Hugo had been intrigued by my dedication in the cause of my childhood soul-sister Elsie, who arrived that day in Paris, with the fantasy of altogether moving her life over here. I had spilled three nights of my best whoredom, so his Lordship felt, in his balls, my request. Not that it were unusual from a minute-slut like me, I crave winning the mighty’s consent by power of my arse —simply because my life does not depend on it.
Elsie Chautemps would nest in the new wing of the high floors aviary, neighbour to Delffan, our middlesex proper angel; Theo the genderless dandy from Oz; Gauthier the golden mane knight; Beryl the brothel dragonfly, and Natalia, our house fairy who opens any door anytime, daughter of Lena, the hands-off governess of the Castle. She would join us by way of the elevator that opens backwards at our landing, and so, as a whole, she would have three different accesses to the street from the stairways of the adjoined buildings, complication that has proved useful in maiden’s life twists and turns, or even the secret services. Hugo has a passion for opening pathways through old walls and footings.
But until the fixtures and fittings, under the direction of Hugo and Gauthier, were dry, Elsie, splendid offspring of centuries of Caribbean’s unfettered mixed skin colour fray,, would dwell in our bed, anyhow, while undoubtedly the whole menagerie would wish to taste her caramel cream skin, at her whim.
She had meant it, she was standing downstairs with two suitcases and a half that the cab driver rolled to the elevator, and so we were stuck one to the other in the cabin for a bustled welcome kiss; she smelled of precious woods and dewy moss, and an exciting hint of travel sweat I wished she kept until I licked it. Kate knew her exactly well, since our jaunt to the Manhattan terraces, she helped her feel at home, i.e. undress mostly, and draw her to the shower for a trio of geranium-orange that rhymed airily with her scents.
She had had a short transcontinental night, soon after tea, and endless caresses now she was nude, she collapsed into our pillows, mumbling they whiffed of us.
The “Oh, so early!” —we had met in the effusive grades of primary school— companion of our lustful shenanigans had knowingly dived into my innocent entrapment, it would lean upon me to greet her ashore on dry feet. Then and there, she had rightfully dozed out in our bed, and would nest with us for weeks, albeit Gauthier had free rein to stimulate around the clock teams in Elsie’s apartment.
My Far —I said this would be my dad— had landed himself on freshwater shores of Lausanne with a full-sized container of Danish vintage cabinetry, and the help of Dawn, our long time governess to arrange them before the splendid view of the French coast. He consulted us via Skype, too, and I grasped that he was rebuilding his nostalgia of the Øresund, for the few white winter dawns. He had kept open the Taarbæk white villa for all of us, but I knew I would never make up with my evil brother, and moreover he was on course to slander my life ways —adversely, to the event of being shunned by the real Danes. My Far, thus, had just written to Elsie that, at the effect of the conversation they had had in Tudor City, he had forwarded her résumé to the UNESCO here in Paris, and she might be invited for an exploratory job interview; besides, she might contact a friend of his who was something at the Institut De Droit International in Geneva, if she liked train rides. Every dawn shone rosy for yet another Nation to sing amidst our scented aviary.
Kate agreed that we had no better time to spend than watch over Elsie for the few hours before dinner time. Snooping around in the castle nooks after Beryl had shirked him off Natalia and her study, Fulgence knocked at our door and flashed a radiant smile and a rumpled white shirt. He was kind of proud we asked him to chaperone our little mouse princess, although he did not fully believe she had been in mortal danger, and would rather meet her in Victor’s padded cabins, like he had with Beryl, of sweet memory; but he acknowledged letting the studies override his want, all the more so that he read lust in the girls’s gazes, matter of a rain check, thought he.
We had been wallowing in a couch shuffling magazines and drooling upon Cara Delevingne’s feet, in mismatched oversized sweatsuits, it was easy then for him to warm his artist’s hands along my ribs and make sure I wore no undies. Kate remained as aloof as she could fake, but I knew how she valued the Nibelung shaft that bulged in his jeans, she was warming up to perform a lewd score as a Rheinmaiden, again. Our available Siegfried wouldn’t shy away two maiden’s streams of passion on a lazy afternoon, moreover ask where the third hid. He grew a silky mesh of dark blond hair on his chest that tickled my spiff berries while our tongues knotted; Kate gulped down the brave pink dwarf that loomed up once she had wrestled off his fly buttons, and nodded steadily.
Woken from another opera, the Indian Queen showed her candid nudity at the bedroom door, to the amazement of our current hero, and so I called her in and she obeyed with a good-girl smirk. She ought to have been wanking at the sounds we made, she surrendered fastly her wet minge to the stud that Kate had hardened like horn, and who happily sheathed in her with arrogant thrusts, amidst her deep swigs of breath, unfailing till he gushed back at her own squirt, enraged of bliss.
Kate and me consoled one another while we heard laughs and splashes in the bathroom. Our stallion had been stolen anyhow. That we thought, because he came back with a taste for rematch and prowess. As the worthy “mirebalais”, wonted of Victor’s expenditures, he deemed himself liable for our quims’ proper exultation, hence he asked that we refurbished his cock at our slit’s need, pushing it into my face. He was a good artist, and he tautened his tool ready for Kate’s well of vanities, spilled open on the edge of the cushion where it wept of love. Fulgence then threaded his pride in the eye of her want, precise and implacable like a courser’s knife, in the dishevelled cries of my queen to whom he leaves not a respite upon his dagger, so gluey that it buggers entirely my stunned hatch and thumps in my womb while my neck is clenched in a manly vice.
Elsie applauds, he plays unrepentance like a street Hercules amidst the broken chains, he congratulates our heated slits with a dainty hand, and sips a holy tear at my eye.
As we soothed our carcases in the running flow of tepid water, I manipulated Fulgence’s manhood, the least he would tolerate for he had forced his flesh unrestrained. I fetched a sensitive balsam of Hugo’s making that we could ourselves spatter our insides with, and so I could assure him it would not burn his dick.
The four of us were naked and fresh having an afternoon oolong tea when Gauthier came down along with a visibly aroused Natalia –they ought to have been petting on the way down– she read easily what had gone on while she was memorising the terms on what her tutor Pr F. might interrogate her; I had come to know that Liselotte had brokered some interview, thereabout, and it could not have been innocent, if even altogether innocuous.
Natalia jumped on my lap, for I was hers, wasn’t I? She smelled of the golden amber Gauthier used, mixed with a lime tree scent Hugo had done for her, I was aroused by her, I unbuttoned her jeans, I needed to sniff her intimate sweat.
Sarah wished we strolled a while in our unmatched quarter, for Elsie’s pleasure, to let her fathom how much she had changed continent. It was the right timing to enter the pastry shop in its full scents, she fell in awe to the sweet golden buttery tidbits she would learn to keep beyond armlength, as I told her we did, while she relished a frangipane croissant.
We were long acquainted most of the arts and antiques dealers, we pushed some doors, so that she was delighted with the comely manners of the well dressed owners and attendants, whom otherwise killed boredom reading, seated on their expensive rarities. Sarah would wait some time to avow that these few streets were the exception in an otherwise harsher social reality of France as a country, although not commensurable with the ultra pitiless American standards.
And Elsie, who knew Sarah as a privileged diplomat’s kid with bodyguards and nannies, whereas she was the daughter of single mother who happened to have landed a situation within the UN by chance, but thus could sneak her in the elite international school where she had thrived, thank you, Elsie had not yet parsed our fringy situation towards a rich multitalented protector, who owned most of the block around our stylish nest, so then, whereas she had witnessed our polyamorous life ways, she might wonder upon our princely economic unawareness, that made us either crafty courtesans or discreet legendary artists, or both.
We were awaited at Hugo’s —he likes to win new hearts, and more, if any. As Elsie was some kind of a meteor hovering on our weird bohemia, we sat around a table to share a grand vegan mezze from Agnete & Sanne, on a turning tray, because he had agreed that they were currently the best, and we would not, straight away, for once, wallow, Roman style, like for an orgy, but then…
Elsie had fetched out an easy wear knee-long night blue shantung shirt dress with inverted pleats in the back, trimmed with rainbow coloured piping at the edges, and a Navajo belt with a silver buckle inlaid with turquoises . She was striking, nude in the silk, I wished to unbutton one lower on her chest inviting the stroking , and since she carried no shoes light enough in my taste, she might as well run bare feet on our carpets. She likes to wear Eau d’ Issey, it fits her, the skin of her neck is bliss.
Kate chose some fluid sort of precious jersey night gown, slit up from the calf up to the hip, in a peachy cloud tone, and for Hugo’s relish, we had all decided to go without shoes. She smelled of a Millefiori Tuscan trail and wore white opals at her finger, her wrist, ankle, and neck.
Natalia would look excitingly candid in a short, burgundy, finely ribbed cotton jersey tank dress; I noticed with pleasure that Elsie too, craved to slide a hand between these sleek thighs of hers, and I knew she would, at no harm, before the night was dreamt off. Natalia smelled of a zesty cologne like it were her own dewy sweat; at once I verified she wore no undies, no one aware, and sniffed my guilty fingers, eyes closed. She donned a fine thread of sequence coloured gems, with as many charms attached as hearts she tipped, already, said she.
Our gold maned speckled herald let half opened a light mauve twill shirt with an ordinance collar, he smelled of a whirl of frankincense and greek mad herbs, sage, oregano, hemp, and a wink of neroli; he let me make his scepter bulge in the dark blue linen shorts.
I had hesitated, as ever mostly, between boy or girl looks, so as to arouse the crowds, and when I saw what the others meant, I thought Elsie would relish a little boy’s black twill court tail jacket over a long enough white jabot shirt, under which my perky arse went easy as a dove. I graced myself with drops of the unique “white rose, iris and black currant” made on me in a night of passion, when Hugo couldn’t stop shagging me more and more. Gauthier had his middle finger in my arse as he hummed that he loved me, and I believed him.
Delffan was here, all lit up between Hugo and Gauthier, serene as a blue lotus. Camille, slender under her wealth of Venetian blond curls, her always acute gazes already under Elsie’s skirts, Fanny next to her as an impish gal, ran up at the sight of Kate, dragging Fayelle along, to sit around her, wrestling into her rags as she weren’t hungry otherwise. The rest of the tribe had read the smoke signs, and made their way in, Lizon was making Theo stroke her and revel in the smoothest parts of her, as she murmured poetic tales in his little ears.
Leaving Delffan adrift in Gauthier’s charm, Hugo drew a stool between Elsie and me, and spun a perfect conversation with my protégée, giving her matter-of-factly the keys to these seemingly family bonds, whereof only lust pervaded in the souls. He succeeded at grazing her knees, first, without any flinching from her, who smiled at both of us, having noticed Fanny’s hand in my shirt’s crumples. Once his hand had reached her sanctum, undoubtedly awed by the lewd availability I had let her stage, and started his craft of diddling her nerves, he drove her to a shady divan and went on, surreptitious as the tide, hiking up her dress, unlocking her belt with a compliment –it had been a gift of Julia’s– catching her mouth against a Fortuny silk faille belly round cushion.
Our elegant trio selves had been properly fucked at tea time, Natalia guessed it, sensing the balsam in my bottom hole, she frowned and swore she would shag that lout before long. Fanny too, wanted to check in my naughty sheath, they reveled in their lewd manners, and I found myself bare arse with them, amidst the stitched ottoman cover on a curvy loveseat; once beyond the amenities, the full blown orgy had indeed been planned.
Except for one commodity. It had always been manageable to summon gracile fillies at the provider’s banquets, but proper penis happened scarce, and Fulgence had been spent. Gauthier, who was exactly being pumped by the indiscernible, evoked the live eventuality that two authentic British boys currently played together in his high apartment, and would rejoice at the leeway they would prospect through our gentle crowd. As all delicacies were abundant, the copper knight was prayed to call his minions by the way of false-bottom stairways, dress code optional.
Donovan had grown lush strands of weathered blond hair, his cobalt-rimmed irises gave me shivers, and Fanny stood dumbfounded; his rosy amber skin revealed the muscles of the tall highlands runner, when he dropped his sweat pants, we had already provoked a tense retort of his pride; he recognised me, we had shagged a grand slam some day, but Fanny was swift at diverting his attention towards her sparkling youth, inviting him at our feet.
Augustine was son of the haunted heathers, pale as paper, ink ringlets, obsidian eyes fluttering long black lashes like blackbirds against windy white sheets, some understated smile over a narrow wilful chin, a poster boy for a gay romance, he smelled of coumarin, burnt cinnamon, resin tar like some wayward kid who has played his day above a forbidden fire, and strong black tea with Carnation milk in it, his johnnie was brave and well fitted of dangling attributes, he knew to swoon in a kiss, to undergo the whims he unleashed in whom pleased him. Gauthier said Augustine had been the worst school tease he had met, and loved, together they had succeeded at shaming M. Renart, Gauthier’s deadly homophobic father, who had locked his son at the hands of Jesuitical evils, after he had discovered his games with Donovan, whose tender mother worked in Mrs Renart’s costume workshop.
I let Donovan spin metaphors up Fanny’s legs and nosed in Augustine’s slender neck, Fayelle was already devoutly sucking his dicklet. When she preferred to be shagged, he manoeuvred her to her fours and snuck into the dripping minge, then alternately in he butthole, I helped, poking my tongue in his.
Probably trying to impress Augustine by my capacity of dirtiness, I licked his come from Fayelle’s defiled anus, and it worked, he kissed me as I licked my lips, and asked who I was. I lied mostly, as a game. Fanny was moaning. Elsie reveled in Hugo’s conversation inasmuch as to stretch her thighs to his avid gazes; no signs of incomprehension, whatsoever.
Natalia joined us when she saw Augustine’s pecker unattended, I winked to her to signal she had bloody free rein. I introduced her as the house genie, she might have been Hugo’s daughter, for what it looked like. The boy was charmed by her forwardness when she seized his boyhood and balls like enviable toys, begging a kiss at the tip of her tongue. Fayelle licked her perky arse and I ensured he welcomed my peripheral petting, while he stroked the so gentle body of an eager little imp.
She might have preferred the more manly embrace she sensed in Fulgence —rightfully— but she showed her finesse in responding to the gay leprechaun attuned, like a mischievous virgin who knew. She slid along my side and opened her thighs, he might have speared both of us, I enjoyed my fingers in the curls on his nape, and breathed my awe to both.
He was young, she was beaming, Fayelle too, helped, so he effed Natalia, unfailing, like a Swiss lock, and wiggled in the depth of her womb as she jolted in cries and held his blushing face. He took his time, she came many times, each for what she felt she had missed, possibly, and she was not extinct once he had gushed again, bringing his febrile mouth next to mine, for a kiss.
Had Elsie provoked Hugo, who was buggering her, unfazed, her legs high up? They had rid of her dress, she was spectacular with her dancer hips —we had been together at dance classes, in cloakrooms and showers, teasing whomever peeped— doubtless she had continued the hard barre work, whenas I frolicked as a squirrel on the holy lakeshore! How good were my hip joints to look at? I massaged Natalia’s hinges on top of me, she giggled, she was ready for another round.
As an only daughter of a single mother, I have scarcely been taught in emotional kinship, or close camaraderie, if I may, as I saw smoulder around Sarah, the mute passion of my adolescence, the picture kid of an intimate mythology I kept through the social hardship, now descending upon my soul, barefeet, surrounded by a weightless areopagus, in a timeless neighbourhood, under lenient skies.
I had stepped onto the magic rug of an ever-expanding polyamorous circle, not a simple question asked, chances loomed that I would never wish to return into the sulphuric furnace of my birth place.
I had never acquainted near gender queer persons, these had been exotic news topics, at most. Here, they seemed to thrive upon their wants, easily. Theo, in sylphic manners, offered to cicerone me —in his own words, I had to google that, and laugh— through the stately museums, that he, a mere yokel from Oz, had been bedazzled to discover, before a special someone had sculled the gondola for him, and he held my hand softly to add that he had chosen himself to fly as a “he”. My hunch had been to let him row for me; having noted the attire he wore before he was stripped bare in action, I asked what would be the dress code, he smirked and said it should be anything fit around my gracious body, no flashy colours, though, that would bustle the dreamy harmonies of centuries, if that was what I wished to be allowed in.
After waking visions of flesh and smiles, yawning at caresses and lush scents, all new to my armour-clad bachelor stance, I expounded to my two bedfellows my acceptance of Theo’s offer, with an interrogative ting to it; they both unequivocally cheered at the prospect, and Kate laid out his happening onto them, her love of Cynthia, their quiet embrace of the genderfree life ways, but then and there I would enjoy the talent of a dedicated scholar, on the matter of art as shown inside the two mastodons nearby, so long as I did not expect another wild boar shag; but for that, I could call Fulgence anytime, hadn’t I acknowledged that they fancied his ways, too?
Theo, outright wishful, I supposed, granted me a full-year pass to the Louvre, which I demanded to repay unsuccessfully, he only admitted it might cost me lunch at Café Marly. Of course, there would be no trace of hard-nosed Australian in his manners, but an astoundingly well read companion to a visit in one of the genuine cradles of the most imitated style on earth. He offered to give me a first tour, with the most striking pieces on view, provided he would make himself available for a further approach, by epochs, if I wished and was not tired of his company.
He behaved as a distinguished suitor, although he knew that his detailed embodiment kept no mystery to me; he held my arm, my waist, whispered in my ears, and kissed my neck, altogether deliciously, by that, bolstering the emotional spell of standing in presence of legendary art works, I could not help but tell him, but I almost regretted once that he cried, keeping his nose up. Then I unleashed all that I felt the likes of motherly love on his sweet head.
Over a quite successful salad at the Café, he played with my hands to explain how his life had been of angst and terror as to being a monster because his body would not bulk up, nor his willie lengthen, etc… until he had met Doctor Möhlitz, a young German specialist with an opinion on middlesex, and had been Kate’s lover before she moved to Australia, in the wake of her parents’ dissent with some German medical mightys. She had quietly examined him, drawn blood, led him into frightening machines by the hand, and gradually taught him that she knew there were naught natural to be modified, or that, anyway, she would recommend or participate in, his metabolism did not respond to male hormones, and he would remain indefinitely immature, with the skin and the hairiness of a child, which bore awkwardness and benefits, too, and she could teach him what to make of all this.
After a while, when he had come to like his visits at her town practice, and then in her home, she had avowed that she was herself of an atypical nature, hence her comprehension of his situation, and the nexus of her parents dissent with German colleagues, whose prognosis would have been to chop off that eerie clitoris of hers.
Cynthia and him had rambled on, emotionally, then erotically when the medical bond became useless, with Theo’s parents awareness, his school had been changed to an overtly progressive institution, with an emphasis more on the arts and literature than on physical sports, and Theo had thrived spectacularly, until Cynthia, who wished to let him, now, fly of his own wings, recalled the unfettered openness of her high school passion for Kate, and explored the opportunity to sent Theo near her.
He no longer cried, his eyes were bright, while he collected the unmelted sugar of his cappuccino; he finely explained that I should not be ashamed if I was curious about the Gioconda, which was, notwithstanding all the clichés, the unbreakable stone of an unfathomable enigma, the sort of which people had died for. He drifted on to François the First, the French King who lastly sheltered Leonard, and make me promise I would let him take me to Fontainebleau, where he had devised a highly poetic universe.
After a dozen of tense stations before the truly admirable Vermeer, Van Eyck, Patinir, and others, like some liturgic sequence bending for respect, my back felt more like laying on the floor, so Theo guessed that, and we walked back on the Senghor walkway, where we leaned above the river Seine while the sun slanted behind the giant cricket wings of some extravagant architecture afar. he showed me the massive grey citadel at the other end of the footbridge and said it were our next unavoidable commitment to art, in the throes of a more or less on and off century-long revolution, the advent of the individual soul, in its own right, the nineteenth.
My spine felt elated, stretched upon the parapet while he kissed me just like a girl would have, he was sealing the confidence he had trusted me for, and I thought I would keep faithful to this encounter, furthermore to what it resonated through my own strings. Behind the uneven glazings of the Legion Of Honour Palace, said he, the timeless lights streamed upon golds, in the quiet lust of the dead empires.
Theo was overjoyed that he met a complacent ear to his sound historic art expertise, and Elsie was duly flattered to see him give her so much of his time and care; she would become used to these unexpected manners among the tribe’s members, once they had shared your intimacy. She had gone to Switzerland with Sarah at the invite of Mr Lars von Kettelær, with high hopes to shunt her cursus towards international tiers.
Natalia craved to find me alone in the bed, she knew all of my buttons by heart, but then she pumped steadily to make me lure Fulgence in and let her make him, outside of his mission with her. And eventually, because I still felt his imprint when he shagged the three of us, I conceded to her whim, invited the lucky guardian angel for sushis and chilled white sherry, just enough not to put him asleep –I wouldn’t even taste it. I had been wearing some of my long and soft Uzbek colourful silk and they had been hitched up to my armpits in a rage of raspberries when our ancillary imp made one of her entries, unannouced and resplendent in the dimmed lights, so as he caught her ankle and she fell appropriately among us. He had prowled about her witty little arse ever since I had asked him to save it, not daring to fail me, but since I was part in the fun…
She, mostly, had worked her pretty head up about Fulgence’s valiant jimmy, and I couldn’t do much more than wank myself, while she duly serviced him three different ways in a row, with a smile, delighted to demonstrate how skilled a whore she had grown into. It remained for me to play second and lick the spills, she had tasted him firstly. When I woke up, all they had left was a ginger smell in the wet sheets.
I sensed it became as soon a habit, I wouldn’t see much of either of them for a while, and nor of Beryl’s. Hugo let out that Natalia was assiduous in her studies, foremost, said he —I remembered Pr F. methods and stopped wondering.
Wishing to let Natalia relish the handsome nihilist’s warm piston, I cast lines randomly towards Liselotte and Annabelle, and both bit my hook, without complaint. As ever, the first was rich in ideas, as it happened, the latter was available ,and gave me an impression that she would have been awaiting such a move. We met at Liselotte’s, it was early, but she was already aroused, we played hands in her lush mushroom brown leather sofas, softened with black and gold zebra patterned velvet plaids.
Annabelle wore a vague, sketchy willow green cashmere jumper in which her apple sized breasts gamboled, and matching knitted pants easy to slide a hand in, and she knew of our bad manners —like those of her own father— by the way.
Annabelle was indeed something more than mere bait, or consuming tinder, like Camille had a knack to single out, for our thirsts, she was James’s daughter, as eerie as it sounded. Nonetheless, after we had unclothed her, and questioned her in the gleam of her dreamy eyes, she unburdened of the truth, as if, exchanging the intimacy of our efflorescences, lies became vain.
She had been born in Glasgow, in the thick of the underprivileged class, like a lily inside a blackberry bush, and her uncommon beauty had set her appart, making her think that she did not belong to the herd. Her parents did not like her strangeness, but soon, mild mannered adults with a tiny power sheltered her in their ward and a life of half-baked abuse floated her adrift through well intended institutions, and elusive fantasies.
She promised she would tell all, later; In short, her main effort, besides avoiding greater suffering, were to speak such language she heard from the BBC, accosting well spoken predators rather than Scot thick chinwag types.
At twelve, she had fled her parent’s home where her mother was dying of bad pills and her father already devastated his own brain and tried to sell her at the pub. Still speaking diplomatic vernacular, she knew prostitution from then on, then days on different webcam, waiting for the tokens to rain —her invented manners and talk becoming a huge sale success because she began to look like a Norman fairy, making her audience from Atlanta to Singapore drool—.
Then James saw her somewhere in the Google sphere, and tracked her with one or two thing that slipped her tongue while she was rolling her hips to the camera; he knew Glasgow by heart, he had been a regular at the Mackintosh School of Art, and kept a soft spot about the brown city, and he was particularly savvy in shady cybernetics. He found where she advertised for patrons, agreed to a steep fare for a whole night at the Kimpton hotel, fell in love, and kept her, making up the daughter thing, although he still spoke of adopting her, provided her father accepted to renounce paternity.
And Annabelle mimicked a sad face but pulled me to an hungry kiss, apologising for the unseemly excursion about what she called the low skies of Sighthill cemetery, for what eerie it meant. Now taking lead at rummaging my expensive clobbers, she said that they had, with James, spent aeons in cosy beds retelling mostly the legendary fates of the Beaux-Arts dilettantes and their polyamorous life ways she wished she could afford, in the way she could frig herself at the reading of parlor magazines.
James had been her ticket to redemption, now they had some social commonwealth so as she would not be considered as his provider and taxed on the money he gave her, making it easier to pretend being his daughter, as incestuous as it were; last but not least, she had willfully accepted that he had shagged all of us, twice rather than once, and he would.
Liselotte had kept round eyes at the confession of the unlikely martyrdom of whom smiled as a newborn sweetbriar; Annabelle reassured her that she had not suffered the worst, as one may read, in the sawdust of some shabby pub, at worst she would have been carried in the back of cars, to clean-smelling family men who offered baby wipes, she laughed wholeheartedly; under the benefit of the doubt, she was regaining liveliness as a pal in debauchery, a lucky and wholesome survivor at the hands of vaccinated pigs.
Liselotte had a plan; in Victor’s organisation, she knew of an emergency cell, in which young nerds took eight-hours shifts watching on the most valuable machines on earth, twiddling aside on their own, or wanking at porn; in the luxury of high finance, the teams were of three, she would try to offer them our company, and more. Annabelle and I agreed to young dicks, an arrangement was settled, personally, I had most certainly shagged all of them already in the nude anonymity of Victor’s pandemonium, I feared naught.
A smoked-glass car took them to the back street of the unmarked building of Victor’s businesses; no details other than security cameras would signal the importance of the activities therein; drive-in blind-locked accesses and three metal doors stood flush to the granite slabs facade, the tidiness of the small street too, smelled of paranoïa.
Liselotte acted like home, she took her phone, dialled and said our names like a sequence code, the left hand door pivoted in, showing a white lit corridor, with another door at the end, the walls were of seamless mirrors, she said we were being scanned; once the street side was closed again, the opposite slid open and a young thin redhead lad with large frame glasses stood, wearing an Alan Turing grey sweat, tan corduroy jeans, and black all-stars sneakers; He kissed Liselotte, then each of us, as she introduced us. The room was all steel and mirrors, visibly, he was expecting; I grasped the hesitation and fetched the black card I carried in my wallet, in the stealth pocket of my left armpit, he had a boyish smile while he slipped the sesames for a few seconds in one of the wall controls.
The lift was insensitive, he turned to Liselotte and explained that two employees of the previous shift had wished to stay along, she had already her hand on his crotch, moving. Annabelle enlaced me as a girlfriend, to put up some composure, whomever thought of us as mere harlots delivered like pizza would have to cope with that, we were lustful animals, ready to content ourselves, too.
There were four unkempt cranks not yet fully bare, although two showed half of their bums, as a style; a girl was with the troupe, dirty blonde fuzzy hair, thick glasses, and a lot of appeal, to my taste, she came to us and cuddled, laughing, saying that one never was disappointed at Victor’s. I concurred.
Their playroom was nothing less than any other venue in that outstanding realm of easy-going hyperpower. I had already seen elsewhere the Faraday walls and ceilings of stamped red copper; the three consoles floated at elbow height, a sophisticated orthopaedic seat rested on a cantilever support from the wall behind the full-width array of screens, thus leaving the thick blue waves pattern carpeting free of obstacles for diverse sports, or sleep, as crumpled sheets seemed to indicate. Used socks and underwear laid here and there, but the scent was light and desirable, like lavender, wood fire and sea breeze, they all smelled the same, in their necks, and it was arousing.
They had health drinks and kombucha on a heavy black lacquered Japanese tea table around which we sat, having bared our feet; The girl was Canadian, she was called Michelle, she slid her hand in Annabelle’s pants casually, and told her she must have come from Scotland, they kissed, she added it had been because of a tiny chip of accent, sensing her prey was not overjoyed to have been read out. She shuffled words in the tiny ear and rekindled a smile with some kind magic, beginning to pull away the jersey from Annabelle’s bum.
Liselotte had been easily peeled by two of the super minds, and was tongued in every nook. The one who had greeted us took his penis out and asked me to suck, like a spoiled kid would have, so I did, he tasted fruity, was taut as steel, I wrested his belt off and lowered his jeans to play along with some cute almost unhairy testicles.
Although Annabelle were naked and wide spread for Michelle’s whims, she had to pump some opportunist which presented a jolting bent upwards manly rod, grazing her rosy cheeks; Liselotte was impaled in her anus, crouching opened on a deep-blue eyed lean operator with a black fringe who recalled me of Sarah, with a dick.
My current cavalier had capsized me, legs high, to penetrate me kneeling, watching my hips roll, now the room smelled of sperm and fornication, I had climaxed twice when he asked for my arse, which I granted with a smile.
There was a buoyancy like relived kindergarten, a teen mental regression like the first cannabis thrusts, soon it churned in a good humoured orgy, when a white silhouette appeared at a different door, and Victor was here in a linen kameez, barefeet, smiling, coming to me and my mouth. With his hand, he ordered quiet and going on with the music, that was the noises of pleasure throes. For me, I had been a regular toy girl to him for some years, and he could still upturn me all he wanted and make me squirt, like Hugo, but it seemed the others were delightfully impressed, put apart Liselotte, who never is. When he was hard enough, he turned to Michelle and began to bugger her without any particular preparation, at her distress, to what witnessing, and hearing her cries, I crawled to grab his balls and rein him back, blowing in his ear that one doesn’t do that. He calmed down, let me hold his mad spike, and endured my unfriendly finger in his butthole, without a word.
Michelle had run, she stood against a wall with Annabelle, who consoled her, they were dumbfounded. Victor sneezed in whatever was left in his nostrils, and walked away, straight-faced. Michelle broke down in heavy tears on Annabelle’s lap; no one fucked anymore, even Liselotte whom one would have thought she might be able to cope with such a dire faux-pas, was speechless.
Then, with a deep swoosh, the room went black, all the screens turned blank black with a flickering command line, a punctuation to anguish, others started to cry, I wondered if I had committed some crime. Then, from far, far away, mounted the sound of a clunky music box, then awfully loud, the bass thumping and the implacable voice of Eminem doing “Music Box”, until, featherily light, all the screens combined showed a crisp image of Sissinghurst rose garden in the sun, while we heard the rain on a tin roof, and an apology to Michelle was typed across the screen, and the announcement of a hefty premium to everyone.
All stamina was dripping flat like ice cream one refused to eat because there were something too bitter in it. I fetched my leggings, shirt, and high-waisted ikat jacket, helping Annabelle out of her dizziness and cocoon back into her wavy jumper, seeing what Liselotte dressed and Michelle claimed she was out with us, her shift being through anyhow. The move was mostly silent, the kids were back on their machines, the doors out opened at the presentation of my card.
In the car back, Liselotte was vexed, I had to retell her twice what Victor had done under my nose, which I would never had thought he would, non-consensual pain was out of the options, he had been demented, how could we trust his manners, henceforth?
Annabelle was weeping silently, Michelle looked younger without her spectacles, with the cute distress gaze of myopia, she seemed to be the wandering type of genius, with slender ankles and wrists, one in me rejoiced of the new acquaintance, I offered shelter to all, but I craved to hold her.
At home, I tried to manage the damages, and rekindle Liselotte’s spirits, she accepted to turn to me and started to pull my pants down, besides her unique talent to mingle in lustful situations, she is a talented amatory partner, why Sarah, after a chill debut, in which a regular of Liselotte’s had outright used her, sexually, she had eventually returned to her for kinky arrangements, thus bending to her procuress’ talents, selling me alongside in the lewdly deals, for some double trigger perversity.
For Michelle, I fetched the balsam and anointed her indeed tight bumhole myself, my skills amazed her, Victor had not teared the flesh, but neared it; I only joked she was lucky to own some elastic arse, but that did not allow any dickhead to maim it, like a boar. Annabelle was inconsolable, Michelle drank her heavy tears, I begged her to tell what had resurged in her, and I absent-mindedly went on to cream her own butthole, as she went on telling such ordeal had been inflicted on her, leading to a nightmarish hospitalisation, and years of pain, despite further lubrication. She turned to me and thanked me for what I was doing, we laughed and I used both hands.
Of course, it was late, and there were two maidens in the bed, asleep, enlaced. I had heard Sarah and Elsie making tea, unwrapping croissants. I wondered about Liselotte, I only knew later that Gauthier had come down to find us fast asleep, but her, who persuaded him to take her upstairs, for anything he wanted.
I yawned, Sarah came, and marveled at yet another bird in our nest, nude and gracile, easy to fondle in her dream. I waved her to follow me in the bathroom, whispering that I had something harsh to tell her. The bedroom door closed, I retold them, and Elsie’s eyes were widening, Sarah’s too, in retrospect of having pushed Lizon into the bounder’s lair. We rested our decision to snitch the whole matter to Hugo, our tutelary reference in these matters, since Victor was one of his peers, and Melchior could not approve of an ugly rape.
Sarah had snuck at the least occasion into our bed, she relished seing the surprise in Michelle’s blurry gaze, and let her feel her dexterity. She had undressed and breathed softly, it took delicious minutes before the new one counted six hands.
Natalia came back from college, with her enamoured bodyguard and someone new, a Black sturdy fellow named Issa, cheeky and fun, shoulders to lean on, obviously used to white sluts like me. She was overjoyed to have thrown some game-changer into our skittles, but when she grasped what the talk was around our teapot, she clutched at Fulgence’s neck in horror.
Now Michelle donned a periwinkle robe of Sarah’s, and had regained her Elton-thick glasses, thus letting the impression that she scrutated twice sharper than anyone. Presenting her, I embraced her frail body from behind and slid a hand into the sponge cloth, so as to brag our new intimacy, and let Fulgence peep at her sleek pubis for one tenth of a second. She rubbed her bottom upon me, as if she remembered where my help had healed; I advertised her as a computer scientist, which felt deliciously exotic; she turned back and kissed me deep.
Once he had parsed the events and micro events, Fulgence showed embarrassment; he owed much to Victor’s patronage, but, as I knew of him, he firmly believed there is a partition between fair players and a cad. I could testify had not enticed Victor, or anyone, to hurt her; I was the one who pulled him away, he had fled in disarray. Michelle turned to Annabelle, who drew her to an armchair at the far end where they composed a touching tableau, I told her she might check her messages, she retorted knowingly that she would, later.
Sarah was drawn to Natalia’s new recruit, he was used to be given the eye by pretty bohemians, he answered her tease. Fulgence and me, like the elder couple, concluded that I would retell Hugo of the breach, and the stir it caused among all of us. I composed a message , in all the truthfulness I resented, he would read it in due time.
While I was bent over my screen, hands had crawled into my rags, casually; I made no move to shrug them away, I needed manly handling —as Fulgence had demonstrated before— not necessarily an immediate shagging, but also a test of Natalia’s reaction; I brushed his fly, she went with the sorry girls and cuddled Michelle’s feet.
That was that, Natalia invited her buddies upstairs, and Michelle, new to the double-fond corridors, followed, enamoured. Sarah was chanting at Issa’s rage in our already crumpled bed, and Fulgence would be shared between Elsie and me.
Inside, she kind of floated in a rosy cloud, her Swiss exploration had been a success, she had been granted green lights, where Lars had addressed her to, she applied herself hard at getting convinced that she was moving to Paris, and part of that was fucking Sarah’s pals there and then.
Hugo had responded, he was dumbfounded at my words, he wished he could speak with us, Michelle, Annabelle, and me, to parse the facts togethers. I had better impress our hearing at the diwan downstairs, pimp up my exemplary four-eyed victim, not that her drab over-washed casuals would not set out beautifully her lithe hands and feet —that I did no tire to caress— but I wished to strike a point there, with style.
From the far-end closets, wherein I stripped Michelle to her native grace, I ferreted among Sarah’s rag wares a black spencer with a moss green yoke and golden trimmings —from some popular Nordisk music band— in which I would gladly have left her bare; a white silk flat collarless marinière, and high-waisted swan white flared trousers; a white silk twill thong would be her last petal, I forbade any shoes.
Annabelle, the key witness, if I might, snooped in my own quarters of hangers, she begged for a fluffy-layered chiffon, pleated, off the shoulders dress, ebru dyed of psychedelic phosphenes in turquoise and rust, underpants in the same stuff, bare legs and feet;
Between my tiny-nosed geek and the evanescent vapors of Scotland valleys, I had to pull some understated trump card, like a vast Loro Piana alpaca sweater with a deep vee cleavage on my near-flat chest, and same thread leggings, a magnet for bratty idle hands.
At the scents keyboard, Michelle preferred a childish patchouli gingerbread with a neroli trail, a mighty lure in her fuzzy mane —after all, she knew her assets— whereas Annabelle, in long whirly streams of white rose, so evasive one wants to neck forever in her mizzle. My wools retained a whiff of incense and wisteria in the boxwoods that possibly Sarah had been revelled in there, and so I found her pretty blue glass phial and I touched my joints, neck, and pubis, as an erotic mask of her.
So preened, we ran lightly down to Hugo’s cloud mill, purposely desirable, étant donnée the matter to parse.
The gallant honorary Sachem of this aesthetes’ reservation drew us to the oriental salon, where low sofas ran all at the foot of the paneled walls under the coffered ceiling, all in scented cedar wood, lit by three high and tall multicoloured stained-glass windows. As much as I could read her eyes, Michelle was stunned, and had never been in such a cinematic décor, other than in computer games, her gentle lips were parted. Her lissome feet were feeling the layers of silk rugs and jubilated; Hugo was overjoyed not to have missed his sensitive aim, he begged for her hand, led her to sit near a wide silver tray loaded with simple treats, fruit, tea and juices.
I had not yet fully paid attention to Michelle’ voice, but when she answered to Hugo’s subtle wondering, she sounded altogether childish in tone and self-assured, with a strangely jolted pronunciation, and a blank before certain words. She explained calmly how Victor had hurt her so as to make her yell out, until I came to her rescue and he fled without a word. She had not been part of Victor’s orgies, they stood in a professional department of the building, watching the networks; her three colleagues had seemed aroused by Liselotte, who had one of the boys’ number, and the perspective of a mild shenanigan, only did they forget that from his master control room, Victor saw and heard anything he wished in his walls, clear and simple. She had refused a few times before to join whatever went on upstairs, he had been crossed, but now that she had lastly tamed his systems, she had become utterly precious, —like her coworkers—and it had seemed he would let her alone, sexually.
Hugo had gathered cushions at her back, and he reclined at her side; he was wearing a long lilac shirt and black light trousers; he felt collected and benevolent; she leaned back and he inhaled the scent he had himself composed for anyone of us he liked as so; when she refolded up her legs, he casually seized her foot.
Victor had transgressed the very code he had strived upon, it was bad omen, even if Liselotte should not have cast an orgy, as candid as it were, inside the lion’s den. For example, Hugo would not feel empowered to hurl himself at anyone’s arse in his own lodgings of the blessed high floors, it never happened, even when some new four-eyed narcissus bloomed up from the quantum infinitus of another dimension.
After he eluded to his study during a cluster of minutes, he found Michelle leaning on me, her feet still available, so, he wondered if she would agree to a visit, along with me, and Melchior, if a car was coming pretty soon to fetch us? Her crystal eyes raised to mine, she answered that if it was the way to straighten up the affair, she would trust me, and the apparent chain of command, though she had not foreseen that her job entwined in Higher Intelligence.
A black suit awaited near a totally silent black high-bodied vehicle which I guessed ran on hydrogen because it had an exhaust pipe. Cuddled on the back seat, we were surrounded by opaque black glass and could see naught of our course, it felt like a rapture; a partition hid the driver and whomever; I reveled sheltering Michelle —to whose feet I had slipped on black patent leather flat escarpins— under my arm, reassuring her that I had ridden that means of transportation before, to the secretive stations of Melchior’s realm. Prior to summon the whole chapter of the Hell Fire instigators in some encrypted videoconference, it would help to meet the God Amon in this variety of cloudware, who would search, together with Victor, a peaceful appraisal of his deeds.
It all boiled down to an unwelcome physical transgression of Michelle’s integrity, with inability to reasonably restrain when called to by the participants of an, until then, benign petting game. That the scene took place in his own work premises did not defer as to the gravity of the assault, and the plaintif never before had allowed physical liberties to whom she knew only as her boss, although it had not been a secret among her fellow employees that Victor was a first magnitude philanderer, and most of them knew first hand.
Melchior, whom I had intimately met a few times, greeted us in the shady foyer of his grandiloquent mansion, we had been asked to unshoe because of the precious majolique pavements that tended to indicate the scarce number of his visitors, the feel of it was warm and playful, Michelle’s feet perfect amidst the convoluted décor of the tiles, devils and cherubs chasing nymphs through the flowery ponds; himself wearing slim slippers, he explained that the tiles had been salvaged from an old Italian brothel, that had remained closed for a century, in the center of Milan, after a series of murders had occurred. The estate’s heritage had been unfathomable to parse, and a unique example of an architecture of the depravity, second only to the Païva Hotel, in Paris, had collapsed into rubbles, not before looters had harvested this marvel that ran the whole first floor.
I had danced, myself, upon these colours, as nude as a flame for Melchior’s relish, while Malo threaded together my strings and hers. I fantasised helping to disrobe a willowy Michelle, if just only to show her the delight of being sold to a gentleman, for a troubled while.
Into the fluffy silence, he drew us to a ballroom, more like the display salon of an otherworldly luxurious whorehouse, yet again, the sort of which had made me reckon that Melchior was the mightiest Alpha of the invisible forest.
The room was tall, more than three of us on each others’ shoulders, did I digress in my dissipated mind, while I kept Michelle tight at my side, under the pale blue gazes of the Wizard King. He went to one of the curved, high back, purple velvet sofas, with spiral armrests of chiseled gilt wood, in a rounded corner recess. He softly ordered us near him, Michelle between us, uneasy. He started that he were not a godfather of Paris’ shady traffics, money was made afar from his influence, although most of his faithful liegemen were rich and mighty, in irreproachable manners of trades, unlike most of historic fortunes built on exploitation and slavery.
He raved about a safe guidance onward uncompromised beauty, potentially beyond the mere physical traits in humanity, the mirrored opposite to any idea of a “social Darwinism”, the moral counterfeit currency of the well-heeled imbeciles —and their lackeys.
I had heard his self-justification rant before, Michelle only kept polite and let his wiry hand wander on her silk-layered thighs, meeting my own lustful stroking. I needed her to speak, in her own crystalline vernacular, I reach for her plexus and breathed to her she should retell her scandal without fear, I swore.
Once she was done retelling her disarray and candid surprise, she cried for good, again; he picked his phone, gave orders in some arid language, and a slim girl in black outfit brought tissues, a whole box. He had stop attempting at petting her some way; he showed embarrassment. He then claimed that Michelle could very well be sick for a week or so, while he would meet Victor openly, and bring out a balanced agreement in which he, Melchior, would respond of her safety and return to status quo ante. Then he thanked us for our trust, regretted that other aspects of our meeting had been out of question, and told us the car would drive us back in town.
She had kept the box of tissues, blue with paisley patterns, wile she wiped her glasses, her eyes swayed, all the more astray; I kissed her tears and slid my hand under the blouse. We did not feel when the car had reached our door, the chauffeur had a cautious smile when we decided to climb out.
Upstairs, in our humble abode, Elsie, Annabelle and Sarah were in bed, watching “Ghost In The Shell”, the anime, with woofing sound. Sarah reveled in the middle of two immeasurably distant fates, though so evidently enharmonic, once tuned to their wants.
Michelle would not quail in the least as I held her backwards in my neck, untying her threads for the others to watch her, a full-fledged lesbian elven, in need of a tender flurry. During these few hours, she had been uprooted and thrown at all winds, now she stood, naked as a rose monkey, aloof and swayed, her arms cast back over my head.
It happened, not unconceivably, that she knew the film by heart, in Japanese, savant monkeys do things, even the queer ones. She enacted the words of Major Motoko, wired like a teenager, having simple fun, altogether. Sarah loved that and almost stole her to me, she was all a tremendous success on that bed, still synching with the action on the screen, released, in sweats.
Next morning, I felt numb, when a kid in a large sweatshirt and gym panties patted my elbow and begged me to listen. Michelle, it had been her, decked up in whatever she had found, needed to borrow a computer, not too old, promising she would not sneak too far inside it, she already knew that our connection was excellent, she was in a hurry. I licked her nose between the jam-jars and told her I was to pee in the bowl; she retorted a witty tongue slip.
I showed her to the studio, where she could use the youngest of our computers on her own, I even showed her the kettle and the percolator, if she knew how to pilot that, too, there were also new packs of cookies, for sugar. She said she loved me, and fiddled my clit a little before being engrossed again in her worry. Climbing down, I met Natalia, who noticed that I was nude in the stairs, and hugged me, she smelled of a white cloud in a golden dawn.
The four eyed Princess Windfall they had brought back from the messed-up mission engineered by Liselotte, into Victor’s own back-office, looked bewildered at first, but her performance in Japanese, with all the intonations, was hilarious and sexy, and once her heavy lenses had fallen, she fired like an eager wild dyke, and we all loved it. I can’t fathom what melted inside Victor’s vast mind, and apparently, nor does Kate, who knew him in rough seas, though.
However, Michelle possesses a Greek-worthy kind of slender bum and body that her boss might have overlooked, in her geek attire, until he happened to wonder who was the nymph, in the security camera, being entangled by strangers in his own network control room? In the impulse of the moment, he might have left his dick drive, and neglect the fact that this piece of arse belonged to a precious link inside his bunkerised gallery-cum-safehouse. What then was she doing here, upstairs?
I had promised to Elsie a tour of Orsay, I proposed lunch at the restaurant in the old hotel part of the converted train station, reminder of the days when railways were altogether flourishing and juicy, before someone had to pay the pensions for back-broken retirees. Enough said, the megatherium carcass of a monument had stood across the Louvre like a destitute, crinoline-decked ghost for decades before the powers that be reckoned that no architectural prospect would fit in the place and Paris would revamp the old corpse one may revisit in Orson Welles’ “The Trial”.
I don’t give a squirrel’s poop what one might retort at my feeble scribbles, when I profess my almost total anorexia towards what fills that post-modern bazaar we were to roam in, set apart a few geniuses the magnitude of Toulouse-Lautrec or Odilon Redon, outside the orb of the dominantly American who will stroll in Giverny the next day.
A matter of outlining whatever territory Elsie might have fostered of the French national culture, before letting her boot up with her own green guide —more than enough now, with the underlines we would provide.
A jouncy filly like her would love to leg it away to Gustave Moreau’s magic mansion, or what few of Surrealist art has been retained in the pompous Pompidou tripes-out ironmongery —at least she would follow my advice and relish André Breton’s “wall”, a gift from his daughter to the clunky institution.
The four of us bought all it took for Elsie to sneak along safely into the station, architecturally designed to hold in the hot clouds from the almighty steam monsters, as had been displayed, in butterfly brushstrokes, upstairs.
Before climbing, there was notorious eye candy to revel on, like the reputable “Woman bitten by a serpent” by Clesinger, immortal spasm in the face of the Boucicaut universe, and the wholehearted smiles of the Carpeaux dancers and children, among the cemetery porn of a gruesome empire.
Unavoidably, Rodin has balls, and smells of saucisson; he modelled up a decisive Balzac; he industrialised a pervasive brand.
I had better leave Annabelle flirt Elsie around by the waist, they readily looked like lovers, and her father had taught her the psycho-analytics of bourgeois art. Kate and me, we shared a romantic episode, early in our school years, contemplating Thomas Couture’s Roman Decadence, after what she let me draw her in my room at Camille’s and disrobe her. She had smelled of bitter almond; there had been macaron crumbs on the sheets; we had never needed to wake, thence. Reading our eager gazes, the flirtatious pair —like we would not have dared in the days, being openly called dykes at school would have greatly sullied our prestige— begged for a stake in our secret, we obliged and led Elsie to the enormous canvas, listen to Annabelle rave on imperial debauchery and the expensive talents of Virginia Castiglione.
We felt like time to sit and peck in Alain Ducasse’s delicacies in the restaurant; a table had been booked for us. I could not remember if and when I had been there before, but I resented a brutal chill. The once highly formal room exuded now the pathetic gloom of a soviet canteen in a confiscated palace, stackable plastic chairs daubed in garish colours made the stuccos and chandeliers sorry; I could surmise a war between curatorial services to reach such a degree of inconsistency. I promised to offer them dinner soon at the Train Bleu, in another station where trains still landed.
The food was irreproachable, top rate; vegetables just only dipped from the spring basin, fresh bread, the idea of lunchtime at Farley’s farm with Lee Miller, the whole table agreed, and we forgot the furniture. A Lebanese waiter gave me an unmissable eye, to what Kate grazed my foot as an encouragement. I wrote one of my Hotmail addresses in the margin of his tip bill, this was not the place to lure him in the toilets, or would I?
Over a witty chocolate dessert, Elsie took my hand while Annabelle enlaced her waist gently; it was a moment for her to unload her chest of a long pondered thought and she foretold we could help; since she had lived amidst us like almost family of many ages and interest drives, she had sheltered a guilt of forgery. In none occasion had any ethnic matter been only faintly shivered up, and all the more she had elaborated on this with my Far, in front of the most respected institutions on the planet, whatever a fool headed, pompadour blond bully, bantered in Washington. With another inspired espresso, she lashed out that all her life, part of her soul had been stuck in this crack in the rock, that she was at least one quater black and it did not show. In America, there had been crucial moments when it was mandatory to avow that, by law.
My father already had taught her the judicial nitty gritty on a matter that simply and fundamentally did not exist; remained the life flows and manners, tripping on certain words, perhaps, to my knowledge not more offensive than sexual insults and as neatly forbidden.
Only hedge to skirt, if she ever was to have a baby, to foretell the father that genes could chance on, impredictably, and produce any shade of skin tone; some very “civilised” men had a block, at that eventuality.
But then again, although her mother had thoroughly filtered the racist poisons in American culture, as she grew up and as I knew her, even worse than with sexism, a myriad analogies were constantly at work through mundane language, spawned from derisory, though not candid at all, hobbies like dog or horse breeding, heavily branded social markers —ignoring the fact that, washing down the statistics in the studbooks, their obtainments did not appraise a notch better than those in the lebensborn stables, all due respect paid to those who were born in there.
Did Elsie know and liked appaloosa horses? To some cavaliers, these far offsprings of the Conquistadores war machine were more precious companions than stiff-lipped purebreds from crass-minded monasteries.
In the sun bathed gallery, I was becoming heated by my recollections of lucubrations I heard in Saint Loup’s stables, when there was some compulsive giddiness to take a straight shag from one of those plain yokels, into the straw bales —it had never meant that I would intellectually concede to their obscure conception of genetics, altogether denied by modern science, taught by the tall, blond, Arie Van Brecht.
Now Annabelle stared in awe, perceiving that my funny spiel reached some shores inside Elsie’s soul, as I grazed her knee under the tablecloth. On the other side, Kate rested her head on my shoulder. It belonged to me to rekindle the humour, after my charade, but it was Elsie who shook the sticks of the mikado game, gave me an intent mouth-kiss, and went on, smoother, that she envied the foolhardy upbringing my father was proud of. She was beginning to feel fit with our offbeat manners of life, even if, beyond her thoughts, she could hear her mother’s words of caution, not to succumb to the spell of privileged kids —but now she was fully clad with titles, wasn’t she? And she rejected anymore of social conformity, she wanted me to bring her to the straw bales. We laughed.
So, we started this light-hearted game of strolling through the blue shadows of bygone suns with the made-up rule of my highbrow-ish stance, sexplaining impressionism by the obvious colonial bias, and the bourgeois code. Annabelle had a truculent exegese around Gauguin and his thirteen years old mistresses. We behaved like mischievous aristocrats, Kate pushed me in a toilet booth that smelled of piss and lust.
By the time we scented genius in Toulouse Lautrec, Annabelle began telling her bedazzled fiancée what a whore she was, if only to let her know it would be free for her.
And we all had enough, our boudoirs awaited at only a whiff away, but Elsie needed postcards, as we all do.
Sarah had been restless, acting her effort to alleviate Elsie’s soul, she smelled childish and I needed to unclothe her, all the more that the other twos were at it. There and then she exhaled of spicy narcissus and neroli, I licked her armpits as she became subdued, before denuding me too; yet, I recollected a tiny concern about Michelle upstairs, and it felt proper to barge in, like so, if she pleased.
In the waning gold of dusk, no one was to be seen, first, until Sarah showed me a fidgeting foot from behind the red sofa, on the floor.
She was transfixed on the screen of one of our laptops, which she had plugged short behind the router, and wore earphones; she did not budge when I preened her slender foot, so I went on, proud of my daintiness, while Sarah slid herself along the other side and reached for the minute breasts.
She had found chocolate and cookies, and made tight littles balls with the wrappings, she helped when I wrested her jeans away and nosed into her white cotton panties, she smelled of lavender soap; she ran her fingertips on the keys like squirrels in a trove of acorns, the screen showed convulsions of many plain coloured windows, then froze back to my Sylt shore backdrop.
She pushed the computer away, teared the earphones away and swiveled upon the carpets, bursting in laughters looking at us, before Sarah devoured her mouth.
Girls, girls, girls, said she.
There was a call from downstairs, about some large delivery we wouldn’t know about, I asked for only time to pull on rags, an ardent gazed tough built runner brought a long flat carton and asked me to sign; he gave me a keen eye while sliding his tip bill in his pocket, there wouldn’t be no mail address in the margin, Sarah is a slut.
From uncle James, it was a new chair for our studio, properly a classic JF Hardoy butterfly AA chair, in heavy natural hide, like an all ready sex contraption, folded in grey tissue paper. I carried the pieces upstairs, where Sarah was dancing on Steely Dan’s Gaucho languorously against Michelle, supple as a reed. In no time, our new perch found its station by the bookshelves, as if it had always been there, with Michelle cross-legged in it. The leather smelled kinky, like webbings I had lent myself to in Victor’s dark recesses, and the girl’s pussy in bloom, stark against it, made me moist. She did not shave or wax, a slight golden fleece gleamed upon a bran shade faultless skin; there was some immarcescible baby quality to that windfall wunderkind.
As in a spirit of celebration for a chair, Sarah brew some tea and fetched a tin of almond shortcakes the kid had not yet found.
Hugo called, then, he wished to see Michelle in tête à tête, apropos the deplorable incident at the control room, he felt confident as to a resolution of the damages. She agreed, only the time to primp herself a tad.
After we toileted together like virgin brides, —Annabelle sleepwalked in for a pee and dreamily approved of Michelle’s body— we dolled her up after a more than thorough shower, shampoo et al, but only to let her go in thin layers of silk jersey, flared trousers ready to drop at the faintest pull, no underwear, no shoes. She smelled of spring whiffs on a Brittany cliff. I wouldn’t be the least surprised if she came back with some evocative jewel, hadn’t we all?
Sarah’s childish stratagem had functioned, she was to meet Ismael, the Orsay waiter, at the Palais Royal, in the perverse mazes of Philippe’s, at Sami’s best attention. She told me she would only pull a flirt as far as she sensed, downstairs, ready to unfurl the full shebang for the busy voyeurs of the corridors or the indelicate room companions; she would warn Sami that Ismael was a debutant with no card.
It left the three of us, Annabelle posing in her dad’s new chair —he had bought us the three of them— and I envied Sarah’s foolhardiness, who would unfailingly end ragged, bagged, and shagged upon the costly velvet of the secret world. The new available preventive protocol against HIV, one pill a day, had triggered anew her “Swiss Paradise” attitude, she had launched the hunting for cocks.
Fulgence, I learned, had yielded Natalia back to Beryl, after only some casual hand play, for the night; he could invite some other cavalier to join, here, an unabashed trio of refined fillies; he chose to eat Danish, with us. Erik had jumped at the chance —he recalled the heartiness of our encounter, to say the least.
I craved Fulgence’s shoulders, his sleek pectorals, his ready spear and tight balls, now he paired with a satiny black beast of a stud, as sweetly smiling as impressively armed, who smelled of cinnamon honey when I tried to tame his shaft.
But, even if they relished to have found us in the slightest of attires —the delivery boy had fully read through my hastily thrown Indienne shirt— Natalia had to have quieted the hero a notch, to the level of innuendo badinage around the savouries. My two sister fairies shied aside at first, they had reveled their content in Sapphic sighs; they couldn’t have covered their modesty fast enough, and the lads overtly ogled their goods. First, Anabelle, who had had practice in handling men, while in the raw, understood , in my ways, that the deal was all safe and friendly, and so she gradually behaved like a frank little whore pleasuring her johns. Elsie, although she had been copiously shagged by the same champions not long ago, but in a state of whimsical exaltation, was nonetheless seized in self-consciousness, of which I strived to free her, bending over her from the back of her chair, fooling in her neck while I opened her thighs for the boys to see, uttering lecherous talk in her ears like an old ribald madam, calling Fulgence to crouch at her already swollen pussy and remind her of his savoir faire.
With noble nonchalance and an unflagging erection, Fulgence had regained in my eyes a sound current of debauched camaraderie, even more so than it happened inside the gloomy dungeon of Victor’s, whatever the thrills he had driven through me, then, with a smile. We partnered efficiently, he was fairplay to Natalia, whom remained a frail reed in the city’s streams.
As Annabelle already gently moaned atop her deft man in charge, I pulled Elsie to the bed she had so well used, and spread her down in a kiss, while my hand rummaged into Fulgence’s mane, at her crotch. She was willing, climaxing at the boy’s smile, raising her legs higher so he grasped it was time to thread her through, that he obliged at once, as I straddled upon her blooming mouth.
The sheets became soaked in effluents and sperm, it smelled animal, and Elsie had no more shame in the middle of that, let Fulgence tease her rightful mind while poking his tongue in her bumhole. She told him she weren’t seaworthy on that side, mezzo voce. I would have sworn that I witnessed her done both ways by a pair of twins in the Grant’s apartment at the Century, but she retorted in a pout that it had been painful. I decided to show her, at Fulgence’s discretion. As of then, a shower was at the least desirable, and fresh bedlinens.
There was this foam gel , scented with lotus, thick and balmy just like I needed to show her how to slide a few fingers in the hatch, and wank it there, in Fulgence’s embrace. She would not protest when she found herself duly spiked by the same spear that had filled her up before, and I did my skilled best over her jumpy cabochon so she would cry in the warm flows, buggered like an astrayed tramp with a pure face.
Reminding her of Michelle’s attempted rape, while Fulgence was massaging her stretched back path with the cream I had fetched for him, I claimed matter-of-factly that any gent who envied that tighter burrow to frolic in, ought to know a manner of lubricant because his penis wouldn’t avail any, simple and clear. I had heard of ladies who liked it in sufferings, but I would not condone it, at all, these were outdated treatments of the like the Marquess of Sade, whom, by me, was a psychopath that had suffered —like his King— of a serious phimosis, and thus, because his erection hurt, consequently pathologically linked pleasure and pain, in a fantabulous grammar. —born into the more natural labouring classes, he would have just simply been saved by some crafty matron, or a complacent barber, and would have given us exalted tapestries of fauns and buttholes unmarred of all that useless blood.
Elsie could just order all brands of lube from Amazon, and enjoy a whole different religion of being shagged.
When the maidens started to doze out, Fulgence, who lives near the river, by the conspiracy’s largess, and Erik, who had properly extinguished Annabelle on the couch, moved on to the night for then. We carried the sleeping belle to the fresh bed, and washed her in her dream. Her abandon was all the more tempting; she breathed like a baby.
Elsie enlaced me endlessly, she felt sort of defiled, demeaned to the level of whoredom, but she was enough educated to reckon there was delight in her intimate shame, and so in the silence, I narrated a chapter of our debaucheries, and the exceptionable bliss with my own brother, the merry-go-round of our high stakes freelance courtesanship.
Thus, we did not yet sleep when Sarah, smelling of a frozen rose in the dewy moss, the badly behaved tit back to her nest, I loved her, finding that she had sold her panties. I unwrapped her hastily to scent for hints of her depravity, but nowhere onto this all pale brothel mermaid remained a trail of what she retold us of her carnal spends.
She had been wearing white lacy cotton skirts and petticoats under a periwinkle blue floating déshabillé, trimmed with ultramarine ribbons; opaque white silk stockings and refined black patent maryjanes, the true paraphernalia of a devoted fetishist whom had asked for her own outfit to take away.
After some cherries in syrup on little mounds of blancmange, his hands up my thighs under the tablecloth, inside a convenient recess of the hushed dining décor, Ismael had understood what trap I intended to draw him in, and the reward he would earn, plus the leeway to shag me in more ways than he had foreseen. Since it had become obvious that I would let him hump me in all manners, they broached the matter of a condom or not; I clued him about the checkup card I carried and he would also need if he wanted to be back therein; we reckoned it would be a latex night, Sami provided the best invisible brand, only he would not splash in me, and he ought to slip out as soon as he came.
He smelled of laurel and jasmine, he was a fast wit, and he came from the feverish Beyrouth, so he agreed, after a bit of gab in Arabic with Sami, we had slid through a concealed pathway behind a heavy curtain. These were not the visitors’ corridors, but the proper stage door, and Ismael was groping me in every corner.
Sami opened a tiny door to a low ceiling salon, stuccoed like a Royal boudoir, with beveled mirrors in gilt ornate frames on each wall, under which buttoned velvet love seats gathered around a large, oval, carpet covered ottoman, upon which he did not wait to stretch me.
Ismael owned a straight, upwards, sturdy circumcised cock he made me suck as he finished to peel off his black service suit. I kindly applied myself to give the mirrors the better view of, mainly, my arse. He twiddled his pointed glans a few times on my clit, to hear me moan, and began to penetrate me hard, but unhurried, attuned to the poser game. Once he had gushed bravely, we could hear a soft voice asking us to slip away to the bathroom.
It was certainly not a mere convenience annexe, but truly an illumination of the bodies, in a subaquatic fanfare of emerald green broken ceramic tiles, and mirrors, all-over to the ceiling, in “opus incertum”, with silver interstices in the manner of Japanese kintsugi. There we were asked to pee on each other, Ismael was so aroused that he could only spring upwards; he also administered a thorough enema into my rear end and I gushed my innards into the silver bowl. The last shower was scented with roses, I could feel the applauds by every pore of my skin.
The next play patch was black, gold and crystal, under a large round chandelier made of strands of faceted pampilles, radiating from a central ball three sofas and a rest bed were covered with heavy black terry cloth for the most propitious invite. Now Sami joined us, already naked and waxed to the balls, he smelled of incense and patchouli he had not worn minutes ago, he was tense as a double-bass, we had never fucked before. I had no doubt they would end both in me, but Sami directed our trio in Arabic and I just had to let the dicks and mouths use me easily. They took turns, I preferred the feel of Sami’s raw glans, Ismael was still frenzied but attentive altogether, although Sami reached deeper into my womb. After an opening tumult, I had to clean and revive their prides at the tip of my busy tongue, lick their arseholes and suckle their balls before I rode atop Ismael, with Sami into my butthole. I had been in unending spasms, we collapsed with eerie wet sounds.
After a heartfelt triple hug, my tormentors vanished, in Arabic; a small concealed panel opened in the black, feather-patterned lampas, onto a shady path to a gold-lacquered corridor and another bathroom, of gold with black mirrors where I readied again for a further number,
guessing it would unfold more adagietto. Clothes were displayed on a console, obviously for me to wear, those you just now stole from me.
In a small blue indienne bedroom with indigo velvet upholstered furniture, awaited a dignified old fogey with noticeable white curly sideburns, who grabbed my elbow and made me sit on his lap while starting to grope me, raving on what he had seen me do and be done, heating up to his own words, complimenting my vagina and arse for their suppleness, sniffing at his fingertips while staring through gold-rimmed spectacles.
There were no mirrors in there, only fine drawings of decadent aristocrats buggering little girls upon puffy quilts. He asked me to take poses for my butt on every angle of the furniture. He wondered if I would succeed at making him exult, albeit his damned age, guiding my hand to his fly. I had seen the routine before, and he smelled of old time honeyed tobacco, tampered bourbon alcohol, open air gazoline and, in the creases of his deep-tucked shirt, aged lavender. His willie was sorry and bald, his balls sagged, I had aching jaws yet, but I gave him kitten and butterflies, and cunty lips until it feebly stood, and pumped steadily for a long moment, until I could taste a bland mixture of soap and oyster, and keep him in my mouth as he rambled on, muttering names of gone girls.
When it became certain that he slept, snoring and choking, I gathered my strength and threw him across the bed, trousers open, slid off his shoes and wished him good night.
When I woke so late, I still fantasised on Sarah’s delightful mischiefs. It was only the two of us, and the living room had been tidied. I put myself at brewing tea, and cracked open a pack of shortbreads I did not know whom had left there. I felt elated, my solar plexus radiating through my wires. I lit up my phone and read my mails; each on their sides, Michelle and Hugo seemed overjoyed with their encounter, where was she? Fulgence was talented, I felt a sparkle in my womb, I would think of some new kinky shenanigan. Liselotte begged for news of Michelle. Natalia loved me.
On a hunch, I climbed up to the studio, and found Michelle, wrapped nude in a maroon plaid, on the rug before the blinking computer. I seized her feet to warm them into my robe, on my tummy, and watched her, she had dozed off with her glasses on, they had rolled aside.
She smiled first, finely, and eventually opened big azure eyes rimmed with thick golden lashes, I kept her feet, like kitties, but I asked if she would have breakfast with us downstairs; she nodded for yes, only that we let the computer crunch data a few more hours; she wrapped herself into my robe, she smelled of wild rose, she kissed me mindlessly, then clinched back her gold rimmed “aviator” eyes back in place, and stared at my bewitched face with her sharp eyes.
Sarah, in a dark sapphire robe, was dipping cookies in her Darjeeling, watching not to lose the soaked morsel in her tea; she smiled up in her most devastating candour, before I snitched on her misbehavings, which made her all the most irresistible. Michelle was all bare, and we did not hurry to dress her up. Her ruffled mane edges beautifully her shoulder line, I want her back in my robe, I feel her timid fluff on my pubis.
Drinking out of my cup, she told us she had had a magical evening with Hugo, and she stretched out one leg, for us to see an elegant gold and lapis lazuli anklet that made both of us roar, I claimed that she wouldn’t be allowed to dress up, that day.
After begging her, from afar, to disrobe, he had cuddled her feet —which seemed to reveal a common charm together with with Sarah’s, who owns a few of Hugo’s precious anklets, too. Patiently, he had narrated the legend of us, so far as these venerable walls might be concerned, had he said, and in the limitation of beautifying us all the more, because we had nested together in his solar plexus and that his life had thrived since. She did tongue twirls in my neck, Sarah pulled her chair next to ours.
Now, Michelle owed us an explanation, first, she had only been a mere employee of Victor’s arch-nexus, recruited under an alias at a mind-shattering level because in the preliminary chats she had pit herself against him, and had successfully sold him a software solution to the glitch she had ferreted in his network.
Although it wouldn’t have been mandatory, or even profitable, he had insisted that the new big gun were materially present in his fortress at least six hours a day, laughed she. Thus, he fainted when she appeared before him, in earnest, with all the language codes they had traded online, and more. In his unveiled hubris manner, he wanted to test her, but she had already debunked the whole pornography of his success, online, before, and so she killed him with her claim to be a lesbian, which might not have been a lie.
She started as a strategic analyst in the triple secured, air conditioned, unreal laboratory where we found her, she had only been there for a couple of months, and the team was functional and correct, mostly her age, she gained respect first by foiling two of them she had already confronted in chatrooms, she was the only girl yet, they all craved her madly, they teased her with Liselotte’s parties, in hope she would loosen her pretty arse for them.
On the matter, the rest was history in the making, I rocked her like a little sister, I could not believe she had overcome Victor’s mighty nerves, him who had furiously rooted all of us with honor, there was decidedly a glitch in the software. She breathed in my ear, did I want to lick her pussy? Both of us?
Hugo had been granted licence to lick her, too, and masturbate stealthily in her scents. She was a virgin, how come? But he had a major crush, like all of us. He had listened to Victor, whom, if not fully a pal, was one of his peers, and he had , until now, relished the tales by the little imps he had shagged to exhaustion, and, last but not least, his manners towards me. Now he stood in a moral and strategic quagmire, with a vixen in his dovecote, in possession of his codes —and his balls, too.
Michelle, in all candour, had not wished nor provoked the complication, she wanted the peace along with people like us. So Hugo had come up with a master plan; Michelle would remain inside Victor’s geometry, as many dimensions it comprised, but she would detain her own corporation, which Melchior might help fund, transparently —irrespectively of the factor he did not know Michelle, yet, and might fall for her— and would be linked by a contract to Victor’s empire.
Bien-entendu, Hugo had suggested that only Melchior’s social surface would offer a proper balance to a lonely angelic genius opposite Victor’s war machine, but, had he risked, were she totally adverse to let the Imperator himself fiddle with her material being, even knowing she was a lesbian, once he would have seen her, which might very well be the case already?
Hugo had tamed her, nude amidst the finest silks, lulling her with the legends of the invaluable fabrics, grazing her skin in the sense of her golden fluff, aloof and benevolent, resting Michelle’s judgement on us, so to speak.
She had begged to keep the spot behind the red sofa, and she could swivel her hips as well as a maiden cat; I warned her that, were she our pet geek, she would unavoidably witness all kinds of carnal feasts, although never coerced into any. The studio carpets were clean and washed, except for the season’s effluents, might I say.
Michelle still stood in an oversize sweatshirt I had worn in my Amrum days, as if Cynthia had projected a spell upon the cyber-virgin. She had typed a long text in her telephone, and was obviously expecting some event, spoiling Sarah with cuddles, like all the squirrels in Saint Loup.
We ordered a Gugelhupf cake from “La Ville De Strasbourg”, Michelle was discovering vintage teas, and asked all particulars of tea brewing to Master Sarah, whose robe she had untied.
A call from downstairs warned us that a UPS man had left a big box, in the name of a Michelle Cerisy, at the care of us. I grabbed the recipient on the fly and asked her to pull on at least some shorts on, she found one of mine in the bedroom and winked.
It was a stylish high grade white cardboard box big enough to fold her inside, but light enough so she carried it safely. On its side was a very known blue window logo, she would not open it, because she wanted it upstairs.
Once we had migrated with the tea tray, she meticulously extracted smaller boxes from between cumbersome safety pads, and we had grasped it would form into her new navi, as she called it. She muttered that we would understand that she needed a top machine, besides, she would provide also better ones to us, and we might play together into the Wired.
Whatever it meant, the new beast was impressive, huge screen hinged upon a sleek silver vanity case —so it seemed, a thin keyboard and a collection of small esoteric boxes she chain-plugged to the main unit. All I saw was her classy bum, as she stood on all fours, and I dropped down to embrace her and titillate her juvenile breasts.
More or less complacent with our random groping of her gracile body, she was accomplishing some mental checklist. Then, she asked for attention, pointing an index to the start button, then those of the peripherals. As she sat up with my hand in her pants, there was a pleasant sequence of beeps and buzzes, culminating in a jolly jingle as the screen came alive on a photo of her, as a kid, before a limitless panorama of blue mountains, and the words, handwritten, wishing her welcome back, Michelle.
Once she pressed <enter>, a cavalcade of successive blank frames that filled up with queries and answers, fast enough to make her recline in my neck, while Sarah kissed her toes. She told us that her chum Woodpecker had tuned this high octane prototype to her needs (so she had let him lick her crotch, like a girl, and he liked that).
Then she took a more serious tone to warn that she would sink into the Wired for a while, and we shouldn’t worry if she fell asleep at the ready; also, she found our shower room fantastic, by the way.
Sarah was aroused by the smell of genius, but I drew her downstairs to think of other distractions, possibly.
Liselotte was contorting upon cinders, she had been a devotee to Victor from a very young age —I had come to think she was the one who sold me to him, tipping him off to that barge event on the river Seine. He knew Michelle was with us, still swimming through the dark pools in different colours, unfazed towards all the signals and cyber-mines he had set up, the wunderkind played on par with a nail-biting Victor, who trembled; I could pull her kinky mind back at rest, reassuring her that the four-eyed pixie had sealed some sweet covenant with our hero, thus was not seeking revenge through the “Wired”.
James had barged in, like he does, with a light carton of cream-filled “jésuite” triangular cakes. Annabelle and Elsie, in bedroom outfits, had climbed down, with rosy cheeks, smelling of briar roses and nenuphar —sex, in short— the sight and feel of them overjoyed our whimsical uncle, who could no longer conceal his altogether good-hearted deceptiveness about his newfound daughter; he did not yet stray his well-groomed hands on Elsie’s knees.
There was a peremptory knock at our door, which, in the current course of events, sounded ominous, the standard etiquette inside the windmill’s corridors being more like calling through ajar doors, softly. There stood Lena, almighty and stealth caretaker —mother of Natalia— who had made an awestriking discovery while checking into our studio for petty tidying; she was breathless, she pulled me upstairs with a fierce clutch.
I could have foretold it, I hugged our beloved nursemaid who smelled of fear and fern, watching the cute pair of feet poking out of the red sofa’s side, in a dim glow. Michelle laid asleep upon her stretched arm, her spectacles reflecting the moves on the computer screen. Letting Lena standing like a mooring pole, I went to caress these unexpected pranksters, if only in case she would wake up.
I picked up the glasses safe and we laid a cashmere plaid, justly intended for the visitors, upon her legs. I could retell to a bewildered Lena who Michelle was, and what prerogatives we had granted her amongst us, swearing my soul that she was a wholehearted person, at least this side of the screen.
Enchanted by the sight of Annabelle and Elsie cuddled into an armchair, James took a fancy of my abs and thighs, pulling me to sit upon his well-known lap; he smelled of his usual ginger cologne, and his forehead felt rich. He tried to make us spill the embers about our new recruit, if ever, and the fuss she seemed to have kicked, on her own.
We relied on Hugo’s wits, he is in the same superlative covenant as impetuous Victor, we knew what a Google search gave up, that is Michelle Cerisy, twenty seven, had made it to the Ecole Polytechnique in Paris, at seventeen, to the amazement of many, studied there in computer engineering, then she fell in love with mathematical modeling applied to finance, thanks to Ziv Katalan at the University of Pennsylvania, then eventually pursued a PhD in human-machine interaction, under Abiel Vidal at Princeton, before following an Ermeline Gorescu —photos were to be found— to Lausanne University, where both trails waned off,
Hugo had been bedazzled by her resume, but far less than Victor, who confided that he had been in a close-knit relation with her ghost in the most safeguarded chatrooms of global power, before affording this rare bird a platinum clad shelter.
Now she had become, overnight, the apple of Melchior’s eye —this one would not trip on any of her wires— and she could sleep upon our rugs.
Gauthier joined, just as we plotted to order vegan pizzas from ‘Vivi davvero” on rue de Seine. He had his lit-up eyes, he told us that, coming out of the elevator, he had heard loud music from upstairs, in the studio, knocking seeming vain, he had pushed the door, and then seen a nude unknown blonde dancing alone on an old Fleetwood Mac, “Dreams”, and he had dared not cough, who was she?
The pet of the house, so it would seem, with a maddening bum and aviator glasses. A meteoric mind for numbers and formulae nonpareil and free, windfall in the garden of the unbound master of the cosmic tables, whom, then, himself, botched his better strike.
As the cat which sensed that one spoke of its grace, Michelle appeared, in her minimum rags, swaying her hip at Gauthier and running to Kate’s lap.
It seemed the right time for her to unscramble, in all consideration, the links between each other of us before she suspected a cult. She had soon reckoned that everyone around had done everyone, and I had better warn the penis bearers that she would rather remain a virgin.
But, again, like the cat that choses the person who did not profess any feline attraction to sit on, Michelle fetched a slice to open matters with Gauthier, who is such a charmer, altogether; she pretended to be an illiterate code-monkey and eventually liked what she heard; she was thrilled to learn that there were so many other birds in the colombier.
Later, Hugo came up, along with Delffan, whose cranium had grown velvety, sweetening the air of one’s gazes; Michelle had loved Hugo’s handling of her hassles, and she was stunned by the serene comity of this new beautiful preternatural person, though as unaffected as herself; an informal round gathered at one end of a sofa, Hugo slid a slow hand under Michelle’s sweatshirt, Gauthier fondled all he liked of Delffan, and Kate turned to me. Annabelle had been stripped down between James and Elsie. There would be another visit at Melchior’s, the next day.
Having read the time at Hugo’s wrist, Michelle slithered out of the tableau to rejoin her look-out, nothing else she needed, she had found new toothbrushes.
James, now openly petting with Annabelle and Elsie, mumbled that the newcomer was a worthy pearl in our crown, and he would certainly go grovel for a bite of her cherry, Michelle heard that, she had been in the door, she sniggered and ran. Soon, Gauthier fled along with Delffan whose eyes swayed. Hugo kneeled at Annabelle’s feet and called her his desirable niece to pull her to his side, leaving Elsie in James’ arms.
Kate and me, unsatisfied, dimmed the lights and switched on some slow music waves to dance on, then Natalia and Beryl snuck in and we took them to bed, they smelled of wild brush and male sweats, they had just been fucked and it was their gift.
In what might be morning, I blinked up, snuggled round in Elsie’s arms, and everyone had left, our living room miraculously neatened. I baked Gugelhupf slices dipped in beaten eggs and sprinkled with brown sugar, a Saint Loup reminder, of which the smell lured out my New Yorker bedfellow, recovered of any jet lagging.
By telepathy, Kate and Michelle, not wearing much, touchy feely, yawning babes from behind-the-sofa clouded over the French toasts, and I reckoned I had better brew another pot. Stretching her elbows up so as to bare her faultless abs —her eerie carpet life punctuated in compulsive series of push-ups— our new impish geek feebly mumbled that we lived a weightless life, just like she yearned for, and Liselotte, who had caused our collision, should be praised for that; I agreed, I would bear naught against my usual procuress, even if she shouldn’t have devised a party spot in Victor’s pervasive eyes. She had texted again, I asked her in and she lost no time; she showed a bad sleep face with hollow eyes, but breathed widely, obviously elated to witness our quiet. She grasped what would be played before Melchior, whom she feared, and made a heartful atonement with Michelle, who accepted and retorted that the whole fiasco had at least debunked a tainted facet of Victor’s almighty realm. Liselotte blamed the wrong on the unleashed abuse of drugs, or an inauspicious mix in them, hadn’t most of us relish the blue dust, once or more? Moreover, she avowed to not knowing of Michelle’s lifeways, her main intention having been to provide the console kids a frank shagging, be it under the sight of their boss. She fawned a candid Michelle, who was chasing grains of sugar on her busy lips, into granting her pardon, with undeniable savoir-faire, like she had owned me before, and all the girls she appraised worthy.
Michelle and me had a teatime appointment and a few chores to hurry through, mainly a visit to the clinic to print her a black card, which puzzled her when I showed her mine, promising to let her play with it, provided she would not jeopardise my private data. After a thorough toilet, I dressed her, street code, jeans, sandals easy enough to her feet that were bigger than ours, white shirt and black man’s vest with pockets; she would smell of Blue Narcissus, clean and naïve, though witty enough to enthrall the medical staff who would scan her soul bare. We ran a few blocks, climbed up to the sterile venues and I helped her undress to her glasses into the rude light. She let be done like a living doll, as if nonetheless she were taking records of every detail happening about her gorgeous body. She searched my hand and looked away while they drawn of her blood —I felt she had needle-phobia— and I let her squeeze my hand; then I massaged the inside of her arm. More eventful was the gynecological exploration which she would have rather skipped, but, I explained, was mandatory and confidential, she might verify for herself, of all women who tested;. she asked if I had submitted, too, in a manner of keeping her composure; the doctor knew me well, she liked my attitude towards my unquiet friend; no mention was told of virginity. When she was redressed and we allowed ourselves a gentle hug, the sleek machine bleeped and spat the new lacquered black card with a long number on it.
There was time enough left for an idea, we ordered a cab and went to Stubbs & Wootton, for her feet deserved that. She agreed when we found indigo, flat velvet slippers, randomly embroidered of mock multicoloured math formulae, and she also bought night blue ones with Horus eye in gold, and turquoise with frilled Betta fish, and it could go on, so enthused she was to make of her feet such brilliant toys. I am sure not stingy, but I must have done that embarrassed-auntie-look-in the-toy-shop face; she laughed, wholeheartedly, and slid out another kind of black card from her wallet, with another long number embossed on it, and her full name. I wished I had paid, I helped her carry one of the chic bags. The young stylish shop attendant was bedazzled.
In our closet, I fought my urge not to clothe her, but eventually, one of Sarah’s sleeveless, high-waisted, flared, zig-zag blue hues silk jersey dress fit her, like a columbine in a Van Der Weyden painting, but now she was lost as to which of her new shoes to wear; a heavily over-embroidered deep indigo kind of caraco nested her shy doves of breasts, I tied a night blue velvet dog collar with a micromosaic medallion of the planet Saturn in its midst, and she liked that so much that she groped me, as I was not dressed, yet. As I responded, I dared her not to wear undies, like I would, swearing my soul that I would rather die than let anyone, be it Melchior, rape her again; but the mighty one had his whims, and this was one… she hesitated; she slid on indigo black hold up silk stockings with a large lace border. She opted for the coloured numbers slippers, she was crushingly sexy, it would plead leniency for Victor, or would it?
Gianni had made me an halterneck dress in a turquoise and purple on white ikat , calf-long with side slits up to the hips on the sides, I put on purple open tights that aroused her because my pussy could happen to be seen in my moves, I donned a wide-oblique-striped turquoise and white long vest. I sprayed myself with some perverse tuberose, wondering what it would become if we went to bed together. I shoed fine strapped sandals, I know Melchior likes my feet, he told me.
This one limousine looked like a hearse in a mob movie, it smelled of oak-aged malt whisky, in my fancy; Michelle started to panic, she knew not any of this world, and it felt too voluptuous for her safety marks, it was the kind of sets you found in videogames, and, then, it was never a good omen. In the silent, smooth swaying of the monstrous machine, I played on her looser chords to tame her and come to like the deep velvet seat, unaware if anyone could watch her widely stretched pussy. She had flown through all this before, couldn’t she recall?
When the car stopped, it stood in the middle of a spacious tiled all-over garage grey and Nile green, with a polished black floor. Orderly lined were a dozen of mostly vintage luxury cars, of the kind which boast architectonic radiator grids.
The driver held the door as we climbed out and walked to an opened elevator booth, clad with golden mirrors, and one single unidentified button by the doors, that I tried.
This was another venue than those I knew, the floor was a spectacular black and white mosaic of which the Renaissance pattern, larger than the rooms, was oriented at an angle in relation to the construction plan, giving the impression of an endless subjacent world. Awed, Michelle wouldn’t dare to walk frankly, I had to warn her it was only the start of another show, for her better good.
This foyer deployed like a cavern, baroque and asymmetrical, a crouched black giant draped in polished white marble looking stucco rested an enormous foot on the mosaic and bent his furious head against the star studded nightly ceiling; Along the opposite wall, ran a cohort of nude nymphs amidst dark woodlands, the foliages, overran with paradise birds, melting up into an orange dus;.the naturally coloured nymphs were higher than life size and eerily elongated in the Fontainebleau manner, some grabbed their neighbours at the crotch.
The impressive ensemble might have been realised by those Asian temple decorators, under highly trained supervision, with precise references in Italian baroco —the Longhena moors at the Church Dei Frari—; some cinema had missed a major endeavour, here.
After all, weren’t we acting the unrevealed cinematography of Melchior, with no lights and hidden cameras? As I enlaced my pet genius, a well-synchronised, adrift symphony flew around the scene from nowhere, and Michelle yielded entirely to my lead, until we felt his presence.
He might have been there all along, mingled in the indiscernible, he waved us to keep on, his high frame at a tense watch. When I sensed that Michelle had whirled enough, he showed us to a high black door draped in purple velvet, chiseled of extravagant chases of subterranean creatures of both sexes copulating spiritedly.
The enchanting music —like unfurling echoes in the deep corridors of an opera house, when the audience has left— followed us in another dark salon where only a few crimson velvet seats, around what might have seemed a tall salon organ, were lit by a charivari of a chandelier, coloured birds into gold foliages and luminous jewel flowers, dimmed down to the shade of secrecy. On the table was displayed a treasure of goldsmithery, like stolen in the Green Vault of Dresden, here containing real edible treats like crystallised violets or candied berries, green lace of angelic, or stuffed cherries from Lago di Cuomo; none was too sugary, only the spike of a kiss, and the swoon of gossamer biscuits in puffs of icing dust.
Growingly disquieted, Michelle was seated in contact with my thigh, and wouldn’t taste the delicacies; she had a sense, this time around, that stakes would be sharper. The patient wizard fixed our gazes, then, and let her know that he had met with Victor, and therefore wished to undertake a truthful audit of their discord, beyond the unspeakable error Victor had conceded. Melchior waved towards the bizarre monument that stood before us, of which it was indefinite to tell if it was purposely elaborate or merely decorated, so many were the complicated features on all faces; when a coy faced Asian waiter in a black buttoned-up kameez rolled an Aeron chair to it, the sombre ensemble suddenly looked almost dangerous, like a weapon. Melchior insisted that she sit and push the start key, adding, in a smile, that it would be her privilege.
She moved lazily to the black orthopaedic chair, tried herself on it, adjusted it to her size and weight, stood somewhat like on watch, or composed like a pianist before the first note. She liked her back stretched upon the curved canvas, she made the seat swivel a few times, and hit the only possible key.
Like a woken hermit crab, contraptions began protruding out in different directions; a keyboard with extra rows of coloured keys, three large monitors, speakers, and other thingies with no name. She was moody, fidgety; on the central generic blue screen, text appeared, and a black invite box in which, after a moment holding her chin, she typed a long formula that disappeared as fast, and the screen went blue, again, with the sad bright yellow blinking invite.
I am a mouse operator, but I know real geeks type. Ensued an accelerating sequence of clatter clink fire which would not let me read the collection of screens that popped and faded, until it was her own, kid Michelle, against the blue mountains; she pivoted, beaming, and pulled off her dress which had impaired her speed.
Melchior stared, impassible, but he muttered in a language I did not know, then said calmly that she had not been supposed to reach that page, all the more not this fast. She retorted she could, now, show him Victor’s operation, and her deft hands flew through control screens, and cracked one by one the new passwords and procedures, till a black page with the invite, upper left corner. She asked if he wished to look at the ongoing trading, and a flurry of active windows filled the three monitors instantly.
Through the threads of the seat’s back, I relished the gracile butt, whereas Melchior showed more stupor than lust. So as to achieve her demonstration, she blanked all and typed again sequences and IDs to enter a platform named PANADO, from which she displayed an array of title pages, Melchior had gone stiff, he asked her to switch the machine off, that she did, engaging an intricate automatic procedure, until a fading light point blinked off.
Nude as a peri, she faced Melchior and told him this machine and the network it was hooked to would have kept no trace of her passage. She smirked.
Melchior asked if we wanted to drink something, we agreed to some tea and the Asian lady brought a big black pot, in the shape of a curled up dragon, and lacquer bowls gilded inside; Melchior started on a low tone, that Michelle was a dire menace on the loose, and he had never known of such capabilities as hers. She cleared her voice and retorted there had been, in her knowledge, three of them in the cybershere, until one took her own life. There, she fell silent, eyes lowered, and I cuddled her to cry.
After a long moment inhaling tea vapors, he went on, reckoning she had, then and there, in his face, blown to pieces every possible security scheme available, in and out, therefore she had become indispensable to him and his corporations, and she knew that, didn’t she?
She wondered if that might mean that she could stay at Hugo’s, with all of us, with me. Melchior concurred immediately, but added that she was, from now on, if not since long already, so well off that there wouldn’t be any impediment as to her dwelling wherever she pleased, with whom she chose. She was deftly sliding a hand on me.
However, Melchior demanded that a comprehensive contract bound them, globally, with not even a hair-thin crack, to let leak whatever out from.
Obviously, Victor had misjudged her talent and skills, he had had, beforehand, means to research about her short career, also an eloquent cursus in the absolute best surroundings available; by the way, why did Lausanne looked like a dead-end in her resume?
He asked permission to sit by us, next to her, and held her hand between his, it was peaceful; the music hovered again in my mind. The glimmer of the chandelier now encompassed the whole scenery of a large reception room without discernible wall as such, but dark hordes of raised, life size, nude figures, in the posture of withdrawing to a forest of monstrous roots; the women bearing the face of rapture, the men in full erection keeping the grin of lust.
Beyond her, he was helping me out of my clothes, reveling in the little bare mound in my tights, and he wondered how the herds of happenstance weaved the trust on what empires thrived; he stroked her wilful chin and mused “welcome to the supreme tier”. Then he let us make our love.
He retired through a far corner, two indifferent well-built lads came in, raised the monumental black contraption on its wheels and rolled it away. The Asian lady brought a vase of heady lotus flowers and asked if we needed anything, she showed us the way to the bathroom, yet another masterpiece of orgiastic sculpture, a relief rendition of the morphine-instilled dreams of Jean Delville, herein in seemingly bronze, to the ceiling in a large whirl, with basins to play with our waters in, bowls to keep company, gem like phials of heavenly scents. We played, knowing we were taped under many angles.
I had known sleek, I had known bland, or even garish, expensive inter-human settings for power trading, but not, in real atoms, liveable pandemoniums such as only this circle of secretive conjurors may invite you in, and it would seem I fell in the velvety garden of their muses.
Melchior’s alliance with me is fair and square, I will refute none of its lines, my obligations bear the upside of making Victor only my peer, at most, but the biggest patron I could have dreamt of. As of now, I love my camp in the girls’ studio, scenes happen on the other side of the sofa, like it did in my home, at the times when my mom braided my hair in two, with tiny butterfly clips.
Up and down this maze of a house roam keen characters, all of whom available to my wants, and unconditionally faithful, as I can reckon. Nevertheless I haven’t yet dared spill my thorns upon anyone’s plate to ask for help, sort the pain, and ease my womb. They spoke of Camille I haven’t met, yet, and the ward she keeps of a redeemed victim, others returned from dire fates, one is a happy pet of Victor’s, of all brutes —I should know.
Having been excellently home-schooled, proudly ahead of my age when I joined the most renown Ecole Polytechnique, I was nonetheless the unaware laughing stock in the student’s corridor where the bullies would drink cheap beer, and so would it be, I could outsmart them all, anyhow.
That crashed upon me like the icicle from the roof ledge, as I headed to my room, Radiohead in my headphones, the bastard pulled me in a room that wasn’t his, and closed the door, and I measured what unleashed physical might is. It wasn’t long, but it was a full fledged rape, I had been wearing easy lounge sweat pants, and he tore them off in one pull, moreover, my spectacles had flown, hence I had not seen his face. I was left sobbing and bleeding, feeling around the floor for my sights.
I think I was altogether too young to actually care to make a complaint. I cried alone in my room for three days before my tutor warned he would have to open my door. I scarred, I depressed, I cursed my glasses and Radiohead, I shunned men and joined the school’s helpful lesbian association. I never found who had done this, they all smelled the same. I was dumb, but, out there, I was stellar.
Elsie’s Paris abode had been finished pronto, thanks to his gang of devoted specialisti, and she would never know the amount of the grand total; but when they delivered the queen size Hästens Appaloosa bed, she would not escape —nor would she try— a ride upon it with the laughing knight of the upper tier, who had already shagged, in good humour, anyone alive, there.
She was morphing into a more laid back persona, shedding one by one the scales of an invisible armour her conscious mother had made her wear, in the course of her education years. Now, she was an earnest international lawyer, with a universally regarded mentor, and she would revel in all what she had willfully shunned, these years.
My Far, after having appreciated her, during the last weeks of his life in New York City, had showed her the venues of the international institutions in Geneva, while suggesting a mind frame for a quiet living, whatever personal orientation she felt. Either in Geneva or in Paris, as high ranking her position be, the focus would never be on her if she did not willfully called for it. He knew full well the life ways of his daughter, but he cared only of her well-being, to herself.
Lars von Kettelær had whistled of admiration when I told him Hugo had lent me an apartment rue de Lille, over Sarah’s testimony —I had not avowed what I had lent Hugo.
For then, I would stay two nights a week in the Niton Hotel in Geneva, at my office’s expense, and the rest in Paris, as a junior lawyer with an office in the Fontenoy “three pointed star” building, with a view under Henry Moore’s “Reclining Figure”. I was asked two mornings of presence, And I could see the lighter files at home, review matters from my bed.
I kept my apartment in New York, since they had asked me, as a single and a newbie, to effect some rotations in person with the UN headquarters in New York. I had become a diplomat, I did not wait in the airport lines. My mother could be proud.
That did not make me less of a libertine, one day I asked Sarah, who was in a kinky mood, to take me on a tour of Philippe’s recesses and nooks, she was overjoyed; I bought an oversized cobalt and flax blue knit coat, in which I could go in a mars ochre light bodysuit, in case things became druzy. And they did, after peeping at a few scenes of schoolgirls fiddled with in their most excitingly awkward candour, her friend Sami and two well-hung temps had pushed us, up narrow spiral stairs, to some low ceiling windowless attic, with original raw-plaster walls and ceiling engraved with names and esoteric signs, leading to think the venue had served as a prison. They lit candle sconces hung to the centre pillars, here and there, strange and sturdy dark wood furniture stood adrift, but the whole place was clean, like a bizarre display in a deserted museum.
They disrobed us, rashly, easy, was it not? laid us upon the heavy table and licked artfully every part, of us, asked that we kissed while they penetrated us front and rear, as I knew I could take , with the lube they used.
As they jauntily shouted, in some easterly dialect, at each other, we learned the use of the different stools and accessories, when they pulled the lid of a burly trunk full of bonding straps and hooks. Soon, I was entrapped head and hands in a pillory, my feet affixed wide apart, while Sarah hung down from the master beam, her hands attached to a large hook in her bottom, her mouth at the men’s disposal, alternately with my loosened holes.
Elsie had fled to her new duties, I lazed my same old rêverie in her pearl grey percale sheets on which she had had the pride to show sperm and else stains. The small bedroom oversaw thick gardens, without many birds, its walls were hung with a high quality reproduction of an 18th century grisaille wallpaper, soul-soothing views of Arcadia, I presumed, running all around. Astutely, like ancient times, two smaller doors on each side of the bedstead opened, one to a sizable walk-in closet, still more or less empty, the other one to a bathroom clad of soft-tone majolica tiles with yellow and blue cornices. She had wished a bathtub, as a marker of her new status, in her mother’s home there was only a titchy shower booth.
Gauthier dawdled in, in search of last touches he could mend, and he laughed at my face in the pillow. Inescapably, he threw his marroon tracksuit and slid along me, mumbling garlands of niceties. I wanted to believe he could be the early cock, I offered my back the lazy way, he would eventually succeed into my sleepy vagina, if not elsewhere, and he did, in a cautious —brotherly manner; I closed my eyes and swayed my hips to his moves.
Neither of us would take time for a bath, we showered together like monkeys, the soap smelled of magnolia —there used to be one in Saint Loup, his big white flowers consoled the slight hurt of estrangement, or was it still the helpless rage of the previous summer? when the brother I had, betrayed my naivety.
Gauthier read my eyes and wished me a good day, with our new pet.
Michelle had slept with Kate and Natalia, whom she entertained frankly, other than killing her with kisses. Kate could tell I had fucked Gauthier, she wondered where I had been. We dared not explain what I had done and where, Michelle was certainly not of strength, so she mused we had shagged like avid sluts, the way she did not like. I grazed her slender neck and breathed in her ear “live and let live, genius”.
James and Annabelle came to spend the day along, he had been struck by the sofa aviator, as he would say when she could not hear, which was trickier to know than he thought, but Michelle laughed at jokes on her traits, she had ample proofs of her success on that level. I thanked him for the perfect armchair to sit a beauty in, it earned me a third time to be groped since midnight, I brewed tea, and noticed the cookie stash was ending. Michelle remained on the sofa, not far from James, Kate was trying to sort a flurry of notes she had scribbled, and she had some confusion to remember what about.
Michelle liked Annabelle, who liked her too, so they ended embraced, and Michelle began asking about straight sex, was it some mere necessary evil? She did not acknowledge any natural obvious, her vagina did not demand a penis in it, even if she saw plenty of that on the web, and yes, it aroused her, but she did not fathom why.
What she tried to speak out was that , although she had never asked, hurtful gestures had been inflicted to her, whereas she had always been fulfilled with girls, unabashedly, and of that, too, she saw a lot on the internet.
Kate, who was now doodling with a weightless pencil, took her virginal tone to retell her rescued pixie how she, since the sandpit days, had always known the most graceful manners to any organ of her body, and so she could testify there is as much good to be taken and given on each slant of the vale, either shore of the stream and in the middle of it. But she was aware it had been chance, altogether, and therefore she would only try to help Michelle find peace and pleasure, in the only way that suit her, were it behind the sofa.
They told me they would vet my housekeeper, because I might be carrying restricted informations, and I had to install a safe in my small study. I fawned over Michelle —as if I needed an excuse— so as she became my system manager, knowingly letting her own a key to who knew what international secrecy; now stands a big, sleek monitor on my desk and Lars has morally countersigned my choice, he says he has never heard of such a secure standard of procedure in the UN offices.
Meanwhile, my home ancillary is called Habiba Douri, and she does not ruin her heath trying to bleach her young skin, she wears slim jeans and white teeshirts, impeccable sneakers. She dwells in a small self contained room on the other side of the apartment, she works diligently for a third of my salary, of which most is tax-exempt, I am the happiest of the expatriate untouchables. Through coded locked doors, I reach the merry warren of Sarah’s friends, and Hugo’s Imaginarium, where I lightly expend my gratitude, if he wishes.
On one of those equinoctial, sensitive days, when one would expect a miracle at the point when dusk recedes after the city lights, we were all welcomed to Camille Stern’s, Kate and Sarah’s promoter in all kinds of ways, as I could make it out, an influent proxy to Hugo’s many trades, a beautiful influencer to a restricted, if not restrained, clientèle.
Sarah had enlightened my wits that such a gathering would unmistakably end in an orgy, at the free will of all guests, Camille, many a time sweet procuress, did not hold a bordello, but, nevertheless, singled out misguided talents who would have reached her doorstep, eventually.
Kate, herself a brilliant libertine, chaperoned her last found wayward soul Michelle with the ulterior motive of showing her the full array of harmless animal behaviours, while keeping her off limits, no one there would take offence of a pretty four-eyed voyeur, cheers to her!
It took more than one car to descend on Camille’s stately home, above the discreet “A l’Étoile Amusée” gallery, and its three windows currently showing Fulgence Rotor’s “Nada” panels. The party weren’t thrown to all azimuths, only the quintessence of those who clang to Hugo’s magnetic field, directly or not. There weren’t flowers on each step of the stairs, only a sugary balsam scent of benzoin, up to the grand salon, and the dim lit peripheral escape shelters.
She had hung new window drapes, of heavy black satin embroidered of constellations in silver and gold thread, in stark contrast against the mandarin shaved velvet of the walls. Three imposing pictures of her Heinz Stangl collection were on display, as a large, blistering hazy blue scrummage by Dado, and a pair of sharp angels by Michel Henricot.
I had lovingly helped dress Michelle with chintzy arsenic yellow jeans and matched black polka dots blouse, in a textured woven, Royal blue and iris purple accents, high-waisted fitted jacket. Her hair was loose-braided in a bun, her feet in richly embroidered sapphire blue party slippers; she smelled of pure mountain jasmine, she had in mind to enrapture Annabelle, but she had not yet met the whole bouquet of our redeemed stray beauties. She wore the lapis lazuli anklet Hugo had given to her.
I knew for myself that I would be gently body-searched before I ended salutations, and so Michelle was stunned to feel I wore nothing under my wide flared, sleeveless, hazed aquamarine silk jersey dress; I showed her how easy I am, I smelled of white peony and pepper, walked in silver flat thin strapped sandals. At my neck and wrists glowed aquamarines, nude in white gold.
Sarah and Elsie looked like sisters, and they kissed as I said that, Sarah had composed an all-white vaudeville uniform, high waisted tail coat with black and silver patterned trimmings, lined of imperial blue satin, thin crepe crew collar short sleeves shirt, flared twill bridge trousers and patent white flat escarpins; She smelled of a childish mix of almond and bergamotte, vanilla, laurel, that also inspired Michelle. She donned a rubies, diamonds and onyx Art Deco set. Elsie was pale and fresh, she wore a long purple shantung coat open on an oriental black taffeta sheath dress, slit to the hip, that gave out how slim she was, and wanton; she shoed patent leather black mules with strass accents, her ankles showed dreamily sleek. At her neck gleamed amethysts in spiral shaped battered silver plates; she smelled of a black iris, tuberose, violet, like a nightly opera box.
Camille had unboxed her most prized emeralds, framed at her neck in a long Nile green velvet gown, slid to her fingers, her toes, for she went barefoot upon her precious carpets. In the whirling cloud of ambient music, she beamed like an almond tree in bloom, eager to meet our new bed cousins, bewildered by my shy, ankle-twitchy, aviator angel, who nevertheless captivated her with her indefatigable candour, all the more when I softly evoked that Michelle longed for feminine shelter, she quietly drew her to a still remote corner.
Malo, nude and powdered, her cello in her legs, was pulling loose wreaths on the sostenuto streams thrummed out by the three Hang drums behind her, another nude girl was still pondering on her black lacquered electric guitar plugged to a glimmering array of black metal boxes, itself into Camille’s main system’s historical Paragon speaker, behind the musicians. Malo accepted my hand in her neck, it prompted the fringe styled guitarist to trigger a few slow loops and samples, blur the sound backdrop in which the cello contorted as a manta ray, then tentatively respond to Malo’s improvisations, as they probably would have rehearsed.
Simon, my sun-weathered brother and his Parisian gamine pecked on each other’s face like a first date, Fayelle appeared all the time younger, here, bare legs in a black, rosebuds strewn peasant skirt and a black loose-knit oversized jumper, under which I knew I would find shy nipples.
Lizon clenched Sarah’s neck, with a sharp gaze, she wore night blue slim shaved velvet jeans and a matched veil shirt, opened to the navel, she had thrived as a well paid daughter for rent, her toe and finger nails lacquered black, she had lost her shoes; they kissed like sailors.
Fanny had met Michelle, Camille had introduced them so properly that they exchanged while holding each other’s hands, like kids, on some heated topic; she wore some black crepe dressy pyjama, with satin lapels, and black taffeta flat ballet pumps. Together, in striking colour contrast, they raised the voltage in their side of the room, reason why a kaleidoscopic Missoni tights and sweater dress Delffan jumped at them, with one unmistakable grin.
One had made a remark about the temperance as a constant rule for the gatherings of this rose-petals club, and in earnest no one could have dated it, I had personally drifted away from it, at my own expense, I think I would never again drench my wits in alcohol, it is terrible for any soul, boring in sex, lousy for inspiration. other recreational drugs are far less damageable, put apart that they are mostly state-forbidden, under pressure from the brewer corporations.
Same goes with the diet, but it has become such a cultural marker that we couldn’t have avoid it, could we? We are perfumed zealots, except for God.
Apparently, Gauthier and Fulgence had concluded a wisdom peace, in honour of the beautiful crews of the peaceful clearings, they arrived together with Natalia, Beryl, and Liselotte in a big zigzag black and crimson, giant collar on a fool cleavage tied with a strass belt, short shirt dress of stiff taffeta, doubtlessly an endeavour to alleviate the reproach of having missed of judgement apropos Michelle in the wolf’s den.
Erik, in a Royal blue shantung suit, made sure everyone feel his sway over Natalia’s arse and she kept her word on that, smiling at me like my bed buddy. Gauthier held arm in arm with Theo who donned one of his three pieces salmon square striped Dupioni suit, lined of Veronese green satin, where in Melbourne was a tailor so chic?
Fulgence, besides the pride of having hung his work in Camille’s windows for us all to see, grinned of lust at the sight of so many, but one, willing, rich-smelling younglings, he looked like he was sorting the ones he had not yet shagged.
Liselotte came up to me, in a whiff as fresh as a spring hawthorn in bloom, pulling with her a shy, acorn blond bob haired, green eyed, twiggy long legged in shaggy black jeans, worn sneakers, the whole picture of the would-be prey of lust I read as a redeem present. The name was Fæbyan Elsterwert, I almost had to take her in my neck to hear, she came from Switzerland, she smelled of lavender soap, Liselotte had picked her up on the Seine embankment where she had been panhandling, I had an emotional thump in the chest, and I looked at Liselotte who played candour and winked. I kept Fæbyan’s hand, it had been taken care of. I drew her to the buffet and sketched up who we were. I grazed her hips with my underbelly, like some prelude to a dance, I knew Liselotte had fucked with her.
She had not been starving, and she liked the fruit kombucha like I dared feel it on her lips. She was making herself easy, she gave me tender gazes, I pushed her like dancing towards the corridor that led to the bedrooms. She was lean, her clothes smelled like she had worn them for ever, but I was altogether smitten, her skin was faultless and thin, I came to wonder if she had not been up Liselotte’s sleeve for some time, which would not make her less desirable, and her fly was undrawn while I pushed her into the room, on the bed.
I became a tad cruel in words, as I pulled everything off her narrow frame —not unlike Sarah’s and my most relished slutty pals— and I ended learning that she had been kept, some three months, by Liselotte, in a small self-contained room, and, so to speak, pimped to a few naughty friends of hers, for money —nothing extravagant, judging by the expression on her face— and she wouldn’t be the first alley cat I fell for, would she? Liselotte had, all that time, been sweet to her, bringing her to like a lighter version of selling her skin, boarded for free in the best quarter of Paris.
I told her to unclothe me, to take lewd poses, pee on me in the bathroom, let me pee in her mouth, nothing she had not done already with her mistress, and moreover, she had an arousing manner of letting herself be done, and obey.
She had warmed up, she had come gently, given me the novelty shudders, Liselotte owned me more than I had fathomed, and it was sweet. As I uncovered her forehead, her eyes and brows, rested as a Botticelli, none alarm pinched any of my nerves, I had a crush on a young beautiful whore, that was it, and fast.
I could have foreseen, but it did not bother me, anyhow, someone was sneaking into that room, the music had raised, and been muffed. My manoeuvre had not escaped Fulgence’s watch, or had he been tipped by our procuress? I felt, more than I saw, his muscular and tense body behind mine, and Fæbyan smirked at him, like they might have planed, but I relished the idea that he would fuck me before her, along with her, so I opened my thighs, and she gave me a hunch that she had been all along more trained than I had guessed, by guiding his dick to my pussy, wet of all our licking, and shutting my mouth with hers.
Of course, he had been on the list of the most expected fuckers, and I liked his energic manners, but moreover he was shrewd enough to start in me, in order to tell her to straddle me, legs apart, so as to switch pussy at his fantasy, and eventually bugger the slim prey I held to his whim.
Then our special firebrand barked as he gushed into her, and dripped upon my labia, and we went to shower in good humour, Fulgence and me sharing compliments on Fæbyan’s body, she nodded, like a kid. We went searching for her rags, she puffed in laughters seeing me sniffing the fabric with mischievous eyes.
As I was hugging Annabelle with mock small talk that made her rummage under my armpits and breathe warm on my chest, In the corner of my eye, I saw the manoeuvre by Liselotte, before she even kissed me good night, entrusting this new pretty tramp to Kate, who soon abducted her to more private shadows. I was naughty, I grassed on her, to Fulgence, who was in need of lust. They returned later, with stray eyes, it looked as if it had been a success, the new errant garconne seemed a lot worthier than lost luggage, I went up to sniff her, Annabelle was already trying to push Malo to clinkers, only by looking at her, and undressing as well as her.
Fæbyan, the unknown street runner, smelled like the shower after sex, and my showy attire deflected her, who was a poster-girl of desolate streetwear —had Liselotte schemed this on us? She did not try to evade my pouting lips, she obviously was here to play easy, I presumed a debutante whore, and I liked that. I ensnared her in my best petting, drifting towards the door of the stairs, with the idea to do her in my old room, up there, from the time when I had been a pet rat in this very house.
The spiral stairs were the perfect venue for preliminaries and confessions, she told me she knew I was with Kate, whom she had told everything; pulling down her worn out boy’s jeans, word by word, I insisted I had not heard the tale, and made her feel I liked that, so she briefly retold That Liselotte had picked her up on the quay, lodged her in a small apartment, spent many nights with her, and lent her out to wealthy johns, so as she had become a mere tart. There, I had seized her gracile neck, stared in her jade green eyes, and told her we were as much harlots as she were, and we had a bend to like that, as long as it would not make her ugly, but shagging doesn’t make you ugly, does it? Chilling out on my physical assault, I confided to her about my debut in Camille’s realm, herself a transmogriphied wonder of a forlorn alley cat, of tragic origin, poles apart with me, who is a spoiled itchy brat of the top tier, a dedicated slut from a special Swiss breeding school, an international concern for the secret services!
At least, Fæbyan laughed, and I began to relieve any churning angst in her tummy, I demonstrated I wasn’t smooth-talking her only to open her legs, I was pondering on Liselotte’s plans and what they carried for this girl’s well-being.
My old room had been tidied some, Fanny had not, apparently, dwelled here often, or in the lightest of manners. Then and there, against the fir green sheets —one of Fanny’s novelties— Fæbyan’s swayed silhouette personifies the odalisk in our times, if she doesn’t know, I will take time to show her Ingres’ fantasy.
Her feet had been literaly prettified, pumiced, buffed, the nails trimmed and lacquered in deep Mars violet, she said it was a fad of Liselotte, who cuddled them for hours on. And they were worth adoration, so the slender ankles and all the animal upwards.
She had not told of her childhood, her bony legs and apple bum times. I foresaw another difficult chronology of deceit and abuse, like it had been the case with others like Lizon, not to mention Fanny. But Fæbyan was a different tale, in the well-off spheres, her mother a career woman in the distribution trade, a father champion of the shady markets, addicted gambler, alcoholic, and incapable of restraining his wandering hands, be it on personnel or his daughters. With her older sister Jem, they had grown under the ward of apron-bearing nannys, silence being the major value, in a grand deserted apartment overseeing the Lake of Constance, with greying dust covers on the furniture, rarely did they see the giltwood and the silks in the open, the shutters remained ajar any season; they shared a tall ceiling bedroom, with a faded old “toile de Jouy” wallpaper, on which they read and lived faerie adventures, most of their depressing lives. Jem had been the most imaginative child; the laughters of Fæbyan was her starry sky, they slept enlaced in Jem’s bed, to the protest of bleach smelling caretakers.
They were sent to a girls only school with repressive principles, until Jem climbed on the roof and jumped to the pavement three floors lower, in her night gown. —she had spoken in a hurry, she wished not let out her sister’s motives— Fæbyan was twelve, she started running away and getting recaptured in the clockwork inferno of cold Switzerland, so stubbornly that she ended interned, and maddened, and abused sexually, by the complicit wardens, with, or without the use of medications.
At eighteen, she once was summoned to some hearing, with her mother, before magistrates, to be heard as an adult. It went ugly, she insulted her mother, a well-to-do botoxed bitch in a power suit and pearls, in the three and a half languages of the Confederation —thus proving she was no dunce— and, staring straight at the younger of the three judges, claimed that she wanted her freedom, accusing her mother of her sister’s death, and the institution she was kept in, of organised paedophilia. Two weeks later, whenas she had still been used every night by her doctor and others, she was placed under the trusteeship of a judge, a solicitor, and her mother —her father having been reported missing in Macao. She would be granted a meager allowance, provided she lived in some suburban, one bedroom apartment, and reported of her endeavours to follow a normal training, to her tutors. The starting money she had been granted sewn in her banal jeans, she had afforded her trip to Paris with her complacency to truck drivers. It had been almost three years.
As I kept fumbling her fine feet, it was becoming plain as moonlight why Liselotte had unleashed this appealing street nymph into our garden of delights. She had loved her for three months, preened her feathers like a lady swan, sold her to her most dedicated patrons, and had perpetually, I assumed, hit a same wall of hardened grief and self distance.
Now I was being ensnared myself, with the ghost of a sister in night gown floating over my attraction to her. I knew how to leave the house unseen, I would text some riddle to Kate, she would apologise to Camille for me. No need to say Liselotte would recognise her work.
Once dressed, I prayed Fæbyan to take us to her nest, and dared her to take my money, only to see her wistful glare turn fierce. In the cab, she relaxed, I fantasized bringing her into Hector’s epitome of a berline, and watch her be shagged in my arms.
Despite myself, as we climbed the antique rustic stairs, my face at her bums’ height, I was reckoning that I could easily keep her, if Liselotte would pass her on to me, like an actual whore, was she not?
It wasn’t much more than a walk-in closet, but it had windows —I saw the moon— and running water. It had a quality of teen bundling up, it smelled of chocolate and sweat, dead leaves and rain, I undressed her again, she needed to come, me too.
The morning was still young, but she was looking at me, slanted on her elbow, a smile in her eyes. I was hazy, she said I was funny and beautiful, and flat as a lad. I demanded a kiss. She made coffee in a true Neapolitan coffe maker, she said it was a gift from Liselotte. I thought it were a fine opportunity to talk about that one.
She had this sulky, mat tone of voice, like a vexed child, on a monochord register, but nevertheless I heard the sympathetic strings of her lost sisterhood, like an absurdly suffused colour into a void of sorrow, and it gripped my throat about to sob, though, just like her, I would let naught become.
Liselotte had crossed her a few times before the afternoon when she saw her beg money to German old folks, and come up a minute later to propose her a nice euro note, then a meal, a walk, and a visit upstairs. It had been a pass right away, because once in her comely den, Liselotte had held much more money for her to undress and go to bed. She had been on the streets for a week then, she felt she stank, but Liselotte ran a warm bath in her lofty tub and started to groom her top to toes; she had never known such treatment, neither had she enjoyed what ensued, that night and the following.
In time, and because she was more than eager to spill her sorrows, Liselotte knew better than herself which buttons to push, and she did. Fæbyan, because of years of abuse, had abandoned all sacrament of her own body, would offer wilfully a better leaning for a less hurtful assault, therefore made a profitably trained prostitute. She floated the representation of sizeable sums for a few nights of laying back and opening her legs, she did not revolt, quite the contrary.
It was not as simple, but altogether liveable and rewarding, because Liselotte was no pimp, and left her all of her fees.
Fæbyan had, in earnest, embodied the remorse of her mistress about the ill she caused to Michelle, and saw no better fate than this. I was already salivating on a tour of the Paris I knew. I asked her if she would follow me to a well paid orgy, she said yes.
Liselotte beat us, with her whim child beauty out of her sleeve, engulfed as fast as she had loomed up, currently on the run with our tomboy, whilst our pretty shindig were to shuffle our souls in grace of an aviator genie. But Michelle is, in earnest , shortsighted as to social encompassing, and as soon as she singled out the nowhere kid, —of whom we had presented the vaporous origin— she lost all peripheral awareness and bonded with Fanny like a bunch of needles to a magnet, and it wouldn’t be long before they ran to a hideout behind some sofa.
Fulgence had remained tender to me, losing his hands over my lust and now openly making me suck his pride in the dark, smaller bluish salon, intended for such swops, with a cassolette of smoldering incense on a chest, under a dizzying liturgy by Ljuba, and vast, rounded, mole grey mohair armchair with room to wallow and suck him. No wonder I felt a skilful tongue into my bared behind, offered upon the wide armrest, and I only tried to guess who was buggering me like a horse.
Across the dim room, before a black lacquered and gold screen of a Japanese orgy scene, Fayelle had impaled herself on my brother’s shaft, and twirled slowly, like he had already erupted in her but they needed another burst. He would doubtlessly ask for the minor inlet, as he did to me any of the times.
The cello voice had waned out, Annabelle had probably won, with all her spell of enchanted heathers, amidst what Lizon, too, acquainted with Malo’s furtive petals, and meticulously attended skin all over, and pizzicatoes, jewelled of black nails. James asserted his princely privilege over his Glaswegian find, only to welcome nigh his long worshipped shepherdess of the elegiac strings, as he would say while assailing her dewy slits, and his pupil pecked at the pair of shy buds and the eager lips.
Camille had lured the pair of Sorbonne sparrows, on her, in the lichen green loveseat, and reveled in their holy scents, as they divested each other of their cumbersome tatters. Since they had become Fulgence’s preferred toys, and probably Erik’s too, they radiated like a pair of swans with their butts in the air, so as the music stopped and the Hang thrummers answered the hand waving of Camille, to thrum the dainty cheeks unabashedly offered, and kiss into, and hastily do what they had been consumed to do since the heavenly cheptel had gathered before them, Malo had assured them they would grope some pussy before night.
The guitarist was a dedicated perfectionist, she still unfurled trembling volutes, while she was being duly shagged on her stool by the third melomaniac thief, and that made her resplendent, all until she wilfully faded off the loops and reefs, as she dripped of a successful climax.
So, Elsie had vanished too, and Erik, but James snitched that he had seen them scarper out, not too long after she had held his brave cock in hand, they had deprived us of a tasty tableau.
Amongst the lucky crew, pairs had understandably eluded towards more private underwood, Elsie, for one, might have not felt ready for a show-fuck with Erik —it would be a victory when she did— Sarah, taking over Liselotte’s street tramp after Fulgence and me, might have been upset by the forlornly gazes under the thick fringe of a destitute young floozie, a case for her special awareness, another Swiss wreck, on her shores.
But, about Michelle and Fanny, these were mollycoddled specimen for the whole tribe, under the fright some evil might bid to strike them out of this reality. Eventually, when Camille woke her phone back on, she reckoned that the two were still together, texting funny riddles no abductor would ever dream up.
It dawned in my morning-after brain that there was a place I could at least glance over, and my plexus exploded when I saw two pairs of chewable feet out of the sofa’s shadow, but they stood still. When I peeked, my heart melted —pardon the cliché— to the picture of bare babies, one fixed on her screen watching the innumerables, the other half-covered in a plaid, sleeping into Michelle’s armpit. Stealthily, I ran down to fetch my phone to take pictures of them for all to relish. I got caught at the third snap, which owed me a candid smirk of Michelle, then a muttered cry for not sending the shots and showing my phone. Bewildered, I handed the thing, and she said that she would only blur the numbers on her screen in the photos, otherwise she trusted me to show her butt to the right persons; Fanny had not moved, she gave me back my phone after she had erased the shots, took back the pose and told me I was free to capture a tender moment, without threatening the world markets; she had displayed new screens. Camille was thrilled, but we couldn’t fathom how they had, in our non-Trek universe, transported themselves to Michelle’s hidey hole.
All the boys had left, and Delffan had asked Theo to be tucked in his bed. Natalia and Beryl were aroused by the behind-the-sofa scene, mostly Michelle’s apple bum. Sarah barged in with the naughty kid we liked, and said she would doll her up for her appointment with Hugo, late afternoon.
There was a host of eager lasses in the bathroom, all amazed of what Fæbyan looked like without her homeless bum’s disguise, a slim, intact silhouette of a feline teenager, with Lady Di gazes under the bangs. In Hugo’s taste, from our own timeless private collection, a simple milleraies velvet burgundy mid-thigh shirt, lined of dull orange, with rolled up sleeves, would do, for I had intuited that Sarah had —so to speak— sold a harlot to her master, in all kinky deviousness I obligingly condoned. We should have the whole night to parse out Sarah’s scheme. We forced, with much vice, Fæbyan to go like so, no undies, no shoes, down the carpeted stairs to Hugo’s door, and she did, as a good girl.
Thinking of whores, Fayelle, whom my carbon-wasting brother had shagged and left —he was starting to like it that way— and Lizon, whom Liselotte had taken to one of her shady subterranean joints, was showing arousing lilac rings under her tired eyes.
Soon, at dinner time, in the midst of stuffed mushrooms and grilled eggplants with garlic and sautéed asparagus, came the words that Fæbyan would stay downstairs. We read that as a good point, fantasising for her what most of us had enjoyed inside the endless lair.
Natalia, who had abused, once more, of the beautifully ravaged Lizon, needed then more dick and called her own knight errant to brag there would be half-a-dozen willing pussies, for him and his entourage, if clean and polite.
Time enough to tidy up and brew some drinks, Fulgence’s train of scallywags, and Gauthier, who reveled in advantageous company with mostly open-spirited alumni. Our little house of whores, lights dimmed and space music thrown, already smelled like debauchery; Sarah wanted a recount of Lizon’s expedition.
It had begun with a slow trip on the right bank, in the limousine Liselotte had called, in which the chauffeur was merely allowed to masturbate watching the exposed pallor of Lizon’s underbelly; the man, an impeccably dressed Black lad, had pulled a white kerchief to wipe off his swift homage, smirked and put back into gear.
In a smaller street behind the Palais de Tokyo, Liselotte punched the number she had read on her phone at a polished, fir green, double door that jumped back with a buzz, they walked in a faux stone work vaulted passage, lit by feeble Venetian lanterns, leading to stained glass doors and the night. On the right, gleamed a bevelled crystal enclosed lodge, in which were spiral stairs, a shiny chain across the way up. Liselotte kept embracing and kissing her prey, holding back up the skirt to denude the butt while they climbed down to a warm antechamber, finely panelled in honey blond maple, carpeted of theatrical red, where awaited four men in diverse attires, all with the penis arisen in sight.
Lizon revived for us the events and scenes, while most everyone was petting their neighbours, as a Scheherazade moment, to let us dwell in endless preliminaries; although she showed on her face inspiring shadows of the debauchery she was retelling, one could feel the enchantement she had lived.
The avant-garde squadron, wearing what fitted the unequal disposition of their bodies, young or old, but indecent, like black, open, lambskin tights with red trimmings, cavalier boots; or silk satin knee-breeches, ruffled shirt, silk stockings and patent leather slippers; or elaborate fetishistic manners of orthopaedic bandaging, provided the dick and bum remained available. After they were fleeced of their clothes, they had been held at sword point as they had to invent so many lewd answers to fantasmatic questions, and endure extravagant requests and touchings.
Natalia enjoyed, teased Fulgence who called Beryl to rescue, and showed clearly how the trio functioned. As Lizon kept on her story, I began to serve her the daintiest tongue job this side of the moon.
She spun her yarn on, about a narrow corridor that led to a low ceiling room of the same hues, padded benches and stools, and many other team members standing at attention, only for them. Lizon had already known all the possible outrages to her modesty, be it at Philippe’s, in private palaces and gardens, but until then a more balanced confrontation than this looming crowd shag n’ rag which smelled of neroli herd, sandal wood and musky oil.
From the first ointments into their pleasurable accesses, devoted palpations of whatever was availed of their skin, they had been gushed at, in, over by each of the polite clubmen, without any mistake or bruising, as we could verify, which I did.
How had she woken in Liselotte’s frequented bed, still feverish and filled like a lump of sugar about to melt in a pool of coffee? She thought the hustlers had granted her some miraculous healing cream along with their crafty massages —and put her in an ambulance? Liselotte had congratulated her of her style and bravery, whereas she only thought she had let herself be done, like seaweeds in the waves. She had asked were to download the app.
Fanny appeared, fittingly undressed, and said she had become weary of watching a pretty blonde stuck on a screen, then she noticed the manners of conversations we indulged in, and laughed that these would feel better, and Gauthier stood towards her, so she seized his prick and offered her lips. Lizon’s report, in her lazing tone of voice, had aroused me in addition to my fling with Fæbyan —whom I feared I would not recover for days.
Michelle ambled in later, her fine feet feeling the rugs on their owwn will, she was beaming and wore nothing else than a slack grey-ish tank. She claimed she had just thrown a sneaky thunderbolt and won, and made Victor richer —bastard— then realised she had not been affrightened by our sensuous demeanours, she shrugged and showed us her derriere while filling a highball with pineapple squash. She being Kate’s castaway, it was this one who slipped against her and fondled her breasts, only to hear her mumble she would only be an embarrassment to us, and therefore, she might gather some food and run back upstairs
Denegations flew, tender appeals, names, and I dared her, in her neck, that even a burly lad as Fulgence could make a convincing lesbian to her, if terms were agreed on beforehand; we were not cokeheads in heat, only libertines; did she know what a dainty knight like Gauthier smelled? Nevertheless, it were only time to watch, from the shelter of my arms, and recover her cool, or go downstairs to the gym room and burn on the cardio machine listening to funky jazz! She rested her glass and gave me a pineapple kiss.
Camille too, came up and avowed she had been envious of what she guessed had branched on here, but denied she feared for Fanny. She asked for the new one, and was not surprise she was already downstairs, where Hugo’s door had been unanswered. She slid herself between Gauthier and Fayelle, whom she complimented on her after–fuck shaded eyes.
Lastly, Elsie and her blue clad Black prince had bought boxes of fresh pastries and macarons at Diglas’ and wanted to cook real hot cocoa and marshmallow, it electrified the bare-arsed aviator, who thought no more of her modesty, feeling some warm hands on her bum. Elsie had changed for shawl-patterned tights and a coarse-knit, off-white loose jumper baring a shoulder, with ecru Chuck Taylors. Crunching a banana macaron, Michelle caught her under her clothes to hug and feel, then volunteered to stir the pan of purplish delight.
Fulgence had been teased by the dare I had put on his name, and eventually approached Michelle from behind with his staff raised, casually; she saw the straight menace, but had it been the chocolate, was not afraid and stared at the boy’s eyes that would not flinch. She mused and touched it, at my sniggering approbation. Then she swayed and said she really did not know, but she was grateful for his effort. I wanted to defuse any strain, I gave her a demonstration of how to entice a gentleman to shag one, gently, upon a sofa wing, and came faster than him. Michelle pinched my doodleberries and licked my tongue with banana flavour.
Elsie came with me to the shower, and Michelle, too, so that we could wank her silly and lavishly. I lent her a russet gleam paisley silk twill shirt, but still no undies, darling!
Elsie confessed she had never shagged a black stud, since the times when we had a few of them in dance class, but no proper fuck. I told her she would meet a lot of mixed couples in Paris, but that was no longer a worry, was it?
Hugo took Fæbyan to the Gritti by train, in a sleeper cabin. He took her to the Accademia, trying to see her along with Carpaccio’s elegant ambassadors of Santa Ursula, but eventually regretted the Botticellis shone elsewhere.
They cruised the laguna, the reed beds and the forlorn basilica on Torcello, where she was stunned by the high mosaics.
He made her talk, and listened to her, like one does when carnally obsessed by some nonchalant sleepwalker. He took her to the shops of the Salita San Moise, she wasn’t thrilled with the jewelled skulls of Codognato, she wasn’t allowed to read the tags at Loro Piana or Missoni: they had a hard time finding shoes for her slender 42½ feet but Bottega Veneta unearthed a perfect pair of black suede Chelsea boots; she would need a bigger bag.
On Saint Marks Place, at the Boncompagni shop, he offered her an innocent looking Sant Agostino bracelet, composed with a jumble of tiny marvels, jade, moonstone, mother-of-peal, agate, and coral flowers, pearls, gems, set in gold and diamonds, in apparent mess, that would, in his whimsical, bedazzled view, respond to the gleam of freshness in her candid eyes, amidst the sartorial elegance she was now donning. She laughed it was the antidote for Codognato.
He organised the full fledged pampering with manicure and masseuse in her room —she apparently was merely his niece— but wouldn’t want a hairdresser to ruin her tousled fringe.
In the moments he was recovering from having unraveled, untied, disheveled her, he constantly promised to stand by her, whatever life she led, like he did for us —because that is what he does. He retold her the glorious lives of the Venetian “puttane” and the depravation of the many orphanages that fed four centuries of decadent carnival, but altogether he remained so gentlemanly with her, so skilled along the jewels of her crotch, too, that she began to believe him —that’s what they do.
Julia Grant made a surprise visit along with her evil twin nephews, to whom we surrendered our willing younglings in a posh apartment of the Avenue Foch, until they dropped, sweetly. She saluted Elsie’s move, reckoning the harshness of New York’s spiral, and the timely wisdom of my father; she reminded our Genevean follies and asked about Ayla, who was, then with recovering Esther in the mountains, at a rest home.
She taught me that Saint Loup was soon closing, and the beloved venues reconditioned for some realty development. It might have been earthly paradise for a random gathering of eager-eyed rascals, it would be bygone; she did not hear of any prospect of any new such school. I planed asking my Far to look into what had happened, made a reminder to call Tudor Weiss, our art teacher, who had visited us for our show —Julia recalled— and search out about Harmony, the wise mother of a colourful herd.
Julia was weary of society, her endeavours towards donating her collections fell in the trappings of the great wilful American amnesia, she was then exploring opportunities to fund a new museum on Indian land.
Once, while Fayelle and Lizon were buoyantly shagging in the next room of this mostly empty luxury apartment; she lamented, upon my bewildered belly, shamed by what she would not tell, but knew, of her caste’s. She could yet not join us, she would keep entertaining Elsie, to fathom her transformation into one of us, old world, during her stays in New York —besides, Elsie was in her views.
They were then en route to Stockholm, the twins did not have time to taste the whole gynaecium but they promised to be back for midterms.
I would not have expected any kind of remediation from Liselotte, whom, in any case, had not been responsible for Victor’s misdeed upon one of his overlooked warhorses, so as so it would cost him an arm to keep his fleet sailing. But in the present matter, the envoy was soul-stirring, and the grooming had been thorough, the allure peerless. Fæbyan, slender Florentine page, came on most silently, half-naked already, like an escapee from some hushed bawdyhouse, rightfully at my doorstep. If that was the pledge for Liselotte’s absent-mindedness, I would condone all the more that it had cost me nil, and she was obedient like a born slave to lust.
In the days before Camille thrived out of her miseries to become my distant proxy, thence introducing an areopagus of fairies amongst my corporeal life, I patronised more of the available stray cats my friends approved, Fæbyan behaved like them, and the thin peel of German accent became all the twist, like the glaze on a Meissen figurine.
Firstly, she had sighed at my questioning, argued it wasn’t worth knowing the happenstance of the trappings she had fallen into. She came to say I wouldn’t relish her sad little skin if I knew all the scars it hid.
It was precisely what I intended her to tell me; overall, she showed an exquisite corpse of a victim, a complexion most propitious to let me vow she would morally rub shoulders with all of my friends, unscathed and inspired.
Her birth had been inauspicious, unwise of her mother who should have known better, and was a sad backslider. Who can tell what idiotic chance some otherwise well-off brides bid their womb in? At the tragic expense of an innocent being? Understandably, Fæbyan wouldn’t be able to piece together remains of her prime infancy, patterns in the rugs, broken dolls, fading whiffs of perfumes.
Jem, only eighteen-months her elder —in what had their mother misplaced her faith, already? was all in those purple-ringed black eyes, although her later days might have superimposed a grim face upon all the memories of her.
She had not deigned to taste the tartlets from Huguenot, but then she was pecking at pink pralines fron a crystal sweet box as a matter to keep her mouth from telling me harsh secrets. It gave her mouth a childish scent and crispy crumbs while she let the ancient tears wane. Of her father, remained a picture or black satin ribbon trimmed trousers, shiny patent pumps, kicking the girls further on the rug as he checked for his looks in the foot mirror, before the repeated fiascos in the gambling circles. Her mother, all the more unapproachable in her padded satin robe, with her little feet pointing in stupid heeled fluffy mules, reading heavy volumes with ornate titles.
There had been short seasons of tender attention, from this or another of the house cast, only to disappear incomprehensibly at the wind of events. Her sister Jem had started a vicious revolt against the course of adult logic surrounding them, she joined, and the more they sabotaged the household’s precepts, the more they reaped hatred and confinement in their locked room, fed of clear soup and apples.
They were eventually sent to the stupidest of catholic convents, granted utter powers by their exceeded mother, no coming home during term. Then had begun another manner of ordeal, at the hands of secret ghouls, in the shiny, waxed, shady antra of deviant sexuality, where Fæbyan’s beauty turned her into a valued catch, and garnered her the hatred of many other boarders.
Until Jem, her only unconditional companion, decided to withdraw definitely, climbed upstairs to the drying lofts, pulled a stool, pushed a dormer out, climbed out on the roof, and ran to her death in a splatter of blood.
Fæbyan had horrified the nuns and teachers in the aftermaths of her loss, she revealed the sharpness of her wits against the falsehoods of religion, so as so the funerals could not be held, and Jem was incinerated with her only attending, and her veiled mother to whom she did not speak, in the silent amazement of the operators, who eventually handed her a tepid urn of ashes she knew where to throw in the lake, and collapse on the pontoon boards, alone.
I had been warned, now she was crying her heart out upon my sorry chest, and I kissed her hair, like we all did when we had insisted to hear each of them. I let her evade in the sleep, then carried her to the green velvet room, where the bed is deeper, and embraced her, in the slow pace of her young breath.
The day shone colourful through the layers of lace, I did not know how long she had been awake, she contended to excuse herself about the trouble she had caused, for she remembered me crying, instead of shagging her.
I ruffled her fringe and said I had had a dream, to invite her to Venice and see what happen, in the most splendid of the luxury hotels. She remained bewildered, but I insisted it would be simple as that, upon a few calls, some shoes and a trench coat, the car was waiting.
We took a shower, in which she had no labour making me come to her hand, revealing her talent, and I left her sulk at my toasts while she drank tea.
That morning, everything worked flat out for my whim, and Sarah had brought her inspiration of a traveller’s outfit for Fæbyan, a white silk jersey tee-shirt; merino wool leggings; a slate blue zigzag jersey shirt, and a true mastic trench, lined in striped navy twill, with lots of pockets. She lent her navy and burgundy trek bottillons and multicoloured cashmere socks to roll at the ankles.
I wore black, Chelsea boots, cashmere trousers, vest , and parka, some change of underwear for Fæbyan and me in a small black leather bag. The car happened to be a monumental American smooth-rider, Fæbyan looked snappy, but all along moody, thus I wondered if she resented me intruding in her intimate wounds. On the oversized black leather seat, she let me hug her and recline against her head.
She had not foreseen such departing, she giggled when the car stopped before the plane’s stairs, she stared at me and wondered if this was mine. I held her from under her coat and said it was not, but I could use it for my pleasure, sometimes. Be it for one hour, I asked her to take off her shoes, she agreed and let me fondle her toes from over the armrest, while the flight attendant smirked and disposed a tray with tea. I had known Trish for as long as the plane itself, a slender ex-ballerina with an elegant head on a tall neck, a dirty blond chignon and Delft blue eyes. I had been under her skirt once or twice, she had not kept rancour.
Although she knew I had not invited her in order to shut her down on her painful tale, but she let me fiddle with her feet through the slightly wet wool. Only one hour and we rolled to the far end of the tracks, thanked everyone, tied her shoes and climbed in a car to the taxi landing stage, and sailed to the Crivelli hotel, by the Palazzo Ducale.
The air was mild, a light haze stood still, we entered through the Cannaregio canale, standing up through the pulled roof, and I let her embrace me and ask some of the many question one wishes to ask the first time one crosses Venice. An expedient bill slowed the course, in honour of the bewitched first-timer.
The famed cypress green and oxblood red livery, in taxonomical variation from the bell-boy to the Head Concierge, ushered us seamlessly to that third floor grand suite, pearl grey jewel case that smelled of cedar wood, padded like a coronation carriage, muffled like a torture chamber. She was standing, dumbfounded, before the view of San Giorgio in the declining sun, I could only rest against her back.
But she was still my luggageless stray bird, and I craved ransacking a few stores for her before night, I promised the view would be all the more striking at night, and led her to the Piazza.
As she was the perfect androgynous player in this décor, for whom it had been immemorially set up in an endless carnival, she took my hand, trusting whatever plan I might have. Firstly, the silks of La Perla, pyjamas, and robes, and shirts, which weighed like nothing in white boxes to deliver to our room. She was only beginning to feel dizzy, but then I twirled our way back again back to the salita San Moise, and the special counters for legitimate or illegitimate lovers, held there by the most advertised brands of valued rarities.
She had seen and felt, on the tranquil boarders of our house, not only the sublime perfumes, but the refinement of fabrics, the delight of linings when you slid a hand; so I made her chose, in colours attuned with her irises, among the heavenly wools of Loro Piana, limitless. I also had a hunch that Missoni would love her genre, and her, their colours. After our sprees, big boys ran with boxes, and fat tips. Then, she stood on non-Italian, delectable 42½ feet, but Bottega Veneta unearthed a pair of black suede Chelsea boots that fitted her like a fashion warrior.
She wouldn’t enter Saint Mark’s basilica, she was utterly conflicted with all things religious, as she would tell. I do not patronise the Piazza’s cafés, so I offered her a hot cocoa upstairs in that mistake of a building inflicted incoherently by Napoleon to the previously perfect Piazza —,in such brutish manner that the south west corner had remained unfinished, unthought for— the Palazzo Correr, which is some kind of formal dance hall for the self-imposed new padrino. Fæbyan liked the cremosa cioccolata, twice, under the high marmorino walls where Canova bas-reliefs hung, and it were as if one of the nymphs had stolen modern clothes and was sitting, fidgeted, before me. I spoke of the great neo-classical sculptor, his quest for an androgynous grace in the human figure, just like she showed when I would unwrap her genteel person.
The cioccolata, plus the cantuccini she dipped in it, had reinvigorated her legs after the blood rush of that spree, and I still had whims about her, besides scenting carnal poppies in her neck —she sported a sage green baby-cashmere scarf, now— and I wanted to show her the all available inconceivable treasures of Codognato, the golden grimace of which would, for sure, violently set off on her satiny skin; a necklace consisting of half a dozen little finger size crystal coffins, each holding a pure gold smirking skeleton, entangled in dark tangled creepers of ivy, that chiseled Baudelaire verse cried for a go upon Fæbyan’s Venus mons, or a fatal clutch at her gracile neck. But she wasn’t attracted —to say the least— by Codognato’s inspiration; she swayed, unfazed, as I was buying the jewel a hefty price, for my collection, with the vivid intention to lay it, sometime, upon the flower of her youth, and make a picture for my books.
Probably because I had not yet shagged her, I had this bee in my skull to round out the spree with a useless and precious token of my infatuation. I thought of the comely Boncompagni shop because they sold Santangelo mirabilia, the most unique, exuberant and wearable primavera, in the timeless techniques of enameled gold and profusions of gems and pearls. There, she was like the child she had never been allowed to be, glancing at me for truth, falling for a bracelet of blue thistles, with grasshoppers, butterflies and bees, all foraging in the diamonds, sapphires, and pearls of a faerie dew, that I insisted she kept on her left wrist where the shop-lady had clasped it, knowingly, and shown her how to untie it, with a little security chain. I had no idea what they thought of us, Fæbyan behaved remarkably cool and distant, I wouldn’t dare say professionally.
As we roved aimlessly on the Piazza, in the mellow gold of an Autumn laze, freed of the awkward herds of day trippers, she wished she could hide behind classy shades, that signal one as any sort of person of interest, but defuse the stares over a woman; in her own wish, it should make her look older, less of a mock niece holding arm with a john. We found the suitable Ray Bans 2810 at a shop in a back street, indeed she looked instantly as a magazine prey, but not in the least older; I fell for her whim.
Dawdling along the alleyways behind the basilica, I did my best to explicate my relish of eroticising the visual excesses of Catholicism, for one, the fantasy of carnal debauchery with somebody like her in a devoted venue, full of derisory tokens of faith and death. She sulked, then hardly let me hear that she would tell me more of her miseries.
At the hotel, the concierge told me our packets had been delivered to our apartment, and asked if we would like to enjoy our dinner on the roof terrace, the forecasts were ideal, so we agreed, we would enjoy fish from the laguna farms.
But first, upstairs, she undressed, keyed up like the operetta’s corsair in front of his loot, and she took a swaying pose in the satin pyjamas, to retell me how the attendant had dared a friendly hand in her crotch while judging of the legs’ length; and saying that, she was lowering the waist band, I retorted she might lure the culprit to our room, or in a shady sacrestie, for the damnation of it all.
The sight of wrigling thin toes, from under the sleek hem, aroused me and she knew it, and so, like she might have done innumerable times before, she casually unclasped my belt and buttons, let my pants fall down, and crouch for my dick she efficiently pumped, deeper and deeper as it went, so as to suck me dry and clean in a matter of minutes.
I wouldn’t tell if she had reckoned that it were about time to oblige, or service my patronage, or else, she knowing, overall, much more about sex dealing, than her candid little nose would inspire, she had known I was playing in her hand, hence gave me a breather, if only to test if I would repel her, once she had swallowed me. As I did not, but hugged her firmly as I did not fear tasting my own in her open mouth, she only shuddered and nosed into my neck for shivers.
It had been wisely advised, we sat at the end table of the front row under the sunset glory, at the magic balance from celestial to terrestrial lights, and Fæbyan faced the Bacino, her back to the other diners. As a Swiss national, as she were anyhow, she spoke fluent Italian, far more graceful than mine, and excited the Maître D’s impeccable affability around our meal without meat, complying unargued to our established food code, trendy as it were.
All courses arrived at the tip top of their confection, so to speak, each of the element having received the exact cooking, and the timing to reach our table inside a silver bell faultlessly executed, like a camera move in an Antonioni film. —it had been la Mostra season—.
Fæbyan had been wearing some of her new wears, a fitted, double-breasted, lichen, turquoise, and ink blue hi-pattern jacquard blazer she had fetched out of the men’s hangers at Missoni’s, a see-through black silk tulle her La Perla new friend chose for her and let me ogle her smooth chest, and a high-waisted flared zigzag-textured willow green trousers.
From across the table, in the still air of the laguna, I could feel the anachronic earthly exhalations of the perfume she had been given at Bottega Veneta, and I told myself it was an idea to concur with, the shop was only a stroll away. The sun punctuated her opaque black glasses, I perceived a fold in the moment, like she weren’t all attentive to what I would have named an acme of an instant, like there were some inner estrangement in her, and I could not steer our fine causerie towards what she had a few times evoked as the plundering of her lorn soul. I opened her way like she were royalty.
This tulle tee-shirt looked kinky enough on her bare body, I asked to let it there as I played with the tight creases on her belly. Now dusk let unfurl the chimaeras out of the ornamental debauchery in our private drawing room, as she spreads out her limbs amidst the depth of down cushions, calling me to put an end to my pussyfooting, and to sheathe her through, which I obliged, in good conscience, and elation, careless of whom I shagged, in earnest, because she had earned my soul, like all those in the nest boxes of my brain.
She had foreseen to let her blossomed slit trickle on the rug, not on the silk, it reawakened the know of her fate, but I ran fetch a towel. Far beyond the window drapes, the Babel crowds perpetuated the endless imbroglio, —just where it had happened in bygone centuries—. We drank pear cordial and sparkling water in faceted hi-balls.
Out of the blue, she said she had begun her menstrual periods as soon as she had boarded the convent, and it had seemed to deem her as a troublesome case, a misbehaved singleton in the hive. The nuns and their pets had affected to distance themselves and murmured that she smelled bad. Thus, a vicious struggle had ensued, into which all the essential motives of the two sisters consumed in vain, with few beacons available on a sea of hatred, until one of them stepped one last foot for ever.
She had set the school on fire before fleeing, she would certainly not kill herself, she even resented Jem’s demise as a token conceded to the cold hysteria of the nefarious phalanx of their mother’s realm —it was how she suffered them, anyway—.
Even the few of those who had endeavoured to tame her, were it to slide a warm hand up in her night gown, or even gently pee on her feet while relishing her tongue in the hurried daily showers, even these who might have, in the least, shaped her to some lovestreams, betrayed and snitched, for good graces from the old witches, who were still modeling dumb spouses, like the good old times.
She had hurled her pain at all the wax dummies who pretended compassion, at her mother who remained in her car on the telephone while she waited in the convent yard, she had warned with such surprising eloquence that she would not let a religious service happen, that her mother —whom had been raised a protestant— ordered a civil cremation and invited no one, thus leaving Fæbyan alone with a bare coffin, in which she had seen what was, lowered through the granite foor towards nil, listenning to the last compilation Jem had made for her, crying her eyes out on the stones, until they had given her the small urn, because their mother had left.
She had stolen some money, enough to redress as a nondescript kid of the lakeshore, with whom she mingled easily, camping here and there for a few months without damage. Once, a more toughened young tramp girl had explained to her that she would live easier selling herself in the nearby Austria, where prostitution was tolerated with young girls, if no trouble ensued, and she could help her reach Bregenz, where she knew cool guys. Oksana hid her in the trunk of one of her buddies, who drove to some shack in the mountains, with a few rooms and reduced comfort, where he firstly forced her virginity during days, with the help of Oksana, whom he praised for the good catch. She was seriously locked up in a cell, with a shower in a corner and a squat toilet in the other, she was perpetually groomed by and old and deaf gypsy woman, hair, nails, and teeth, was administered enema when a john had asked for one; she never had clothes to wear, but her bed was deep and the comforter always cleaned. The food was excellent but scarce, Oksana had joked that the clients liked her slim.
From two or three passes each day in the beginning, it gradually became uncountable, with the ones who paid extra to take her in her sleep. Oksana kept an eye on her “cattle”, she barged in at any moment, could participate for a fee, she was gifted to make Fæbyan come, for real, while the john shagged her, she could propose a specialty, with her thin wrists, to hold the dick that was in her ass from inside her vagina, with no damage —that game was expensive—.
Oksana liked her, but with her weird German dialect insulted her constantly, even to order her to lick her cunt or her arse. Nevertheless, after some six months of unfettered slaughtering, she woke her in the black of night and pulled her through a back hatch on an indefinite pathway, to a car that silently slid down to a road and then sped. Ten minutes later, the car stopped in a woodland, and the driver looked at them, Fæbyan nude on the back seat; he groped Oksana’s breasts and lifted the skirt she wore, then told her to go make out with Fæbyan, as he was pulling his pants down, then called her, to suck him clean.
There were new clothes for her, and her IDs and even a stash of money in an envelope. Oksana told her that she could run — as they were reaching Salzburg— and probably get caught and brought back to whatever it was she had fled, or, on the other hand, since she could ascertain Fæbyan was a prime fucker, start a new life in a well-off cathouse and no more than six johns a day.
It had been an unremarkable white six-floors cube with mirrored windows, and lots of room around it for the cars to manoeuvre, some industrial reservation of sorts, clean, bland, sanitised. On the road side, a double door stenciled with a close-up of a khmer Buddha face, smiling, eyes closed, and the number 164 on top over it.
Then and there in the Crivelli Hotel, in Venice, as Fæbyan laid amidst the grand bed, all available, in the dark, with me at her feet, she revived all this not so long ago life of hers with a delectation of details that my fervour enkindled, and again. I was beginning to grab what had Liselotte concocted, to unleash this all too real vagabond sublime upon us, whilst we blamed her for scaring off an angel with four eyes!
That night when she was abducted, the driver who had brought them was the owner of the club Serenity, and Fæbyan had let herself be in with him and Oksana, so once in his office, he wanted “to taste the merchandise”, and see Fæbyan in the light. She had been trained and she made no manners, but she needed to pee, at his best relish, and he had jumped out of his suit to show them to the bathroom —a true professional playroom— and asked that she peed on his face, in his mouth, and eventually fucked her in the wet.
Oksana had been overjoyed, she had sold the slender doe once more, and it was still in good shape. Once the deal was closed, Herr Phaludin had doubtlessly popped a strong pill, because he used both new cast members with creative ardour, until knock out, so then calling a stage manager to show them their rooms.
Fæbyan couldn’t help yawning, and go fetch a long tee-shirt she had bought at Loro Piana; she sided towards me, soon to sleep flat on the mattress, while I grabbed my pillows.
At wake, I had imprinted a not-so-Venetian composite picture of all my lately little harlots, lazing in a Victorian pool, with pale and perfect water lilies, all frolicking around a self-content donkey whose only talent lays hidden in the water. Seated on the mossy bank, my kid Fæbyan in a stiff-ironed night shirt listens to her earphones something that has her cry hopeless, although Lizon has swam near her to kiss her foot…
But I had expedited my morning rituals, half-mumbling some musical motif I was unable to name, though it bumbled around among my thoughts. The hotel’s cherry and fir striped robe smelled of its designed scent, in despite of my own oakmoss, myrrh, orris, all my erotic intent now whelmed into the orphan’s tears.
Tinkles and flushes afar make me sprawl in the cushions, in wait for my alluring tramp, already dressed up in her cashmere infused jeans and tee-shirt. She likes tea but wishes for cantucci, that fly in already, nested in a white napkin, in a silver wire basket. She allows me one foot while she dips two or three biscuits and I propose a trip to the far end of the laguna, wasteland of bygone might and plagues, Torcello, a venerable landfill of vestiges bleached in ancient moon shine. Would she? The weather forecast is insolent, the Missoni spacedye hoodie will fit, then.
The taxi boat has agreed to a whole day fare, with stops at “Il Cacciatori” on Mazzorbo, a stroll on Torcello, and a special pilgrimage to Santa Maria e Donato on Murano, if I succeed in my plea to my own non-repentant Maddalena to rest her dainty foot on the naive mosaics, hood up, if she will.
It is one of these endlessly polished speedboats that spend their lazy life bragging, at the hands of curly beaux, with long tapered benches of soft Italian skin. The mariner, white trousers and open shirt, metallic blue, wrap-around, sunglasses, dark suntan and black curly mane, gallantly held Fæbyan’s hand, not convinced of his passenger’s genre, then mine, like a sailor. He was a skilled professional, the choice of the Crivelli, and there was no need for speed.
First, we sailed across the maze and came out at the hospital, standing up in the open roof. Fæbyan was absorbed by San Michele, when I showed her the statue of Dante and Virgile on the barque to inferno, to mark the place where it is considered legit to cast the ashes of one’s dead in the water. She jolted with a “Oh!”, and grabbed my arm. The mariner again glanced at her, only with a compassionate grin.
The backyards of Murano are ugly, I tried a bout of history, if ever there was an appropriate place, and she liked that, it was nothing alike the Lake of Konstanz, that huge stain on her self conscience. She comprehended the reality that naught she could see around was natural, the laguna should have been filled up at least five centuries ago, were it not for the constant work of the Venetians, whose remains constituted, materially, many of the desolate islets, here and there, in the midst of altogether shallow waters, hence the lines of beacons along the dredged channels, that would be uprooted in times of war.
Yes, Venice had never afforded to properly care for the dead, aside from the cruel minority who bustled their bones on each other’s in the muddy underlayers of the monuments, hence the somber legend in what my late friend Gabrielle Wittkop sowed her black diamonds.
As if she had intuited some sigh of wind, Fæbyan turned against me and seized my dick, ordering me to stop invoking death, to what I obeyed, kissing her to oblivion.
We had been savouring grilled bits of fish with a side of polenta and vegetables, at least I did, because she typically sulked on it, why she luckily remained so dashingly slender. The sun was subdued by high mists, lone boats doodled the feston of their propellers over weary waters, one could selfishly evoke times before the engines.
She wakened somewhat, when I asked what had ensued in Salzburg, in that preceding life of hers, implying that, although I reckoned she needed not forget, naught, she now had washed aground new shores, in earnest.
So then, plentifully rested, at her feel, there were no real window to the air-conditioned box she was laying in, she emerged to the sensation someone was licking her crotch avidly, she yawned at that, when a middle aged man, not so unsightly, looked up, grinned and announced he were the doctor, tasting her wares, and congratulating the previous owners for their upkeeping. He would, then and there, if I minded not, draw a few phials of her blood for the full test, required for her position in the house, he had already checked for HIV. As he explained there were obvious possibilities that she would not exert her trade in the open air, thus he was prescribing all necessary vitamins in a green and red capsule per day, plus one of preventive HIV antiviral that anyone in the clubs he attended took, he fetched the two big brown bottles and rested them on the bedside table. Seizing her face and reading her eyes, he hammered softly: “no funky drugs, treasure, you hear? You can be a valuable whore without killing yourself, see? If one wants to shag you sleeping, one buys it from Phaludin who gives you Rohypnol, nothing else, right?”. As he fiddled her all over, he asked for the alms of a handjob, which she expedited craftily.
Before leaving her, astounded, he mentioned that her IUD was correctly operational —she had no idea, so, he explained she was covered— and asked her where she had come from, from all she knew, it had been Bregenz, the hills, the woods, he nodded, he had heard of some shady Gipsy venues , out there.
An older woman who wished to be called Mamo, kindly took, then, possession of her body, outside and inside, she quietly toileted her, waxed her pubis, clipped and painted her nails, massaged her vagina and arse with neroli cream, kissed her with a keen mouth when she was ready for work, Phaludin had excluded make-up for her, only the most expensive hydrating creams.
We had navigated through the painted waterways of Burano, and I had not helped myself snearing at the “tintamarre” it has become, due to the excess colourness of cheap modern paints —reason why, for example, the British National Trust publishes a palette— but rightfully, Fæbyan’s youth prevailed, and she had enthused to the primeval expression of long civilised fishermen’s families, and I caved like an old fogey, snubbed by the curves of her hips.
In Torcello, our helmsman would await us near the basilica, she was willing to tell of her days in Salzburg, she did not pay much attention to the religious nature of the scarce remains of the first byzantine city in the laguna.
After he had politely fucked her at her breakfast, Phaludin had explained that these first days could possibly seem hectic, although not as bustled as where he had saved her from. Salzburg, in his say, was but a pretentious little city which banked on being Mozart’s birthplace, and where Herbert von Karajan had settled the most expensive festival in the world, other than that, after all the Jews had disappeared, the resident society of blunt-minded shopkeepers, accountants, judges and cops had thrived in the shadow od the archbishopric castle where once lived the brilliant Stefan Zweig.
All that preparatory word-salad, that nevertheless she had memorised rightly, to warn her that he was to invite the elite of his clientele of pill-poppers to taste her, possibly in herds, as they did, mannerly; so, her adorable slits he was already handling, would be tested, for sure, and in this case, the guests would pay only if satisfied, From what he had relished himself, he had confidence.
She could not tell how long the merry-go-round had turned, but it had soon been worse, or better, than the Gipsy shack. It was recalling fits in her tummy, and she needed tight hugs, and sweet words in her neck, before continuing her tale. Sometimes there had been clubs, all wood-hard and so eager she had had to fight, while working at taming them out. Sometimes Oksana joined, but she was then another torment, because they all liked what she did fisting her over their dick.
Then, one morning, Phaludin showed her how rich she was already, and told her to open a bank account, and asked for a blow-job, as a favour.
Oksana took her out, she was all bewildered in the daylight, like seasons would have revolved, but the bank was near; she had the hunch that the teller had been one of her johns, but he was only kind and efficient, he did not raise any eyebrow when Oksana told the address of the club as her residence, he only mentioned that her ID would be outdated in a few months. she had the account numbers, she was to come back in three or four days, to pick up a card.
Phaludin, who needed to keep her alive and kicking, possibly lustful in her eyes, when warmed up with care, demonstrated to her how she could, when she would buy a smartphone thanks to her bank card, move herself money around from her account; before her, he transferred her club total, half of what had been paid for her skin, into the new account, and it looked brave enough.
All along captivated by the becoming of her harlotry, I was nevertheless proud to look at her, stunned in front of the high walls of mosaic, inside Santa Maria Assunta; she clung to my arm, but I had to confess that I could not decipher what all these people and angels were doing, except for lucubrating a yarn about a young courtesan who had played the Magic Flute to heavens. She quit her shades and her eyes were small peacock twirls, she raised her arms like children fly as the sun laid a slant scarf across the protested supreme legend. At the other end of the nave, a peaceful woman in a dark sapphire drape showed her infant, eyes wide open in a cloud of gold.
Fæbyan was crying, and she discovered she had been walking upon laces of coloured stones, and I let her follow her thoughts around the church, to the amazement of a few brooding tourists. She would then pensively ask if that made her a catholic.
The gallant mariner felt some strain in her gazes —he couldn’t help— when we boarded towards Murano, I surprised him with heartfelt comments on the overwhelming splendor of these walls the Signorina had marveled to for the first time, Venezia was really a most important place in the world, so, and so, any token for his pride. He might have relished the compliment, in Italian, mind him, but he was in love with Fæbyan, who had put her glasses back on.
I had told my rebel companion that I would show her the younger version of the lady in the night veil, in the shy little church that showed its back to the canal. There might have been held a ceremony before, because the breath of lilies was heady when we brushed the heavy red velvet curtain aside, and she still held my arm for safety. We were the only visitors, by the time our eyes got accustomed and she recognised the sweet young lady, so lively in the golden blare, she turned to me, mute with emotion.
Then the day, too, was gold. I had rested seated, in front of my long time venerated icon of unconditional benevolence, together with this mere windfall astray kitten, she tiptoeing in circles, her little soul here truly in the hands of an image. I had never failed any of these random angels.
Being on the home straight, our bow wave carved around the evening, slower, vaporetti and motoscafi; at this time of day, the cemetery wall beams like heated iron against an emerald sheet, hence a clamour from all the heaped memories across from the profane landing stages of the lesser society, not so far from the unavailing enclosure of the once formidable arsenale —Unesco or not, the legendary smitheries I had peeked on from the holes in the broken high windows have been lamentably destroyed—.
Insensitive towards the routines of the proud populations, we slowed pace, in spite of engine splutters, under the many low bridges, to reach the Grand Canal near the elegantissima Ca’ d’Oro, in time to witness the private windows light up, some with phantasmagorical chandeliers, against the glimmer of dusk. Fæbyan was snuck firmly under my wing, begging for any promises beyond the day,
We had a tray of finger-food in the tradition of antipasti refinement, in our apartment’s shade, suitably fringing the moods of her day. Having stripped bare behind the windows veilings, not in the least noticed that a waiter had been rolling in the trolley of our collation, and made vigorous efforts not to smile, she eventually donned a sienna pyjama that moulded her labia when she sat on the lichen-green velvet.
I was pining to hear the harlot truth on the Mozarteum life ways, in the opaque box of Club Serenity. Fæbyan too, was all agog to revive her garrison tales, once her breaking in had left her overturned but live. Once the squad of Phaludin stooges had tasted of her all she could allow their dicks, enkindled in all inventiveness by Oksana, had come the time of horizontal trade, as this one said, and Fæbyan had slipped in easily. Thenceforth, she had known she liked whoring, and at least shagging most of her lifetime, in the condition where she was upheld. There would be two or three matinee johns each day, the early ones and the busy ones, and Phaludin said that it was enough, to let Mamo regenerate Fæbyan’s beauty, said he.
Then, after a frugal, but fine, dinner, —she had never been hungry anyhow— began the actual Club magic roundabout, in a comely pine-paneled venue with a small red copper plates clad dance floor in the center. There was a curved bar, alcoves along the walls, and a number of solid round tables and chairs. The twenty some girls sat on the bar stools or stood, they usually wore light dresses, mules, and nothing else. Phaludin’s taste, and thus the Club’s style, did not impel his cast to wear flagrant make up, Mamo had the smart for the right touches of mascara, rose and gloss that made Fæbyan an ideal virginal slut.
Members of the Club financed this first tier of licentiousness with a hefty membership fee, and the bar consumptions made Phaludin happy, on top of draining his balls in any of us, girls, for free.
Started at eight, the proper skin market was paid by the hour, on the girl’s clock, in her bank account; there was a rebate if she was having her period, and a premium for anal. A lucky client could hire more than one girl, or one of the two gogo boys, to serve their whore while they watched, or touched them, at their whim. During the roughly six months she worked in there, Fæbyan had keen regulars, Mr Thursday, Mr Tuesday… and mostly always chose whom took her.
Oksana, who had a small cut in the business of the girls she had sold in, was proud of this Swiss stray she had lured, on a lie —it was never easier to sell one young girls’ arses in Austria than Switzerland— into the carousel, and relished participating in lewd shenanigans for a client’s account. One day, she brought in a barely legit gamine in Fæbyan’s bedroom, and ordered that one to undress the rookie. The name was Jovka, she had been trafficked in by Montenegrins and sold to Oksana, she had fake IDs and feared the police more than the men who had smuggled and used her shamelessly. She looked battered, or tried to inspire pity, but she had understood where and what she had been led to drift in. Fæbyan was to keep her with her like a pet for a while, like a filly with her mare, to teach her the trade in a somewhat more human manner than what she had endured in the Gypsy shack. Jovka was no virgin, indeed, but it might give her better response to what mere animals all johns would reveal themselves to be, eventually. The offer took the Club by storm, it was some hectic month; they all booked the pair for multiple hours, and the apprentice, who did not speak any known language when disembarking, caught up remarkably, with all the crudeness she could obviously not sort out. Mamo got round to share some of her languages, and told me she was a vagrant orphan like many are found in the Kosovo-Macedonia region, she did not know of a name, or where she had been born.
She became enthralled with Fæbyan, devoting herself to the pleasure she admired in her, maddening the clients with some carnal novelties her mistress inspired to her. It was all rolling dandy, but then the young one’s earning went on Fæbyan’s account, so she evidently needed some papers.
Phaludin, who was a man of the world, knew who , in the membership, were the judges and the police, and it happened that one of Fæbyan’s regulars, Mr Thursday, was one of the bigwigs. He wasn’t far from retirement, fat and rubicund, unfettered amateur of watching his favourite Fæbyan let herself undergo the available butcher’s boys’ fury, He had enthused paying double when he saw Jovka in the raw, even if only Fæbyan could touch her. One Thursday when His Honour had popped some miracle pill, and Jovka had performed the trick Oksanna had shown her, to insert her hand in Fæbyan’s vagina while the Judge was deep into her arse, then grabbing and wanking his old dick to completion, in situ, then sucking it while himself rimmed the gentle anus he had inundated, Fæbyan had been bold enough, while she ordered Jovka to let the Power That Be finger her, to ask for a major favor, causing some sort of stupor, and auspiciously the whim to bugger the young butthole, in retort to my request to violate the law of the land.
Week after week, Mr Thursday understood perfectly the prerogatives he had gained, while a bogus file was expedited through the Kakanien’s bowels — just like Fanny were born somewhere in the UN—and he developed a sweet tooth for Jovka’s delicacies, and keeping the two fragrant elves at his whim, heightening the demand about them, sometimes hopelessly for some.
And so, a new European citizen was generated, by the want of some distinguished dick, according to the universal conspiracy of beauty allied with carnal talents, as unjust as the undisclosed code might be.
Meanwhile, during the daily evening parade, when all members had leeway to kiss, grope, take out their tools and ask them sucked, only for a short minute, some character never had a chance with Fæbyan, even less with Jovka; he could eventually get laid, and none of the cast were ugly, but he had a major crush on lithesome Fæbyan that became unbearable with the overbid of a wild-eyed newbie in the same round.
This poor loser had become the insider joke among the better afforded, he was a dull notary clerk who showed a fervour for feet, and Fæbyan’s easiness of walking barefoot had triggered his sore passion. By the time Jovka had become available for most, in her own bedroom, the spurned suitor had burst in an atomic fit of anger, stood googly and foaming at the mouth in front of the pair, nude as often, and slit his own throat with a razor.
The scene had been apocalyptic, he had cut so deep that in seconds he had inundated the whole room with his blood, in successive gushes, before he dropped back, eyes wide open, on the metal glazed red. Fæbyan and Jovka were bloodied toes to hair, she had grabbed the young one and ran to her bathroom, washed with her and told her to be ready to flee, but it had been already too late, the police was there.
It had only been a year, retelling the atrocious outbreak was slaying her speechless, morally spent. Oksana and Jovka might still be entertaining simple men in a clean sporting house of Mitteleuropa, with their immense black eyes forever haunted. I pulled the cards I had again bought in Santi Maria e Donato, and she reconnected the déjà-vu; she cried because some tiny shrill voice was calling her a whore, in the rainy outskirts of blind cities, not one to let herself crave a holy image. I embraced her upon the small piece of shiny print, and told her I gave her the right to worship this face as wholeheartedly as myself, who had always fostered the liberty to fantasise the representation of a young, inviting, wanton doe.
The tears waned, some frank old blasphemy had rekindled her grievance towards the Church, and so her health. While unbuttoning her silks, I teased her, saying that thanks to her little time in the beaks and claws of the smelly nuns, she now spoke the languages of her freedom, whereas young Yovka only had her body language, which left her to Oksana’s mercy to sell her.
I went to hang the “non disturbare” sign and returned to my succubus, wearing only her trousers, lowered to the limit of her holy well of bliss.
Fæbyan rushed up as soon as they landed back, dragging up a big poppy red Mandarina Duck duffle bag and the matched backpack, and she wore a flag blue saharienne, black slims and horizontal striped yellow and black tank, black suede Chelsea boots, all these brand new; she smirked she’d been shopping with Daddy, and it had never happened to her before. We rolled on a couch kissing like teens, and although I had not abstained in these last few days, I measured how I had missed this little one.
Her body, slightly in sweats after a voluptuous travel in Melchior’s heavenly chariot —my chest was still rustling with butterflies— smelled of some highly fused and burnished bouquet, like an aristocratic pot-pourri, and, at my reveling, thus, all over her; she candidly avowed it had been given to her, with the shoes, and then Hugo had ordered a bottle of it. Something about her had changed, she was finally almost deliberate in her attitudes, she no longer posed her feet inwards, she swayed her hips a tad more openly, she wooed me like the beautiful little slut who knows, I was keeled over.
After I had shown her some new tricks in the shower and we had peed on each other, I told her I wanted her to meet the kitten behind the red sofa, upstairs, no need to dress, only a puff more of her triggering fragrance, our pet were very much into girls. Indeed, after I had sent some lewd invite in her navi, she unfurled from her algorithms and discovered the gamine, by her feet up, pushed her glasses up her little nose, to ogle the face, and moaned in awe, creeping to the toes, half-jokingly idolising. I stole her sweatshirt and jeans, she wore knickers printed of multicoloured digits on royal blue that amused Fæbyan, my hunch was correct, they sniffed at each other like puppies, they were beautiful to watch.
Kate and Fayelle, intrigued by the obvious scent of women’s lustful behaving, perfumed, abandoned clothing, and red luggage, did not niggle and, already aroused by a day outside, roaming in galleries, with no more than holding hands, rather than diving in the ruffled sheets, took a soothing shower, merely adorned a whiff of yellow broom and roses, and crept upstairs. The scene was moving, and this new little butt, only a shade slenderer than Sarah’s, appealed to the unforeseen marauders so as it bended up to them and their wiggling tongues. Fæbyan, although looking as guileless as a lamb—it had been her trade long enough— did not shy in the least, but Michelle needed her spectacles to acquaint it was happening for good; all these fresh fruit, effortlessly gathered in her hideaway, she was beginning to condone Victor’s manners of living.
Past the overture blaze, there were more ablutions, gazing and unfettered kissing, Agnete & Sanne delivered pies and salads, bottles of kombucha. No one remained clothed, Fæbyan answered about the Venetian escapade. The new hot property answered questions about Hugo’s whims, her discoveries, other than luxury shops, and she found wiser to let us know where she had come from and how, which struck everyone in awe, and all the more Michelle, who would not have deemed it thinkable, and wondered about practices we were all ready to teach her. Meanwhile, she tried hard to retrieve her darling catch and kept her embraced.
Hugo texted me to come for tea with him, the next day. He described the promenade to Torcello we had all done with him, at some time in our friendship, he was proud to have let some buds in Fæbyan’s soul dawn for further seasons, she was a dainty little tramp worthy of redemption, unavoidably because of her alluring persona, and he had sent his lawyers parse her situation , for, actually, she had been astray for years without her high profile mother caring in the least.
I told the encounter with Michelle, to his great amusement, because except for games with the shop attendant at La Perla, he had lived with a full blown dick worshipper, dripping of her lady jizz. I could do that.
He said he would invite Liselotte en tête à tête, to alleviate any afterthoughts, and consider future lecherous contrivances, at what she had demonstrated some mastery.
Then, on a whim, he asked me to undress and let go of me on the black silk panne velvet shawl on his bed over there, as I knew. He had fetched a glossy black jewellery case, and he showed me the madly precious Codognato sculpture collar with the irregularly disposed, small crystal coffins and their gold skeletons. Once I had touched the piece, heavier than it looked, he asked permission to display it on me, diversely, like we had done long ago, when we had acquainted. It took some fondling to appease the goose-bumps, and he shot some pictures with the high resolution camera, then put the masterpiece back to sleep, and served me like a devoted lover.