With the turn of seasons, the spacetime triangle behind our studio’s red sofa had become, under some kind of acquisitive prescription, a lesbian geek reservation, upon a messy but squared futon, totally unobtrusive to our studious routines, were it not the urges to go and nibble at the lithe bum, or pearly toes of our disarming guest.
And Michelle, from beyond her crystal aviator gazes, had subjugated each character in our faerie, and become a passion for such diverse souls as Delffan and Fæbyan, who could both daydream quietly along with her now invariable ash-white sweat-suits, in the scent of which she had ordered all the blue bottles after she found some in our showers, the arch Londoner Neal’s Yard Remedies’ Geranium Orange, that fitted her like a smile. For what it went with Fæbyan, Sarah’s special infatuation since Liselotte had thrown her like a puppy in our keels game, and Hugo had untangled the raggedy soul in a barroquissima suite at the Crivelli in Venice, she had reckoned to be a better whore than anything else, and, whenas Hugo’s team of lawyers tracked her forgone trusteeship, she willingly let herself be sold to well-mannered amateurs, be it along with Sarah, Liselotte, or anywhere lustful in Hector’s cushy limousine, for some gratuities in kind, as it went. During unpredictable downtimes upon Michelle’s cotton wool cloud, she would whisper answers about her debased runaway course, and the two unleashed their overwhelmed plexus, in front of the blinking numbers riddled screens. Michelle did not condone cameras in her work bubble.
Delffan had snuck in, once, holding Gauthier’s hand, brewed some tea, which one did with dedicated magic, and ended, like always, nude at one of us’ feet —Sarah craved that— while we still worked, before daring a caress to those she saw of the so mysterious newcomer. But it had not been long, thanks to mock stumblings, and all-too-polite offerings, before she acquired the right to massage the bent loins, slid insensibly the elastic bands of the very basic outfit, and spend her gossamer attention all over this transfixed nymph, who fiddled her touch-screens.
But Michelle would soon move from our dedicated corner; Melchior, overtaking Victor’s high-hand, had decided to lodge the slender blond prodigy, and her all defying intelligence, in a nondescript classical French mansion on rue de Verneuil, a pearl throw from us. The three-storied building had currently been planked off while some heavy remodelling went on, for technical and secure necessities.
In an unprecedented move, Melchior had reached our den, as if to convince himself enough of the phenomenon he was investing into so heavily. He sat in the more unadventurous of the armchairs —the AA can be trippy— and did not try to draw the aviator’s attention, but Sarah’s complacency, as if he had sensed she was in a lustful mood, and so he treated her as a shameless alley-cat, arousing me as well, for I could not miss the gleam of vice on her face when she played whore. And she had stripped at his whim, played with his tongue like a heedless teenager, lowered the luxurious silky smooth trousers and started to pump on a dignified penis at attention; nonetheless, Michelle had been watching, and stood at arm’s length; I feared she might freak out if ever the dishevelled patriarch dared a hand on her, so I went fast interpose, putting my bum at reach, possibly, and so it worked. The curly nymphet did not move, though, and helped pull down my leggings, not shy to let him hold her busy hands. When she had bared me and kissed me just like she had seen Sarah doing, there were no doubts that Melchior was groping us both and she did not pull back. We heard Sarah accomplishing her service, and gulp one of the most expensive semen in the free world, then climb backwards, thighs well spread, in case he had enough vigour left to sheathe in her. In a casual tone, he dared Michelle to lap up Sarah’s clit, as she used to, except then she would have to encounter a close-up dick, as she did not. Amidst the white satin linings of his undone vesture, Melchior’s privates smelled of some long-aged glove skin in a sacred wood casket, around the waft of sperm and saliva, and Michelle was then subjugated by the filled up vagina, unabashedly offered the otherworldly whiffs, and her own troubled soul as to the visible bliss of Sarah. She bent, and let her pointed tongue tootle leisurely along the labia, therefore, also a man’s shaft, gradually doing as lewdly as each of us, with my own tongue circling around her own butthole, Sarah eventually moaning in rapture.
Then Sarah had slid down, spent; Melchior had gently seated Michelle in her place and asked me to serve her, which was not long to the jolts of orgasm, and she fell scattered as a girly courtesan, with a fine smile on her face.
After Melchior’s notorious visit, Michelle wanted to keep with us and asked, in a message to Delffan, if she would find some friendly arms to behold them, while we had to chat; the answer came that they had invited themself at Natalia and Beryl’s, who had justly wondered if there was any chill air among them, and a strand of exotic emoticons. Otherwise, Michelle could only think of apricot pie, some ricotta, I added almonds and nuts, and Katherine some Greek honey, so we placed our order alla città di Bologna; and Michelle could not see the young Donatello, because she had remained nude, although she kept an eye on her vital numbers on a hand-sized pad.
Overall, she had been agreeably bustled by our laisser-faire, towards Melchior’s ruffling manners, but now she was worried that her main investor would be led to think that, morally, she was only a slut who had knowingly over-reacted to Victor’s grossness or absent-mindedness. Katherine swore she had lived the whole scene and would testify forever it had been a rape attempt, specifically on her, inconsistently to Victor’s customary libertinage that we both would allow, during our such entertained visits. But, at all times, whatever puffs of powder he would have snuffed, Victor had preserved respect for consent, and never forced himself on anyone, albeit only by game, with conversant guests —like us— he furthermore paid liberally for that purpose. That very evening, he could have to hurl his cock in any of the other girl’s arse, but he had barged in, uninvited, with the obsession of buggering that little imp he was ogling in the security circuit since she had been so unmistakably brilliant at his service.
Her eyes had sparkled at me while I had straightened the truth in the sad experience we had witnessed, and she wanted us to cuddle her in bed before dinner, and that was an easy whim to fulfil.
The next day, Michelle had predictably fled, but we felt elated still by our tell tales game, even if, eventually, we had dozed out before she would have to do her part in it, but we thought we took a rain check on it and lazed in love a sweet bite of the morning. As we dallied towards breakfast, we were greeted by a breathtaking profusion of immodest white orchids, in a skull-sized cobalt Murano vase dazzled of gold leaf flakes. as in a fleeting cobweb. The mere delivery of the thing surely had necessitated mighty arms, and we did not know of such resource around us, Fulgence was on some other trails, and would have profited of such a darling endeavour to visit our warm nest. There was some note, commercially letterheaded IXIA, reminding us, in elegant handwriting, to bathe the babies once a week in mineral water —or leave them with someone who would—, and, otherwise, a most exclusive calling card, round-edged in gold, with a simple majuscule “M” embossed in garnet. That left two possible suspects, one was already whimsical enough to muster one of the quarter’s luxurious florists —but, IXIA?— or, as it dawned more clearly, someone mighty enough to order a bouquet delivered expressly from San Francisco to our humble table, with the complicity of the whole household?
Justly, our crystal pixie barged back in with heavenly tepid, and butter sweaty, croissants from Kayser’s, in her new street, explained that she had, earlier, needed some harsh work-out in the gym room, and then, eventually stared, with awe, at the eerie floral effusion, while letting me seize her by her hips and venture a hand under the sweatsuits. She then rolled her eyes and muttered that it would be how one were, but satisfyingly smirked.
Delffan arrived, knowing it would be a morning with Gianni, who would listen to one’s sartorial needs, as Hugo had granted any expense. The excitement was delightful to watch, one had put on peacock printed leggings, and a thin jade cashmere jumper, with a wide round neck and long sleeves, one had found in Natalia’s drawers. One had not yet shaved one’s sleek skull anew, enticing to brush over the gleaming velvet with the cheek.
Gianni had brought a young slender assistant to help carry up the day’s wares, in long floppy black slipcovers. His hawk eyes already measured out the two candid debutantes Hugo had recommended at his talent, in probably evocative terms, while he played with our hands in his inimitable way. He laid the delivery across a sofa, as we sat around. Kate was first, ready nude, as we did with the wizard of our allures —most ephemeral Boldini—to pass on a bronze-green high-waisted tuxedo pantsuit with wide satin lapels where Hugo would love to clasp on some paraph in the matter of precious crystals. As usual, the trousers has a fly, in which the inspired craftsman let his fingers wander for a pinch of seconds, at the laughs of the complacent nymph. there were three more victories like this, and we all relished Kate, in the style she would thus yield herself, some night, at feverish hands. There were applauds, Delffan climbed on Michelle’s lap, not unnoticed by the magician, who grinned knowingly.
My turn, and Gianni took his boy as a witness of my body, holding me unfazed at the hips, groping me as it were his earning, and I liked his touch like a beguiled cat, so I let him undress me the way he liked. He made me try a Bahama blue, crisp shantung, mock military formal uniform with a turquoise twill crew collar sleeveless shirt he liked to, pat, over my moanberries. There was an all-slim, black silk jersey and moire, smoking suit, out of which my bare feet looked frankly risqué, to those who knew their past, most everyone. He had also brought me another vintage black Burberry trapeze cut gabardine overall, lined in ultramarine heavy satin, thence I did not baulk at showing off and posing swayed in it, all the more pale and nude.
Once the greenhorns saw their turn to stage, it was a treat to watch them disrobe each other, albeit nought had been required by the amazed maestro. Unsurprisingly, he had foreseen the little twitch at the sight of Delffan’s truth, as to what that one was long accustomed, hadn’t we found one in that very sort of beauty, amidst a crowd of febrile libertines? Gianni preferred to elaborate the matter to his apprentice in Neapolitan, to what we understood none, but grabbed some funky wordings; the youngling was in erection, as his boss felt out, with a touch and a smirk; he proceeded to his detailed measurements, unmistakably making both wet, he revelled doing that. He gently asked if he could see Michelle without the glasses, and she complied, with a disarming blurred smile.
Gianni asked me to show, from my own vast wardrobe, what was my feeling of Michelle’s manner of life, when not beautifully gleaming, by a wondrous cornucopia of rare flowers, without any rags on. I explained I had fallen for her style as soon as she had parted her gaze from the screens in the control pit where we had snuck for sex, Liselotte had said. Whatever led us to abduct her to our lair did not allay the pull we sensed towards her laid back offhandedness, when only her lean ankles showed out of her stolen jeans, from behind a sofa. She looked stung by her self conscience and came to wedge at my side. I took her to our back store and tried her in night-black silk velvet, round neck, long bell-ended sleeves, high waisted, flared, short dress, scattered with real seed pearls, and the effect, without her spectacles on, was instant, in three steps she was a royal debutante, as easy as she had been a devastating butchy nerd. Gianni had fired up, he fell for the shapeliness of the legs, now that they flew in one of his own designed nightly corollas. Kate fetched some black patent and taffeta flats, and we all agreed that it would be smart to wear black aviators. Inspiration had spawned in some recesses of the master’s mind.
Delffan shone one’s best like a loose misty opal, kept for finale. The perfect ovum of the cranium allowed daring frocks, one asserted a penchant for the boyish fitted suits I had kept from Saint Loup times; Gianni agreed, surrounding one as a living treasure. Indeed, one stunned, in the white redingote, tights and jabot shirt, and I regretted not having the white knee-high boots of a perfect Octavian, but silver-buckled court escarpins sufficed to the charm.
The chin in his hand, holding his elbow, young Gabriele was more embarrassed in his visible arousal, and Gianni relished the situation, not to the point of letting one of us ease the want somewhere next door. Before they left, his notebook almost all scribbled out, he wanted us to admire some recent acquisitions he had made at our ever running behest; a late collector had purchased entire pieces of much-praised silk road Ikats, crisp enough to build sharp shoulders to Katherine’s sleek jackets. To me, he asked that I palpate some arch-episcopal Andean drapery, to what I complied, feeling his deft hand on my bum, he still smelled of Amalfi coast in bloom and Florentine iris, ideally matured, he was an old canny devil, he could have had me as he did a boy.
Still in the nightly Queen dress, the aviators back in place and not caring that she showed her golden fleece, Michelle wondered to what event we might wear our new garbs; she had not yet fully fathomed the array of our vices, and it were out of the matter to force our views in her sapphire mind. No, there weren’t so many social events we cared to abide by, our standing in Camille salons sufficed to our exposure; the sole venues in which we minded out our styles might have been a tad beyond what Michelle wished to hear about, at least for the time being; we made up some tale of private sales, for what the buyers wanted to know us personally —only one pinch of a lie, all in all— and she would never inquire, anyhow. She then pulled her white one to our bed, as we slid on sweatsuits to climb back to our perch.
We bantered softly about some empty sofa syndrome, such had been the constant blessing of Michelle’s featherlight riffle ruffle, not unlike you feel cats in other people’s homes. It related to my days when I knew our elected swan family thrived in the hideout my brother and I provided for in our garden, and our candid adoration.
Sarah suddenly lamented about the horrendous mistake that had not been Liselotte’s fault and asked me if we should smooth out the linens with her, as she had always done after the outlandish plays the lustful agitator had thrown her into. I agreed we should ask our goodwill procuress, what had been on her débauchée’s mind these days.
Sarah texted, and received a call, in an apparent good mood; she plaited garlands of roses and lilies on Michelle’s head, asserting she recovered beautifully, albeit she still could not make sense of Victor’s misguidance. Sarah listened for a while, then followed up on Fæbyan, another windfall of Liselotte’s, and so let paeans pour upon the girl she craved, though it seemed Hugo had netted her soul in his desires like a rare butterfly, and nevertheless, she had returned from a Venetian escapade with him embellished and rekindled, as Liselotte would unfailingly enjoy for herself soon.
Sarah put the phone in conference mode, so as to decide if we would follow the Pied Piperess once more that evening, with the certitude of rolling in a lot of hay, so to speak? I too felt like some itches of hay fever, and Liselotte knew all the naughtier barns in the county, thus we agreed for a late hour to convene, dress code no undies.
When we climbed down to our customary dwellings, we found, in the scent of the majestic white bush of cattleyas, a generous buffet that left no doubt as to whom might have set it, so obvious was the touch of Agnete&Sanne; they had lent a pastel blue tablecloth, too. And now the digital Lily was asleep, alone, on our bed, with her glasses on.
She glanced and yawned, as I could almost hear a lightspeed fast checklist unwind in her synapses before she smiled kindly and holding my hand onto her quietly beating heart. Fetching her phone from the carnal smelling creases of the bedsheets, she reached the power cord she had already spotted, and stood, fiddling intensely the screen, while I could admire soft backlighting on her bum.
How did we like our dinner feast? Agnete had known right away what and how, and agreed to open Michelle’s account in their books when she told her she was about to settle close by. Stretching at our strokes —and Sarah had let her pants down— she bantered that she had lived a splendid afternoon at the whims of Delffan’s, whom had done to her things unforeseen, in all candour, as lovely as it were.
Now Sarah played with her toes, feet on her lap, and Michelle claimed that she wanted to buy out our furniture, she had a crush on our old Windsor yew chairs. We sniggered, taken aback; she was utterly desirable in the whimsical brat role. I declared these had been a gift from Hugo, so we should definitely keep them, all the more that she would now wish to seat her lovely butt upon them.
As always, the smorgasbord-antipasti was the best grist to the conversation mill, for we had to avow the mischievous plot of our coming night, and let her call us depraved sluts, even with a shade of envy, now that it seemed she had, somewhat, finally lost her virginity.
On Delffan’s side, one had explained that one had promised to escort Gauthier to a high stakes reception, where one could freely assume one’s double nature to one’s advantage. One had kept Sarah’s white outfit, and unearthed white patent leather Jodhpurs that killed; one was ready to repay the larceny with any length time of slavery to Sarah’s direst vices.
Liselotte awaited in a long silver-grey berline, already warming up teasing the chauffeur with the light patch of skin at the top of her silk stockings when she uncrossed her legs on the back seat; she had donned an all black shantung ensemble, a jacket with wide lapels over a diagonally buttoned dress flared down from the chest, let opened on her bare breasts; she had cut a fringe in her dark chocolate straight mid-length hair, which gave her a smaller, easier face, albeit the fake lashes. She wore black taffeta flats.
We had obeyed the code like good little harlots, for it was undoubtedly what she was set to bend us to. Sarah was readily bare in some evening trench coat in black and blue changing taffeta lined of lewd crimson twill, a black velvet dog collar with a strass fox on it, gents court slippers in patent leather and grosgrain, and veil stockings, tied to a gossamer lace belt on which was embroidered “promiscuous” in scarlet slanted script.
I felt at ease, nude in the many layers of a light silk kaftan which held up its wavy colours to so few buttons, no stockings and thin flat Uzbek calf-high boots, embroidered of psychedelic spirals.
Liselotte’s mouth ran in awe and lust, but she wanted first to read our eyes closer, and seal our bond in a kiss; I felt her deft hand up my thigh, I was wet at once.
In no time, the car ride stopped in rue de Montpensier so we knew we were at another mouth of Marc’s maze, and my plexus twirled as a frantic gyroscope. Aside from being the most expensive place in town, this place and its many subterranean burrows, spared by two and three centuries of urbanism, for the better good of generations of libertine Orleans since the aquiline Cardinal de Richelieu gave them the first palace on these grounds.
Liselotte ushered us through a nondescript door to a cold and bare corridor that unsurprisingly led to a succession of secured double doors where we had to submit our black cards, as per usual.
After the second door, the floor was carpeted of thick pile burgundy wool, The vaulted walls of smooth, pointed stone towards stairs spiralling to a warm crypt, the dawn coloured light diffused from the rear side of the handrails, an ample breathing, slow-flying murmuration of crystalline sounds, the boundless heavens deployed by a Loren Nerell up from the ghostly sands of desire, wrapped us around as Liselotte led us calmly, like some guests of honour, the striking opposite of what we were in there for. As we tiptoed on, it smelled more of a pontifical incense subverted by Uzbek pepper.
A silent black lackey, in black dance tights, offered a stylish bow and swiftly undressed us, one by one, hanging our few rags on a hanger, showing Sarah not to keep her collar. He wasn’t so ceremonial as not to fondle a tad what he liked. With his grabs over one arm and our shoes in hand, he showed us to a wood-panelled room that felt a lot like a sacristy, a happenstance Venetian sanctum where Sarah had ripped my knickers. He opened a closet, hung our wares, and fetched from a drawer an assortment of richly crafted harnesses, belt, collars, wrists and ankle cuffs with a number on each, and he helped us tighten them, letting his fingers err into my cunt, just as I should know I was available, with tiny locks we couldn’t have been able to unclasp, even for each other. He held three leashes, the length of an arm span, that he clipped to the sturdy ring of our collars, and, not before having tasted our mouths and played in every nook of us, pulled us in the main venue.
It was a three-rows vaulted room the size of a dozen horses stable, albeit there never were horses down here, all in the same, sleek, adjusted stones. The floors were age polished slabs of fine russet stone, immaculate and lukewarm at the feet. The central span between the lusty round pillars that held up the four floors above, was enclosed, with black gleaming iron grids as tall as the vaults, terminated in pointed inwards curves, embedded in the stone columns. We began to see a flock of nude women, kitted out just like us, dancing together, making out. Our lad drew us to a narrow wicket in the grid and ushered us against the whispering crowd, then locked the grid behind us.
Liselotte marvelled at our new jewellery and noticed that we couldn’t have torn them off, if ever; she reached for the saddle boy’s groin and he smiled and told her she was welcome, bitch. More like the dog-sitter, he pulled us, leashed, towards the big cage and, our straps threaded at his wrist, unlocked a small hatch in the railings, and jostled our arses in, one by one, unclasping our neck snap links each time. I recalled a kinky game I let myself in, at Saint Loup, in the stables, with the Cossack and his pals, strapped tight, in the locked-up saddlery not many words given or heard, but my thighs inundated with cum and shame, reveller shame —in these bygone days, I would never have confessed to devious penchants like these.
There was more dancing space than Pluto’s, and the girls, all strapped up like us, were young and wild. On the other side of the cage, in the dark aisle, stood men, in many sorts of robes, some wearing masks over their noses, nearly all mature, for a reason. There was another aperture on their side, soon, a new Renaissance blond dancer in blue tights walked in and jumped at Katherine’s collar with a leash, pulling her out to the dark. A lean beauty who was groping my abs and ventured in my crotch, asked me if I were new, and if I were a true whore, because she could tell I was a slut. She explained that she had already been fished out of the tank three times that day, and made me feel her butthole in bloom while playing with my rested one. She told me that these men, who had already paid a lot to ogle our arses dancing, would happily debit their account, for all we would let them expend of us, to their whims. She finely warned that, in the private dungeons, all combinations were feasible, except bruising and maiming, all the ladies had lives, in the daytime.
It did not take long, before I had contemplated all the preys available, a pretty lackey in burgundy tights seized my upper arm and needed none effort to lead me to a side door, through the scrubland of hands feeling up me, and robber kisses. The boy embraced me and showed us, along a dim-lit corridor, to a small oak-panelled room with a black leather bed in the middle, much like a hotel room. The masked client followed, in a scarlet and crimson brocade robe. Whereas the boy had smelled of a light English lavender cologne, the Commodore barged in with a whole clipper ship of rare woods and spices, and tears of the most precious resins. He kissed me like a lion and suckled my tongue with maestria while retaining the boy who had handed him my leash.
Aleksander, he would like us to call him, dropped his robe and laid all erected on the leather, then ordered me to be buckled on top, face-up, thoroughly buggered in deep, all limbs apart, his breath in my neck, then the boy sheathe the membrum he had unzipped alive into my flowering well, thus hustling the master’s rod in situ, taming his pace by way of tongue plays in both our mouths. Thrust in endless spasms, by the way of the quartering, on which I pulled, so as to fire up my expanded plexus, I could let stream long sobs of holy waters upon my assailants, even after they succumbed over me.
Through a concealed recess, we acceded a slate clad shower room with silver basin and bowl to wash in and out the silts and foams of our throes, and Aleksander laughed, calling me by my number twenty-eight. The pretty boy fled, his crumpled tights in hand, his expended shaft still enviable, if ever.
My patron was still enthralled with my bum plum as he led me back to the cage where I had not much to tell Kate and Liselotte more than my elated body did. We danced, Kate had been blindfolded and shagged neatly at least three full times, and the smell made her think it had been the same lean slayer; she loved my hand feeling her firebrands, she was still my appealing whore, and a black, deft-mannered boy, with a tense pair of King blue tights, was already clasping her ring.
I was in one of Liselotte’s dazing kisses when I was chained up myself, from behind, and the tall cypress green dancer held two leashes; he could not dissimulate a protruding menace at his crotch, and I chose to graze upon the tense fabric with a kind hand, while I looked for some smile in the dark eyes of my teammate, she was shuddering shy, I hustled over all her personal space, as one does in an orgy, so as to wake her up to the most sexual part of our daydreaming, she smirked as the catcher drew us both under the comments of those who dithered, still.
The two masters in viridian terry robes already showed their good humour, overtly palpating each other’s manhood. It was made clear that my paired youngling was in a way owned by one of the men, a new to the games I —for one— had been engaged in by climbing down in the vaults. She was a Seresine, with long dark strands of lush hair running on Carrara shoulders, and I felt free to hug and grope her in the heady white incest of tuberose and neroli —she might not have chosen for herself— and the men liked me doing just that. Her master encouraged her to respond and show some abandon, spread the rubbles of her drooping shame. They roamed their glans over our faces, forcing her untrained mouth by the example I gave, to her greater fright.
She had been a candid dove lured in a gilded trap, with not much of any knowledge, carnal or else, eventually; but she gave me the hunch that her soul had not mistaken in the spry swordsman who relished to see her choke on his friend’s dick, and gulp again under my kisses.
Swept along with my amused prowesses, she was subjected to most of the debauched figures of the bodies trade, and, with some preparatory care, ended her part with her arse filled with the two hustlers’ sperm, which, in a glut of vice, I made her taste and spit, from my depraved mouth that she yet still liked. The tall boy had to be mine, then, and Seresine watched close, her delicate head held close by when the mercenary lance threaded through my cunny and humped at her peachy cheek rested on my lower belly.
Recovering from an assault, I was fool headedly devising a scheme to party again with Seresine and her debauchers, as for the boys, it sufficed to ask at the door with a valid black card.
She could not make such a voluminous shampoo, in the Genova serpentine wet room, but there were ready charlottes in a drawer; While her knight fiddled my slits and berries, I showed her many ways to please herself with her hands, and she gave me shudders with her black gazes.
Back in the cage, Liselotte had returned from a crushing expenditure, too, but she rekindled her wants at the sight of whom was leaning on my chest, although she might have asked for some recess. I whispered all I knew about the debutante dove and asked our all au courant procuress to make me have her again, be it with the suitor, or not. Joining us two with clever hands working, she began a candid questioning of her prey, until she was leashed out again —she was certainly not to be ignored at all on her maiden-trip.
The only time to flirt with a flaming redhead who lisped gently, the first black lad stood in, leash in hand, to clasp my tow hook. Kate had been unseen, that while.
I enlaced my catcher like the slag I had woken up to be, in these few strokes of the dick, he led me to a portly gent with sideburns who already devoured my nether with a good-humoured appetite. He held a petite, short shady blond-haired, impish girl who stepped up to me and leaned in my armpit while sliding her hand in my bum crack; pulling our tethers, he took us along the corridor to a low vaulted wider square room in raw stone, at the centre of which I could barely stand up, he said had been a cistern once, if not a cesspool. The large bed, of sepia black leather, without a headboard, rested under a low end, but spectacularly, a glaring array of pipes and taps raised up from holes in the ground for a bathtub, a basin, a bidet and a towering showerhead, as wide as a service plate, fixated into the vault.
Schulz —is it?— Hands me a knot of bright steel chains from his pocket, then pats my bum, while telling me to affix the little whore tensely to the appropriate embedded hitches, legs apart and arms up. The girl looks up to me coyly and winks, which earns her a slap on the butt; not fully game, I dawdle about and tangle the chains, but Shulz now holds a nine-tails and hits my back, muttering I will obey, and I do, again on my balancing Cossack mood, only then did I know for sure that the bastard would eventually fuck me out of my breath. When the patient little whore is all hung, he starts to whip her, and I revulse to it, so, he smirks and says that it is up to my good soul, and the lash she won’t get I will, so he does, all over my body against the small pixie-like stooge, to the edging moment when I will call the farce. But he ceases as if he read me, and now he plays with the rounded handle of his whip in my quim, saying in my ear that I will not deny the lustful flows of down there, as I bend for offering my bum crack.
He slides an unexpected burly cock in my maddened minge, dripping of my shame, farting of its spasms and jolting me against the bound toy doll who searches for my mouth.
He had heartily discharged, and I was drenched to my feet while the blond devil asked me to service her with my lips and tongue, so I did and soon she was contorting in the chains like I had sussed out earlier, bounds helped the exultation to an edge. Shultz wanted me to suck him ready, which happened as soon as a young stag would, in order to bugger his victim at the perfect height, letting me think she was his regular, and me a funny fool.
Under the abundant shower, the foam smelled of holy lotus and Peruvian balsam, also whatever made the burns turn to feathered snakes under my shuddering skin. He fetched out poppy red terry bath towels so we pampered each other on the large bed, and Bienchen —or was it?— went enthralled with my mouth, just as I felt Shulz force his indefatigable truncheon of a dick into my all benevolent party anus.
As of predictably, according to my pretentious self-content, it was no time before an all-black propman came up to me and clipped a leash on my neck ring to make me feel and look like a bitch. He seemed to indulge some vice making me follow along the railings, for more amateurs to ogle my bare body, but it was the game, wasn’t it? Only all this raw want was still thick for me to breathe.
In the dark gallery where I had to stand all the stealth handling of my private nooks, he passed the loop of the leash to a tall stout man of authoritative stature, with rear-combed silver hair rippling on his nape, reminding me of my first impression of Victor, only fatter. He said his name was Bjørn, like an old bear, he jested, pulling the leather bind to graze my pubis with the back of his other hand. He spoke in a smooth tone, like another one who reigned by his appeal. He wore a long velours terry robe wide striped garnet and night that let show he was erect, he smelled of some expensive perfume evocative of Zanzibar’s brothels and a cursed temple where a lamp still burned, on a powder box, in the last drawer.
He seized my wrists and tied them together in my back, then pulled me through the licentious scrum, along a shady corridor, towards a heavy oak door that looked genuine and cancelled all rumour in closing back.
There was no tangible cause for me to be dazed as I was, but his spirited kiss in a tied hug, feeling his penis rubbing my moot, made my knees weak, I began to faint as he laid me upon a dark soft skin bed.
I woke later, strapped, face down wedged between two cushions, gagged, hearing more than one breath around me. The pain on my loin was searing, one used a strap or a belt to whip me as my legs were spread wide and fastened. My quim was inundated, and I sensed that my anus had been lubricated and stretched, the whippings, though not so murderous, spared no crease in their storm, and my mouth drooled on the gag as much as my cunt on some velvet cover thrown under me.
I had been ripe enough to the taste of a low talking crew of northern consonance, there was a first dick in my purse, and many, diligent, assiduous fucking, overflowing, eager discharges in both my quivering slits and careful wiping, by some hot towels, from time to time.
Then I was blindfolded with some elaborate leather accessory which covered my cranium down to the tip of my nose, strapped at my nape, making some sort of a ponytail, untied by many strong arms, and stretched back in place face up, my head upon a neck rest, so as I could be used in the mouth. The taws cracked anew on my all wetted skin, my breasts, my belly, thighs and crotch, in my breathless cries and growls, still with the laughter and the rough comments, before the first of them came to ejaculate in my mouth and forced me to swallow his beastly, soup, and the endless thrust to my innards, lasting all the more that they had already besmirched me once or more.
I would not know how many sailors spurted all they would in me in the episode, but I felt only sperm flew in me, in the heady effluvium of vice unfettered. I guess I passed out for good. I woke in a silver tub, encased in green marble, Bjørn carefully holding my head, washing my hair. I felt spent but elated to discover that nought of my deadly nightmares had seared my soul and made me flee from the game, wild horses had not trampled my lecherous mind, crystallised on my orgasms like as many threaded pearls, only the cohorts of cherubs in the rogue waves of my pleasure had caroused their babbling, through the rough grunt of sailors in heat.
Sarah’s gazes swayed, too, after I would know what she had been drawn to; she smelled of her own tender want, we had been out to risk our skins for tales to record, and retell, for one, in Hugo’s bed. But then, before she could hint of whatever she had been at, I felt the click at my ear and was pulled away by a lackey, to be given at the whims of a slim, tense young executive type, whom, after the gust of a whole frustrated crew, shied me with his strung manners, but was skilled enough at fondling anything he could grab, and he retained the lad, a gymnast model with very visible manhood.
I lag a tad in the obvious manner, he wakes up my bum burns with a sounding slap to make me trot to a near dark round pit with no bed, only a padded bench at crotch height on which they bind me to, both ends slightly protruding. The client drops his gold dotted black terry robe, he wears black tights opened front and rear, he is half erect when he orders me briefly to suck on him. He caresses my back and says matter-of-factly that I have been beaten well, and my inward accesses ought to be warm and moist for his proxy fucker, as I can feel fingers trying my holes with lubricant, then pushing calmly, in-depth, while the peen in my mouth bides half-baked. The boy is long and sturdy, at ease and pleasurable, methinks, proof that I may brag of being a serious whore, if one doesn’t die of pleasure, albeit a real-life one like Ayla has confessed to rarely come on a paid job, so, with a full-size dick in my pussy and a kind one in my mouth, I am thinking of telling Sarah to invite her beloved friend in the subterranean venues of Paris, and, in holding back a snigger, I tighten my inner muscles, and feel the coming of an orgasm, and thus, roll my hips to invite more of the dong, if he will, with some beautiful attainment for both, and the congratulations of the boss.
He seems to know the young one will not flail but asks him to let him the place, comes behind me, slides in easily, and casually asks to be buggered for the while, which seems to produce its aim as I feel it in me, soon en route for yet another weird trip. The centaur accelerates, and moreover ups the ante to my aptly groomed anus, in which the full-fledged attribute glides like the moonlight in the keyhole.
The miracle of youth happens as expected in my client’s arse with the less usual consequence of triggering him into mine, and the most welcome crisis of my dearest nerves, overall, the kinky stratagem does a faultless climax in a trio.
The buggered bugger was quaintly happily, now, skilfully massaging away the remains of strain in my racked tendons, before releasing my bodily ornaments from the bench of patience, and wholeheartedly loving my face. As a knowledgeable guest, he bore me to another adjoining circular hall where all lighting raised from a shallow basin that filled the space. a girl was already lying down with another user, her eyes slanted in contentment; she smiled at me and half-swam near to kiss me; her thick black hair was rolled in a bun, the scented waters had vivified her gardenia white complexion, dark eyes told of an odalisque tale in timeless abandon. The two men relished our affair, mine let the senior, finely moustachioed stranger know of my freshly used anus, while the other praised the mouth of his own catch. None showed sinewy enough to assail any of us, we floated by, sharing butterflies, her name was Seresine, she avowed that she had leered on us, Sarah and me, and wished to meet us again.
The cage was now emptying, the bodies had wearied away, the music was lower, some of the slaves laid down on the slabs, lazing together in their fantasies. Samy came about, on a sudden, tightly fitted in some glove skin tights, crotch bulging as if, till then, he had suffered a day of chores. Liselotte, who had been cruelly wanking my best vagina-boy, swiftly picked the zipper’s ring and freed the all-guilty dick we knew. He pulled us back to the sacristy-like dresser and unlocked our harnessing, attentive to any mark it might have left on us, nosing in all our nooks and eventually releasing his want in Sarah’s little hatch that could, with a few humps.
We kissed up to him so as he would give us Seresine’s coordinates, he laughed and retorted he would, only if we succeeded at making him come, there and then, but he knew how three skilled sluts might.
We did not have the heart to part ways, and we knew full well that Liselotte was the queen of bedfellows, and moreover, she was overwhelmed as Natalia snuck into my pillow, raving on how exciting we smelled, she snuggled between us, and slept like the spent kitty she was; she might have whored, too, reading out loud some inept professorial jumble with a dildo up her minute arse, thus earning her month of stylish deportment, as long as her mother did not sense any kinky spell about her.
Camille and Fanny were expected in the evening, both were intrigued and aroused by Michelle; we had found, on our late breakfast table, a bag of French-toasted panettone slices from a place Michelle could not have known; Liselotte was all over Natalia and chased her back to the sheets, making her sob of joy.
Upstairs, two pairs of mignon feet peeped out of the red sofa, the world finance was in order, Liselotte was deadly struck by the site of the two muzzles, candidly smiling, as Delffan had been sleeping along with her lover. she pulled a cushion near and began her sleight of massage, for moans.
Natalia had pulled a chair between us and decided to watch us work, if it was to happen, but we ended confessing our mutual misdeeds, and she kept her hand in my pants.
It had been a serene evening, chilled but limpid, as I walked to Pr F.’s imposing doorway, I had this song in my chest that something had got to give. It was my third invite to his vocabularium, he had paid cash on the nail for my first two visits, but now Beryl thought it was not enough, given that he also used me at will in his office at the university, she said it made me a cheap tart and I was wasting my wealth. Then, I had been shy to complain with Liselotte, whom, it seemed was nought of a greedy pimp, only might I tell her that I did not bear the Don anymore, which would hurt my scholar year. Also, I’d be ashamed to appear as a grumbling brat before my two high-flying demi goddesses, whose scented bed welcomed me anytime I chose.
Grinding my teeth, I intuited that it was a matter to spill out when I held the teacher’s privates in my hands, in a most lecherous sequence, after having groomed his ego, reading aloud his abstruse credo.
There was a fantasy of Elvire’s, too, I craved to watch Pierre fuck his own daughter, that he probably had done already, in secrecy; so they inspired me, beyond reason and superego. I wished I could relate more closely to Sarah’s little whore sister Ayla, but of what I had met her, I dared not, only in bed, if I attained it, would I ask for a lesson.
Somewhere, a blackbird was embezzling some intruder with its elegant rap, I would be catching a cold, but the clicks and clangs neared and the heavy door jolted back. The Professor sported an elegant lounge outfit, a striped thin wool pair of trousers, a Parma silk velvet buttoned vest, and an open powder blue poplin shirt, he had what it takes. He seized my fingertips, kissed my hand and made me spin to watch. I was wearing a dull blue cashmere scoop neck jumper such as one could relish on my pointed tits, grey on grey typographical printed cashmere leggings, heavy sole black ankle-high boots, and a reversible grey and white anorak with a hood rimmed in fake wolf fur. I wore no undies, but white socks, as he tripped for.
He took my anorak and sat me in a lobby chair, kneeled on the precious rug and asked for my foot, unshoed it, and the other, he was thrilled, he thanked me for having walked a bit, he nuzzled into my feet and nibbled my toes, when he stood up, he was erect.
Elvire stood at attention in her assigned black attire, but she gave me a keen unscripted gaze full of her ardour that instantly spawned the fantasy to lure her to my waters. Pierre was already pulling down my pants slowly, ordering me to give my tongue, making sure Elvire watched, he maddened my perky little breasts inside the heavenly wool, a gift of Sarah’s, and inhaled the scents I had sprayed in my neck, a masculine cologne that Hugo chose for me because he found my natural sweat twirled in it like the most mental of scents, like the whiffs of witch hazel in the winter pathways of Venice, when one discovers a new soul.
So, Pierre Minuetto with me —I was bare and pale as a narcissus— and he teased before Elvire all along, sucked my tongue softly, like a rose sherbet, said he, before bringing me to the lectern where he had displayed his printed pages. He reminded me of the rules, I must not try to fathom the text, nor link the words, only breathe the punctuation, the line breaks and the paragraphs. There was a small pulpit light, and a small microphone, behind a jersey screen, that he pulled next to my mouth when I started reading, as he caressed my nape, my shoulders and down to the crack he craves.
Seated opposite, Elvire had so slightly parted her legs, and concealed her hand under the apron’s belt, her eyes told me she was masturbating for me, it helped absent my mind from the reading, at the cost of some skiddings Pierre would sanction in my anus. He had fetched an array of finely crafted dildos, on a side table —I had obeyed the instruction to proceed, beforehand, to a thorough enema— he took time to anoint, and test, and stretch my hole, before beginning to insert, first, some ancient black wooden horn with gold flourishes —I saw it between words— and push gradually, constantly moving, back and forth, and sideways, inside me.
Next, he sank a heavy metal plug, in place on the rim of my cinnamon ring, and thrummed on its handle, providing frissons through my nether and slight trembles in my voice, he relished the concealed message it would imprint in the recording, had he conspired to infuse my bliss into his stone bleak verbiage? He was decidedly a funky bloke of a mastermind, the Sorbonne, indeed?
Since he demonstrated some enjoyable carnal acumen so as to raise my senses, and not only wank sadly into a pitiful incestuous itch, I committed myself a tad further in his play and genuinely pursued my own rapture behind the woof of his discourse. He sensed either my goodwill or a windfall of self-availed wonder, whatever; he treated me like a precious little slut and that was what I had aimed at.
He then seized a considerable stack of coloured crystal balls upon one another, gradually thicker, from the size of a grape to that of a tangerine, and, while he fondled my hardened tits with one hand, churned in my responsive rectum, so as to hear the vibrato on his words.
The pages I turned became blue, and it must have been a signal for he stopped his actually blissful manoeuvre, to bugger me straight, by himself, cautiously not to make me slip a line, but thoroughly, as I felt his hair at my anus. I stealthily came two or three times of my own, jostling the ride of the text here and there, but overall keeping in the saddle —so to speak— whenas he symmetrically retained his horse in view of the foreseen last word.
We did not, ensemble, botched the finale drama, as he gushed in deep and I clenched my knees, opening wider my sensitive hatch. He remained in me, clutched to my chest and holding from behind my wrists on my heart, and I thought he cried down my back, while Elvire rolled her eyes.
My bumhole drooled, Pierre lay spent, legs spread on a moss green sofa, I pretended not to remember where the bathroom was, only to let Elvire take my hand. She stood as I made funky noises in the bowl, my hands climbing inside her outdated long skirt, to find some antique open crotch knickers and a drenched vulva. As I nuzzled into the folksy black satin, she smelled of Violette sweets as I had been rewarded with, in the candy store of the dainty old lesbian lady, who hid me behind her counter. But Elvire was fresh as a Brittany garden, and I could not resist asking her, all her wears hitched up, to piss a brooklet on me, while I suckled her tongue. Pierre caught us, standing bare on the doorstep, but only hardened at the sight and came near, telling Elvire to suck his peen, while he asked me to undress her.
She was buttoned up like Victoria herself, in whiffs of ironed laundry around the Violette sugar, when she finally sat nude on my lap with her father’s dick in the mouth —I noticed that she knew her trade, too— there were black and white garments all over the old fashioned bathroom, accordingly black and white, too. He pulled us gently away to a dark bedroom with an unmade bed, and asked me to help him fuck Elvire properly.
Later, as we drank the coffee nude Elvire had made, with those tiny cookies they call cat’s tongues and melt so fast it becomes a game, Pierre suddenly claimed I was so talented that he would raise my pay, that he did, sensibly; he also asked that I come more often because his book would benefit of my work, and he kept fingering me.
Everyone, included Michelle, had silenced to listen to the brilliant little whore’s tale. Natalia was beaming, she had been as good as one of us, and we were proud; her starling brown curls dangled free over the golden green fire of her unfettered gazes, her foolhardy lips promised the kisses forever hidden in F.’s bland lucubrations —or would James spin them for our jejune minds? In all likelihood, on that facet of his œuvre, he kept them all to his own revel.
She had more, for us to relish, along that way; when she climbed down lighthearted, from what had so magically sailed her route, she felt like the night was young, yet; she called her henceforth best chum Fulgence who happened to be wasting his time at a café, letting him encash a long credit line on her small arse if he hasted to come to pick her up near the old Roman arenas. The cab was as prompt as the passengers were horny, for Eric was also expecting a piece, and there were some.
Thence, the morning gift of Natalia’s in our bed, as spent as we, exhaling lust like a fresh apple.
I brewed an afternoon oolong tea in the biggest clay pumpkin pot we have, I saw Delffan had crept to Natalia’s feet and pulled her leggings, Kate was grazing the velvety head in the offered crotch. From her trench, Michelle had heard all, but dared not own up to being aroused; she pretended to need a shower while plunging both hands in my pants I let fall. She had rested her glasses and begged for a kiss until I showed I agreed to follow her under the water, and before it was warm enough, we peed on each other, like fool headed sluts.
Camille also holds all the keys and codes but never could cause awkward, as she lived through all, long before she cared for us. She alighted upon our jolly troupe, along with beaming Fanny, as weightlessly as if they had just woken somewhere in the room, and followed our streams,. no questions asked.
Fanny, who was most duly cossetted by our beloved queen bee, relished an all feminine conference like this, albeit she had known of Delffan’s ways and means before, and said one smelled like the spring rain on her olive grove. Camille paid attention to read our gazes, before risking a glance upon our ongoing affairs, matter-of-factly. As it became obvious we would all end on the carpet, we migrated, like a herd of does, to the underwood.
Camille offered dinner, in the shape of vegan pies and fruit salad, from a new young kitchen, “The Thurman Twins”, we applauded, and we ordered bottles of fruit kombucha from our shop nearby. Some of the would-be-soon Michelle’s chairs showed their strength holding shuddering twosomes.
As once a Hopi wise man said —those aphorisms had been collated by my good friend Julia Grant— there was a snake in the sand. From the sensitive lines of her own web, Camille had gathered enough intelligence on Michelle’s expertise to find a connection with her uncle Adlai, who happened, in earnest, to be living inside the major node of financial speculative streams, 60, Hudson street, New York City. Kate and Sarah had been fruitfully dispatched to the old wizard’s den — unprotected.
Thence, Camille had weaved some impossible contrivance between the lesbian Aviator prodigy and, on the other hand, the most powerful Sugar–daddy of the free world —a subsidiary of Melchior’s Empire, one might think. At the sound of 60Hudson, Michelle had scrutinised the tourmaline green eyes of her flirt, who had mannerly held her by the waist, and kindled the mute alarms of her cosmic brains, but beyond the heartfelt certainty that Camille was a bona fide comrade she would love to greet behind the red sofa, she read conjunction in the ascendancy, if Melchior acknowledged the treaty, of sorts.
Camille had chosen to spill the diamonds out in our open ethereal atmosphere, for we all owed our well being to rooting in the greater covenant, and her skilful guidance —Katherine’s skid, a few years ago, had been the only faux-pas, not the only one of Victor’s. All parties keen for Michelle’s endeavour, in the best of worlds, had reckoned that an in-person encounter between Adlaï Stern and Michelle should speed-up greatly the consonance of synapses, all provision given to our aviator as to her Parisian installation —and the extraterritoriality of “behind the sofa” spot. Melchior’s fire cloud was available two days on, Camille would consider it a sweet treat to attend Michelle, just like some fruity escapade —only this one wanted her pet imp Delffan to join, eventually. One miserably owned up to have no passport, and two days seemed inescapably too short to make an emergency one. Except for Camille and Fanny’s acquaintances, and possibly a nod from my Far, as a token of unfettered love to his spoiled daughter.
Upon a phone call, Camille had to spell the particulars of this special passport owner, but the compass stumbled over the tiniest of all: there wouldn’t be a French passport with an “X” for sex. Delffan stood stupefied between Camille and Michelle, who argued, through one’s tears, with many caresses, that she would make a more convincing girl as far as the passport was concerned, until the EU admitted, like other countries in the most developed tier, either the third non-binary mark —that to let the bigotry thrive on— or none, does a customs officer needs to know? (Yes, if a body-search is required, ooh, poor Delffan!).
Lethal details rested to the diligence of the PTBs, then there was no more babble on the point, and Delffan remained bemused against Camille who did not regret this new travel companion, whom she grazed the exceptional nether with visible delight, over the sweat pants. Her bliss might have been total if Fanny could have joined, but it was not holidays time for her, and she prioritised her course of studies, according to her mentor’s best wisdom; she would happily camp in our bed for two or three nights, which unmistakably delighted Natalia.
I reheated the pies and Natalia fetched the tableware in the washer. Camille retold the gossip about the twin cooks, who happened to be happily incestuous, Honni Soit. One orange coloured pie, filed with saffron sweet potatoes and potimarron, met a hearty success; another, a mix of mushroom and asparagus in a chickpea omelette, too; on the sweet side, rhubarb and raspberries in rice cream, prunes in apricot marmalade, three colours chocolate fudge.
Natalia mocked my tiny appetite, I retold her that if I had kept my school days voracity, she wouldn’t sit there with me, a foreseeably depressed, flabby matron! She claimed she had totally imitated our ways, and not only as food went, and her mother liked it this way. So she climbed on me and kissed me fervently, wiping my thought of thanking her for these words, are we proud of her! She whispered a thank you, for not having smoked or drunk, neither worn hi-heels.
As the laughs rounded the table, some little silvery yelp made everyone look at Michelle, who ran out, with an alerted air. To Camille, left holding Delffan, I jested that some market slumps might have needed attention, she retorted that, accordingly, Melchior’s aircraft is connected by satellite.
I still can’t fathom how Victor, a brilliant fucker, who always could manage his own libidinal wiring, came down to botching such a windfall nugget in his pan when it happened. Furthermore, she had already secured all his source code? I should feel a tad less safe flying in the same plane as her, were it not Melchior’s.
I picked them up in the morning, with their slight luggage, dressed like sisters in the über-kubistisch ethereal Milanese style. Delffan sported all off-white coordinates, sleek bottines, ridged cashmere leggings, a thick cashmere jumper under a mixed texture weave cashmere anorak, one’s perfect little head in an over-stitched shantung aviator helmet. Michelle carried a bold Naples yellow and pastel blue chevrons overcoat, on top of same pastel blue Chelsea boots and cashmere leggings, and a mellow yellow vast thick stitch sweater, her mane was fuzzy and smelled of her fetish geranium orange, just like “one’s” nape.
I, myself wore my best jeans and umber boots, a prairie green smooth sweater and a marsh camouflage saharienne with plenty of pockets. As in self-evidence, our trio blew some minds at Le Bourget, and the customs officer was intrigued by Delffan’s hardly dry passport bearing yesterday’s date, so he did a routine check and smiled when he gave it back, wishing us a serene flight.
Our attendant would be a Dutch Femke, with a shapely head and a sleek bun in a sexy black pinstriped suit and patent flat Albert slippers with taffeta bows I relished at once; The crew, all in worsted black, and gold stripes, was slightly more than courteous with our lightly train, and none of us rebuffed nought, leaving the two men thoughtful. Then, they announced that we would hop on an eight hours span, and no jumble stood above the ocean.
There was this tiny instinct-tingling elation whiff when we all loosened and aired our woolly feet, a scent of new leather and lustful trail, I seized one’s dainty paws, just like I had marvelled watching Sarah’s father, indulging his daughter’s, in the least incestuous relationship she would long for. The decidedly irresistible creature seeped oneself along with me, watching through the window as Paris shrunk in the morning haze, and slid her hands on my belly, pointing her tongue in the corner of my lips. The parenthesis had been opened, the Dassault chair was our luxury cot, I wanted to limber some more in one’s breath, I fetched my tablet with a double ear-set and tried to bring one into a rich, chimeric, neo-romantic, musical endeavour such as Mahler’s or Bruckner’s, one nodded in my neck, I soon resorted to my readily available array of inner peacock visions, while fiddling one’s pleasure stylus.
Unavoidably, Michelle had rid herself of her coat and boots, settled in an exclusive chair with a deployed table in front. all feline and mellifluous, she had crept up to the cockpit to ask for instructions as to the satellite communications and obtained a nice, flirty, get-go. Thus, she had displayed two telephones and a laptop, linked to other nondescript flat boxes and plugged the whole to the sockets on the armrest, and the Xmas spirit digits had begun to groove over on the screen. Femke had been puzzled to see such a juvenile wizard play with the unusual machines, but she had soon found herself bewitched, sitting on the aviator’s armrest, in her scent.
We had tea, and Danish rolls that reminded me of Sarah, crying her childhood savours, then jolting forward through aeons of pastry fumes she most always shunned, anyhow. Delffan looked up to her, always, and their conversation was mostly mute, cuddles and nuzzles, body angles and apparent mediumship, one had found her serene gaze and pace among my high vibes tribe from behind the red sofa to over the ocean.
They unleashed upon the rear couch, forgetting to pull the sliding partition, with my eyes, I tried to help Femke to see that casually, but I went to shut the compartment and asked for more tea I did not need, to keep her busy; she gave me a cool gaze, she didn’t need to go through there. But I soon did, the passenger’s restroom were at the other end of the laydown divan space, just where what I expected was happening, the two gracile pixies shagging for good, one’s magic spur threading the unsurprisingly tenuous innie of an all spread aviator. I mingled myself in, with catlike caution, lending a hand, here and there, and murmuring tender thoughts. One’s sleek body was ideally the best of both worlds, the skin that of a prepubescent faun with two or three goldilocks on the pubis, and even less breasts than Sarah. They went moderato, cantabile, and morendo, after Michelle received a spritz of very light mixture that smelled of privet flowers and summer rain —for what a city rat like me could remind of— but it could very well have been part feminine sperm if one would.
Delffan had found, in a cupboard, some brand new pistachio green, stretch-velvet sweatsuit, in what one’s maidenly kind of pecker flaunted, unabashed, like it would no longer spawn mystery, neither to me, supposedly that Femke peeped on it. Michelle had subordinated her conscience again into the bold coloured spreadsheets on her screen, listening to angels’ choirs in her earphones, I could imagine a Cheshire grin on her lips, as I could only see the top of her curly head.
Delffan sat cross-legs next to me, took slight notice that my eyes were drawn to one’s feet, and therefore insensibly pivoted so as I were so near to touching them, and awaited that I fell under one’s peridot green trap of her eyes, to which my perennial lust led me to, as I seized the fin-like toys. One kissed like a born courtesan.
The offspring of a well-off entrepreneur and his secretary mistress, one had been raised by different country childminders, seldom seen by one’s acknowledged father to whom one was a boy, until, at twelve, having eventually married his mistress, he witnessed by force one’s double nature and raged, beat one’s mother, and drank himself to death in one year. Thence, one’s mother, who inherited the firm and could have rested her life, still young, with another man, sent one at a special needs boarding school, on Belle Isle. It had never been, consciously, the will to let Delffan thrive the way one had oddly been created, but the stupid rollback on herself not having been able to carry a monster, paying away for not seeing it, whatever.
Delffan’s good fairy, nevertheless, had gifted them an inestimable quality, beauty, beyond the woes they stumbled through, the salvation cloak to the eye of the evil-minded, the imperious summon to which our most haphazard tribe had responded without ulterior motive. During three sore years, the lissom creature I was fondling with feather-light shudders had lived in restraints, moral and material, at the hands of unchecked brutes, just short of becoming deadly upon the valuable human stock they held on to; Delffan had lived in cages, in mere coffins, strapped and raped endlessly until the tormentors had been arrested, and one sent back to one’s mother’s, who received a useless judicial admonestation.
It had been the reason why one would shave one’s head, as a reminder of the kind of toilet one had been submitted to. In my course of kindness, I have listened to many a confession by lost girls, but then and there, mid-Atlantic, all I was able to do was cry.
Alleviated by my reaction, holding my hand for a kiss, Delffan tested the magnitude of my listening skill; I had to respond, somewhat, I hate to play “gleichschwebende Aufmerksamkeit”, like many mental crooks I have crossed, with the money they did not care to know where it came from, “suspended attention”, like in “she’s fuckable, what the…” .
I retold a tad of what I grew in, pruning most of the saddest branches, and one was stricken, resting one’s head upon my chest and my beating heart. One was that emotional child —over twenty, I reckoned, though— scavenging my soul like a stray cat at a bomb site, unfazed because I held one.
At sixteen, one had followed musicians, and become their awkward slut, but in the few hours they grabbed a bit of consciousness, they found it funky to shag an intersex groupie, they wouldn’t even know she liked anything they did at all. So, at a crossroad, one was again bound and leashed by a crackpot junkie who relished to scare one with drugs and thus nearly killed one along with himself, landing the skeletal wreck on the ER table. As one slowly recovered, one of the Doctors invited one at his house, and behaved towards one as an honest libertine, querying consent to his shenanigans, or merely granting a sulk. From there, one inhabited well to do homes, till the one where my girls found one, currently naked as the pet in this orgy venue, and took one away, in a graceful hunch.
One wanted, straight away, to know if there was a chance, for some freak like one, to thrive doing prostitution? so I wholeheartedly sniggered at that sound, after what I had told one of my misery, then I rocked one’s slender frame, and said I would show one when I would be sure it be out of sheer vice; meanwhile, I had better marry one with Michelle, who loved one truly.
Yes, I did love Delffan, too. As I had fetched my tablet, to watch whatever one might wish, I thoughtlessly slid a hand under the loosely stretch band of one’s pants, and casually groped the double feature of one’s life. As I had seen in action, it wasn’t any more than an overgrown clitoris on a tender vulva, and one proudly let me play. The high skies offered a judicious environment for some of Hayao Miyazaki’s, so we revelled in Porco Rosso, that delightfully disguised arch-romantic melodrama, Delffan wept for it, while fondling my breasts.
When Femke, who had remained invisible, became aware that Michelle had joined us, so I looked like the mother hen, with many thrills under my feathers, she proposed the array of bites that had been delivered for us, with more tea, if we would.
Like fine porcelain figurines, the two lovers, entwined, cherry-picked the kiss-sized treats, harmoniously. Personally, I would rather have nibbled. the toes I could see. Eventually, Michelle dropped that she had just been doing business with Adlaï Stern, firstly booking a suite at The Greenwich Hotel, a stone throw from the Western Union Building, and also, an evolutive hosting, for her soon to be fired up New York machines. She needed a name for her new business entity, and that was the challenge for the rest of the flight. Unexpectedly, Delffan revealed some unbridled vocabulary, drawn into the contest and willing to offer some token; but since one had grasped the gentle play on the “aviator” meme, one proposed “aviatrix”, supposing it could be registered. In the blaring light of fifty thousand feet, Michelle’s eyes, in their crystal lenses, shone of sapphire, as she was computing the echoes of a name, and there was some tingle in the sound of that “Trix” that she relished.
We landed at Teterboro like a rose petal on a satin sheet, were ushered like celebrities through the small arrival gate, and I gratified Femke, as duly as she had discreetly valued us, in the good name of Melchior’s. The real platoon chief had let her hotel sent a limousine for us, and it was a striking silver Maybach Pullman, who could have seen the aviatrix could be so lavish?
Dressed as royalty, aloof as kittens, my untethered children funnelled into yet that other luxury cocoon, while some attendant dropped our few bags in the trunk. The driver suggested we travelled all the way along the Hudson River down from the Georges Washington bridge, and we agreed, the sun still shone its old gold over New Jersey.
The hotel, an almost nondescript red brick, corner, seven floors building with an Italian restaurant at the ground floor, cried taste from the doorstep, unlike many palaces I have happened to cruise in, for all my array of businesses, and the personnel showed up themselves to level, in a smell of olde English leather, and briar. So on to our two-bedroom suite —was it for propriety? I was convinced that we would, all of us, sleep in the huge master bed— The attentiveness of service brought up a reminder that I would need a heap of dollar bills, but Michelle knew that and she slid the tips with impressive grace, I was decidedly not the inviting power aboard, but she was so weightless I applied myself thanking her, as a new kind of pleasure.
Delffan was already nude, in the bathroom, peeing, she called me for a bath, and the tub was considerable, fit for a baroness’ whims, and was indeed filled and foamy in no time, with three alleycats in it, preening each other in a smell of antique peonies.
Michelle washed her hair and a funny little elf wetted all the available lush towels grooming one’s bare eyed princess who smelled of camomile; I couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she was without her spectacles, were them crystal and gold. I restrained talking about eye surgery, but I allowed myself to stare at her seraphic face because she did not see me.
I would have suggested that we ordered some bites in the elegant corner salon, and remain barefoot-pyjama, but Delfan wanted to feel a beat of New York, so Michelle devised we could just walk to Dim Sum House, a reputed vegetarian Chinese eatery, beyond the Courts quarter, a few blocks east, and so she booked a table. The comely trattoria downstairs served grilled venison to carnivorous metropolitans, we would have felt detracted, trying to make the best of antipasti, as refined they be.
I was hankering for some untethered camaraderie in the wake of these two amazing phenomenons, playing the complacent minder role, until I would blow raspberries on their tummies.
Tribeca was clean and windy; Michelle behaved like a scout on an operation, but she obviously had lived in Metropolis before, whereas Velvet Skull, in one’s candour, would have drawn weird types after one, thus, I did not let one ramble and query eye-contact from passers-by, like one does in Europe, and kept one clenched at my side, pretending to flirt, or did I?
I had come to know the city first with Hugo, who had been smitten with me, as soon as I had sold him my feeble self, on a recommendation by Honoré, a high expert in curiosa who ceaselessly repeated he should have found me earlier. We had then spent a sunny spring week overlooking the Park, playing in bed once our museum visits had broken our backs. I did not care yet to now of an uncle of mine in Wall street, he found me later and it was not properly incestuous, beyond the tingles of his fly, Adlaï is a gentleman. So is Hugo.
It was well after hours, eerily deserted, Michelle kept on track with her phone, we passed at the foot of 56 Leonard, like a pile of display cases ready to collapse, awkwardly wedged with a sleek steel whale under the street corner, a stylish and overall neat tower, with huge windows onto almost unobstructed views —the pure antipodist to our privileged old Paris. The boxes were lighting up, it gave an impression of shocking transparency, of undue exposure, like I would, if ever, have dreamt of screens and paravents, some glazed tent. I could fantasise how Delffan would become the unaware star in all the city’s telescopes, the subject matter of a trendy photo exhibition, since the right to one’s image is flimsy over here, and furthermore, what about a lewd exhibition in people’s own private homes?
So, then, I had an uneasy feeling about overviewing life in this glass display, for what I knew of American mentality, whereas my wide-eyed companion was thrilled, like a ten-years-old before the house of Lego, overlooking the insane price tag on each of these windows, obviously. Pulling up the frames on her kindly nose, Michelle was musing if she had not better live here, in sight of the main Nexus, behind a sofa. My representation of intimacy matters, if she envisioned the lifeways she had entertained in the girls’ apartment, jostled the mirage she had surreptitiously set up, but, otherwise, not the hard reality of the infinite expense it meant to dwell in the smallest of these showcases.
I retold them how Hugo had relished fucking my then so thin arse to the high view of Central Park, and how I had caught a reflection glimpse of one bellboy watching, then giving him a tip with a wink, later. And so, I raved on the necessity of walls in the thriving of eroticism, even though I had once wanked myself picturing Kate and Simon in the dunes on Sylt, being watched at by elderly voyeurs.
The restaurant showed all the scars of a very frequented place, behind a shabby narrow façade, a faultless but soulless double row of tables, as if all endeavour was expended in the food only, which, given the wealth of savours and textures, might indeed be the case. I would have doubt so as to drag my rich uncle in there, but he had shown me to kosher joints none the brighter.
My puppies were tired, Whatever the inventive filling of the hundun, it had still been a long day. I had no clear expectation of what we had ordered, but the little bamboo baskets kept landing upon the swivel tray, and many kept untouched, so, out of shame, I guess, for wasting, I wrote a sturdy gratuity on the check, for I insisted playing, as it looked like, the cool big sister —and there were time enough to come to terms about that, too.
We had been discreet, overall, so, they let us depart with curtsey in a taxi that had been there, Delffan dozed out at the first road sway, one’s brows lifting, like in awe.
Next morning, a saffron gleam reflected on the Citi tower made Sarah’s voice ring in my mind, when she told me of the Manhattanhenge when Elsie and her celebrated on her high terraces. Indeed, Elsie had been one of those sister souls normal kids think they will never lose, only to part when the wind raises. Nevertheless, their long time reunion had been beautiful to look at, I had been actually mulling over some escapade with the fine Newyorkese, on my own.
The corner salon was bathed in gold, Delffan stood naked by the bay window, a cup in hands, offering her statuesque youth at will, probably meditating what I had said last night; They had ordered breakfast, juices, fruit, pastries. Michelle was already absorbed on a machine I had not seen, not enough, though, not to smile up disarmingly to me, so as my first move was to lie down on her nude back and try my chin in her spine, as I had learned long ago.
She explained that she had ordered the machine from Paris, it had been delivered in the morning, and it was nought of a common laptop, by the bye it looked more like a black, titanium and carbon attaché-case, in which a palm-thick metal mystery had been mounted, with lots of sockets to the right and a removable keyboard upfront. As she moaned under my beastly massage, she concluded that it was altogether lighter than it looked, and with it she could virtually set up shop as soon as my uncle would close the deal, and rolled over to tickle my loins. In her young voice, I heard the impervious will of a genius.
Delffan wrapped one’s unspoiled white suit in a platinum grey trench with a tall collar, one beamed of ambiguity, I foresaw Adlaï’s torments at this sight. Michelle contrasted in the perfect black Icebreaker, pinstriped, three-piece power suit —the cat’s pyjamas. My hair looked good, too, and I remembered my last encounter with the Master of our name, so, I had brought a teal scarf-print overlaid silk twill shirt dress with very small buttons, in a Tuareg blue coat, with turquoise tights and black patent, grosgrain, flat slippers: I doubted he would resist more than one cup of tea —Adlaï is a teetotaler, too— before he slid a heavenly manicured hand up my crotch.
After a short walk down to 60 Hudson, and indeed, Michelle carried her machine as she would have a portfolio, we were ushered up to a vast moss green-carpeted, oak-panelled suite cruised by pondering types who gave shifty hellos at the rim of their spectacles, and Michelle acted just like she knew them. In the corridor, Adlaï was hurrying towards us, and matter-of-factly kissed all the hands he seized, then remained thoughtful until he closed his office’s door after us. Still pressing my hand, the long-legged, slim grey-haired aristocrat asked me if and when Mr Michael Cerisy was to join? Saying that he was staring at Delffan like he would have a Botticelli. In Michelle’s laughter, I grasped she had played the old man, pretending to be a man, so as not to blur his vision of the envisioned deal —she had done that before, with Victor. We laughed, too, and Michelle went on, telling my uncle that her associate’s New York lawyer would join us later, with printed copies of the contract. As Adlaï remained bewitched, now transfixed by the blue gaze in the aviator glasses, she half mumbled something while opening her case upon the large Moroccan leather-clad desk and asking permission to plug into the sockets she already had noticed above the skirting.
The old man was utterly bewildered, on a tilt of my head, I called for Michelle’s awareness, and she smiled candidly, agreed to sit down for some while. She fetched her passport, and an envelope from an inside pocket, that she handed to Adlaï, back in his executive padded chair. The impressive case had been pushed aside when a graceful Asian woman had brought some tea and minute cookies that pleased Delffan. Reading Michelle resume, Adlaï softly wondered if she would take offence that he had all “this” checked out? Spread out casually in a cypress green leather chair, she allowed all verifications that, eventually, she deemed quite natural, after the innocent trickery she had plotted.
I revelled at the scene of my old incestuous uncle being under the spell of my two fairies, and he only knew part of the tale.
He had called some other strict-looking, lavender old boy and plainly asked him to certify all that was printed on the sheet of paper he gave him, after what he turned towards Michelle and assured her that he would have also done so if she had been a man, at what Delffan sniggered, asking what if one had been both? Adlaï dared not inquire, but I read, in his Wolfenc eyes, that he had grasped some light, as he flashed his million dollars teeth to my protégée.
I acted familiar with him, like he were family, after all, and moved to his side of the desk, eventually to graze his thigh with mine, and, inevitably, I smirked as I felt his hand feeling me up, as decidedly the wolfish libertine lurked, anytime.
As he made me wet my tights, we chattered about our flight in Melchior’s jet, and the most elegant hotel Michelle had dwelled us in, to what he taught us the place belonged to Robert De Niro, and was pretty much the tip of the trend, currently. We all agreed it made sense, then, but needed a vegan annexe, and he laughed because that also, he remembered, of me. Delffan was reading my eyes, she knew what was going on behind the desk, she winked.
The underling came back, with a ceremonious grin on his face, obviously, he had discovered much more than expected, and so he deposited two sheets on the desk and left respectfully. Adlaï needed his two hands to adjust another pair of tortoise rimmed glasses, but I saw him sniff at his fingers doing so, that part of him would not get old, would it?
Clearing his voice, he apologised to Michelle and marvelled at the overall focus of her course, and the undeniable quality of her teachers, he vowed some cult to Pr Ziv Katalan in Philadelphia and had just read something about Michelle’s graduation with him. He then made the gesture at her to operate her computer as she intended, she took her thoughtful expression, unrolled two cables, plugged them into the right sockets, rotated the sleek black box so Adlaï could read the screen in the lid, and fired up.
I have been using computers since college, the most expensive kind available to be used in a home, with possibly a fibre optic connection to the web, but then and there, while my perverted uncle was thoughtlessly back at my bum, I grasped no clue of what went on, so fast, at her command. Came a time when Adlaï asked her, stuttering, how she could have torpedoed that many security gates? There, pouting her lips like the adorable girl she was, she retorted that it had been average level hacking, but, of course, she could remedy to all the flaws she had crept through, albeit it had not been the main object of her visit.
Adlai looked like the patient who wakes up in the middle of a surgery operation and sees his heart, forlorn on the table before him. Michelle glanced at the bottom of my dress as if to make known that she, too, knew what was happening under there.
Michelle was still quietly absorbed in her complicated routines; at one point, she stared hard at the disgruntled boss of a service put to doubt, she spoke evenly, said that until then, nothing of his software had been changed, although there was a good chance that the whole operation was infected. She insisted she had not come at that particular rescue, but in search of high-performance servers. If Adlaï, and some peers of his choice, decided to trust her, she could “clean” the traffic and report her finds to the authorities, thus exonerating the firm.
Adlaï stuttered that he had presently no idea, but a lethal fear of what she had said. He had ceased fiddling me when his telephone rang, and Melchior’s lawyer was announced.
He was a youngish, crew-cut, strung up type that smelled of expensive Cologne, he seriously announced his name, his firm, and frankly read each of our faces, unable not to smile at Delffan, who took that for a good mark. He carried a case and fetched three wads of paper, for Michelle, Adlaï, and himself. Accepting a cup of Japanese tea, he declared that the hereby contract of service had been drawn in Melchior’s international DORA offices, which had given delegation to Fuchs, Brauer, and Frankel, in the person of Matthew L Mulder, Attorney at Law, according to the conditions decreed by SEVEN STREAMS, here represented by its CEO, Mr Adlaï Stern, and in the presence of Ms Michelle Cerisy, of French nationality, associate to Melchior International in the TRÆVIX company.
While the articulate young attorney read the contract out loud, I had drawn Delffan to a buttoned settee at the far end of the office, and I could tell, although her eyes were snug behind the lenses, six meters away, that Michelle went on multitasking. Adlaï knew that his legal watchdogs had combed the agreement through and through and it was sound and juicy, so to speak; therefore, apparently, a formidably costly voyage, across the ocean, all boiled down to a pre-negotiated signature, like so many in that yummy lawyer’s daily schedule.
Unless the whole point of sending the arch-expert four-eyed demi-goddess, in the flesh, had been to let her do what she was currently completing inside Seven Streams machines, and it was a hell of a bet, but Melchior had succeeded shagging her, like a periwinkle, hadn’t he?
Once the agreement acted, the lawyer flew back away with a smile, Adlaï had to reshape his permanence while keeping Michelle inside the mighty loop, hence, he devised an emergency set-up, at the other end of the executive corridor, in a vacant office he said presented the same kind of amenities as his own —perhaps was it a consequence of a bygone power struggle? Nonetheless, he ordered the room to be thoroughly cleaned and turned to Michelle for her requirements. According to what I had seen of her ways of living, it did not surprise me that she asked for a simple table, four chairs, and a futon; the room gave access to an ensuite, large enough to allow brewing tea. Teams could be on-scene in an hour, and no paintwork being needed, the room should be operational the next morning; all standards of connections were already available.
Michelle estimated her physical presence on-site towards seventy-two hours, aeroplane schedule permitting, beyond what she could manage, from Paris, one or two top-notch engineers of SEVEN STREAMS full time, for Adlaï’s best comfort. My uncle floated the suggestion that Michelle could become a valuable partner in his company, be she finely retorted that she would not be available, and considered the work she was currently accomplishing, there, as connected to her own endeavour; and nevertheless, the figures they exchanged, about her hourly rate and accomplishment premium, astounded me, so as I began to consider the girl behind the red sofa as a weird star. She appeased Adlaï by offering some arrangement between their companies, so she would use the new futon room every once needed for the safety of the networks.
She decided she should stay overnight, already, and Delffan claimed she would, too. So, Amazon should deliver in an emergency the proper bedding they liked, unbleached cotton sportswear, a provision of student’s mix of nuts and raisins, tea leaves and bottles of organic kombucha, same as it had been on the feverish campuses she missed, after all.
Then supervened an awkward episode, when three men, in approximate suits and neat Derby shoes, asked to see Adlaï in FBI capacity, and, for as much as he retold us, required inspection of SEVEN STREAMS operation, after red flags had been detected. Adlaï was fully aware of the will in services to plant surveillance routines in ultra-wideband superhighways like his, but he also knew that it responded in nought of his clients’ demand, who might flee in droves if it became patent that there were.
For one, the friendly visit occurred just as Michelle was being unscrambling unorthodox procedures inside the machine’s software, and second, the talk consisted mainly of half baked innuendos and spooky menaces, testing Adlaï’s capacity to stand. The whole shenanigan had been recorded and was being documented by lawyers. Michelle asserted she had scented the heavy-handed methods of the governmental drill, but she was too weightless and dispersed for them to thwart her. She was pruning their tentacles one by one and redirected their hacks against other agencies of theirs, good luck!
Adlaï did not think “they” would try to overstep sensitive fields, at this end, he had sent a warning to all the other sharers in the building, he feared they would all try to buy out his white knight if they came aware. By the bye, Michelle thought she would update Melchior personally if only to put his lawyers on standby, and probably warn stealthily a few people of influence, here and there. It was decided to organise minders near Michelle’s door and walks.
It was mid-afternoon, Amazon wouldn’t be there before next morning, but Adlaï, getting his cards together, dared the lady at Parachute, a nearby specialist shop, to put up some acceptable floor bedding, in his office, before night? She promised, should it be carried on foot, and they could also deliver robes —she learned it would be two thin ladies— and bedtime niceties.
All in all, Delffan was thrilled to stay with one’s lover in this unconventional setting, I would have, but my more than uncle decided he would go with me in our Greenwich Hotel suite, and he had always been imaginative, to say the least.
After having confided his private numbers to an over-excited Michelle, Adlaï drew me to a silver Mercedes for the short ride to Hudson’s Clear Waters, one mile north, he needed me to freshen his brains. The menu offered more than I could wish for, in the likes of revisited mushrooms, nuts, vegetables and fruit mixes, well up to their claim of new American cooking, I sent a video of their counter to Michelle’s phone, in case she was more hungry than usual and wished to order home delivery.
Stroking my hands bearing a Lalique ring with a white opal, he whispered that we had been followed and they were probably recording us; on a piece of paper, he sketched the room, with points for the customers, then, in red —a good boss needs a red pen—he circled three of them, which I managed to single out as tails, and were probably struggling to match their budgets to the mouth-watering items on the card. Adlaï refrained from too explicit demonstrations about me, avoiding letting them believe they had a scoop for blackmail. He was in a haste to unbutton this dress I had vowed to his lust, and the whole spy-cy situation had made me slutty wet. After he paid, he left the makeshift layout on the table, called for his car, and asked the driver to try and lose our tails —it sounded it wasn’t a first.
Back at the Greenwich, we ordered some apple tea, if only to reset the course of his expected relish of me, as in an epitome of an old libertine’s dream, with shame, guilt, want, unfettered availability, and nevertheless, the pride of my resilience and what he deemed my superb vice, he knew I owed to Hugo’s infallible affection.
Now, only a quiet flame in the fireplace lit my sleek legs on the purple velvet couch, and he was, button by button, hitching up my dress upon my belly, for I had lost my knickers in the bathroom where I had peed, and freshened up for him, he had never wished that I piss on him.
He had dropped his grey Camoshita tweed jacket, his timeless mahogany brown loafers, I had always known him in knee-high silk socks, I asked him if he wanted me in stockings, he said yes, I had what it took, fastly.
He wore powder blue trunks, with mother-of-pearl buttons, to reach for his cock, and I serviced him like an expensive whore, because I knew what he found around here. From time to time, he interrupted me to kiss, full mouth, like a stray kid in a back alley, not daring anything further, I had begun like so, long ago; I knew when he needed to come, and I let him, in deep, two or three brief spurts, but he tilted backwards and moaned gently, rummaging in my thick copper curls.
Some sort of atavism, or the ruts of an old subservience when I felt debased to the level of a toilet mop, in my own self-abandonment, I gathered our threads, which were anything but that, and led the only whatever a parent is, to the second bedroom, to shag me, with the perennial hurt that had made me, on the leash.
When Hugo had hired me, all lust for my weary eyes, my wan skin and my wild curls, he had played me, at once offered more money than I asked, by a heap, and talked with me tidbits of that trade of mine, forced me into complicity I had never thought of, used me, against the vow I had sealed not to shed any attention on the human beings that did.
I had been so scared, then, that Hugo had kept me for days, buttoned up, or suddenly nude, in a bath of perfumes, fool headed. He had taken a huge risk on my life, even before I started retelling him my pitiful life, and he paid me on because I was a whore.
Long after, when Adlaï Stern rang my number and ceremoniously asked to know me, I had a life, was a fully grown libertine in my own vice, and did not wish to know of any relatives whatsoever, on the verge of discarding my kind as an overblown cult, so to speak.
But he was earnest, too, and retorted to my insults by candid gifts, telling me that he could wait, or disappear altogether, but he brought me to solicit him, to, as he liked, insensibly, and showed me how to like it, too.
Now, he asked me to pose on the fine sheets, and I tried to pull more trickery through my body, to get him to spur into my whorish arse. Then he cuddled along me, reciting the specious philosophy to our —not so rare— lifeways. That night, he went on, and mezzo-voce pronounced that he wanted me as a daughter, eventually heir to his fortune, without changing nought of my hard-earned life. like the little girl I had never been, I sobbed, as he fled.
I received selfies of my Parisian cohort, but it would never be time for a video call with Fanny and Natalia, for whom life had probably run seamlessly flat. Adlaï words buzzed like a bumblebee into my somehow empty skull, as it felt, although my heart sang in tune with the morning clamour, and there had been a third of pineapple in the waking juice.
I washed away the night macerations in clear water, rethinking of the three spooks, that brought unbeknownst successful savours; I put on a touch of cypress green mascara, carmine blush, bit my lips before some matte gloss; another cup watching down on the crossroads, feeling how my invented father was a nifty fucker, and I donned silk lilac purple suit and tights, my Saharan night coat and my black patent flats. As often, by my lazy clock, I needed to pee before I left, but my pants were not the kind with the annoying tiny zipper, when I thought of Adlaï, it would be buttons; my morning quim only slept of one eye, I pictured the two pixies on their futon, chasing luminous bugs in the cybersphere.
Adlaï himself greeted me downstairs but waited that we were in the lift to seize my nape from under my coat and point the tip of his tongue into my lips. The new control room was set up, with the required futon and constellation patterned sheet and comforter. The gay gremlins playfully showed their toes and navels out of thick off-white tracksuits, and cotton trunks, the full kit for mischievous playthings.
It smelled of gingerbread, bitter almond, vanilla fudge, I hung my coat, kicked my shoes and groped up Michelle’s legs and belly, though gently enough not to tilt her focus.
In another corner of the shady room, Delffan sat in lotus before a television set, a bulky headphone across her velvet skull, watching some gloomy street scene with lots of rain pouring, did one understand TV American?
Briskly, Michelle twisted back at me, beaming, and so her trunks were pulled a tad further down, giving me access in her thighs, as she said she had found the pathway, and a lot of malfeasants would be hurt, now. She let me abuse her friskiness, her intimacy smelled of honey until we heard Adlaï clear his throat nearby.
The spry clubman, in vest and shirt of blues, asserted to Michelle that she was most desirable in raw cotton, too, but —after a rhetorical pause— certainly irresistible through all the digital whirlwind she had been stirring, for the greater glory of SEVEN STREAMS, which was the talk of “Insider Babylon”, the private online network of the information trade. Nobody had any clue who it was, but some wizard had flushed out the soot balls —whatever it meant— from the high-speed servers, and signs were it originated from the firm. One of Adlaï’s contacts had told him there was rough weather in some Federal Agencies, with bizarre references to some clear waters.
He was absentmindedly contemplating the flat belly and the golden little fleece my fingers were still twirling gently, he wondered if I would accept what he had offered me, in the wee hours, he added he would be so proud of me. It had not seemed to raise any of my flirt’s concerns, but I gave the fatherly libertine a tender gaze he could not doubt.
Set aside, was a simple antique office table and four chairs of the same wood, upholstered in aged maroon leather, on it, was a display of clever nerd food, bags of nuts, fruit, bananas, etc… also motley ceramic cups and plates, and a funky silverware teapot. Adlaï sat down casually, upturned one of a pile of cups and poured some tepid dark tea which he happened to like, with a bit more water from a jug.
He said Michelle had properly earned her premium, and a steady contract if she deigned to fly over once in a while, he had been speaking with her mighty associate, who had acknowledged the positive binds in the synergy between TRÆVIX and SEVEN STREAMS
As far as she could scan, she saw no impediment, but she insisted TRÆVIX would operate mainly from Paris, except for emergencies that required direct access to the main core, for which facilities like this one here, sufficed for her interventions. Adlaï required her bank ID, and illico transferred enough to trigger a cute whistling from her, he added a thank you.
As the aeroplane would take us away next evening, and there were decisions to be made rue de Verneuil, Michelle determined it were preferable to stay one more night at the patient’s side as she ran tests, a bellboy could bring them the few things they had carried. As it gave Adlaï another night with me alone, I saw his pupil twinkle.
I had not paid attention to the men sitting at a table, next to the door where the girls stood, watching football on a laptop, and straightened position before us. It was mid-afternoon, Adlaï intended to shag me once before we went to a late appointment with his lawyer, about the adoption, and it made me gleeful. During the short walk, he bantered about the three Parisian beauties who did not find upper-class New York glamorous.
We ordered tea, they had true superior oolong. I sussed he wanted to play in my pee, there are things one dares, with a whore. Estranged from my howbeit affectionate routines, I felt enraged from the womb up at the eerie idea of welding a whoremaster —be it of my own name— into wearable incest; but Adlaï had represented that, so doing, he would remain my debtor beyond death, in the end.
After having witnessed his judicial volutes with Michelle, I could be certain he was not a fool about me, whom he could have kept as a paid regular, like his tailor and his barber. I tested him, warning that, aggregating me like family, he would also become the grandfather of a nowhere girl I would not let alone with him. He laughed that, if he wanted, even Michelle could eventually come to terms with him, carnally, he had seen her confusion when he leered her amiable navel —I had heard of Melchior’s assault on her leading to a peaceful conclusion— I retorted it would slap Victor a nice one if he did.
These were sweet and sour niceties he liked to induce because he said it gave pretty colours to my face. He took my jacket, and all the rest, carefully, mumbling Yiddish, smelling all my folds and ripples, and fucked me standing, in my drooling quim, then my raunchy arse, making my knees quiver before he gushed and moaned, and enwrapped me, breathing forcefully. Later, he pampered me in the seven streams of warm water.
In the car that brought us to Park Avenue, across from the Waldorf Astoria, where the law firm was established, he told me he relished the idea of becoming an instant grandpa and wanted to learn all about his granddaughter, most of all if I slept with her, he understood, by the way, I described and lauded her, albeit warning him about her entangled status, and mental uncertainties. He said he would finance any course of studies she would wish, I told him that in Europe, these were for free, and he could make sure she needed nought, up to now, was he visiting us in Paris, soon? If only to see TRÆVIX new installation?
Matthew Mulder displayed the weary eye of having spun the US tax code for hours, but he aimed at me kindly, as if he had not yet computed that he saw me in the room at SEVEN STREAMS. He opened the folder he had brought, and I was dumbfounded to see my own birth certificate in it, whenas I had thought I would have to collect some, myself, as well as the death certificates of my biological parents, —which I had never seen— asserting their renouncement would, thus, not be required.
Adlaï sported his finest grin, showing that he had premeditated his strike by a long length, and I only had to sign the paper, three times, in presence of one more lawyer —a sporty busty blonde that smelled of Estée Lauder— to whom I showed my passport, dumbfounded.
We were given a copy each, on high-quality paper, in a flap folder, in a stiff manila envelope to our name, stamped of the firm’s header. The clocks being expensively cruel in premises like these, Adlaï pushed his chair back, quietly, and gave his hand to the perfect professionals.
In the elevator, I felt removed, although, to make me sure nothing had actually changed, my father groped me, and kissed me in a corner, as he would have of a whore.
The young prisoners in creased white cotton, all fresh in a whiff of tangerine, agreed to dress up and come along to celebrate my new filiation. Actually, my so-called father was instantly more interested by the girls’ thoughtless unclothing, and mostly the unusual nature of Delffan’s, whose bum was the epitome of both worlds, like in a Bernini. To remain in tune, I went for his dick and found it stiff, of course, and I wanked it some, as a menace to the giggling gamines.
He did not want to spend this way, over the kid’s bed, so he buttoned back up, and to show he wanted to make good with or trendy tribe, he offered a dinner at Gembo’s, a vegan place owned by a retired fashion model, on Madison Avenue.
Michelle set her machine, which kept crunching, in security mode, whatever that meant, and asked that the guards stay there, playing cards, until she returned, with a witty smile to the men who certainly did not blame their salary.
In the car, with the hustle of the news that however did not upend my lovely comrades, Adlaï managed to slide a hand in Delffan’s pants, I supposed one had done half the move, mouth gaped, bright eyes, expecting whatever would. Michelle made fun of the situation and rested her head on my lap, humming. Apparently, things wouldn’t go so far as to upset the dignified driver, but his hand remained on one’s prodigy.
En route, I asked that we take a peek at the sculpture Kate and Sarah had liked, Venus of Manhattan, by William Weeler of Venus, five meters wide, in bright aluminium —they said had been restored, It hangs across the Carlyle Hotel where they retold me they had literally exhausted out one of Melchior’s envoys and his British acolyte, a few days before they performed their famous duet in Adlai’s office. Yes, the high-relief sculpture, which pays rent for the space it overbears, is striking, although the Parke-Bernett building it adorns has lost some of its verve. New York is a considerable Art Deco conservatory, everybody salutes that, except Donald Trump, who destroyed the listed facade of Bonwitt Teller, in order to decree his gross carnival junk.
Gembo on Madison is an easy-going festive hall inspired by its owner’s background of glory —fashion is not always the only vanity— high-quality prints of McQueen’s, Chanel, and Dior spectaculars, in gloomy subaquatic lightings, vouch for this on the walls of this teal blue, satiné, muted, hall. Round tables in reclaimed oak, mended with white metal fillings, rested on roots moulded of the same metal, each one worthy of a centrepiece, and a crowd of black lacquered Hoffmann Thonet armchairs with white balls at the armpits, upon a geometric patterned, marsh green and black tile floor.
The lighting was traditionally subdued, but we could detail the food on our plate if no one really knew what went on in the skirts of the tablecloths. Between Adlaï and Michelle, Delffan shared oneself in a meant double availability, for fun, but my new daddy did not weight further, beyond his welcome.
Gembo makes attractive chartreuses, with creamy herbs topping and crispy bittersweet fritters; turmeric algae flans, dishevelled gluten-free noodles in wild herbs broth; sautéed, broiled forest and caves mushrooms in thick brown sauce and a spoonful of coriander, not even a shrimp to gnaw at for Adlaï the carnivorous.
The fireflies of gazes between us had returned to harmony, Delffan eased out one’s moves now that the old satyr had visited one’s sacred mystery, Michelle unfurled candour smiles in the restored security of our travelling conjunction. We raised no more than drinks of pink melon kombucha in honour of my new identity, albeit I doubted I would carry another passport, but who knows, ever, for the Sterns? He liked that one and grazed my belly and my free small breasts.
He wanted to hear about our impious cenacle society, in unison with a most exciting picture, on the wall, of a black jet gown royally walked barefoot, on black marble, by Cara Delevingne. I spun the yarn of Hugo’s extravagant magic, his father worldwide wine trader, wise enough to capitalise in the then ran down quarters of Paris. The only expense Hugo condones is for beauty, in beings or art, all the rest is peripheral and contingent, he despises gaming, hunting, all the sportsman’s pride. He doesn’t indulge in alcohol, out of shame of his father’s fortune, and he would rather smoke anything else than tobacco, were it not so complicated. But he will run to extremities, for a ripple he saw in the eyes of a forlorn prostitute, he is abiding of their derisory trade and hates the prohibitionists of all chapels.
But then, an exceptional visionary such as Michelle is nought of a carnal peddler, nor, apropos, dissolute fairies like Sarah and Kate you took a taste of, father. I held Michelle’s sinewy hands, and I wondered why, an alluring little imp-like her reaped only insult, battery and rape, whereas she was actually brainy enough to rule a singular share of the online world exchange? Even a peer of Hugo had fallen in the madness of violating her, while he had measured his mind to hers, and was heftily profiting of her unbounded vision?
I saw Michelle’s eyes lower, in their crystal sheds, so, I steered my babble aside to the ongoing endeavour of the new TRÆVIX siege, in a dignified eighteen-century hotel on rue de Verneuil, a rose throw from Hugo’s angel hive, so she could describe the redundant security barriers, to the new cove, where Delffan and her would thrive, nude as babies. The optical cable already in place was, she showed, as big as her arm.
Michelle pulled Delffan’s arm to her nape, and spoke in her calm, muffled tone, interspersed by little kisses she pecked on her lover’s pure cheeks, she announced that, in order to fulfil her watch on SEVEN STREAMS accurately, she was buying an array of boxes on the thirty-fourth floor of 56Leonard, and turning to me, asked if they would all take pictures of her arse? Delffan was like electrocuted, one could not hold her cutlery anymore, Michelle helped one gulp a tall glass of clear water and rubbed one’s tummy gently, there, there.
We were stricken, too, she had schemed all that online, like a Russian mobster, and was proud as a peacock; she wondered if she should hire Matthew Mulder in the deal, Adlaï, who was chuffed, agreed it was a good idea; I had yet no real idea of the numbers of millions what sounded like a mere whim represented, would she buy an aeroplane, too?
They needed one last night in SEVEN STREAMS, they revelled in the far side shelter, at one joke, Michelle retorted she had no idea if the minders peeped at them through the door’s glass pane —I would have—.
Delffan was sleepy, but Adlaï and I regained the Greenwich early enough to frolic like new family, indeed. I was nude in no time, sipping a lemon and quince tea, in the pose of a bad girl, when he came out of the bathroom in a plush plum robe, his venerable pecker out front. It were exciting days, I felt like sucking a cock dry, and I almost did, but he wanted to keep the image of me, spread at the bedside, fucked thoroughly in all the echoes of a lustful day. And, undoubtedly, had I deserved a double dose of that pill because after he had made me gush and himself crammed my holy full, he turned me over to watch my bum as he played in it, all his length, lentando, libero, as sostenuto as Hugo did, and I arched my loins to gobble him in full.
He had washed me, massaged my shoulders and spine, dried me softly, watched me pee, and tucked me under the lavender comforter, and now my lower belly felt like a clutch of doves and it was day, I had to check out. I brushed my hair, touched up my face, and sprayed some newly incestuous carnation sin of a scent, from a collection of little testers I carried in my bag. Looking up, I liked myself, like the proud little whore that could.
I collected all the girls’ and more’s stuff in their bags and went down for breakfast. The offered me frangipane toast, with butterscotch apple slices on top, and it tasted like going to shag, again. I paid, signed a gratuity as wide as I had opened my wings, in that unmatched elegance, and I drove with the bags two streets east.
On the futon, it smelled like the children’s playroom, bergamot and sugary sweat, I stole one of Michelle’s socks to get high sniffing it, she went straight to my crotch and licked my mouth, and she was a billionaire.
She had unplugged her black processor, closed the sleek box; she and Delffan had better keep dressed in their thick fleece sweats and thin underwear, new sneakers with graphic immaculate soles, she had made the last thing appointment in 56Leonard, we frolicked like puppies on the futon, waiting for Adlaï.
Matthew Mulder, square jaw, awaited near the Vantapoor steel pillow, in a slate blue Brooks Brothers suit, he sported an amused smile, like calling me a witness of the kids’ mellowness, but still, he had understood it wasn’t trifling matters, indeed. Hence, he had brought over a consistent colleague with burly shoulders, but clued-up in real estate. They had been devising with a sporty Navy blue Dona Karan blonde who did not yet acknowledge that the laid back coed, with aviators, was the client for a ten millions lot.
The elevator was one of those antigravitational prowesses that enrapture one to the thirty-fourth without tamping you down in your socks. Adlaï, who played the Missus Dominicus, tongue in cheek, in the haste of the moment when the otherwise faultless agent would come to realise her false assumption, appreciated in connoisseur the gamut of vital details that signal liveable architecture, and the firm Herzog & de Meuron had fine-tuned the score, from the door handles all the way to the toilet seat.
Michelle began to take lead and ask the questions about the nonetheless rather chaotic —huge round pillars obstructing the bays— space of roughly two hundred m², offering two sizeable terraces, at a still terrestrial altitude, same as Adlaï’s in the Western Union. The agent had been blushing, feeling that we all sniggered inside, but Adlaï, in his elder’s capacity, straightened out the course of the conversation, no offence intended, and Michelle had not perceived the blunder, anyhow.
Delffan was embracing the cyclopean columns, like a cat, testing she could hide behind; Michelle wondered if their footprint was included in the surface metrics, and did not wait for the answer. Personally, nought would have convinced me to move in, when I thought of my own house, but I let float a possibility that the unpredictable wunderkind only foresaw some kind of investment, for I knew all she, and Gauthier, had endeavoured in rue de Verneuil. The weather was clear and bright, far beyond New Jersey, and I recalled Sarah always vaunted the New York sun.
Adlaï had seized my waist, Michelle, taking us aside, begged that we stay with her to expedite the sale, as fast as that. The elegant troupe, one would have described as a family with grown children, landed down to a luxurious office complex, in a muted room with a round conference table. By diligence of Michelle’s, the real-estate guy had reviewed the sale contract and found it faultless, Adlaï asked to read certain points and nodded, the girl behind the red sofa was in for 6.9 million dollars, and signed where her lawyer told her, then, from her phone, ordered the transfer; she smirked and hugged Delffan, who was searching for tokens of reality; Michelle left the keys but received a set of hard plastic cards, after an assistant had punched her name into them, in the next room.
Still a bit puzzled, the two lawyers boarded a cab, and we walked down Worth street to 60 Hudson, to have tea and chat before leaving. Michelle explained that she had written a full encrypted log of her interventions at redundant addresses only her, Adlaï and Matthew knew of and could access. From Paris, her machines would monitor the fluxes daily as to the integrity of the connections, she would have no knowledge of the data themselves —Adlaï sighed.
He proposed his car to Teterboro, it would be more fit for a new daughter, but he mostly wanted one more hour groping me. All in all, the younglings were pleased to fly back, having seen where they would throw their futon next time; Michelle had already entrusted the decoration to Gauthier, it dawned on me the golden knight had skilfully cavorted with probably both of the red sofa fairies.
Adlaï, despite our heated night, was actually fatherly sweet, and let me go when the crew invited us onboard; I saw his upright silhouette shift in the glazings and switch out. Femke was ten minutes late but had brought boxes of delicacies from Aceline’s, as was written in Veronese green on maroon lacquer.
I had never imagined, I have no idea if I could have foreseen such a thing. I never saw Adlaï again, he died three days after we met in New York, he killed himself in fear of cancer he had been diagnosed with months before, incurable. The poison he used was fast, clean and painless, the coroner told me. He had left a short letter, asking me for cremation and no religious salute whatsoever, leaving it to my own to dispose of his ashes. In the crematorium, were all the fifty-some staff of SEVEN STREAMS, a dozen lawyers of Fuchs, Brauer & Associates, and Melchior, with whom I had flown in, under black glasses. After the coffin was rolled in a stealthy hatch into the grey granite-clad wall in front of us, We listened to “Der Abschied” by Gustav Mahler, sung by Kathleen Ferrier in 1952 — Adlaï had written he had not dared listen to her since 1972— on a relievingly fine sound system. He had added that Mahler had been as bad a Jew as himself, but he had loved New York, wholeheartedly. Eventually, I was given a still-warm metal box, and I cried many streams, like the little whore he mocked. Melchior had been seated next to me, he then said: “you’ll be safe, Camille”.
Long ago, it had not so much been having to watch the harrowing spectacle of my own mother hanging still in the staircase, but the sick stare of the sore survivors on me, the acid it stirred in my veins, leaving me deadlocked, having peed in my socks, and no one daring to reach out. I had remained days closed in the glaucous misery in which she had deserted me, piling every bit of her stuff in the far corner of the bedroom, and washing myself each time I smelled of her on me, outdoing her obscene manners, the same way she had tried with her own wreck of a mother. Apart from whoever had fathered me, all the men I had had to shun, fast, when she took them in her miserable bed, they had smelled of death, tobacco, wine and sweat.
After she escaped, it had been the inexorable landlord, who knocked relentlessly to check I had not followed her and eventually tamed the wild cat with derisory presents, food, perfume, and then lingerie and women’s shoes to his taste. He had a strong Hungarian accent, he could play the accordion, he made me an underage whore, until he died, drunk in my bed, and I became the toy doll of an opulent butcher who cried on me, and I learned my trade like leapfrog —I had the luck not to show bruises long— and some inspired debaucher sent me to his friend Hugo, as a present.
Now, some bespoke notary, who barely restrained himself playing footsie with me, in a mahogany clad office with a view on the river, was enumerating for me the riches of my estate, included a good many buildings around town. I was told Adlaï had entirely cleared his West street apartment before going to die in a hotel, after having tipped the personnel, all he wanted me to have was to be found in his office on Hudson street.
It was tingling cold when we landed at Le Bourget, and the sky was swept black. Regaled with fresh baked stuffed rolls and crisp little pies, we had binged on episodes of “Utopia”, a British TV mad conspiracy laced noir farce, with mock Grand Guignol skiddings, in search of Jessica Hyde, that Michelle had kept in her cloud for years, but one by one, we dozed out, more or less on the same armchair, under the covers, Femke laid upon us, before she went to sleep in her tiny cabin. Yawning at pre-dawn, Delffan noticed that the plane was silent, asked “where’s Jessica Hyde,” and went to the toilets, in trunks. The crew told us we had plenty of time to disembark, and actually, we were nicely dishevelled.
In the small customs halls, smelling of uncompromising disinfectant,
stood two officers in uniform, unusually pernickety about us and our luggage. I had not paid attention to the watch Michelle had offered to Delffan in Teterboro, they did, and there were taxes to be paid, I realised it was a gold Rolex. But mostly, their curiosity aimed at the black briefcase; they asked Michelle to open and switch it on. With a tad more aloofness than usual, she fetched a chair, sat in front of her machine between the officers, and gave them a demonstration of her routines, at a speed they might not have witnessed before, with also a special presentation of high definition porn, she was brazen enough to tell them that beyond these amusements, it was professional confidentiality and they would need a court order she would challenge, and meanwhile, all data would already have fled in the cloud. They could not body search us further, they could not read us out, they caved, with a mindful look, a chauffeur picked up our bags, and we left.
On the way, I caressed the bracelet at Delffan’s wrist and uselessly told one to beware of flaunting a fortune like that, but one retorted Michelle had sworn one was no longer a tramp, at the mercy of plunderers.
An early hour committee awaited, after only a few days, and I was nevertheless overwhelmed to see and smell Fanny, my Parisian secret agent, who visibly had a rich escapade with the smartest doe in our woods, not forgetting her cunning boyfriends and different admirers.
It would certainly provide fruit on my cake to make her avow the tricks in which Hugo’s house pet might have misled her.
Kate and Sarah had been still in bed and wore not much, but smelled like a dewy pathway filled with wilderness, my inquisitive vice told me they had had sex together not too long ago.
There was something unwonted about this return at the crack of dawn, Kate and I had lent our blooms to a herd of Fulgence’s acquaintances, and I was still light-headed, so I brewed a family-sized teapot of strong Darjeeling, with crisp cookies. Hugo had climbed up, along with Fæbyan, radiant in a graphic, contrasted dull yellow and navy blue knit ensemble, enlightened by her mentor’s constant cheers, I craved her lithe ankles like a toddler his mom’s ears, it was morning, so, what?
Camille unwrapped at once that she had been adopted by her uncle, the same debauched tycoon we had sold our wares to not so long ago, but, during the flight entangled in a cohort of suave smelling angels —how did I figure!— an afterthought had gnawed her dreams’ backdrop, she could not bring it out. Nevertheless, she had been recaptured by her derelict lineage, and she still would be the little whore who could.
She turned to Hugo and said that, all incest consumed, he had remained her dedicated tutor, since the gutters of dereliction, a holder of the keys until she took her own, no shame drank. Although as sibylline as it rang, none other than them knew the meaning of these phrases, but Delffan clung to Michelle who hugged one strong and twirled a few rounds. Kate needed to defuse the static and hummed in Natalia’s neck while fondling her breasts from the back.
Michelle wanted to plug her black novelty back to life, so, there was a crowd upstairs, —only Fanny swiftly drew Delfan to our still warm bed— before she called Gauthier about the Verneuil site. Camille remained in her cup, diffident, for once, so Hugo pulled a chair and ruffled her nape. She smirked and asked: “who is Jessica Hyde?”, then laughed, and sniggered she was getting old. Fanny was having a grand shag, she walked to the doorway and peeped, I joined her and groped her like old times.
The hotel was a stern, ashlar walls building, in the neo-classical trend of the ending eighteenth century, encompassing a front yard and the remnants of a garden, on the far side, overflowing with permanent foliages. Only Melchior could have possibly purchased such a grand property, but it was, by all means, Michelle, who gave all orders, be it the layout, the impressive security, the extensive wiring, but also the décor and comfort.
I knew, by smell, that Gauthier and she had shagged in the empty palace, as a matter of reckoning the spaces and circulations. She had not been told what it had been built for, and by whom, Hugo might tell her someday. On the street, stood a one-floor pavilion on all the property width, with a unique central double portal in which opened the pedestrian smaller door. There would live a household of concierges and on the other side the security personnel. The entryway was long enough for a big car and was closed on the yard by another military-grade portal with bullet-retardant glazing. all the front windows were protected with forged steel grids.
They had read treatises about security, and all Michelle would need, from anywhere in her house, was a mere twenty minutes to annihilate all attempt on the network, knowing she couldn’t live inside a Wolfsschanze.
Symmetrical wings closed the side views of the paved yard, with shallow service lodgings, Michelle did not foresee numerous staff, but had left her options open. Atop three stately steps, the perron stood under a three-slopes coloured glass marquise, the only architectural fancy detail in that austere square space, with a festoon of alternate gold and blue, engraved, plates. It had been renounced to set jardinières because Delffan had made an impression of the martyr plants in poorly attended pots, one might only imagine some extrovert “Nana” by Nicky de Saint Phalle, on each side of the stairs.
For then, the foyer opened at left towards the vast kitchen and service quarters, on the right to a reception suite all the way to the garden, under greek-minded stucco mouldings, those in the two sun-facing salons, gilded. The terrace was paved with slabs, in checker in two tones of ochre, gold and rose. Two venerable large-leaf magnolias took their light from the house reflection, before a background of dark evergreens, with a few camellias at the foreground, amidst diverse cushion-shaped boxwoods.
Michelle looked to be the daughter of the house, whereas Gauthier was moving around like home, but savvy enough not to overstep the aviator’s turf, not drawing a conclusion from some easy piece of shag. She took my arm, letting Delffan daydream in the empty rooms, upon immense Persian carpets —one had lost one’s shoes— under extravagant Chihuly chandeliers. Gauthier had lobbied like a state secretary to hang real Zuber panoramics, starting with two-tones Grecian grisailles on the yard side, with silver and gold changing taffeta embroidered of a flight of bronze colour starlings, draped up like a Queen Mother, with all the bling of ropes and tiebacks, to the full symphony of woodblocks détrempe of the oriental pipe dreams, too far-flung decorative to make one feel like in a showroom. The windows on the garden were dressed up of ultramarine satin embroidered of randomly sized five points stars scattered with shooting stars, trimmed with all-around fringes of gold, and flowing down from an elaborate drapery of the same. The last, east salon, had been devoted to the sensitive void of oyster rose, waxed Venetian plaster, under a white and gold-laced Murano chandelier, and Ingres worthy, lush gradient dawn silks dressing up the windows behind white linen veilings. This room might have made a dining room, but remained as empty as a cloud, with a pearl grey carpeting, a mouse grey central futon, and a chrome sound system.
Delffan was overjoyed, after the balcony over New York, one would possibly gambol in the fairy tale ballroom, except it had not been intended for parties as that were I had found one, but one then said it had not been happy times, and one was relieved to have been chosen by a cosmic genius. I still wondered if one would thrive in the shadow of a genius, would I?
It is at that moment, as one had been doing somersaults across the sublime rugs, that the idea of retelling one’s story to Cynthia dawned on me, she might help me help one of hers.
The foyer and staircase had kept their apparently original faux-marble staff work, untouched, verdigris and rust with black and white veins, it had been waxed anew and gleamed. A tall Murano millefiori chandelier glittered, like the soul of a perverted Venetian magistrato, raising to the inferno. Over the top of the stairs reigned a nightly dome, with a black celestial body speckled with gazing eyes, and casting long ripply gold and silver rays. Delffan held me still on the blood-red carpeting of the stairs and whispered that the eyes on the black star impressed one when climbing.
Upstairs, on the left side were one large bedroom overlooking the garden, a smaller one on the yard, lavish marble bathrooms and a small staircase to the attic, all empty and newly painted white. The grand bedroom was panelled in pearl grey, with glazed showcases almost everywhere, empty, except for a hand-sized crystal of quartz, embedded through with a native gold nugget. Michelle explained she possessed diverse collections, here and there, and she wished to repatriate them. She had chosen the monumental Meissen porcelain chandelier, all preciously crowded of Saxon roses. There was no bed in the alcove, only a futon was thrown in there and a crumpled comforter, on the thick, pale, roses and swirls carpet.
On the right, west, side of the house was the future TRÆVIX power core, and three stages down, where the batteries and the memories, were hermetically enclosed in inert gas, and all the non-spectacular array of safety devices and cameras Michelle and her staff controlled, from their workplace, and her bedroom. She could not show me the machines, because the room was pressurised, but her own command desk was bold enough, with nine 8K screens in front of a console wide enough for six people, black ergonomic Aeron chairs and back cupboards for food and drinks. The whole room was clad in warm coloured wood, she said she had not found anything to hang, I though a real B32 propeller would be fun.
When she proceeded to start the monster, howbeit she had left the black case on watch behind our sofa, it was as fast as opening the window, and I saw her unfettered pride before the blinking termite mound, though she declared the high bandwidth still lagged a few hundred meters away from her power horse; then she seized my shirt and assailed me, with all her heart.
She, too, was easy to disrobe, and Delffan watched us with eager eyes, her hand in her pants, she said she liked looking and giggled, one foot upon the other, as Michelle devoured my tongue. We soon rolled the three of us on the thick wool carpeting of black opal pattern, which would look less of a disgrace, when scattered upon, in the course of any crisis. The infamous spectacles had tumbled away, I kissed the different Michelle, wild-eyed, dazzled, at my mercy, easy game to Delffan’s keen spur, as it happened. Gauthier surprised us, and was prompt to stand at order, crazed by the tapered waist of his dream came alive in the balanced double nature of Delffan; he craved to thread the shy vagina while one shagged a genius in flight, and he found the effort benign, sheathing his dick to the guard in perfect rhythm, soon to be gushed on, to what he retorted in good humour, while I asked Michelle to lick up my electric pearl.
The workspace bathroom was a single white marble box with a shower head in the ceiling and two knobs mid-height, a glass pane sheltered the toilet seat and a sink of pearly porcelain on a marble console. we mumbled together, she said she often had video calls with Melchior, in the nude, while he wore his ample night blue gowns, and shades.
We felt a tad peckish, then, we dressed up and ran barefoot downstairs to the kitchen, to process yoghourt with cereals and fruit in the big blender. A whole previous salon had been clad with the small bevelled tiles of the old Paris Metro, with Veronese green accents and an alternate frieze along the cornice.
As in the case of hi-tech, the most superlative hardware had been installed, as if anybody was going to cook, which would be the case with the computers, but Michelle wouldn’t know if she would hire a cook, that might have got depressed by inaction; in the meantime, she would mostly order, like us, from the Danish caterers, at the satisfaction of Gauthier —who was already on his eager way to New York— and Delffan, whom never ate more than a bird.
Hugo came up that morning and taught me that Adlai had killed himself, by fear of cancer, and Camille was en route to attend the very restrained funerals, in New York. Not long after, I received notification through the company’s legal channels and a message from Melchior that said that my assignments to SEVEN STREAMS remained unchanged. I thought of Camille, who had had to overcome the tragedy of suicide, since her young age, and might have guessed what that Adlaï’s last move towards her, had meant. I had known a pert old faun, gentlemanly enthralled of our arses, rich as Nebuchadnezzar, I would sympathise with Camille’s mourning, although, deep inside, I knew nothing of that, I had never.
Fanny was entrusted with the holy tribe, for the while, she loves Delffan, but Kate had been her windfall saviour from traffickers, and she longed to relive her great intuition in her arms, in the girls’ grand bed, or with me and Delffan behind the studio’s sofa I’m ashamed I have been squatting for a long welcome, now, but it is only a matter of days to plug my custom broadband switcher to the most up-to-date backbone light snake ever. Melchior promised, meanwhile, I’m on watch in case the critters sought revenge on SEVEN STREAMS, I only await this to slaughter them.
Sarah comes by, she has a composed visage expression, and splendid assertive features, drawn brows, thick lashes, gem-blue eyes with a darker rim, a short Greek nose, a childish mouth in a pale narrow mask, but most of all, one feels she has known cohorts of other beings like her, unclouded —and that is not true, she has avowed—.
When she heard of my unfinished course, she came to tease me about her dad being now a teacher at Lausanne’s University, in that we could go together to his comfortable house on the lake, but I had to tell her that I quit Lausanne on a botched passion with another girl, and I felt terrible about her. She volunteered herself as goodwill comrade, in case, but then, she had already unclothed my whole belly, and she is awfully skilled at that game. We pretend to discover each other, marvel at limbs, long harmonious muscles, for the tenth time she says I should settle my circus in the gym room to rough up the cardio machine, and I laugh when she wonders how I make my thighs so lithe? Sarah is so clean…
It felt more graceful to forewarn Theo of my call to Australia, other than the gentle gossip we do once upon a season, I had decided to ask expert advice to Cynthia about one of her owns, I had come to feel more implicated than Delffan would imagine, oneself.
I let Cynthia choose the right time, so, it was around 12:00 when I saw her in her out of shower tee-shirt, sporting the same reassuring smile she left me when her family went into exile. Only now she was not only my recollections, but she was also a luminary, of all reasons, on the matter she bore so well, and I knew. She questioned me, mostly beyond my knowledge of Delffan’s truth, she inquired if one was safe with us, active, bustling, and concluded that she would crave talking to one head to head, if I let. My laptop had been on our bed, I ran up to the studio, grabbed Delffan and asked her, like in a game, to only speak to my friend from Australia —she had heard of Cynthia, unconcealed,— and she had the wits to handle a faraway conversation with someone, after all, not older than me. I let them natter and shut the door.
One hour or so later, our round head, who had been growing new tiny blond strands climbed up, sat on me and thanked me for all she had guessed I had not told Cynthia about her, in a hug, I retorted I was not one to tell what I did not know, and now on, only her would share whatever they chose to. Eventually, she dropped that Cynthia would love to come over for a few days if we invited her. We swore we would make it a celebration, and I slid along Michelle to retell her my long affair with Cynthia.
As planetary communications go today, Delffan had fast and deeply bonded with the providential savant in one’s own social uneasiness, someone whose introspection had never been poisoned by scaled neurons, like one’s parents. The two expected eagerly some physical encounter, and Michelle welcomed inquiries about her own natural draw to the gracile stray genie.
As to myself, I had grown mostly around anomalous sexual expanses, in the social void our bizarre parents’ abode, although in the easy spending tiers of the bourgeoisie. And my seasons with Cynthia and my brother, be it on the Alster meer shores in Hamburg, or the dazzled sands on Amrum island, or Sylt dunes, had tempered the metal of my soul beyond preconceptions —set aside my deadly pitfall in the bunkers of addiction, wherefrom my white knight Sarah had known to haul me, pitiful slag—. Now, the brilliant Doctor from Sydney, Australia, was piecing together, in a shambolic manner, the living theatre that her envoy Theo had dodged reporting, while he cruised the gilded salons of his mentor, in search of bygone eras.
So, Cynthia bravely prepared for a comprehensive survey of our evolutive eco-saga, at least the description of our adaptive sexual behaviours, anyhow I sensed she was altogether aroused. Little did she glimpse a planetary covenant, a smooth operating alliance of self-aware peers in modern days debauchery, but these consonances she would comprehend by herself, at her pace, I had no clue what level of scrutiny she practised under.
Within a week, Melchior had sent a special team to finalise the high calibre connexion needed by the TRÆVIX operation, they had tested all Michelle’s contraptions and sent a rave report, actually applying themselves to serve at her orders, possibly.
The small canyon behind the sofa reverted to its nondescript dust-trap visited by diverse housekeepers, but Delffan kept barging, deftly, at any hour. Cynthia was announced, she would temporarily dwell in Theo’s extra room.
Theo and I went to Charles de Gaulle, meet Cynthia, after her full twenty-four hours inside the 380, happily, her research fund had afforded her a business seat. It was early afternoon, but the crowds at airports always look out of sync. She was eventually let in, Theo ran before I singled her, very short black hair, parted on the high forehead, light tan from a summer season, eager stare like she had only thought of one thing, these last turns of the clock.
She rolled a big soft bag, the car had travelled around to come back pick us up, she smelled of a hasty towelette clean-up, she tasted airline coffee, she was back from another planet. Theo was no more untamed than usual, but he demonstrated far more respectful distance than me, obviously.
At home, Sarah was won over at a glance, she had heard a long tale of Cynthia’s, but she was not disappointed. Only then did I perceive the sisterhood I had let grow on me when Sarah had made her move
Like a cat, Theo sat at the far end of a couch. I offered the traveller to take a shower with me, and Sarah, as it happened; she needed massages, among many things, and groping a new slim tomboy. As we dried each other, cries told us that Delffan had felt her friend had disembarked, she offered to run and pick up lunch at Agnete’s, Sarah called out to organise just that and brewed some tea, and coffee.
She was overawed by our installation and the laid-back beauty of Sarah —who had swayed her hips in the shower— so I had to sketch the lines of my becoming since Hamburg, art school, the Beaux-Arts, meeting Sarah, Camille, Hugo, and the companionship. She would meet a few boarders of our own Thélème, all safe and willing. But if she needed to converse intimately with Delffan, she might wish to do that in the quasi-fortress she lived freely in, with her lover, in the next street, and was mostly luxuriously empty; and since there were no comings and goings, she might recover from jet-lag by napping anytime —Delffan was very tolerant to other people’s schedules—.and she would meet the prodigious Aviator, and fall in love. By the bye, she had been announced to our common clinic, where she could manage much of the medical investigation she might wish, or be dispatched to bigger units, no questions asked, no fees.
All her northern hemisphere planets aligned, she begged for a landing nap and was soon greeted by tiny purrs of a round-headed pixie.
When it sounded obvious that the reciprocal soul-searching had interlocked for good, through some idiosyncrasies in language, for neither actually spoke the other’s vernacular, but compensated the pitfalls with a tide of centripetal affects, at the risk of disqualifying the scientific rigour of Cynthia’s observations. But their encounter, after many Zoom preliminaries, had shunned foreseeing of the psycho-analytical kind, at the root, and there had been no neurosis to quench, as a start, Cynthia would soon appreciate the smooth arrangement between a four-eyed hyper-brain and a rare bustling orchid.
We had withdrawn to our still abundantly geranium-orange smelling studio, morally petting each other amidst polyamorist musical harmonies, streaming from Soma FM, brewing Oriental Beauty — Her Majesty’s— pecking at thin lemon cookies. A dusk reddish gleam waned behind the linen veilings, I could not assign my attention to no other than feel Sarah’s pulse in her slender neck, and so, without much words, we tidied our table sides and decided to propose a welcome bash in the TRÆVIX fortress, before Michelle forgot.
The two miraculous does breathed each other’s air, their eyes twinkled; they had been utterly grateful for our timely effacement. Theo had disappeared; at the relief of a loose dress code —Michelle would most casually see us in one of her white tracksuits— Cynthia fetched a saffron yellow texture knitted gown, buttercup tights and poppy red boots, to go with a black silk wide collar trench. Delffan borrowed a periwinkle ensemble of marinière and slim pants, mismatched Converses, pastel blue and marshmallow purple, and a navy blue pea coat then sat waiting upon one’s conquest’s lap. Sarah grabbed a vintage Kenzo faux-fur printed of an oversize blue fox, cashmere rib-knit silver ash leggings, and grey Jodhpur boots. Aware of cold thrills that watching my old flame enthralled with the living epitome of candour, I slid in cloudy grey cashmere tights, a heavy marsh green silk bourette, army style easy shirt, almond green laced ankle boots, and a hooded parka, printed of foliage tapestry pattern, lined of cypress green wool. We all groped each other and climbed down for the expedition around the corner.
At the entering of the code, the pedestrian door buzzed open, Michelle asked that we bring up the boxes that rested on a side table; when the street door locked back, the heavy black steel and glass wicket sprung aside, causing Cynthia fright and our laughs: Welcome to TRÆVIX 101, This place is under constant scrutiny, its owner is a shy blonde who wears glasses and loves Delffan, too. She was standing at the house’s door, with one of her slanted smiles, in a thick fleece tracksuit, barefoot.
A dark-skinned Asian type boy took the delivery boxes from us and disappeared, the Chihuly chandeliers and hidden light sources bathed the empty salons like the inner of giant crystals, Cynthia imitated us, left her shoes, and dared a few steps of dance on the pristine old rugs, earning a friendly opening by Michelle, who was hugging her pet goblin.
As we moved through the scenic ballroom, she complained Gauthier had been otherwise busy than looking for dining furniture, he had ideas, and we should keep our Windsors. I took Cynthia’s hand to dance a little and make obvious the kind of relationship we had. Sarah stood alone looking outside, Delffan invited her in their embrace and forced Michelle to respond to a wild kiss. So then, Cynthia needed a tad more details, for she tended to think that not many houses in Paris, besides ageless estates, felt like this one. delaying my fierce want to undress her fully right there, I wondered if Michelle would let her see the upper floor as well, and we visited the impressive control room, the function of which the charivari on the screens left no doubt,
In the cloud room, Delffan sat on the scattered futon and told Cynthia this was the place where they could have their talks, among others.
In the middle of the oriental dream room, a large round, ornate, silver tray had been set upon a low round table, with all the nibbles on porcelain plates, in orderly spirals. We sat easy, Delffan had shown us a trove of generous cushions under the stairs.
Cynthia was disconcerted, the rigorous logic of the scientist was called upon, not that she would prejudge Michelle’s capacities, but here she was, her biological clock upended, and in the middle of a fairy tale décor, playing peck-a-bite with a club of ravishing lesbians who had just been pretending to remotely control the world. While Delffan frankly groped her, she began asking her questions to Michelle, in an order that sounded awkwardly like your standard test battery that Michelle burst in laughter, and did the whole argument by herself. She offered to show a reticent Cynthia the whole network of her hospital, in Sydney, inside out, and scan through it for malwares and bugs, that, exactly, would be her trade. My proud wayfarer shied back and only responded to Delffan’s cuddling, jesting she had been expecting the mad hatter.
That smartly outspoken antipodean sister, with her catchy accent, had, of yet, been looking upon us as spoiled kids with naughty manners, whereas she had condoned Skype coquetry with Delffan on account of one’s nature —had there been cameranigans? Anyhow, Cynthia’s image did not come in sharp focus over that of Katherine’s nostalgic rêverie, running bare on virgin sands; she seemed no less of a Martian than Michelle on a keyboard, until I fucked her, too, or rather her, me.
I joined Kate flirting with our hostess, who likes my foot massages —it’s in the genes— while Delffan was actually funny, retelling her stray life to a thawing Cynthia. For myself, the siren’s moves flinched none, I still felt the novelty shudders about her, pulling her pants away, and her shorts. She moaned lazily, stretched up, and ordered us two upstairs, letting Cynthia ogle her blond nether.
Of course, she had been abstracted, over some of her multidimensional routines, but thence, we took it as part of her charm, and I could not fathom how such a facetted mind as Victor’s had missed a refined voluptuousness as this. In her own blinkering holy of holies, infrangible Faraday cage, she revelled in our expenses of cuddles, much like an unborn child in its mother’s palms, and moreover, she saw the humour of it all, for so long as nought would break the drawn glass effusions, in her earthly embodiment.
After she took a pose in her work chair, legs apart and feet on the counter’s edge, so as to let me nibble at her peachy pearl, and Kate infuriate her tits, she climbed down to gambol on all fours like a puppy, thirsty of our quims, wholeheartedly blooming.
She begged for us to stay sleep, in a concealed cupboard was a folded futon, the silence was absolute.
When we woke, it would have been eluding of when and where, only that it was Kate I was cuddling, her hair over her face. In unspoken ritual, we needed to pee, so after a few blank seconds, I gathered the coordinates I recalled, the wall of glitter, the thin blonde on her perch, the recess in the far end wall. Sitting on the bowl and feeling that faintest feel amidst the twirly glimpses of a happy Michelle at our keen mercy, and Kate menacing of let go if I would not budge. We rinsed our mouths and drank some tap water, then went back to the collected wizard at her pitch, back in her white tracksuit, her lithe body all the more desirable and unavailable.
Our rags had remained downstairs, we found them tidied in a pile, we slid in a mere minimum, and headed to the kitchen, where all we needed awaited, tea, fruit, pastries in a basket. no sign of the nonpareil pair. The heavy kitchen table and chairs offered some testimony of some reality, the tea, from an unidentified black tin caddy, probably came from an ethereal climate in Darjeeling, the Danish rolls bore amber crystals of sugar. Our messages told us we would obtain reaps of news later in the day, we collected our shoes, met no hitches fleeing the silent redoubt, our own observatory had been neatened, it smelled of benzoin, as in attention of Lena’s.
Back in our marks, another warm cup at hand, we still marvelled at the gift our windfall aviator had granted our eager, lustful, nerve nets, even so, I would relish catching a dick, as a worthy epilogue, and Kate sighed.
Lizon called, she sounded giddy, but she said we might enjoy listening to what she had lent herself to, and I needed no more details, she would come to us. She arrived at once, in a slutty shirt dress of dark night bourette, bare legs. She had cut her hair shorter, wore no makeup, and the lilac shade rings under her eyes made her gazes lascivious, in the light of her youth.
Sami, of Marc’s, of whom she knew what to hear, had called sneakily the previous morning, offering her an easy and lucrative gig, said he, if she agreed that the fees would entail to let him play her in the car, like old times he kept craving. We both moaned at the thought, she burst into kiddie laughter. He had picked her up, much as we saw her, then, on the red couch, but in a poppy red duffle coat, crotchless night blue tights, black Chelsea boots. He had been struck, he had not seen her in months, he wanted her to touch him right away. There was this old gent, filthy rich and smelling good, just like him, said he, forcing her face to his dancing little soldier, who liked to be peed on his face, and so on, to real sodomy, but she knew the kind of tune. Sami drove to some disused warehouse in the outskirts of Paris, called a number from the portal that opened instantly, so he entered, still in her mouth, until he stopped in the middle of a huge empty room, and ordered her to make him spurt, and swallow, as she did.
A first fit thence released, Sami had taken a soft kerchief to her lips and kissed her lengthily, moderato cantabile, like the precious little whore she was, disrobing her carefully on the one-piece leather seat that looked like it had been warmed by so many bums like hers, explaining playfully that she should preserve a decent outfit for the next cavalier. She had opened her legs wide, aroused by the low hum of the engine idling, like old times, had he said. He had licked her nooks and creases, she smelled wild, she would have no means to shower clean, at what Sami retorted that it was her john’s taste, he wanted her as desacralised as a bitch in heat, dripping of all her holes, and he had laughed while threading her in deep. She was retelling joyously, how his words had unbound her wants down the brook, and she had spilled her female sap, amongst his furore.
They had wiped their lewd traces, this car smelled like a kennel, he told her he could have gone on, of all the trollops he feasted on at Marc’s, she was one to whom his mind returned, and he had already wanked at the thought of her, in her neck, he had whispered there were others.
She had used a ready towel to dry most of her skin, he watched her, standing on bare concrete, redressing her utilised body, chewing her lips in the courtesy mirror.
The house had been a proud old nineteenth-century hotel, in the midst of the right bank, as it seemed, Sami had walked her to the front steps if only to make sure there was no mistake and had fled respectfully. A podgy character bearing moustaches ending in sideburns, holding a gold-rimmed lorgnette, had invited her in the tall, dark panelled foyer,
haunted by religious kitsch paintings of the pornographic kind, with many Sebastians hustling the frustrated Christians and Magdalenas gazing from under. He told Lizon to undress, piece by piece, to unbutton the dress, slowly, he sniffed her, here and there, with little growls, and he started to scold her, in all the small names prostitutes are granted with. He relished the pale skin, the striking deep carmine painted nails. He was bedazzled when he saw her minutely epilated pussy lips in the white circle the tights let see.
He wore a theatrical crimson and black smocking jacket with large padded satin lapels, wide black crepe trousers and monogrammed slippers, he told her to quit her boots, and took advantage of that move to feel her butthole and moaned of compliments that he found her crotch wet all over, with that beastly perfume, wherein he dipped the heads of the ridiculous plastic religious tchotchkes, he took, aligned on the edges of shelves anywhere around, and softly wanked her with them. He promised Lizon he had thoroughly disinfected his toys with hydro-alcoholic gel, earnest.
She was amused, indeed, and we had long left our seats to join her on the couch; she smelled of yellow cliff bushes and wild roses, my vice purred into her armpits as she got animated. The three of us had undressed but we restrained our cuddles in order to let her tell further the lewd tastes of Dr Pickwick.
Still scenting the smear of sperm and effusions, overflowing of metaphors on her skin, making her tell-all she had been submitted to, he had pulled a prie-dieu between her parted legs, as she reclined on a burgundy buttoned silk settee, so he could lap at every drop that smelled
Once that she bathed in his own wretched saliva, he seized her firmly, but not in a manner that would bruise her admirable skin, and he tied her to a sturdy column trunk, that had obviously stood there for that purpose, feet on the sides, hands behind and the neck, thus she could not bend forward, he had used an antique oak stepladder, and he was still insulting her like a grave. She became concerned with the noose at her neck, but she couldn’t already speak or cry anymore, and then he began tickling, and watch her contortions, until he opened his jacket and rubbed his glans on her labia, not without effect, but she was fainting, he hurried to untie his plaything, laid her panting on a convenient daybed, lifted her legs apart, and shagged her silly, in both her holes, while she moaned.
I wanted to check her neck, as I had seen nothing weird when she had wooed us, the slick bastard had probably used a padded collar, and not pull as fiercely as she had felt, we scrutinised every bit of her pale skin, her quim, her back hatch, she was still as pristine as an expensive courtesan, that she was.
He had kept his pasty round belly concealed under his shirt, he trotted on scrawny short legs, but his gazes remained fierce, as he brought a silver tray holding a crystal pitcher and two high tea glasses, for what looked, and tasted like iced lemonade with mint and angelica, through the dewy tears. it eased her throat somehow, and she smirked when she sussed at what it was intended for; but he had honeyed his tone, and preened her like a dove.
Pulling up his vast old fashioned shirt, he told her to wake Johnnie with her candid mouth, sitting beside of him, so he could fondle her arse with some smooth medicinal balsam that let her open wide soon. He forced a few more glasses and also indulged himself, switching glasses to show the drink were not laced.
She had known a few of these refined bathrooms, these odd boys often cleaned her virtue in the process of soiling it most, it all ended in heady vapours and thick terry robes, her innards in bloom.
This one led her to a small Moorish hammam, all clad in bare cedarwood, the artesonado octagonal ceiling, luring the eye up to infinite layers of dark heavens, having most certainly been stolen from some Mudejar palace. The polished white marble floor was warm, he took away his shirt, hugged her as he reclined on his back on a bed of weaved straps, making her ride his shaft in her arse, teasing her to pee over him, as he was, actually, peeing in her, in a scented cascade of the infusion they had been drinking. She was madly exhilarated, he pinched her tiny buds as she gushed of all her effluvia, she sobbed of laughter and he went ecstatic, for as long as she repelled the flow out of her guts.
They had rested, spent, in the shifty vapours of their lewd game, he held her firm upon his peaceful heart, mumbling his rosary of insults as a way to lull her. Then he stood up, still holding her like his buoy, grabbed a gold chain with an ivory fish handle and pulled a large shower head upon them, and by mean of a jolt of the chain, triggered a whip of cold rain that all gradually warmed to perfection, rinsing the whole party ring and them, dancing, Lizon reclined upon the protruding paunch, as he soothed her in jasmine and neroli foam.
Here and then, convulsing in laughter, kissing and licking every bit of her, we all needed practical work, at what we would certainly not be called debutantes, and Lizon had foreseen that manner of conclusion all along, our shower shack certainly was a tad more pared-down, but it sufficed to the throes of three heated graces in passion.
She had been paid a Royal ransom, one that would have made my little Swiss fiancée envious.
It had been eerie, mournful bleak days, although the sun had spread its golden satin all over this cumbersome lot of a city, although my stay in the Greenwich consoled my dismayed soul, once the plague of inevitable paper works Adlaï had left for me to sign was dealt with, at his notary’s office, I was also given a red cardboard box containing his Rolex watch and a rather cumbersome class ring I did not remember him wearing. The watch was still going, I slipped it on my wrist, it was heavy and loose, I liked the untidiness it cast; I thought it was a quartz model, I did not feel a balance wheel in it. I dropped the ring in my inside pocket. The all but ceremonial cremation he had organised himself on Bleeker street, was actually boxed, as a warm silver cylinder, in a well-fitted black crocodile case, I had shrewdly enough cornered Matthew L. Mulder, attorney at law, in my suite with a Martini and, firstly, stolen his tie.
I hope it had made no doubt to him I was a slag, of the rich kind, as he just witnessed in a few days. but I pulled my best core tricks to hijack his attention on my bare feet, and higher up, where my knickers had gone astray. On top of brilliant professional capacities, he revealed some snappy wits, but let me do all the walk to his fly, which nonetheless was already stiff under the posh blend of his Brooks Brothers.
He revealed a good kisser, too, and I found myself all bare in no time, wet as a dream. Holding me firm on the bed, he could not help his dich straight inside for a good row of thumps, but he reconsidered, kissed my eyes and whispered that I deserved anything other than a hussar shag if I would. He wore cufflinks, and golden toes socks, he smelled of an enthralling manly Cologne and his glans dripped of clear lube. I climbed upon ten years of working up, worthy of a wrestling scholarship at Yale, and impaled myself on his unfazed prick, for an off-chart ride to the heated salute for a father that never was. I made it last all night, after all, he was the only one that could have asked for me, in the whole Gotham brownfield. He dared not flee in the morning, I ordered breakfast, he liked toasts and marmalade, he looked at me, in my transparent jersey gown, as if, like he most certainly had experienced before, I was about to sack him. I just dropped, matter-of-factly, that i could personally very well work with a person I had fucked, even a very good and skilled time, and moreover, I would never become conflicted with him or his firm, would I? He breathed, smirked, looked in my eye and asked if this was the French way?
Matthew groped me some, but I told him not to bustle his schedule, I would meet him at their offices for the ten o’clock meeting, before the opening of Adlaï’s safe, at SEVEN STREAMS. They had a sealed envelope with the code in it, for me. My champion and I played cool, even more than he might have expected, as my wealth and social surface and expanded, under their eyes.
The security of the safe was a multi-tiers combination, with permanent records in the cloud, this wasn’t Hollywood. It contained the kind of property titles of which Fuchs, Brauer and As already detained certified copies, but there was one white cardboard box sealed with red ribbons and wax imprints, to my name, that I brought back to my room.
I was returning the next day, I offered dinner, and else, to Matthew, who could still taste me on his lips, he agreed wholeheartedly and went on to his day.
At the Greenwich, I ordered a fruit salad, almond crisps and a pot of oolong. They had lent me a New Yorker tote to carry my box, and now I wanted to know what was inside, disarmed, I asked for some kind of sharp steak knife, and no, my husband was already dead.
Inside the white box, was another, older, cardboard box, with, in it, a black textured leather casket shielding a precious book, for all I knew printed or written in Hebrew, of which pages stuck out a thin band of paper bearing ” To be read in France”, in Adlaï’s handwriting, thus I repacked cautiously the mysterious gift from beyond and tucked it in the midst of my bag.
This young all American bachelor had rekindled my guts, and, beyond that night’s expected expenses, I devised to lay a trap to take him in my plane to Paris, where he might even make friends with some of my entourage. Melchior agreed, he would charge SEVEN STREAMS, and he added that he could watch whatever we did on the plane, to what I saluted a joyous “Gesundheit, Melchior”! And it would be my pleasure to let him peep at my lusty lawyer in practice!
Opening my dress in the cab, he dared not question the lifeways I gave him glimpses of, he would see to that as it would surface, and meanwhile, he had liked the song I sang. In my suite, I offered him a glass of old Armagnac, while I drank my brew of angelica and cardamom with honey like a spinster had he thought, and what did he know? How would he like to learn that all the little alley cats in my backstreet parlour were peachy fresh teetotallers?
After a trip to the toilet bowl, I had forgotten my knickers, puffed up my curls and quit my boots, he enjoyed it when I came back and sat opposite to him, not crossing my legs. College had not ruined his manners, he was sipping the out of price liquor at a sensible pace, contemplating his prey beyond the thin crystal where the suave waves rolled, but he wished not to let my want to wane, so he tilted the sniffer two and a half times, and sliding forward on the sofa’s edge, he grabbed the tip of my toes, and thence grazed my stocking up to my smiling sanctum. Finishing touches make all the price, the buttons of my dress yielded the way at a left-hand pinch, as I stole his tie and groped his muscular neck, while I stretched my legs upon the armrests. He nuzzled in my armpits and said I smelled awfully sexy, and a flurry of dirty adjectives that let me think he had been thinking of our first night, so I told myself I had better share this champion with some of the squad before he turned up obsessed with me.
Him too had shirts of the good make, I swiftly despoiled his glorious anatomy, with the funny fantasy that I owned it, which might have resulted in the apparent counting, whenas I only afforded the dizziness of being his, only never more the nauseating manner of my wretched seasons, when I let be done whatever earned me a bath in a hotel bathroom, so as to, later, properly woo another faceless monger, a notch further on the money scale. This tik-tock never needs winding up, where it lives, deep into the blue stone of my skull, all the more a greater arousal to reach for this one, toll-call educated cock, at my unabated vice.
Matthew earnestly executed what he ought to, shag me straight and bold; he was a steadfast wrestler, with damn filled balls, and all the nerve to follow his catches. When we had all dampened our crotches, he asked permission to bugger me on, and thence I let a loving tirade flow upon his glaring face, while he sheathed his spurring weapon in the shuddering warmth of my unfading cunny.
We played under the shower, he softly opined I had been declaiming my wants in the French language, and it had felt glorious to him.
The flight was at 13:00, I took breakfast downstairs, Matthew showed at 9:00 and I let him time to taste his pot of coffee before I called for the cloud nine limousine I were, now on, entitled in, it had been Adlaï’s, and it rekindled the refined manners he had always demonstrated having me, that unrivalled spell he bestowed our incestuous romance with, whereas he had always known I were a boundless courtesan. I might have relished retelling my Hamilton fate to the Greco-Roman, lavender-scented bachelor, seated upon the very same leather a dignified Jewish cardsharper of my forebears had made me suck his elegant prick, might I not?
As the weak sun of winter chased us, up to the George Washington Bridge, as I had seen Adlaï do, I pushed the button to blind out the partition pane, and played with Matthew’s unending stiffness —only Fulgence, lately, had propped up to my nose such a playful tool— but I kept my resources for the long smooth hours above the Atlantic skies.
Matthew was not such a novice that he would not have flown private number of times, on assignment, better yet in gallant company, but he was genuinely discreet, and otherwise, I did not feel he feigned the excitement to fly alone with the well-dressed slut that he still shagged a few hours ago.
In the hushed ambience of the boarding salon, many gloomy faces awaited us, two customs officers in black uniform and otherly three cheap suits. They checked our papers and announced they would search our luggage, our electronic devices, and ourselves. Matthew spoke up and claimed he was a lawyer and wanted to see a warrant, although he knew the customs had absolute power, and the three FBI agents remained impassible. I declared they could search all they wanted, under the security cameras I bravely pointed at. My bags were scanned, they scrutinised Adlaï’s old book, I told them where it came from, they scanned it, too, along with our clothes, belts, shoes, and they inquired about the silver cylinder container with a screw-on top: they retched when I casually told them whose it was, and the ring still in my inner pocket.
For the funky part, I enjoyed two fingers of a not too ugly ponytailed customs officer deep in my anus. They asked for our NIPs, we refused, but they took out the SIM cards and cloned them in a big telephone looking device, they scrutinised our watches and our key rings, after a while, I was teasing them, because, to me, for all I knew, this whole operation was a prank, and I would sue for harassment. Anyhow, Matthew fumed too, and required that everything be tidied back in place, the three dull Caballeros had fled, We had lost one hour, been violently molested, for nothing. Dumbfounded, we boarded, earnestly not knowing what had been going on, Matthew demanded that the security videos be uploaded to his office; he cursed there was no more fourth amendment protection in American airports.
Our attendant happened to be Bengali, young and dedicated, the kind you might have tipped at the Ritz. Lunch was in order as soon as we reached flight altitude. As we ate the Caesar salads and cheese plates that had been kept cool in the car trunk since the driver had collected them at Hudson Clearwater, Matthew began to stare at me, again. I had been wearing a plain lichen grey cashmere Garbo smart streamlined outfit, with high-waisted, cuffed flared trousers, a thin jersey marinière and wide lapels one-button jacket grey socks and loafers.
Given green light from the cockpit, we both called our bases in New York to forward our complaints as to the unexpected search by customs and FBI, at SEVEN STREAMS, the feds had asked for me a few hours back. Then I had a hunch to call the TRÆVIX number and recorded the essential of the events, in case Michelle would want to look into it; twenty minutes later, the copilot asked me, and Matthew, on a piece of paper, to take off the sim cards of our telephones, and keep them wrapped in our diaries, somewhere. Once it was done, he said that Mr Melchior had called the plane’s secure line at the demand of TRÆVIX Paris. After that, I asked in aparté to Matthew if he would check my bumhole for a bug?
With a cup of the finest mocha made in a Bialetti, came a box of chocolates from, Royce, I pulled my socks away. and told Matthew to sit next to me, to compare chocolates. And we caught up where and what we had left, in the car.
That, he had never been doing in a jet in flight. There was the idea of a remote thrill, like played Victor when he exposed you to the voyeurs and the passers-by, and his clutch was such that you came despite the awe, and shame would have been so smooth to act out. Matthew was completing his appropriation of what I offered and began to grasp it would remain a game, possibly endless, but eventually, I belonged to no league, Between fits of febrile rage, I began to set up the theatre he was about to know, in a way that he knew the characters shared each and every other, that meant me, in that free will polyamorist utopia, to what he was under none coercion to abide. After all, he was only, there, fucking a client, as it happened, a cute, rich and with a lot of clout, he would reckon.
As I lay, in lulls, among Matthew’s bone-wrecking embraces, overtly lewd to the worse, I dreamt up the outcome in the almighty’s pants, I already devised enticing Hugo to ask for an upload of the video, while I would serve him in flesh. As for then, my clean wrestler shone of all the flair of his unerring upbringing, and I knew my criteria, having had to cope with crowds of paying customers of my enduring bloom. Now that he had been let free rein on my romps, how this sharp gazed American born-vanquisher would he gulp he served his best shot to a well-versed prostitute? A long time gutter frog? Had he not sussed all along?
It was a bleak winter rain on Le Bourget, no delegation of sad square types on mission, but a shiny silver sedan with a smiling driver holding a same brand umbrella. A long, nightly landscape, all things considered, better than day, like skimming over a book of Saul Leiter’s, still in Matthew’s hands.
At home, Fanny and Natalia had prepared a formidable Tuscan ribollita, and bought a big loaf of nut bread that smelled of the ever-consoling smell of sourdough. I introduced Matthew as my American lawyer, in the subtle manner that let them, the cunning squirrels, guess what he was worthy of, howsoever.
From the landline, I called Michelle, and retold the twists and turns of our departure, she complimented the wisdom of the whole reaction to the inquiry, whatever the reason; she asked me not to put our SIMs back in place, before she could read and expurgate them of any weird stuff, she would later provide smarter phones of her own manner. It was late, but she invited us —what did she know of my boy? the next day. Hugo was overly amused in all this, but said he was proud of me, as he had always, said he; yes, he would beg for the video of my romps in the stars and we would comment together.
Evidently, Matthew, who took a proud disembarkation shower, in a little more time I could have swallowed of him some more, fell enthralled by the two nymphets at ease in silk jersey pyjamas that let be seen all details of their youth —particularly Fanny’s chubby pubis— and who simpered at him like whorehouse kittens. I could not help sharing my Fanny’s chair and hold her in the most explicit manner, which made Natalia feel the athlete in a terry robe was hers, and I would not deny it, but , Fanny still on my bosom, I grabbed the big round loaf and asked the swordsman to slice it for us, he admired the damascened German knife I was pinching by the blade, he smiled at me as if he woke from a reverie, rolling his eyes on the girls. To alleviate the tension I conveyed Sarah and Kate, possibly another of our gang, there were enough soup.
The rhubarb pie had been as subtle as a Bellmer caress, and I snickered softly when I discovered my lawyer’s hand in Natalia’s pants —he had been warned— she had not ran a risk that her cunning elders waltz off with Mr Quarterback, and my wink availed her a permission to lead the subjugated knight to one of the guests room, Fanny would make my night, but first, I had to keep my team updated.
I had thrown down comforters on the divans, the four of us were fast to disrobe in the keenest no-pyjama party, and Fanny craved her saviour Kate, who smelled of almond and jasmine, as if she had been straight out of Hugo’s sheets on a Tuesday. Sarah sniffed me and told me, in the eye, that I had been naughty, she’s a gifted kisser, I dived back into my most feminine wants, she smelled of Egypt, at the jasmine harvest time, with a hunch of burned sugarcane, afar. After a day of having been threaded through and through, I mouthed her genteel quim until she cried mercy.
A tad vexed about not seeing yet my prideful catch, they acknowledged, on Fanny’s testimony, that Natalia might have taken rightfully what was hers as first found, they listened to what I could let float of my adventure, mostly the details of Adlaï’s end, of whom they kept a joyous memory, that he would have undoubtedly cheered. When I went to pee, along with Sarah, Natalia was still moaning, over there.
I had not yet visited Michelle’s bastion, and I was impressed from the sidewalk up. It wasn’t the grand scale of 60 Hudson, but the sounds of locks were scary, too, amidst a successful décor magnificently undertaken by Gauthier and his connections of wizards. Besides the visibly armoured doors and windows, the whole house was elegantly streamlined like a Fred Astaire set, with the priceless dare of a total Zuber panoramic, lit up by one of the largest Chihuly clouds I knew in a private place! I had no idea how fast Gaultier could make things spawn, I only guessed how much it might have cost.
The Mistress of the Realm greeted me warmly, she wore one off-white tracksuit I could have easily pulled down and held my arm all the time we climbed up to her full-fledged screen room. Swiftly, she asked for my phone and the SIM card that she inserted in a device much like the one the FBI goon had fetched. She was mumbling some Beatles song, and though I did not remember fully how things had spun between us, I groped her bum and she called me naughty, so I did not stop. She smelled her perfect geranium-orange Covent Garden mix, I nuzzled in her nape. She explained, in her jargon, all they had done inside the chip, so fast; she said they had not been FBI, but more probably NSA, and it appeared to concern her, although she allowed willfully my hand inside the cotton trunks.
We had sat down on the thick carpeting, she was about to get entirely disrobed, and she went on, they had attempted to write some tracker into my phone’s software, so, she would, for now, embed a new SIM, until she offered me a new phone, worthy of my responsibilities.
While she pulled my leggings in return, she asked if I had been entrusted with anything other —she had that smooth, fine grain skin with a subtle blond fluff, her discreet labia gleamed rosy like tangerine. I explained about the book, thence she became nervous, she needed to see it at once. I had left Matthew at home, not knowing what would Michelle say about my SEVEN STREAMS lawyer, so, on her telephone, I called Natalia, who was still woozy but grasped what I asked: Matthew —and her, if she would— were to come at once, with the box he would find in my bag, for that purpose, he would find a load of totes in the kitchen cupboard. Meanwhile, I gratified the smooth side of an otherworldly genius with a flock of raspberries on her belly.
Matthew had renounced the tie, a few more days with Natalia, and he would wear his shirt out of his jeans. She had rummaged through my wardrobe and borrowed tight-knit cashmere willow and pine green leggings, an almond green, scoop neckline, roving wool big knit oversize jumper, in what I did not resist feeling her slender bust as she giggled, easy child, she had nevertheless avoided the cold drafts in a stylish ash grey wool parka she might have stolen elsewhere. She smelled of a boyish fresh cologne, she deserved anyone’s attention, as always in our world, Matthew looked like an English Lord after a tough polo game, he smiled ecstatically, not knowing what kind of stare to grant me, as he handed me the packet. I moved up very close to him, and taunted to his face how lovely my young friend was, of universal approve, some would fly from overseas only to lick her toes, he agreed to thank me, irregardless.
The leather box had been made recently, and bore no writings. The book, bound in chased gold foil inlaid with pearls and gems, presenting the seven-lamps Menorah, with two lions sejant, in a temple-like frame, was rested on blue silk velvet. Michelle, behind her indecipherable eyes, had not told whatever she knew about this “beyond the death” envoy. I was struck by the fineness of her fingers, too, as she took out the treasure in hand, and began to manipulate it ever slowly, pondering. She invited us to follow her to what she called a workshop, down recent metallic stairs, behind a revolving panel next to the bathroom, a blind white room with a center table and enough space around for us all, lit a giorno from the whole ceiling surface. Michelle fetched a magnifier in the stealth cupboards around, and a folded fleece mat. She no longer was in the least with us, she was in trance. The pages of parchment turned easily, the binding had been restored. She then installed a tiny camera on a flexible stand, while its pictures appeared on the wall we moved from. She explored the edges of every face, until she exclaimed “there”! And on the screen, we saw the thin alternate white and blue brim line along the inner hinge, behind the flyleaf. She found tweezers and pinched the normally invisible line, and tried to pull, it slid rather easily, and showed three flashcards beside one another, most possibly, what the sad goons had been after.
Michelle bore the smile of a kid who has found an Easter egg, she returned her stuff in her chock-full closets —where had all this come from?— rested delicately the treasured book in its case, and handed it back to me, saying it was a beautiful piece, and asking if I read Hebrew? I said Hugo might help some, Sarah said she knew a philologist, and I knew how well she knew him.
Our host joked there were chances she would switch to autistic mode for a good while, but we were all welcome to stay, there were two more guest currently upstairs, Cynthia was sharing with Delffan somewhere on a futon. Gautier popped up all smiles, flashing his royal mane at Matthew’s amazement; he cuddled Natalia who let him do, as per usual, and introduced him to her new American friend, my lawyer in New York he presented himself as Michelle’s interior decorator, currently working on her two residences, 56Leonard still at the hands of the wiring team, a squad of highspeed Indians who kept talking to Michelle while they laid her traps; he guessed she was in the control room upstairs.
In the pearly grey dining room was a Tulip Saarinen table and a dozen chairs, the top of the table was in unusual bleached maple, said Gauthier, Michelle did not condone cold marble, this one came from the warehouse of one of his friend, who had stored it for aeons and had been too happy to sell.
I let my staple angels order some kind of collation, they knew where to brew tea , and coffee for Matthew, whom was lured to the kitchen by Sarah, in order to see for his taste, and was more or less raped, then , once the tea tray had been brought in place, abducted for his second time in France, at the nose of his last night’s fling, who was back at kissing Kate, anyhow.
Delffan thanked our inspiration, for she had been starving, she introduced Katherine’s Australian friend, Dr Cynthia Möhlitz, whom she had known since Highschool in Hamburg. I knew their story, I was happy to meet that splendid character, and , a second later, grasped what she had shared with the round-headed pixie whose lithe waist I groped, gently.
Michelle faded in, from the far side of her mind, barefoot and unkempt, she nodded her head sideways to see me alone; I embraced her, she had been in sweats in an arousing way, I had no other idea than to lay her. Back in her laboratory, she let me do her all, physically, but she was saying terrible things. We had the Blue Meanies on our backs, and she was going to wriggle back, in a manner they wouldn’t enjoy. I should not travel to America in the near future, the match could last a few months. She then alluded to the people we had befriended apropos of Fanny’s escape, and Sarah’s father’s intervention —how had she figured all that? She never seemed to pay attention— all of whom she would appreciate to spill the chips for.
So, she succinctly sketched a mental layout according to which Adlaï had forsaken levels of procedure as to the virtual core of his SEVEN STREAMS operation, thus letting free course through the commutations for illegal nasty software, operated by the grey fringes of the PTBs. I was already too scared to parse, but she went on. She opened Google view on a screen, hovering upon Tribeca, and, once I had situated 60 Hudson and 56 Leonard, she zoomed on an eerie all blind tower, at a stone throw aside, and told me this had been a giant switchboard for AT&T in the times they milked long distance communications for the whole world trade plexus. Just as 60 Hudson, it had been refitted, step by step, for the digital age, but whereas that one was optically playing fair to his client, 33 Thomas remained totally opaque, earning the rumoured nickname of NSA building. And now, there were fat chances that her, an overlooked four-eyed French minette, had trampled and again in the marigot, so much as to shy the big game away.
For sure, I felt an urge to pass on the grenade to trustworthy adults, and in the meantime, Sarah was busy shagging my lawyer on the sly, but there was one I could, of my own move, call, it was the pretty cop who had an obvious crush on Fanny, and never overstepped the line. I was being summoned to the lonely top, and I spewed some ugly swearwords at my dear uncle’s expense, him, whose ultimate ashes still slept in my bag, at home. My soul and bones refused to play this deadly imbroglio by myself, as soon as my lawyer were done making Sarah howl.
Out of the grey, this world had reshaped in its paranoid configuration, I were to cloister myself inhouse, but what about Fanny? I could afford her a permanent minder, that wouldn’t cost half of my lawyer’s fee to shag my friends, would it? Matthew did not want to know of the shady side of Michelle’s investigations, it was too blaring hot; there would be a grand meeting at TRÆVIX, with Melchior, Lars von Kettelaær, Hugo, Michelle and me, to hear and try to unscramble the leads our prodigy had debunked in the wires, and ,eventually, whose nerves had been tripped. During one of their prized lunches, Sarah had sketched out what I had attempted to explain when she ended in my bed, raddled but awake, while Matthew had vanished under the influence of Kate, Fanny and Natalia deep in the womb of Lethe.
Melchior had brought two of his executives, he liked Michelle’s den, he groped her like a war buddy, and she did not flinch. I had the best of connection to Lars, only a steel superego had prevented him to move in on me, but he was a world class litigator, a living god in his daughter’s eye, he behaved in utter elegance with everyone around the table. Hugo would be the genius of contingencies on the Paris grounds.
Katherine and Sarah had volunteered to play house girls —mainly watch for everyone’s drinks. Michelle laid out, drawing from a tablet to a large screen behind her the mysterious interactions she had ferreted out, from TRÆVIX, through SEVEN STREAMS and beyond. Lars understood that her operation knew no frontiers, she retorted that there weren’t actually any, only the botched intervention of apparent customs officers in Teterboro showed that the US government was after someone they labelled a trespasser, whenas one might only be a mere watchdog. In the aware silence of the others, Lars inquired of the legal scope of the two entities, which, to him, looked entirely like two sides of Michelle’s ability to juggle with code, didn’t they? He had pronounced his guess in a way that had the curly wizard blush behind her thick glasses. He turned to me, and noted every bit I could recall of the airport intervention, what, if any, sort of documents they had produced, anything. I usually extol my visual capacities and memorising skills, but then, I had not seen much, thinking of it, these goons might have been KGB, save the smell. Lars laughed and asked me about their scent, I told him they had smelled of frank lavender, to me , Russians always carry a hint of cabbage — as if I knew.
Melchior’s experts entered stage and exchanged rapid fire with Michelle who became more and more radiant, because she unleashed a prodigious amount of jargon and left them stargazing for crucial seconds, she sure had enthralled a few audiences during her academia seasons —what happened in Lausanne? Was Lars aware? He begged for a parenthesis to recommend, whatsoever the technical dimension, to morally and physically crouch down for a while, time for him to cast microphonic lines, just like a submarine in hunting, Michelle would provide safe channels for further appointments. He turned to me and asked if he could cast a glance on the book, and that’s how we all climbed up to the miracle room, there were a pair of white socks on the carpet, I swiftly picked and pocketed them up and, as an erotic token.
There were a few Aeron side chairs for us, after she fetched the book for Lars, she candidly showed us around the bunker, through the scattered cameras, and unexpectedly, too, a tender scene between Cynthia and Delffan, upon a colourful futon, oops!
Lars confirmed the book was some antique Jewish comment of the scriptures, probably brought to Amsterdam from Portugal, highly valued by one of his owners. I figured that Adlaï had thought it were the best hidey-hole for his great beyond secrets, mostly because of the gold shield.
Melchior took me aside to congratulate me on our onboard expenses, he wished we had soon some board meeting of that sort, I had no reproof against that, although he sure isn’t a bull, like my newly appointed lawyer, he has always found manners to make me forget I have ever been his whore, he is a master fucker, too. He called on his team, who were still drooling before the Madona Aviator’s visible navel, and offered a lift to Lars, who was indulging a dancing hug with his nimble daughter, letting me wonder about these two, but what do I know about fathers? Hugo expected a night of confessions between Fæbian and Lizon, in some new set of his shadow play, upon scented eiderdowns; he did not shirk away before greeting me with a sleight of hand in my thighs, foreseeing that our aviator would unleash her senses, that night. I kissed him a thank you, prophesying a royal parterre of little sluttish confidences, I really love those two damsels, too!
Then, I was on the brink of leaving, concerned about a new round of paranoia, but Michelle was enthused of her presentation, and would certainly let me unwrap her, when suddenly she froze, and asked me if there were other things I had received directly from Adlaï? I thought not, but I was already holding her narrow hips, in a move to pull down her pants, anticipating the heat her excitement had caused under there; yet, all at once, I recalled of the watch and the ring.
We ran downstairs to the workshop, she set her tools and scrutinised the watch, but I could not help groping her butt cheeks, so as she mumbled gentle reproaches, under the amused gazes of Sarah and Katherine who had heard our moves. The half-obscene Michelle claimed victory, extracting a new microSD card from a concealed slot in the watch’s side. Then, her butt was altogether nude when she explored the ring with the microscope, pressed a tiny tappet with a needle, thus springing the bezel open, on a fifth memory card, I embraced her from the back and reached for her moist quim.
She felt rich, guessing all the data engrams on the precious chips of silicon, but nevertheless, I had succeeded at my lustful undermining, because I had known she liked carnality, once sheltered, and I denuded her in the heat of her findings, lifted up on the workbench and made her gush on my tongue, as Sarah took her mouth.
But she was still nude, with her little tits alert when she plugged the card in one transitory laptop. The four of us together smelled like a rich salon in a parlour house after the action, I thought in profanity that if no one would recite Kadish for Adlaï, at least I knew he relished our manner of salute.
Dusk was early, Cynthia and Delffan descended from their cloud, Matthew, Natalia and Fanny rang at the portal, fresh as Scilly daffodils, I had no more reason to flee, all the more that Michelle was so emotional and seemed to have encompassed the cuddles in her moral well-being. Now that she felt she had all the tiles of a puzzle, and an array of machines worthy of a state, she returned to her safe position, lying against a wall, behind the door of her control room, scanning the new pieces for eventual booby traps.
While we sat on the ground, too, on cushions and comforters, listening to Cynthia’s edifying quest amongst the not-so rational medical spheres, having been joined by Theo and Gauthier, Delffan disappeared, but Sarah knew right away where to look, and found one, fast asleep, half-upon one’s star Michelle, who smiled of it.
I offered to transport ourselves to a place with plenty of large sofas and beds, all the more that Matthew was returning to the harsh realm of hard work next evening —and he had not yet shagged Katherine, nor Fanny— Cynthia would stay for the night, and recover her stuff at the girls’ in the morning if her main concern preferred to rest on Michelle’s feet. Gauthier promised that a fully furnished bedroom would be ready for her in less than two days, there were bathrooms already, not new but refitted; Theo was a tad chagrined, but Cynthia agreed to let him take her to the Louvre; he wooed Gauthier to finish the night with him, and that’s what happened. Matthew was somewhat confused but followed the attitude he read around him, and Katherine owned him, yet.
Things did not go exactly as foreseen, in my salon, I dozed off in a matter of minutes, and I suppose Matthew could not subtract the one he craved now from the group, so it remained a group, of which he would have served everyone but Fanny, for what I saw, but my pearl was far from innocent, was she?
I supposed they dared not disturb me, many hours later; I woke up nude, entangled in comforters and pillows, alone in the dark, with a need to pee. I felt light-headed, but perked up, like elated, to roam nude in my own home. I snooped around the bedrooms and was not disappointed. Here, my splendid lawyer revelled between two slim beached up naiads, breathing each other’s dreams; there, the dark satiny skinned Erik still coddled my own blond nymphet in a flight to the never never; and last, in my own ravaged bed, a momentarily satiate Natalia rested her thigh upon the sinewy loin of Fulgence, that was where I lay, pulling on the duvet, sliding a naughty hand between her bum cheeks, to smell of their beastly deeds; she moaned and meandered her back against me, I closed my eyes.
When the whole apartment smelled of the scented vapours of everyone’s shower, and myself a longer one with a devilish Natalia, not so assured they had not in the least operated some sort of break-in, for Fanny’s whim about Erik’s muscular embrace, but I kissed all doubts away and made her pee on me. Matthew was back around me, awkward about to return home, I had to assess he had not met France per se, but a living fantasy instigated by a tradition of discreet —if powerful— heartfelt libertines: it might confer a useful backdrop to the work he would, on the clock, accomplish now on, for us.
Lizon and Fæbian, aroused by morning nymphets news, barged in, groomed up, and finished to despair the square chinned solicitor, who must have then thought wonders of the new SEVEN STREAMS – TRÆVIX alliance. The car signalled it was downstairs, his suit had recovered its pleats, there would be something of me, in the smell of his lavender Cologne.
Another set of pairs recomposed, except I took Natalia and Erik back to where I had found them, and he speared me through and through, so well Natalia had tamed her minders. They left in time to fetch her things at the castle and attend some privileged moments in her main teacher’s office, she had relished retelling me her manners to make pocket money.
Agent Marc L. called later, it took a while for me to single him out, Fanny’s bashful escort, she jumped up hearing he was coming to our home. She slid in hazy blue cashmere leggings, scattered with embroidered stars, and a silver-grey, chunky knit jumper that let one shoulder nude; she walked barefoot, I think she had come to know what would push the agent’s buttons.
Our beloved spook was overjoyed to see Fanny so alluring, it had been an angst-ridden operation when she had more or less been used as bait to wipe off some of the most heinous traffickers in the Mediterranean, now they knew the succession had taken over, and the new generation was fiercer, but they ignored old affairs of which they had nothing to fear. I avoided mentioning the endless aftermath, in Fanny’s life, so untraceable on a day like this one, but we were still the ones who would wait in Dr Méant’s green sofas.
Marc explained that the “services” had planted beacons around us and our allies, but had already noticed that our overall communications were already monitored with a technology overly powerful, unknown to them. Unbeknownst to him, he was absorbed in the contemplation of Fanny’s foot she had folded up on her chair, next to her pubis, well-delineated under the stretched knitwear. I offered to go along with him pay a visit to Ms de Cerisy, as he said, and I kindly warned him she was a bona fide prodigy, with bumpy social abilities, but a truly glinting soul. He visibly greeted my bid with relief, so I texted the request to Michelle, using the urgent flag. She approved of a visit that same afternoon, mentioning that Gauthier was taking delivery of some furniture in the reception rooms.
I was altogether proud of my pet pupil’s attitude towards a man she liked, although it fringed frankly on seducement, awfully arousing to watch; it might constitute a sensitive test of the services straightforwardness, so to speak.
A large truck had made it to the centre of the yard in Michelle’s lair, we had to wait sometime to pass the thresholds. We found Michelle with a headlamp, in front of many upturned sofas and ottomans, scrutinising every nook and cranny, a team of people in black overalls auscultating the wadding with black contraptions bearing lit dials. Gauthier, too, nosed the upended pieces, he explained that he was proud he found a formidable ensemble of three Poltrona Frau’s “Chester One” five seaters, in virtually pristine rosy sand full-grain leather; Michelle had cringed at the idea of second-hand furniture, but when she was told that it might take a year to build new ones, she bought these, and they had been scanning for stealth devices —times were tricky.
We sat in the control room, the screens were in idle mode, showing wall to wall slow-moving calligraphies, at the pace of a muted music. She scrambled her spectacles with the headlamp, letting us admire her true eyes for a few seconds, then smiled. Marc unflexed as if we waited for someone; he had not yet grabbed that he faced the whole of TRÆVIX, there and then. It dawned stealthily.
As we sat a few steps away from each other, I had to resume briefly my own process into SEVEN STREAMS, which, unrelated to my loose family ties, provided a necessary conduit for TRÆVIX’s endeavours on the planetary trade market, and, how, by my uncle’s choice, I had become the sole owner of the high-performance commutating company, that would not render transatlantic connections faster for TRÆVIX, but would execute on-site its remote high-frequency routines.
In the course of the preliminary explorations in anticipation of service, Ms de Cerisy, attending —there he came aware— put to light a whole array of dire irregularities in the commutators’ software, which she ferreted down and killed, earning herself a hefty bounty at the expense of the still-unidentified hackers she had deemed to have used governmental grade might. The intervention at Teterboro, against me and my lawyer, might only be casual, put apart it had gone well beyond routine search, reaching cold war times doggedness.
Marc mentally parsed the thorny brushwood he had just been dragged into and wondered aloud what Mr von Kettelær was pulling out of this, so I had to wake him to the fact that Lars, being related to members of the extended family, he constituted nonetheless a providential referee above whatever the spook vs spook game might provoke for abiding citizens like us, besides, we had kept a faultless record in Fanny’s case. However, he concluded that there was cause upstream to investigate, for the service’s cybersecurity personnel. Michelle smirked, and floated she might know them already, for she had been driven to cross their firewalls a few times, overall candidly, undetected; she would soon beckon them in a quiet online chatroom —that said in case it rang back to Mark’s ears, somehow.
As it was thoroughly acted that one was in one’s rightful home, Delffan barged in, unannounced, barefoot, wearing the same sort of tracksuit as Michelle, bringing us a tray of afternoon niceties with tea and coffee —had one known the straight, suited man drank coffee? asked that someone pull a side table and rested one’s nonetheless cute effort on it. Mark was troubled, moreover once told the newcomer, who lived with Michelle, bore no distinctive gender. I could tell the conversations with Cynthia had already emboldened one’s attitudes, and Michelle enlaced one’s hips while one stood a foot upon the other. I gave one a most approbative gaze, now Mark avoided fiercely to detail the gracile anatomy of our protégé. He asked permission to use his telephone, but the room was a Faraday cage, so he had to go to the next room, beside a window, give a succinct report of his whereabouts, while Cynthia, who mistook him for one of the crew, gave him the eye.
Back home, I found Fanny and Natalia in the buff, pampering each other like idle harlots, painting each other’s nails, and I sat there, in wonderment. I tried to call Matthew on his flight but was told he slept. Delffan had succeeded in arousing me, too, so I waited until the varnish dried, it was dark maroon on Natalia’s dainty toes, to climb up her unquenchable lithe body. Later, I invited Sarah and Katherine with whomever, to share one of those veggie smorgasbords, they ought to know my twists and turns, and Fanny liked when everybody ended nude in our home, and I let her fuck anyone she wanted, even Fulgence, or Eric, who arrived later, at Sarah’s invite.
Erik had heard my invite a mite more personally than I would have implied, I had seen him bonk Elsie inside out and I did not reckon myself as good a shag, or that sort of border racist self-consciousness. We girls had been fiddling each other all the time of our little supper, so when he openly seized my thighs, I gave him an unfettered stare, while opening the way some more. I ripped his jeans and boxers, he smelled of allspice, honey, and grapefruit, Lebanese haschisch, incense, sweat, I rendered his prick as stiff as a loaded gun, and held it to my sulky labia wherein he drove his want in small bounces, so nicely adjusted that my plexus almost visibly sparkled. As in a festival encore, he remained taut in my flooded quim, and vindictive as a kid, thus I weaved and crawled to catch him in my bumhole, where he drew long bow strokes on my maddened nerves.
That had been a relish, we cajoled our spent bodies under the shower with only the invisible soap of our hands, I fear the excess of detergents, and if you rub long enough, you won’t smell bad, he agreed, stirring bubbles in my arse. Camille had reasoned with Fanny to come to sleep. Katherine and Natalia had exhausted Fulgence for a while, although he would still lurk near Fanny’s booty.
Howbeit, Cynthia had flown a whole twenty-four hours to see Katherine, too, and though she knew how shameless she was, she had not yet had a good thorough fuck with her. The two boys were still manful, enough for me, anyway, as long as Erik searched for my tongue and then looked at me. In the cab, Natalia rolled her loins like a beast against Fulgence, while Katherine devoured her face.
Rue de Verneuil, Delffan greeted us, the top of her bum uncovered, at hand’s reach, and she was wired as an eight-year-old brat. Cynthia made excuses for staying near her new baby and kissed Kate like old times, then came to me, as daring as a musketeer, soughing praises in my neck and a hand in my pants. She smelled, like all the bees in this hive, geranium orange of Covent Garden’s, on her, a shade more on the grapefruit bend side than the sweeter mandarine in Delffan’s collar.
Cynthia had agreed to stay upstairs, under the roofs, and Gauthier’s talent, at Michelle’s willful expense, had begun to enchant the attics with Swedish beds and beddings —no, Hästens beds— because it might be true that Swedes live longer, in their beds.
Gauthier was currently crazed, because Michelle had discovered that all, around her New York 56Leonard whim, there were suicide windows, at floor level, right over the void, that one could operate by hand, and so she had recalled reading of Eric Clapton’s tragedy, and now she had missioned her lawyer to break the sale, she would return to the Greenwich, and use the emergency room at the far side, in SEVEN STREAMS’ offices —because they would need her to— for the great relish of Delffan, who had never considered not returning to New York with her, in all the festal pump they had deployed; that was not truly the same bell tone I had grasped from Camille, except regarding Matthew, as we all knew. This Leonard street mood swing was about to cost Michelle a million. There would eventually be another perch, in the meantime, I, myself, had begun mulling over some escapade in downtown New York.
These orgiastic sofas felt like they had always been where they were, a great U shape towards the windows, two grand spacious ottomans, with a lower level for books, currently providing a pedestal for Delffan’s poses, eager to watch how I would behave girl enough towards one’s new coach, so as one would slide one’s kittenish meanderings into ours, as one did. Kate undressed and crept to us with her best glow, Cynthia was spearing my easy arse as I offered my narrow haunches to Delffan, who queried one’s accomplice’s glance, too busy at my mouth while shagging me Heads side. It remained only one source for Kate, between Delffan’s butt cheeks.
Wholemeal boys in our party did not play each other’s fiddles, but the sofa was deep enough to let Fulgence crawl up Cynthia’s back and push in the hope to find a slippery hole, while his mate went straight in Kate’s. On the sided one of these decidedly ample rests, Natalia, laying on her back, stretched, impaled on Gauthier’s flagpole, waved sideways and diddled on her little nought.
The doors to the nerve centre were closed, but not locked, Michelle might have been sleeping, now that Natalia had repatriated her lucky pair of rascals, and Katherine was experimenting the attic’s new bed with her preternatural friends, I fancied an intermezzo with a prodigy. She wasn’t sleeping, amongst a ravaged futon, her midriff exposed, transfixed upon her special order black prototype unit, while the wall of screens repeated her commands. She did not flinch but asked me to massage her because a war was on, thus I was too tempted not to oblige, starting with her feet and some handiwork I master, I knew I would make her gracile anatomy howl, and she cried “yes”, so I pulled the pants. It was some kind of mystery that she had not turned into a potato, spending her days and nights mostly flat on her belly, the twist must have been she ate nothing and drank water, or tea, her preference leant on Gyokuro, the Japanese tea that pales under veils before being cropped, and brews into a light, but explosive inside, beverage —Delffan had tamed the very soul of these flattened leaves, for her mistress relished none other thirst quenchers than a Thermos flask of Gyokuro, by Delffan.
Nevertheless, I was at the ticklish handles of her hips, and it is a hyperversal pleasure to graze this temptation and not indulge, on the way to her pointy nerd nipples. She was still resting on her elbows, straining her shoulders under the weight of such a loaded skull! then, at a last, heartfelt keystroke, she turned over and begged for a kiss, acknowledging with her hands that I had been nude.
Her apogee in pleasure was foremost cute to watch, she made no sound, she rolled the pretty eyes in the crystal bubbles, and she fainted out like a wet rag, there was sweat at her temples.
In return, she was not so good at igniting my fuses more than I had that evening, but her mere skin aroused me, and I had known that already, in the times when I allowed myself upon a whole boarding school, some do you, some don’t, but you revel in what’s there.
Out of her vivarium, like a defenceless specimen of an unseen species, she was taking a piteous grin, as if I were to hold her in contempt for not being such a great slut as I.
Befuddled, she stuttered that I did wonders with her feet, and I seized the diversion of telling her how my dad had raised me up with foot massages, and we never asked ourselves if it were incestuous or what. That had been funny to her, she pulled closer and asked me for a hug, and keep recounting my childhood, at least the happy moments, so I warned her she would think of me as an even greater slag, and she seemed to have no ideas of our pack’s walks of life.
She had been bewitched by the mostly imaginary, self-serving chapter until my sixth year in Taarbæk, she loved the white-painted house on the Øresund, blond children running safely on the beach, the casual pride of the small country which did not think there was anything rotten in their state.
She shifted her gaze when I recalled the Kettelærs moving to New York, in the towers of angels, assailed by the high chimneys of the Con-Ed monster, the high terraces in the rusty heat or the vertiginous snow, and she asked about the parapets, in French the garde-fous, how high they were, and she held my neck as I told her I had grown fast, in a city of giants. After an absent-minded pause, grazing my blueberries, she bluntly laid she had renounced her whim in Tribeca —but she would invite me at the Greenwich. It had been a fool headed whim, she had fancied themselves, nude in the high sun, flat on the uncompromised floor, until she understood that it would be easy to pull open these inconceivable doors on the void. She grabbed my hair at my temples, spoke fast and told me they had been two of them, in Lausanne, and her lover had jumped into nought, leaving her choking. Not a word.
She had been crying like a statue, I was left to freeze on my terrace with imaginary angels. I asked her if she wanted to tell me about her love, she answered they had been together since Princeton, eager to challenge the dickheads online, defying altogether the codes and the rimes in the deadly straits of power, but then she had gallantly erased her share of their endeavour and debugged Michelle’s own garden of routines, like one would have weeded around the cropped boxwoods, and the roses.
I had been taken aback, my chest wetted by her tears, that her untimely metaphors snaked into my own like she would have pervaded my soul, bringing to my conscience the warnings of Pr Achenbach, my unfailing confidant in Saint Loup, not to let any other lead my horse —and I had already let Kate do that.
Having drawn me to the verge of unwrapping the tragedy in my intimate tale, she shrugged the hunch off, and wriggled back on her tummy, faced her keyboard, tense and distant, although I forced my hand to her apricot, and she opened her thighs. She had allowed me to manhandle this much of her earthly presence, hovering up in a blond hiatus, mumbling a marmalade of nursery rhymes, all brisk and tangy, interspersed with dire deadly threats to virtual animals, whenas on her screen scrolled unending lines of coloured symbols.
There, there, she arose back, like raddled, although in the while I had handled that warm, dewy smile. I decided it were a gift, like a feather of the morning swan. She fetched a verdigris kerchief, folded beyond her keyboard, and pulled her spectacles, giving me the impression she knew what she looked like, unmasked, as she polished the glass in the silk; I begged for a kiss, she rested in my arms.
She neared so as our quims kissed, too, and she spoke behind my ear. I would not grasp what she had been up to, so she used parables, like the lone fisher on shallow waters, sounding the moving banks, and goading the sightless tentacles of lurking giants. She had used methods and tricks in the secret service’s books to debunk their own illegal practices, and now, with the files she had been trusted with —by Camille, I understood— she was trimming all operations at SEVEN STREAMS of the unwanted squealers and leeches, causing a commotion in the subterranean shell of power transfers. Now she, and Melchior’s Praetorian Guard, stood watching the ramifications of a parasite network burn-in self-destruction, of her own single feat. And so, chances were that the notorious NSA tower actually hosted major calibre felonies against the free market, as loaded as those of the PRC. Hence the harassment against the new owner of the company, through whose computers seemed to emanate the unfriendly scrutiny, and ultimately the wealth of security around us, and a couple of nonbinary beauties.
She ran her thin tapered fingers upon her scientific keyboard, stared at the multi-windows screen for a suspended half-minute, and smirked. She meandered to my knees, and casually asked why I had left New York while in Junior High? A tad mystified, I stammered at first, and warned her it would be a complicated tale, mostly for myself to tell. She was keeping her faraway blue peepers into mine and grazed my cheek, waiting.
I gathered cushions, and let her cuddle into me, then gave her the buffed version I had elaborated in years of word plays with Pr Achenbach. She wasn’t buying my tale and came again about my brother, whom she saw had been wiped off, whereas he could most likely have been sent along with me in Saint Loup. Unlike all those I had harboured in affection through years, she steadily dissected my soul on a plate, for lies and fantasies.
She had me pissed off, I belched out the raw truth of my shattered soul, under the seal of sacred silence, and then told her how I had brought my near incestuous dad in the know, under the sumptuous chandeliers of the Ritz, and how he had continued, regularly, to manipulate my toes and foster my whims.
Overwhelmed in her quantum 101 emotional shuffles, she had been crying, she had laid her glasses on the keyboard and pushed it away; as she covered me with wet kisses, and I dared not ask her about her lonely growing up.
All predictably, I woke alone, tucked into precious wools, totally mollified. Although a subaquatic random faerie would still run across the screen wall, I did not perceive a sound, until my covers swished softly when I stretched and walked to the bathroom. In the shower corner, there only were the cobalt blue Neal’s Yard bottles, but hadn’t we been first to indulge geranium-orange?
I needed tea, then, I found fresh terry robes, folded in a closet, and borrowed one with wide stripes of deep sapphire and emerald, then steered towards the kitchen. The carpets felt rich at my toes, I was proud of our new friend. There were singular voices coming from the drawing-room, mostly one, a low tone, imperative, masculine speech that bustled a gang of scorpions inside my underbelly; as it had ceased, I moved on, like I would have been home, and then wisened up, in a lash, from the threshold, that it had been Victor, seated in a sofa, with Katherine next to him, his hand upon her thigh. I kissed Michelle and said I was about to brew tea, and everybody approved. Victor was snuggly fit in black silk blend, officer collared, slim trousers and patent black Chelseas. He smelled of a virile burned sandalwood and jasmine, he slid a hand into my robe as I bent over him, unbeknownst to Michelle, I asked him if he had made his move for morning fun, Katherine’s gaze swayed.
When I came back from the kitchen with two of the biggest pots I had found, Michelle spoke with a narrow straight voice about the now-on necessity to comply with Melchior’s layout, and for Victor to cave in for his fault. He wouldn’t retort, and beyond all the pleasures we had shared with him, and at his whim, Katherine and I concurred wholeheartedly.
Delffan barged in, wearing visibly nothing more than a marshmallow green sweatsuit, ready to fall. One enlaced Michelle, like a shy animal, trying to read out the black visitor who, in turn, was stunned by one’s elfin beauty. Michelle told him right away that Delffan was a non-genre person, or both, and lived with her, constantly; after pouring tea in the cups, I went to sit with the apparent fragile ones, despite some warm memories of long, feisty shags; but I felt I could always be granted that from Victor, whatever went.
Kate was casual, sneakers, cashmere jersey leggings and an oversize, beige, wide knit, unspun wool jumper, I could have bet she wore no panties, as she was posing as one of Victor’s willing whores, his hand in her crotch. It dawned in my mind that Melchior must have been watching, recording us; Victor as a consenting ally.
These carnelian sofas are wide enough for Tiepolo style somersaults, I was worshipping Delffan’s feet in my own crave, while one was nuzzling on Michelle’s bared abs while she had grabbed her telephone and typed for some time before Victor’s —who had then peeled Kate off her rags— rang discreetly, and, without ceasing to wank our precious, read his screen, kindly buckled back up, kissed Kate’s hand, and ran. Michelle made no comment, and from her telephone opened the doors on his way out.
Then she held Delffan’s head and we proceeded to grant our trio a more timeless fashion, joined by a fourth member for a quartet. It was only morning, we did not summon all our wants, except for Delffan steady spur that I suckled to completion, feeling the childish spurt on my neck, at once wiped by Kate’s tongue.
Michelle asked us if Victor was such a master bow on our strings, it made us laugh as we told her it definitely looked like she might never know, she waved her gleaming eyes and retorted nonchalantly that she owned him.
We ordered a big fruit salad and cookies from Bolitar’s so a maid could all display them on the round table. I had spent the night with someone I needed to understand a bit more. She agreed to spit out she had, after his misdeed on her, unravelled Victor’s routines, and she had just given him proof; now on, she would have an eye on his trade, and Melchior all the more.
I pointed out that Melchior, too, had shagged her, she answered that it had been clear enough he wouldn’t have if she had said no; in the least, she knew what a vagina was used for, too. Delffan was gleaning the seedless grapes one by one, eyes closed, smiling. Michelle went on, like pulling drapes one by one, on a stage. Originally, it had been total happenstance that an Adlaï Stern ran a high capacity internet provider company, of the sort an innovative broker would like to operate, from a true fifty milliseconds away, inasmuch as the active algorithm was on the spot, inside a massive array of processors, properly cooled down. Licking her fingers in a way that made me want to lend her mine, she said she had proof that she had offered collaboration to Victor, and not only did he refuse a day later, but he had already pulled all his tricks to bar her in her plans, hence her aggressive castle move.
He had not let her an opening, such as she could have warned him of direr threats whose crosshairs they had both stood in, Melchior would eventually windproof Victor’s operations, at a price, however, she just had, conveniently, washed her hands of that misgiving.
Cynthia loomed up, Volubilis blue tee shirt and vague nightly print sarouel pants, as barefoot as anyone. Delffan wanted her beside Michelle, who had rid herself of her huntsman stare to greet someone who was giving the dearest companion a cosmogony to live accordingly, otherwise than like a carnival curiosa.
Kate switched chairs, I managed anyhow to play footsie with my night’s host, who responded gracefully. Arrangements had been made at our nearest clinic, to gently explore the babe’s insides, and draw some vials of one’s blood for tests. Michelle was welcome, but warned that the radiologist’s lair was totally lead clad, thus shielded from airwaves; otherwise, Cynthia saw no harm letting Michelle back and forth while Delffan stood in the scanner’s jaws. She promised the whole session could not last longer than two hours, and all the documents would be sent to her cloud directly. She pointed a finger up, so as to spin our attention, and claimed that notwithstanding our doubtless affection for Delffan, the further matter comprised immarcescible —did she say— medical confidentiality and anonymity, Delffan and her had already agreed to a code name Rainbow27 because she had already twenty-six case studies in her books.
It had been hellish, for Cynthia’s parents before her, to protect the inviolability of the patients against the despicable indecency of the medical authorities, and especially in Germany where some Julius Hallervorden and consorts left heinous trails in the minds. Whatsoever, she would remain sole depository of the codes, and none of her cases had ever been betrayed.
Hearing this, Michelle had hugged Delffan tight, pulling one up on her knees. She only said pleasantly that in the matter of codes, she was on board to help Cynthia, and together they also could establish some fund around her researches, if she would. Kate insisted she should believe what Michelle had said, way beyond her cute aviator face, she was a true wizard. We all laughed, and Michelle showed a smile I thought I was beginning to get accustomed to.
Unlike our idle selves, longing for the call of artistic praxis, Cynthia trusted her own schedule, and she had been granted a neatly framed window of two hours —paid by whom? she was only assured it had been— of an up-to-date IRM tunnel, and a dedicated operator. Delffan still possessed nought other than the shared collection of natural cotton tracksuits and sporty underwear Michelle and one had been wearing since 60 Hudson, but it was suited, if only to disrobe inside the impressive machine. Michelle entrusted her lively butterfly to the science from Oz, along with the loan of one of her banker’s cards to go shopping afterwards, and that rekindled Cynthia’s crave of playing doll with her case study. Michelle wished we threw one of our naughty dinners, that night, she missed the corner behind the sofa, already.
The skies were low, the studio lamps nullified the outer world and Sarah was brewing our best oolong, it wouldn’t be more than doodling hours, but it felt so much like home, moreover when Natalia, as surreptitiously as always, fancied to pamper our feet and paint our nails, after some lascivious shower; she remained nude, too, and sat before one after the other like a harem slave, because she needed to brag about her latest debauchery.
The previous afternoon, Liselotte had conveniently picked her up after class —so she knew her schedule— and lured her with sweet talk to her apartment, to indulge some real Lebanese style haschisch laced with opium. Her imposing blue crystal and silver two stemmed hukkah was easy to breathe from, while she slowly stole Natalia’s clothes, and dabbed her whole languid body with rose water, in the eager want of her pinhole pupils. Everybody knows how Liselotte uses her tongue, but overall, Natalia, under the flurry of carnal spells, never yet had known such a whirl, while in the expanded hinterland of her sight, she mingled at her will in the follies of floating nymphs, the perfect sacrilege to Jesuitical bliss.
In the comforting smaller salon, with low windows on three sides over sleepy gardens, the beam-framed hipped ceiling clad with random fragments of broken mirrors and scrapped paintings in a network of gilded mouldings, our presently submissive odalisk had cast all of her fervour in the realm of the reborn Parisian Margravine.
Now, she was smoothly quieted, laying plum lacquer on our toenails, upon the satiny rest of her thigh, with a smirk of naughty anticipation. There had been a faraway tinkling Liselotte had been obviously expecting, so she slid in a heavy Chinese silk robe, richly embroidered of many dragoons, ran to her door to let in two smooth-talking middle-aged men she brought back to where I stood naked, too stoned to even think of covering myself.
In the trance she was in, two gentlemen in black thin striped silky wool was —Liselotte must have counted on that— a libertine windfall, they had left their shoes and wore silk socks, she embraced both as they took off their jackets on her invite, and as they marvelled at the reclined slave, she had told her to open her legs in a comely way, while she seated her guests on pouffes, and prepared another round of drug, having inserted two more clean hoses.
Natalia was still thrilled by the two men’s allure, and details cried for high flyers, the rare wristwatches, the flawless monogrammed shirts, the fine gold, non-branded, belt buckles, no ties. Keeping her lewdly spread attitude, and swaying her gazes under their obvious want, she had let the heavy scented smoke suffuse her innocent lungs, letting her feet be seized by the johns she had not even heard the name, while her goodwill pimp was helping them come undone, she could relish in the expensive scents they had aspersed around their dicks.
And, nude on our carpet, refining our toes, she played the courtesan so well that we both jumped upon her, just as she had wanted.
She begged for some mercy from us, because the posh brothers had made no prisoners on her sweet battlefield, even for such a trained slut as she be. Once the cavaliers eluded, Liselotte had told her she was proud of her, slowly massaging her anus and quim with a peony scented balsam, and showing her, on a side table, two white bulgy envelopes. But she had warned the precious little damsel —who was of Hugo’s entourage, for all it meant— that she would not smoke the Hukkah more than once a month— otherwise, there would flag a warning at her check-ups to the lucrative Ring of Rakes, or whatever it was called, and anyhow Madam procuress wouldn’t let a promising beauty fall into addiction, free for the wanderer mind to eat space cookies from Fulgence’s mouth, that was legit.
Now she wanted us to tell what we knew about the great moves toward New York, she would fancy house-sitting Michelle’s apartment while attending some college or art school there; she was disappointed to learn that, as for the foreseeable future, Michelle did not buy a suicide perch near SEVEN STREAMS, and had organised a most efficient urchin base, just next door.
Listening to the perversely detailed expenses of her leggy physique, Sarah and I reviewed opportunities to compete in that, and ask Hugo or Camille to spin their Rolodexes, and Natalia quivered already at the fantasy of another debauchery along with us. She also relished call-backs of her toxic trip, and succeeded at triggering our own, without shuffling the plague in my synapses, at the swift relief of Sarah’s, who remains my azurite rock, in a sea of melted lead.
On the carpet, in a skull to skull triangle, we shared, until dusk had waned for good, a multiverse of carnal avatars mostly from Natalia’s wilderness, her tinkling laughs meandering into the dark foliages of night.
Fanny wore an easy, waistless, frosty morning blue, shaved velvet, tank dress, and pearly grey cashmere tights, under a trapeze-cut horizon-blue rich wool overcoat lined in quicksilver satin, and she beamed like a Doge’s mistress, as she let me preen her white silk sheathed feet; except for one of my seriously patinated indigo Boro peasant’s robe —so smooth to the skin— I was still as naked as Natalia had made us, not that much more than she hid anything, herself, in a black jersey short tank dress. And now, she was infatuated with Camille, since she had known they would run some blue-chip moneymaker company, partly in New York City, hence she wooed her for a seat, or more, in that aeroplane.
Camille wore a sage green duvet-soft wool one button pantsuit and a heathland bloom Liberty shirt she let open on her breasts; she relished the frankly lustful manners of Natalia, and never wasted an invite to grope her minnie, and thus she promised she would play pet on the next flight with her, along with Gauthier and possibly very naughty passengers. Camille did not crave best than to watch our house girl get laid with a lusty lad; she whispered in her ear to call on her minders if available, they rarely shunned an occasion to wallow amongst our brood of half trulls, joshing.
Michelle arrived, along with her party, and sartorial transformations had occurred. Delffan held one’s apologist’s hand, in a turquoise and carmine striped, silk, three-piece high waisted pant suit that let guessed one’s erections, a white twill Russian collar shirt and laced white ankle boots, with one’s velvety sleek golden skull, playfully intense beryl blue stare, one, proudly returning from the dire magnetic fields, stole anyone’s desire, and Fanny’s, foremost.
Cynthia offered a pleasant recount of their scientific venture, although she had had to expel the machine operator who could not contain himself about what he resented as a monstrous condition, and made a string of indelicate remarks; the assistant had then been more kindly efficient. Quieting back Delffan had been otherly dainty, but Cynthia claimed that she had eventually admired one’s internal clockwork with tears like the Harrison masterpieces changed into a live princely prodigy.
Theo had been wandering all over Germany in the lush berline of his lover Lorenz Mark, whom, from Dresden, where princes and Electors of the Holy Empire have gathered the most sumptuous collection of all shapes of art on earth, albeit the showcase for it had been trampled flat in 1945, all the way down to München, had shown him the limitless fantasia of true rich baroque —France merely gave rococo— his young awe only hampered by the knowledge Cynthia was in Paris.
Standing, rosy-faced before his lifesaver, he could not yet train his shy self to address others than her, with the same frankness, although we played unfazed, and let him lead the tango anywhere he wished.
Rather than letting the elephant stroll among us all, Cynthia sat where she was invited, between Delffan and Theo, on a sofa, and described, most poetically, how one could, in earnest, proudly show, on photograms, both worlds in one, show no sign of inconvenient, and that, with a smirk, she had seen before. The fun part would rest in the biochemical reckoning and needed weeks of analysis. Delffan recounted one’s distress when the primary operator of the machine had skidded on terms and lashed disgracious epithets at one’s person, so I assured them they would never have to suffer the boor again because Hugo would take the matter at heart.
Fanny perched herself on the armrest, enthralled she was still by the djinn that could fuck her in all daintiness.
Camille asked permission to show some website to Michelle, and they went into our bedroom to look it up on our sizeable screen; it was an advertisement for a newly refurbished building on Hudson street, at walking distance from number sixty. She asked Gauthier to join, and not long after our landmark bed was as crowded as a Kristen Stewart première.
It was one of that industrial-grade architecture, concrete frame structures enabling spacious living lofts, in the yuppie Newyorkese tradition, those who could afford mammoth mortgages or pocketed immoral bonuses. No suicide windows here, large square-patterned bays at safe height, and four meters ceilings; three or four bedrooms, five complete bathrooms and many walk-in closets. The whole operation was hers by inheritance, they could choose one of the last floors lots and share it between their companies, Michelle could let the boat sail on its own, it wasn’t even her decision to bear responsibility for. Camille would only owe the promoter his fee.
Hearing that Gauthier would then be on the verge of an exploratory visit, Natalia wooed him overtly, and did not garner any refute, I craved her madly, when she hustled her arse for so little, she probably hoped to meet Matthew again. She had been irresistible, to both Gauthier and Fulgence, I admired her artfulness, but it had set me on a grill and I needed a shag. Erik already throated Kate like an alley trull.
I had Sami’s number, he cottoned on my not so allusive quest, and because he was being so blasé, he offered me a rich deal in which he would firstly use me in his car, then bring me to a hotel, where a new partner would like to find me already a tad befouled, to serve him, as I did.
I fetched my wallet and slid out for the studio upstairs, where I found enough wares to look like a doable stray. There was a thick enough navy-blue jersey shirt dress, silver-grey opaque tights, alpaca natural leg warmers, and flat indigo swede mary janes. A large man’s double-breasted pinstriped expensive jacket had been waiting on a coat hanger, I only had to roll up the sleeves. From the staircase, I texted Kate and Camille exactly what I was en route to, at least, one of them wouldn’t read it before some while.
Sami flashed the lights of a long white silent berline and greeted me with a long, heartfelt, kiss, he was already flatteringly hard, his ears smelled of jasmine and bitter almond, like a loukhoum. As I unzipped his bird, he drove calmly and asked me to suck, which I did in pace with the softened joggles of the car. Sami flaunts a dignified sceptre of his trade, which he keeps meticulously hairless and smooth, whereas his patrons come by as scruffy as bramble bushes.
He parked on some deserted road behind the Russian embassy and told me to undress in the dim light, while he did himself, pouring musky flows into my Muguet du jour. I pride myself he relishes my slender frame, he likes to rub my abs and palm my butt cheeks like toys. He commanded my seat to recline, set me up on all fours and sheathed his flesh to the hilt, striking me breathless, beyond the hopes I had called him upon, like he had not yet found, in today’s nightly care, the proper filly to mount. I fancied some vindication of my want when all the valid males had been in hand, so to speak; I was dripping when he decided to force the merry hatch and succeeded, for only a few fledged blows before gushing in, at all his lewd patron’s future cheers.
That luxurious punctured leather of my seat did not stick with my sweat, and Sami was not moody after his expense, he spoke in my eyes, licked most of what I overflowed, then kissed me so as I tasted the lust I lay in.
I must have looked like the last party slut when we entered the hotel, swiftly, for he knew the night porter, who ostensibly detailed me, with a keen eye —who knew, he might also have his turn, possibly. Upstairs, the client in question predictably greeted us in one of the hotel’s dark green and burgundy terry robes, his telephone on his ear, and I refused that he showed my face to his interlocutor he then said was his wife, before hanging up and seizing my hands to smell them. He was a burly, bald stalwart, firm on large feet; bluish-green Slavic eyes, thick-lipped, he must have been, in time, a comely athlete, but he was, now, the epitome of a mobster. He spoke with a chalky accent, but he made himself understood easily. He led us inside the excellency suite, where a bottle of champagne chilled in a silver bucket, and I vamped a second refusal, making him call for a Ferrarelle —and I knew this one would like to see me pee.
Slowly, at the sound of some camp lounge music that must have been a B movie score, after he had ordered Sami to disrobe and sit with his glass of wine, he took away my jacket, and while reciting a smooth litany of appreciative insult —what whores get— unbuttoned my dres’s one by one down, palpating and inhaling every new patch of skin, coming back into my eyes every so often. My tights were crotchless, and as he told me to undo my shoes, he began foraging in my crack, licking the fingers he wanked me with.
Soon did a sturdy rod snuck out of the robe, rosy pale, circumcised and frighteningly long, teasing my lower belly while he tongued my mouth like a bear in a hive. Having pulled my tights, he knelt me on an ottoman and sucked my toes, licked my soles and gnawed my heels and ankles, like a refined connoisseur. As he reached my butt-crack with his dishevelled mumblings and his eager lips, he told Sami to fuck my mouth.
The robe was crumpled out on the carpet, my thighs spread wide like a watering trough, he was already in a shamanic trance. He seized my waist and brought me to the bathtub, ordered me laying down, as he began pissing over me, inviting Sami to water my flowers, too; I had better revel in my own depravity, Sami was a cunning matchmaker. then the Russian told me, in his kind of billingsgate, to crouch up as he wallowed down in the pool of his own urine, and that I peed on his face and mouth, which I obliged, while Sami was still watering my back and butt.
When I went dry, the drenched ruffian persisted at my source like a bona fide tribade, not resting before he could taste my modest discharge upon his freaked out papillae. Then he seized the showerhead and the foamy gel to wash every pore of me, fingering me till he could ease his dick into my butthole and make me dance as he stood knelt; I felt him gush inside as he shouted in his weird sabir, holding my neck in a long slippery hug, warning in my ear that the little slender Parisian slut was not yet finished with him.
Dried and scented all with the same princely honeysuckle, he drew us back in the salon, sat me across his lap and kissed me endlessly; the insults had ceased, he asked me my name, and if I liked whoring, I said matter-of-factly yes, and that he had given me real pleasure.
The small talk, in my face, made him stiff again and so he commanded that I turned my back on him, and sit upon his willie in my lubricated arse, then, all predictably, told Sami to thread in my quim, hey were fierce but loyal, it lasted dreamily and I came a few times, biting his earlobes backwards, recalling my first wandering in my new school’s laundry rooms, my fateful outbid to another deadly gangrape in the summer dunes, my own brother letting me be trashed, and probably shooting his wad, too.
Then and there, eventually, Sami reckoned I had had my fill, rinsed me again and dressed me up and saw that Kyrill —that was the name— give me the amount agreed on, and much more. The Russian couldn’t let my arse go, but he dozed off and we left. In the car, my legs again parted open for Sami, I felt serene, my whiff of bygone throes had waned, I longed to see my little whore Ayla again.
At the traffic light, Sami looked at me and told me to re-open my dress and caress myself, I obeyed. He stared at my eyes for a while and said I had a few more clients, if I was up to it, as he saw the slut in me wasn’t washed out yet. Taken aback, I could not answer, so he reached for my neck and kissed me fondly, then he explained he had a demand from a rich old man who wanted to watch a young nymphet my type be defiled on his lap by his valet, a valiant black Zulu man with a goodly penis in his pants. For him, she would only have to help him conclude in her mouth.
Mentally, I begged for Ayla’s help, had she not casually mentioned that three or four sessions a night was fine? And anyhow, Sami had seen me shagged by hordes of hard hung brutes and relish that. My eyes spoke for me, so he steered towards the Champs Elysées and drove up past the Arc de Triomphe towards the well-off avenues of Neuilly, tasting my undeniable wetness from time to time, repeating lauds of my whorishness, raving on our lucky fairies posse.
He stopped the car before the black lacquered portal of a light stone villa and called on his phone to announce us, the double door slowly gave way to the car and closed behind it. Two lanterns sided a double black heavy-looking door on the right side of a paved alley along a high wall on the left. A tall black waiter wearing a black jacket and vest ushered us in, and instantly our gazes met, inoffensive.
Atop three steps, an older man, in a Burgundy indoor jacket, stood with a cane but upright, he clutched my hand, stared at my face, my open dress on my flat chest, and repeated my name as he drew me to a grand salon where a wood fire crackled in a high stone chimney. He turned to Sami and said he was not disappointed, and the girl was just as candidly perverse as he had hoped. On the way to his winged chair, he addressed the waiter, he called Edwin, to undress me —I was a whore. The black boy, superbly dressed and wearing patent slippers, slid his long hands up my shoulders to make my jacket fall on his arm; he had visibly licence to grope me and I made him feel I liked it. He crouched to unbridle my shoes and let his hands slid up to my crotch to pull my tights down. He pushed me towards his boss, not ceasing to fondle my butt. the old gent waved at me until my knees touched him, and he made me sit on his lap, legs apart, making me pull my tongue backwards on the side in his eager mouth that smelled of violet. He commanded his boy to play me like his wife, and first, show me his true pecker, if I would not pee on his legs.
The organ was indeed staggering, but I was savvy enough to fetch some lube in my jacket if needed, I smirked at my sluttiness, and Edwin might have read despise, so I frankly rolled my eyes at him and asked if he would let me alive, yet. That amused Monsieur who asked me to let him suckle my toyberries.
Having hung his clothes on a chair, Edwin was back and chose to drill with his tongue my holy holes which he did so craftily as to sip some of my joy, sniggering. Now I embraced the frail man who craved my mouth, pawed my loins conscientiously, and made me stretch my arse for his considerable proxy, whose shaft happened at my quim’s edge, with a stubborn push that made me forgive all those I might have deemed outrageous, once. I felt some jelly had been dispensed generously, so as to allow that dizzying spell of feeling the dibber sliding in as my flesh rendered. The master kept on raving about my wrestle snaking, and I was growling into his violet mouth.
Edwin’s truncheon jostled around my cervix, expanding further my mean innards, causing flows of acceptance and accelerating the run of all its length. When he spurted, the electric shock in my womb left me numb and sluggish, for the better relish of whom had designed the delicious torture, and lapped my lips for another tiny bit of my tongue.
Though dripping in his own doing of my elated vagina, the winner was still as unbending as a mooring pole and pumping into my sensitive squirms, and so, to his boss’ arousal, he decided to let me endure even worse and rested his drenched glans against my bunghole to ease it wider. And so much wider, I imagined in my back, as he played alternately in the dripping vagina and the still sullen anus. I had long learned to enjoy the pain of being buggered through, but this must have been some ultimate tier of this perverted game, I kept moaning and crying upon the silk lapels of him, whom I had allowed to let me be done this, and who was blissful to drink my tears.
Edwin had called him Sir Alcott, he had fetched from an inner pocket a fine linen kerchief trimmed with lace, and he wiped all of my body fragrances, to keep. He had untied his vesture and told me to ride him backwards, in order to fuck my eased bunghole with a much more modest spear, however noble it be. As Edwin preferred to rest awhile, but His Knightship required a teammate, Sami was enrolled to warm his friendly prick in my pouting cunt, after I sucked it alive, again. The old rascal recited bawdy verses in my ears, I let myself float, my knees rested upon the chair’s arms, moaning my pleasure.
Sami was longer to culminate once more, and I could have endured his drilling at no end, gushing and again on his rabid flesh, I was almost passed out when he blessed me a last once.
Before fleeing to his bed at Edwin’s arm, the unkempt nobleman addressed Sami about me he still held by my arse, and said I had been such a wholehearted fucker and I did not fake it —otherwise Edwin’s number would have been intolerable— and gave him the envelope he had just filled in a side drawer.
We were shown a dim-lit white marble bathroom with a walk-in shower. His Excellency indulged in fine toiletries, I found a men’s cypress-musk to my mood, and Sami approved, casually floating that my next trick would, too. We returned to an empty house but rested on my folded jacket was a dull rose box tied with a thin silver ribbon under which a card was slid, bearing the letter A, with a period. A telephone number was scrawled across.
In the car, Sami gave me the unmarked envelope and I offered, first thing, to split the bounty; but he refused and told me he was not my pimp and would be amply rewarded otherwise, besides having shagged me the whole evening. He reminded me that he was one of the members of the Circle, not a skin trafficker. the box contained a trove of macarons, we had been starving.
I had said nought, he was driving fast to the northern heights of the city, I was thirsty and he said it wouldn’t be long. He still kissed me at traffic lights. As we went up, the streets narrowed and twirled, through remnants of country-like randomness, but he knew his way like a regular and entered straight in a garage way, which led in a far bigger space than I would have expected. He explained that Montmartre was a hollow hill, having been a huge stone quarry for centuries, like other parts of Paris. Most excavations had since been filled with rubbles, like those which once had piled in the Saint Roch mound, next to where Philippe’s stands.
In the headlights, the rough limestone cavern looked phantasmagoric and my lower belly felt like a weird appeal, like the laundry basements with the ghosts in the drying sheets; he lopsided me and took my mouth, my slit was unwittingly wet. Low floor lamps gave some operatic lighting, the sounds were muted, it smelled of mushroom and saltpetre, as in an old abandoned cellar at the far end of Saint Loup’s garden, where, like many of us, slutty brats of all ages, we went to get a shag from the half-wit darlings that lived there —we had to help them wash, at great fun.
We reached an impressive metal door that wasn’t locked and opened on a sleek cut-stone corridor, much like Philippe’s labyrinths, leading to a spiralling staircase downwards to a circular anteroom with red carpeting and black waxed furniture in the Neo-Gothic taste. A man greeted us with a circular motion of his arm; he was costumed in the Regence extravagance. He wore a bespoke mask of delicate Maroquin, deep purple with thin red trimmings, covering from the forehead down to the crest of the nose, large round sieve bubbles made for eyes of a giant insect. Some fitted doublet, of black and red, weaved ribbons work, with padded shoulders and tapered sleeves left the sexual organs uncovered, out of black thin leather tights; he walked in cavalier boots. After he checked our black cards, he invited us to undress, ceremoniously carried our wares inside a vestiary, and brought back a key on a wrist band he tied to Sami’s.
That manner of a concierge, with a dangling dong in the furry black triangle of his weird pants, walked up to me and his eerie physiognomy seemed to scrutinise my face, then he shoved his fingers in my mouth, and then kissed my tongue with even more energy than sir Alcott, and went down in my already trained avenues with a contented groan.
Holding my arm, or whatever he liked of me, he wondered if I knew where I was and what game was played; I did not answer but Sami said that I knew nothing else than I was there to be used as a mop by the rich members of the Circle, with the limitations he had just read on my card. He seized my shoulders, and, sitting at the edge of the table, told me to show him a sample of my talent, forcing my mouth down to his prick and asking me to make him hard for the fifteenth time that night. That was in my range, I did him the long rifle gulp and he could not help dropping half a spoon of jizz in my mouth I did not even let him see. This ant-man wasn’t even so sure, he wanted to taste my mouth of his deed. Then on, he trotted alongside me to the salons whose doors opened around us.
Holding my arm, or whatever he liked of me, he wondered if I knew where I was and what game was to be played there; I did not answer but Sami said that I knew nothing else than I was there to be used as a mop by the rich members of the Circle, with the limitations he had just read on my card. He seized my shoulders, and, sitting at the edge of the table, told me to show him a sample of my talent, forcing me down to his prick and asking me to make him hard for the fifteenth time that night. That was in my range, I did him the long rifle number and he could not help dropping half a spoon of jizz in my mouth I did not even let him see. This ant-man wasn’t even so sure, he wanted to taste my mouth of his deed. Thereafter, he trotted alongside me towards the arched black doors around the room. It smelled like the immemorial pots-pourris in the house of our ancestors on Kongens Have in Copenhagen, it made me feel even sluttier, my grandfather had no face.
That all-out concierge led us to the room closest to the stairs socle, I noticed on top of the newel a fine reproduction, in green tones and white jade, of that famously immodest sculpture of Winter, by Houdon. He pulled the door to the warm penumbra of a vaulted hall under a sculpted ceiling of interlaced vines, olive branches and climbing roses, in high relief, painted and gilded. I clung to Sami as I was struck by the beauty, unaware of the bacchanalia that occurred on the low divans around the room.
Another masked man, birdlike with feathers flowing down to his shoulders, silvery chest ornaments concealing a protruding belly, but not a ready stiff prick, came grazing my side, and fondle my cooch so as to check my state of readiness, another one helped me bend back to taste my mouth, moaning that I had already swallowed some of a man’s gush, and waking back up, I retorted I wished I could drink tea or something, now.
Yes, of course, it would make me flow warmly later, so the two compadres —Sami had found some other trail to sniff— pushed me with their quivering hands to a low table, inlaid of abalone chips, that held silver and gold trays, bearing many ewers of clear colours. Having let be certain they would shag me, I asked them which drinks were not laced with anything weird, they laughed, poured a delicious light mauve half-sweet beverage in a blown-crystal goblet, and, as I had crouched down to drink, I felt creamy fingers testing my butthole. I knew why they encouraged me to amply quench my thirst, my smile must have been all the kinkier.
As a third one, bearing a lion head with a mane of curled stuffed satin strands, a thickly embroidered bodysuit mimicking the animal fur, and clawed feet, was keeping aside, his upright virility said enough of his intentions.
The man-bird had teamed with a slender jackal whose Horus mask would render munching my minge uneasy, the two pointing ears in shaved velvet and fake glossy eyes overhung a one-piece black sieve, as the Egyptian banded head-cover reached his shoulders. He gently pushed aside some replete couple, a pretty young lascivious redhead with tempting lean feet, set me on all fours and fucked my mouth, his groin smelled flowery, ylang-ylang and iris, his dick was long and thin, it played painlessly in my throat, soft and slow. His team-mate was sturdier, but I felt his penis convince my so prepared anus, and soon the funny beat of balls upon my quim. I must have rolled my eyes in contentment, and Horus was caressing my tummy and pinching my whoreberries, they attained the pace of my plexus pulse —or did I make them? so as I shivered out in yet another trance of my debauchery night.
One gushed beyond the threshold of my throat, the other endlessly through my entrails and I greeted that with repeated beastly squeezes he thanked me for, lauding how skilled a slut I was.
Horus tightened me back and ploughed me in the muddy furrow while he forced to lay me upon him, and he kneaded me with attentive hands, retting my elated fibres in skeins of bliss. I felt like the ultimately available tramp on a bed of warm tongues, and it was making me popular amongst the insect-eyes fauna. Soon, an all-over yellow and black striped wasp with glittering eyes and jiggling antennas stood up in the span of my thighs and humped me like an unleashed bull, while my feet were licked thoroughly, or used many ways in someone’s vagina or arse, I sailed a slow hurricane of anonymous wants, endless.
This Sarah reappeared sometime in the wee hours, to cuddle along my back, as I slept with Fanny, because on her part Camille was about to fly to New York again, with Michelle, Gauthier, and Natalia who had earned her seat by all the naughtiest manners she could pull —she had literally given Fulgence to Gauthier, mingling herself in the middle.
Sarah was extremely overspent, out of nerves, but she smelled heavenly fresh, the breath of a baby, the nails of a pornstar, the crotch of a top tier courtesan, my girl.
At whatever tea-time, she wasn’t exactly bright, but when she started recounting me her witch night, I felt amazed that she could sit-up, we laughed at the idea and she wondered, too; she had seriously shagged a whole battalion, both ways. She fetched her jacket and began to parse the pockets’ contents. There were four plump envelopes that revealed in all an awful amount of money that made her die laughing. She explained that she had offered Sami a share, but he would never accept any other than carnal favours, he was no pimp, although he would sell us to an army of dicks, and coochies.
She felt the need to retell her night to Hugo if ever he wished. On the telephone, he said he was already aroused at Sarah’s tone of voice, and thrilled to revive a slutty tomboy’s chauffeured jaunt; Sami had reported already.
Meanwhile, we would keep up with the ongoing exchanges between the two antipodist unicorns, for all they would like me and Fanny to know, and by-the-way, my savant mistress might well be flabbergasted when asking for Fanny’s résumé.
It had been freezing outside, Michelle was actually contemplating a tunnel between her own basement and Hugo’s, remained to buy a strategic square on the chessboard, and Hugo had undertaken the manoeuvres, since not only would it link TRÆVIX, a magnificent fortress, to us, but it also would permit to eventually interconnect other buildings, where to lodge new talents. Rumour —Delffan— had it that Michelle had visited Hugo’s apartments, and smelled jolly good, when back.
Although a tad chilled through, the two of them sounded faultlessly enharmonic, Delffan, still one’s own pristine candour, posted to drink all words from one’s newfound prophet’s mouth, when not merely kissing. One’s cotton tracksuits were far from enough, I took them to our vestiary and tried them in winter leggings of wool and silk, which unfailingly led to frank petting, and Cynthia renewing her memories of my quim, while one enjoyed my mouth as casual. Fanny had peeped all from the doorway, which seeing, Delffan asked her to show her slit, as she had already grabbed that Fanny relished being given orders in sexual plays, and so there were two of us being buggered in the piles of rags.
Fanny, afterwards, proposed to order bites from Al-Andalus, and we let her do, they had been long appointees to Camille’s household, among others. Treating me like she had always done since our scandalous high school romance —although none of them had knowledge of the real would-be scandal, merely upset by what they read as a lesbian affair— she craved my skin, any crease she could slide into, she had always been an ardent fondle maniac, and now Delffan busied one’s hands on Fanny, who took some rightful feminine pride to it.
We brewed up some tea, Fanny dipped her cakes in the glass cup and Delffan mocked at the bits that broke down. We, elders, enthused to watching one of our heydays cult movies, on the bedroom’s home theatre, there had been a time when we had been so enthralled with Faye Wong that, in Amrum, we had seen Chung King Express almost every day of a fool headed summer, along with my so Potamus brother!
The younger ones did not know this gem, but once we started to shout out all the songs, amidst savagely sexual episodes of our own, we saw the film three times, before literally passing out, close on one another like a brood of Hamburg swans.
It was afternoon, Hugo had let me survive in the tall silver and black lacquer bedroom, amidst eiderdowns from the nest of a bygone cocotte who had then, built a hospital with the sale of her pearls. We had talked endlessly, that is he had questioned me like a war catch, recording me, torturing me with love. I had relished what he made me say, revived all the lustful vicissitudes of the abandon at Sami’s will, the old games I had learned in the Cossack stables, in symmetry to those I inflicted in the boxwoods, my privileged education.
Here in our protective jumble, the bedroom smelled of carnal expense, like the forbidden dormitories, the little girls’ cloakroom. There must have existed a curious aspect in the moon’s course, and I was feeling a sensibility in my groin. They had bought plentiful of perishable Moroccan confectionery, I brewed some tea, I did not know about Cynthia, but she sat close to me, pulling her chair so as to graze my thigh, her breath was clear as dew. She did not waste much time before she knew I was a full-fledged girl, she was the kind with a magic sleight, we would have been mates at the lakeshore.
I heard babbles and splashes over there, I rested my feet upon hers and poured her a cup.
Delffan had found the geranium-orange, and one liked it on Fanny. Cynthia skyped tomorrow, or yesterday, in Oz, about menial technicalities at her hospital. Eventually, she proposed to Delffan moving on their talks in the attic at TRÆVIX, and it sounded attractive to her patient.
Once they ran, Fanny needed to tell me her impressions of being fucked by an off-catalogue spur, and moreover two of them, she had been a tad spooked at first and had let be done in the dark a few times before, but now all had been quieted by Cynthia’s mastery, and her beautiful dagger when aroused, and the manner she taught Fanny to manipulate Delffan’s joujou at her whim.
Kate liked to put up her feet on the table, within my reach; she retold her coming to know Cynthia in high school, on a matter of sexual attitude towards a clever teacher, and how she sneaked into the incestuous relation of her brother and herself, for almost two years. She thought it had constituted a major trump in Cynthia’s hand, even if she incarnated more or less the core of the dispute between her parents and the German medical might.
We moved up to the studio and inflicted on Fanny to read aloud, with diction, a novella by Cortazar. We agreed to ask Fulgence and associates for dinner.
Fayelle tiptoed in and sat next to her playmate of recent memories, she looked like she must have had words and feelings with Simon, who could definitely not consider her as he did his sister, but Fanny and her clutched souls, after the Sylt fiasco, when it had occurred that she would not agree to his envision for life. Henceforth, they would meet stealthily in the extra-room upstairs, unwind their throes of raw sex, and moodily ascertain their opposite wills. Fayelle had shaped her attitude, so as to relish Simon’s unmatched fuck, while keeping her soul in her own orbit. At the grand outpouring of his wants, Fanny had been just near, at Kate’s neck like a pearl, but her overcoming of a sinister fate, in the smooth guidance of Camille’s, was blooming only not as Simon understood. There and then, she listened.
We could not reach the conclusion of Cortazar’s text, Fanny’s reading had been faultless, our warm-hearted compliments made her brows heave in a closed-lips smile; Fayelle could nuzzle unleashed into her friend’s kitty parts.
We had warned our unicorns of the presence of male univocal specimens that did not deter them. Agnete and Sanne had surpassed their talents, it gave three large trays of nibbles and bites. Cynthia and Delffan showed early, they had done some shopping, the big sister felt snug in a terracotta ample turtle neck, slant mounted, knitted wool sweater dress, over fox grey leggings; her darling sister had superimposed three jack’s shirts upon a too small teeshirt and a tight black slim, one walked in black untied Docs, one had an idea of the boys —nevertheless one wore a sparkling gold Rolex watch— and those actually came en masse, assured of a classy shag, smelling of marijuana already, and mostly lavender and clean sweat —what they meant to me. The four of them wore heavily used jeans, and I suggested they drop shoes and socks. Fulgence, who had always kept some art school spirit, took everything off, I couldn’t help noticing he had been wearing a clean white brief, I granted him a kinky eye.
Fanny and Fayelle had entrapped Delffan in their midst as if they fenced off unkind manners, whereas one shied nought and engaged in a subtle flirt with Sergei who wanted to bare her feet.
Edwin had left a branding in my innards, I made it readable to Erik that I would let him play me beyond my innate aloofness, if he liked, then and there. He wisely started with my toes —he had known of my weak spots.
Cynthia swanked, in her neat bob helmet of lush dark hair; she did not beat around any bush as to her double nature, and we all cheered at her innuendos, they all had been Liselotte’s willing game, in the least. Florent, a lean hazel-eyed blond who looked like he had only just schussed down from Gstadt, caught her want as she managed to make him blush through his privileged tan. The thing with Cynthia was her voice, which she had worked out to sound a smooth head and chest alto, never gave out a virile afterthought; in her untraceable German Australian educated accent, she mystified the singled out preys of her double-dealing, none whinged. Leaning on her elbow, having thrown her leggings and else, she hollowed her slender loins under the waves of knitwear, daring whom she already slyly wanked into his opened fly to snoop under, and ride a multisexual round.
The round-headed pupil had opportunely lived a lesser agenda and was wholeheartedly vindicated since we had snatched one’s soul from the pit one had been in like a mere animal of curiosa. And one was of all beauty, the despair of Canova’s, the transcendence of immaturity, in the sleekest of living flesh, now secured in the mighty heart of the planetary aviator, as a pure gold timepiece asserted at one’s arm. Nathan began grazing the imperceptible peach-fuzz on the fore-arm, wondering in a whisper if one liked to be loved in either mind, to what one laughed that it couldn’t be synchronous, but one let him shoot first. Nathan sported an advantageous flat chest, square shoulders and well-worked abs; rich black curls rimmed an enviable carnal apparatus that was currently tense in one’s hand. Moving to a fourth corner of the couches, one wedged one’s back and, legs-up, guided the spear into one’s modest minge, which nonetheless engulfed the whole of the partner’s desire. And so one was the first fucked of the party.
The casually magisterial voice of the willowy Cynthia character —it became obvious once she untied her dress— rendered our cavalcade more lustfully conscious, like one would bring reverb to a bland recording of some ribald song. I had known, by Elsie’s confidences, that Erik was a sharpshooter, given the calibre of his gun. He did not belittle Edwin’s surprise, but he deserved many flying colours and dedicated cheers of the tongue and the fever sheaths. He never recessed, urging my baffled mouth to rekindle his might, and, like his still perceived predecessor, mostly relished the lesser path. He breathed in my neck that I was a worthy slut.
Inevitably, as goodwill minders of Fanny’s balance, we stood ready to cancel the play at the mere sign of anguish, but she kept granting Sergei the time of his debauché’s career, as he found the appropriate touch of the bow on the nowhere girl’s soul and womb.
There had been merriment in the bathroom, Kate and Fulgence must have been enjoying tepid gold, Fulgence showed a unique capacity to piss up with his dick tense, hence give his teammate a most human enema. They had landed on our bed and she was now sounding like rock n’ roll and low throat gasps I read as fairly deep jolts in her womb. Later, Fulgence would call Erik for what I understood as a second course in a trio. As for myself, I still vibrated from the other night’s recital.
At the end of another Cortazar novella, we all climbed down for dressing time in our closet that smelled like a hothouse, but first, there was a sort of game of musical chairs about who would pee, in the adjoining bathroom, I broke the round pretending I needed more, and the poultry scattered.
Delffan was disquiet, not with the return of one’s rock-solid guide in the palace, but hints that Cynthia would soon be flying back to her home concerns, and not affording to see her other than through video call. I hugged her tight and swore my heart she was now on a sister of our bunch, and Hugo had evoked it might become even easier to sneak from her place to ours. That did not help one from crying, and the others had sharp ears, they gathered close, like children, and we all sang “Over the Rainbow”, because, at least, Sarah knew the words, from school — the others lalaed— I felt one’s hand grip mine fiercely, she had unlocked her soul, once, and she feared the cold.
Sarah had seen be done, among her estranged little youngsters, that acting out all the sorrows of one, in a bit of a playlet, unclench the vice of unspoken answers, her mock scenes with Ayla must have warded a young betrayed soul from the last of abjurations —albeit to a further cruel reckoning.
Delffan would regain her strings of reassurance as soon as she would touch Michelle, who had steadily revealed more trustworthy than her filtered gazes implied.
In the far corner of the wall-long wardrobe, hanged slipcovers with my thinner outfits I wished to adorn the reddened-eyed imp who stood there, naked. The idea dawned of some true boyish three-piece alpaca suit I had worn only once for some marriage gathering in my Danish family, and where everyone had thought I was a boy, but whom? It fitted, one would not stand upright long, anyhow. The expensive night-blue drapery was still fresh, and the purple satin lining would show like a sin in a holy book. A thin white linon collarless blouse, patent leather and grosgrain slippers and silk veil stockings, hinted enough of ambiguous soir luxury to set off one of a kind. Cynthia was altogether smitten but saw the crying eyes and drew one to a corner of a sofa, holding one’s hands, wiping one’s begging yes with a tissue. I did not try to listen to what was said.
Melchior had come, black wool velour blazer, Parma shirt and silk violet scarf, he had been discussing the limpid sound that flew out of the new Klipschorn speakers in the main salon, fed in by a tower of sleek black boxes with large blue meter dials and a multicolour monitor, with Gauthier who had supervised the set-up. The music was polyphonic ambient with savant streams of harmonies but was muted low when we all gathered. The arch-arbitrator smirked when he saw Natalia, in one of my black spencers trimmed of powder-blue piping, over silk black leotard and tights, and flat black Mary Janes, and called her at his side to sough a few words in her ear, scrutinizing her gaze between phrases, making her blush and smile. He held her hand and she remained by him.
He said he would not stay for dinner, but what he had to announce was short. At Camille’s, Michelle’s and Hugo’s, it had been contemplated to create a foundation according to the works of Ms Möhlitz and her parents, preferably in Europe, where a great many intersexed or Middlesex persons still suffered daily.
There was a silent whoop, Cynthia grabbed Delffan and they cried warmly, soon embraced by Kate and me, and Michelle, who flooded her glasses.
Having dropped his bomb, Melchior left, still clutching Natalia’s wrist, everyone winking at her, as in you get what you’ve been hunting for, and it was for the finest.
Linen had been ironed upon the dinner table, and we helped ourselves in cloudy blue porcelain individual salad bowls, fishing here and there in disparate dishes. I was beginning to wonder who attended at the kitchen, but eventually considered anything would happen with the girl behind the sofa.
Cynthia, holding Delffan who had dropped the jacket, needed Kate for parsing the actual implication of big money at her service; she would have to bring in her parents, who had fought their whole life for her cause, and their lawyers.
Michelle, predictably, had vanished, and Delffan looked for her, then grasped the obvious and ran upstairs, Cynthia knew why.
Hugo had been in Switzerland, precisely in Zürich, with Ayla and Esther; that overwhelmed me, moreover when he announced they would be with us in a week; he groped my quim and asked me to sleep with him that night.
Cynthia’s morals were jostled. Deep in the white sands of her inner moon beach, she avowed having kept the very fantasy of what had been simply worded tonight. As her beloved pet case seemed to have reunited with one’s soulmate and self-proposed liberal sponsor, and otherwise Sarah relished some pillow-talk with Hugo, I lead her to our bed, for past time’s sake, and to make clear the motives of a black swan funding. First, she should figure the magnitude of the powers she had met through us, but leave out our libertine posse, because she would never have to own up to our life walks —of which she had scarcely viewed— except for the discreet presence in Camille’s gallery. She would merely need to register, in any fiscal order and domiciliation, into the Panado foundation nebulae, a tough stone to investigate into.
If true that Australia, a small giant of a country, had been first, along with New Zealand, to admit a third — X — solution for the “sex” line in passports, more work of ardent urgency remained to be undertaken over here, in Roman Catholic-flawed cultures, with morally dubious medical structures. Cynthia had been schooled partly in French, she might soon operate seamlessly, furthermore, her own admission to being one of her own interest group matter would naturally fend-off the media hyenas, for whom would remain solely tricky sexual topics, not the kind the readers crave, anyhow.
Professionally parsing long hours of Delffan’s kind elaborations, and also simply googling about, Cynthia had come to figure out Michelle’s character, given that probably no one on earth understood the funky part of her genius; that share of the hoard was clear. But she found eerily nothing about Melchior or Panado Inc. She learned in obituaries of Adlaï Stern about Camille’s recent inheritance of SEVEN STREAMS, but, apart from the ongoing project of a common apartment in New York that got Natalia and Delffan overjoyed, she fathomed no meaning to this news. On Hugo, she could find a favourable array of biographical gossip as a polygraphic talent, but nothing that would make one richer, yet, he seemingly owned a hefty chunk of real-estate in one of the most praised neighbourhoods of Paris, with which he had gained a flock of complacent mistresses such as I.
Rekindling our school days antics, I retold her how I had become a bonafide polyamorist libertine, how Sarah had bravely saved my hide, after the fateful accident in which I had believed I killed my brother, the joint rescue by Camille and Hugo, too, till Simon resurfaced from the inferno, covered with scars, and still a lover to me.
I knew how sterling Cynthia’s soul shone, hence the pretzel logic of my tales to win her to our lifeways, even if she allowed herself to fuck me in the middle of my seeming rationalisation of an occult conjuration, to what I had entrusted my skin.
From the time Sarah and I had been devoid of any worthy faith in what had made us reach one of the richest Art School in the free world, and follow the advice of a young dealer who had already slept with both of us, and under whose roof Sarah dwelt, we saw Hugo as a possible sponsor, and he lent a place to me, in exchange for innocent nude pose sessions, a fair deal to me, who received my father’s checks. Then, one evening, a real libertine took hold of my soul and dragged me through solid debauchery, till I drifted to the deadly depths of some Berlin bunkers, and drove my brother to his death in my mother’s car, and that was when Sarah, Hugo, and Camille refound me in a bleak German Nervenklinik and revived me back to where we stood, Cynthia and I, right then.
I knew how sterling Cynthia’s soul shone, hence the pretzel logic of my tales to win her to our lifeways, even if she allowed herself to fuck me in the middle of my seeming rationalisation of an occult conjuration, to what I had entrusted my skin.
From the time Sarah and I had been devoid of any worthy faith in what had made us reach one of the richest Art School in the free world, and follow the advice of a young dealer who had already slept with both of us, and under whose roof Sarah dwelt, we saw Hugo as a possible sponsor, and he lent a place to me, in exchange for innocent nude pose sessions, a fair deal to me, who received my father’s checks. Then, one evening, a real libertine took hold of my soul and dragged me through solid debauchery, till I drifted to the deadly depths of some Berlin bunkers, and drove my brother to his death in my mother’s car, and that was when Sarah, Hugo, and Camille refound me in a bleak German Nervenklinik and revived me back to where we stood, Cynthia and I, right then.
With time, we had seen girls and boys sell their youth to our protector, but we had, ourselves, traded favours for riches, and found a taste for it, as Cynthia had guessed, albeit centring her mind on Delffan’s fate; and one had not entered the naughty round although we had found one, naked, in the middle of a posh orgy —we did that, too— provided we did a weekly test of our blood, like any serious pornstar in the Valley. I let her guess the rest of our turpitudes and bragged that she had not yet seen a third of our such cousins, full-blooded available trulls.
In short, Cynthia grasped that some immoral masonry offered to build her a desirable bastion in Europe. She decided she would first sleep with all and any member of the troupe, and collect the testimonies, would it mean fuck everyone aboard, stealthily, she trusted the taste of Kate for fuckable guests.
As a splendid prologue, Cynthia was confronted by the sneaky, though not uncommon, apparition of nude Natalia into our bed, back from Melchior’s untraceable realm, altogether fresh as the pointing dawn and languid as reeds in the whirls. She boasted she had satisfied six full-fledged bastards for the relish of the Great Manitou, whom she had pretty much aroused with her exploits in the aeroplane cockpit during the flight back from New York. Now she knew that Melchior could watch and record any event onboard.
Sensing that Cynthia, whom she had eyed at least the legs, was a tad disconcerted, she swayed her hips at her, rubbing her apple bum on my lower belly, and told, in a jaded, lower tone, her voyage in wealth and debauchery.
At once, in the stately long Phaeton, he had beclouded the partition screen and asked her to undress, in the blue light of the nightlights; he had let her flaunt her animal skin on the lush velvet. The car was infinitely more silent than an aeroplane and nullified magically all bustle. They had been travelling through the nightly scapes of the posh west when she had invented some natural need, he had ordered the chauffeur to park whenever possible, so she could gracefully crouch and pee in the grass in front of him, wiping her quim with the kerchief he handed her.
The phlegmatic vehicle had reached a commanded portal and followed a tree-lined alley before riding down a lit slope to a subterranean parking garage hosting already a collection of automobiles of all epochs; it was clean as a nursery, with a floor of polished pink sandstone, walls of metro-like white bevelled tiles, and an aluminium-clad ceiling ran with sprinkler-pipes. She did no-fuss strolling in her absent apparel before the chauffeur, who kept all his composure.
They entered a stylised jungle pattern pressed-glass mirrors clad elevator, of the kind you do not feel if it goes up or down, and walked out in a high-ceiling round foyer opening with arched doorways in three directions, an all-over mural painting of an exotic forest reaching high a whirl of stormy skies; between the overtures, and on each side of the elevator’s repoussé gilt metal, stood towering pressed crystal light-fountains shedding a smooth light on Natalia’s body, as an inscrutable valet took Melchior’s coat.
Natalia was giving herself a courtly pleasure in retelling thoroughly her voyage, thus showing me her scholarly headway, mostly earned through her rouée talents; I kept in mind to let Cynthia hear of the kind of relationship our pet maiden entertained with one of the literary mandarins of the Sorbonne.
Melchior smelled of some Tuscan timeless cypress breeze, laced with moonshine ambergris and masculine flowers, that Hugo had tried before with her, he had said it would be the most expensive scent in the known world, anywise it had already spun her head and released the fireflies of her womb.
Steering her by any of her gracile limbs and her elfish bends, he drove her to a withered-rose and giltwood rounded sofa where he made her take lewd poses for his attentive valet, of whom she saw the bulging crotch, and guessed the prologue of the play. The old man confided that he dared not measure his wants to her bouncing stamina, but nonetheless, he wished to witness live some of the forbidden games she had had the cheek to perform with his pilots, in their seats, ten kilometres high in the sky, risking their jobs for her cute little hips. Hence, she would have to grant her favours to some of the house’s well-hung stallions, wouldn’t she?
She had sulked for a second, sighed like Liselotte had groomed her to perform —and I had not known that detail and Cynthia asked who Liselotte was, and concluded the socialite was some goodwill procuress— and smiled candidly, while grazing the boy’s trousers, and picked the zipper’s slider to pull it down, playfully slow. The dick conformed to the all-over impression of the square-jaw squire, direr than the airmen, but lesser than her own beloved minders’, she busied her tongue and mouth while he was getting rid of his outfit, except for the socks he wouldn’t reach because she did so well.
The drawing-room was an illusion of the années folles speakeasies, all upholstered in handiwork exclusives, an outcry of social deviancy, said her, in which lost girls sang their only song. Except the room would remain deserted, save for her who had been laid on a grand round ottoman, and then there were two other well-built chaps waiting to take her server’s place, quietly, at her wish, since it was obvious she was the queen of sluts in this ghosts’ arena. Henceforth, she had been used crescendo by half-a-dozen unhurried mercenaries of Melchior who was wanking a nevertheless presentable prick.
Our little harlot, since the times when she had assailed me in the dim-lit kitchen at Hugo’s, had fine-tuned her lustful routines so as she knew perfectly Cynthia would now lay her hands on her, we had fostered a mistress gamer, and she thought New York was her size, now.
I needed Cynthia to apply, beyond whatever crush she might enjoy with our nymphets, her straightforward analysis of our little utopia because I thought it was a good idea to fund her fight, like it had been, once, all things proportionate, the funding of the Family Planning, in times when women with botched clandestine abortions weren’t being granted anaesthesia by hospitals chief doctors, except, already, in Switzerland. But there and then, in our bed of turpitudes, she was openly learning that we were fostering prostitutes —to speak frankly.
Of old times’ sake, and the excitement to watch her fuck that foolhardy marvel, I kept my joy for the time when she would encounter, head to head, lost angels of the likes of Fæbian, Lizon, and the whole brood.
While she caressed Natalia’s bounteous hair, she admitted that she had known more about our life manners than it had seemed, through online chats with Theo, whom, as a chosen gay outrider, had a light-hearted vision of our polyamorous tribe.
Natalia had been first among us to properly shag with Delffan, so there was not the slightest cringe, when, after a threesome canoodling she let herself be done and sucked the proudly pointed spur that was teasing her pouty lips, then, sideways, buggered her easily and splashed over her butt.
It had been a multiversal night in Hugo’s bed and arms. He proposed cannabinoid suppositories with a tamed down THC formula, which his friend Doctor Jeremy Arbuthnot had engineered. As both had known unpredictable angst episodes with some varieties of cannabinoids blends, we kept out X pills ready. It was not one of his stoned patient fantasies, in which he had put me under, only to play with my inert body, he held similar gold-leaf wrapped little rockets when he asked me to slide one into his arse and tell him which one I wanted in myself.
We rested on a plump grand mattress amongst padded silk covers and over-zealous pillows of eiderdown, in the middle of a tall room, hung with the finest weaved Lyon’s shawls, the kind that gives me instant acid whiffs, under an intricate Moorish ceiling, reclaimed from a French romantic folly, and beyond, some colonial pillage; Hugo explained that a Morrocan craftsman had spent a full happy year in this room to sort out and rebuild the scented maze, smoking haschisch like a Rolling Stone, his meals delivered to his taste by a Lebanese caterer, whose delivery boy he liked very much. Some of the walls had to be doubled to fit the ceiling’s measurements. A large gilt chiselled chandelier hung to chains from the angles, casting overlapping shards of light. In all four corners stood some column-shaped speakers, driven by a blue-eyed McKintosh amp; while I welcomed him like a melodrama bride, he started an ad libitum field of harmonies heart-felt by his friend Deosphax and recorded at an all-sex gathering in a disused theatre.
Hugo told me about the chessboard game being played on the cadastre around our small principality, the few patches that remained between us and Michelle’s garden; now that he had thrown his might in the idea of a foundation for the defence of intersex children and people, Melchior must have unleashed his Palermitan lawyers onto the bidding, whatever it meant. There would be an unassailable stronghold in the midst of the unadulterated —listed, anyhow— block. The main transformation would happen underground, uncountable metric tons being excavated and carried away through one narrow alleyway.
Then, the smooth lucubration about all that earth signalled the takeover of our pervaded anuses, and we laughed our hearts off on each other’s chest. We started maniac chiropractic on each other’s joints, meddling one another’s. He clasped my wrists in my back, anointed my bum crack with orange blossom glycerin he said he had tested in Lizon’s little hatch. A host of multicoloured damselflies whirled out of my jewelled entrails as soon as his glans began searching his way through me, and all of the music’s modulations ran in slow whiplashes under my skin, like the drowned strands of weeds at the shores of the Salute’s stairs, in Venice. My soul was tossed about, gathering gossamer veils in the silky black vortex at the centre of the circling shawls. The gloomy city lights moaned through the cabochons and disparate faceted crystal slivers of the narrow stained glass window. My orgasm lasted till I fainted a first once.
There I stood, wearing the most appropriate sapphire blue, turquoise piping trimmed, satin pyjama I had borrowed from Hugo’s and creased around my feet. In the morning, he had vanished, as he does, and my mind had not yet fully landed, so I found some large bathtub, stirred Hugo’s own recipe’s druggy in a head-soothing foam and dreamt on in it, almost drowned myself once, and eventually squared back my dimensions, enough to wish for a cup of tea, which I presently held, watching three desirable lesbians mentally fighting not to wake up.
As I started making love to her feet, reflected that Natalia had transmogrified into an awfully seductive creature, and she spent herself like the summer breeze; she moaned of ease and knelt up to grab and grope me in the silk, she said that her, too, had already worn these pyjamas, once she played the cat. Her breath was carnal, she had swallowed some cum.
As I gave her the subsister snippets of what I had learned before my wits skid into a peacock parade, she kept her hand inside the ample disguise; she was enthralled with any prospect of the new entity between Camille and Michelle, for she had a design to bind herself with it.
Kate wore an oversized sand grey jumper that did not bar from her nether countries as she sat on my lap, her thighs ajar for the relish of Natalia. Cynthia had ferreted out two pieces of tracksuit, dull yellow pants and a flag-blue hoodie I let my hand in, casually. She said she had overheard about the real-estate manoeuvres and it frightened her to have triggered all this, all the more with Delffan’s welfare at stake. Soon, she would fly back to her life and mull over all the tempting offers we, as an overall party of privileged bohemians, had floated to her, revealing uncountable might.
The scheme should be limpid, we would procure her our set of redeemed angels to let them talk their lives confidentially, Natalia agreed to lend her apartment upstairs, Beryl and herself camping around in some hospitable beds, for all she knew they all were.
Of their own will, the damsels could propose to bring her to shady venues, for thrills, but I thought that a week of novel encounters might grind her loins well enough, of all I knew of them. In the course of another future expedition, I promised we would go play Liselotte’s games, if she still wished.
Now that Melchior had thrown his weight in the scale, there existed a probable chance that the property takeover would happen, firstly for the good of many of his protégés, and there would be plentiful safe and snazzy space to move in for a cause. On top of any deal, in case she had not grasped, the clinic, where she had used the scanner and have all Delffan’s tests performed, belonged to Melchior, earnest.