and, trusting Kate’s advice, I snorted the eerily smelling powder, and hugged the Prince Charming. Leaving Lizon in the oratory, he took me back onto the grand carpet under the colour corollas, and asked me to disrobe him.
I had soon perceived an alleviation all along my spine down to my womb and the close sight of his tanned skin and dry muscles made me feel drenched; were it a kick of the sneaky substance, I had never enjoyed keener attentions than his massages and tongue twirls. Amongst the disheveled choirs that suffused in my brainwaves, the voice of Sarah advising a thorough toilet before surrendering to the wolf fangs diverted me, a second, from revelling in his eager glare and let go on a boggling chaplet of climaxes.
Like sugar on some dainty pastry, Lizon showed traces of powder at her nostrils’ rims, and I licked them clean, with the echoing songs of some naughty kindergarten recesses; she was lain upon my blissful belly and Victor was buggering her calmly, his smile pouring into my eyes.

She wriggled her narrow hips like a sparrow in a dusty spot of sun, I could feel her dancing heartbeat, no nasty afterthought would cling to her elated soul, for the night being. He shouted off his pleasure deep into her, and then peacefully cuddled us in the contemplation of the refracted lights, as our dilated pupils shimmied ad infinitum, into the hovering carousel.
While ineffable shudders roamed the vessels of my transfixed material being, visions waved through my sight in successive tapestries of meticulous ornaments, howbeit allowing me to stand, unfettered, and move, clenched aside my amorous and slutty lass, to another door, and the mirror-clad powder room, where Victor, wild-eyed, gave us enemas of devilish neroli, and asked for the same treat to himself, at what we clumsily obliged.
He showed us to a new, large vaulted gallery, lit by an erratic array of clear, texture-pressed stained-glass clouds, sheltering swarms of cool-white leds. Otherwise, the room was meticulously empty, but of course, upon the marble floor, a palm-width deep carpet ran like an echo of the ceiling’s clouds ran the full length, foretelling the capacity of possible orgies. One length was opened with frosty bays of the same crystal as the chandelier, across, were hung twelve panes of a stupendous low-relief composition of copulating demigods and beasts, seemingly executed in ivory white lacquered wood, gold leaf, and inlaid random details in polished lapis lazuli scattered upon the upper fields of purely abstract decorative skies.
I stood, flabbergasted, if ever, so powerful was the piece; only on vintage photos of the ocean liners decor had I met ideas of this kind of magnitude, and achievement.

As we stumbled across the plushy mounds of wool, the infinite generated sounds raved on, reverberated like an invisible flock of bats through and around us; like tickles on our temples, rows of crystal harps unrolled flickering acrobatics, when we started to see the life size characters and beasts on the multifold panel begin to move and mingle, winking at us. Victor had gripped my rump and bent me forward to Lizon’s while he glided in me like the steel in the scabbard. The divinities in the shimmering curtain exuberantly spent their ardours, as we did, till exhaustion, till I howled like a distraught lioness nailed to a soil of bliss.
We ought to have dozed out, our tamer carried us unconscious to this tepid and scented pond in the midst of a dim alabaster refuge. Our heads had been ensconced on attentionate pads, he was still playing with our toes, his own tucked in my boundless acceptance.
The world had changed, the emotions that surged out of my ensavaging plexus seemed to form, at my will, colours, shapes, and sounds indifferently and backwards, striking waves of fourth dimension climaxes, and I could read the same ecstasy over Lizon’s transfigured face, as I literally swam to her.

When our fingertips started to funnily crease, Victor bore us back to our true weight and motherly wiped us; he opened a gold, round, powder box on which blue butterflies frolicked, against a dawn-orange, guilloché, enamelled sky. With the puff he had fetched inside the box, he blessed our bodies wholly in a smell of irises, violets, lilac, and we nuzzled each other in a frenzy, and his indefatigable intimacies, I repaid a favour to him, wanking his butthole with two stiff fingers. In a breather, he warned us that the dose we had swallowed was still in action, and would last till dawn, so we should spend ourselves freely and he would see to cradle us together, eventually.
Grabbing our butt cheeks lewdly, he pushed us through a door to a sombre, glass-floored, corridor, and shut the door behind. Under our playful feet, in a subdued purplish light, seemingly an arm length deep, laid a chaotic, shambolic mix of dust, pebbles, bones, unnatural debris, the complete entrails of a lost cemetery , and also teeth, jewellery, beads in their timeless rows… suddenly I flinched, at the hunch that there were no heads to be seen. As I looked up to Victor, he displayed a poor smirk and pushed our suddenly misplaced silhouettes towards the far end of the pathway, where we over went upon a heap of skulls of all sizes, some still half-buried; he said that the massacre had taken place at that very location, and the detailed examination had showed that a group of more than a hundred had been beheaded, probably during the heated religious wars that plagued France as a horrendous counterpoint to the Renaissance. Charnel grounds like these were not rare, this one had occurred inside religious confines and concealed under heavy slabs without any form of pardon. He lifted both of us, whose feet were almost freezing in the gaze of the mucky heads, and flew us to the next room, letting the door slap.

 

Lizon rants:

Some anteroom for amenities led to a large one-flight vault room, a multifaceted dome plated with haphazardly shaped red copper shields, like the geometry of aggregated bubbles in a cloud of froth, magnified to an awe-striking superhuman dimension. But I still belonged emotionally with the miserable swarm of decayed heads beyond the last door, awaiting pardon in the vain rubble, and clung feverishly to my soul twin, whose dear, stricken face, covered with fever dew. Immersed in the shimmering glow reflected by the rosy polished metal, a hummock of rounded, indolent-shaped, padded pods offered refuge to coil ourselves together and sob our marred dreams away. Victor crouched into the hideout, snuggled along my back and consoled our fright on his robust chest, as I felt his unabated desire against my bereft slit. Over my helpless plunders, he gripped Fayelle’s tide-wrack of a body and he humped in me as if to stab through both, slurring low vaguely shredded metaphors of death and vanity I comprehended unconscionably within my bedevilled womb.

Fayelle felt dancing against my devastated tummy, as I drifted throughout the crepuscular tatters of the rat-ridden wilderness, the self-pitied wounds of my wretched infancies like vivid coloured flaming shreds shattering upon the low terraces of solitude. My beauteous tormentor tangled up into my bejewelled innards, I swam like the rapturous medusa upon my drowned and forlorn lover lass, and she turned over for a pearly kiss and a hawthorn bliss laughter on my elated lips. Victor poured forth in my abandoned depths, like a vein of opal through the lava flow, and I ought to have turned loose all memory bounds in a blaze of mercy.

 

Sarah says:

It was laze-about afternoon in the studio, with our new gender-free pet beauty reading nude on the red couch, the unusual focus of anatomy looking pretty much like a girl’s vulva. The tribe of younglings barged in, Beryl had been missioned to release the debutantes from their expedition to Victorland. They carried chic carrier bags and wore new rags like expensive leggings and chiffon shirts, I fell in love instantly and groped their giggling bellies. They had woken somewhere in a sunny countryside, tall bays opened to a mellow breeze, and a table was dressed for three. Their driver, unimpressed by their nudity, brought the tea and coffee they asked, and sanguine oranges juice, toasts, fruit, and two fat envelopes to their names, in handwriting. Beryl had appeared, all smiles as ever, like she were another casual luxury of the realm, answering all necessary questions, forgetting others. When the usual pampering was done, she led them, through none of the rooms they had a recollection of, to a Gothic peristyle they admired, where the grand car purred, waiting.
Beryl had made no mystery she had known all about their night, she had been born in there, and she slid hands everywhere; The girls felt outrageously rich, The Sikh chauffeur had driven the heated trio to the Square Boucicaut.

However used to meeting suave humanity, so to speak, Beryl was stunned by a smiling Delfan, near whom she sat, eye in eye, listening to a smidgen of introduction by Kate, on the subdued tone of caution, at what one responded by opening one’s legs and hence giving a good glance at her, resting a knee on Beryl’s lap, inviting a caress, as it went. All the time when the two little courtesans bragged their debauchery in the stunning haunt neither Kate nor me ever knew of, Beryl was fondling and sucking Delfan and earned a wet face to herself. Later, Natalia emerged from her young sleepiness, we called for a rhubarb and plum tart from Punch An Judy, with the custard, and I brewed some rainy blissful oolong tea.
Lizon had reminiscences of the dead, pressed against the edge of the purple tunnel as if to escape their ordeal; she rationalised the vision without the supplementary dimensions the drugs had suffused in her mind, I called her on me, she smelled of a shy rose, and an idea of all the assaults she had let be done to her until dying at dawn, I was enthralled, her new pants felt peachy easy.
As Natalia had encaptured Fayelle upon James’ armchair —where Annabelle had she lured James away to? Kate joined Delfan and Beryl in their plays. She wanted to bring Delfan downstairs before dinner time. She invited one to see for some fittingly appealing outfit to visit the Lord of these swishy dovecotes.