This intoxicating beehive where we breathed and pirouetted in was now as full as Marie’s womb, —as we had seen her lately— I supposed her will has not waned, to throw some defenceless new soul in the general skittles game, and become unremittingly accountable before it; as I may read a few lives around mine, the preservation of the species outpours into pataphonia at most assays. Were it an undetected form of resistentialism, among humanity, that an unchosen few aggregate with each other, by way of occult magnetic fields, or unconscious attraction, or fatal seduction? Marie sported an horizontal buddhist smile, even when she slept, I guess, and made love with devotion to anyone who wished to cuddle her worshipped balloon, and relish her pouting lotus.
It was my birthday’s season, some twilights felt golden and endless, our cherubic recruits would sit on our red couch, and read aloud haunted tales by Marcel Schwob or Achim von Arnim, alleviating the long haul emotional tremor of our exhibition, as rewarding as it might have been. Hugo’s mental herd was in high demand, Liselotte showed a beaming complexion, our stray kittens had nested safely.
Then, with his birthday wishes, my father dropped a chilling address in the alignment of my immemorial crystals, our Tudor City perch had been sold, Far was retiring to Lausanne, and he needed me to sort out with the moving, and say grace to the river, which, anyhow, would eventually become barred from our terraces’ view when the three new glassy towers would stand upon the power plant’s wasteland. Did he say bygones be bygones?
Whatever the squirrel hid inside my hat, I was thrilled to bring Kate on my playground, and Far promised he would invite us in Lausanne as soon as the paint dried. Walking up to me, Kate pressed me on her heart and swore she would stand along with me; I had been crying. Fayelle and Delffan begged us to leave them in the studio while we were away, as if I had imagined to go for more than a week, at most, they obtained some limited enjoyment rights, and overall we trusted their discretion, furthermore, they had access to many nooks to have fun in without troubling our poetic paraphernalia, they said they wanted our books and there was the best place to read them.
Hugo took the news in his equable way, began to play havoc with my indeed unkempt work outfit, made me feel amorous, and decreed he would fetch us a flight of our own, then they stripped me nude and went tea-time naughty, as I like.
After the most convincingly fast and loving answer to Far, I sounded all alarms in our latent private Newyorchese chatroom, which only took a few hours to start whirring like forty-second street. Unsurprisingly, most of my pals lived far away from the glass cliffs of our childhoods, but, at least Julia Grant whom I had known so well in Saint Loup, awaited keenly after the frustrating elusiveness of her passage in Paris for our show; and Elsie Chautemps, who had become a lawyer and worked mainly for the UN, my cinnamon dancer with a heart, craved to see one last time the birdhouse of our nascent debauchery, and smell me for in the flesh, also she would go fish for the best animals in our dancing class, but test them for expiration.
There were some signs of upheaval among our younglings, but we pleaded it wasn’t a case of unfair abandonment, but of forlorn childhood rescue inside of my only soul, so they rested their rancours, in light of what seemed like some gravity, we made some pancakes with fruit and honey and thus gave our silly muffs a sweet taste.
Two suitcases laid opened in our room —sometimes big enough to contain a girl— awaiting for the attires of two sputnik Parisians descending upon Nueva York. In travel occasions, Kate shows best in high-end sportswear, but it is exactly what Ralph Lauren does, and she would rather shop on Madison to load her camels for the way back. I devised that she sports jeans like Carly Simon in my Far’s fantasies, and she owns a whole trousseau of her great aunts’ fineries, just enough provincial to strike as otherworldly for today’s lust. She is tall, so all these wise blouses are a tad too short on my Queen Fairy, and so, she shows her intact navel to anyone’s concupiscence.
As for me, I felt like swinging around like I would have fancied for some kinky Liselotte appointment, in a mix of vintage Danish boys’ shirts, and the best of Gianni’s craftily scavenged tailored evening jackets; in case of mental bug, one of my Boro coats could serve as a safety blanket, my soul as a scarf; overall, naught we shouldn’t dare don at a “Café Des Artistes” dinner with my Far. Anyhow, we still possessed the utmost luxury worth boasting in the monstrous city, that is a narrow arse and long legs, —to what Far would add slender feet.
We blessed, in a long kiss, our premonitory care for keeping our passports valid, and complied right away with the online registration, one never sneaks in the US, and I no longer carry a UN pass. The news of our expedition had been heralded on Radio Stockholm, one of our private community gazettes, Liselotte was already prowling around our fillies, but Natalia was enough smitten with Delffan not to wish cruising around, only had I scented some nifty shenanigan downstairs, Hugo had pretty soon yielded to Natalia’s wish to lodge Delffan in the high dovecote.
Boys of many kinds, who smelled of ripened wheat fields and faraway pines next to their coveted doors, had met the swayed eyes rookies and the knight of a flaming mane craved all of them but needed some go-ahead from us, principally.
As we were standing at attention, ready to run at the drop of a hat, we let the company camp in our court and ordered vegan pizzas, mesclun salad with hard boiled eggs, and many bottles of Kombucha.
Gauthier was his most, he smelled of that straw like a lark, and camomille, resin, and an echo of dusk jasmine on his gold speckled skin; I brushed his fly when he kissed good evening, he was already hard. When he had been teased by many, he beguiled the princesses and fell for the new ones, he already had his ways with Beryl and Natalia. Theo was overwhelmed by Delffan, who let him take one‘s hands and lead to the far end of a couch, dumbfounded. They engaged subtly in a reckoning of their existences and thus hugged, often; Natalia, who felt she had a right, joined them and petted her heavenly lover like they had been doing from their encounter. Fair-play, Theo let a trio be and willfully responded to Natalia’s flirt, as he saw content in the candid face of the shave headed one. Upon the spurious pretext of casting a glance to the ongoing arrangements upstairs, they flee with light-hearted giggles.
While Kate and me kept mostly to our own busy selves, —current activities had rekindled our old habits—, Gauthier had had the finesse to let the pair of debutantes potter about together, and sweet-talk them into disrobing each other, which they did , and all he wanted, casually. He could not know what kind of entertainment the lily-white maidens had attended lately, but he would not have been a man to take offense of a lovely pair of backstage nymphets; he lay down and offered a valiant willy, while he fondled their modest slits and eyelets. Lizon was first to greet him into her, with a deep glare.
Knowing, from themselves, that they would still elope, unpredictably, into scapes of their late Victorian experiences, a stark enrichment which would wane in weeks, only to glaze out, thinly, back in some mindful situations, or emotional highs, we slid ourselves nude along their shapely backs, preening the angel wings of their lucid dreams; I breathed in Lizon’s neck and shushed any spawning angst with a magic I could never retell, as Kate, once reborn from the apocalyptic cavalcades, had taught me after I had dared the blue dust myself, under her watch. We then became wired like teens, without any other substance than our unrestrained longings, Lizon gushed beastly and Gauthier took advantage of her, keenly, upon my lower belly until I felt them drip over my slit. Fayelle, who had been kissing the golden gallant, head flung off, hurled to the soaked, relenting shaft, and revived it in her little mouth that would, gasping at all the gooey proofs of lust, only to crawl up her vivacious arse up to the pink willie, ready to bugger again.
Later, under the shower pardon, we smelled like a haystack under the rain, and then rubbed each other like lunacy with a whole bottle of Neal’s Yard concoction of geranium and orange that has long blessed our naughty skins. Gauthier avowed a compelling urge for cunt, albeit he revelled at being buggered by a solid cock himself, he made us Fgauthierlaugh, Lizon became curious of his ways; I guessed she would soon be invited to participate in some perverted sharings in her own neighbourhood, but for then, the fillies slept with us.
Sarah was obviously tense, and proud to take me to the monsterland of her fertile juvenescence, the craggy way point of her inner legend, between the misty lights of the Øresund and the whirling stars of the Leman shores, even if that meant to close an eventful stage. The Panado Pegasus would take-off next morning at 11:00 and land at Teterboro at 14:00 local time.
Since we held the departure platform, we attracted the pyjama crowds at our bounteous table. Although they probably knew all the answers, the younglings had swarms of questions about a metropolis that remains, thanks to the painstaking efforts of the Milton Glaser/ Martin Scorsese generation, an appealing trap, albeit disfigured and suffocated by the disgrace of a new deadly urbanism, allowing idiocies like the 1500 feet needle buildings, killing what had been a prowess in the Art Deco ages. Not to mention the overturned fairy-tale reverie of the medieval revival, the brown-bricks and molded pinnacles club Sarah belongs to, next door to Garbo’s.
Fanny was earnestly intrigued by the windfall arrival of Delffan, a savoury phenomenon, so to speak. One was an orphan of sorts, too, disowned, sent astray, and yet, hereupon promptly rekindled by Theo’s wisdom, and Skype chats with Cynthia, juggling many time zones. I received myself, from Oz, a very complimenting text, on what we had opened for Delffan; she predicted it would not represent a burden of any kind, and the fairy baby would evolve beautifully; if ever one wanted to come to Sydney, Cynthia could then steer one‘s fate out of some treacherous ruts, of what she knew.
In any event, Fanny was subjugated by her new cousin, as we could say, and hit on one unabashedly, not without reward; Natalia, who scented one‘s trails, chose to enlace both elfin imps, and watch them fuck, up close.
Although my spirits were mainly forecast towards that misbehaving schoolgirl realm that anyone who loves Sarah knows more than Holden’s, I kept a zest of my longtime faith in Natalia, enough to see her lips cringe a tad, at the sight of the damsels’ clasp, like dragonflies in a sparkle. From her back, I kneaded kindly the upset serpent in her womb and she released her nerves on my chest, just like she would make love. While the two exalted imps rolled to the rug, I played all the tricks I had invented for her during her nightly sneak-ins; I drew her to the bedroom.
Later, Fanny wished, in her impeccable diction, and since one was virtually homeless, to take one with in Camille’s house, which we soon all decided was an excellent idea, and after a petty theft of fresh socks and undies in our store, they fled, not before one poked a naughty tongue in Natalia’s pouty mouth.
Decided to sleep a good night’s worth, we ordered early what slightly unsettled Natalia wished, that is Sanne’s nonpareille salad with Danish soft-boiled eggs, seeded rolls and blackberry kombucha, plus buckets of fruit salad. Rubbing her belly on the seated youngster’s chest, Sarah claimed she had been remarkably assertive, as for dinner, given her young age, to what Natalia started to nose into the sleek abs while I picked a smiling kiss.
After his grand spends, Gauthier felt gently spaced-out, like he yielded his wits to his sandbox escort of vixens. As he stumbled towards the meal table, I danced him erratically upon the beatless sound canvas, inhaling his lush hormones and furrowing through his magic mane.
Unambiguous in her slutty charm, Lizon licked her fingers and craftily earned a bye night with Sarah, whenas Fayelle would not predicate that she had enough of the golden knight.
Camille had texted to thank us for trusting Delffan with her and Fanny, she was smitten with our find. She gave the private number of Adlai Stern, “the only relative not to have disowned her”, in New York; a tad of a hustler, but frank, and truly rich. If we felt rake enough, worth a luncheon.
Inevitably, Liselotte had a plan in the upper east side, with a third-degree art pundit to whom she had already sent our material, and snuck pictures, enough said to smell fishy, but wasn’t she the kinkiest procurer in the academic empire? In any event, her Leo Shulz might deserve his pinch of salt.
The car called us, pünktlich, Lizon helped with the bags, and a slant of envy in her gaze when we kissed farewell. We had been up for hours, checking the checklists. Kate my faraway torment again, a remnant token of the Berlin hassle, whilst she probably were only trying not to lose any memory crumb of our escapade. We had decided we wore lounge-easy, fast-running outfits, free tail white shirt, pearl-blue tee, and slim, 7/8, fern pattern, pants of silk and cashmere jersey to let see my ankles, blue poppies embroidered brand new sneakers, Kate nude in a willow green sweatshirt, fitted aquamarine shantung jeans and sage green Stan Smiths. We bore anklets, white gold and azurite for me and misty jade on her. Kate smelled of a pale English Rose and her court of white wisteria, daffodil and honeysuckle, she had spayed her groin, in case; I had indulged in a perfume Hugo had crafted from a box of Danish McBaren golden blend that had made me, as a child, roll over my Far in rapture, almost; as a perfume, I knew its androgynous, intoxicating appeal on others, of any gender.
The meet and greet services went as smooth and swift as suave smelling persons like us would expect. We bought presents for Far, Guerlain, Hermès, candied violets from Toulouse, candied redcurrants from Nancy. A limousine brought us to the shiny plane’s stairs, and we discovered that we had flight companions, a bespoke clad fortyish fit fuck-bait and his much younger, pin-striped-suited, long legged blonde secretary. I knew she felt awkward on her high heels, but I cast my most benevolent smile as if I was hitting on her, which might have been true, as a pinch from Kate alluded to. Judging on the deferential hand-touch they offered us, some PR had occurred from the high spheres, we relished that, and I foresaw that I would eyeball the working girl at will, if I let her mate repay me the same change. For Kate’s amusement, I acted anew like the all-important, arrogant daughter of something, free to cut the crap any time, why security details had never failed me, and I kept my father’s trust.
A seemingly middle-eastern, mid length straight black hair, flight attendant brought up white paper boxes that she arranged in the side small galley’s lockers. Dressed in a strict black tunique over slim black pants, she wore flat black leather maryjanes, for the better of her legs.
The bureaucrat and his assistant sat side by side at the back of the cabin, and deployed reports and files around their computers; it wasn’t long before I scoped and found an angle along which I knew the perfect secretary wore veil stockings, suspender-belt, and black lingerie.
Trish, as was inscribed on the flight attendant’s formal black and gold tag, showed me how to change my seat into a lounger; I shoed my brains with noise-canceling headphones and London Grammar who lulled me out. Then I was befuddled when I saw Kate seated, laid-back, opposite Miss Secretary, her unshoed feet laid upon her seat, next to her thigh; as I crawled up, Kate smiled, signing that I took off the headphones, and said that Bloom, here present, knew almost all about us and our families, anywise more than herself on her father and the firm. The girl was appealing, with a minimum make-up on a teen face, butterfly blue eyes under clever brows, kissy-curvy lips her boss had not yet made bitter; I pushed my opposite chair across and sat next to her, almost touching her right away, before reading in Kate’s glare that this was not the place to rollick, as of yet.
She knew much less about my own whereabouts, and only what is written in official notices about my family, I liked that, smirked and seized her hand as if it were a consolation, but I kept it, to the amazement of Kate, on whom I began to play footsie.
It had come to my mind that, knowing full well Melchior’s tastes, Bloom ought to have lit his lust, and whereas his powers were limitless, I dared fantasising her, doing all the slutty do, such as I had wallowed in, at the Master’s request. It teased me wildly, but I let it float, and lunch was about to be served, so we slid four chairs around the unfolding table and Trish threw a perfectly ironed tablecloth, under which Bloom could leave her feet and Kate caress them.
Branwell, as he was called, had removed his jacket and opened the vest, making himself more palatable. He knew where and how we lived, as casually as we were family, weren’t we? Flying in godsend millions, as desirable as the spring hayfields?
We, the “Beaux-Arts Germans”, were served an elaborate chartreuse with a running egg inside, and crafty little amusements around, them, the astute pair of golden assets, shared the two halves of a lobster’s tail in nests of cream-splashed tagliatelle; As expected, I soon felt his toes mingling kindly with mine, he had pulled off his socks; he read me with unflinching composure as he was demolishing me in the deep cushions. Affecting an opportune need, I stood up, staring in his windy-reed brown eyes and walked to the aft restroom, on the way to which were facing couches; I forgot to close the door.
I wasn’t mistaken, this part was the less muted of the vessel, the door opened stealthily and he found me pants lowered, seated on the bowl, smiling. As the rascal he was, he unbuttoned his fly and showed me his thingy, a sleek, straight, long dick, that smelled of neroli, he told me to suck and expertly held my nape to fuck my mouth and by luck soon ejaculated properly, making me gulp, fast. Indeed, I felt slutty as an alley cat; before I could wash my mouth, he grabbed me up and kissed me at full tongue, clutching me wholeheartedly. It lasted enough to let the other two understand, and hopefully find some discreet way to fondle each other. Branwell, whom I had merely known two hours, and I was ready to service like a bitch, looked at my eyes and whispered that he had been at Saint Loup two years before I came, but he had known of me, and my stellar reputation, said he, and he was proud he knew me in the way we just did, he swore he would never fail me.
Having pulled up my pants a little, he drew me to one of the couches, and went on petting like a college boy, until Kate and Bloom inquired, holding hands, Kate’s fly undone. Bloom had lost her undies and showed a princely rose Irish cunt before Kate licked her wildly.
Undressed, Branwell showed fine features, neck, wrists and ankles of a Thorwaldsen demigod, he fiddled with my flitberries until I moaned and he turned me over to ransack my arse with grand method, while Bloom rushed over to make me lick hers, calling Kate to open her thighs wide on the armrest so she could savour her.
If there actually were a camera, as I wished there was, Melchior would have been served in return for his generosity, although I knew it were far from enough, fortunately.
I wasn’t mistaken, this part was the less muted of the vessel, the door opened stealthily and he found me pants lowered, seated on the bowl, smiling. As the rascal he was, he unbuttoned his fly and showed me his thingy, a sleek, straight, long dick, that smelled of neroli, he told me to suck and expertly held my nape to fuck my mouth and by luck soon ejaculated properly, making me gulp, fast. Indeed, I felt slutty as an alley cat; before I could wash my mouth, he grabbed me up and kissed me at full tongue, clutching me wholeheartedly. It lasted enough to let the other two understand, and hopefully find some discreet way to fondle each other. Branwell, whom I had merely known two hours, and I was ready to service like a bitch, looked at my eyes and whispered that he had been at Saint Loup two years before I came, but he had known of me, and my stellar reputation —said he— and he was proud he knew me in the way we just did, he swore he would never fail me.
Having pulled up my pants a little, he brought me to one of the couches, and went on petting like a college boy, until Kate and Bloom inquired, holding hands, Kate’s fly undone. Bloom had lost her undies and showed a princely rose Irish cunt before Kate licked her wildly.
Undressed, Branwell showed fine features, neck, wrists and ankles of a Thorwaldsen demigod, he fiddled with my flitberries until I moaned and he turned me over to ransack my arse with grand method, while Bloom rushed over to make me lick hers, calling Kate to open her thighs wide on the armrest so she could savour her.
If there actually were a camera, as I wished there were, Melchior would have been served, in return for his generosity, although I knew it were far from enough, fortunately.
The layouts of utter luxury are such that no one needed to meddle in our shenanigan, the crew using their own toilets at the bow, and the attendant staying seated or lain, in her own nook, behind a curtain. So, when Branwell came in me for the second gush, there was no hurry and Kate wiped me with a tissue that would inevitably dissolve in the Atlantic. The boy was fond of me, he had been sold my arse to. Melchior had pretty much used me, to my pleasure, but he would never lie, so I would learn the ins and outs, eventually. In the meantime, the Saint Loup coincidence left me bewildered. I thought I would test Branwell in telling him we would meet another “star” of the school in New York, if he might join, for what it was worth, he seemed genuinely keen, if they could stay long enough.
As we had snuck back into casual, worldly, configuration of sitting and clothing, we drank tea and coffee; Bloom had slipped back her black veil stockings but not her undies, she showed us her crotch from time to time; Branwell, giving me an occasional eye, schemed his next move into Kate’s pants; for the school’s honor, he would be game to Julia if they met. We switched positions and I reached Bloom’s warm cooter as she gave me a first magnitude stare of a clever débauchée, well worth her draft in the Hell Fire Club, and slid a tapered hand with sapphire-lacquered nails –her toes had shown the same– under my belt; as a true professional, she had managed to freshen-up, she smelled like the Regent’s Park rose garden on a sunny June morning after a night of rain, her modest breasts shuddered free under the twill, she gave me news of my friends in Zürich, and wiped my eyes.I called my Far and gave him a tale of what utterly glamorous flight we had done and dissuaded him to come and pick us in Teterboro, he wished we were in time for a sunset relish, they would meet us at the tower door.
After a masterful legato landing in the slanting sun rays at Teterboro, we thanked the Indian-looking crew and collectively tipped Trish, for her stealth efficiency, in euros, under a jug on her counter, she thanked immediately. They were not disembarking, in two hours they would take off for Montreal and sleep there.
Then we just walked into a sleek office building with our gift bags, while the luggage were carried aside. I had some dazing epiphany inhaling the two girls’ different trails of roses, inside the crude redolence of kerosene, a déjà-vu jolt in my brains, thus Kate felt like kissing my forehead like one be done as a child.
The immigration officer batted no eyelid while reading on his screen what my passport told the universal machine, he stared at me dutifully, then wistfully, and he stamped a page, no questions asked. It went differently for Kate, her old Berlin cacophony might have left watermarks on her sheet, or whatever, but eventually she garnered a welcome, for her kind eyes. Our new complimentary playmates carried some kind of waiver on their pages and got a swift stamp with a wink.
They were headed to The Carlyle hotel on Madison avenue, so we shared a van limousine and Branwell could continue his siege of Kate, although I muttered I had been the first he fucked, so as he pulled me to his lap and reveled in my neck, sliding a hand over my shyberries, then throwing me back next to Bloom who knowingly smirked.
We were driven north up to the Christopher Columbus highway, then east to the George Washington bridge, then all the way down along the river, in the maddening traffic. Bloom let the road’s rocking moves make her hand wank me softly, Kate was unbuttoned, I caught her side-swayed eyes, with an idea that we weren’t finished with these two.
We assuredly exchanged contacts with them in our phones, I promised we would ask them to whatever party Julia would throw. They straightened up at their arrival, I was wondering if they would share one or two beds? As we headed to forty-first street, I called Far to announce our imminent coming.
I was terrified, Sarah wild-eyed proud to show me around in hell, I felt like a dumb swan lost in a war zone, but she was hollowing out my solar plexus with a sleight hand, grinding my lips and blowing her girly breath into my brains.
The car braked, full stop, in a somber gorge of a billion reddish bricks, where Mr Lars von Kettelær and a tall slender cinnamon-skinned woman, with yellow eyes, awaited, smiling wholeheartedly. Sarah grabbed my hand and pulled me to them, while the driver unloaded our bags, taking the tip from Sarah.
It was mellow warm, it smelled light petrol, not like Europe’s, she pulled me brusquely when a grey squirrel sniffed us, having read that we would give him nothing, and jumped away in a meager vegetation; then only did I realise what the mischievous animal had meant to her, and i desperately pulled a joke that he had forgotten its hat. We had only landed, she could not yet throw herself openly at me, as she would have done. There was a whole school of squirrels, but obviously we were none of their concern. Her father hugged her fondly, kissing all over her hair, unknowing we were there, for some minutes. Then he held me, whispered his appreciation for my roses scent, and introduced me to Dawn, his long time stylish governess.
Sarah gripped my sweatshirt and sought for my eyes the whole time the elevator took to reach twenty-three, just like a bustling teenager, she was overwhelmingly beautiful.
An only slightly awkward moment happened in the hall of this prestigious apartment, when Dawn wondered aloud where I was going to sleep; Sarah laughed boyishly that we had shared the same bed for years, her father laughed, too, and we rolled our bags to her room. Of course, she had kept coming every year or so, and no dust had gathered upon the nonetheless fading display of her personality I worshipped. It reminded me of Cynthia’s Rothenbaum lair: same portraits of Thom Yorke, Kurt Cobain, Jeff Buckley, Bjök, the stunning Sylvie Guillem, nude, operating a bulky camera, on herself into a wall-up mirror, a cigarette butt by Irving Penn, Gustav Klimt’s “Water Serpents”, Aubrey Beardsley’s “Mysterious Rose Garden”, and a big Beyeler poster for Mark Rothko, nothing I would not subscribe to, then and there.
The raking sunset light touched us as we disrobed for a soothing shower, out of which I became aware that I stood naked in front of Mr Kettelær, holding up a superb glacier blue shirt on a hanger, asking Sarah to do him an impersonation of Catherine Bisset in “Bullitt”, please. She retorted that it had been a pyjama top, but she liked the strict silk shirt to which she rolled up the sleeves an left it opened over deep cobalt bicycle shorts. I fished out a maroon tank dress and slid on flesh-tone knickers, and we trotted on precious rugs to the angle terrace where a massive cooler jug held fruit lemonade, and I was struck by the scenery. Sarah had brought the presents, her father kissed the tip of her fingers and enlaced me with a grace that made me regret, one second, that I wore undies, Dawn was touched by the rarest confections she knew not of, candied flowers of frosty deep purple, in gold paper, and also acidulous red berries, of which the astringent pips had been manually removed with a quill, probably by young Lorraine blue-eyed slaves, she was proud, we ordered her to keep these to herself.
Sarah then casually went right to her father’s lap, and turned to the sun a squint of her eyes, to check on the Chrysler Building. On the other side of the large river, a few new towers sparkled golden gleam, in the midst of a seemingly waste land. The clamour of traffic droned heartlessly, compared to the backwash of the sea, but the width of the sky above was awestriking. It was like one pane of Sarah’s persona swiveling out of the blue, they say, and watching her fidgeting upon her father woke my lust for her.
Lars von Kettelær said it was a wise move to have invited me, because he would have been gone in less than a month, and waiving his hand towards the taller cliff of the United Nations, he said it had taken a lifetime to come to know all the floors in there. The building might have once stood impressively, but would soon definitively be dwarfed by some platoon of white glass shards, and a fortiori this terrace where we sat would loose its air width.
He explained that he had bought this grand residence at a time when the existence of a monstrous power plant on the river bank made it worthless, but someone had let him know that the disgrace was doomed and the high chimneys would fall, clearing the landscape, hopefully forever, in respect for the UN. So Sarah had seen the plant being dismantled, erased, and the angels fly freely above the gloomy waters, it was time to go. He needed retirement, anyhow, and he had found a decent little house on the lakeshore in Lausanne, where he was persuaded Sarah would love to rest and show me the Mont Blanc afar. Indeed she was, and she clutched his face and kissed.
There was wrought iron dinner table and chairs, dressed for us, we sat in the magnificence of light. Lars said that Gustav Mahler had once written that one of the main overlooked beauties of new York was the sunshine, and indeed, for a Dane used to the Øresund mists , it had been a happy windfall. His wife, who lived in Santa Barbara, California, would have mocked this assumption.
Dawn brought a large revolving platter of exciting antipasti foru s to pick from. She did not restrain from rummaging kindly into Sarah’s hair, whom so she let her do. Lars announced that he was overjoyed that Dawn was retreating with him to Switzerland, and her friend had a new assignment in the Geneva offices, as if Sarah had all along known that Dawn was gay and happy so. She seized the hand from her head and pressed it upon her chest, grazing her cheek on the arm.
Sarah then retold that we had been on the plane with a Saint Loup alum, some Bramwell Cerebus two years prior to her boarding, and she had felt akin to him. I intervened to assert I had, too. We laughed, Lars got it.
In the relentless hum and the waning light, Lars , who had now magically Sarah’s feet in his hands, told her that there had been a time when he became scared of her becoming; New York is not a place for raising children, hence the trend to board them at large in private schools of all flavours. Alvin Cerebus had been one who spoke in favour of that special Swiss school in the wake of the Summerhill philosophy, for children you would not figure vowed to mainstream competitive education, but were prepared to support emotionally and materially whatever their calling. It was, and still is, a privileged answer to cumbersome parenting, but it became obvious to me through this escapade to London, if Sarah recalled, and a dinner at the Ritz.
Lars said it had occurred in a whiff, new assignments in Geneva, whatever the workload, but heavenly lunchtimes by the lake, and even Secret Service interventions into naughty girls’ rooms. Julia’s father had also been adamant towards Saint Loup and he had not recognised his daughter after one or two terms, even if he had scented out new homosexual tendencies in her life ways.
I was beginning to feel envious of Sarah’s all-important cocoon, she got a hunch of that, so she deprived her Far of her nifty feet and came sit upon me, I found her squirrelly light and grabbed her under the shirt.
Lars went on, reminding an enlightened relation with Harmony, a motherly genius who devoted her whole time to the children she was confided to. There, he warned Sarah he was about to reveal some intimate secrets, if she had better hear them alone. She was embracing me, she said that she had a hint where he went, and I was already fully aware of her life’s ins and outs, so he could pursue.
He had been haphazardly brought to support some other boarder whose parents had failed, this pupil had learned his gesture and fled to nowhere, beyond his appropriate reach. He kept mute, and Sarah cried on my shoulder, long sobs that told me she had connected a web of painful dots. The name was not called, she still cried, she went back to her Far and sat upon him, the airplanes drew luminous lines across the poisonous dusk.
In her spoiled girl’s bed, not as vast as our home’s lust island, she slept and cried like a child, till we somehow dissolved in oblivion.
Late morning, hugging her, puffed and spent, I knew I was bearing a new knot at my plexus that pulled back afloat some of my angst .
I was all the least embarrassed towards Kate, I should have reckoned her own flailings and not let her soul entangle into the windings of a deplorable affair she had had better left afar; I intuited that we would need another trip to Switzerland, and since it was about to become a recurrent matter, it was a small confederation, wasn’t it?
Kate had a message by Bloom, offering lunch or whatever, whenever, you bet, we both were still under the pair’s spell, would a bite in the Bemelman’s bar of The Carlyle be close enough to their bed? I wouldn’t have been a fan of Madeline’s but I read his book fawning Elsie de Wolfe, —the über-socialite who coined the word Interior Designer and always demanded a special enclosed garden to hang her washed underclothes— plus, the place is a golden years landmark. Our handsome suitors had clout, the answer was swift, they awaited us in two hours.
We dressed like fashion warriors, Beaux Arts style. Kate donned a simple long shirt of carmine and green Uzbek Ikat with a dark purple silk velvet vest richly embroidered in silver, lined with emerald brocade, a walkable but striking piece to wear; she had devised to walk in aniline purple flat Moroccan slippers, I pinched her tits and overturned her in a kiss, she fainted. She smelled her most feminine lilac incarnation, whom of the two was it for?
I fetched a black silk twill redingote with a high collar, fitted, off-white silk jersey trousers with an unbuttoned tab at the knee , black patent leather escarpins, white stockings and a black and white striped silk taffeta vest, opened upon my boyish chest, like a cheater Queen; I had sprayed my body with my idea of an afternoon orgy, blue gardenia, sinful incense and wisteria white.
Dawn caught us taking poses in the tall mirror, she insisted to shoot us, promising not to post us on Instagram or whatever, we were incognito. We found the cab waiting at our door.
Kate was snug to feel up on the sagging bench of the cab, she was unquiet amidst the rumbustious tremors of a casual day in town; unfortunately she would have stayed only long enough to hate it when we would fly back, my experience being that one needs at least three weeks to integrate its hustle and bustle, then look up to its true marvels. I deplored she would never want to come again, and there was no valid argument, other than my own childhood nostalgia, unless Julia cast a spell; I had invited her to join us for dinner at the Café Des Artistes, with my Far she knew well, indeed, from Geneva.
Across from the Carlyle, The Parke-Bernet building was bejewelled by the floating, bright aluminium, sculpture of Venus in flight over some reclining athlete, by Wheeler Williams in the true gusto of Art Deco, she could have adorned the Nations Palace in Geneva, in omen of love, but she only sheltered Gagosian, there. At least, Kate was moved.
They awaited us in the lobby, in much less formal sartorial gist, Bloom having traded her corporate armour for a floating, gathered fitted, and flared, knee-long, doubled silk chiffon, petals strewn pattern dress, forget-me-not blue, with rolled sleeves, she gained in irresistible appeal what she had lost in suit perversity; she also had upped the ante with periwinkle bue maryjanes and white ruffled socks, no joke. Bramwell was molded in perfect jeans, round-tipped boots, and a fitted silk white shirt, though we eagerly eyed each other, we kept a laid back tone, Bloom engaged with me and slid a hand in my armpit, whispering “precious” to my ear, so then I grasped that Bramwell had stirred up to shag Kate, letting Bloom fulfill my lust, awhile. I had had a round of him; I leered at her diminutive chest, I would not have believed she wore anything else, under that dress.
Switching gaze from lust to cognizant attendance, Bramwell advised us that the Bemelman’s might not be our best choice, neither any of the dining rooms, for that matter, but we could advantageously experiment room service, their suite being vast enough for a relaxed party with an open view. We followed him to the bar, visited the altogether aloof kitsch panels, smoked like fish, and, be it the thrill we both had felt for the aluminium Venus, we found the place overrated, to our tastes. Kate, who was almost slow dancing with my cute rapist, was pursuing her undermining work of my Gotham delusion, but she did it in good faith, and I was not myself so confident that I would sit for a clarinet set of Woody Allen, in the Bemelman Bar, anyhow.
Finely reading our gazes, he pulled us to the lift and Bloom slid a hand in my pants, if only to nail me in a corner. Their suite offered all the American palace comfort, and that would fit what we all had in mind, then and there; Bramwell negotiated on the telephone for a green salad with figs and feta, a pastry tray, and a basket of fruit; coffee, real tea and lemonade. We kept almost dressed waiting for the butler, whose eyes frilled at reading us, but rested on the bill Bramwell signed, and the note along with it. As I thanked, he only glanced and said “not me”. Bloom was now stealing away my rags piece by piece, muttering niceties and grazing my skin;she moaned at my wet quim. Kate had been nude faster, Bramwell made her sing, licking her. As he pulled his jeans by himself, on one leg, his shorts half-down, he claimed, for us two, that he had known our delectable arses since a night at the Manor, that night when Marcelline fucked publicly her dogs, and then a few more beasts at will; we had been too busy ourselves, in the dark fumes, to notice anyone, not even Melchior, who had then honoured a very young new pet girl, before departing with her and Malo. Bloom and him had known of our trip to New York from Liselotte, and promised Melchior some lovely passes to peep from his plane, and, by the way, he loved us both, the whole conspiracy does.
Bramwell agreed that the Wheeler Williams sculpture, on the old Parke-Bernet gallery, across the avenue, provided a better conversation piece than the Bemelman rabbits; it was part of why they used the Carlyle, It would not have been fair game to ask why they should use commonly a five stars hotel in Manhattan, but he chose to hold us in relative confidence by telling us they were flying back that night, in company with Melchior’s prospects, whatever biddings was the season, and they liked philandering on demand in such conditions, their client’s motivations remained off hand.
He deftly peeled off my wraps and laid them upon an armchair, then he asked me to strike the flying Venus pose I had liked. He made lecherous comments, and then asked me, en passant, who had been the young cousin alongside of me at the manor, under my high watch?
He licked better than a schoolgirl, perhaps to outline the question, but I fended off morally, telling that Natalia was not yet available at court, just one of our Sorbonne fillies, sheltered behind steel armourings and codes. Liselotte wouldn’t be first to spread those precious thighs.
Be it at the salacious thoughts on what he had glimpsed of my pet, his unflinching spear rambled ostinato from one hole to the other and my mouth in what he chose to gush, holding my nape firmly till he was done; he tasted grapefruit and soap, I sucked my mouth dry and I slipped off to the table for tea.
Sarah crept all over Bloom’s light skin, and revelled on her pouty mouth, her flourishing cunt and her obedient anus. The woman-child toy kept a disarming smile through the storm of raspberries, and my nosings in her ribs, then she begged for tea.
The wide bay embraced a most typical New York overview, from high north, undoubtedly someone in there was ogling our shameless immodesty through one of the ubiquitous telescopes in the city’s little cells, or even making grainy pictures they would pass as art; one could not do that on Sylt, could they? I pulled the sheer curtain on us, the city appeared like Cairo in a sand wind, as it had struck me, in some forgotten film.
Perched upon Bloom’s lap, pecking bits for her and herself, she had lit her phone and was reading messages; she asked when the pair would move back to the airport, and it was close enough not to roll over again in the satin sheets together, we headed for the shower, spent most of the luxury soap, and Bramwell took a quick pass in Sarah’s butt.
Picking up their corporate attires under wraps, on hangers, they would regain the first composure we had known them by, coaching them on how sexy they appeared. Bramwell slily asked when I would let him shag my little cousin, I made him stiff for nothing, he swiftly hitched up my dress and told me he kept my odor di femina in mind until next time in Paris, at Liselotte’s diligence. Firstly, they should now make a nightworth of sleep until four, to stand amenable aboard at six, they would use melatonin and curl up.
Julia waited for us on the other side of town, in an apartment of the Century Building on Central Park West; it was a swoop ride under the bridges in the Park, we stared at each other like mischievous brats, my hand in her bare groin.
The lobby smelled of cedar wood, an affable doorman called up for us, listened and showed us the opened lift with a waiting attendant. The whole decor looked like old millions, the lift was rolling smooth, Sarah smelled excitement like a kitten belly, I breathed in her nape.
Julia greeted us barefeet, in a creased linen cobalt blue plaid shirt-dress opened on her tits. She cried out her joy, hugging her all time buddy, then turned to me and played seductress until she knew I wore no undies. I resented this heartfelt sexual comradeship the Saint Loup alums shared at once, but also the overpowering charisma of Julia, of whom Sarah had told me over and over that she had been a true surrogate mother to her, well known to Sarah’s father; she was overjoyed at the prospect of dining with him, too, she nodded that he was right to flee the town.
The apartment did not have direct park view, but it had an immense southern terrace overlooking the YMCA, under the lowered awnings. The surface would have been big enough for Fred Astaire and most of his partners. Scattered over the reception room walls hung spectacular American Indian pieces, like a deer skin covered in apparently random groups of stylised figures, that she explained as being a sacred chart of a long forlorn territory.
Julia’s thick wealth of sunny blond hair smelled of dried flowers and iris powder, she touched me like a coveted trophy she had not yet bent to her lust, and Sarah helped her, in short, I was soon bare naked on the grand couch , the matter of shared admiration by the two accomplices. As I let them rekindle my embers patiently, —I had already been set fire to once or twice since morning, I admired a stupendous collection of Kachina dolls, each on a rounded bracket bearing the name and attributes of the doll, across the whole wall. It felt like a ceremonial, in a childish sort of way, cosmic, like some we had staged with Cynthia in the moonlight on Amrum island, and my psychedelic inner streams kicked in, I begged for Sarah’s mouth. A layered continuum played low on a golden horizon, a party of gray wolves swayed about me with human gazes; I had been forsaken, paralysed in the yellow dust, my clothes ripped off; they spoke to me but I did not comprehend. Purple eagles swirled closer and closer, wary of the wolves, now two she-wolves sat along me and licked my unnerved body like their cubs; airplanes flew upon the eagles flock, like they would be quick dark fires in a rock crystal; my soul felt like the inside of an untouched geode, also more replicas of myself spawned out of the sand, shooing the wolves away, but running after them. The atmosphere was sucked away, large wave covered golden planets rose like overwhelming cinema panoramic shots —I had been so distraught the day Simon had lured me at a Star Wars projection, and the black syringe machine had crept towards Leia’s vein, so that, eventually, my little brother did not know what to do of me.
In the sort of mental reflux I was resurfacing from, and lagging shouldn’t have occurred, on a rotation that way, the gigantic motive had been deployed across the ceiling all along, and only the profusion of emotional and unfettered testimonies could have caused the distortion, or the opportunity for some stray neurons to discombobulate my grip of spacetime, while many of my senses were otherwise assaulted.
It was one of those jazz years’ extravaganza, fit for a fashion empress or a cruise line mogul —not my own father’s style— a radiance of metal and molten glass, a fixed explosion of graphic textures and crystallography, like a magnified snowflake into the roaring summer. Lain there at the whims of two eager handmaids, my visions traveled the décor masterpiece too wide for a single sight, when my common sense tripped again on the clear apparition of a double blond face I read upside down, visibly observing my exposed details; I flinched up and tried to twist backwards, so then Julia, audibly embarrassed, asked her twin cousins to leave us alone, which they reluctantly did; she apologised, swearing her heart they were not more intrusive than that, and she should have waited that we were in the bedroom. it was a “parents found us” situation and we laughed. The Katzenjamer kids still stood around the corner, Percy and Clayton Grant were identical sons of one of a brother of Julia’s father, they were sixteen and currently attended a prep school in Virginia, they were cute and disturbingly indiscernible. She couldn’t have not lodged them for a short stay in town. I needed to pee, I knew I had a good chance to meet the twins somewhere along the corridor Julia had told me to follow, but I was a tad ruffled to chance upon them, unbuttoned, holding each other’s dick, with a comely smile I did not resist to. So they pushed me in some dark room, I protested of my need, they showed me to a blue bathroom and pressed themselves against my face as I sat on the bowl and made flowing noises; I had to suck them, which I applied myself at, as I knew how, to make them come quickly one after the other.
In a series of identical frames were hung free spirited drawings, many with running horses, that Julia explained had been done during the worst times of the Indian genocide, when it became common wisdom that only the whites should own the land, speak the language and worship the God. Promises had been granted to the natives, some had wished to believe them, all were betrayed, and the justice was still at it in our days, for the great shame of America. One day, good spirited white ladies had scavenged loads of obsolete ledgers and distributed as drawing paper to detained Indian women who had with them this culture of “raw” visual art.
Julia said that we could not only see collections of Indian art nearby in the Museum of Natural History, but also find many excellent books to send home. But, other than that, she craved my mouth and body, like old days, and she complimented my fitness and shape, muttering in my ear that Kate ought to have fallen in the evil cousins’ snares.
We had heard swishes from a open door to a sombre bedroom, holding each other like curious kids, we crept near and, our eyes accommodating, saw the trio executing the only configuration by what each participant would exult simultaneously. When it became clear that the slutty courtesan had been duly filled, we entered casually and congratulated the artists, furthermore keeping the youth at attention while Kate snuck out to the bidet.
The prodigy pair weren’t flagging, laughing as they exchanged us “for taste”, comparing us like brothel mounts and it felt like a giddying arousal on our part. They skewered our entrails allegretto, ma non troppo, so as when we were kept edging to the solution, then playfully broke a slip-sliding figure for a new one, exchanging high-fives like little rascals, and finally discharged again like tough sailors.
Kate and me, at the comments they made to Julia, understood that she had let them hunt us like does in a brush, telling them we were no virgins in any ways; she was their long time mentor, and she made us avow they were cunning as foxes, and indeed well hung, too.
After a crowded shower that smelled a sweet mix of ylang-ylang, sandal wood and september fallen apples, the willie brothers holding up their standards, Julia took pride leading us to another drawing room entirely clad in pine wood, peopled with north-western native art, mostly Inuit and Tlingit masks otherly known as “eskimos”, but she forbade us the improper term, with a smile. Not yet redressed, we dived into deep hide and velvet armchairs, the sedulous pair brought frosty jugs of a drink brewed with elderflowers, angelica and ginger, poured us high-balls and sat at our feet, nosing in our thighs, soothed. With a young, even skin, they showed the perfect blond strain of Scandinavian-Slavic type, with a pointed little nose and dawn-blue eyes, I couldn’t help touching myself. next to one’s curvy little mouth.
Julia explained that this unique collection, started into the nineteenth century, would sooner or later taken over by the Smithsonian, for the public good, but currently millions were fueled to lawyers by her family’s estate to find settlement for all of them. I joked that I could lease out my arse so long as they would let me inside the collection, she retorted I had given a good start to that, Kate was mad-kissing one of the elves, again; on my phone, her brother was texting around to be allowed to meet Fayelle a little more in the extra bedroom, it was a fun thing , back and forth from Central Park West querying consent from her, who said she would meet him, and probably with a third, if he dared. He said he felt ready for any lesson she would, for he coud not “scrap her out” off his brains.
The Hotel Des Artistes was only a few blocks away, we walked up along the Park to meet my Far, who unsurprisingly was already awaiting in the backseat of a double-parked pearly grey berline, on the phone. I waved a hand, so he readily came to us with his legendary —at least to me— smile. Since our long ago slapstick scene in a hotel bed and the cool my Far had shown, Julia totally loved him, she hugged him the European way and then beamed.
The “Café Des Artistes”, or whatever name they rechristened it for whatever reasons, is the very lay masterpiece by a very official artist who committed himself all the way up to the Capitol in Washington DC, this redeems that, for those who care.
Far finely chooses the place to exemplify the reasons why he once decided that I would not try to build my fate in this city, rather than repatriate me to a nonetheless moral heart of Europe. Julia, the all-American offspring, cast a wide net upon the metaphor with candidly erotic innuendo. Far drew a line between the 1917 generation which sowed this once utopia, where we’re having large plates of glazed vegetables tonight — after sixty years of pure merchandising management– and the scandal stirred by Mark Rothko withdrawing altogether from the Four Season commission, having had , on a soul-searching trip to Italy, the epiphany of what it would mean for him to supply a high-voltage backdrop for the restaurant’s contemplated clientèle, which he wholeheartedly despised. The move had earned anyone in London the soul-lifting ability to sit and trip inside the Tate’s “Rothko Room”, digressed Far, seizing my hand.
Kate was mulling upon the vanished capabilities that some form of teaching had suffused such aesthetic obviousness as we could enjoy there and then, but pondered out loud that she could also envision such impossible endeavours, by recent artists, only to stumble on the nowadays indomitable market rule of heavy-handed mercantile stench. As I played footsie with her under the table, I joshed about us two, and our own small-sized almost confessions, so she shrugged and declared that, from what she had seen of the available private places, home catering would suffice, as it did most of our life in Paris.
Far laughed, held Kate’s hands, while addressing Julia about the seemingly splendorous collections she happened to live amongst, with an intonation that begged for an invitation, she replied with an opening for any date he chose the week next, straightening up forward, her girl scout tits pointing under a loose American cotton shirt as she offered to do the honors herself, as well as consult Far, privately, as to the becoming of the collection, the mainstream scientific attitude of the Smithsonian having left her doubting, in the least.
Put aside the horribly serious matters in which the restaurant’s splendour had dipped our brains in, I suddenly fancied Far capsizing Julia on her grand sofa, and I felt in my feet that Kate heard that, too, so as it made me sneeze on the cocoa powder on the tiramisu. The nudes in the decor concurred.
It was decided that Julia would sleep at Tudor City, to her visible satisfaction. She thus texted her terrible twos. My Far felt lighthearted, the evening would have been appropriate for his month-long farewell to the city; he enlaced my shoulders and kept me clenched, during the car drive; Julia went to the front seat and watched back, my relation to my father puzzled her, who, for all I knew, had not known much of a Daddy. Kate still held my hand like a given right. I lit the fuzzy knot in my chest with the thought that soon Far would stay two hours train from me.
There was no moon, it was heavily warm on the terrace, we brewed frozen lemonade with sparkling water, the nearest thing to Kombucha we could think of. Far sat at the end of my lounger and caught my feet casually, resuming the conversation about Julia’s treasuries, asking if the items had been documented and certified, which could appraise them before any exploration. Julia asserted that from the historical beginnings of the gathering, scientific records had been kept in many copies which could easily be collated by a new owner. All in all her will was to institute some fiscal foundation that would allow her the means to fund some initiative like what we had benefited in Saint Loup, scholarships in progressive teaching, and so.
I knew Far would be furiously drawn to such an endeavour, but he knew how intricately judicial such an idea would prove to become in America, where lawyers feed upon any crumb of rhetorics, at the cost of the candid citizen. He promised he would fuel his thoughts with the glimpses of the hoard, then investigate anonymously on available precedents, and lay down all the choices for Julia, anyhow, he was not entitled to act as an attorney.
He kissed each of us and went to bed, we remained in the endless roar and unclothed each other, there would be no fresh breeze from the near ocean. Feeling dozy, I invited everyone in the larger bed of the guest room. We washed away the sweats in the shower and fled to the scape of mirages, Kate already slept on my heart.
When Elsie Chautemps rang in the morning, Dawn was overjoyed to recognise her in the comely dazzler in an indigo tank dress and assorted sneakers, after a breather, they hugged in sake of old times and Dawn told her wher to find our cluster. Elsie knew I would not have come alone, but she was thrilled to find me laying along two fully grown nymphs; she fondled all she could grab of me, before Julia read out there was some all dressed up maiden, messing up with our defenceless limbs. She mumbled hello, and Elsie playfully answered who she was, so Julia kept her hand, for she had heard my recalls of her, she kneeled up and ask the newcomer if she did not feel a bit overdressed, then? When I woke, she had already pulled down one strap, Elsie had always had more breasts than us tomboys, she was near swooning at her assaulter’s skills, I shouted her name and caught her mouth, while Julia sneered at me that this was the one I had left behind, wasn’t it?
We deambulated in the corridor to my room where our rags were, then to the kitchen in tee-shirts and shorts, retelling our goings-on, not yet the full spectrum of our shenanigans, in case she would have matured in a wiser standing. She laid in unfazed manner all her academic degrees up to NYU School Of Law Juris Doctor as if these were was only mundane. We had certainly no competence assessing what she had said, but we needed not be savvier to wish we undressed her, like the sensuous squirrel she had known me to be.
As I noticed that Dawn had prepared a Thermos jug of coffee, I told her I would bring it to Far. He was seated before big hand-written diagrams, his white shirt’s sleeves rolled, he granted me a heartfelt smile. I liked him to know that Elsie, whom he knew, was with us, I added what I had gotten of her prestigious titles, so he raised his eyebrows and mumbled that he would be with us, soon. I also floated that I needed to tell him some more intimate matters, whenever he found free time in this office.
Elsie was trying to learn about my life since I had almost abruptly deserted her and my old international school to revel in Harmony’s privileged breeding farm, as Julia could concur first hand. I had not been faithful to Elsie, she had worked at forgetting me under her mother’s guidance, and studies had become more demanding, she earned a scholarship and her mother could keep her in a stable home in Hell’s Kitchen, which I had known. Julia was like a different breed altogether, she had a degree in psychology from Columbia and she still sweated over a doctorate in cognitive aesthetics –or something, Kate had rectified her attitude and did not feel so sure she would enjoy the day, when I paced back from Far’s study, and nearly jumped on Elsie’s lap, instead only taking her hand and stared at her sunny eyes. Watching Kate’s mood, I sensed a drive and laid straight that I had not changed from the naughty tomboy she had known, and we might unsettle her lifestyle, but she had already responded by grabbing my hand, asserting she was no white goose, and kept fond memories of my teenage room, only that, after I had gone, she had finally found herself shunned by most of the class, because all the prestige had come from our friendship, and so she sobbed. I pulled her away to my room, to that same window she would never see again, and only danced with her on one of our CD compilations of the time, letting go with Faith Hill “Breathe” –the two other girlies danced too, outside the door.we could have gone on far with Xtina “demented” Agulera, to turn to each other, again, but then, what, time had turned and that river had flowed, she dared kiss me like long before, and it was good.
We did not have to explain why our eyes were red, they had seen it all, and heard the tune. As we ought to dress, somewhat, I stripped bare first and paraded just like I would have years back, daring Elsie, whose tears was of laughter, now, to touch. I fetched some indigo blue, Tana Lawn cotton, all-flared dress with large night blue trimmings at the scoop neck, the cap sleeves and the hemline above the knees, so I could swing my legs and free whatever else. Kate loved my kiddie dresses, she held my fitted high waist, from behind, only to show she was willing to share; I shoed tiny blue strap sandals, I had not painted my nails. Meanwhile, Kate also had displayed her honey-toned nudity, and Julia had not resisted groping that stretching belly, as my sister slag reclined against her; she chose a straight, long, block-printed almond-green shirt under a tourmaline pink and green striped T-shoulders kaftan, with Moroccan, emerald beaded leather, held between the toes, on the sides and at the ankles, pointed sandals; she looked like one of the Lehnert and Landrock desirables we had fantasised upon, sometimes. Far, who had candidly followed the sounds of laughters, showed up and growled in admiration, was it the feet in the sandals? He offered dinner at a still new joint in the Village, some kind of kosher vegan basement eatery with a shop upstairs, ran by two deserving women and called Ramdam, Elsie knew the place in a flattering manner, and so it would be it. Suited and shined up for the day, Far reached for Kate’s fingers and lead her for a twirl, complimenting us for being so Parisian, now, immediately turning to Elsie and Julia to granting them another dedicated smile. That had not been enough; if Julia was above any bad self-conscience, Elsie now felt mundane as a week day at a Sunday lunch. she had been my pal, I was reading her, I was already stripping her next to our opened bags, and we chose from my collection because blue mixes rang perfectly on her cinnamon tone, her so Nuevayorkese tutti frutti pride, a rich turquoise and cobalt calligraphed, officer-collared twill shirt-dress of which we rolled the sleeves up; she kept the black leather slippers. She had soft baby breasts that pointed up under my grazing; her little pointed nose puckered of coqueterie, she was mine, again.
We smelled sleep, it gave a warmer genêt hint to the honeysuckle on Kate’s lower belly —I was sure the other two watered at seeing me do— Julia asked me to wear again that juniper resin, ylang ylang and violet leaf whiff, she lowered my knicker herself, so that Elsie knew she was back at school, and as for her, the cologne she had used had faded, and her skin cried for some elaborate Guerlain alchemy, so I knew where to steal my mother’s Shalimar, although I had no remembrance of her wearing that magic, which turned Elsie into a plunder of lust who did not resist a real kiss of Julia’s.
Now, Julia was heading us downtown to the Hamilton building in which the Smithsonian had set the American Indian Museum, we had showed a sharp enthusiasm in first nations’art, so she would like to know our thoughts of the institution. I sat between Kate and Elsie on one of the two back benches and made my mind not to restrain my softness to any of them, under the witty eye of Julia; my rambling game was to make them kiss, if only for fun, because I knew that Elsie had had an unbridled thirst for lust, and I could wake it at no cost. It did not last long, but it happened.
Of couse, the building in itself is a cast-off pompous bunker of unrelated old time administrative show, in an incomparable situation at the tip of the most important island of the USA, ans that gives an enormous oval center hall with forcibly irrelevant paintings on the ceilings. Continuing our threesome flirt, we strolled along richly stacked windows that Julia found too ethnographic, in her view, her collection was composed of art pieces, not cooking pots.
The mezzo-voce conversation was gently unfurling between Kate and Elsie, and I could see and relish Kate’s flirtatious spend; Julia took advantage to take hold of me as if we were a couple, she had always won me at that, she refined her pleasure showing Elsie how easy I am.
Not that much persuaded that a first magnitude genocide such as the eradication of American Indians would be redeemed by piling the loot in a disused Beaux-Arts style palazzo, we were ready to walk-up to Bleeker street, the air had thinned, we felt pretty, there would be shopping.
Or not. After ten minutes of financial bore, we stood before the sleekest, shifted panes, black glass “in-your-face architectural gesture” I commonly despise, and Julia said we went in, Goldman Sachs, mind you. The uniform of the security was pure wool, chin up, she told him what we stood for, at his desk; he asked for our hard IDs and scanned them, while we felt like suspects. He eventually smiled when he held them back, along with neat clip-on visitors’ passes, of the kind one sees in TV shows, at Langley.
That had been altogether good fun, Julia had kept her cool all along, and then, now, we stood before a twenty-five meters long, eight meters high panel realized by Julie Mehretu —herself a beautiful planetary mixed breed of a kind, Elsie— at first, as rumbustious as one would figure the exchange trade at any given second.
Kate and me felt somewhat miserably squashed in our intimate, obsessive kinds of nutshells, but gradually Goldman Sachs settled back, and we began to mentally scan the dimensions at play on this wall. Kate recalled stochastic games that Victor had twiddled with, engraved into red copper plates by industrial size laser beams, fed by his supercomputers network. Here, behind acres of blast-proof glass right across the reborn Trade Center, we felt snubbed like the First Nations’ shamanic artists when the steam horses slashed the plains, all proportions kept. Had we ever envisioned using mega-printers to hold the wall? We only were two slutty harlots who might well fuck bankers as big as ground zero and then climb back up in our private hen coop, there was something troubling, artistically, at Mehretu panel’s edges.
Elsie suggested we took a cab to Washington square and have an ice cream at the Peacock, where her mates could see us. We sat mingled, Julia slid a hand in Kate’s pants, they kissed , I wanted Elsie to do the same to me, she still shied, I breathed her neck.
Once on friendlier grounds, Elsie took us to a white ice-cream parlour with a lounge upstairs, where we were looked up, and smiled, to. Visibly she was a regular, but probably not as gay as I made her seem, now. In a vanilla moment, she stuttered a little mite and started. She had reached a conclusion that she would not be fit there, in New York and even less in America. We could not see, her skin was as clear as many Europeans, her hair was just only curly, her nose was straight and pointed, but nevertheless, in some uptight moments like professional arguments, or even mere social exchanges, racism lurked through a thin veil of convention.
Through her studies, because her mother had known my father on and off at work, she had aimed the day when she would dare beg him for help at the UN, because that was the magic realm where the American racial bias did not function, even in American minds. But now he was going, and although she could easily land a job, she felt it would never grant her such a good career plan as inside the Great Glass House. She was near tears. I hugged her tight, first, my father was not quitting the UN, for years, since he sent me to Saint Loup, he had operated from Geneva, which was as big a UN station as New York, and I scented that he would continue, living in Lausanne; second, she might also come live in Paris, where, overall, racism is not so deeply rooted, except for some stupid urbanistic errors –and I admitted I wasn’t one to endure the tensions, given our lifestyle–. She was shuddering and I felt dew on her breasts; I told her she would visit us in our Wonderland, huff around for some while, test her French and probably fuck some; She let me unbutton one more, some passers-by had smirks to her, and did not stand up to my gaze.
Like a gang of procurers on a recruiting job, we cajoled the desirable attorney into wishing to visit our realm, nonetheless I did not avoid any facet of our easy going boheme, like those I would not even allude to in front of my father; having known me from childhood, she assented, and gently slipped a hand upon my thigh. Julia had bright eyes, it was Saint Loup all over again, on Washington Square. I let her see the cog in my easily unleashed mind, with the subtext of giving her all reasons not to follow me, while I kept deploying my best sluttiness, for the relish of the other two.She was stunned. She had thought of me at thirteen while reading Anaïs Nin, like it were literary tall tales to wank oneself over, but there we were, and she felt we could spin the yarn at will, for her.
We strolled arm in arm to Bleecker street, I told Elsie I would not miss what the city had became, all the more since I had earned my place into the keenest society imaginable, at least for as long as I could vamp a pretty girl with not much more than my eyes. Had I told her that, after my brother’s misdeed, I had planned to fly off our balcony?
Far —the others called him Lars— changed expression when he saw us seated with bottles of Kombucha, discoursing on our lives in Paris, our show, our trip in a private jet, shame on us.
He felt positive, all personal transactions about Tudor City and Lausanne were concluded as he wished, and he invited us by the lake next Spring. As an artful diplomat, he soon turned to Elsie, asking her if she had got wind of the UN operations in Geneva? He read my smile and kept the iron warm.
We agreed to every course the gentle lady with a thick white apron proposed, and Far asked for some hard boiled eggs, and butter. So we had artichoke hearts stuffed with mushrooms and nuts, fresh corn pancakes with asparagus tips, and candied chestnuts in little cradles of marshmallow sprayed with rum.
My compulsive little self had engineered to pull, unaware to anyone, an empty chair next to Far’s, but there would be angelic smiles when he started to untie the thin blue leather straps of my sandals and execute his magic on my feet, all the way up in the midst of my brain.
I felt a hint that Kate was again playing footsie with Elsie, who would let be un-shoed for her, and she asked my father what he had thought of the Goldman Sachs Mehretu frontispice. He finely picked an opportunity to salute Mehretu, whom had built an exemplary career on her own, but, retorted Elsie —and then I knew someone was stimulating her, unseen— wasn’t there a ghost of what one called the “pocket” Indian in her fame? Wouldn’t many such artists decline a commission from the most evil tricksters on the planet? Now Far still held my toes in his right hand, and he touched Elsie’s, wondering about the Rothko precedent at the Four Seasons, and the later endeavour with the Menil Foundation. Would we go to Houston, said he to the table? we might possibly conspire to some escapade of that sort, my whorish little soul told me.
Julia wanted to check on the terrible twos and Elsie had promised to feed her neighbour’s cat, so there were two cabs, one to the west and the other for us. As we passed Park avenue, I reminded Far of the
family brunches at the Waldorf, which was closed for a number of years, now, he asked Kate if they had Sunday brunches, she said they would always eat some very similar meals in front of the lake, and when sunny the swans would await for them in the garden.
Far let us drink tea on the terrace and withdrew himself, we pulled our screens and read the mail. Melchior wings would await us in Teterboro the evening after next, we would have excellent company. I half-bantered it was a n easy way to pay our fares, she called me a whore and bit my ticklish spot under the ribs.She showed me a video of Fayelle and Simon pleasing each other, a few hours ago, I told her he was as good a fucker as she was, and we went to the shower, washed our hair with some vintage shampoo that smelled like roses in the boxwoods, I told Kate and she peed on me, kissing. We went on the big bed and told each other episodes, like when I realised I loved her by happenstance sniffing at her crotch in corduroy on a café bench, pretending to be drunk.
Early in the morning, Elsie called asking if she was welcome; when it was clear she had slept with Julia, I gave Kate a heartfelt high-five and asked the newlyweds what we would be doing? They said there was a show of Sarah Sze at Gagosian’s and it felt right, around lunchtime.
I snuck to my Far’s quarters and found him reading his screen; he paused and hugged me, I smelled morning white, Kate had said, he kept me on his lap, and I could not help feeling dizzy in the same eternal Habit Rouge.
I told him that I thought I knew all about Ayla, and I found nothing wrong, at all, in what he could have been doing, because I had seen her not so long ago, when heinous things happened to Esther, and she had been so kind about him, and I was going to cry but he told me not to.He had known about Esther, but Ayla swore she needed no more help and I was there with her, then they had gone to the high mountains with all the medical attention, the haematomas had vanished for good and Esther’s nose was new, and straight.
He knew what the girls were at in Zurich, and he knew I knew too; he commented that on many individual rights the Swiss had often been long forward, and it was probably why he wished to retire there, albeit he had hesitated with Denmark, but finally cleared the place for Martin, under the family trust; a week or so, once on a sommernat, in Taarbæk, in the white house felt like enough. I enlaced him and asked him to take me next time he went, he asked me if I would bring Kate along.
“Walking The High Line” was a picture book by Joel Sternfeld, it had fascinated me, aeons ago, by the creative situation it testified to, a disused raised subway line in a then destitute part of New York, its long rusting decay, its appropriation by good willing citizen, probably because the otherwise wrong willing ones could have easily found themselves trapped on the elevated corridor. In a series of highly technical photographs, the book presented how the dilapidated railway had become a fairly exciting community garden, for memory’s sake, doing its part in the unavoidable conservation of the health promenade it became since. The Gagosian venue Julia was leading us to was in the meatpacking area, a stone throw from the high line.
Elsie had slept with Julia, at the Century, lured in by the unique collection, and lust for a truly inconsequential adventure, I could not scent if she had been fed to the naughty twins, too.
Now she smelled rich Central Park spices, just like my best boy, I dared sniff her in the armpit, as she passed a bread basket overhead, and sustained her response gaze with an inviting smile for later. She offered a thin, tight, muscular body and was in love with our ways, she would make an outstanding partner in our crew, in Paris.
There was an access up, on twenty-first street, we walked down to the Whitney Museum and back, the wind had freshened thus we did not sweat, but we swapped companions. I wore an aquamarine green linen long night shirt, over-stitched with thin black stripes, under another opened long-tailed indigo on emerald paisley shirt I kept open, my knicker was skin-tone and thin, I was not to walk alone in New York like this.
Julia had tucked a buttercup silk tee shirt in large corn yellow taffeta hemmed shorts with a large Navajo silver buckle belt, under the assorted, double-breasted, oversized jacket. The stiff silk felt like I were groping a dragonfly with golden mosaic eyes.
Elsie had found a half-thighs, ultramarine and ochre hotchpotch -printed twill shirt-dress, bound with a matching foulard, thus letting the view on her sleek legs down to the barefeet sandals.
Sarah wore one of her unique, fitted, high waisted spencer jacket of black silk with moire lapels, on her bare chest, with her nifty butt molded in wide Katherine Hepburn trousers, in off-white crepe. she walked in flat, round, black patent escarpins.
The gallery space was the epitome of the famous evanescent white cube, and it was indeed what the work of Sarah Sze would want. It smelled like a properly finished new apartment, solvents, detergents, and whatever magic they lace the chemicals with to trump your instinct. We never had any argument about what our work smelled, neither any bit of each other’s life’s, our exhibition had been a cloud of roses, we were Parisian girls.
We had enthused at Sarah Sze’s “Three Points” in Venice, how she told she had been on set months in advance, roaming and gleaning amongst the forlorn nuggets of the Serenissima, then staging her loot into a mental analogy of a cosmic synchrotron. It had made us feel a tad petty inside our pocket-sized lady’s works. At the end of art school, it had been a reaction on our part against the ongoing dick contest, even with those who did not have a dick at their crotch. Thus, we promoted, at our own dimension, visionary mavericks of a more private scope, and found them many in the surrealist realm, before American big money spoiled the game; and, justly there, we were contemplating a truthful artist nailed in the middle of it.
All in all, it boiled down to the same diffidence as we had reckoned from Goldman Sachs, but it served us with a first-person conclusion, and Sarah’s dad were finer at his new lakeshore retreat.
Amused by our fabricated compunction when we walked out,, Julia suggested we tried to reboot our mindsets at the Studio Café on floor eight of the new Whitney, if ever there were a table for us. Elsie let her embrace her, she was enthralled, and wouldn’t know what to imply from our visit, the Gagosian sleight of hand worked. Sarah had made her face sharper, and played solidity —much like Lars— but I crashed her like an egg with my tongue i her neck, and she shut me off with a lewd kiss. We were elegant, in a suited place, passersby smiled at us.
Needless to say they had a table on the terrasse, and neat, truthful smelling salads with fashionable dressings, nuts and figs in the vegan version, poached eggs and croûtons in the “let me mop up that yolk” version. The fresh blue oolong tea was up to its name.
Elsie was wearing a fine turquoise nugget on a Navajo silver ring, not one’s average tourist tat; I congratulated her, cupping her hand, and giving her the innocent gaze. Obviously, she had forgotten what one felt for having been enticing an it girl and thus being offered a true gift; luckily for her, the Princess had brains, too.
Sarah arranged with her father for a finger snap last dinner at his home, we would spend the afternoon at the Met. In the morning, I had promised Camille we would pay a visit to a good uncle of hers, Adlai Stern; if time was enough left, we could also meet a patron of Liselotte’s, the renowned Leo Schulz in his extravagant penthouse, she had said sometimes his imagination was worth the flight.
Now, Julia was laying plans to come along with Elsie to Paris and Europe, she was enough in love for a bed-in at the Gritti; Sarah liked that, but she knew Julia enough.
Rekindled by a faultless Hudson luncheon, complete with a short demonstration by the big Marine one fireboat of the FDNY, we packed a yellow cab to Fifth Avenue, Elsie blushing at Julia’s expert hands. Sarah whispered on the other side that her old schoolmate would be a bomb in our home, wouldn’t she?
Julia led us straight to the outstanding display of the Goran and Dagmar Blix collection of costume, spanning from middle ages to roughly WWII, all the pieces a labour of love and had been expertly cleaned, restored and reshaped on grey dummies. A great many items originated from the trail of the once thriving “Silk Road”, with some precious weavings incorporated into Mid-Asian and European prestige attires or religious adornments.
I was jolted at the thought of Hugo’s passion —he had occasionally vested me into such fineries for photos— I looked for restrooms where to call him from, it would be civilised morning over there. He was in Venice at the San Vio’ s, along with Delffan, our indeterminate gem, found inside a hourvari of debauchery, dewy pure, and lost as an air stream; they had been meditating in our special church of Santi Maria E Donato in Murano, among the ruins and the reeds of Torcello, and of course, Hugo knew the renowned Blix collection, he had been a blessed purveyor to them.
I hurried to Sarah, and reported the news; she was overjoyed to reckon that Delffan would thus quite possibly nest upstairs in the Castle, to what our presently enlaced lovebirds grasped naught, and so we laughed, reminding them we lived into some genuine fairy tale.
Just like for some sadomasochism games, we should have had our hands cuffed back, so great was the appeal to touch the handiwork and feel the caress of the clothes; for aeons no one had, without gloves, obviously —I had more than once been prettily jostled, nude in such stuff, once Gianni’s expensive sleight of the hands and eyes had deleted the wear of ages, and rendered the sublime vestures as soft and smelling as the Ritz’ bath robes—
Happily, the MET affords uncompromising attendance, keeping eager wasps like us at coughing distance, reminding me of my wish to find some kind of short-distance spectacles one sometimes saw expert-type visitors flaunt.
Julia knew a high ceiling café in the American wing, to rest the small of our young backs, with passable black tea and orange slices. I had a message of Panado wings confirming take-off at 11:00pm, with two passengers other than us, at our… “convenience”? Sarah touched the tip of her nose. In her box, her father told her he had ordered light finger food with Erin Eberly, Adlai Stern managed an early lunch at his Hudson street suite, and Leo Shulz awaited us at three in his East 65th town house.
Julia said the two of them would visit us, in Paris, in about two weeks, if we wished. It was settled, either at one of Julia’s usual crash-pads, or in some free bed in the Castle, ours, for example.
On the following day, they would laze among the Century hoards and probably discuss future. Sarah, who did not get her bearings in the renewed layouts of the Art preservation fortress, needed to show me one fetish painting, a bouquet by Margareta Haverman, in the consecrated Flemish genre, which had haunted her since a sweet Art teacher had pointed a finger to it, during a class visit. It remained some intimate criterium, even when she had wandered in the conceptual wastelands with Dr Wolfsohn’s craniums, even though the old paedophile had been irreproachably delicate with her —who was a daredevil with irresistible eyes and a tight little belly—.
We held our temples together before the panel, big, considering the density of the workmanship, because there was that, too, along with the virtuosity of the lighting, the overall contenance of the composition. The ancient cursus in the Saint Luke guilds everywhere in Europe produced this supreme ability, albeit restraining women’s talent to minor subjects. A unique exception like Artemisia, —whose “Beheading Of Holophernes” haunts my visions for always— at the enormous cost of being enslaved to her rapist without recourse. When we devote to these overwhelming antiquities, can we keep in mind that those who commissioned them were unfettered perverts, too? After all, Margareta’s strategy might have been the map for a safe confederacy of womanhood, a couple of notches above the needlework on the masters’ trousers?
She had guessed me, Sarah pressed my arm, muttering that Margareta ought to have been quietly happy, as showed the drops scattered around the explicit analogy of the gaping white peony, all this long before Georgia O’Keefe ever saw one? We giggled like unruly brats, the attendant frowned, I smiled to her.
I would presume this painting is “mine” because I was told by my father that its author was one of our Danish family, moved to Holland where her father imposed her, by means unknown, as the sole pupil of the most famous flowers painter of his time? This narrative must have hit me at one of my clock ticking times. She herself moved to Paris and became a member of the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture, only to be expelled the next year, on the protest by her teacher, Jan Hylsum, that she had appropriated one of his paintings to convince the Académie.
So then I steered offshore the sails of our amazement, dropping that, after other blighted pretenses in the branches of the family tree, this one had to clear the view of a nonetheless still wondrous Hylsum piece.
Julia was conjugating the unavoidable grace of a nonpareil fire of European acme with the feel of Elsie’s supple back, I had known this in full, personally, and Miss Grant had left me feeling proud to know her, since my early bread and creamed morels slices, in Saint Loup, bless her.
Kate wouldn’t stray from her fear, at ground level she said a vapor of dirt glazed the backdrop scenery worse than Paris and Berlin, she smelled disquiet, she heard through the city hum the heavy silence of a wreckage in the making, said her, as we had drifted towards a Saint Jerome by Patinir, one of our favorite old-timers. From her inner nexus, she could breathe the air of the faraway bluish land where all flying souls would return from. She sent me to the inner spheres I had fantasised from the towers of Elsinore all the way to Tycho Brahe, I had not let go of her hand, I needed a kiss.
Stepping out on Fifth Avenue, I recalled out loud having been brought to some bright social event in the building across, the 1000. I had been coerced to dress like a real girl, with a lace-trimmed, polka-dots cotton panty absurdly matched to my eye colour, as if both were to be contemplated together; some planetary hoopla that my father understood soon anguished me, but became some kind of fun when he took my hand and kept it; all sorts of goons —in my taste— in all sounds of language spoke to him without asking about me, except an eerie creature with otherworldly blue glasses whom I did not comprehend but mutedly agreed with; I had been a pet all evening and I loved my Far.
The dampness had waned off when we reached our family’s eyrie, Julia carrying an armful of heady lilies; she had felt like a candid gesture could not harm the request she had wished, from one of his daughter’s schoolmates he knew otherwise quite well; perhaps was it a dare, she had acted on a whim, seing a florist on Lexington.
Far fetched the biggest of our Danish Holmegaard blown glass vases to let Dawn arrange the lilies and bring a few carafes of water; the bouquet stood over a buffet of neat looking bites overridden with coloured lines of sauces, I thought the pollen from these majestic flowers could not be poisonous, could it? Far said it is, but only for cats.
While Julia, leading Elsie like a master dancer, maintained conversation with Far, Kate wanted to hear more about my angels and pulled me towards the terrace.
We entwined on one of the sturdy loungers, I released my strain on the city’s bygones, and vowed to spend at least a week with Kate in the ramparts of Christiansø, so cold that we would spend our days in comforters with our pets. I coyly recriminated on her keeping me offshore from Sylt and Amrum where she had torched her trip with the younglings.
Joking aside, I confessed I did not retain much of new York culture, in earnest, the spiritual drive felt drained after the horrendous suicide of Mark Rothko, the extinction of jazz music and Morton Feldman, the exile of Peggy Guggenheim. Skinny cokeheads like Marcel Duchamp and John Cage had fled into their own resounding gaz bubbles and left the yuppies dance at Castelli and Gagosian.
There had been a time when cohorts of my angels friends rallied atop the vacant ConEd chimneys, when the heavy New York snow tried to shut off the bustle, albeit the FDR drive had always rumbled underground; today, they called from the antique lead roofs on the Louvre, they hustled barefeet nymphets on the Senghor passerelle, automobiles were chased away from the river banks, we would expend ourselves in the stealth corridors of the Palais Royal, like Europeans.
The conversation between Julia and my Far was taking a delicious turn, so Elsie looked for us and sat on the footrest. She took my feet and begged me to make good on my promise to host her. She had already seduced Kate, who left my side and went holding her backwards. She had crossed a lonely vale since our farewells long ago, it had been lighthearted on my side, she had lost her mother and kept herself together on trail, she had not exulted daily like us but the recall of our unbridled parentheses had thrived like the Ténéré tree in the desert of soulless phrases she thirsted in.
There could well be an international lawyer among our glass vaudeville, where few avowed their circumstances, other than temporarily desirous. She had better fathom the mere looseness of our own, before, eventually, stumbling awkwardly.
She would now sort her mundane necessities, rethink the bewitchment we inevitably cast on her solitary persona, with all the delights she guessed in our evocated private garden, and follow, or not, Julia in an American tour of the Gai Paris.
Meanwhile, I gathered at a distance that Julia had become enthralled with my Far and would indeed meet him at the Century, new perspectives, was it not? But at present Elsie and her logically departed early, our final day was possibly busy all the way back to our home.
As he saw us clear away the table and wrap the remnants, Far told me he had thought once to sell off the whole lot and see for a decorator in Lausanne, but these elegant pieces had looked him back and he had started to inquire on their origin and make, and so became enthralled of what he learned on the Danish craftsmanship, coming to think his mother ought to have been the one to devote herself to style, his father being morally strung-up in his guilt and furthermore, blind to mere functional elegance. Had it not been for the calling to parse the ashes of the near Armageddon humanity had spawned, in which our name had been stained, my Far would have chosen architecture as a vocation, and in that aspect, he breathed lighter in Geneva than in New York —a manner of telling me that he did not intend to let be sidelined of his lifetime endeavour. I should reckon he had constantly steered me outwards from where, for instance, my schoolmate Elsie now stood, with no apparent damage. He said there would be living space for both of us, girls, and my gang, and he liked it that way, he would help to it.
Kate was back and so smelled cologne that I enlaced her; she had found some grey oversized jersey and not much else, Far was looking her legs but he parted, like he usually did, wishing us a pleasant flight, had he known.
We needed no more soap, but tepid water to rinse off the very idea of all that rubber and exhaust dust in our hair. I could not tell if she was crying her lost angels, she mumbled fugitive calls and pursued my mouth like a lorn child. The rich towels made us into blank sheets of eager drawing paper, I needed to conjure all the promises of happy returns, in the shape of kisses beaded all over her in her imaginary smells.
I promised her more Xmas in Central Park, and roundtrips of debauchery together and more. The peremptory horns of the city’s forge heaters bounce up the hard edges of the sinking chaos, as we stand nude at the window, lightheaded, contemplating the blue shafts of the searchlights from atop the flakturme all over town. No squadron in sight, only the same slow cohorts of aurora’s smiles we used to wait for, my brother Simon and me, in the dunes; Sarah sighs as if she had been crying, she clings to my arm each time panic stricken horses jump over our hidey-hole; A creeping cat with three kittens searches a path between us until we let them in, and Sarah follows them and I swirl into myself, like the funny eagle with a clock in its tummy on the high shelf at the old candy store. There’s a fire on the horizon beyond the woods, with standards and flags; I would not move, as I am full of swarming little blue-eyed babies frightened by the trumpets and horns that hurl in some German tongue I can’t remember. Black clad soldiers with one-lens goggles rummage around but seem not to see me, huddled around my bag of sleeping souls and Sarah who blinks, turning her gaze to the starry sky where a long trail of swan flights stretches as far as my eyes can see, while the racket in the depths is deadened and I’m left with the soft mane of Sarah rolling upon my chest.
The bathroom was shut, so I opened my telephone in the AA armchair in the corner —where she would have sat and watch her mates undress for her. Some funny mail, from one of my own hacked addresses, said our flight would be on time, we should have company again, and everything we would agree to let be would be accounted for, with due regards.
Sarah came out, pampered as an appointment, I slid in and told her to read her mail; yelling through the door, because I would better not open it, she told me she had a message from Hotmail and she was certain whom it came from. I asked her how it made her feel, she cupped her hands on the wood and said low that I was a real one.
Lars was engaging, drinking coffee as he saw me brew tea in one of his silver Jensen pots, he explain it had made his life simpler not to expect proper tea at hotels he would, perforce, patronise.
He was relieved, after all, that the time had come to call the movers and pack, the house in Lausanne was overall ready; he insisted that I should come along with Sarah, I might appreciate more than New York, for what he knew. I promised, I did not know how far Zürich is from Lausanne, but there was someone I craved to meet again, over there. Yes, they had known exciting years in this extravagant residence, but he had had to reckon that it weren’t the place to raise Sarah, nor her brother, for that matter, I certainly knew all the good Saint Loup had done to her. I concurred keenly at the second she walked in, holding her telephone, shutting it and asserting that Mr. Stern awaited us. She sat on her father’s lap, like a cat.
Lars did his farewell lightly and promised to see us before the housewarming. which he needed us to attend, more than any others. He gave Sarah a peck on the lips, to me on the forehead, and he ran. I found her feet under mine, and told her how gifted I thought she was to have kept a dad like him, she bantered she had always been a crisis in the making, albeit she thought not, once her brother’s crime erased with festive years in Saint Loup. I liked footsie with her.
Next to a cantilevered pile of terraces and showcases towering up in the winds, the scrupulous red brick old style office building with recessed levels —as was the rule in regulation days— on Hudson street, in which Adlaï Stern maintained his well-waxed offices, extolled steady heartbeats, and so did Camille’s silver-haired uncle who showed us in with great demonstrations once a black pinstripe power suited hostess had greeted us in silence. Lengthy corridors of the same forest green plush carpeting, on which middle-aged ladies tried their heeled ankles, ascertained a patinated capability to handle any figure of wealth smoothly, like the sales attendant at Harry Winston’s showing the umpteen carats stone; it felt we stood in a plexus of global power.
He sat upon an outer corner of his massive mahogany desk while we shared an almond green armchair, and I felt two presses of Sarah’s hand on my waist, asserting she also had read old Adlaï’s gazes in our legs. I donned a lichen green shantung shirt dress opened above the knees, a sage embroidered uzbek velvet floating vest, jade green velvet Stubbs and Wooton zebra slippers on my bare feet, absinth chiffon thong he might have already seen. Sarah showed her imperceptibly speckled shoulders in a zigzag myosotis Missoni fitted tank dress half-thigh, a night blue velvet afghan boy’s vest embroidered in silver whirls, thin straps sandals at her beloved feet with night blue nails, like her hands —she had been doing that, when I had dozed out in the clouds’ hordes.
So we showed ourselves, like available baits, and he enjoyed. Pinching up his trousers’ pleat, he made a truthful compliment of his once forlorn niece, her finding Hugo as a john , first, then thriving out as we knew well, thanks to him. She had reached for the last kinfolk she found through the Circle —his eyes inquired about our knowledge, Sarah simpered we had all the keys, till then—. He said pensively that he had been alone not to be embarked for Pitchipoï , Camille’s mother had been liberated too late, too mauled to raise the gift a cruel providence had trusted her for. Unbeknownst to him, in the muffled out slums of guilt-ridden Parisian communities, she had unravelled during twelve harsh years, at Camille’s dismay.
He made a brusque sniff, and wanted to know how we knew Camille, and so we told him, and let him guess we were all but white geese, nor street sparrows in need, and so, after having ordered tea into an intercom, he led us to a vast padded sofa, of the same green leather.
A comely thin asian woman in a fitted black sleeveless dress brought a tray with a mud blue teapot and glass mugs she did not fill. Adlaï turned slightly towards me, laid his hand on my knee and said he knew me —paused— from Victor’s, of hellish fond memories. I did not recollect, but there had been, indeed, chaotic spends in the labyrinths. He was deftly unbuttoning my dress down the front, telling Sarah we were undoubtedly among those his faithful partner longed for. He brushed my breast smoothly, worrying naught about the impassive waitress who was pouring golden green water in the mugs; no hint of underwear showed under the thin crepe of her vesture, cleaved high on the hip in the Old Shanghai fashion. Adlaï wondered if we were lovers, and asked us to kiss, as he dared a hand between Sarah’s thighs. We drank some heavenly cloud of a tea and our awe let him venture further on us both. As the waitress returned, he casually covered my nudity and ask us what we wished for lunch. Sarah, who was still half-showing her crotch, looked kindly at the girl, in a tone which might have meant that they would end in a bed together, that any kind of mixed vegan salad around fresh pineapple would befit, and I concurred, leaning back in the down cushions with Adlaï’s hand rested on my thigh.
I needed to pee, he jumped up like a youngling, asked our hands and led us behind a heavy mahogany door to a greenish marble shower room with a golden glazed bowl where he sat me, then he adroitly pulled out his erect dick and played with it on my lips, while he was pulling up Sarah’s skirt and told me to wank her, as I sucked him and he kissed her. His honourable shaft smelled Bond Street, he took out a hefty pair of balls; it was not too boringly lengthy, he soon discharged in my throat without warning, and waited, stuck in, that I swallowed the whole load, finally helped by my teammate’s sucking kiss. He acted as fully relished, saying, as he buttoned back his fly, that he wanted to keep that smell for later.
He pulled Sarah’s dress away, she was instantly homey in the dark wood and green leather setting of a posh corner office. Jiao, as Adlaï had confessed her name was, brought wooden bowls full of orange carrot ribbons, white strings of radish, pink peeled grapefruit sections, and grapefruit chunks intertwined with leaves of different herbs; pretty mounds of white rice, because one eats rice, and porcelain flasks of dressings, bamboo sticks and silverware. Adlaï complimented her, pulling her hip softly, she explained, in ladylike English, that the meal came from the swanky Leonard Street caterer they patronised commonly. He was kindly uncovering her bum next to Sarah who felt her all over, up to an inviting smile, but the silky maid escaped. Adlaï told us that she had become more evasive during her lucrative work hours, although she complied regularly sitting on the golden bowl, and not wearing undies. She might come with him for his next visit to Paris; he wished we could entertain, with a reward, in the hotel of his heart, he capsized Sarah upon the back of the sofa, licked her whole bum crack for a while, and we had lunch.
The sun was sharp, anew we felt bright and slutty, as we drove up to E65th Street to a coquet townhouse to meet our last appointment. Liselotte connections had never been spoilsports, to say the least, and our minimal undies were folded in our stealth armpit pockets, we had found time to water-up our slits and steal some of Adlaï’s Cologne down there, one never knows.
The black lacquered door looked as armoured as Number Ten’s, and the security procedure felt complicated, with a sas and lots of cameras, but once we walked in the deep-carpeted, chiseled velvet upholstered, dim lit foyer, opening towards similar nightly ambient salons and polished mahogany stairs, a long sustained whistling greeted us from a tousled-head, burly, showbiz type shouting his pal Liz had not failed him and we were gorgeous, and as dirty as he liked. He groped us at once, relished our nudity, and pulled us to the rear of the house where a splendid naked Black girl laid reclined on a leopard pattern silk velvet plaid. She flashed a wondrous smile when Leo introduced her as Beondra, and pulled his tongue in my mouth still aware of the cock surge it had withstood. He turned up an apalled black eye when he had to concede we were both unflinching teetotallers, and served us cherry punch and soda. He wore a long open silk caftan over a deep sapphire blue, soon to be opened, long silk shirt which already did not conceal a sturdy haft that I politely seized. Sarah was again disrobed and held Beondra’s head upon her muff.
Once he had denuded me, Leo regained some quiet while spreading my thighs wide and playing at savouring my quim and butthole. He told us Liselotte had announced the niftiest pair of sluts she knew of in Paris, now he regretted we wouldn’t have time to be overthrown by all of his power gang, but he would certainly remember to call for us in his next Parisian visit.
Cajoling Sarah’s face with one hand, he forced me to his jolting truncheon in order to get sucked, but I finely rebuffed him, telling him that it was Sarah’s uncontested savoir faire, so he straddled her face and fucked her mouth gently while she was being eagerly serviced to climax. Still suckling on my tongue, he grunted when he crammed Sarah’s head full of smelly cum, and immediately dived on her to lick her face clean, like an eager animal.
I had never tasted a Black pussy, I devoted myself to Beondra’s lava rose, she was responsively jumpy, Sarah’s fragrance had untied her senses, she burst and screamed and ejaculated her spices on my busy tongue for long minutes, then collapsed, spent. Now Leo was buggering me with two fingers, at least, and he knew what he did, he asked permission to use a condom, I granted him so and soon I felt his invasion, accompanying his thrusts with inner squeezes, making him yell his vibrancy out, the chords in the coiled spine, the thrilling drone in the loins; I missed the ultimate fetish of his live gush, that would beastly drool out of my retracted arse.
Once the throes appeased, our sweats wiped in perfumed coloured towels, I told him that we did not use condom in our realm, because we let monitor our bodies in a network, he retorted my arse, for one, could eventually make him wish to expatriate, but all the nerve of his wealth was on this island. However, because of all that happened in their lavish home, to which he remained mostly a vibrant voyeur, they had already projected, on Liselotte’s advice, to set up such a web in America, but had not yet met a lawyer to envision an endeavour like this for less than tens of millions, plus my arse, naturally.
Although it would be unthinkable they would leave without us, it would soon be time to reach Teterboro. Our day had already unreeled frantically, Kate rested aslant on the taxi bench en route to Bergdorf Goodman because I had realised I could not depart without some present for Dawn, and money was not an option. Graciously helped by ladies who, at first, had looked down on us —did we smell sex, that much?— but to whom I gave my little girl’s gaze, whom I let feel my near-nude frame, knowing that Dawn would be one size bigger, they suggested a sumptuous Italian fawn and blue silk twill blouse with a New-York sized price tag I did not flinch to, Dawn had been my all-time unreserved ally. Kate, who simpered like a naughty schoolgirl, approved of the choice and it was swathed into layers of shimmering tissue paper, a powder blue solid cardboard box, a powder blue double box and a Bergdorf Goodman gift tote. My platinum card nobly swished through the wires.
Back in a cab, Kate wondered if I had fucked with Dawn, I let her know we had maybe showered together and I had tried to seduce her, but stopped at the tone of her prayer not to compromise her; she had been a faithful comrade since, and I liked her near my Far. We had the thrill of watching her breasts when she couldn’t wait and try on the Salvatore Ferragamo blouse. It was fugitive, but I put Kate’s hand upon the virginal globes the size of half-grapefruits, Dawn cried.
We opted for the versatile summertime travel outfits, whatever happened on that plane, we needed not show off. A light, vague, black ribbed jersey tank dress would be my best asset, eventually, in a black, white overstitched, sashiko jacket, a true luxury. I would kick in black, round toe, mary janes, and black open veil tights, if only to make Kate salivate. She herself chose a vague emerald and ruby on white ikat shirt, half-thigh long, gathered with a silver plates belt, under an oversized double breasted jacket, in sea-green, huge palms pattern ottoman lampas , lined in turquoise satin, off-white open tights —not to be outdone— turquoise slippers trimmed in silver grosgrain..
We really boasted be crafty harlots, in the whole; she had perfumed herself like a giant peony, I smelled like the blue haze of hyacinths in the blooming underwood, Dawn helped us till downstairs and made me promise to be in Lausanne, soon.
Visibly, the young driver liked to drive us, he had probably seen a flash of clear skin when I sat in. He babbled incomprehensibly at red lights, let his eyes wander down, but managed to carry us in time. In addition to a carful of fantasies, he pocketed a joyful tip.
Traveling out of the US is easy, one more stamp, yet, the white bird hissed already while we climbed aboard. This time, a svelte asian young man awaited us at attention, donning a Khmer smile, pretty as a girl. When he took my jacket, I sniffed a stream of something more than a cologne, nothing oriental, between grapefruit and blackcurrant, or maybe he had just gulped a gin and tonic; his hands were well educated. Kate rolled up her sleeves and unbuttoned her shirt down to the belt, tossed her slippers and sat on her feet, her smile said that she had noticed the attendant, too.
The pilots boarded, seemingly in good humour, recognised us and came to kiss our hands with some innuendo. On their heels, three bespoke clad Chinese executives walked in and spoke sharply to the attendant, who announced that the gentlemen did not speak English and he would translate for us. Like in tic-tac-toe, they filled the seats next to ours, and stared at us straight in our faces, with inexpressive masks, I sensed that they were fearing each other.
After the formal announces in technical English, we all buckled up and outside the window, Gotham World shrank into a web of blinking strings, while my neighbour’s hand was already on my bum, stealthily.
After a yaw above the ocean, we were following the ever populated coast, the quiet boy served drinks, we asked for kombucha because we knew there would be some, and the mandarins, now in expensive white silk shirts, asked for champagne, which came in two monogrammed silver coolers.
They let us know they were business partners of Panado Ventures Ltd, in Shanghai, traveling eastward around the planet to meet their contacts, and lovely occidental artists like us; I could not catch their names, but they did ours, and Kate had already two pairs of hands inside her shirt, about which one asked haughtily if it was Tibetan, to what she said it was Uzbek, but nevertheless her assailors did not approve of ethnic elegance and she was swiftly disrobed, less her tights that visibly excited them; she threw her hands overhead and spread her legs lankily while she was lapped upon, all over; the tights were peeled off and she moaned when one decorticated her feet with an all-oriental dedication.
On my side, the eminent passenger had watched out on his colleagues’ moves before lifting my simple dress, revel in my crotch for a while, burying sweet ideograms in my butthole, then ordering me drily to pull everything off and grazing slowly my abs and my chest, whispering “my little boy”, while he expertly wanked my quim to tears. He truly relished my figure, his manicured hands in every nook and tickle, his mouth stealing my air and suckling my tongue; he maddened my sleazeberries hard as I wriggled on the Connolly skin. When he heard the sound of unbuckling belts, he impatiently brought a rock-hard peen to my mouth, hurling some injonction to suck, he was already near spurting and he filled my educated throat for my pride to gulp it all and smile.
At a staccato formula he jokingly made, one of the opposite pair took his place and tasted my mouth, leaving me thoughtful as I gave him the flavour of his chum, with a sly grin. He stared at my Danish eyes and penetrated me straight on, humping like a mad boar and discharging, like fireworks into my womb.
Everyone was soon in the raw, these gents were all apparently fast-shooters, we might eventually take some sleep. Telling us to remain wide open, they asked for more champagne, then invited the quiet boy to join, and one of them fetched his dick out of his trousers, held it on fingertips and told Kate to kiss and suck, while the youngster was
carefully undressed, his clothes folded on a nearby stool.
While the three amigos had short, sturdy, hard cocks, this one sported a straight, long, supple one he had either shaved or epilated, and balls like small eggs in a satin pouch. They waved me to get near, and I craved already to lick these toy-like jewels. They guided him inside Kate’s dripping slit and showed me to point my tongue between his bum cheeks; soon I felt one of their rods enter my minge and my arse alternately until it slid easy, I parted my thighs as wide as I could to facilitate, and focused on some fine climax, a new flow of semen helped at that, and Kate, who heard my notes, joined me, making the no longer quiet youth gush happily.
My first assaillant of that night had a crush for his “little boy”, before we were offered dinner by the quiet boy —renewed in his prerogatives— he had already offered me millions to become his property; it was chilling, but I ducked, telling him that I belonged to the owners of Panado Ltd, and I was only on loan to him. After Kate had been accompanied to the bathroom and came back unfazed, my hasty suitor pushed me, since I needed it anyhow, and there he was standing, in his black socks, kissing me deep and feeling me pee, then acrobatically wiping my quim with his mouth, so I felt clean.
The one whose word would not be disrupted grabbed Kate’s arm and pulled her to one of the the resting settees, laid her before himself and showed her to sleep, firmly enlaced. So did my eager suitor with me, but not before he succeeded at buggering me slowly, not unpleasantly, since I dozed out upon it, he probably had used some shrewd lubricant.
Everybody woke up, under cashmere stoles, in Paris. Once we had slid into our togs, the quiet attendant showed us some most complete bathrooms in the reception building; we giggled to each other; a long sleek limousine awaited us; the tea was mediocre, but some grapefruit juice freshened our befuddled minds. Seeing the regards with what we were attended to, our fellow travelers, who had rightfully used us as mere trollops, were thrown in awe; they had, and my Romeo mostly, tried every manoeuvre to obtain our coordinates, but did not ferret out the stealthy armpit pockets where our documents would be, our phones were locked out; our only response had been that we belonged to Panado Ltd. A sleek shaved chauffeur, in a navy blue suit, grabbed our bags and laid them in the trunk, then waited at the car door, impassibly.
There was a suitable low, blank sky, and it was warm as in a dying summer. We still granted our fuckers some furtive indolent hand wave. Soon, I enlaced my rosebud tomboy and we dozed together through the bleak landscape of a modern suburb, tagged with the same graffiti as anywhere else, and an hour later, Natalia was waking us up on the backseat with her kind manners, as the chauffeur carried our bags to the elevator in the next building; she stared at us as if we had been gone for weeks, she felt like this all-Parisian wit in a pair of scattered blue volutes leggings, I did not understand who told her we were here. In our tidied home, an armload of dark crimson dahlias sprung in the big silver urn, the arcs of our old disparate Windsor chairs circled around a fresh provençale blue dotted yellow tablecloth on wich sailed a wire basket full of viennoiseries. My lighter than air imp wriggled her bum on my lap as soon as I sat while Sarah, still in some dream, put herself at brewing a pot of tea. Natalia made me a theatrical moaning kiss and I slid a hand to her modest tits, It was started for a party of jet-lagging after a transcontinental orgy. As it seemed, Natalia knew more about New York than we had had a chance to live, she had over-compensated the lack of reports from us with all the ressources she could gather online; Sarah joined us to thank her for breakfast in another heartfelt kiss.
Shutters closed, we traded pillows on the grand bed, Natalia in the middle ready to daydream in our sleepy midst. Later, Liseron found it a homey nest and embraced Sarah’s back.
We were indeed bad parents, we brought nothing back from our trip, no token that we had missed our home pixies, we let them order what they wished for dinner, and liters of fig kombucha, no pun intended, albeit… Camille was coming over with Fanny, Natalia ran upstairs for Delffan who was too shy, and Liseron caught Fayelle reading “The Manuscript Found In Sarragossa”. After all the dicks we had sucked and fucked, we would hold an all-pussy —and a half— party, the sunset already smelled like Kew Gardens. Only Liselotte was missing, and in gratitude for her improbable pirate cousin, I called her —that, she had been awaiting— and she ran at orders, greeted by Natalia, fittingly wearing just leggings and a torn tee shirt.
Camille wanted details of our visit to uncle Adlaï, showing us beforehand the effect of it in our accounts with the gallery; everyone marvelled at our depravity towards a gentleman we had not known when we rang his bell, but Camille concurred that he was so irresistibly obsessed that he had shagged her plenty the day they first met, and been an indefectibly faithful friend since, why she sent us to him, knowing what we would allow, like the two gifted alley cats we were. Liselotte relished the tale of her mock cousin Leo, and predicted he might as well spring up in Paris overnight, and desecrate all of the fine slits she sensed in the room, after what she pulled off Delffan’s pants and played the orchid with her tongue.
Natalia was sparkling with arousal and Lizon gave her the last blow of bliss upon me, as I kissed her backwards, and Sarah busied her tongue in her butt crack. As Fayelle had raptured her overjoyed mate Fanny, Camille cajoled Delffan’s bald head and gave her worldly honeypot to suck.
The telling of our well ordered flight fanned the flames to white heat, like the Asian invaders had been avatars of Sun Wukong, the immortal monkey god, in heat. Sarah was most amusing recounting the prowesses of her Romeo, and how he eventually buggered her to her “petite mort”, only to watch her vanish into a limousine. Camille regretted we had not, at least, kept with us the quiet boy, and wondered if she might get hold of him in some way. It was about time to fetch the dildos.
When Hugo joined the bacchanal, happily bedazzled by all the witty bums that crowded our den, Liselotte overtly fawned over him, helping out with his clothes and licking his balls, but he had spotted Delffan in bloom and craved that rare treasure; he offered the kindest compliments and nuzzled the cheeks and temples as one was climaxing at Camille’s expert hand, then asked permission to play, offering his proud weapon at the parted lips, a pointed tongue as soon licking a drop of clear cum. Delffan keenly spread wide open and Hugo, well taught by his aventure with Theo, asked what to do and where to shag —for he knew it might possibly not happen for the obvious— so Delffan seized his cock and presented it to the tiny pussy, asking for some mercy. The path was wetted, Hugo was utterly deft in such matters, and succeeded at nesting his glans into the mignonne slit —but after all, he had penetrated apparently smaller holes before— and progressed, one tiny jolt after the other, into one’s merry well, and fucked for good to the general amazement, the smaller goad begging for Camille’s lips, which wrapped the straight blade in eager succion. The gush came through a secretive orifice under the shaft and atop the pussy, Camille was splashed on with a smile as Hugo was triggered to fill the pouch that had expanded a tad. Delffan was elated and proud to have shown how to be considered, Hugo was smitten by this preternatural, lithesome body of pleasure that he embraced and kept tight, while Lizon and Sarah licked the toes on the narrow feet.
Delffan’s beautiful orgasm had been the cause of an intermission, and half of Agnete & Sanne’s shop on our table. But also, one after the other dared ask the middlesex newbie permission to kiss the unusual orchid, as one stood on Hugo’s lap, so much so that he erected anew and began his moves to bugger the angel, in what he was helped by Lizon’s opportune drooling, and some lube when Delffan asked; thankfully the chair was sturdy enough when they climaxed again, and this time they went to the shower, smiling.
Pulling a chair next to ours, Liselotte noticed Natalia on my knees and groped her, my eyes rolling being insufficient, I whispered in her ear that this one was not fair game for her, and unmistakably the all-alerted squirrel heard me, and playfully opened her thighs to a bedazzled Liselotte who gave a little lap there and asked if she could just kiss, but Natalia was eating. Her own legs parted wide, she embraced us as Sarah started the part in Julia’s live-in museum with the demon twins; clung to her, giving the eye to Hugo who wanted to take away Delffan, as he did, she played with the suckleberries as my best tomslut revived the indefatigable twos in all our holes. For that or for art’s sake, Natalia wished to go see Julia’s collections, and I did not doubt a second the latter would fondly appreciate, so I promised, and you had to beware with Natalia, that I would let her ask Julia the next time, soon, that she would visit; for now, she was more involved in seducing Sarah’s father before he left New York.
As predictably, Hugo invited Delffan alone to his lair, half dressed and fled. Camille and Fanny took Fayelle to their place. All of us left went in our bed to watch a Miyazaki tale, at Natalia’s request, and Liselotte crawled up in her legs at her pleasure.
I could not fathom if Julia had succeeded at shagging Far over their highly connoisseur meetings; nevertheless, Elsie sounded definitely willing to respond to my invite, and should be with us, whatever Julia flew by, sooner than later. Kate was adrift through the time zones and it gave her the small eyes of a young girl with a flu, but Natalia and her melted together so much so that Beryl wondered, then shared Lizon with me, as it happened.
Natalia was turning eighteen, and would begin literature, art history, and English at the Sorbonne, at least she would trudge through the freshwoman year, skilfully mentored by Beryl. She rested assured on a safe seafaring, but the terrible other in her needed hustling and bustling, unleashed after all she was given to see and hear, she wanted to measure herself and dared Kate, whom she always loved, to let her alone in the “cage aux fauves”.
At one of my transatlantic Xmases, a comely copilot I had casually followed to the airline hotel on 57th street, had gently, among many delicacies, explained to me the use of melatonin, an overall inoffensive hormone, to induce sleep ahead of the clock after an eastbound flight. I had had to find some hazy excuse for the few hours lateness, but I kept in mind what he had so amorously explained, and used it on my way back to Europe. It were already times when my mother and brother had moved, and thus, as long as I looked physically fit and altogether clean, I was granted some kind of autonomy, or was I? —Wasn’t my blue suit fling one of those security watchdogs I had always seemed to see, except for at least once?—
The season was waning, the perfidious twilight breeze called for another layer of flimsy fabric, or the warm breathing of a lover upon the breast. We had migrated back to our high view observatory, but it had revealed itself unfeasible to lock out of it the new younger and slender astronome apprentices, as the metaphor went. It has soon trended to meet our neighbours, possibly in indecent attires, seated around our table, keenly listening, or reading, in their turn, the Journals of Anaïs Nin —with further comments— or the dreamy parables of Marcel Schwob. This clever arrangement had been spawned by our old Magus, I would say James W. Manner, whom got wind that we had repatriated our court in the Pré Aux Clercs.
He sent first an armful of white gladioli, all-dressed-up in ferns and lace-paper, asking if he could visit on the next afternoon, along with Annabelle, his golden sylph of a daughter. They appeared as a whiff of lavender, assailed by lashes of bergamotte and frills of juniper, she was as limpid as the highlands rains, we all craved to unravel her tweed spell. Fayelle and Lizon were here, barefeet, one in an oblique wrapping gown of thinly striped blue-black Japanese weave, the other in a granite blue giant sweater dress showing all of her legs; they emanated both a stubborn ribbon of jaunty freesia, we had been “spying in the house of love” by their dulcet tones of voice one would wish to hear Anaïs Nin, the epitome of cosmopolitan grace.
At once, James took Lizon by him, on the red settee he had offered that for. As Fayelle kept a thumb into the book she had been reading, Annabelle perched on my lap and her feather weight tipped over the seat of my chair so that we found ourselves kissing, unavoidably.
James’ polished nails were running up Lizon’s complacent thigh, I wouldn’t recall how she knew the old artist other than the reception at our show, but she appeared open as a windmill, and he was ready to romp in, feeling no barrier to his caress.
He claimed that Anaïs could lead us a long way, she had been a pioneer of polyamorous freedom, after cutting through all the available paths of well-off education, incest, marriage, and then all the free reeling we enjoyed ourselves, fifty years beyond her. She probably had been some case, to Miller and the others, but in her writings they looked good, better than many literary echoes of companionship in women’s writings.
Lizon sat nude in her overthrown gown, he stroked her whole body and kissed her eagerly, still dressed up in his Irish Tweed and golden green velvet vest. His trousers bulged at the crotch. Anabelle wore off-white textured open tights and responded nicely to my steady manipulations of her damp cunny, one of her legs rested on the table after I had sheltered a few accessories, she acted as shamelessly as a daisy in the prairie sunlight, or as I had in the warmth of the basement laundries at Saint Loup. I grasped something that had kept whistling in my head, that she had certainly not any shade of daughterly attitude towards James, who was now currently widely bedraggled so as to let Lizon pump him kindly; my hunch was that she had chosen him as a sponsor in Paris, then made-up the kinship to secure her position, and let anything happen, which, with a rascal like James, meant a refined modus vivendi.
Would I spare a couple of intimate minutes to discuss this arousing play with Kate? It seemed that nowadays we had boarded all the lovely tramps we had met and our main deck always was crowded, more girls than knights, my quim said.
Now Fayelle was on all fours licking Kate, wide opened, both feet on the table edge, pulling the chair ahead in her lover’s face, and meanwhile James reclined so as to slide his fingers in Fayelle’s slits. Annabelle and me had succeeded at peeling off and we uncoiled over the carpet in half-light.
James knew very well of our spacious modern shower at this level; when each of us was fulfilled, he achieved his nudity and called all of us in the tepid rain, but most of all, he needed us to piss on him and in his mouth, which Annabelle did firstly, with no further comment from us than this foolish warm liquid release, and frank laughters.
James and Annabelle had promised to come for another party soon, when all the books we had ordered to picture the tale of our trip would be delivered —no one needs anymore to carry heavy books and catalogues in their bags, they are all at Amazon’s—. Fayelle and Lizon seemed to have plotted something together next morning, so we remained together, awake like the moon, and shared our feeling that it was Annabelle’s right to live as the incestuous daughter of James’s; I would clear my head of any reluctant reserve, and let my Far play with my toes endlessly.
Then Kate retold me what Natalia had laid for us to think, and I reckoned she had been rightful; we could not keep on bantering about selling ourselves like whores for the meer pleasure of it, and keep our word to her mother not to let her take her seat on the merry-go-round.
Also, she plainly deserved to begin shagging all her fill with indefatigable stems of her age —we did, at any occasion—. What I feared was that, at once in college, she would be preyed by a cute Cro-Magnon specimen, whom, because he would stuff her with semen, would think he rightfully owns her soul and arse, climb up the roofs and make our lives miserable.
Before we dropped our melatonin pill, our deal were, once Natalia would have told us her cravings, and it could take a few days, and more jaunts into private places, we would ask Camille and Liselotte, our trusted procuress —so to speak— and Hugo, His Lordship, what to offer the talk of the town, as a free fate.
We grossly overslept, but who cared? Natalia laid tight alongside me, daydreaming in her keen animal way, Sarah’s hand on her waist. As a matter of fact, I had been dreaming with her, or probably she had just stepped into my conscience on tiptoes. She faintly smelled of something, unsure of my breath, I soughed in her jewel ear I felt she had fucked last night, she said nothing but a tongue zest in my own ear.
Sarah brewed the first Darjeeling, and a panful of French toast with her distinctive vanilla note. Natalia kept fiddling on her quim, her rapscallion missed of delicacy… she grasped that I had read her, kissed my shoulder, and wept. After a blank moment of cajolement, she spilled the meager beads of her chagrin, all but miserably obvious; it had not been a rape, upon a pile of clothes in a dim lit room of a bourgeois dwelling, while the heavy beat of a students party pushed, she had very soon resented derailed, misused, unfit, dry and sawed in, and now she was in fear the unaware boor would track her because he knew her classes.
Leaving her on Sarah’s bosom, I pulled a shirt on and ran downstairs for a balsam proper to quench pussy burn Hugo kept. I met the always nude Delffan who gave me her peaceful lips, told three words to Hugo in his sultan robe, then I grabbed the vial and climbed back. I knew —might I say first hand?— the properties of the heady violet smelling cream, and Natalia asked for my fingers to insist in her, as she kissed, and eventually came, in a great relief spend.
Although my appetite had thinned flat, I complimented my simply distraught von K. on her confection she would never miss, fed bites in Natalia saddened childish mouth, and claimed she would stay the day with us, upstairs. I summoned Liselotte in terms fit to make her aware of some flaw in our affairs, and Camille, both of whom attentive around Natalia’s well being.
Liselotte was first to sneak her way in, now that she had grabbed a lot of our codes, and pecked upon Sarah’s toasts elegantly, allowing herself to stroke our smooth looking forlorn maiden. She had a way to pull some confession with enough detachment so that it produced the same healing in the soul as the cream in the cunny, and she relished being asked to console our house fairy she had craved for.
Like a master scheduler of the waters in Babylon gardens, Liselotte had become expert for a stealth nation’s lovestreams, at higher risks than a therapist but far more rewarding returns. Sharing Natalia with me, she invented at once a safe life plan for an impish student too pretty for street life; she would commission Fulgence, this one Natalia could use at no cost, to escort her, him or his trustable chums, during her public necessities, until the lout in question understood she were off-limits. Liselotte gave her word that there were no compensation on her side, only our man Fulgence would be too glad to ingratiate himself with our gracious society; besides, he deserved a more dignified share of our affection, whatsoever.
Natalia saw Liselotte as a saviour, and allowed cat paws all over herself.
Camille appeared later, and grasped the matter fluently, deemed Liselotte’s idea brilliant, brought it up to conspiracy scope, all the time stroking Natalia’s thighs, it began to smell heavenly throes. She reckoned that Natalia had simmered in unfettered lewd effusions from us all, without much more than mere licks on the cakes, so she —and she patted the small belly saying that— might be let to visit some of the brightest pastry shops, like her comrades in the attic lairs. She wondered pensively about her own house fairy whom no one could tell her age and was still dependant on her therapist. Fanny had heard and seen life ways, learned at hopping pace the structures that had been alien to her too long, but she was not asking for more than what she found during a few get-together with us, and most of all Kate who had been her vision and her ultimate buoy. Natalia would be able to retell her what it felt to roam bare in Xanadu, without a telephone.
In the meantime, I was missioned to talk with Hugo, who was entirely after Delffan, who seemingly reveled in that. I had hastily pondered anyway that one could hear my query about Natalia, and Hugo ought to speak up with Lena, her mother, on her daughter’s coming of age in a nexus of life ways of sorts she could not ignore. Hugo approved all of our guidance, promised to speak with Lena in the evening and let me cuddle up with the sweet pixie.
Beryl had been seeking for her mate in many places before finding her with us; she smelled like she had ran, but it was overall palatable; she grasped easily what had gone awry and eventually cried, taking the blame on her because she had dragged Natalia in that unknown house. So, then, it bore on me to heal the wounds of two runners, and I told Beryl she would come with us to the clinic, for a first whole shebang on Natalia, who was overjoyed to hear that.
I held her hand for the blood drawing, more as a token of faithfulness than unneeded support, she is a big girl since she crept in our bed; Beryl, whom had found me sleeping in Victor’s house of lust, was on the other side, thoughtful; Natalia half-smirked when the operator scrutinised her vagina, saying someone had been badly ferocious lately and she should probably report it, to what I convinced her that the culprit would have to redeem his soul for what he had done, and I gave her my black card, in case, she read it in the machine and gave it back, offering me to pick the occasion to an update that we did, so I begged my little sister to hold my hand. Natalia found the need to explain to the benevolent woman that it had not been a rape in that matter, but a brutish butch who knew not she had not welcomed him and did not come anyway. We would make sure he learned his lesson before next time. Beryl concurred, frowning.
Natalia would retrieve her black card the next day, she saw it as a permit to “throw her bonnet over the mills”, as the French say, but only with those in the know, which might sound like a rehash of the gloomy times of prostitution, with an extension to men, equally. As a whole, an expensive and private network like existed for the pornographic industry in Hollywood, anyone with access could type your number and review your specific details. She knew Beryl had a black card, and a number.
Still holding hands, we went up to Agnete & Sanne and bought pies and salads, like they wished, they carried the tied pile of boxes, Natalia was revigorated, Beryl was unsettled.
Camille had known Beryl on and off, with us mainly, and while I preened my fallen dove and Liselotte rekindled her passion for Sarah, she took a fancy for the gracile and sullen doe, holding the ancient board of her chair; she unlocked the gaze of Irish linen blue and did not beg for any smile, yet. She pulled her easily to a couch and began unlacing the ankle boots, pressed the slightly wet socks that smelled kiddy. Beryl was a skilled slapper from long, with a lovely wisdom, I had never doubted her as to what concerned Natalia, I was fond of their nest, everybody wished to sleep there with them, Gauthier, Theo and the whole floor loved them unconditionally. I pulled Natalia to the other couch across and massaged again the inner walls of her vagina with Hugo’s miracle cure, she was sleepy and abandoned, but her clit responded like a lizard at noon.
Ever since Liselotte had once handed her over to this retentive pervert, Pr Y., There had existed a crisp game between her and Sarah; with time, they had both come to love it, it was some thrill to watch Sarah apparently lose her wits at the hands of a vicious dominant, it made me fantasise of tying her in strong leather straps.
Beryl, tousled up, in white socks, invited Camille upstairs, having guessed that Natalia would cling on to me; she was somewhat proud of hosting the queen bee in their own bed.
Someone had ought to call upon Fulgence in a mouthwatering manner, for he sat along with Sarah and Liselotte, both pretty casual in white jersey nightshirts, when Natalia and me emerged, late morning. Tea was lukewarm and bitter like Malaga raisins’ pips, he had brought pieces of flan from the back street boulangerie, because Sarah and him had shared their common relish of it some day, Natalia concurred swiftly and handed me a piece, it made a plain childish breakfast and smelled vanilla in my pet’s mouth.
Since our encounter in Victor’s hellish labyrinths, after years of snubbing him at school, thenceforth Fulgence had become one of our prized, friendly, untied shags, but that morning he was all eyes on Natalia, who purred.
He grasped the awkward circumstances and admitted it could level to unbearable if the brute was entangled in his own balls and worked it into an Elizabethan plot. We laughed a lot, he held Natalia’s fine hand, she was aroused like a rose bush, they decided to make an exploratory stroll on college grounds, we went for a shower, Fulgence matter-of-factly came to watch, he did not hide his hard-on to our sneaky show.
Much later in the day, Natalia and her squire came down beaming, Beryl had sensed to free the clearing as they had come back from operation intimidation, she had read us a few more days in the “manuscript”. As a mock demonstration of sensuous fealty, Fulgence brought his proud conquest near me, and flirted gently with both of us. They smelled of licked skin and broom flowers, in his jeans, he was all spent, for then.
And so, Natalia joined the merry-go-round and in the course of one term fucked most of Fulgence’s co-affiliates, lost three kilos and gained a few heartfelt tones in her spoken voice, not so much, however, to give us second thoughts, in regards to her past bratty girl sweetness. She still happened magically in the bed at her will. She was ready for expeditions into the confounding realms of our best patrons.
She had gone to see Marie, who was in the spectacular phase of her rounding, and aroused like a vixen; she peeled her naked without thinking, retelling her the finest ways to whore, at her best profit and amusement, warning her to stay inside Camille’s safe lines, and teach her johns to pleasure her, most of them would be grateful. If need be, she could let her exercise this twat in a German posh whorehouse, young as she was, she would be the talk of Berlin overnight. Thus, they had dampened the towel they had been sitting on.
Hugo was speaking of taking her, along with Delffan, to the Isles of Scilly in the springtime, he invited her in his bed, when Delffan nested by the new corridor, on one’s own, with marveling wide eyes. Lena winked frankly when we crossed paths, she trusted us to what the apple of her eye had told her, and she could reckon by herself the whereabouts of her fast running daughter. She did not wish to know where and how she traded her arse, she saw no damages and read the reports.
After a rooftop conference with Lizon, she asked Sarah, once she had her hand busy inside her pants, to take her to the Palais Royal, and Sarah would be set on fire to do so, she questioned Camille who told her that as long as she went together with her, Natalia would enjoy a great deal of learning in such places, just like Lizon had.
Lizon had bragged about her visits in the Palais Royal concealed corridors at Philippe’s to keep Natalia aroused in her bed or anywhere she would like; she had disrobed and made love to her in a double mirror clad booth downstairs at a lesbian hustling place; she had pulled down her pants for an old wanker Natalia had not spotted at first; she was under her belt and they liked it.
Liselotte had recognised the polymorphous lustful drive in Natalia just like her own, she stood on the lookout for permission to deprave her fruitfully. She had revealed, quite conscientiously, to Kate –whom we all had deemed in charge of Natalia’s fate and soul– that she could make her meet Pr F., oil king in the Human Sciences department she would depend on. It was all too obvious but Liselotte would always surprise us with her incomparable clout, and clever perversity.
I suggested that since Beryl had mentored Natalia efficiently till then, she might chaperone her off the record as well, but Liselotte insisted Natalia should be alone and, besides her, defenseless at the whim of the generally trusted professor, who would revel in her fears.
It would be set on an evening, after dinner time, Liselotte, who had regained her pale complexion and was dressed in a matte black silk twill high collared evening belted trench over a fitted black scoop neck, at the knees long, dress. Black veil tights in patent leather flats. I checked that she was nude and crotchless under there. She smelled a heady torture of gardenia and neroli, with a ghost of violet.
Natalia liked that. Liselotte had trusted her to her hairdresser, Jean, to shorten the wings of the wealth of dirty blond curls, and reveal her nape. She, herself, wore a collarless, purple-blue bourette, high cut vest, with three fourths sleeves, upon an outremer jersey tank dress that set off her butt, on which Liselotte ordered her to lose the panties, any kind, and wear some opened tights like herself. She kicked dark violet velvet Stubbs an Wooton slippers embroidered of a witty contrasted splash contiguous pattern. I had personally sprayed her with a demented lily enlaced with angelica that Hugo had experimented on my pussy mound; Liselotte was drooling mentally, she would serve as only witness at trafficking such a gem, unwrapping it, eventually?
Camille had already groomed me about ways and manners through tiers of academia, if I wished to benefit of particular lighting along the cursus, in a word become the pet student of an influent mandarin; she, herself, had played so, but truth was that she had been a whore long before, hadn’t she? Anyhow, now she could cabriole behind the shield of her doctorate —anyone?
She thought Beryl had been wisely oriented by her almighty protector among his own clientèle, and she had not yet geared in, for my benefit, not knowing if I would ever spend time and else in Victor’s mazes.
Sure, I had been telling Beryl that, from what I was told, and lately by Lizon, I craved to become part of that ring, but above all I needed to stay in the clear with Hugo and my mother, and Camille was Hugo’s acting main man, so to speak.
Liselotte had dearly craved a piece of my arse, indeed, in her devious manner, and thus, she would be served the same way Sarah had retold me she had done to her, by hustling my skin to one of her high-flying patrons —at my will, of course.
Under the sheets, I grasped the slutty vertigo in these well-off brats, and realised I had devoted my soul at duplicating theirs, in their all around faithful trust, mind you.
As my elder, Sarah had played doll on me, she had ordered a full laser finish, we had shopped at the most savoury counters for she could feel silk upon my skin, I had almost fainted in the Stubbs and Wooton salon, and Liselotte had furrowed a dainty hand between my bum cheeks on the black leather of the back bench, in the long frame, silent berline.
After Liselotte said we’re here to the answering end of her call, the heavy wooden double portal buzzed open and we sneaked in a golden dim lit porch on which glass doors give, with yet another pad to type on, and so on with the lift to fifth. There, the Smyrna carpeting was thick, and the lamps, in the shape of frosted glass flames, dawned gold on our faces into the infinite parallel mirrors; amid the heavily muted air, Liselotte begged me for a surrender kiss, she tasted of pearl.
The doorbell rang afar, the whole house held its breath, the door rattled many bolts, and swivelled open, under a heavy tapestry curtain. A grave, awkwardly theatrical character, plated black hair, pale middle aged features, in a black shaved velvet smoking jacket with quilted satin lapels, a deep purple ordinance collar shirt, perfect fit black matte gabardine trousers, stood gallantly. As he listened to Liselotte’s presentation of me, he pressed me against the door drape and at once forced his tongue into my mouth, then moaning extravagant compliments. Soon, his hands were already anywhere on my body. He skilfully extricated my limbs out of my jacket, which he nevertheless laid orderly on a chair’s back.
The entry to this apartment was more of a reading salon, with bookcases filled with fine bound books, scattered small bronze figures, two symmetrical pedestal marble top tables and a few medallion armchairs of striped rose and green taffeta. Oriental rugs overstepped one another like archaeological tiers. Staring at my eyes as he asked if I feared anything, he enlaced me as to walk into a grand salon, filled with a dramatic array of dark wooden sculpted columns teeming with grimacing faces and excited animals. Matter-of -factly, he drew me to a deep sofa of burnt-umber brown suede, in which I couldn’t sit up, but lay back, as Liselotte reclined on my other side.
His hand soon ventured under my skirt and he groaned of bliss at what he could feel. Keeping his eyes in mine, he wondered “Who is this?”, and awaited for Liselotte’s revelation of me.
She had been thoroughly truthful, I think she reckoned I was soulful enough not to be fawned about in the eye of my would-be ogre, set aside my dutiful pedagogue. The black jersey had been gradually hitched up over my piddling breasts, his pat and brush there was achieving to overcome any modesty in the mere tramp I were, offering my blooms to the evil bishop, in the most perverted of bedtime stories.
Then he ordered me fully nude and obscenely openned, first marvelling at my toes, modeling at his fingertips up to my wet pouting quim, and all of a sudden commanding that I fetch his dick and suck it, in an imperious whiff.
I wouldn’t dare say that I possess the long trained talent of my invented big sisters in carnal rhetorics, but I intuited the right manner to pump this fitted, long, and straight willie that smelled of Imperial Cologne, and thus I soon had to gulp in an intransigent mouth load of warm semen, for he was pressing my head to his crotch, teaching me a lesson in throat fucking.
Seeing what, Liselotte, still in her crisp array of black silk, came to my rescue in a devoted full-mouth kiss which inspired the proud spurter to unwrap her lower belly. The scene we were playing amused him, he made me jolt by drilling his finger into my back hole.
Once he regained his composure, he found a small silver bell by the foot of the sofa and rang a tiny tinkle to no echo, but a girl, in a closed collar black outfit with a white apron just like “années folles” pornography, brought a tray of warm finger nibbles, laid it on a large leather ottoman she rolled towards us, and went for another tray bearing a coffee set and a bottle of champagne in a cooler.
I was still sucking on the bitter weird taste of his goo, it seemed that Liselotte relished it in my mouth she could at last abuse of, all her fill.
Once he shuffled her petals too, Liselotte had called him “Pierre”, his prick rested as a puppy, he made me lick it clean, again, of the remaining drops, I felt sleazy as a forlorn slave, he was crudely testing me.
With Liselotte soothing my tummy and cunny, he changed his voice as if he would address upper layers of my mind. He explained, in confidence, that I probably knew of my friend Miss Stern’s secure accomplishment, but he wondered if I had knowledge of her opportune sexual expenditures during her studies in his department.
I wanted to save on the ellipses and I took a kind tone to venture that, indeed, I knew Camille had been a whore since her infancy, and only her meeting with Hugo Decharny had drawn her to wake and achieve her social position.
He smirked, agreed that I knew more than he would have reckoned. He was still with his dick out, I was laid back and spread like a spent harlot in a Toulouse Lautrec scene, I was a thorough slag. He went on, unveiling that he had schemed a fruitful cooperation for us, and promised that, if I granted him one such unbeknownst night as this one every term, I would attain my reward with flying colours.
I was not trapped, per se, but hooked, as I felt it. Sarah had been right in warning that I would no longer parse my sentiments between the benefits of a sure path to a somewhat higher status —which my mother, for one, hoped for me— for price of this, so far, light-weight prostitution, and, on the other hand, the glistening delight of merely putting up my skin on stage and watch the manoeuvres of the greedy bidders, from inside the crystal of my soul. And that was what I had come fetch inside Kate and Sarah’s bed, and it smelled good, included the weird taste of male gush.
The overall absent looking maid replaced the warm bits tray with an array of fruits déguisés and pralines. She would not raise an eye on my lewd stance, I would not know if she even spoke French, she donned black eyes and marked black eyebrows in a pale oval face, a slit, tense, unexpressive mouth, rich black hair gathered in a loose bun. I wondered if she, too, was playing a part there, I would have been in the mood to slide a hand between her slim thighs, I only let my pussy wink at her insensibly.
Pierre wanted me to help undress him, he was more or less heavy and hairy, he ordered me once more to lick his balls, and Liselotte, half unkempt, joined. Then he claimed it was time to experiment with me. The maid was called to clear the large ottoman less the coffee that went on a side table. He told me to lay on my belly, legs apart, and handed me an opened book which he wanted me to read aloud, blandly, indefinitely. While I recited scrupulously, incited by his remarks, focussed on words and making no sense, I felt that he was licking my bum crack with great dedication, and Liselotte was busy at some pleasurable part, hence the muttered cries, and I grasped she would have taken hold of the maid in black. Nonetheless, he was hemming my southern lips so well that I pursued my reading stubbornly, even after I felt he was oiling my arse surreptitiously and stretched it with the four-fingers game deliciously, he was as dainty as Sarah in that, but he also could thread in his rekindled shaft and begin his full length thrust and back till I fitted him in and squeezed his moves accordingly, still reading as he ordered, well beyond his gush, when my retightened arse began to lose his liquids upon the leather I was on.
Liselotte had actually unravelled the maid, rid her of her black rags and made her lick her twat, which she did breathlessly, yes she was part of the cast. She was a lean but smooth-shaped animal with a chubby mound and labia, her butthole was shady mauve, and her feet were as clever looking as Sarah’s, I wished I would nibble them madly, but now I laid on my back, and Pierre had set up a projector behind my head, beaming on the ceiling the words I should read aloud, holding a remote to set the speed of scrolling, while he was shagging me, almost still. A footnote let me see that the text was his, and so the game took a sort of amusing literary turn, it was a tad more than just paid fuck —or was it?
The third load was predictably longer to happen, but he was more and more transfixed watching me, reading in the air in the glaucous light of the projected letters, while the other two sucked my tiny nipples to try and make me trip on words.
I was easing my hips over his dance, searching some exultation of my own, which I realised a proper whore wouldn’t, but he grasped my moves and strengthened his, deeper, faster, to my release and rapture. He summoned the two others, Elvire, that was her name, and she wasn’t deaf, to suckle his drooling penis, and Liselotte was allowed to clean my quim with kisses.
Pierre was now lazing in the depth of the downy cot, I craved Elvire’s tight butt and elongated loins, all three girls reveled in each other. He looked at us, amazed, and mumbled that Queen Victoria was a blind idiot, which I wished I would remember to ask Liselotte what it meant. He was indeed spent, but he grabbed me close and kissed me all over my face, thanking me. He wanted to now if I would fulfill our deal, I nodded like the little girl I had been, he said that I come see him in his ordinary office, where nothing was to occur, albeit he might enjoy that I forgot to wear undies, there, he would schedule my readings and writings to the best efficiency. Our next “performance” would be in two months time, with a new chapter of his book. He trusted me with his personal coordinates, while glancing at my eyes for a warning not to spread them, and showed us to a spacious bathroom where he asked me to piss on him as he hugged me.
We left around midnight, Liselotte had ordered another grand car, she asked me to invite her in my room, I still had enough stamina to take her in my bed. I asked her if I could meet Elvire again, she mused I had a crush on the lissom black cheetah, she answered that she would be there at all of my nights with Pierre, because she was his daughter, but, at my stupefaction, she added that she would set up a party of us three in the next day; as a headless alley-cat, I jumped for joy and opened my thighs to her, again.
Liselotte had only wanted to end the night nested in my armpit, resting bustled by my dreams, smelling me. When Beryl snuck back in, she wondered who was that woman, then recognised the chain she bore at her ankle and slid along her back, holding a small breast in her sleep.
Some battle of pigeons at our window woke us, I had not closed the shutters. My two sweet bedfellows greeted each other on my account, claiming me the freshest whore of chic Paris; they colluded at making me orgasm so intensely that my legs would fidget through my day.
Hugo invited me for an intimate dinner, and I would make sure it wouldn’t mean sitting at a table.
Indeed, he had manoeuvred so as to entrust Delffan to Theo, whom would introduce that one to a different niche in the Palais-Royal, and thus went shopping for a worthy genderfree outfit at Missoni’s. He would keep his ward for the night.
After what Liselotte had told me of Pierre and Elvire, I felt dizzy when Hugo, who was my real surrogate father, cupped his hands upon my neck and nape and kissed me like a made woman, soon sliding a hand in my pants I had kept on in the idea of losing them fast. He turned his most lustful eye on mine and whispered he needed to smell my sweaty crotch, pushed me over the center table, and unbuttoned my fly, to nose inside.
He teased me about still scenting Pierre’s semen on me, tossed the jeans and licked me, raving about the holy sweats of a busy student, leaving me glowing upon the table, legs apart. Whatever my mother could peep on from now on, the household would restrain naught about me and my person.
Yes, whereas Pierre had, so to speak, defiled my pelting on his doorstep, foreseeing the thrashing of one of Liselotte’s gullible white geese, Hugo was carefully letting his yearnings overcome the shudders, allowed me to keep prancing free. He would not sacrifice this spontaneous drive he had always furthered in a sneaky pet mouse, for a mere jolt of spaff most anyone around here could actuate for him.
He retold me a fruitful conversation Pierre and him had held when this one had grasped where I spawned from. He asked me if I had resented the rough welcoming and the cavalier ruffling of what he was currently toying with.
I protested I liked to be shagged manly, too, and Pierre had kept tight reins on his mad dogs; furthermore, I had had faith in Liselotte’s debauched flair, she probably had thrown herself to Pierre’s whims beforehand, and reckoned that it were overall enjoyable, if at all enriching.
Hugo, now laying me amidst the legendary cloths of his parade bed, marveled at the idea Pierre had had to, so to speak, bone his own literature through my obedient arse, and only rued that himself could no longer discover such a fine literary mean.
He was being the smooth enchanter that my two high-flying paragons had always described, who had made them desire to dwell amongst his branches and was granting me to stay, me too. I floated that I had been about to offer him such a reading I had done for Pierre, but he retorted that now on, he might listen to me voice Undine for Kate and Sarah bent upon their work, and fantasise my little arse being shagged by an old compadre of his.