Sarah says:

That morning, on the day Hector had warned that he would take me out, late afternoon, for some surprise date he had concocted to my wilder tastes, Kate away to Sylt island, with her brother and Fayelle; I had, alone in our grand bed, one of these long woken dreams one doesn’t wish to end, and thus one remains stone still.
It was the vivid reminiscence of a full moon winter night, at my halcyon school on the Swiss lakeshore, where my omniscient father had spared me the world —my secretive UN officer of a dad I call Far in Danish— when something eerie had triggered my eyes wide open like a jolted automat.
Misshapen remnants of my deeper dream drifted like a melting ice cream cake on the deserted feast table, as dumb seconds pounded, in the feverish scent of my own nightly body dew.
It was a tiny edge of silence, the sensitive absence of the night’s breath, at my window, I sensed like the first snow in the season in a glance of the full moon.
But then, as I was balancing the worth of leaving out of the warmth I had gathered inside the duvet, to muse at a chance of winter magic in our park, the emotion built up that something other was happening for my own concern, outside of the frosted panes.
I had wrapped the whole comforter over me and felt cold on my feet as I feasted my eyes in the immense dome of bluish glare upon our nude plane trees. I received that dazzle as an assumption and wished I went wake someone, to share the bedcover along with me.
Then, at the edge of my sight, a slight trembling caught my attention and I fathomed a silhouette standing, face to the white glazed lawn, in a mere ghostly nightgown. It was real, one of the younglings had snuck out of their dormitories and stood, motionless on the snow.
I knew her, Ayla had said she was troubled but sweet, her name was Kirsten. I slid on a tracksuit and sneakers and ran down to the lost child whom I had no idea how long she had remained in the cold.
Hearing my steps cracking towards her, she wouldn’t move, but at last, she turned crying eyes to mine, and let me catch hold of her lean figure and run back inside swiftly to my room.
Her clothes were wet, I disrobed her and fetched a bath towel to rub her, not losing her fixed glare, mumbling grouchy comments about her death wish dare, kissing her tears altogether.
As I tucked her in the duvet, she moved, holding out her hands to ask me in with her, and feebly tried to rip away my clothes, which only led me to think I would be warmer on her without them. She did not feel feverish, she huddled every patch of skin on mine, she faintly smelled of German Cologne, and I started to realise I was in trouble.
Her forehead against my neck, she began to sough imperceptibly in German, through her sobs, in a soft tone, only not like she was addressing me, about someone she loved and wouldn’t respond.
Her eyes were pale silver-blue, with heart-wrenching mauve rings under them, her tousled hair was flaxen blond, I only thought she needed a kiss, an endless embrace that brought her to sleep.
Much later in the morning, I had woken in the ecstatic light of the first snow, enlaced with a slender child I had obviously no right to keep in my bed. But she breathed like a baby, smelled like fresh linen and clung to me if I moved; I thought someone would find us, someone who wouldn’t tell.
It was Baldur, all pampered, looking for some naughty trick, on either side of his penchants, who found us first and marvelled at the tableau we made. I shushed him in a stare and whispered that he go find Ayla —my little soul-sister— before anyone might worry about Kirsten missing. She ran in like a hotel rat, was predictably aroused by what she could see of us, and moreover, Baldur took a handful of her woollen leggings, as he knew them.
Kirsten had woken, but we remained enlaced; I explained that she shouldn’t be here, nude in the bed of a big girl like me, as sweet as it might feel. I wouldn’t know if the situation aroused her, but she agreed to follow Ayla’s lead, who went and fetch daytime clothes for my involuntary catch and brought her to the canteen, where I could casually join them.
Ayla, who also lived in the youth dormitory, then on had kept the troubled bunny under her wing, taught her a crash course of libertine practice, probably slept with both Kirsten and her crush, I met her at the swimming pool, and later in the nooks of the rewilded box-woods, behind the pool —and she understood how un-exclusive affections might be.
Under the therapy franchise of Pr Achenbach, I had retold him the whole events and their current aftermaths; he had asked all the questions, nodded me his silence, and wondered if Kirsten might wish to meet him, in the high tower. I had agreed that our darling headmaster, Harmony, might arrange that deftly, to the girl’s best profit. Last I saw of Kirsten, she was a tall and gracile blonde en route to some expensive finishing school, at her father’s will; we had a last duet as dainty as the snow upon a lawn.

I wouldn’t have deemed such a miniature recall a good or a bad omen of the announced day of Hector’s fancies, but I sat sipping my Darjeeling, relishing the parenthesis of solitude, as in an emotional sostenuto, playing a music CD Ayla had done for me, in the Saint Loup days. Each time I played it, it enraged me so as to board a plane to Zürich and whore along with her and Esther; of all, Radiohead had kept their grip in my plexus, so then I switched to the real thing, and slid in the plain vanilla nostalgic OK computer disc, before showering with Kirsten’s 4711, knowing that it wouldn’t live till night.
I donned a long, vague, multi-sails running gown to be able to denude myself at my health check-up —it was even time for the vagina smear— and a 25 carats makeover in Merlina’s salon, where she found time for some laser finish of my prized skin, and dainty little nails of ultramarine lacquer. She played jealousy for my thick and wavy dark ebony mane, she liked massaging my nape with an absent gaze in her black motherly eyes.
Kate would have mocked the slight overplay of my readying for what would, at best, consist in extravagant spending of my mere carnal plunder amidst Louis’ astounding liturgies and ornaments, leaving me then distraught, for a length of time, in some unknown palatial room, or the Connolly hide of some legendary backseat, knowing that Hugo already awaited for my detailed retelling into the creases of his satin bed.

End afternoon came, on Thom Yorke’s beat. I had chosen a long, flared, shirt-dress of supple silk jersey salt-painted of deep sapphire blue whirls, with rolled-up sleeves, lined in night blue pongee, closed with five sapphire buttons, not lower than my crotch. On top of that an easy scarf vest, in a zigzag patchwork of indigo blue and crimson red satin ribbons, with concealed pockets; I looked like your magazine slut. Except for a line of mascara in my pride lashes, I never wear make-up, lucky me; I chew on my lips. I slipped on thin Egyptian sandals with turquoise beads on the black straps. I knew I had all it took to kick in Hector’s fit of passion, and I was so ready.

Hector waited at the main street door, the big silver whale of a car stood silent, and this time there was a chauffeur, a smart black man in a sleek black suit. He ushered me to the back seat and followed, not without grazing the silk on my bum. In the other corner sat an amazing sight; a tall and lean blond human being stood sideways upon the rich leather, smiling modestly, casting the kingfisher-blue light of her candid eyes; she was stark-naked, except for a padded dog collar matched to her eyes. She rested one of her spectacular legs upon the seat, letting me crave for a timid bald peachy quim, already.
She spoke German, not your plain beer-and-pretzel tongue, but some bizarre foreign accent with outdated turns, for all someone like me could judge, and moreover, all I could fathom was her sunny blond skin, her long limbs, hands, and her bare foot I dared hold.
Meanwhile, as he was explaining about Dagmar, who was twenty, an orphan raised into prostitution by nuns, no less, near Cologne, who he had recently bought from a Russian pimp, and with whom I could entertain because I spoke her language and she spoke none other. Saying these few terrible things, he was after my buttons, and Dagmar was encouraged seeing me almost as nude as herself, caressed my foolberries, and asked me if I was, too, a whore? I stroked her moving childish chin and said yes, I was, by pleasure, like she would, in the world I knew she had now been brought in.

The grand car slid out of the civilisation, Dagmar’s chest smelled of an idea of Venetian jasmine in a morning rain, such as it bloomed upon her amber-hazed skin, as we discovered each other without paying attention to Hector who was already buggering me someway, right there, with style, and she helped me tilt over in a crisis, of her hand, so then he discharged faster than he had expected. She seemed proud of herself, she tasted of angelica. He was such a phenomenon he remained stiff inside of me, letting the road sways exert the moves, while I lapped at newfound labia with ardour.
We reached some industrial wastelands, planted with high steel mesh fences and not much else, gigantic contraptions under tarpaulin sheets, lit from high masts with red beacons on top, lined up like war equipment. by the roar that shook the heavy car, we knew we were near an airport.
At a booth near an isolated portal, the chauffeur, who had smiled at our shameless trio when he looked back, showed a card to a blank plate, and the large frame rolled aside, letting us roll in, with a thought for whoever might have peeked into the car. The space was nondescript concrete ground with few astray plants in the joints, otherwise impressively clean.
Hector had let go of me, and both had taken good care at wiping clean my beloved arse with their tongues; all my belongings were neatly folded on a tablet. We approached a white flat-roofed kind of bunker and the only one manner of a door in one of the facades, that actually lifted open, giving sight of a totally bare white corridor lit from the ceiling. Still feeling of my lately carnal blaze, I clung to Dagmar —who was actually fun to play with— so big was my amazement. I had known Louis’ extravagances, I would have expected innumerable ways to attend the feasting of my own —and others’— debauchery, but there again I was enthralled, and Hector’s expecting smile gave me fits of tremor that my sister whore frankly relished.

With some played compunction, the chauffeur turned the switch to extinguish the engines of the car, into what had become a spacious metal box, when a panel had slid to close behind us the tunnel we had been driving in. Cuddled up like doves, we felt the minute jolts that meant we were in some sort of a lift. Now that he had insured of my carnal complacency after —I guessed— many days of unravelling Dagmar’s clear soul, the insatiable male had thrown his sinewy arms around our embrace.
Like a giant easter egg, the car had emerged in the centre of a vast and luminous empty hall, and the chauffeur, whose trousers obviously bulged forward, stood at the car door. My squirrel-like mind mused on the absence of any chemiconical sort of scent, the kind old cars would have born after an hour-long ride. We unwound our pretty selves in the state we had come to be, under the appreciative eye of the chauffeur, whom, I guessed, had not, yet, had the last bit of us.
It was warm like a cot, Hector, who had zipped back closed his bespoke silky outfit, handled our bums towards an opening that had swivelled in the lacquered wall, giving way to Louis, wearing one of his customary, operatic, brocatelle robes, of rich madder red, under which the black silk tight would be opened at the crotch, and, between the padded satin lapels, an ebullient jabot of fine-ironed lacy linen would hide most of his antique person while he would gallantly slit us open.

With a gracious en-dehors of his patent leather and grosgrain court slippers, he embraced us as a couple, then, granting me the complicit eye, he seized his most recent acquisition —he had apparently not yet acquainted with, entrusting Hector with the breaking in of an expensive angel. He showed his overwhelmed bliss caressing the long figure of the all-confiding orphan, for whom the last rapture had shed no lie and no pain —would I trust first-hand.
A soft-looking Khmer-faced young man brought the expected silver tray with a considerable tea-pot and paper-thin cloudy blue porcelain cups, so we gathered around a large, convoluted, pearl-inlaid black lacquered low table, circled by mismatched tapestry colourful foliages chairs and sofas; Louis kept Dagmar closest, holding the ring of her collar when he devoured her mouth. He taught her to drink more of the sublime beverage he kept pouring, like to an obedient child; her eyes swayed for my constant wonder, and Louis saw that and nodded; Hector chased the bumps on my arm and tilted me backwards for an embrace.
Wherever the vast room stood standing, and its dimensions made up for the absence of any windows, the decor was a new tall order as to all I had happened to cruise in, at the pinnacle circle of connoisseurs, though none would let me forget the nooks in the boxwoods of Saint Loup that smelled of piss and roses —tell me, Ayla. The heated floor was a polished pavement of coloured marbles and stones arranged in a grand rosa of alternate stone samples, like a giant Florentine table; the walls were hung in willow green moire, and a collection of clouded baroque mirrors, much higher than our images, stood between exuberant Venetian boat lanterns. Three majestic doors were framed of the same black polished marble as the skirting that ran around the room; on top of each door, lifesize satiny-white angels of all genders flew in lewd attitudes, as if Giulio Aristide Sartorio had lost the rest of his apparent religion.
As per usual, Louis waited that his girl lightly swung her belly, in need of peeing, to lead us two through one of the doors, to a sort of Roman dream of a bathroom, all clad in Carrara slabs, with on the floor laid down sculpted Medusa faces opening wild mouths to swallow whatever flows might run: it was a thrill to watch Dagmar’s long feet stomp the angry eyes of the thirsty demigod, and then, on Louis’ whim, to let pour out of our vulvas, and make her pee in my open mouth, and receive a shower of his half-erected peen, out of the open tights. She was no rookie at watersports, she had graduated with many high prelates, we had warm fun and spends; after a rosewater shower, he helped us with the enemas, above the avid mouth of a contorted sea monster devised as a phantasmatic toilet seat, then he couldn’t wait to visit Dagmar’s minor alleyway and made her stand, her thin legs parted.

His phallus now straight up, he helped wipe us in the thickest white velvet towels, and a thinly clothed and shoed hairdresser greeted us in an adjoined boudoir, all-around upholstered in tufted pearly grey satin, under a decor of grand style baroque clouds. Louis had lost the robe, we sat on wide round pouffes, Klios, the cinnamon-skin artist, twirled around, inspired and aroused, as he could not deny. I had been paid to know that everyone in the place would have a piece of us, and my readied little arse did not clench. Louis sat with us and grazed Klios’ nob, inviting us to feel free; as our hair looked lovely, and the operator stood hands up, dithering, we both agreed to grope his pants, he wore no undies. It was Dagmar that pulled them down, revealing a bald brown cock in its glory she soon pumped like a good girl, I thought of sliding a tongue between his bum cheeks, it smelled of Vanilla and Tonka, and the boy began to moan in Louis’ kiss, I felt he would shoot his load in Dagmar’s throat, and she would gulp it all as casual because she had always done so. I was right, and Louis squeezed the gracile neck as he felt he came, then he rested our victim and asked me for the same, while Dagmar serviced his bumhole; only he asked Klios to revive inside his mouth. Louis’ outpour in mine was only meagre but salty, like a taste of raw mushrooms, with the wrong herbs that naughty girls might thoughtlessly nibble.

The further salon was a blast of marigold yellow over a star-spangled black and gold marble floor with seemingly torture contraptions here and there, but I had known Louis’ kind of toys before, and I could reassure my blonde companion as to what these barbaric mechanisms were for, mainly maintain our available slits opened wide at the right height and inclination to allow as many deliberate penises to play in and out, beyond our will, until they dried out —or we called for a stop.
Three beautiful brothers with black complexions awaited, boasting eager smiles, in oversized street-pride outfits, mindlessly fingering their dicks and prancing before two nude, unfazed bitches. Louis told them to seize me first and lay me on some antique examination chair in what my loin would be rested, but my thighs parted and bound in such a high position that my butthole protruded. The brothers had free rein already and tried my strapped body one by one with great appreciative shouts. Louis then showed how to tilt the headrest backwards so as easily fuck my throat —I could learn that their young tools of pride were demanding on my jaw joints, but nonetheless, they reached far enough to make me drool like a gutter; then Louis showed them a rolling bench, under the seat, on which some vigorous punk might be lifted, so as to bugger me fine while his brother fucked me standing up.
This was no current gym practice, I had a lot of contortions to make to let them ease their pistons, but they were good dancers, and soon I could entrust my whole body to their game and they did not expect more. After a good many spurts from both parts, they laid flat on their backs, as lustrous as the stone they were on, of cum and sweat, while Dagmar, who feared for her turn, unfastened my straps and licked my face; I took her head, ponded, and told her, breathless, that it had been good.

Then I certainly had fainted, now Klios was sheathing his fine hands in my carnal pathways, and it felt like shivering moths, but I feigned sleeping, releasing only shreds of sounds as if my spent carcass would approve. Nearby, Dagmar had been suspended by means of ropes and shackles clasped onto some tightened corset, and thick leather bracelets at her elbows, wrists, knees and ankles. Her gangling body brought to rest solely upon Louis’ shaft pitched up in her anus to the hilt, not moving, while Hector, perched on a table, calmly serviced her dangling head, thus causing some slight swaying. Appeared our black chauffeur —I had known he would, I might have a turn— in splendid nudity, and my reptilian naughtiness mumbled he was oiled up, or something, but anyway he afforded a formidable pecker and some unavoidable intention as he climbed a few steps into Dagmar’ outspread thighs. As he slowly slid his swelled manhood at the rosy threshold of her blooming source, he seized her upheld feet, in some outstretched pose, and let himself in, until his testicles grazed those of Louis’, who was overflowed, already. She was singing, rather than moaning, she was like floating by means of dicks, and the balance operated itself in the play of pulleys. I escaped Klios’ healing hands, fetched a stool and reached for Dagmar’s nipples, indiscernible baby buds under the thin red trimming of her containment girdle. She reacted so vividly that there were puddles of mixed fluids at both ends, and Louis commanded to haul down, although the chauffeur seemed to want more.
She was dandy, wearing the black leather harness, her waist so reduced; and she smelled of bodily sap mixed with the jasmine. She offered me luminous gazes; I was, once more, granted the unabashed lordship of a stranded soul, and it made Hector happy.
While the chauffeur was letting a hand on my thigh —for him, it was the keenly expected parenthesis when he would become solely a wholesome athlete, with an impressive dick— Louis tried to steal some of the look Dagmar had unleashed in mine, but he was only granted the immemorial slutty invite he had paid for, and I thought that perhaps time and moral bounty would earn him more.

Into the leather-clad embrace of Dagmar, who let Louis preen her with kisses, I allowed myself to be used grandly by —Driss was the name— as Klios ‘ unguents had rejuvenated my faithful quim, and anus. Then, insensibly, mounted a slow, heavy rumour, evoking the throes of an earthquake, hurling through the heavy structure, and only Louis kept his cool, predicting it all would stop soon, and it did. With the kindest look, he asked me, who was just recovering from a masterful assault, to help unbind my new fling, Dagmar, of her fetish attire, except her collar, and massage her whole body to erase the traces, with the same flowery oil Klios had used on and in me.
Having fetched his robe, Louis drew us both through stairs and corridors and an all copper-clad elevator, to a door on the rooftop, where stood a massive helicopter, the side hatch open. Two pilots stood in glazed helmets, at attention, I guessed. Hector had followed, time to slide on a sleek black leotard and slippers. We remained stark naked.
Our party climbed in the monster, the night was crystal clear, as if Louis had dared order it. The grounds we had arrived by were lit “a-giorno”, red flashing lights topped each pylon it was evident the whole compound was a private heliport, what did we do here? I drank half a bottle of water before acknowledging Dagmar was thirsty, too. There were nasty films in my jolted mind and the craft did not fly, yet. I reckoned I could not assign such horrible intentions as mere abduction to my patron friend Louis, to whom I owed memorable orgies, sweet girlfriends, and hefty sums of money!
Nevertheless, as I clung to Dagmar, who, young and detached, seemed to have enjoyed trips of that manner before, a sharp hiss announced the rekindling of the engines, and I could see the blades begin to whirl, then soon disappear as the noise raised to unbearable, but caused Dagmar to play butterfly in my neck, she liked the whole pother.
Louis, whatever his dick is aimed at, has a sharp eye; he took my hand gently, looked me in the eye and, in the mounting din, mimicked a candid interrogation, wasn’t he proud of his new extravagance? The beast lifted up and veered towards the nearby river, its allowed route. The moon appeared, full, as the glitter of the city seemed to evade, like the cloak of some magician; the windows, larger than those of a car, showed the blue realm of still, in the thin web of twinkling light pins. In the cabin, the masked twin robots didn’t pay attention; I cuddled Dagmar, Louis shouted that in a half-hour we would land by the sea, there were jackets for us onboard.

It must have had been quite a sight, two slinky lasses merely butt-naked in oversized flight jackets, out of a spanking new helicopter, at dawn, on a sandy beach somewhere in France. The big bird had given us fifteen minutes, it could not remain but would pick us back up.
The moon was lowering, I dedicated the marvel of its pale gold to that of Dagmar’s pure forehead, her tiny straight nose, and her delicious fruity mouth; our men revelled in my craving for their find, I was burning to let her be known to the other fairies of the hive. With my footprints, I wrote her name on the sand. Louis and his retainer sipped from a flask of Armagnac, but neither of us, girls, tasted any of it elsewhere than their lips.
On the return flight, we found a thermos of coffee and croissants, complimentary of the bird, or the big one in a red outlandish robe, seated next to me and asking for a hand on his dick.
We could scarcely speak, but I was already scheming around keeping Dagmar around us, and showing her the schoolyard and the buddies; it had more or less worked that way with the others, except for the four-eyed queen-bee of the global network, who might shed a glance upon her new neighbour
Eventually, before I dressed and depart, Louis took us both in a deep vermilion brocade satin sofa and solicited one last pumping do of both of us, that we played softly, so he could offer me to keep Dagmar with us, as we had beautifully done with others, and she would remain in his books, as per usual. I was so pleased that I properly sucked him dry, deep into my throat and heart.

Hector had unearthed the soft misty blue jumper dress Dagmar had been wearing before he had disrobed her in the car and the sandals, but he kept the rest as a token. I swore that he was doing us a moving present, and I would repay him all he wanted. I pulled the blonde, who walked like a thoroughbred and showed her to run up the stairs two at a time.
She marvelled at our friendly bric-a-brac, someone had brought an armful of red roses and arranged them in the big silver bucket, I thought of Natalia. I pulled Dagmar’s dress, she untied mine, we hugged, and I felt I was sleeping already, so I drew her to bed and we dived unconscious.
I knew, before I woke, that a little bird was chirping inside my ribcage, right on my solar plexus, as I still danced with her on a moonlight beach, reminding me of blue jasmine, right here, in our bed. Only a tad itching in my inner blooms as I mindlessly peed with some tissue in hand, I avoided recalling anything of our night, other than her.
I was hungry, I brewed tea, if she prefered coffee it would be fast. I prepared french toast with all the stale pastry of the three last days, sugar, cinnamon, and stuff.
I had an idea of asking Fæbian to help detangle the tale of her near-compatriot and peer —would I say? But it would happen in time, for now, we could put our lovely feet on the table and babble. She was a personal gift from Louis.

She said she didn’t know Frazözicher toast, she liked my expensive Darjeeling, she played footsie with me. She needed to offload her fate to trusted eyes like mine. She said she liked me right away, I felt lucky.
She was born in Köln to a teenage country girl who killed herself after they took her baby away. She was sent to a Christian orphanage where all traces of her provenance were destroyed. In Germany, churches are rich and powerful, and corrupt.
She had surely been the nunnery’s pet, as far as she remembered, she was treated like some sort of royalty, with all the excess it meant, and the constraining rules not to spoil the perfect clothes she was deemed to wear. Other children in the house, there were two dozens her age, hated and feared her, because she supposedly had grown to know how to manipulate the sick minds of the nuns.
She was already tall for her age, around five or six, nuns would start to take her to town, visit hypocritical priests of the hierarchy and earn their favours by letting her alone at their disposal while they pretended to pray in the next room. At best she had been petted, exposed, kissed. At worse, she soon became a real baby whore. At age eleven, she became to perform oral sex, in the nude, on powerful prelates she had caught sight of on solemn occasions in the grand churches when the nuns displayed their best models for their evil patrons. For she had not been the only one, all the girls on the first row were for sale, in that immaterial currency God dealt in, there had been another manner of conventicles under the dormitory sheets, and sweeter shenanigans, too.

Of the two ways one gets to know another soul, we had taken that of cutting in the raw, at once, before we would play life by the mundane end of the days. Say, suffice was it of all the exploits we had shared during that previous night, as far as the moon. We had been settling here, in the middle floors of an inexpugnable safe house, crowded with gentle souls whom all would fall for her in a blink, all the necessary wares to a life of ease, like this baby-wool jumper which did not need to conceal her bum, as she laid her legs up on the ottoman, from the opposite sofa. We had migrated the tea wares to cushion land, we showed whatever snuck out of our easy covers.
I had not seen reason to lay how I stood capacity to greet her into our home, and why. I was guessing Hector had painted the best portrait of us in the most flattering manner, I had all the time to set some truth to it.
At twelve, under another name she preferred not to pronounce, she was properly groomed, pampered and sold as an obedient prostitute to a secretive elite who shared the word just like the rest of their trade confidences. She usually was quickly stripped of the finest quality hosiery she was attired in, hushed into lavender beds, harrowed by cigar-scented moustaches, and roughly buggered because the canon was to preserve hypothetical virginity, then, as quickly, to wipe her arse, flush the toilet, slid on her white stockings, and let the nun matron button up her dress in the back.
As ignoble as it sounds, one youngling may live such a deranged walk of life, even if, moreover, although she bent to the same harsh discipline of early masses, constant prayers she still would not understand, the rigid standards of scholar teaching, she had to endure the carnal whims of some high-ranking nuns, as well, lapping at old cunts and giving ardour of her fist at deranged old dykes. Only one of them relished in watching her cum like the little trollop they had made of her, sucking her toes —as I would— and pointing the tongue in her arse.

About the horticulture of deviant liberalities, she was savvy enough to acknowledge that her present tale was avidly arousing me, but she needed me to stay on the other bank of our causerie, she granted me the mingling of our feet and glimpses of her free quim.
The course of her mild slavery, she said, changed when she was uncovered by a concurrent procuress who had the couple of them followed and her hushed in a car while her chaperon was left for dead, as the police never knew. Though she looked like a grown kid, she was only thirteen, but who knew, besides the nuns, who probably made up some transfer to the deep marshes of religious destinies to explain her absence in their books no lay authorities ever consulted, anyway.
She was granted some fake identity as a sixteen years old runaway whose purported mother would be some Berlin crackhead who could barely talk and conveniently died of an overdose, leaving a track for a child called Dagmar Kren. Who would try to devise a DNA search?
In the greatly populated realm of the German prostitution market, she was hot property, broken in early, the iconic figure of the slanky blonde toy, she was offered in the most exclusive internet chatrooms, with a pink vibrator in her vagina, watching the tokens pile up. It lasted only six hours a day because patrons paid for high-resolution images and tiredness would show.
Although she was a captive, she lived a life of ease, manicured, depilated, styled, and pampered by lesser lucrative girls, she remained nude all of her time, ate healthily and slept long. She did not wonder much else.
Her pimps used her carnally, there wasn’t much more to it, minding there would be no means to conceal any bruising or scrape onscreen, not even opaque foundation that would make her look like a stale hooker.
Eventually, the nifty geek who pulled the website strings became aware of a stealth market for high-end, underage escorts, and the money was staggering, so she was moved to clandestine quarters of brothels in Austria, where she could continue to milk the voyeur clientele while making passes with wealthy patrons, by-the-way under the keen eyes of other wealthy voyeurs, so as no risk was taken with her physical well-being.

At fifteen, it happened that one of her powerful regulars fell in love with her and bought her out, and so she was funnelled back to Germany, to a prideful castle in the Bavarian mountains. She was literally caged in a sealed tower for six months, with only a duenna, an ugly deformed woman straight from Velasquez, otherwise infinitely patient and kind, to attend to all her needs and care.
Her then-owner did not provide her with clothes, but she lived in a realm of silk and furs, enslaved to the old, if gallant, man’s consumption of pills. He had managed an industrial empire beyond the post-war mockery of purges, he died on her, she felt his flesh go numb, his eyes rolled back, a thread of saliva across his open lips, the distress of his poor dick out of her, she crept away, stunned, distraught, and after some while, she howled, only to be heard by the duenna, who called the sons of the dead man. The two uptight junkers understood clearly Dagmar’s explanations, although they did not want to know how she had come to exist in this place. They offered a free apartment for her and the duenna, in Munich, and a sum of money. Then they called a car for them, and once the detail of clothing Dagmar for the travel was settled, sent them off, promising that a clerk would bring the money tomorrow, along with the free lease for the house.
She was in shock —although she never had a chance to actually bond with the old pill-popper— the duenna represented that her situation might be enviable, and a new free life would begin for a young, even younger than it seemed, damsel as trendy as she happened to be.
These expectations were all too soon cut short when her old pimps, who had in mind the identity of their uncommon buyer, read in the press about his death and eventually traced Dagmar’s whereabouts. The two Serb thugs estimated that her new base, in a well-to-do area and a bourgeois building, was ideal to pimp her charms to demanding patrons. They roamed the city’s milieu and traded with the local mob, so she was overnight the property of a sombre Montenegrin, related to the Pugliese, who wanted a taste of the game illico, before shaking hands. She had had to suffer the three men in a row as if she had never believed her ordeal was over.

Only by the look of these men, she had known she had fallen one stage lower, threading passes most of her day for no reward of any kind —if the word bore any sense to her. Office types began ringing the given tune around eleven in the morning and ceased late at night; some days she had to satisfy twelve of them before resting. She stole the sleeping pills of the old freak, who had become the Montenegrin’s flunky, and she tried to kill herself, leading her to be dumped at the hospital door. The doctors, without further examination, plugged her into the stomach pump and let her sleep under watch. Some young intern, probably drawn to her after seeing her nude, stretched on the bed, was intrigued that a very young girl like her be offloaded like a wreck nearby the ICU, and found nought sort of identification in her clothes. He called the police and started a full medical investigation, to conclude that she was no more than sixteen, although the bruises at her crotch left no doubt as to her occupation, furthermore, she showed signs of a few MSTs other than HIV.
Her pimp collected information from the hospital and did not like what it meant, he had the apartment cleaned entirely and the duenna disappeared. He preferred to forget Dagmar, who was, anew, unknown. When she had finished her check-up, she was brought to some hostel for displaced youth of her sort and she tried to make up some logic of her life, although she could not fully see what it might be. The police understood that she had been forced into underage prostitution, but did not fathom when it might have started, because she said it had always been. Between amazement and disbelief, her files followed course, because the mental experts certified that she was not lying. She was granted a new identity under the name Dagmar Craven because she liked the cat on the officer’s pack of cigarettes (although he did not smoke indoors); the date and place of birth were false, but in a way that would redirect the potential control towards the central database. She was sent to an institution where she could learn some office computing, and live among other damaged souls —she could esteem herself not so badly mauled, after all— and even find one soul-sister and lover.
Now she was near Freiburg, far from any turpitude of her short past. She had a reputation of haughtiness and solitary tastes; in the activities room, she would not play cards or draughts, seldom watched television; she would turn her invariable periwinkle stare at most questions the other girls —many of them the already vicious kind— would ask, to trigger a conversation. All she wished for was to join Alice in the shower room or in the laundry room under the roof, where other couples, too, went to make out.
She remained there the year it took to attain the fictional majority according to her officially fake papers. Alice and herself had plans, she had a cousin in Berlin who could help them, rents were still low in many quarters, the city was full of youth, at worst, they could wait at wurst counters. Inexplicably, three days before they should collect the little farewell sum the state was to grant them and take a reduced rate ticket to Berlin, Alice disappeared, with all of her things in her corner of the four-bed dormitory. She felt frozen to the bones and heard the ugly taunts in her back. The building only had two storeys and a four-pitch roof, merely enough to break a leg; she did not jump. At said time, she went to the office and checked out with some overworked educator, took her money, a bunch of papers and cried her way out, all the way to Berlin. She could keep the pearly-white laptop she had been granted on state funds.

We went to pee together, I told her I loved her, but like I loved a whole tribe —and my father. I strengthened my pull on her, who stood seated in reverse upon my wet crotch, asking her to only give it a try.
I wasn’t finished listening, I wanted to hear the tale up to now; I brewed a new pot and asked if she was hungry; I called for a box of finger food anyhow, I guessed that she would like that manner of collation. Her tummy was as firm as wood, she slid back into the big jumper dress; seizing her feet from across the table, I told her that it would be a huge present if we let her have that dress; she pulled the collar up to her nose, she could round her eyes like an owl.
Once in Berlin, she had boarded at a state-run hostel, as indicated in the documents she had been given on her departure. The building had been designed by the DDR, with an indisputable functional attitude. The moustachioed man at the reception office told her she might wish to change her lock but then she was to leave one key with him, in the safe. He did not refrain from ogling her down to her jeans, but that, she had long learned to make with.
She got accustomed to her niche on the seventh floor, the neighbours as elusive as she was. She had been hired as a waitress in a no-fuss, non-stop eatery near Potsdamer Platz, the outfit a healthy pair of black jeans, any brand of black sneakers, and an illimited change of white tee-shirts printed with the house logo. Tourists tipped generously. The one hitch had been the manager’s sneaky harassment, she had had to reckon there was no other way to keep that easily lucrative job than to give the not-so-old, not-so-fat, bald-top Greek-Albanese bastard what he wanted fiercely, to start with as blow-job under his desk while he answered the telephone, and then, another day, pull her jeans down so he could shag her fast.
One of the colleagues liked her genuinely and knew what happened in the crammed back office, she confided she, too, had been the manager’s sex release for a month or so, she had estimated the job was worth it, plus, the boss wore condoms. That girl asked her out, she had some tips for her.

Saskia had been the unexpected daughter of a half-Russian leftover at the Czech border, and her otherwise kind mother had not cared to sort out who her father might be, she currently lived with an American occupier who never went back home, for he had none. So, Saskia was in charge of the two, as long as they did not booze. The step-dad retrieved past newspapers at hotels and read them, the mother watched German television with big headphones on her head, from the bliss of the articulated armchair her daughter had bought her.
So, she explained to Dagmar that, after her regular six hours of trampling, all smiles, among her twenty-six tables, she went, every day, to Club Colibri, to legally sell her skin by the €100 half-hour, under the protection of the club’s minders.
All in all, Dagmar had no proof that the whole society wasn’t a proper prostitution carousel, of all she knew. She went along, made a striking impression with the club’s managers, who were however not allowed in the sex side of the operation, and the police ensured that the girls —there were only girls— were independent and kept their IDs. Actually, she could appreciate that it worked, and she befriended Saskia, who took her for a day at Sansouci and kissed her. She was a tad more built than Dagmar but had kept some shapes of her years of the school dance, besides, she boasted some breasts, however modest they might be. Her face was softly triangular, with witty green slit-eyes, she said she must have been a Tatar princess in a previous life. She never failed Dagmar, but life can sure be a bitch.
In and around Colibri, Dagmar —as I saw her, half exposed in the quiet of our living room— had caused quite a stir and she could have been overbooked all day. She soon had her regulars, just as Saskia had warned, like the handsome Willy, who wanted a full night but obtained three hours on Tuesdays, bringing cute but expensive brand jewellery. He had cried passion for months but Saskia had decreed that he should never know Dagmar’s whereabouts outside the club —and all too rightfully.
One night, after they had entertained their lot of frustrated males, Dagmar ordered a cab to drive her home; the day had been fluent, the restaurant manager had left her alone for a new complacent Czech cutie, she had obliged three johns, one of them paying double for buggering her, no big deal.
After ten minutes of driving, the taxi curbed in some wooded area and let someone in, it was Willy, all smiles and a knife in hand, telling her she was his, now on, and ordering her to suck him as a start. He brought her to some shabby house in a deserted neighbourhood, cuffed and distraught, locked her in a bare concrete cube with a shit hole in a corner; the only light came from a glazed spyhole in the steel door; he had slashed her jeans and shirt; she passed out.

Dagmar woke up nude in the flow of tepid water from a hose a man in wellingtons held above her, from behind, she heard Willy laugh, calling her trash names, yelling at her there would be no more half-hours, and he would be holding the clock when she would take who he would tell her in her little butt.
Prostitution being legalised and regulated in Germany, there would be no market for a more lucrative clandestine skin trade, like Willy, who happened to be a Semyon Byshkov, the associate of Kostya Lenkovich, heads of a feared Bratva gang, operated on the French Riviera.
Holding her dripping hair and forcing his dick in her mouth, he explained how lucky she would be to live in the Mediterranean sun, then spurted his load in her throat, telling her to wipe him clean, before she dropped on the hard floor, dazed.
The Russians did not know about her past, they had foreseen more rebellion and anger; but then she had abated once more, just like the evil nuns had tamed her, trained her to smile when imposed strangers did unlikely things to her. So after the two dregs of mankind had revelled of her obedience for a few weeks inside their safe house, she had been smuggled to the hills between Nice and Monte Carlo, where she took place, always nude and available, when not in bed with a john, among the menagerie displayed in a splashy villa.
Meanwhile, in Berlin, Saskia had warned the police, they had soon traced Semyon and cast an international mandate against him, on top of which came the FBI. He was arrested but did not cave in as for Dagmar’s abduction, there were enough charges to send him back to his natural biotope, inside a high-security prison.
The sunny villa had been seized, but the other sod had retreated to their Parisian quarters, bringing a few slaves along, and Dagmar in the luggage hold of —moreover— a bus of Christian pilgrims.
That was how Hector’s informers, always keen to retell him of extraordinary sightings they had done, signalled that new model the Russians showed around in after-parties and who made the wolfpack drool. Hector managed to see for himself and felt electrocuted. He paid for one and two nights, talking in mumbo-jumbo, and next provoked the goons to have a word with the boss, who scented he was no little fish. Kostia had his associate in jail, embroiled in that blonde’s case; so, other than cook her or throw her in the grinder, he dealt her, for a hefty sum, and Hector brought her to the vaulted cachette in Louis’ hotel.
As I told Dagmar, holding her teasing feet as she had agreed to taste Agnete&Sanne vegan nibbles, Louis called me, when he invested in the fate of some lost girl, and I would introduce her to many others of them, actually. By then, it was only time I flew over to her side and lose my hands under the wool.

 

Liselotte says:

Kind of mourning my passed mother —not that we missed much of each other, by the way— I had dozed upon Anaïs Nin’s Journal when von K. called me. She had in some way inherited a blonde wonder from beyond all hells who had made her recall of my own sweet Fæbian, mainly because they had both been forced into prostitution and both spoke German, as for hers, exclusively.
She sounded enamoured, which wouldn’t be the rarest of her qualities, and keen to sell her to me for free, in a sleazy kind of way, I mean good sleazy, as things had always run between von K. and me. It was then to be a girls’ night, always time to call some of the lusty bohemians, if I would relish seeing her wunder-girl get sabred.
Coming from von K., the news pleased Fæbian, who was currently into the harsh magic of Unica Zürn; only some half-hour of brush-up and we would meet at “Cerebral”, a new geek caterer in rue de Beaune, so as we would bring dinner. My invention girl was indeed all that had struck me at first when she wandered, astray, on the Seine quays, but freshened up, reborn as a blooming mädchen, her sleek jumpy ankles on turquoise flipflops not even touching earth.
To see Sarah, she had donned a sleeveless, high-gathered, calf-long, Tana Lawn bleached verdigris girly gown, over what her newly short dirty-blond nape spun, to my renewed awe; there was a lot to bet she wore none other under the floating myriad of thinly printed twigs, and the young waitress at the counter probably saw… and blushed.
We bought pale-coloured aumonières with surrealistic names, like “dawn at the wash house”, “The Kensington Fox”, and especially for von K., ” Roses in the Boxwoods”, and so on, we piled up three mint and dove-pink pinstriped on white boxes like two Ronald Searle Ladies en route to von K.’s love nest

Like the scratchy Coleoptera on its board, I was nailed stupid at the first glance this Dagmar fairy cast upon me; Sarah saw that, and pinched me awake to mark her victory, then she embraced Fæbian ever so warmly. Both only wore jumpers, I hesitated not to seize Dagmar’s butt right away. The dialogue between the two mädchen clunked in instantly, tender and German, like two good pupils of the nasty sisters, Dagmar even nodding in assent, she might have curtseyed, little priceless whore with a chubby pussy.
Von K. treated me sweet, she vaunted my midnight blue milleraies velvet flared dress with a low bare back, in which she slid a hand to find my butt, too.
They both smelled of angelica, or something like acacia flower, almond, frangipane, how-dare-you, von K.? These are scent’s in my mother’s garden, on the Côte d’Azur. Our younglings were groping each other, babbling constantly, Dagmar has unbelievable legs and feet, Sarah must have been utterly enthralled on the spot.
My German has been revived somewhat since I live most of my time with Fæbian, but they ran fast, and Dagmar spoke quite different to her Swiss dialect, so, with a danish Princess in the middle, we lost thread more than often, which had little or nothing to do in what was actually happening.
I was totally stunned jealous about their trip to the seashore, chasing the moon. How did von K. pay Louis’ loyalty to her? —I knew that—Furthermore, I understood that Dagmar was sent by him to von K.? Is she a bigger slut than I am? At school, already, these two German princesses, Kate and her, annoyed everyone, and I had been dumb enough not to hobnob with them rather than the vin rouge crew; I remember, I only twigged the clue when I led von K. to be sexually humiliated by Pr Y., and again, only she does that with generations of disdain in her inscrutable sapphire eyes. Notwithstanding, she called me today to share the new semi-goddess of the hidden castle, it showed at least I have not been wrong all along, have I?

 

Sarah says:

Whatever they had been into, the black & white Fulgence and his pal Eric turned up in a blink as soon as Liselotte messaged their phones, I would have bet they had been on standby. They did not refrain from expressing their awe, Fulgence guessing he was welcome at Dagmar’s feet, Erik renewing sensuous bonds with free-spread Fæbian, all while the two twinkling harlots kept the butterfly-talking. Aroused even more than predictably, Liselotte undertook me over the facing sofa and wanked me to a good end, out of some rage, marvelling at my perfect grooming, to what I lazed at responding, so caught-up was I by the beastly arabesque our divas were staging, over there. Unmistakably, years of abuse had not exhausted the wells of desire, when the prelude was justly tuned. Fulgence, who had found a manner to tan his skin colours in the nude, let wave a glorious strand of blond hair as he devoured the effusive corolla at the apogee of an angelic pair of limb stollen from the astounding sins of a Bavarian baroque, as I near-convulsed in the assumption of a diamond-pure beauty, and I cried to the sudden thought that Kate was not seeing it.
And now Dagmar revelled in acting as a pure overcome female, I crawled to her dripping quim to sip the bitter mystery of their unforeseen stroke of passion, like in a lewd liturgy to the holy whore, a wincing farce into the laundered sheets of inexpiable religion, my heartfelt tribute to Dagmar’s redemption.

Although we are on the path of gaining more space to our holy reservation inside the Decharny castle, as attested the planked-out length of wall between our vestiary and the kitchen, beyond what, works have gone on for a few months, to eventually free us two more ensuite bedrooms, other beds to frolic in, Fulgence and Erik couldn’t possibly overcrowd our grand bed that night, so they crashed on the two sofas, while women entangled their fine legs in dreams, at the starry blue forest.
Effectively, in the wake of the coming to power of who had been nested for some time behind our red sofa, in the studio, and who went by the tender moniker of “the aviator” —due to the unexpected shape of the eyeglasses she needed badly— now owner, for the security of her high-flying expertise trade, along with almighty Melchior, her associate, of most of the patches of land between Hugo’s and the rue de Verneuil, at the centre of what would be established the foundation for the defence of the sexually undetermined children, we, nested above Hugo’s apartment, would expand into the next buildings, and also some spaces above, all of it intertwined with the existing dovecots of Gauthier, Natalia, Beryl, and a few other lucky birds.
For most of the following hours to our awe-stricken spends, I felt I had swum along with each of the fish in the aquarium of our bed, thus bringing to life the most sensuous picture of Klimt’s in the Belvedere, The Water Serpents.
I heard Liselotte probably making out with the boys, and marvelled at my two debauched damsels hugging in their sleep, then peed, brushed up, and yawned at the rakes in immodest pauses who asked for the bathroom, and guests’ toiletries they knew we kept. Our lair would probably soon become a full-fledged whorehouse.
I brewed my tea in the biggest pumpkin-like Yixing pot we owned, and opened a vacuum pouch of Hawaï Kona coffee to start the biggest Italian pressure coffee pot we owned, the boys would need at least two of this. As a dedicated tea person, I must confess that the scent of coffee in the morning is yet an unsurpassed turn-on; in Saint Loup, it was reason enough to frequent the canteen in the morning, whenas I could have brewed tea in my room —besides, I relished to ogle the crumpled night clothes on all these young butts, those who affected to laze untidied. I felt I needed to rekindle my stance towards Liselotte, who, come what may, had always played my side of the many turpitudes we had engaged together in, whatever the unpleasantness of the night we fled from Victor’s with Michelle he had attempted to rape, triggering thus a true revolution, of what, we, mere artists, only saw the debauchery consequences and therewith our common first mentor, Camille, now stood as a top magnitude Queen-Bee.
I sat beside Liselotte, I whispered in her small ear that I could scent she had already had had sex that morning, and tickled her neck with my tongue tip, in good humour; she was acute enough to grasp that I wished to bury whatever hatchet had stood between us, and the conversation went about the year’s crop of Darjeeling teas.
The two love warriors smiled peacefully, Erik had used my body oil, concocted by Hugo, he smelled of Ylang-ylang and gleamed satiny, I wondered aloud who had done his back, and he answered he had been waiting for me, that was how it started further again.

Later, after the youths had entered, arm in arm and resplendent — how proud their mother-pimps— I checked my telephone and read a love letter from Kate, from over the dunes of Sylt; I felt that once more, Fayelle had flinched, or Simon had tried his luck with her too far, in the exultation of the full moon. She had seized an opportunity to hop in Lauritz von Peck’s convertible and fled. In the morning, she had apologised but nonetheless renewed her stance that she would not marry anyone as of yet, and Simon was asking too much, even for a skilled lover as he proved to be. Sadly vexed, Simon had packed up and left, leaving Kate in disarray, even if I knew she would shag Fayelle before long.
Our studs gone to their lives, Liselotte and the saved ones back in bed to hear more of the harrowing tales, I remained with my phone in hand, not knowing what kind of comments Kate needed to read. After the ordeal that he had suffered, he stood like a victor, all the more in his sister’s eyes, it did not play that way for Fayelle, the still savage alley cat in her heart, too happy among us, so far from the life plan of raising a family, and she had let two tries, it was over.
Perplexed, I began to put up a digest of our lunar flight with the new wünder mädchen who speaks German and returned from childhood enslavement. I stealthily wished it would make the vacationers run home, I joined a photo of Dagmar in Fæbian’s arms, nude and beaming. It shouldn’t be long before Camille asked for the big bird to pick up the pair in Sylt, Lauritz promised that he would visit them, in Paris.

I received a late call from Michelle, in her detached tone of voice, which always led me to think she was at the same time crashing some corporate fund somewhere I had no idea of. This time, she had come to the decision that she needed to go in person to the University of Lausanne, in order to address a seldom round-up of her peers, and sort whatever she had left untied in her curriculum there; she would appreciate that I tried to shelter Delf and herself at my Far’s home if ever it was that kind of household, she would, of course, provide for all the expenses —I knew what that meant. Nonetheless, I taught her about my new intern of sorts, the little alley cat in my ward I would not desert as of yet, but she could very well travel along with me. Remained to ask Far his feeling, though I doubted he might not be overjoyed to see four lovely lasses descend upon his house, among which were a world-class computer science genius and his own beloved daughter? I promised to talk in the morning, incidentally, she inquired about Dagmar, as she would about any novelty in her near vicinity, so I had to retell her roughly why this adorable young harlot had washed up on my lap, and why Michelle and Delf —as she had just pronounced— would instantly have a major crush on her. And no, there was no chance she might have frequented Victor, near or far, poor kid. So then, Michelle awaited keenly my call mid-afternoon, the train fares had been booked for two days later, in case —and that was her way of pushing things around.
I knew pretty well that my Far would be overjoyed, and with his long habit of so direr crisis than us, the only thing I had not seen happening and he laid it straight in his first texted answer, was that he had been seeing Elsie, and she would be with him, then. I had to sit up and swallow that. How come I had never foreseen the outcome when all her career connexions fell so nicely in place and timely? It was laughs from the bedroom that rewinded my clock as to Elsie’s freedom to shag my father all she liked, I had been that near to do it myself, what a fine man!
I told him all that, frankly, and also that he could ogle all the beautiful beings I would come with, and I let flow in my sort of Danish all my daughterly love. I warned him pleasantly that Michelle had sounded on the brink to hire some security detail. He answered almost seriously that the house was under watch, anyway, and from what I had known in my paradise days, it could as well be true.
I jumped amidst the merry trio —Liselotte was so enthralled for the new brat— and broke them the news. Dagmar cried she knew not what a father was. I swore she would cling on to me and fall in love with my Far, who was nowhere near what PTBs she had been sold to, I swore on my life. Besides, we would travel along with extraordinary beings, had she ever known a middlesex imp? I vaunted the all-around daintiness of Delffan and betted she would want to shag them. As for The Aviator, I let her discover one of the most powerful people in the world, albeit in the likes of a smallish curly golden blonde, who talked geek fluently. She went to Lausanne to meet the twenty-one savviest scientists there are, there wouldn’t be a microphone in the room.

Early next morning, Kate and Fayelle barged in and woke us with a warm puff brioche, they looked colourful and bright. though still a tad surly after she peed and splashed her face, Dagmar in her flush-the-bliss jumper made her effect, such that Kate stood up and kissed her on the cheeks. As she did, Dagmar drilled a stare into her eyes and bloomed; Kate only had one day to win her, and Fayelle was transfixed.
I explained first Michelle’s awkward summon, nothing to anger about, yet, we could not turn up six at Far’s house, it would make no sense. Then I helped Dagmar speak out, one more time, about her unbelievable fate, Kate asking the right questions to figure out all the extent of the crime. On the chair’s wooden seat, facing her, the quiet little peach rested at hand’s reach but Kate rather caught the fine hands, so tense was the unravelling of the ordeal.
When Natalia said hello, she read our emotions and Fayelle took her to a corner of a sofa to brief her, in French, and it made that our house fairy, going to fetch a cup and a slice of cake, grabbed Dagmar’s head and rocked her on her chest, moaning. Dagmar embraced her and begged for a real kiss, enough spoken. Fayelle caressed her feet now, Kate regained composure taking her stuff to the cloakroom.
My jumper was a thread longer than that of the wûnder brat, but nevertheless, my quim was in sight for Kate, who gave me morning devotions there and wondered low if the new marvel was ours to play with. By the manner I rolled my eyes she understood that it was another of Louis’ redemptions, and our boarders all got along, more or less, in that bunch, didn’t they?
Natalia had dared a swift hand under the wool, but she had to go; since she had grasped Camille’s plans for a gallery in New York, she had increased her curriculum with some serious English —and Liselotte had introduced her to Prof. Martail, a slender young teacher who took care of her in her diminishing free time, at the same conditions as her other coaches of sorts, only that one was fuckable, and he knew it.
Fayelle, in good camaraderie, had already lost her jeans and was feverishly making out with Dagmar, her hips in plain sight. Remained to show her to our hailed landlord. I spoke first to my Far, who had most welcomed my small declaration to him and waited for us. Michelle was not available to speak but she would read the good news in time.
Hugo invited all of us that evening and spared me the talking about Dagmar, because his friend Louis had done it, in rich detail.

All I had seen, yet, of Dagmar was her with a bare arse, Kate laughed at the mere idea and if we could, no doubt, dress her for dinner, we could not do for shoes, she supersized us, with long, playful toes. To the chagrin of Fayelle, we decided to fit Dagmar’s feet with worthy pumps of sorts, and we were minutes from the best shops.
Against the promise that she, too, was in for the spree, Fayelle recovered her cheery mood.
Only to walk out of the house, I unearthed a pair of Egyptian sandals long enough, and some vague, long, raw linen desert gown that hid Dagmar’s silhouette but hinted at her slenderness; since it wouldn’t be about teasing the shop attendants too far, I gave her wise sand-white cotton knickers.
It wasn’t hard to collect a few colours of Chuck Taylors and a lot of cotton socks, and she could run on the rue du Bac with one foot yellow and the other light blue. Then three models of K.Jacques, two pairs of rounded flats, one night blue, the other flesh tone, I bid on splendid burnt wood Chelseas, Kate on dark umber Jodhpur strap boots, and we called the session over with a rhubarb pie at Berenice’s.
Fayelle, who had not been a necessitous as for her own feet, earned, anyway, a pair of navy blue Chelseas for the season ahead; she continued her overt flirting with Dagmar, who, seeing that I condoned it, enjoyed.
On the matter of a quadriga of roused fillies, remained to harness them in a worthy manner, the host was a connoisseur, but as most of the times he hurried to disrobe the cast, the motto was to devise easiness. And it was, at most, matter to climb down a few stairs. Like the frolicking Wedgwood nymphs, we composed a bouquet of high-waisted gowns of Tana Lawn gauze, of four faint colours, trimmed with antique lace.
Fayelle had been all lips on the newbie, but I retook possession because I wanted to sing the paean to the glory of our libertine master, in Dagmar’s only vernacular —so as she would be spared useless apprehensiveness or the recoil upon her ingrained submissiveness— and while spinning my verse, under Kate’s watch, I kept massaging her muscular tummy and the two diminutive buds of her chest, relishing in her slow breath.

Upon our arrival, Hugo took time to grope and scent each of us, I had opted for a reminiscence of an untraceable Lilac Misty Dawn, Kate had chosen a hint of tuberose drowned away with lotus and neroli, like her Ophelia moments at the spell of some gifted fiddler, heaven witness Fayelle is one, who made glitter our Zanzibar like the gold tesserae around a Murano Virgin. Blue Jasmine was making Dagmar sway like the immemorial liana, whom Hugo danced with so lightly, mesmerised in her gaze, like all of us.
Hearing about our gang of pussies, he had conveyed Gauthier, who had Donovan, staying for a few days. knowing the party would flow as mellow as a May prairie. By then, he was demonstrating his soft German, keeping his cool beside the Queen of dusk. Fayelle had crept down on the precious rug to the feet of her current fancy, Hugo fumbled in her curls to make her feel free to steal the sandals and lick the toes.
When the two friends showed up, we were still all merely covered, Hugo was, as predictably, impressed; he fetched his legendary ewers, filled with fruity kombucha, all covered in dew, mismatched enamelled goblets awaited; Dagmar did not know anything else than tonic, where she had been kept in, having tried alcohol one time; she liked the bubbly freshness and all the unfolding tastes on her buds.
Hugo had some difficulties believing all she had been through, Gauthier jumped in the dialogue because he had read about the scandal of the orphanage and as he was a sensitive knight with the golden hair, he frankly knelt before her and took her hands, not bothering Fayelle in her fetish routine, to tell Dagmar how miraculous she looked.
Donovan did not speak German but was obviously thrilled to meet me again, I could feel that. I discreetly parted my thighs, in case he might like, he knew soon that I wore nothing. Fayelle followed back Gauthier to the couch when he let Hugo back near his guest of honour, these two had clicked by chance in the upper corridors, she had even enjoyed them both together; like the bad girl she is, she slid a hand in his trousers. Hugo waved at Kate to join him on the other side of Dagmar, and she helped lift away the rags off her. As the Scot was licking me all over, causing the niftiest of smells to overthrow my wits, I watched Dagmar’s tall back in Kate’s embrace.

Then, there were porcelain plates bearing fruit, nuts, cakes, and confectionery, Dagmar had a fit for a rice pudding full of candied fruit, she practically ate just that and we loved her for that, too. There was music, unfurling digital draperies of ear-pleasing chords and harmony, through the laser-sharp sound system.
There wasn’t much to be retold of this girl’s terribly wrong upbringing, only let her behave, just like I had enjoyed the night before, and eventually, she kindly used the three men available, and us girls. Hugo knew we went to Switzerland the next day, so he chased us out early, our togs on the arm, and all the kindest promises to Dagmar.
Fayelle followed the two boys to her perch, she had only begun her night. We faded out to the tree of oblivion in the quiet little crystal pond of our bed.

I did not fathom how Delf had snuck up to our room, so early. One might have called on Natalia. Kindly self-assured, one contemplated our poses with some longing, wore a silver-blue shantung boyish suit, with a silver chain across the vest. One was very desirable when watching me pee, then scrutinising the new angel, letting a hand run on her thigh, so Dagmar kissed one’s forehead and asked who it was while brushing her teeth. the answer was “one in the middle”, Delffan, who does and be done, Your two friends found me in a furnace, now I live with Michelle, who keeps the clocks ticking —if you will!
It was a tender start, we drank our tea and slid on verdigris-paisley and blue-streamers-on-dawn-yellow leggings, grey hoodies with multicoloured-polka-dots or the other star-sprinkled blue on yellow, we shoed our mismatched Converses. I threw numerous such streetwear along with underwear and socks in the duffle bag we would carry, anyway, it was like going home, plus, there were shops in Lausanne. Dagmar had watched me pack up and said she loved me, she was still disquieted to meet a real father.
Kate was watching us in a daze, Delf was stroking her tits, I had a pang of sudden guilt, like a big sturdy nail in my chest, and I burst, ordering her to stand up and dress as she had seen us do and come along, we could always sleep three in a bed, even in my father’s house, he had seen worse, speed up! I decanted her tea on a plate to make it drinkable tepid before I poured it into her cup and she drank it. She would wear more of the same as us, that was speed!
Michelle looked small, on the big black car’s seat, in a wide-knit cardigan, her bare feet refolded up, a sleek tablet in hand. She wanted to know why Kate was in tears? I licked Her Highness’ eyes and said calmly that we were not crying. Michelle’s paused for a split second, her gaze fired up, and she furrowed in her screen, and ran her dainty fingers through the screen while muttering we would be five on the train. Then she turned towards Dagmar, took her hands and grazed her forearms, telling her how beautiful she was. Delf slid weightlessly a small hand in the gracile neck and whispered she was another survivor.

From behind her two crystal shields, Michelle’s conveyed her impervious will, she had transformed into the TRÆVIX eagle, from the looking backwards seats, I ogled her feet, would I have had time, I would have bared mine too. She hit on Dagmar, who would not?
At the station, we climbed up in the weird-smelling metal and plastic carriage, roomy, at least; Michelle had bought the six facing chairs with a transformable table in their midst. We owned our space, she pulled Dagmar at her side, she joked she needed to work her German skills. under the cardigan, she wore a dead leaves shantung no-collar shirt, and thin, matched, corduroy jeans. Dagmar quit her shoes and socks, they soon cuddled up together, talking slowly about all things but the past. Seeing that Delf wanted to almost grope under Kate’s oversized sweat, I put myself to sleep in the last corner.
Kate, who smelled of Delffan, having not perfumed herself in the morning rush, gently sat against me to help me shoe again, four hours later, because we would leave the train. I felt all sorry I had missed my beloved Cantons, Kate rolled my toes between her fingers. Delf, who had changed her clothes for a more girly smoke-beige tee dress —I suspected what it meant— the customs had not checked on us, they did at the station; Dagmar was looked up, then showed some blank respect.
Michelle had ordered a minibus that picked us up and orderly drove to the Lake, near Pelikan park, my new fatherly home, a quietly statutory house with tall trees around and access to the water, there was a boathouse.
Far was resplendent, white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, sand-grey pleated twill trousers, silver temples and bushy brows, the smile only me would trigger. Elsie stood in the hall, she did not play house for us, I pushed her with my kindly fists on her tummy to a recess and called her a sly vixen, she retorted with a full mouth kiss, just as I remembered, and I laughed, light-hearted.
There were rooms in abundance, the house must have been for a large family, but Far warned that many were still packed with his moving boxes, he left to me to manage the accommodations. Michelle, my main concern, had, whatever the view, had he heart set on Dagmar and I would not dispute that, only that it led Delf with Kate and me, that she was enthused by.
Far, most stealthily, pulled me apart in his study while the others loosened their joints in the laid-back garden. He asked me whom it was I had invited, he had already been seriously advised that the house would be monitored for the time Ms Cerisy would stay, and so he had to warn his own monitoring to avoid “friendly fire”. He had sat me on his lap, in his Wegener “peacock” chair, like I was his baby girl and I almost cried. I told him all of Michelle, Delffan, and Dagmar’s main traits, he was impressed by our society, and said he would try his best to entertain us, could he, as the hosting power, treat us that night at the Beau Rivage? Scratching my nose at his neglected beard, I said I would go straight away to help Michelle from making any other reservations.
The bedroom door was open, so I walked in, as we would do, to find Dagmar and Michelle on the bed, mostly dressed, the usually remote Aviatrix visibly moved by what the stranded kitten tried to explain of her decidedly scrutinized life, Casually, I offered to translate, both ways, and to mingle my feet with theirs; I wasn’t rebuffed, even felt like some kind of go-ahead. I did not weigh on the tale Dagmar wanted to let out, I thought I could warn Michelle, in confidence, of any matter she should be in the know, as for Dagmar’s good.

My Far has the adapted sportswear it takes to mingle seamlessly with our party of fools, given the style of the grand eatery he led us to, but our distinguished manners and tones, our discretion, made up for the fears we had raised. All in all, it earned us a quiet round table on the side, just as we wished for. The menu was immense, so we found all to suit our necessities, without any embarrassment, and it went as smooth as the ironed tablecloth. It was a visual treat to watch Dagmar nibble a Plombière ice cream, Far said, she blushed wonderfully.
I led Elsie to explain as much as she would of her journey from Hell’s Kitchen to Lausanne and she was proud of that, I concurred frankly, bringing our schooldays and dance lessons together. But I dried up, mentally, realising That I had lost her at that critical moment which had brought me to Switzerland. I decided to pay a visit to Saint Loup, but Far took my hand, then, looked me in the eyes and said that the place no longer existed, the land had been developed and the buildings weren’t notable enough to be protected. However, the school still ran somewhere nearby in Malagny, under Harmony and most of her team, for the greater good of younglings like me —I understood what he meant, but I said nothing— Saint Loup was truly a closed parenthesis, only did Ayla Naveen and Julia Grant still spoke to me, the rest was a vast list of names on yellowing paper; at least I had shagged a good many of them. Should I meet Ayla along with Dagmar?
Far, who is a competent sailor, luffed the conversation to another cape, and tried to bring Michelle to retell her hold-up in New York; she retorted that it could have amounted to the undisputed suicide of a suffering man and she had helped the niece and sole heir shaping up the business she newly owned, although she confessed the most exciting part would remain secret. Delf then gave us an idea of the fun they had had in the far end office, sleeping on the floor, Michelle’s face collapsed in exhaustion upon her monitor, company clerks finding them both in the staff showers, in short, the total inadequacy of their maverick walkways, inside one of the citadels of the world online trading. The little imp was irresistible, no way did Michelle treat them as a pet, she must have possessed some superior logic, there too, that made her connect to the apparent strangeness of Delffan, with her bald head, that we had found once, naked in the midst of a fierce orgy, and who had followed us with hopeful eyes.
It had started raining frogs and mice when we left the place in a long berline, the same car followed ours with no discretion at all. In German, Far tried to let Dagmar say what she intended to be doing of her life, but obtained only the gleam of her eyes; I felt it was mine to say she would remain with us, in the new extensions of our dwellings, and so I could feed the conversation with the development of the workings we were all more or less part of. I felt Dagmar’s relief into my chest, Far grasped the nexus of angst, he had probably not yet fully fathomed the dire void the angel had been brought up in.

In the morning, the mist suffused of fruity petrichor scent lit up my plexus where Delf’s head rested, all lightly. Kate still held my pubis, like she did when she was serene, and she had been, of all tender intents, fucked by Delf and their pointed arrow, forever in my arms, in the clamour of the falling rain on the verandah.
Michelle would have made a quick getaway to her meeting, nearby, at the Federal Polytechnic School. Elsie was alone in the living room, contemplating the still waters afar. She said that Far was in his study, working.
We wore night tees, we flirted like ever, Dagmar suddenly was there with both of us, without a word, in a blow of Cologne, offering her mouth to Elsie who ended by surrendering. Delf stood naked across the table, she liked to expose her diminutive body to the wondering of strangers, Kate pretended to scold them and hugged them from the back, exposing the gracile body even more.
We chatted, in the cupboard, I had found oolong tea that suited my idea of a wet summer garden. I sat so I could lay my feet on Dagmar’s, she stared at me while lifting her shirt, I had not seen Far coming behind me, she wouldn’t flinch, he passed, kissing everyone on the forehead, whispering something in Dagmar’s neck. He agreed to my choice of tea, and proposed a cruise to Geneva and back on one of the paddle boats, we had no better thing to do, we disbanded to ready ourselves in twenty minutes.
As Far had foreseen, the weather cleared out soon. The ship, named “La Suisse”, really felt like an altogether machine with old-time ponderation and décor. As soon as we boarded, Far pulled me apart while the others followed some guide. He had run his eyes on Dagmar’s case and his hackles had raised; most of the network in Germany was in jail —except the worse, of course— now she was anew under watch and somebody had known I had brought her to Switzerland, did I realise that? So, I broke the whole tale to him, not avoiding the shortcut methods used by Hector and Louis sometimes. As he wondered if I fathomed the depth of responsibilities I took, I had the nerve to respond we could afford it, even if Dagmar was to become nothing other than a whore, there had been others like her. Saying that I was thinking of Ayla because I felt he knew more than I about her. Now on, Dagmar would live beside us, like with big sisters, and first, probably learn French and English, like Fanny, Fæbian, and others. At the mention of Fanny, he recalled the help he had given, I kissed him. I promised I would make an appointment with Dr Méant to ask him if he would accept another redeemed stray animal as a patient, on the same protocol as he had for Fanny, I would pay for that; he had known our ways altogether, he knew they worked.

Dagmar had known other pleasure boats, mostly in the muted luxury of their cabins, with a client’s posse or worse. That day she played with Delf like the kid she had never been, and she guessed I was speaking about her with everyone, but her gazes told me she still trusted me, probably because we had been to the moon and back.
Together with Far and the big girls, I mused aloud on the coat of social distancing my special years on this very shore had granted me. Far floated the notion that it had been, mostly, a philosophy of free rein and self, altogether with sexual liberalism, assumed by adventurous parents, through the talented guidance of Harmony, that brought me this soul-warming assurance.
Kate avowed that since she had drifted in my wake, she had envied my practical intuition —of what I had no knowledge, my Queen— see, how I had followed the current from Camille’s attic to Hugo’s metaphoric towers, whenas she whirled out to the harsh chemistry of Berlin’s bunkers and shock corridors, leading me to motivate the trio’s descent upon a conspiracy devised to muff out her brains —at times, these goons had lobotomised or killed fairies like her.
Elsie discovered, with awe, that I had not been the girl she had kept fantasising about from afar, but she bore no regret, she had continued wanking at the thought of me, through her hard-earned, hard-wired studies and, eventually, found me unscathed, for all she knew.
We sailed off the pretty village of Versoix, but it cast no whisper to my soul, that I wrote to Ayla, wherever she was sleeping.
We had one hour in Geneva, and I pulled a whim about creamed girolle mushrooms on a slice of country bread, a “croûte”. Sincerely amused, after the westerly route of confessions, Far knew where to get some, in a warm inn of the nearby Eaux-Vives and it was a rewarding success, Kate and Elsie shared a glass of white wine with him, he said it might have been grown in Saint Loup.

Sailing back, on that scarcely crowded boat, wine might have unlocked the prudence in my peers, Elsie was falling prey to Dagmar’s natural appeal, in a judicious nook of the well-furbished vessel, counting on the otherwise solicited attention of the passengers, not caring about some more aroused voyeurs. Delf maintained her seduction on Kate, keeping a hand warm unabashedly but stealthily.
Far held my hand as I evoked the week he had offered me in London, once his decision to let me go away from home was made. I swore I had not a shred of grudge to conceal, it was pure nostalgia running with the flow, he could easily tell I lived a happy life. So, reminding me of the striking exhibition we had seen at the old Tate, he timidly wondered how we gave a following to our own show, if we, Kate and I, pursued our apparent couple or else? I represented the topography of our current arrangement, in the manner of a metaphor of our polyamorous venture. Always with the unfettered support of Hugo’s, we collected unforeseen affections, little whores in disarray, a borderline sociopathic genius who needed a patch of rug behind our red sofa, our art went thus and now, our infinitely savvy dealer —he would never fathom how deeply— was an utterly powerful and rich woman.
Far kindly smirked and soughed in my neck, so near I almost shivered, that hew new about the new wealth of Camille Stern and her difficult past, also the advent of the tornado Michelle de Cerisy, who laced TRÆVIX into the information networks, for the better, as he had seen, and who was currently in this informal conference, repaying what she thought she owed to a handful of master brains. Had he not been satisfied with what I was bringing around, he would have found a manner to warn me.

Later, a lesser moon rose above the eternal snows of the Alps, Far and I weren’t done with effusions, would we ever? Michelle had texted that she would dine out, and thus we shouldn’t care for her, she would wait in the car, if needed —no answering available, an Aviator trick.
Far took us to a simpler terrace Italian cuisine restaurant overlooking the Lake. There we could order all kinds of antipasti with fresh pasta, I couldn’t remember when Far had turned veggie, he ordered soft-boiled eggs with a grilled vegetables salad.
Randomly, Elsie entertained us with the jolty life of a young girl in her neighbourhood, how fast one needs to be, and ready to make long detours not to meet trouble, and how happy she had been to take a bus to reach our school on the other side. I admitted that, as overjoyed as I had been, always, to have her home, in my grand room overlooking the ruins of the decaying powerplant, in my well-stuffed bed, I had no notion of the lesser parts of the city life, mind you, the only times I descended upon Elsie’s tidy place, it had been with a secret service officer. She met Far’s gaze and smiled openly, she said she had never waisted time, with me, the three others remained silent, mingling their legs.
The moonlight bathed Far’s house when Michelle rang, she said she was feeling washed out, but happy, and fled to bed, because there would be another mind-squash in the morning, she noticed the glow of excitement on Delf’s face and kissed them on the forehead, thus showing she was not totally phased out.
Far pressed gently my shoulder when Elsie and he stole away, I had a clear vision of them fucking, her ballerina’s hips and tangerine breasts, her delights I could grab hold of again when I wished. We ended four in the bed, it was a double bed tied together. I could not choose who to serve, but Delf had their want set on fucking Dagmar, which Kate and I were keen to watch and participate in. At one delicious moment, she enlaced me to kiss me a big full mouth while the devilish kid played in any of our holes. Sliding into sleep, I felt some recalls of the boat’s moves.

In the morning, the crowded bed smelled like kittens, we soon packed into the bathroom with shreds of our lewd night. There happened to be a Cologne soap in a drawer, so it slid all over the four of us in a frenzy, I let my curiosity let me wash Delph’s privates and they fastly stood at attention, if I would. I promised, with a kiss, to let them bugger me that evening.
The sun was young, we took the pastries we found, outside on the terrace, Far, dressed up in faded blue Irish flax, passed by to say he would be back for dinner, leaving to me to order what I liked. He knew we were visiting the Art Brut collection at the Chateau Beaulieu, he recommended we book a table for lunch at the auberge next door to the museum.
Elsie was serene, I groped her casually to make her sit on my lap, she smelled of peachy rose, I said that Delf had turned me into a heated bitch. On this sunny day, I had chosen to wear a two-layered trapeze raw flax gown in which I felt like an indecent flagpole, so widely it spun, still, I wore flesh tone knickers. Dagmar would be maddening the crowds with her yet correct, bleached-white, casual shorts, and a stretch velvet, deep blue, tank top, her fetish feet in discreet K.Jacques sandals. It was her legs, said Kate, grazing the gold fluff on her thighs. Delf had decided to play it girly, their perfect silhouette in a no-waist, calf-long, fuzzy printed, lichen grey Tana Lawn dress they let so open as to show a chest as flat as a kid, they shoed in ecru low sneakers. As for Kate, a short sleeves, knee-long, subdued mauve and grey, zigzag stripes, jersey shirt-dress, let no one ignore the shape of any of her muscles, nor her tiny tits, so she had to wear a stealthy thong. She shoed white Egyptians.
In the cab, Delf slid a slim hand into Dagmar’s shorts, bragging, then we dived into the collections, what a fine idea Lausanne had had to shelter the first-ever ensemble of uncompromisingly free art in all states and shapes, whenas Paris or any big city had shunned such a wealth. Switzerland remains a pioneer in art therapy and many institutions show their patient’s work, as Tudor Weiss, our art teacher, had shown us, in a tour when he was ever so often in my pants and in my bed —no damage done, regardless— he was so properly dainty, I was happy, we remained friends.
A few drawings of Wölfli were on show and they did wonder with our own two savages, who even forgot to fondle each other. I was happy to witness that Dagmar could read, we bought her a catalogue, it really seemed the thing to do, and soon another one, for a round head. We did not pay attention to the scientific argument of that peculiar exhibition, which tried to pull advantage of the art shown. Thanks, but no thanks, leeches.
Neither had Kate been visiting there before, despite promises I did not keep, she’s always in such high demand, and besides, Victor despises Art Brut —too bad, he fucks so well. I reminded them that there are plenty of related books and catalogues in our studio. I hugged Dagmar firmly telling her we would have a buying spree on the matter, through Amazon, to shelve in her own future room.

Cold soup with croutons and sweet onion rings seemed a refreshing idea, then the chocolate cake with orange and tonka bean, and more cocoa, In the museum’s neighbouring restaurant. Then our rookie amateurs, somewhat apprised in the morning, asked to return

I felt twitchy, I had seen shows of artists with an overlooked mental condition, like, say, Unica Zürn, without a word conceded to their psychiatrist —if there was one— and it had been proper. The adverse pitfall to shun was, in all self-conscious conventionalism, to collect these fulgurant messages like mere artefacts of abnormality. Of course, I was fearing for my own cause, as Kate pointed, in sympathy. Nevertheless, the pixies kept the visual treasure hunt, shoulder to shoulder. As they craned their necks to decipher the small print on the cartels, I wondered when had Dagmar lost her collar?

Once our backs began to ache from too much trampling, we wouldn’t have time for the Musée de l’Elysée, but then on, we would have the further facility to visit Lausanne.
The weather inviting, we strolled down to the waterfront and back to Pelican Park. I liked this address for Far. Back to my comments about the mind of the Collection, Elsie pointed out that I would most often draw rapid-fire at institutional efforts, just like I had done, in New York, about American Indian Art; wasn’t I a tad remote from society? In other words —I resented that— impossible to content? Had I, by any chance, heard of the Charles and Valerie Diker Collection at the Met? She surfed to the page and showed me, the only comment I could invent was that it was time we went back, to Camille and Michelle’s new apartment. Kate, who had been dreamy, added that she claimed the first date with Mathew Mulder — of fond memories, a lawyer for TRÆVIX and SEVEN STREAMS, powerhouses of Michelle’s daily trade.
I recounted to Elsie, whom I held by the arm, the show I had seen in the Jeu De Paume Gallery in Paris, of an extensive part of Bispo Da Rosario’s work, when it had turned over Europe, I remembered the sense of respect with which the somewhat clumsy-obsessive objects had been displayed in the huge off-white rooms, along with unobtrusive notices, and the imperishable imprint it had left in my soul and mind. More recently, there had been one edition of the Venice Biennale, titled “Palazzo Mentale”, which had thus convinced us, in times when Kate was recovering from her “Nervenklinik” drift. Saying this, I had quit Elsie’s arm to hug my pensive soul-sister.

We piled into a cab, Delf managing to be groped by all. Lausanne doesn’t feel like a town you will stroll about. Nobody was home. Elsie had said there was a Pizza joint within walking distance, which was vegetarian tolerant. We followed her and carried back our boxes for a lawn party.
A strange episode happened on the way, with a blue-eyed black cat that jumped out of a garden and came straight to Dagmar’s legs and purred, grazing her ankles in rounds, miaowing insistently at her face; so she crouched, and the little devil seemed happy to cuddle between her thighs for a minute, then, after she preened its head, ran back where it had jumped from and disappeared. She explained she had some weird connection to cats, and events like this happened once in a while, we all found that at least cute, she was kind of proud, rightly.
The skies were pure, the Mont Blanc became gold before the silver decreasing moon raised.
We heard Debussy on the piano, which was a way of Far to announce he was back if ever some of us weren’t supposed to be caught upon. I had listened to this along with him in the bygone hours, so I knew it meant he was in a good mood. He hugged my old buddy, as Kate had almost ripped Dagmar’s shorts and Delf’s hand was deep into my underskirt. Time for us to adjust, if we wished, he took a pizza to the grill and they sat amidst us.
Michelle rang in, stone-tired and loaded with bags of literature plus her laptop. Delf ran to help her and pulled her upon a sunbed for some back massage —which meant, soon, that they disrobed her, took off the aviators, oiled her and put her to sleep. They were proud of their work, and kept on, softly.
I was quietly getting accustomed to sharing Dagmar at all times with Kate, because it would be our life for a while, the golden orphan needed someone to hold on to, always, unless we gave her a cat, Which I would not see happening.
With a notch of teasing, Far offered to carry Michelle, fast asleep, to her bed. It made a pretty picture to see my still burly father bearing a nude blonde —she looked so much younger without her heavy spectacles.
As we would leave the next morning, I began clearing, still in the wake of piano calligraphies. Dagmar jumped to help, she was overjoyed to go to bed with both of us.

At breakfast, Michelle’s hair was clinging wet —she had a hairdryer phobia. She seemed all pepped up, we were still both in our night-tees, she giggled when she felt I wore no knickers. Elsie, who congratulated us, was at the ready for her ride to Geneva, she said that she rented a casual bedsitter there, she came over for weekends, or on occasions like these two days. She also kept her Parisian pied-à-terre, she had commitments on many fronts, and she was fully happy my Far would help her so wisely. I told her openly that I approved of their relationship and I wished them only bliss. She did not answer, she kissed the air between us two, and ran, a heavy case in hand.
Kate and Dagmar already wore their travel outfits. They smelled of rich Cologne, they complimented my immodest pose as to Michelle’s morning whims, but I had just only time to pull my shirt down when Far cleared his throat, from the stairs. Around the table, Michelle reckoned that she might give us a draft of what she had been doing these two days. She was confirmed in most of her options, she had accepted to give a series of seminars after she achieved the research she had initiated herself, here in Lausanne, a few years back, also she had seduced a pair of big brains to come work for TRÆVIX. Far hastened to offer his hospitality for her next visits, and actually, she was inclined to accept, instead of an unsafe guest apartment. She timidly demanded that all expenses be charged to TRÆVIX, and went on embarrassing Far with her admiration, all she had deducted of my consideration of him, and so on.
Delf had borrowed a razor to zero her bonce sleek and gave sensuous headbutts in the chest. Michelle announced that we had less than two hours to pack up.
I had a moment with Far, by the water, he asked if my work went well, I told him that despite the spectacular modifications to our environment, since the installation of Michelle in our studio, and the powerful “Monopoly” game in our neighbourhood, also the future installation of Camille’s in New York, Kate and I stayed on course on our own winds maps. I was also proud to announce that Michelle was sponsoring Cynthia’s centre for the study and support of intersexual condition, in the midst of our new buildings block. Far said he had been in the know that, with the sponsoring of Melchior’s, Michelle’s undertaking was actually much more powerful than it might seem. He clutched me to his side, in the small lapping of the ripples, he avowed he had been wary of my reaction to his going out with Elsie, but she had assured him I would understand that, too.

The car left us at Michelle’s door, she had warned the whole security detail; she asked us to come in, she had something to show Dagmar. We sat in the grand salon, where tall baroque mirrors, framed in patinated giltwood, asymmetrical and dishevelled in Chippedale’s grace, had been hung over the colourful panoramic, at places chosen by Gauthier’s fearless taste. A new floor-standing chandelier, in the taste of Herrenchiemsee, all gilt bronze, with consenting nymphs, stood in one corner and diffused a warm glow. as a lesser satellite of the Chihuly centrepiece. Dagmar, who had the look of wonderment of a child told there would be a surprise, said she had been in ballrooms filled with such lights, along with many girls like her, and she did not keep a fond memory of that.
Soon, Michelle had fetched a little box that she handed Dagmar, saying that she had no telephone; this one was anonymous but would connect to any available network in the world, under the name Craven D, like the cat. She did not care about cost, only about charging the battery, like anyone. Delf would teach her all the tricks. The object was a non-branded black unappealing sleek slab. In case of loss or theft, Michelle could kill it, and the data was not stored in it. Dagmar felt like a spy. Michelle went on that we should all have one of these, she could do that.
Kate, Dagmar, and I walked up to our lair; Dagmar marvelled that it had been tidied up entirely. I stripped her, rummaged into the faint sweats of travel, and fetched her beloved oversized jumper, at once approved by Kate who cuddled her, who contemplated her virgin telephone like a doe would a camera.
We ordered what Dagmar felt like, she wanted sweet potato fries and Sanne’s relish, with grilled pepperoni, eggplant, zucchini, artichokes, and poached eggs, with chiselled coriander. A rhubarb in rice cream pie for dessert. I brewed white tea. Before the boxes arrived, we made her come like a daisy; on top of his tip, the delivery boy had a sneak peek at her feet, legs, and more. The kitchen had been up to our want.
After dinner, Hector called me, asking if he could come up, so I let him in. He showed a greyish face. He looked at Dagmar, but with angst. Eventually, he spilt his worries for us. The associate pimp of Dagmar’s was out of jail and reneged on the deal, he was hunting for her. There was a chance he might know she was with us, one of his informants had told him, so she should either go back to Louis’ or any other safe house.
We were shaking, and she was still butt naked. then a solution dawned on me, I knew no safer place than the one across the block, and it would soon communicate with our cellar. Hector did not know of Michelle, I said very few did. As I supposed, rightly, she was in the cyberspace, so I wrote, with an emergency flag, a sketch of the quagmire we were in; the answer took no more than five minutes, of course, they could safeguard Dagmar even better than themselves, she should come right away.

Out of some luck, it was raining; Dagmar and I, in a Mac and a yellow oilskin, under brollies, wearing a black beanie, would look like nobodies, and five minutes later, Hector and Kate would behave like lovers, which could even happen. The girls would play dolls online for Dagmar, behind armoured doors. Michelle saw no better means than telling Melchior, who would certainly ask to meet Dagmar if she was ready for that, but I told her we had all been with Melchior, without complaints —even herself, to her surprise.
It became obvious that Michelle and Delf were overjoyed to have Dagmar aboard, so I finely suggested that we leave. On his side, Hector did not wish better than our friendly company, and so, he climbed back with us, reassured, his trousers bulging already.
Under our raincoats, we wore not much, and Hector knew us; he told us to bare out, and come to the bathroom to clean the little hatches. Hector is a deft preparator, his valiant stem, depilated, was appealing like polished amber, as he needed to be sucked while I flushed my bowels, and then Kate, in turn. Ready to engulf the galliard, I grab a towel, dry myself, lube my path, and run to the bed, followed by Kate, as glibly ready as me, so we offer him all he craved at standing height. I defy him to do us both, but he is some damn animal, he finished Kate before giving me a dedicated long ride I greet more than twice.
He attempted to snore, we forced him on his tummy and then he soothed down. In the morning he was again stiff as a maypole and Kate had already run, so he presented himself at my unfazed little carnal drapes and insisted until he had drooled enough clear drips to pass through them in thrills. His thoughtfulness earned him French toast with raspberry jelly, he kept his hand into my thighs.
On telegram, he learned that Michelle had called for Melchior means, he knew what that meant, he had better keep out of harm’s way. He could not let Louis worry alone, he would first reassure him about Dagmar, then comb the dark web and lie in wait.
End afternoon, Melchior and four of his janissaries invested Michelle’s fortress on her invite, bringing loads of delicacies. Predictably, the upper salon was the scene of refined debauchery, so much so that the great unfailing promised Dagmar an apartment less than a stone’s throw from ours. Michelle did not sulk and Delf behaved like a lovely little soldier. Melchior said he would sort things with Hector, all would be cleared in two days, but Dagmar should not ramble out alone for a few months, then he and his elite squad disappeared.

Not another round of our then angst about Fanny’s escape —this time the police wasn’t invited —some edges of its realm might get a feeling of the hunt, but no mandate would hamper Melchior’s moves. Three days after a summon had been fired at Hector’s, the whole facade of the Russians’ watering hole was blown in the wee hours, after the employees had been warned, in Russian, to evacuate. Kostya Lenkov was shot dead by Russian police trying to flee his apartment in Sochi, otherwise, Semyon Bychkof was found floating in Fontvieille’s harbour. That was an altogether horrifying story, each angle one saw it. No explanation resurfaced, many shady characters deserted their hunting grounds, only to be replaced by different hordes just as nefarious, for whom Hector was just another sucker.
Meanwhile, that morning after Dagmar had boarded in Michelle’s vaults —and subsequently would accept quite a few homages from Melchior’s part— Natalia barged in for breakfast, well in her customs, to boast about the night she had sailed through with another of Liselotte’s distinguished mandarins.

 

Natalia retells:

As per usual, Liselotte had more or less invited me for a fine bite to eat, only to make me reward the service I had asked, in advance and in kind, on the low couches, and I was not one to dislike this prelude to her shameful commerce, Liselotte expended at her own profit some dainty savoir-faire over my skin and nookies, before shipping me to what was undoubtedly a patron of my better young charms.
Professor Martail lived apparently alone in one of the uncommon little snuggly streets of the Butte Bergeyre, among the much-prised remnants of these ancient borderlands of Paris. The pavilion was a typical elegant thirties’ townhouse, with graceful accents of ceramics, overall well-maintained and enlivened by a wisteria as old as it was.
The man was the perfect middle-aged beau, so much so that there was to be wondered why he would patronise a worldly procuress like Liselotte or wasn’t it vice as such, and a means to avoid any litigious recoil of conscience as to the reeling consent of a candid young prey? With a self-aware slut such as I, and a fair deal, he did not even have to rein back his DNA, furthermore, he would soon grasp how far from him rested my ambition.
At first, he stood in a sober white entrance, marble-clad to the ceiling where light beamed from an array of stylised wrought-iron clouds around a dull yellow sun. A full-length mirror showed him from the back. He wore an utterly elegant black silk outfit, double-breasted lounge jacket, collarless shirt open on a smooth chest, silver-monogrammed velvet slippers, faultless.
I wore a wallet dress of Sarah’s, midnight blue in silk panne velvet, elbow-long sleeves, and a matched, fluid scarf vest if only to have pockets, my models had passed me on the phobia of handbags. I wore crotchless tights, to be honest, and black patent Maryjanes like the ones I had seen on a photo of Marianne Faithfull. A watch, white gold replica of a Cartier Tank, because whores always wear a watch.

He was the kind to fast kiss on the cheek, he held my shoulder as the second door clicked open. He smelled of brandy barrel and rich car leather, I had sometimes crashed my nose in such a heady smell while being done with from behind.
Thence I was in for novelty. The money displayed was a notch upper than that of a teacher, be it a bigwig, and by the way, he handed me an unmarked thick white envelope right away. In a typical bachelor way, the whole house showed off in the representation mode, same futurist black and grey motive upholstery all over, with quite a few good geometric paintings set off.
As the envelope disappeared in a concealed pocket, he was drawing me to a surprisingly large room, that would have been remodelled from the original layout, and was obviously a private auditorium, where two enormous exotic wood boxes stood fit in opposite corners, at one end. Black leather sofas had been pushed aside on the black lacquered parquet. On the matched wood, low cupboard between what would be the speakers warmed an impressive array of low-glowing electronic tubes and many rectangular blue-lit dials. The ceiling had been gilt white with a myriad of burnished squares, another bigger wrought iron sculpture of zenith clouds cast a diffuse light that waned at a touch of his hand on a sleek plate in the wall.
He had ordered me to take off my shoes. There was the faint rumour of a wide orchestra tuning, then resolving into an unending bourdon, with a sense of indefinitely detailed textures and tremolos, such was the quality of the system, thus he seized my waist as the horn spew its initial call in my diaphragm. The music was not amplified, it was reified into our couple irresistibly gyrating at its pace, while we deftly untied the only bind of my dress which flew as the best silk does. In our slow moves, he gazed at my pale skin highlighted in the opening of the tights. He gathered my threads in one hand, threw them on an armrest and, like the flow of strings swayed his head astray, kissed my timid breasts, my neck, and my mouth; he tasted of marshmallow, of violet, I was my whorish best, I sent a moral kiss to my fairies.
Yes, Hugo had done that music to me before, in his stupefying beds, it ought to be an adult kind of kick, but it was sweet to suffer it, and I was elated wet. He said to unzip his fly, the slider was clever and went all the way down to his bumhole, no hair, sleek! The dick wasn’t too thick, but long and I began to muse where up it would bang. He must have been on the trip of using it as a bow on my strings, he did not spare compliments on my person and my grooming, as he fumbled deeper into my holes, and I knew he was another sodomite, why not?

During a quieter phase, he pulled a large buttoned leather ottoman on legs, upon which he capsized me open, and he revelled all along my crack, like a freshly landed sailor. I was loosening my self-wake, he was a gifted galliard and he could soon abuse all he fancied of me, but by then, he was only orderly pulling the tights away so he could lick my toes— he is an Intellectual.
I sucked him with dedication, to a noisy completion that I swallowed whole, with the fear he would reprimand an early spend, but he had kept his drive, and would not quiet before I, myself, climaxed at his mouth which I did like a big girl, having trained since the time I could lurk anywhere around the libertines in my home, and learn.
He joked frankly that we were even, slid off his pants, and upturned me on all fours, to sheathe an unfailing johnny to the hilt in my inners. He fit beautifully and took his time, no more aware of what Brückner had to say. Opening wide and bending my loins, I gave myself around his want, twirling in accordance with his frenzy. He ordered me to cum again, fully, and I could, so deep his thrust felt, I did, with a splash that triggered his own, as he went laughing of bliss, trembling on his knees before he grasped me down at the tip of our breath.
I think we slept, or we maundered, in some manner. The music had changed, now it was a shimmery multilayered beyond jazz, infinitely inspired furling improvisations, in a moment when he needed to recover, keeping his head on my sweaty underbelly, he told me the genius we heard was Jon Hassell.
He offered some drinks, I refused alcohol, he took that lightly and drew me to a kitchen of jade green ceramic tiles, where he fetched two lemons that he peeled, roughly, white grapes, and fresh mint from a pot on the window sill, threw all in a blender and poured the filtered result on ice cubes, I was interested but then I needed to pee and wash my quim. He grabbed my wrist and told me I would not waste any piss without him, at his expense. He was ordering me, I wasn’t used to that but I silently admitted I was liking to play tart for money. He followed me to a squeaky neat bathroom, where he told me to pee in his mouth over the toilet bowl, when I was over, he licked my coochie thoroughly and told me not to use soap. With our highball glasses in hand —he added a copious dose of white rum to his— we went back to the focus bench and put them on the floor. He lay on his back and told me to lick his balls and bumhole so as to revive the main character of the play. Wallowing in docility, I did my utmost to make him growl of ease, daring a pointed tongue in his male hole, as I might have learned with my beloved landlord.
Foaming at the mouth like a maddened stud, he now stood up darting his dick like some erring bayonet, lifted my feet up high and began a wild push on my restive rosette. I shouted of pain, supplicating for some lubricant, eventually yelling clearly that he wasn’t going to like it like that anyhow. Amidst his rage, some wit prevailed and he ran to the side of a couch to fetch some Swiss Navy, so I could thread him all in and do the lewdest Bellydance he would know. As a second wave, my arse —kept unspoiled by Liselotte’s care— cranked up with my sensitive other minnie, so I melted time and again upon his prancing rod until I felt it reach the nexus of my entrails and vibrate until it hurt him, too.

He confessed to a painful glans and apologised, so I found it a proper time to ask for a shower, even knowing it might rekindle the beast. We played in the water, he kept his fingers in my arse as he made me retell my student life. After what he had performed, I brought up some eventuality it might happen again from time to time if he would tutor me in serious English, besides my current curriculum under Prof F. —whom he did not seem to befriend much.
He took a professorial face, then there was like an opening in the skies of his mind like he had just grasped that he could have me more for less money —however, I knew he would have to pay some. He agreed, for a year, with results and work on my part, he meant study work, for the rest he knew, and I agreed to come by once every two weeks and listen to music with him. He watched me dress up like the little whore I was.
My way to get a degree in less than two years, as Liselotte said, and she would watch on Martail —he fucked really great, and I didn’t even know his first name.

 

Sarah says:

Our vixen Natalia had aroused us for good but fell asleep, rounded amidst our bed she would rightly consider hers. Thence, we could merely cuddle her and follow her to the land of never-never, or some lyrical version of Manhattan in the clouds.
When I switched back my telephone after a welcomed long night, there had been a message from Craven D every ten minutes, she was relieved we could talk. She boasted about their lascivious conversation with The Undisputed and the mellow future he had made her have a glimmer on. She described him as an attentional mighty bear of the kind she had endured before in her career, Melchior had prised her savoir-faire. I told her we still waited for more updates from Hector before we planned to get together. Camille, too, and Fanny, were eager to meet Dagmar and so, too, all our little quails of the upper floors nestings.
Meanwhile, the workings had followed the course, underground, some vestiges had shown under the foundations of our dwellings, Hugo had been thrilled with that and scrutinised all the old maps and plans he could gather, but none seemed to show any hard construction on what was reputed wasteland where mainly students of the time would fight their duels. So, possibly, the vaulted masonry belonged to the Gallo-roman period, who knew, there was no time to tell the archaeological instances, mind you. A wall between the original house of Hugo’s and the new property had been carefully dismantled, as well as that of the next, opening way to the neighbouring cellars, and was replaced by a heavy inoxidizable steel frame sealed in place; the same operation had been realised under Michelle’s garden wall towards her own security vaults, et voilà, the three lots communicated secretly, plus the newly discovered level which was not inscribed into the later layout. Armoured double doors with facial recognition should secure Michelle’s operation.
Not long before Dagmar had been dedicated upon me, in a gesture of peaceful munificence, Victor had a princely gift delivered to his previously employee’s palace. The red-lacquered wooden box was as big as a man and heavy enough to justify the use of a forklift from the street to the inner yard. Michelle, not out of candour, let the movers install the magnificent gilt-bronze orange tree in a Medici vase, bearing mother of pearl flowers and orange jasper fruit, the whole in acute realism. It was a dignified companion for the Niki de Saint Phalle Nana who had, until then, felt punished in her corner. But the farce was not played, yet. Michelle, more secretive than ever, once the golden tree rested in its corner, had called Gauthier who had an also golden cage made for the sculpture. Then, she summoned her team of her faithful geeks, who brought extravagant contraptions around Gaïa’s marvel, to ferret out the soul of the object, as Michelle guessed there was another one than its undeniable beauty —contrary to Victor’s professed doctrine that beauty was a mere gimmick. A plank shack was built over the thing, They eventually lifted the tree from the base, and were exhilarated by what they found, and reverse-engineered. Like in some space satellites, an RTG nuclear battery powered a miniaturized spy station which the team of manic geniuses scanned about for days before Michelle wrote the appropriate software to pervert its mission. There was a celebration at TRÆVIX, once the Hesperides tree was allowed again in its glimmering nudity, caged. Michelle knew how to find palatable boys under the dreadlocks and baggy togs, so did Delf, both ways. They were still camping on the second floor when Dagmar came around.

 

Kate says:

It had been another chance for Simon to settle his life together with Fayelle —of whom I can tell the pleasurable character— and the weather had lent a lenient hand. Mama had overseen the tidying up of the house and the garden for us, and then she had left, with grace. Our trio spun like crystal until Simon wished I left them as a couple and so I walked to the nearest water hole and showed my availability, like a true-born islander, at least since the Prussian invasion. It wouldn’t take long before Lauritz be alerted, one of the doable age Porsche owners, I could tell the growl of his engine as I was sipping a harmless red drink on the terrace, decidedly gazing at stars. True to my repute, I sat in his car ten minutes later and showed him my knickers, a provocative black veil see-through.
Before we reached the sands of List, the northern-most land of Germany, where he had suggested we watched the rising moon, I was naked, which is what one does on Sylt.
He was hard as a sword, but I relished the sweet manners he thought he owed to one who lived the high life of Paris, I sucked him with my best diligence on the bonnet, he came like a frustrated boy, in quantity, and I made myself unforgettable by pumping him really dry, slowing on till the end of his lament.
He showed me a well-trained body as we revelled in the pale gold moonlight, he kept on the verge to tell me things he would regret the next day, I did him the grace not to let him, talking like my libertine self, complimenting his prick and his butt. Back into the lusty black coupé, he fetched a condom and turned me around like he was daring, and buggered me like a Lady, long and deep, unflinching, making me blast twice before he stilled, and tore the filled condom away, for more of my gentle mouth.
Back in the seats, my legs parted, I read the time on the dashboard and asked him to drive me home, he couldn’t help but mumble we should do that more, I did not answer but I smiled at the moon’s face. I ran, all my things in hand; the engine roared, to let me think there was might available under his bare feet.

I slept like a woodpile, thinking I might have overlooked Lauritz, in times. Now I ranked him along with frank fuckers like Fulgence and his posse, no-fuss camaraderie, for the while. Then Sarah would have reminded me that my twisted soul wouldn’t endure a week of this plain vanilla mundane fornication that would die off with the moon; Lauritz, worthy offspring of the Free Hanseatic City Of Hamburg, most certainly bore in mind that my All-Hanseatic arse would do perfectly among the schickeria, with Porsche children, my own mother’s nightmare.
When Fayelle, delightfully tanned, let me guess that Simon by himself had been somewhat underwhelming, and furthermore possessive, intolerant in the name of the passion he vowed to her, I secretly wished we kicked into touch, a good once, come what may. That evening, after a lazy sunbathing ice tea sipping day, we both scooted off to the same waterhole where the same daddy’s son, whose sunbleached strand of hair flew over the black 911, could be expected again; I had lectured my Fayelle to whore him kindly, and not wear undies, given he was a good shot, was good looking, and smelled good, anyhow, that I could tell.
Good sport, eventually, Laurits succumbed to her other Parisian flavour of moonlight and shadows. I overtly cruised for a while on my own until a sailor named Mats proposed an idyl on his boat, a five-meter skiff, on the wattenmeer. There wasn’t a puff of wind, but he started a small outboard engine to bring us far enough from the shore —in case I wasn’t cool enough? We made out on folded sails, he kissed like a boy, would I have misjudged his age? So far, so good, he smelled of tarry wood and rosemary, his sweat aroused me; I untied the piece of string that held his jeans, his shorts were clean, I found a stiff boom ready, a tad thinner than Lauritz’, fit for my jolly mouth as he barked like a seal and soon discharged a load of kelp-smelling sperm I did not allow him to spill outside. In a spell, he tasted avidly every crease of me, I did not have to suggest he might tongue my arse before sailing my entrails, after what he was still solid in the sweet slobber of my winnie.
He was all spent, we fell asleep, longer than the tide allowed, I laughed it out and walked back if only to untie my aches.

Under the illusion that the morning breeze would have humanised my togs and hair, I smiled in the pastry shop and bought fresh Danish rolls, winked at the pretty attendant and pranced on my way. At home, Emma smiled at my scruffy genre, smelling all my common sins. By the time I had showered and slid in a white cotton granddad shirt, the crisis had blown out and Simon was gone. Fayelle did not feel a chip guilty, she had spent a glorious night but she would not marry a Hamburger. I recounted my nautical prowess and we laughed like featherbrained nippers.
Nevertheless, what Sarah had texted about the new fairy in our court made us wish to go back to town. Besides, we reckoned that playing with potentially all the available guys on Sylt might become less funny when we would be taken for granted, like streetwalkers. We inquired about the complicated trains or aeroplanes to Paris and eventually rented a car —not a Porsche— to Antwerp for a stopover. two nights in a small comfy hotel, like a couple wishing to visit the old town and the Royal Museum of Fine Arts, for starters. Fayelle had a limited taste for museums and moreover fine arts, thus, I promised there wouldn’t be more than an hour at a time between tea stops, and besides, museums are great places to make out in silence, under the concupiscent stare of a uniformed guard.
We took the exotic train to Hamburg and then drove down through the Netherlands, with stops in Groningen, Utrecht, and other places we felt like kissing each other in. We left the car at the agency in the central train station, the rest of the journey would be cooler and faster by speed train in the Thalys.
Firstly, a bit of mutual grooming in the shower, then, on her, a whiff of lemons and roses from Amalfi terraces, a high-waisted, gathered, multilayered needlework chest-yoke old linon gown, white kidskin open flats, while, on me, the pensive Japanese Wisterias under a long, flared, misty mauve, wavy patterned, glazed jersey silk gown and silver barefoot sandals. In a word, we looked like willing brides. She carried stuff in a disarming macramé Neaples yellow shoulder bag, while my purplish needlepoint stole had been liturgical once and I concealed pockets in it.
In a Lonely Planet chat, a non-genre traveller had given a witty invite about a casual eatery, near our stay, where we could mingle French fries, grilled peppers, mashed celery, nuts, and boiled eggs — brilliant— and for dessert a crisp fruit salad, with blackberries.
Our bed offered that Flemish feel one would fancy of the hard-pressed flax linen smelling of lavender and wood ashes —all in my mind, said Fayelle, pulling my shirt over— all these modest women smelled of woodsmoke, like her grandmother contemplating her cooking stove. I retorted that twice a year they boiled for hours all the solid white linen, sheets, shirts and whatever, together with wrapped wood ashes, and then, once rinsed, tied them to the long ropes where the wind genie pervaded into the fibres, and later in the cunnies of impenitent girls.

The old bed frame was high-walled like one would rest curtains over, it gave us the feeling of a boat, or the closed carriages one sees in illustrations, or a hobbit burrow. Fayelle told of holidays when she had been sent to some distant cousins’ farm and been assigned to such an antique bed like this, except there was a goose-feather mattress and she had at once stretched out like a kitten, and dreamt she was nude in the forest, not more. There were three other younglings, a girl and two boys, the girl, Enise, hated her because she spoke in the same accent as the TV; Fernand, a six years rusty brat always on the breach for a fight and Axel, a pale dark-haired, black-eyed, slim, troubled character a year older than her.
She came from a typically mixed near-suburb of Paris, and went to an ugly prefab school with contrasting painted metalwork and prison-like fences —built not for keeping them in. She considered herself lucky because she was tall and fast enough to avoid the crass push and abuse of daily school life. Although she must have been mostly what she looked like now, her ordinary bland countenance earned her the peace on the walk to the bleak, four-storied — one of many— nondescript buildings they lived in.
They had been a family of four, her brother Saul was older, joined the army and was killed in an operation in an African desert, she heard no comment of that. Her father was a scary, bony apparition who had lived a long orphan disease he said was caused by solvents they used in the factory he worked for— the union lawyer never won on that— and left her mother with half a meagre pension to live by.
Later in her life, by extraordinary, she had been looked after by a couple of teachers who had no child of their own, but she still felt the burden of her depressed mother and her family of degenerate yokels.
So then, at this farm, around midnight, she was being inebriated by the perfect weather of a young summer, a realm of heady new smells, the heavy swing of animals she had never come to touch before, and a few brandied cherries, burrowed deep into the ancient bedding, a blue forest in whirls inside her lightened head, she swooned out. Long later, from the tinkling depth of a well —like the one there was under the thorny blackberry bush, on the decaying side of the farmyard— she felt some long, warm caress along her back, as her mouth was muffled out. Half-awake, the sensation had begun far before in the crystal waters of the well, she was stilled in stupefaction. She heard the smooth whisper of Axel, the space bandit with the fluffy mane of black hair, tell her that he held his blade on her loins, and he would stab her if she did not obey. As a reflex, she hurled forward and threw up on the floorboards, coughing. She felt the pointed knife but he did not push on it, only did he sit astride wider upon her, caught her wrists and tied them with some kerchief.
Now she was horribly awake, with bile in her mouth, and she felt what she knew was at a man’s crotch, only then it was stiff and stubborn. He upturned her, she saw his pale frame and his scraggly head, as he continued to speak low and smooth, telling her she was too new to properly fuck, yet, but she had to take his dick in her mouth, as the human female does, don’t they?
For the next two weeks, she learned what it meant to live under the might of an arrogant little village rooster, who taught her forced debauchery —nevertheless savvy enough not to get her pregnant, she had witnessed her own periods as another disgusting omen— and soon sold her for tricks to his mates, on the bushy old path to the fishing pond, they would call her the Parisian gigot, because they used butter in my back-slit while Axel held her, butt-naked. It settled him as a dominant evil, eventually earning him a violent death, a stroke of hatchet to the head, on the same path to the pond, when, she gone, he tried to force one of the village girls, who had a bigger brother. The gendarmes did not investigate, Fayelle’s relatives buried the village’s Space Pirate.

She had grown up all the more secluded, trying her best to deny any damage to her anyhow downcast soul, thence aware of a beastly menace inside most being she met.
The Merevine couple, Suzanne and Joseph, were her unfailing safeguard, albeit they took pity on her lonely mother and did not dare squarely adopt her, into their wax, soup, and books smelling realm, and so asked her to keep dwelling with the depressed woman. Only did they weave for her a frame of righteous words and ideals, giving her the invisible key to immaterial attainment, to poetry, and also the moral compass not to let it compromise with the universal runction of contingent journalism. Their beacon had been Gaston Bachelard, a miraculously self-taught philosopher who had proposed to collate all ideas according to the metaphoric elements of the universe, while he also was a renowned epistemologist.
Their ambition for Fayelle had been to raise her to some academic level, in short make her a teacher, out of reach of human servitudes other than intellectual. Had Joseph not been hit by a car, and Suzanne died of her grief, Fayelle might have reached the Olympus, she could not.
Her mother, long malnourished in consequence of her neurosis, faded away in her sleep and laid unbeknownst to Fayelle for two days, such was her aversion for the sorry little fantom. She was altogether distraught in her inability to manage any kind of material life, so, when they mandated her eviction, she ran away blindly, slept here and there, made little money as an academic model, did some photos in all genres of commissions, and furthermore prostituted herself in the bohemian milieu until she beguiled Camille, without knowing that gallery was hers.
Other than her pose, her charm and the lean silhouette that starvation had left her, she had never, in earnest, been an art school student, but what difference did it make?
Amidst the generous Flemish beddings, be them spin-dried rather than wind-flown in the sun, she had unloaded quite a singular tale, compared to the realm she had drifted onto, but that would explain why Camille had bonded so fast —not that she would shun instant affairs on occasion— also why she could not accept Simon’s demand. None of what we had casually deployed over there had felt liveable for a sidewalk blossom like her, she had thought she would shame people like us. In Paris near Hugo, Camille, and us, she was as good as any, we all levelled up with her as libertines and debauchers; she was actually getting rich, at no expense. I would certainly not argue that.
In the mellow tumult of her confessions, we had simply forgone wrapping our shoulders and we emerged tight-knit like animals, but in need to pee. We did together a rinsing shower, she smelled of straw and bitter almond, though we had only used the same shampoo. The bellboy who brought some lame tea and gingerbread hardly believed all he saw out of the short hotel robes, I was enthralled with Fayelle’s legs, too.
Her new appeal, for me, gathered the hopes of a forlorn little girl who had been ticking at my windowpane, not even smiling. Of course, now, she was only the soft-spoken, slim-bellied, swayed-hips adventuress, hiding her slate-blue eyes under childish dark-blond curly bangs, but then I understood what Camille had sensed in her, the yet fragile survivor that it would be time to care for, beyond cuddling her bones.
A taxi brought us to the pompous monument at the sight of which Fayelle frowned. I held her hand, her waist, like some possessive lover, to what she played candour like a flower babe, a stance under the ridiculously ornate vaults, only there weren’t any. The tentatively majestic temple was still under complete reinstalment and so a slanky blond Frisian-looking attendant advised us to rather visit the Collection Mayer van den Bergh and say hello to Dulle Griet —?
The air was light, between the rows of low and comfy facades, the walk was a pleasure and I was still in with Fayelle’s tale. Had she dared unload the memory of that little path to the fishing pond with anyone before? She said her beloved mentors had had a blind spot on anything carnal, like blank spaces in the language, only vague recommendations on cleanliness, which, in her case, had always felt like a bit of a moral lie, since she was so convinced she was forever soiled. She scrubbed her meagre sad body with the cold water they had in her mother’s house —the boiler had long been dead— with all kinds of soap she could steal anywhere, then in the old couple’s home she would wear some outdated black school smock that should have belonged to some other boy before, she could tell by the side buttons were sewn on; there was a peg to hold the smock when she left; from time to time, it was cleaned. she had felt so spared in that black smock.

I had been listening to that subdued tone of voice of hers, matte sounding like a muted cello, and I could not hear the scars of thorns, the fissures in her throat; she owned a righteous tone, the sound that had altogether seduced and fooled me about the true colour of her soul. Hence I withheld my bow on her strings but asserted our unforeseen bond along the kindly sidewalks.
The Mayer van den Bergh museum is indeed a successful pastiche of a Gothic patrician mansion, built around the private collection of a renowned nineteenth-century dealer for the Gothic and Renaissance periods. My peppy bride of the day showed reservations as to the gleamy waxed dark oak woods, cracking under our steps like mischievous goblins. We had never seen high walls of painted leather, which gave an afterthought of frightening wealth, some Hispanic arrogance —all of what the Flanders had suffered under.
Peter Brueghel’s Griet, valiantly hurrying through the brave and ribald bric-à-brac responding to the Emperor’s might, though not as mind-twisting as Bosch’s, is totally well set out in the womb-like vessel, to fill the mind with a muddle of laments, grief, and anger.

Fayelle, anachronical in herself, if ever possible, in her high-waisted, wheat-gold and flax-blue printed cotton jaunty dress with elbow-length sleeves, weightless on her new white Egyptian sandals, had naturally singled out the Magdalena by Jan Mabuse and was imperceptibly swaying her loins for the Queen of courtesans at her utmost, coveting the gold of the Pharisees. The overtly sinful portrait could not have been painted to hang in a religious venue, rather more fittingly in the cabinet of a licentious prelate, for deliciously transgressive turpitudes; it is somewhat miraculous that, although it had been painted in the midst of horrendous religious wars —for reasons as to which its subject pertains— the pannel is still so miraculously fresh.
My shy little conquest of the moments on course knew nought of the great reformation, nor the counter-reform, enough was it of the breathtaking craftsmanship of an artist had beaten once more the natural senses at their own attraction because the model’s seduction had beforehand —if one might say— simmered into the painter’s humors —as would a doctor of the times have said— before it was reflected in our eyes and soul. Like I whispered in Fayelle’s conchigliette of an ear, this marvel had been painted with live sperm

Had remained only scarce bubbles of attention, they clung to a Saint Anthony amidst the throes of his fantasies like an old bear in a scrapyard of chimaeras, and an unmissable nymph in the nude, so as to confederate together all the metaphorical pornography around. Sad Anthony, clinging to a devoid little piece of silverware.
Once outside, I gave Fayelle an idea, on her phone’s screen, of the same subject as seen by Max Ernst in 1945, in Hollywood. I promised we would trip together in his universe, when back in Paris.

After another stroll along quiet streets, we reached the Cathedral’s forecourt and found “De Blauwe Vos”, The Blue Fox, a grand social meeting lounge with a large street-level terrace under some cool awnings. She sat across me and overtly played footsie, it had been my time to tell my life, she was naturally curious about the relationship with my brother. There wasn’t much more to tell than what she witnessed a few days before, on the island. We had been privileged children at a time when the dunes were not yet too narrow, and our mother had been left alone at her easel, Simon and I had loved these easy times. Cynthia, the preterhuman seductress who had found me in our classroom, and whom Fayelle would inevitably be confronted to when she would open her research centre in the midst of our walls, Cynthia then had wooed both of us all the more because of the uncommon nature of our bond and invited us on her quieter, neighbouring island of Amrum, where it had been spacier to dance in the moonlight.
Fayelle had been firstly enthralled with Sarah, who had singled her out at Camille’s and taken her to bed, although she had not that much personally played in that team, then she had grasped our polyamorist roundabout and Sarah had welcomed the fling with Simon, so Fayelle had felt easier.
A couple of Belgian lesbians had been frowning at us over their ice creams, instinctively I switched to English and Fayelle did her best, albeit she sported a good accent. On a whim, I told her I would hook her up with an adorable Scottish prostitute of our friends who would certainly not charge her lessons.
She was captivated by the instant understanding that seemed to operate between Sarah, me, and Hugo. I joked it had always been consensual, the way Camille and he had entrapped us, at first so obviously thanks to the apartment he let us have —yet each of us could have afforded something comparable— but it had become rooted in our souls after Sarah had searched heaven and earth to find me, numb in my own stupidity, behind the walls of a Berlin Nervenklinik, utterly convinced I had killed my brother in the car I had been driving, while stoned —Simon had explained to her the scars across his body.
Before all this mess, Sarah and I had been school buddies because they said we had a German accent and acted special, which was indeed true. She liked to let Camille pimp her skin to some of her own longtime wealthy patrons, like Hugo; on my own, I dated a filthy rich art collector who relished sharing me with the members of his select posse, also letting me damage my wits with bad drugs and alcohol — hence what she could now witness of my being a teetotaler.
I thought I had been bending Fayelle’s ears, so I told her she should try and wring more out of Sarah’s and decided the afternoon was still young enough to take her to bed before dinner, and she approved so.

It would no longer be the same planets’ conjunction in Fayelle’s mind. Until our hearts-opening trip, she had been my brother’s fling, and also Sarah’s whimsical crush; now that she had been entrusted with, say, insider’s gossip, the least of our lives mysteries, however, she would wait for bits and crumbs of advice from —us? Sarah would relish the tale of the 911 manner to move on, I also had a hunch some Hamburger aristocrat might want to taste a season in Paris.

Back in Homeland, Sarah hinted that I had garnered for my sake all of my brother’s expectations and she liked the smell on me. She felt on the lookout, walls were moving in our daily topology, starting in our own game patch, the corridor between our kitchen and the bedroom now leading to a three-room extension and another staircase. An assistant to Gauthier was already at orders and had been commanded to ask for our wishes as for the two bathrooms, where Sarah had already asked for the same seamless walk-in showers as we already had, a sink, bidet and bowl at the most obvious places. We had choices of tiles, marbles, or stones. Philip, the architect, who enjoyed three girls lightly dressed groping each other while discussing decoration, had tastes to float by, too; he saw purplish slate, silver ceiling and appliances, for one, and all-white pure Carrara and silver for the other. He was gay as the spring hawthorn, had lightened his blond curls so as to set off his coffee-brown cutely squinted eyes, we did not rape him yet, but we agreed to his choices so he purred. A new laundry room, with all appliances of large family countenance and an up-to-date dryer, had been added to the layout.
Fayelle let me pilfer her rags one by one on the couch, as I snitched on her past of what Sarah still ignored; and she revelled in the double attention she received. She could tell, by the number of names we thought for her to meet, that she had not gravitated among us for no reason. Sarah proposed to let Sami drive for a tour of rewarding debauchery if that were what Fayelle inclined to —like us all— but for now, I craved a homey reunion with Gauthier and his new minion, who had been cutely obvious, while sharp enough on the point of our bathrooms.
They had warned they wouldn’t be early, so they found us all in the raw, powdered up and quims wet, a full-fledged assortment of our prefered caterers’ talent on the table, plus filled servers to warm. I savoured the manner with which the copper-maned Knight, from the first kiss of her hands, to closer embrace, to lap dancing, conquered Fayelle’s easy mouth. He had been sporting a subdued-rose shirt in cream chinos, with only one hand she had all unbuttoned wide and held a well-known trophy, still clung to his furious mouth.
While I ogled last night’s little slut licking at a new master, Sarah, as always a mean vice girl, had gently pushed the newbie to the couch where she undulated at his hands, for he had noted her heavenly round butt cheeks; it wouldn’t take long before she rode his also notable johnson in the middle of them, we’d all do the talking later.

After some starving intermission when Gauthier approved of our views on Antwerp and also the utmost daring Maria Madalena he should entertain his neighbour Theo about, I found some vindication that both boys would ask me to let them use my holes together, the younger rummaging in, as the third tiers, in whatever way in I was brought to offer, and they lasted, and thankfully our couches rest on many legs because Fayelle took fancy to lick Phillip’s arse and Sarah climbed up to offer her crotch to His Grandeur.
After a shower, all-spent, on our bed, we congratulated our own art school slut on her talents, like Natalia, she liked to be held when sleeping. Had I been concocting that thought in my waking dream? All I knew was that she was here, shaking us up and groping our Fayelle kid. She was on her way to college, we were expected that evening at Michelle’s with Camille, who wished to somewhat recap through the rowdy times.
Once she had fled, Fayelle, who stretched under our hands, let out that she was excited by Natalia; we concurred, adding that she was the house-fairy, almost born, and raised in these walls, who had debauched herself at my expense from a tender age, and, Fayelle should be told, could slip into anyone’s bed anytime.
Now that she was in college, she was tracing her way, with her two keen minders, well-hung artists she would soon have a taste of, no doubt, whoring for the attention of her teachers —of that also, Fayelle would probably like a taste of.
Craven D called, she longed for Sarah, who went, after breakfast with us. Fayelle needed to get along with girls of her kind, I tried some to no avail, and I eventually fished out Annabelle who gladly closed her book and would be there in twenty minutes, her tuft of ringlets richer than ever.
I wanted Fayelle to woo the speckled rose and glean some of the silent passwords her mentor James had let her. With her thistle-green eyes, she had a heart-wrenching tale to lay, of despair to redemption at the well of oblivion, heathers, granite, and soot.
I dressed her as a vice girl in a rich Hollywood brothel, with a mere pyjama of night-blue mulberry silk satin, trimmed with silver-grey piping, which let be seen the crease of her kitty. I told her this one had earned Sarah some of her most relished slaves —and probably myself.

At first, I was flabbergasted to leer at Sarah’s own lewd silks on Fayelle’s shivers and when I had said it would be a trap for binding Annabelle to her, she moaned of admiration, together on my cunningness and what I was letting my hands slide upon.
The whole gift smelled of Zanzibar and Saïgon, Coromandel, Maddalena, what a trip; she would wet her inseam at the first word the British shepherdess would purr in her strange accent. On a whim of lesser servitude, I decided to paint her nails, and tant mieux if Annabelle supervened at our scene of me kneeling on the rug at her feet. The poisonous whiff of thinner erased the fanciful spell for a while, but the false candour of her gaze as she watched me paint her tips was bringing back the secretive dizziness of all the “Odalisque at the toilette” I had ever played since childhood.
We had the perfect night-blue, in Sarah’s collection, to top off the ultimate skin toy that breathed, plus I adorned her with a seven opal beads anklet, as a token of our vacations together.
Annabelle climbed up, with a big bouquet of sweet peas and other garden glories. She’s a true heath witch, she had guessed I wanted to marry her, she wore a dawn flax blurry dress over only white stockings and white deerskin Mary Janes. She brushed onto me so as to show me she was excited, then she bowed, blushing, before Fayelle who had regained some of her lanky sulk, and her trousers slid some —I could not have made that up.
As the savvy trull I knew, Annabelle took on the game and made Fayelle sit close to her, nostrils on the lookout. She was one to value my efforts to enthral her. I could not fancy another place to be than sitting at their feet as they sketched up their stories, which Annabelle guessed most of.
As I was stealing her shoes, she grazed the precious silk all over, musing aloud that Fayelle, too, revelled in surrendering her body, and she would all the more for money, wouldn’t she? Her thighs parted, she had to reveal the trace of her early release, so Annabelle could drink out of her mouth any drop of shame.
I could not help slide a hand up Annabelle’s legs and note that her own lips dripped freely, too. I pulled up her frills and offered to Fayelle’s eyes the milky dawn of petals, while I pulled gently her pants, like the perfect procuress closing a sweet deal. I was impatient to watch Liselotte do her.

With my most obedient help, they had a grand course over our shuffled bed, and we did all the figures, the solos, the choruses and the recitatives; indeed, we were ready for a rambling charivari at Michelle’s. Howbeit, we three tribades had spent ourselves to the point when we would dearly welcome some opinionated dicks in our maddened wombs. I had asked Fayelle to fuck me with her pretty foot, but that was tricky, she had never denied that my brother’s shaft was some high attainment of a shag.
I called Sarah in the heart of the über-sanctum, she had been in bed with Dagmar and Delf most of the day, too, they agreed that a gentle cast of safe brutes would bring accomplishment to the whole crew, albeit they could not sort out a groom for Michelle.
At home, we drank a lot of tea with Annabelle’s ginger cookies; and thus had a lot of naughty fun in the shower. Annabelle was already dressed right for the ball, attended she was going almost butt-naked; she sprayed over her more of that heavenly pale English Rose she carried in a handy vial. In the same spirit, Fayelle looked daffodil-fresh in a white cambric trapeze-cut antique night-shirt trimmed with royal-blue piping at the collar, the wrists and the tempting hem half-thigh; over that, a cream, loose-weave, cashmere stole; her feet in white Egyptian Birkenstocks —I had eagerly despoiled Sarah before in that bedtime outfit. She put on more of the scent she had found in our cupboard and that she transmuted so nicely that I gave it to her, warning that soon, Hugo would have a great time on her skin, with perfumes, too.
As for me, I felt like really showing my legs this time so I pulled out this sort of double-breasted blazer, long to the upper third of the thigh, in black shantung lined in liturgic violet with satin lapels and chiselled jet buttons. Wearing that, with stand-up black stockings —I’m proud of my tapered thighs— and patent court slippers with a grosgrain knot would make me easily Fatale, wouldn’t it? My two amoureuses were jealous of my perversity. they helped to gather up my hair in some loose chignon so as to show my nape, too. I could wear a choker of eleven misty-dawn welo opals daintily set in gold, along with the bracelet. I would smell of that lime-tree, gentian and hay Hugo has once elaborated for me as a close-combat deadly weapon, you could pass without noticing much more than your average jasmine, but if you bent upon my cleavage you would totally fall at my mercy.

Delffan was managing the entrance, once one had punched in the code, there would be some facial recognition software to open the armoured doors. A searchlight had been set upon the Victor orange tree in the cage; it had gained a few more rows of pearls. Delf had publicised its picture on her disguised Instagram account, in hope of learning the name of the author. I thought there was a good chance that Victor’s manoeuvre had backfired.
In the salons, black-suited lackeys attended a long buffet table untouched yet, in the light of rose bouquets entwined with LED garlands, in silver vases; the proper lighting had been subdued, no one should sport a drab face. In the grand panoramic, more gilded accents, like the highly burnished frame of a carnal Pompeian scene in the manner of Gustave Moreau, the nude hetaera at the feast turning her splendid back on us, all in some heavenly settings that did not contradict those on the wall.
Only Liselotte held court yet, with silky-clad boys, smiling, as I had already shagged them once before, and I sat with my two nymphs as in a swarm of waspy stares, so they could not ignore what my jacket did not hide. Fulgence was one of them, he sat after Annabelle with rolling eyes.
All the hosts were still following a tour of the subterranean workings and the foundation’s venues, of which Theo streamed a video to Cynthia in Sydney; I fantasised about her reaction, watching me grope Fayelle in her shirt. In the meantime, Fulgence let be seen the agreeableness Annabelle caused him, spreading his legs like a hussar on the sofa, I sensed that Fayelle might have fondly joined them, I gave my naughty comrade an eye to let him figure that, too, while I slid a hand under the allegedly virginal cotton.
On the third sofa, Sarah was visibly kept prisoner by two Neverland genies, Delffan wore one of their adjusted pearly suits, with a profuse lace jabot, knee-breeches, white stockings, and black patent slippers. A high-waisted, colour-changing dawn taffeta spencer let be admired their angelic buttocks.
Sarah had probably been shopping online, she wore a prodigious Missoni oversize all-the-blues cardigan opened to her navel, next to Dagmar, frantically exciting in a same-make silky long light coat of Vorticist patterns in a toned-down rainbow; a graphic striped band of the same colours ran in her gracile neck, her hair had been tousled as if she had just landed in from a rough sea. Sarah was all besotted. Neither was wearing any shoes.
Delffan laughed watching her telephone screen, and soon a trio of our old schoolmates strolled in with a dress code of their own, white. Probably at Delf’s dare, they sported impeccably white chorus boys’ suits, with the assorted derby shoes. Liselotte, in one of her signature black and white, suprematist bat dresses, pranced at the edge of the seat, one could see nothing above the rim of her black veil stockings, thin suspenders hung from somewhere yet above.
Grazing her tense belly, I was whispering in Fayelle’s bosom that, for once, there would be male want available that night, when some faint draft came from afar, followed by muted rumours, as the main cast approached.

Melchior, in double-breasted, black silk velvet evening jacket, slightly bent, held Camille’s arm, who enlaced the almost childish looking Aviator of ours, in a loose old gold velvet panne shirt, over shorts of the same, under a hollow lace and embroidery batwings blazer of sorts, with that, spectacular matched sneakers —bare slim pretty legs. Annabelle was instantly a fan of hers, I promised to let her have a dance with the genie.
The presence of Melchior drew like a thrill of royalty, with our own Gauthier as a Master of Ceremony, in a dark, floral pattern printed velvet fitted jacket with narrow satin lapels. Of all lustful memories, Mathew Mulder, TRÆVIX attorney, had flown in from New York, along with some curly black hair, thick-rimmed glasses, burly, too, colleague, in Barney’s suit.
An informal group now moved on, at the Overlord’s pace, who wanted a marked stand to kiss the hand of all those he had had the grace to shag once. Seeing his drilling eye approving of my sort of buttoning, I stood for him and succeeded at presenting Fayelle, even whispering her name in the perfumed ear. Haphazardly, the white cambric’s creases had gathered a tad higher —I am a skilled whore.
Speaking of whom, most unexpected, Sarah’s heartbreak Ayla was there, along with Esther, bedazzling with her newly redesigned nose and details, a whole new personality. Melchior, watching Sarah cry, boasted of his sure memory, also in amorist details. Natalia, in a crisp primavera yellow and white striped silk twill oversized shirt, bare legs in immaculate new white sneakers, wooed Esther, visibly nude in her deconstructed black laces, stand-up stockings and flat strassed pumps. Decidedly, hi-heels were outdated.
Farther, Florenz and Hugo, one in a thin adjusted black moire party jacket that voluntarily made him look like some Roman diplomat, the other in a Jodhpur jacket of ultramarine daze, with a collection of antique Jaïpur buttons, probably exchanging about some ruinous prospects —or the constantly renewed crushes in their lives on the lookout.
Philippe, who had pitilessly buggered me not so long ago, missed his professional chores in coming up to our trio. He smelled like a Liberty pomander, his cheeks only blessed with fluff, but I remembered a fiery cock, indeed. It clicked with Annabelle, she was all the fresh misty a sissy boy could dream of, and she would let him do any old way he wished. Her more than father made it late, arrived in thin purple velvet and rosy cheeks; he was overjoyed to see her with the young squire’s hand up to her precious.

 

Sarah says:

The Oberherr almost came straight to us, his smile enfolding Dagmar’s own, he asked if our jump in the noisy whirl had been fun, when he said he would relish to take her to Mustique the week after, in a much cooler glide, she could not say no —she had no idea what Mustique was.
The attendees were brilliant and suave, many honoured Michelle’s resplendent carpets with utterly groomed bare feet. The pair Delf and Natalia had tuned up a sans-faute, gathering the most appealing pieces of our chosen humanity available to play with. Fæbian, in a very short, dark, gleaming Missoni tank dress, wore nothing else at the hands of Hugo, Lizon had thinned, nude in a short, shoulderless changing taffeta corset dress night-and-purple, she smelled of edgy tuberose, ever so impressive, she would madden the crowds with her diamond anklet.
My breath went shut at the sight of the Zürich fairies, and that had been Melchior’s pearl on the cake. Since Esther’s ordeal at the fists of a despicable coke-head, who had met his consequence since, Melchior had grown a tender habit with Ayla and her faithful imp, when in Zürich; I would think he had financed the masterful handiwork on Esther’s face, who gained a godlike new nose, in her sufferings.
These two smelled of otherworldly countries of endless dawns, the crystal houses of rarest orchids, the bygone whiffs on sunk islands — and the underage fevers in the laundry rooms.
Ayla had brought a present for me, we moved to the grey dining room, followed by Natalia, who had stolen Esther’s shoes. There were silvery Regence loveseats in the corners, the room had recently been graced with eerie poetic paintings by Lee Jinju, a Korean woman of unmatched magic, whose thin drawings on linen took unrulily frame shapes, like the projection on the wall of glass cages’ shadows. The centre table, dressed of grey Damas, was crowded with silverware and crystal, with a tall Imperial Samovar and four candelabras all lit, but in the corners reigned the proper dusk of our passions, as if I had drawn my girl into the shades of the boxwoods after hour.
She passed me a luxury boxlet with a roaring name embossed, in it slept a fine bracelet of sapphires, not much thicker than the one she had first captured my soul with, the one she had braided herself, with all the coloured threads, on the first morning in Saint Loup.
On the big chair and its armrests, it became a feast of warm skins, proud of my lewd attitude and the smile of my long-time pixie, I asked Mathew, who happened to pass by and watched in awe, to pour some tea, but as he was impressed by the stately contraption, a white-gloved young attendant who might have been Russian ran to help and did the mix in the silver-corsetted glasses he did not flinch to offer at obviously butt-naked nymphs —I could not even catch a glimpse to thank him with a smile. In these manners of life, Ayla had, nowadays, grown much ahead of me; she did not bother the waiter, who could later very well overstay his service, she gave Mathew the eye so as he understood he owned a token, all the same making my kitty bloom.
I had to break her the news, and she cried for Saint Loup, even knowing that the institution would survive —for then, they dwelled in old unused barracks, and the pupils liked it— but she wiped her eyes, which never needed makeup, when she learned my Far had moved to Lausanne; I was so convinced she, too, had shagged him, more than once; I told her I loved her and I licked her eyes, holding the boiling tea out of my way.
In an opposite corner, came nest Kate and her preciouses. I had to babble low on who Dagmar had been, I felt the pang of the crush in Ayla’s plexus and told her the tall kid would live with us, now on. Esther had succumbed in Natalia’s niceties, like a chrysalis, she had slid out of her lace and brandished arrogant little tits. Images of her in the hospital bed were waning in the nought, it overtook me to search for traces on her perfect skin, so much so that Ayla grabbed my angst and breathed in my ear that there weren’t any.

In the nude, only me wearing such a feel-good bracelet on my wrist, we went on a stroll, Melchior had disappeared, and Michelle. Most of the crew lay in disarray, pants down, or up. It already smelled of elderberry in the sun, angelica, mushrooms, heavens of fornication.
Fæbian was climbing down the stairs, splendid, and we followed her to the nearby bathroom. She had just shagged Aaron, Mathew’s colleague, and as a proper die-cast ivy-league American, he had treated her like a whore —she knew what she meant, and Ayla kissed her— and he had shut her off, once his condom was filled up. As we found a shower to rinse away the insult, I told her I had fucked that boor’s colleague, more than once, and others of us, too, had, and the crew-cut quarterback had been what we call a gentleman, for which reason he probably had, at present, half the house after him.
Ayla liked Fæbian’s emotive gazes, I sketched right away the forlorn story, the enslavement, and the redemption thanks to the good heart of our Liselotte, part-time procuress we cherished in the soft-spoken demi-monde.
Fæbian, who now lived a life of ease and pleasure, bore a pretty bum, Ayla had noticed, and firm at the hand. After we played pissing on each other’s quim — Ayla remembered I taught her that— we cruised back for dick, as they say. Eric and Fulgence answered my wink, bringing a well-tooled Cossack, to take a turn.
I knew the house, there were two more salons with thick rugs upstairs and bedrooms in the attic. We found the provisional gay males cluster, also Liselotte, Lizon, and Beryl —whom I could not recall what she had been wearing, but smelled of sinful lily— grappling with five young scamps like puppies at feeding time.
Michelle’s quarters were closed and silent, we climbed up, offering our arses doing so. In one open room, Delffan was effing Fanny doggy style in her arse, Ayla had not known our genderless pet, we approached and encouraged the two baroque angels by all means except speech and, eventually, they revelled being the aim of so much attention. It was a futon on the rug, we could all roll around. Ayla devoured Delf’s crotch, not letting the spear-toy wane. It had been a while I had not watched Fanny get bonked; the Cossack was carnally gifted, his meat pestle as thick as Fanny’s arm, and that’s what she needed, I loved her face all over while I felt I was being buggered by someone who relished being thorough. I needed one in my maddened womb, too, and Erik, who is endless, obliged me; since we club together at the same church, he did it bare and was able to inundate me some, I moaned in tune with Fanny whose head was against mine. For Ayla, schooldays were back, she was overjoyed and Delf frolicked all over her garden, they feel so funny in your arse!
I did the presentations, Ayla said of her own will that she was a full-time escort in Switzerland; she was pleased to know she had been in bed with artists, be them starving. There was a bathroom on the same floor, with a fashionable Italian shower, room enough to rekindle our wants and reshape the spearheads, Fanny grabbed my chest around and spread her legs open in the running water, offering her butt-crack; there was an alternate game she reacted to so vividly she cried for good. On the towel stand, Ayla could not bore licking her new discovery, she asked them to piss in her mouth and looked.
When we paraded back downstairs, for thirst, among others, all seats were elegantly ornate of lascivious nudities, even Michelle, whom I had always craved, her tiny waist and rounded bum-cheeks; I introduced her to Ayla, whom she unexpectedly seized by her midriff, sniffing her neck, and saying she might call her, once in Lausanne. I loved it when Michelle thought of sex, and I knew she played often with Delf, making that a tranquil asset of their life. That evening, I grasped that she had shagged a real lumberjack, and she had loved it—Delf too, liked lumberjacks.

Music, all that time there had been music, out of nowhere discernible, low, slow, seemingly random like some rich, fuzzy aeolian harp, and now, some satiated desires left laid back bodies listen, rested against the backs of the sofas.
Insensibly, the plates had been cleared, the nibbles had been sorted on fewer trays, only the grand Samovar remained and Ayla, the younglings and me still watched the unfazed waiter measure the mix. When Natalia was asked by a group of men, Hugo, Gauthier, and Philippe, Esther prefered to return to us, only with the thought of debauching the poor boy who had seen all the pretty nymph consent all to satyrs of all tastes, and he did not protest when, like the true professional she was, she pressed herself against his back and slid her hand upon his fly, soon feeling an echo of her want. He responded, too, when she danced against his butt, and she followed him close when he walked to the service door. They vanished, I was amused, another waiter came up to the table, unruffled. I like fucking in kitchens, too.

I wondered who Dagmar was humped by, Ayla and me went around to discover her in one of the attic rooms, between Yaguil Roustang, your sinewy karate-ka on top and Pol Fannon, the sculptor, underneath her, deep in her arse. We could not simply watch, and some histrionic tendency made her revel in our participation. She had probably been ridden a few times, her sweat smelled of the overlicked foal, some scent I found overwhelming, and Ayla shared that, as the two players unleashed their spurt. The boys fell apart, Ayla and me devoured her, swallowing any dripping out of her.
As an athlete, Yaguil recovered his breath and watched us like bitches toileting the puppy which triggered some of his own whims, so he joined, relishing Dagmar’s armpits like candy. Pol also began with one foot, toes, sole, and heel. Our victim kept moaning on the sweet mode, all the more when Ayla gnawed her tits until she passed out.
And Delf aptly joined our complicated pillow affair, wiped the eyelids of the cherished one, amidst the ending throes of our carnal sprees. Who is Rory? Delf asked, hugging the dreamer’s head.

Still haunted by the unputdownable ricercare flowing out of the walls, the battlefield had mostly been deserted; and it would have been dainty to sort the dead from the blissful. Certainly, Liselotte consoled the last of the white-gloved extras, James cuddled Fæbian, sleeping tucked in a long coat of rainbow giant knit he had stolen in the vestiary, knelt beside a whisky carafe; his daughter had fled with the gay squires of the higher grounds. Beryl and Natalia had lured the domino minders to their hovering nest, Theo had crossed the Pont Royal inside the low roar of a Phantom Three with possessive Florenz, his mission accomplished, Mathew and Aaron were back in their hotel room, reporting, lag it or not, to the Firm; and Camille had repatriated her most precious Fanny, gorged on all the cum she had been beautiful enough to arouse.
On the smooth futon spread upon the floor of TRÆVIX inner Sanctum, my soul-sister Kate had won that Michelle rest her gold-rimmed Aviators upon her keyboard only to taste a febrile kiss of Fayelle’s; and it had been minutes of transfiguration, one crystal tear in the planet buzz, I saw them sleep as the system breathed like a big baby. I crept back up to the roof cache, to find who Rory was?

From the sturdy-gridded dormers on the attic’s corridor hung the omen of a summer storm. In a closet, I found the stash of cobalt-blue toiletries from Covent Garden I needed for morning fun in the shower with my zombified lovely from the Bratva front.
As I tickled her somnambulic blond frame, I was, nevertheless, expecting to discern, in some way or another, Hector’s periscope. But Dagmar loved the Geranium-orange, she mentally regressed to utter cuteness at my hands, not without the blessing of a wink.
It was warm, we had no time to waste finding rags, the whole palace had been tidied, James snored on the sofa and Annabelle was as deprived of mere textiles as us, our hair still wet, we sprinkled her dainty skin as we hugged her; my only concern was to let someone cook French bread for Dagmar. Anyone?
The butler and the cook were utterly amused by our non-attires, with marked signs of approval but swore on their best enemy’s fates that they could confect proper tea, coffee, cocoa and French Toast if need be. Otherwise, all our vestures had been carefully collected in the hall’s vestiary, except what could not have been found —a kinky allusion to our utter lack of underwear.
The world we live in was back on track; In the pearly room, at the round table, the light was of a playful mood, and the Klismos Greek revival chairs gilt in white gold were substantially comfy. Tea and pastries were as fine as the cook had witnessed me do the previous morning, the butler was happy to see us in tee shirts and shorts. The music had vanished with our dreams, but it felt like we could hear birds chirping, out of the Jinju Lee paintings.
Delf trotted in, living gradient from the golden chest to the turquoise slippers, one flew baci around but went straight to hug Dagmar tight and peck the crumbs at her lips before sitting on her lap, complicating the way to hold a cup. Like a butterfly of words, one gloated the feast had been all worthy of the decor, like a divine scene of the bygone eras as one saw in the revamped monumental train terminal next door.

By the time we all switched back on our telephones that had rested hidden all over the house, Hector said to look at news stations and indeed we saw that a bar near the Champs Elysées, known for its fishy Russian clientèle, had been the scene of a gunfight, leaving seven deaths. In another message to me, Hector said that he might take us out tonight to a forest supper with Louis, Kate was welcome. He added he knew about our trip to Mustique and that he envied us.
How did he know Kate’s whereabouts? I answered Kate came along with Fayelle, and we went shopping —Gianni was away for two more weeks, in Italy.
There were a few places, not shops, where we could buy —at no discount— top-quality jerseys and twills ideal for tropical shadows, others for handmade sandals, exceptional nudewear. Dagmar possessed the pictorially perfect bearing that earned her, in three hours, two offers for modelling, about what I had played the mother hen —she would not be interested, as of yet. Kate and Fayelle needed fresh attires, too, this latter terribly daunted, seeing herself in some outposts of the sanctum sanctorum of the Parisian fashion intrigue, casually disrobed and re-dressed, like us, by half-jaded celebrants who ought to bear with the fact that we had been deemed, somewhere high-up in the commandment line, worthy of that exceptional privilege we, anyhow, showed respect for —knowing full well that most of our villeggiatura would happen clothesless.
Even if the invitation to Mustique had been whispered in my ear, it left no doubt that I should select which party of us, hence, I embraced Kate and her crush within the invite. I had a hunch of Hector’s direct fealty towards Melchior when, later in the afternoon, I had one of those subtle texts asking me to bring my lovely friends along.
Back at TRÆVIX palace bearing big anonymous kraft carrying bags, feelings were thawing between the two pretty fillies, there were fits of giggles, frank gazes, the premises of confidences. Fayelle began to crave holding Dagmar’s hands, with delectation, I betted, then, she would soon her feet, too; there was not only one episode ahead in which they would relish in one another.

It would be an electric whale of a deep blue monospace, secretive and silent. Hector sat upfront but reclined towards us, he had been awestruck at the sight of Fayelle, who wore a flecked, night blue, sleeveless, fluid short dress under a fitted short jacket of the same fabric lined with a brighter royal blue. The manly stare meant he had not yet shagged that one and it would soon happen, be sure. She had all her wits, too, Kate slid her hand on her quiet heart and embraced her backwards so he could ogle her pale crotch, are we not sluts? We had been summoned for that, and Hector was an elegant shag, in all respect — and so was his driver, too, the same white smile black hunk as before the helicopter night, eyes riveted to the road.
There were three rows of seats, Fayelle and I had jumped on the second, while Kate and Dagmar were making out on the third; on my right, Fayelle sat just behind eager Hector, so when she gave him her foot, she leaned back on my shoulder and parted her legs, et voilà. So he knew it would go smooth and easy. He winked at me.
We drove through the nightly forest, the headlights pouring phosphenes into our idle souls. Then, I recognised the high walls running to the grand portal with the two lanterns that lit up at our approach. It was the estate where we had found Delffan at this bedevilled party, so it presumably belonged to Louis, too.
The car went walking slow, we crossed red-eyed animals. The massive house was dark, except for a few faint glimmers; but the car went by, following the alley to some draped gazebo, unfailingly overlooking a pond, in a Japanese landscape, like the Queen’s music pavilion. Two torchbearers waited, in Venetian oriental phantasmal outfits, to usher us to the steps leading up to the seemingly deserted folly. Well-known music to our ears, then, whirled up through the forest rumour, I touched Kate’s arm, it would be none other than Malo’s, here, together again with us. She had gone digital, had perverted her instrument’s voice with loops, filters, and echoes, she had summoned a wider sphere; she stood on a sideways little stage, still pale, slender and nude, in a golden brown cocoon of light, had she seen us with our girls?
Louis and Hugo were reclining upon rich brocade divans, in all appearance that they had ingested or smoked some eye-brightening substances, they wore open striped kaftans, loose black silk shirts and wide pants gathered at the ankle, like carnival nabobs. Going to kiss them, I reacted our best hetaera costumes should be none at all, beyond Carnival, and as I dropped mine, so did the others. I knew Kate would regret letting me hand my dedicated pupil, but then Dagmar and I crouched near Louis’ side, while she cuddled her dainty little trull for Hugo’s. It was the game that all of us would be handled and shagged at random, anyhow.
At this moment, our hosts were laid back in a contemplative attitude, as often they wouldn’t inaugurate the dance themselves. Four sun-baked complexion extras, bearing plates of finger food, climbed up from sunken stairs behind the set of three divans and rested them on low side tables, then stood at order, hands crossed in their backs, bare-chested, deliberately ogling each of us; like repertoire staples, it was a matter of punctuation and their ample trousers, held up by a scarf, let none of the arguments concealed.
Any of them black-eyed would fit. From unaffectedly spun, mostly on one string only, the musical motive took flesh and an asymmetrical pace, affretando, faster. It had the effect of pushing one by one our dancers barefoot upon the red background rug, gracefully swirling out the coloured scarf that held their pants, and boast their peen in large strides before running after the one they wished. My inner lust bet was on Dagmar first, and I won. Her cavalier was savvy enough to make her move at his grip like a trained partner and capsized her on one of his knees, her head released back down. Close by, the next dancer had leapt up and shown us his noticeable pride shaft, his want went for Kate, and I felt the pinch, I would be last.
But on both sides of the already going lewd commerce, as they must have been directed to let the girls stir with one another, first, sprung the remaining two wingmen truly not wanting in size and animus, the one who picked my fingers and smiled in my eyes was a sinewy athlete with a straight long stem upon a tight pair of balls; he smelled of lotus and loukoum, Alexandria, Tangiers and Saïgon, the carnal wanderings of bygone colonisations; his feet were so imperious; in a blink, he was in me, deep.

As it occurred, the four were part of a dance troupe, from Amsterdam, more or less sponsored by our own protectors, to what extent I did not care to know. For our first ever encounter, at that minute, Shiye was wringing my spine with one hand around my neck, for a long gluttony kiss, while he ensconced his sturdy prick in my arse to the hilt, and I moaned like an animal; and none of my sisters went the quieter. I hurled my climax at the stars a few times, he wasn’t coming, even, he slid out and squarely passed me on to his pal, letting me know, in broken French, that I was a good slut.
Armudin had been at Dagmar’s blossoming vales, as beastly as the torments went in my own, and she was panting. Louis, with a serene smile, sat up as a casual Buddah and embraced her while the new Shiva danced in her booty hole.
Casual courtesy of the technology, Malo was with us now, simply holding, then resting, a coloured-touches pad, and the music flowed on seamlessly. She came on to me, hugging, complimenting my being buggered with grace, she smelled of vanilla, clove and gold, I asked her to offer me her quim to quench my want. Her complexion was not the pallid-waxy bleak result of night-living, not only, anyway; she wouldn’t weather nicely, so she avoided it —and took her vitamin D as a supplement. out of a small black velvet purse, she fetched a shiny grey metal ball, the size of a plum, that looked like a Ben Wa but she lifted a finger to mean wait. Actually, the ball went into her arse, there was a thin silvery thread attached; then she seized her launchpad to hit one key. The music whirled a bit and seemed to harmonise another trail, unruffled. Malo, in a warm black stare, explained that from now on, she was actually making music with her vagina and arse, only it wouldn’t come out so demonstrative, thus she reserved the secret for her privy audiences. And now that she participated with us in a Tandavan dance, of lascivious sorts, other loudspeakers woke around the Mughalian-style tent, at the signal of her electronics, and thus, her twinkle. We could feel such a long whisper from the crescent moon when a lusty avatar of the Monkey King sheathed in her all-so musical slit, from affettuoso to con fuocco of his modulating bow.
Like a most complacent teddy bear stolen by a pair of playful otters, Fayelle had been unfurled into oblivion by her dancing knights, Kate was in aparté smiling with Hugo. A bald fair-skinned youngling brought a tray of pearly treats and little golden cups of multicoloured opium pills, the recipe of John Bell’s pharmacy, 1847 —none of the frostily potent modern alkaloids, which perform like ethanol dragsters compared to a country ride aboard a Silver-Wraith.
Dagmar had crept back against my happy belly and Malo relished her candour. She punched her pad, slid off her harmonic Ben Wa, washed it off in honey and proposed the play to my long languorous nymph, whom I knew, given the mood of the party, could not refuse to welcome the iridescent ball into her wet cooch. At the next hit on the pad, there was a meandering reshuffle of —I supposed— the chords and harmonic modes the blond bearer said she felt through her womb, so much so that she waved at good Hector, nearby, for another turbulent round.
As well as Kate, I had long been accustomed to these opium pills we usually popped in Hugo’s grand ceremonial beds, but never to the tilt of a hard addiction, we all had better use of our nerves. These were sorts of voluptuous narcotics that could mix with other mind-expanding specialities, once we had made sure, my Fairy Queen and I, that no one would —except for Natalia, always, it is sin to lock the house cat outside, says who?— dare bother us at our door.
Ultimate refinement, the subaquatic illuminations of the basin before the folly intensified insensibly, to the point when Dagmar pulled her bugger to swim after her, and the team dancers called us in. The music had phased weirdly, like the dream of a whale song, with sudden shifts. Malo laughed a high-perched giggle, she was pointing at the bottom of the pool, a colourful dark metal ball rested on the shimmering mosaic.

 

Kate says:

I recalled our naiad offering, weightless Bubacco style grand shag in the shimmering lights, Malo in random mode, Fayelle and Dagmar maddened of sensations, and then everyone dozing out under the singing stars. We had been carefully transferred to our safe abode, four lightheaded nymphs ready for a long flight aboard the Seven Streams Dragon on the next day.
I had half-seen Natalia not seeking any consent to abuse the lust-smelling body of Dagmar, ever so kindly, I needed to pee, and drink all the brooks in the Darjeeling gardens, I felt too dizzy to eat anything, I woke up Sarah, she was only trying not to.
The message had said to bring lighter bags, mostly intimate toiletries, strong UV protection —Mustique rests on 13° North, the sun there is voracious— and the lightest of our wardrobes, if ever we intended to conceal any patch of skin, or engage in society minglings, after bedazzling the mighties on Macaroni beach.
Later, I went down alone to Hugo’s and found him in bed with Malo, who gave me her bright eyes. I wanted to thank him and ask for skincare on tropical sands, he told me all the most not to use our perfumes and began to think. Malo had terrible remembrances of her stay in Saint Lucie that had turned into a binge of Biafine in less than an hour, she advised to live at night. Hugo gave me some all-in-one cream that smelled of honeysuckle and a go-to-bed one with a scent of incensed Neroli he played to show I could use it anywhere I wished to smell good, it was even edible, Malo tried it on me.
When I brought the goods upstairs, Dagmar still slept after Natalia’s confidences, Sarah and Fayelle were in the studio upstairs, said a post-it on my cup. I was lacking Dagmar, she had been Sarah’s pet, there was some amber sheen on her skin that maddened me, carnally. I lifted the sheet, the night-tee, and I began to roam upon.
It wouldn’t have been like so if we had had to board a regular flight; there would be a car and all connections ensuing, I could almost ignore the time, although it was early morning. Meanwhile, Sarah, who had been talking at length with my failed sister-in-law, came down and was earnestly pleased to find Dagmar and me nude on the couch, watching a photography book of Jock Sturges’.
The two young kittens tried on the enchanter’s remedies, most laughingly in their bootyholes, while I ordered diverse custard pies, salted and sweet. I let Fayelle risk her toes to my pussy lips, bare on the chair’s wood, the treat was all in the gesture’s indecency, while Dagmar, still outspent, reclined from her chair upon Sarah’s pubis, and purred.
Then, mixed up amongst our pillows, we surfed Youtube for documentaries about Mustique, and there were. I thought I might have fancied Lord Glenconner, but most of the Queen’s sister’s courtiers, her husband aside, looked like puffed boozers.

Another long berline was, with utter arrogance, double-parked, but we hurried, visibly, and there was no extra luggage. The sidewalks were still fenced out for the extension workings, and the planks were regularly re-painted white.
Streets were packed as a weekday, but we all smelled like a swarm of bees in a honeysuckle bush, so much the better for the men in black on the front seats, the kind that did not look back, but were utterly efficient while we reached the door of the departure lounge.
Dagmar and Fayelle’s passports were new, that of Dagmar’s caught an officer’s attention with whatever detail we had been warned for, he scanned it like the others, but he typed on his keyboard a few times, handing it back with a smile, soon. Our flight was headed to Saint-Vincent, far away from the Schengen zone, but the plane flew under its owner’s name, nothing shady. They wished us a happy vacation.
Unsurprisingly, there were three other passengers, hunky, casual invites of Melchiors, and Sarah laughed on my shoulder, remembering our flight to New York with a slick couple of agents who had furthermore taken us to the Carlyle. Would I tell The maidens they were going to be recorded?
The cabin smelled as good as us, and plus, I have a taste for kerosene. As it fell, the Captain was Danish, young, and square-jawed. I saw Kettelær woo him and I really wondered if she would dare, and where? Fayelle was wired like an eight-year-old; all the more after the other night under the stars, she needed me to confirm the reality of what she was living. She was wearing a short, wavy-knit, misty-rainbow, jersey shirt dress that I remembered having unbuttoned on Sarah, as I told her, opening it one button lower. She has perfectly round breasts, the kind you may see on old photos of Linda Ronstadt —Cynthia and her father adored the singer, in the days on Amrum.
The attendant too was Danish —I loved to hear my girl speak thus, albeit I couldn’t even catch a separate word in her sound— dark blond, with a wealth of freckles and a candid smile; again, I wondered if Sarah would dare, the attendant had some sort of separate alcove, it might be fun.

The three stooges kept wide eyes beyond politeness, they sure had been briefed some about us, now they acted like college kids before the cast of Pretty Little Liars. Reading my stare, one undid his tie and rolled it in his pocket, the other two followed; there was a leader.
Sarah, who had been speaking weird, reached out and asked which language they preferred, they were French, agents for one of Melchior’s online security enterprises I did not encode the name of. Only one of them spoke German when he heard Dagmar speak, and that earned him a token smile. We had, at first, to remain seated and the game of musical chairs —we were seated by four around the unfolded table, they sat in separate armchairs; and there was a proper bed, at the rear— would be played during the cruise course, unavoidably.
Sarah wore a 1970 minidress in stiff piquet cotton, sapphire blue with white grosgrain trimmings, white tights of which they did not yet know had no crotch, and white patent flat ballerines, as if, altogether, she were Françoise Hardy’s hidden daughter.
Dagmar was floating in a vintage, ironed, white poplin shirt with pleats on the unbuttoned dickey, so she showed randomly her brown nipples; her cuffed white shorts let be seen her perfect long thighs, as she had soon kicked off her sneakers and was seated on one of her feet, legs opened.
As in a car, our armrest would pull up and let Fayelle lay upon me. After we were served the right vintage of tea, we dozed out, somewhat. When the captain spoke out to give us news of the winds, he went on, oddly, in his vernacular, and it took me five seconds to see that he was talking to Sarah, who let a while pass before she went forward to the cockpit, and remained in there for more than an hour. Fayelle slept, for good, uncovered to the bum, her nose in my crotch.
Believing to his advantage, the German-speaking agent, after some brief small-talk, slid up next to Dagmar who did not shut the angle of her so tempting thighs —and she knew that. He had dropped his jacket and tie, and he soon casually stroked the foot that rested near him. As a savvy courtesan, she responded, as if nothing went, with slight twists of her toes that brought her foot upon the man’s fly. I was all aroused, I relished watching her be done, I steered the light conversation towards what they had been missioned for, and if they knew of a couple named Bloom and Bramwell? He caved gently, not saying a thing but reached out and told us his name was Jonas, then his hand slid up to Dagmar’s shorts cuff and she tipped insensibly forward. I mumbled it would be a smooth flight, and gave her my kindest smile.

 

Sarah says:

Captain Sünd and copilot Tardin spoke with a slight Western Danish accent, from what they said themselves, hearing my Copenhagen-New-York melt. They made me rest on the third seat behind the copilot and the Captain started to leer at me like someone had given him permission, but they were both slick and gallant, they smelled expensive cologne and did not shun my eyes.
As I was impressed by the high finish of all the technology they seemed to master full well, I allowed myself to play my little game, at the risk of killing us all, I let my already short dress hike up and show the Captain my bare pussy, casually, checking in his eyes that it was what he had wished for.
He certainly knew full well that nothing of what I was making him long for could happen in the cockpit, except maybe fellatio if he would stand up before where I was seated; then I was thoroughly quieted that he was another wise great Dane I knew.
He asked if we were heading to Mustique? He had never been, that jet was too big for the toy island’s strip, and we would have to switch planes on Saint Vincent, for a lesser propeller machine. He added there would be a lounge at the stopover where we could meet if I wished, that was in six hours’ time.
Back in the cabin, there was a relaxed gent in my seat, readily handling Dagmar’s legs and feet as she retold him our nightly pool party. I joined the other two in a single chair, making conversation in a way that made them quit their ties, too, and roll up their sleeves. Vilma had retired to her bunk.
As before, Melchior had not granted a pass to decoy birds, thus, after thin introductions, I behaved like a soft-spoken, brazen slapper, showing ever more of my goods, legs over armrests. One of them was a well-built, witty, angel-faced thirty-something named Finn. I asked him if he had any nordic connection, he said his mother was a Swede, but he did not speak the language. As I playfully unrolled my genealogies, he affected to stand up near my chair, so then it was game to make him feel there was space for him to sit between my parted legs, and kiss me a coffee-tasting one.
We made out in the searing light, my hand slid in his briefs, he sported one of these straight long shafts I crave. I told him to repack and I pulled him to the bed where everyone would ogle us on the way to the toilets, but where at least we could shag. My simple dress was designed to be lifted fast, I kept my open tights, he stripped of everything, he had wonderfully groomed feet; in a whim upwards, I sucked him to completion and kept pumping till it hurt.
He was enthralled with my eyes, he plucked at my raspberry tits to make me whine high. I knew Kate would need to pee, anyhow, and on the way back, she sat with us matter-of-factly, all nude, and held my catch’s pride with respect.
She pushed me down and kissed me deep as Finn was sheathing his long blade to the hilt in an inexorable move that made me quiver. As things went that morning, through the cascade of collapses I revelled in, I had glimmerings that Kate was also being fucked from behind by the third squire in need.
The continuous blare of the engines felt like the open wide acclaim of my soul. Finn hurled his gold at my blessed entrails and, like most men, crashed without flames in my neck for a blank fallout. As he was a well-bred partner, he did not weigh upon me, and, once our breaths regained, while the other two reached the acme of their crisis, he bore me to the small shower booth we couldn’t share.

When I walked out, Kate was spread in bliss, her suitor still brandishing a stout shaft glazed with cum, I wondered if there would be a twofold spend, and ran into happy Dagmar to whom I showed the toilet.
Fayelle still slept, showing us her bum and I understood someone had pulled her knickers away in her sleep, I did not resist sliding a hand. The lucky travellers served me compliments on our team that I accepted, retorting they were beautifully impatient and I wished we tried again later. At their wish, I pulled off my tights, Finn had a foot fetish, and I welcomed him.
I had no worries about being toyed around by Melchior, but since I was one who had, so to speak, nursed one of his new assets in the code realm, I needed to be framed our game a little sharper. All of our luminaries knew all about our nifty trades, but it would fit me more to know squarer about.
The three were part of a team of crack auditors, loaded with diplomas and more, they had been recruited from college on those chats where Michelle was, stealthily, the undisputed Queen, to work as the Boss’ janissaries about the businesses that related to his own, close or afar. Thus, although still greenhorns, they had the impeccable mental categories that allowed them to give me the gossip I wanted, even knowing their boss was peeping at us all in all our current carousings. They had been given guarantees, in their judicial terms, that they could allow themselves all we, girls, would care to let happen, during the length of the flight, and the stay at Mustique. They had effectively understood we wished for full-fledged carnal expense, like free high-flyers sluts, under their stealthy Boss’ eyes.
I had brewed more tea and coffee, the flight attendant was nowhere to be seen, for all I knew she might have been somewhere in Denmark, good for her —did the crew see what we behaved like? Fayelle was in shy mode, she might recover her attitude if I undressed her. The silk flowed down her shoulders and it wasn’t three lustful men ogling her that would unsettle her —that, she knew full well— but the whole outlandish journey, after the pussy concert in the wild, of the likes she had never known of before, a reality beyond the exceptional; and there we sat, smelling of sex like a garden in the rain, nude as gods smiling at her. I played cuddle for a delicious while, then, when she let her thighs part, Finn, on his side, slid a hand to her noonie and necked for a kiss, all gently.
Dagmar had nested herself on my bosom, in reach of the third playboy, trying to tame us as a four-legged chimaera, with some sweet avail. Luke Sonchain was a lean, rangy doe-eyed boy with Renaissance appeal, he could have sat in some primrose garden for Nicholas Hilliard and nevertheless crave our slender legs and our slinky muffs he babbled with, in turns.
While licking in Dagmar’s ears, I held her knees back, so as the not-so-spindly tenderfoot would bugger her, with grace and resolve. I felt her reel and sway upon me as he gained pace towards pleasure, and so I wanked like a good comrade. She moans smoothly, she comes easy, she’s a gem of a pleasure Lady.

Once the flesh was elapsed, spent, devoid, remained the tenderness in the companionship of the suave-smelling elite, the prospect of some exceptional parenthesis that I knew was entirely begotten by the look of Dagmar, who had, be that as it may, lived all her eerie life between the fangs of dragons.
Like all of us, I felt the pang of the heat immediately on the gangway down to the tarmac of Argyle International Airport. Captain Sünd had not forgotten me. I heard witty comments on our flight that led me to think there had been some visuals in the cockpit, too, and why Vilma did not come back, gesundheit, then!
But Sünd went on explaining we would soon fly on a twin-engine turbo-propeller aircraft to Mustique, himself had to mark a two-hour stop on his way to Miami. There were a homey VIP lounge and private rooms for crews in transit, and then the invite was all clear, in Danish, to follow him for a while. That made me feel like a sailor’s whore, and I felt a tickle in my lower spine, I had shagged all along the trip and I felt willing for another go, I told Kate to wait for me.
There were a dozen of doors in the all varnished wood first-floor corridor, Sünd tried a few before one opened on a small room with a one-person bed. After he had stowed his black leather gravitas on a shelf, he was suddenly all over me, pulling my dress overhead, I had not put the tights back in place. He licked all he could, I asked him if he had seen us do, he said they had watched some of what went on in the first salon, which explained his tense erection. His dick curved upwards, he did not give me time to suck it, in the small space, it was easier to push me on all fours on the bed and stump on the bottom of my vagina like a maddened piston, for what little minutes it took to bring him to gush in me, in a one-sided frenzy.
It had not been only enough to make me wish for more, with my better wise smile, I went to the shower, rinsed his spittle and slid on my dress and shoes, I had been less than a whore, in Danish.
Kate smelled me, looked me in the eye and half-joked that had been a quickie, I had to agree I was vexed and I had not even had time to come, I seized her by her waist and kissed her a long desperate one; until a white-uniformed steward came to tell us the plane we waited was landing.
The Falcon was still being refilled as we took off in what, now, felt like an amusement contraption, it took only the time to be cuddled by Kate and Dagmar, our three squires felt suddenly all gallant to me.
After a skilled crosswind landing, the world quieted and two electric buggies conveyed us to a villa in a shady park. Luke had embraced my shoulders and I cuddled my head into his neck; It felt I might have better tell everyone I had been botch-bonked by a boor after such a cat’s pyjamas party.

Mi-plisi (Me-Pleesy) —My pleasure, in French creole— is a typical pastiche two-story planter’s house with a running colonnade on its four sides, providing the much necessary shadow. The huge roof is clad with elegant solar tiles you need a double look to tell. The rear facade oversees an infinity pool as wide as it, and the ocean, beyond a strip of the jungle. Two wings side the entrance yard.
Indian-looking young men, impeccably dressed in white cotton kameez, greeted us and began to carry our bags inside a hall panelled of precious woods surrounded by another row of polished wood columns. Many mismatched colonial mahogany armchairs and sofas offered fresh cushions printed Indienne style, in a variety of patterns against a vermilion background.
An alignment of slow ceiling fans pulsed more air through the devised drafts, making one wish to undress into the flows, which we dared not as of yet.
To the laughter of everybody, I had not heard Melchior sneaking from behind me when he gently grazed my bare bum, and he kept me at his side, even when he addressed Dagmar in Heidelberg German, to join, under his other wing. He said there were six worthy guest rooms in the outhouses, but he figured we would navigate between them, as we pleased. He was sporting some Egyptian dull-blue gown, he went barefoot and recommended we do as well. Dagmar and I were soon both in the raw, he pressed us together in a welcome embrace.
Not long after, most of us had undressed haphazardly in the elegant bedrooms, the wolfpack knowing they would again get a bite of every lamb in the herd.
As Melchior would guess, we leered at the glimmering water of the pool, he did some tst! tst! noise and showed us a Chinese side table crowded with skincare bottles and tubes, insisting that on our Parisian hides, the sun would burn through in minutes, even our hands; so we pleasured each other while Melchior had chosen all-pale Fayelle as an excuse to grope her thoroughly, not at her dislike. He concluded that all our good work would have to be redone after the bath. He concluded by saying he did not wish to see us baked and sore, unfit for pleasure.
The violence of the transition was indeed dire, and we did not simmer long in the fresh, untainted with chlorine, water. We continued massaging our glorious bodies with the unknown arousing scents, possibly laced with mind-expanding chemicals, at the rich man’s request. As the daylight faded fast, we shared seriously spicy fried pouches stuffed with some fruit gombo, along with fresh pineapple juice, our bachelors had some browned-off little sausages and curried chicken, and some had beer or wine.
Probably because of the smells, three grand white macaws flew in with a great racket, prancing towards the plates. In some funny patois, Melchior asked one of the waiters to set a plate for the birds at the far end of the table, and they obviously considered it an accrued right.
By then, Melchior had laid a princely hand on both Dagmar and Fayelle and invited them both upstairs. I fantasised he would mostly watch them scissoring together, and gently fall asleep, perhaps with a revived dick in one of them’s arse.
I eagerly needed some righteous shag, to alleviate the shame another one of my natives had thrust on me, so many years later —Is there some wrong with the Danes? Finn had kept flurry-print shorts, but now it roundly bulged, I slid in my hand I had rinsed in the rosewater in small silver cups and held up a fully awake rod —which arose some interest in the taller of the macaws.
Eventually, we all decided to go play in one of the grand poster beds with generous white netting. To start with, I took Finn’s prick into my still vexed honeypot and I soon felt the gentle flows greet the righteous cavalier, who looked at me like Humphrey Lauren and that made me climax like the Southern Cross.

Later, Kate and I lazed in an ample chaise longue, in a whimsical draft that rendered this whole fantasyland liveable. After all that our bachelors —even— had spent upon our bodies until exhaustion, there was a sense of exhilaration at letting them swarm at our feet. And, in the misty veilings of the poster bed, we had witnessed some unleashed behaviour with one another, just as we had constantly given them a sight of, ourselves. now they felt all the more entitled to carnal liberties with us, like companions in the close circle. In that regard, it had been borne out that everyone carried a black card in Melchior’s realm.
Our special nymphets dawdled by, arm in arm, not fully willing to retell their own night, but they came to sit at our feet.
They both sported new jewellery, Dagmar a choker with nail-sized aquamarines, for Fayelle, bean-sized topazes, no joke. Jolly price of depravity, as it were. Dipping fresh rolls in her tea, Dagmar began retelling, matter-of-factly, attested by Fayelle’s nodding, their submissive debauchery.
At first, the Master had groped and explored a lot, giving enemas in their bumholes himself, rubbing some forgetful unguent from their toes to their ears, as they cuddled each other. Then he called three of his Indian lackeys and, in their language, ordered them to play with them, right there on his bed, while he would caress their faces. Fayelle had been first, legs high-up to let the way for a dark, manly, depilated rod into her obedient arse. The other two, whose yellow silk sarongs had flown off, presented themselves close-up so as the boss gulped one, momentarily, while the other reached the cosiness of Dagmar’s behind as she grabbed up one of her legs, and bent down to kiss Fayelle’s curvy mouth.
In a whirlwind of silk and smooth stuffings, they had felt all alleviated while disposed to the slow-mannered shag, for the relish of half-seated Melchior, who eventually told them to suck his raising dick and lap away all of his semen. He had then weirdly asked to taste their mouths, the humping still churning in their wombs, and then on long after the master dozed out.
They had woken amidst the soiled silks, appeased, wearing the necklaces and half-holding their prestigious boxes. Other Indians looked out for their waking and brought them to a scented bath nearby; they massaged them in the water, their willies now rested, as they sat on the marble ledge, and they virginally fondled all the two girl’s creases and joints upon the massage table, and they knew they could use them for whatever more.
The noble macaws seemed to have been trained not to shit randomly, but they demanded the plate of pastries before our girls had finished with them, one of the servants ran up with a large fan and shooed them off. He wore his daytime fitted kameez, but now I fancied what narrow, rounded bum he could offer. I promised myself to have a taste before the end of our stay.
Jonas had taken a liking for topaz and while holding Fayelle by her nape, showed already a serious erection; they moved to the other side of the gallery where stood a larger daybed, so we could watch them carouse before the urge seize ourselves, having reckoned that we had no modesty to keep towards the Indians.

Albeit we would use a coefficient fifty waterproof sunblock, we had been strongly advised —they spoke English, too— not to dip in the pool between nine and five, on pain of spending the rest of our time in bandages, and cry.
The macaws —I wouldn’t know how many they were— had understood we weren’t game and the pastries had been hidden, so they kept to themselves, with a lot of cackles.
Now the sun blazed violently, but in our cosy path of drafts, Dagmar asleep upon my shoulder, there grew a fantasy of being mere animals in the frank appraisal of the white-clad minders. Available expensive beasts of desire. Not wearing shades, I stared at the nearest Indian and made my smile unmistakable while stretching. Affecting imperviousness, he made a small gesture of the hand, down, that meant, along with his responding stare, to follow him inside, and I nodded.
Kate was in the grand hall, eagerly grappling with Luke and Jonas, on a red deep sofa. It was easy to sneak around, behind the rows of polished wood columns, to the door where I saw my mate waiting.
A tall cry meant that Kate had just been rammed in at the core of her want, it hurried me tiptoeing like a Beardsley virgin.
The room smelled of the rich woods it was made of, my chosen one smelled of bay rum and sweet spices, Like in the whole house —which was not air-conditioned— the divided panes of the windows let the air flow through and puff up the mosquito nettings over the bed poles. We seized each other, I disrobed him without quitting his lips and pushed him onto the bed. His dark, hairless piece of pride was all jolty for attention, I let my mouth meander down to engulf it to the throat. It was a sleek, straight, conveniently sized, uncircumcised pecker that I made maliciously attain its acme in long spittles that  I gulped whole.
He was endlessly caring, fetching a glass of fresh water so I could clear my throat, then wrestling with my tongue like one of my new box trees elves. He had known where to find some KY, perhaps because using it was his preferred manner, I showed him I granted him all kindly access when he began to slide fingers into my paths, mostly the sneaky one.
I eagle-spread like a savvy slut so I could wire my brains into his amber gaze while he buggered me like a Princess, and I could constrict and ease alternately my arse like a medusa, at his pace.
My initial move having been fruitful, now he was taking time to give me rounds of exaltation on top of one another until he would frantically release another grand salvo. He fell sobbing upon my breast, overjoyed and breathless, and soon he bustled on my snaffleberries so skilfully he made me arch in bliss.
He led me to the bathroom of polished hardwood and, as he turned away to pee in the copper toilet bowl, I showed him to pee on me in the shower as I peed on his feet; his laugh was all candour, he washed me with large sponges, then he showed me the cannula affixed to a rubber tube for giving me an enema, and so he filled my bowels with hot water and let me lose all, with great gargles.
We had been told not to use perfumes on our skin because of the sun, but all the luxury toiletries made generously available smelled beautiful. Vivaan, for I had come to ask for the name, massaged me all with a heavenly moisturiser, I came again when he played with my toe joints, which made him proudly laugh.

Thenceforth I had let bloom the flower of my soul in the tepid waters of my brains —like these little balls of Chinese tea that release a crimson chrysanthemum in your cup— so as I lured the flock of white macaws amidst the green steeples of Rosenborg, at the great rancour of the scarlet crows which now cuddled together under the sundry cornices, spying on my eyes.
As the gentle whips of white feathers sent me twirling up in the Copenhagen clouds, I became aware of a warm angel leaning against my back, humming that weird ancient German song she had never been able to tell how she learned it, nor what it meant, otherwise that it was related to sexual bliss.
Dagmar whispered that she wished I went with her in Melchior’s bed that night because he had understood that in all innocence I owned her, to the best of her fortune, as an outcome of Louis’ ordering Hector to free her, and he had such intentions to entrust me with.
Still flying around my inner heartland towers until I would only move a little finger, I soughed I would go with her, and rubbed my bum cheeks upon her belly.

 

Kate says:

Fayelle was having so much fun with all her heart. I had observed where the handsome servants came in from, and I felt wanderlust. Limestone stairs led calmly down to some fresher quarters, vaulted rooms that could have given the impression of being older than the current Cecil Beatonesque colonisation of the island.
Nobody was in the grand kitchen, yet I found large pitchers of fruity lemonade, just as I needed. Then I heard the sound of male voices from afar. Enjoying the cooler air upon my raw skin, I pursued along a bare stone corridor to the thread of light that sprung from the gape of an ajar door and I peeped.
Four hunky men in black outfits, tee-shirts, silky trousers and shiny town shoes, sat around a large table and played cards. A minute later, the door burst wide open and a fifth cohort seized my throat, almost lifting me, drew me in and kicked the door shut. They all moaned of contentment, laying me down in the midst of the card play mat.
They grasped I was not defending myself; in broken English, they inquired if I would be one of the Boss’ darling sluts, so I nodded; they had hands all over me, and one who sounded like the alpha ordered them not to overpass my letting, slowly, just as he was fingering my cunt, to find it wet.
My slutty decision was made, my legs were wide open, more so when I recognised some tattoos on their bared chests, everything was in good order, I could recall each of them in many orgies we had stranded ourselves into, which was in no manner surprising, we were game.
It would be more of the carnal dizziness I had vowed myself in, during my friendship years with Victor —that splendid alpha who, some certain regrettable once, had afforded himself the ugly stain of a true rape attempt, hence losing our trust, probably forever. Beryl, once that irresistible and forbidden young treat who slid in my morning sheets at Victor’s realm, was ashamed, now, and dared seldom sleep in Natalia’s bed any longer, her so-beloved soul-sister that she had, in her small apartment atop of ours, nurtured into the classiest whorishness —Beryl is the devilish daughter of Victor’s all-time caretaker, Natalia the house-genie daughter of Hugo’s caretaker Lena, who may open all the doors in the house, and in particular ours.
The poker lamp, as typically centred on the game’s blue baize, was on me, then, and the players’ shadows danced on the vault as they took hold of my indolent head to fuck my mouth in turns, and then shag my holy slit deeper and deeper, and my bumhole. Melchior’s main man, who spurred the other four hunks, insisted that they churn my flesh for my own pleasure because I would then grant it onto their boss, who relished the knowledge of his mistresses’ pleasures.
Accordingly, they offered me a couple of hours of elation, each of them reaching a thorough bliss of my body more than once, manly gazing at the stoutest of them all drill slowly to the hilt in my lesser hole, ease me wide and blurt off his load inside.
They must have had some training, as a team of artists, and I outdid their prowesses with the help of my hand, giving them each time the jolts of my climaxes. At the pride of their chief, they exclaimed crude comments and manly insults I took as tokens of admiration. At the edge of their breath, seeing that I could have ridden another team of their kind, they carried me to a nearby shower room, the same bare stone with a cascade in its midst, and we all shared attentive foamy fingers and more kisses. I even was availed a spurting nozzle in my arse, wondering what it was doing in a men’s room.
When they had donned their black outfits again, I still stood entirely nude and their captain held my hand up to his imperious mouth but in a soft tone asked if they had succeeded in pleasing me, at what I agreed to flatter their pride by asking if they had enjoyed me enough as an easy slut. I added there might be more congresses of the sort, in the venues they knew even better than us.

The narrow deep sapphire band at the end of the sea was turning black, Fayelle swam like a nymph chased by the tritons trio, I dived, unannounced, all my joints still springy, and I needed to grope some girl’s body. Holding her like a lifesaver, I boasted of what I had just done, and it aroused everyone, as I felt fins and whatnots rummage in my candid crack.
Half a dozen macaws seemed to find our shenanigans funny and did funny aerobatics over the pool, returning to a railing on the second floor.
Then, It happened everyone was hungry, and spicy scents had been laid under some fan. As we gathered Roman-style around an array of mismatched antique silver plates loaded with warm bites, I revealed the existence of the foreseeable subterranean world of our safety minders. Fayelle was at once aroused, I could predict she would very soon risk herself in the dark corridor. She was lean and dainty, her pussy bulged at her lower belly, she had been shagging all day with the Musketeers.
They said that Sarah and Dagmar had been invited upstairs and had run at attention. I proposed a stroll in what looked like a park. One of the Indians said he would turn on the lights, and discreet mushroom lamps to let us know what we walked upon.
An army of gardeners, certainly not the kind that had made my bum feel so itchy then, had chiselled all kinds of plants and trees, well beyond my knowledge. We passed a Gardenia in bloom and that gave Luke an instant desire such as I had to hold his stiff toy and promise he would be first, back to the house. Mumbling in my nape, he retorted that au contraire, the lush flowery scent, the long echoes of a distorted guitar somewhere afar, under the pulsing vault of stars, all made for the grandest of shags, and, holding me backwards, he was already forcing his way down my butt and vanquished my drooly cunt. My thighs parted, I had to concede at the sort of cosmic upheaval, my moans responded to by those of Fayelle, whom I grasped was being overthrown on the tight grass, nearby.
To make amend to Luke, I cleaned his bending penis with my mouth, as if I had not tasted enough of that earlier in the day, and so had he for my still smiling slit. The others had walked to a vine-covered gazebo, purple flowers as wide as a girl’s hand smelled of powdery sweet, the three others wallowing across the faded cotton cushions of a wicker sofa, doing what we had just done, and I snuck to Fayelles’ quim for a taste of her, only to feel there had been a frustrated someone who spat into my not so shy back hatch and succeeded in, with the help of some clear sperm and the gains of my afternoon training. Fayelle also went for my arse, like the adorable bitch she was.
There were two other sofas. In the scent of our own debauchery, we rested widespread to the stars; carried in the slow breeze, the riffs of the plaintive guitar hovered on the hills, lulling me out.

Had they been caring enough to lay Fayelle and me, intermixed, into the creases of the feather-light sheets? Her mouth tasted as pure as a first snow, there was a hint in the air, from the wide-opened door, of sweet crusty roast, like French toast that was, and it tickled our stomach. Indeed, Sarah most likely had converted the cook —by means of some sleazy trick— to confect her preferred morning starter. And nevertheless, the malicious cook had sent a platter in his own manner, with thin slices of pineapple, banana, carambola, and whatnot plus a dash of rum that made Sarah frown.
Dagmar had crystals of sugar stuck on her lips she let me lap. She smelled of fresh lust with a soupçon of angostura; I sat behind her, grazing her bum with my quim, sliding my legs under hers, crossed.
Seeing what, Fayelle plainly asked Sarah to grope her kindly, too, because she had insensibly felt deserted.
From the evening on, upon the grand cushions of the Great Khan, they had travelled in and out of consciousness, used in any possible way by shapely types with eager spindles at willing and avid mouths. Was it a new squad of multiple-security specialists, or had they rekindled their nerves since my visit to their locker room? In the high chamber, they had served them, one at a time, except Dagmar, who withstood a final three-parts assault without passing out; and enjoyed a complete toilet by Melchior’s own tongue.
I would be last to see the tropical upper sanctum, so they kept the surprise alive. I felt overjoyed the über-host wished to have Sarah with me, and I could imagine our two sirens heading down to the manly barracks as soon as we would have climbed up.

Our olympian potentate smelled of ambergris, pepper and iris —in any order— and I surmised that this unique scent had been devised by Hugo for him, no parfumier sells ambergris, today. Unlike what the girls had told, he reclined, in the opium dreamer pose, not on millefiori silks of labyrinthine patterns, but upon a vortex of silvery stripes in panic-stricken triangles, upon which he directed us in lewd allures. He kept his cool, but there were traits of mania in the way I saw him handle Sarah’s feet, legs, and loins, as he spoke.
He wished to entrust us with the future of our two little lost kittens, he would dislike having been using destitute victims. He approved of Louis’ decision to bind Dagmar to Sarah’s goodwill, and Fayelle to my own after my brother had given up. There would be material affluence about our Parisian lair to entwine two more souls, at our great relish.
We both concurred all the more that the move had already been engaged. Enticing us to let him watch our best moves, he reminded Sarah of his faithful friendship with Ayla and Esther, whom he would soon entertain somewhere on his maps.
Two Indians in saffron yellow sherwani brought footed trays of our preferred bites under little gilded domes, then went fetch two tall silver tea sets, one for each side of the grand pompous nave we were carousing upon. Then the two waiters stood still, arms on their backs. All the while, sexed-up by Melchior’s compliments, we had put on the most depraved show, expecting the silk of the boys’ vestment to raise, and so it did. Melchior feigned some compassion for the boys and implored that we went help, we did, candid as new does, uncover their already quivering dicks, a tad drooly, under the vestment, out of their trousers; it was time to sip the clear drops they were dripping at our avail.
The one I started sucking showed a very dark complexion and jet black eyes. He was young, I drained his gonads fast, letting him deep in my throat and pumping like a true alley girl, but I did not allow him to go limp, niggling the tip of his glans with my tongue. As I reclined facing Melchior one leg up, the boy slid himself along my back and found the proper wet slit to hump in. He had been somewhat tamed already, and he played andantino ostinato, very much in my chords, and again, up to my mumbling collapse, where Melchior seized my dishevelled head and licked my face, ordering the boy to go on.
Then it had been Sarah, whom her tall officiant pulled away to the bathroom and came back running only to get properly buggered, with long ascending moans until Melchior enjoyed his ready spear into her mouth at no mercy, and she managed to come a good once out of her entrails before he gushed into her so beloved porcelain mouth.
She and I kept our boy-toys along well beyond the crisis pause, it seemed to suit our alpha plus who was still twiddling with Sarah’s toes.

 

Sarah says:

As it had become my wont, I was washed up on the impalpable sands of dawn in a bed with Dagmar who was smiling at angels. I stood still, feeling the wavelets of the shore, like in holy times I had played drown at the Lake, to ensnare some naive mate to touching my body. Then the gossamer theatre in my eyelids would dissolve as fast as the vapour on a mirror, and I would nose into Dagmar’s neck to hear her baby breath.
As my whole puppet self purred of all its joints, cuddling avidly around my devoted prey of lust, it dawned on me that our door was closed, and it had not been before. Then a hollow of silence warned my awakening brain.
I dawdled, yawning, to the door, only to find quiet; in the hall, only one Indian answered as they had always done, eyeing down on me. The Master was gone, and so were most of the goons. An aeroplane would wait for us Ladies in the afternoon, all orderly. He went to fetch breakfast, I was too weary already to think of following him.
I roamed the rooms, found some unmade beds that smelled of manly sweat and soap, and lastly, Kate cuddled round on Fayelle.
Actually, nothing out of line, His Fucking Grace —in all due respect— acted in these stealthy manners, and what should we complain about? There probably was already a sybilline paragraph in our encrypted chat thread.
The four of us revelled in the aroma of roasted slices of soaked bread and fruit the cook had just made —and the dash of Angostura— the younglings not sorry to rejoin the merry plot. As we had been exchanging on our night’s affairs, we were still au naturel when two hunky black suits walked in at attention. Their eyes did not wander. In a matter of minutes, our bags were made, but had they even been unmade ever?
Two electric garden carts kept us in the shade of the high sun, we jumped in the aeroplane without our suitors, there might probably be more along the line.
At Argyle, we had to wait an hour or so for the Big White Hawk to fill up. The heat was solid on the chest, Fayelle agreed it was enough, already, Dagmar wouldn’t lose her heavenly stare, Kate clung to my shoulder. When Captain Sünd came up to salute, I did not respond in Danish, pinching Kate’s bum as she sneered under her hand. I did not give a macaw’s dropping if he grasped or not.
It would be the four of us to Paris; Vilma, in her impeccable white shirt and black high-waist dupion trousers, having had to watch us misbehave on the outbound flight breathed easier, reckoning lesser chances of sliding awry, now. Did she know? After our intense training course, I felt like gleaning astray. I was in a navy, knees-long, flared cotton ribbed jersey tank dress; I slid off my knickers. Kate had read my move. I was once more the devilish brat on the sex hunt. I knew Dagmar would doze quietly next to me, it was a game to give the lady —whom, by the way, could not be older than me— well-lit flashes of the dull green Laura Ashley gown, wanted more tales of our night.

Vilma remained in the galley, wiping the black lacquered counter for the third time, eyes down. I took my chances to chit-chat with her, as she would never shun me. As if such a fine aeroplane would sway in the least, I stood my pretty bare feet apart and felt almost nude as I asked her where they had been as if she could tell me —I had learned enough of her boss’ ways to figure she wouldn’t— but she did not drop the ball, then I knew I had the tip of a score.
I craved her, she smelled of pale jasmine, she did not wear a bra, her hands were slender and artless, she pushed me into the crew toilet, kissed me and, in Danish, asked me not to do her harm. She said she knew I had shagged the captain, who pretended to be her boyfriend; he could watch all that went on in the cabin, like Mr Melchior, she could lose a very rewarding job. Sobering up from my whim, I dived in her forthright pale Danish gaze and, grabbing her hands, promised to ask big daddy to shield her, in earnest.
Then I pranced around stupidly before the cupboards, asking her whatever about some biscuits and so she answered dumbly, like we played house, asking if we prefered English or French make?

Dagmar slept, now, and showed a yummy white cotton shorty from under a shirt of night-black bourrette, her legs ever so spectacular across the seats. Vilma came up with a baby-cashmere plaid and white socks to comfort my heavenly orphan girl. I was sitting at Kate’s and Fayelle’s knees, Kate looked me in the eye and asked me if I had “eaten a rake” with my cute compatriot; I bent to her ear and retold my merciful deed, given I had her coordinates. All of us treated her as a dear friend for the rest of the flight.
It was golden dawn when we landed, Dagmar was overjoyed with her socks and went to give Vilma a maidenly kiss she knew how to. Vilma told her she could keep them, she winked at me. She fetched black Chuck Taylors to wear them with the white socks on and so she looked like the it-girl. We baci baci a lot with my new flying protégée, but I shunned her brute who should have tested the wind, sluts can be vengeful.
Dagmar adored luxury cars, who won’t? This was the two-row carriage that sounded like a low organ pipe, not flinching the least, I whispered in Kate’s ear that we had also shagged the driver and the minder before, so she giggled, and then I embraced my pet’s legs in her new woolly socks.
Home was a big event; the extension was clean and dry, Gauthier had kept his word, and our lair had doubled. Kate called Hugo, who begged to see us readily; when she tried to excuse us on the lagging, he retorted he would cradle us himself, in brief, we could not avoid his invite, be it at ten in the morning. Eventually, in want of sound reason why he would not let us reacquaint ourselves in our own walls, he asked if he could walk up, and that was warmly greeted.
I brewed a family large pot of Darjeeling and set fire to the moka bomb for Fayelle —I fear these pressure-operated contraptions— though I concede they produce the finest Italian coffee.

Hugo was over-thrilled with Dagmar’s socks but finally slid them off to cherish her moist feet. He was intrigued to revisit our bodies, which smelled of some heavenly pastry, as pale as a week before. Hugging one and the next, he asked to see the new rooms with us, as if the two filles present were ours. He let us know that, of the same morning, TRÆVIX had acquired more squares on the checkerboard, on both sides of Michelle’s palace, thus adjoined to our game rooms. Gauthier was turning into a full-time architect, a hardy system engineer had been recruited at the top of the scale to follow Michelle’s instructions. On the other side of the Atlantic, SEVEN STREAMS was now renting two floors in the Western Electric, Camille owned the two top penthouses of the Morton street building, and a discreet scout was on the lookout for a new head office. At Natalia’s dismay, she had renounced her wishes for a gallery in New York —though not diverting the house fairy from her English studies— for the time being, the schedule of L’Etoile Amusée remained, and Natalia would soon be wise enough to act in it, she already owned the seductiveness.
Resting on a couch fondling Dagmar in abandon, trying to figure out what luxuries she needed in her room, he had to admit she was fast asleep, and we longed to do the same, our schedules would run in tatters, for a few days.
Hugo secured the promise of a full night with Dagmar, in his own lair, with heavenly fruit and all the Moroccan delights. Movingly, she queried permission from me, who hid a disarming tear in her baby neck. But still, our holy landlord showed an obvious sign of a frustrated want I felt was mine to alleviate. At a glance, I offered him the smile of my allegiance and bent towards his familiar dick I pumped like the superlative slut I was. He tasted my mouth till our kiss was one, and went to kindly finish his night.

As we had been waking up at the most catastrophic hour, just past midnight, all in our bed, Natalia lay between the two younger backs, and Dagmar had slipped her socks back on. I guessed Natalia had been whoring to some older patron of Liselotte’s, so she had time to tell it had been to the audiophile tune of Debussy’s and more; before she took her turn to dive, clutched to Dagmar’s back, with her irresistible smile.
At such an hour, remained only the arch-expensive delivery service of The Continental, but after all that we had been given for free —paid for in unlimited thrills— we should afford a few boxes of their nightly treats. We set the code vegan, with eggs and cheese, otherwise, they would only propose a fruit basket.
At one in the morning, they also delivered fresh seeded bread; and a harlequin of French toasts adorned with the confetti of candied fruit, cress nests sheltering eggs mayonnaise, creamed vegetable salads, olives and real kosher Gherkins. The tip in itself could have bought breakfast for a whole classroom.
I risked a text message to Fulgence, it was a win. Erik and he had only given up their day working on the decoration in the new building in the centre next door, where Cynthia’s foundation would settle.
Like old days, they both reeked of turpentine and black soap but they felt tough and fresh, I pulled Erik on the couch as he was, but he whined he was too hungry, now that he had seen our delicacies. He found it funny to be unclothed while eating, and his accomplice demanded the same treatment on Kate’s part.
Having heard the merrymaking while she would no longer dream alongside Natalia, Dagmar received admirative whistles when she came out in her white socks. She had known the pair of artists memorably before, she granted them a win-all smile, but I held Erick’s black rod. As she looked into the boxes, I could see her tendre little bum, and could only think she was beyond concurrence; but Erik, his mouth full of crunchy candied fruit, pushed me back sitting on the couch, his mean stiffness into my mouth, seizing my nape with both hands. I moaned, and that maddened him; as I tilted backwards, I felt hands on both my thighs, then the tip work of a tongue I recognised, I discharged like no mercy.
On the other bank of our lounge, some symmetrical play went, Fayelle was tonguing between the lusty cheeks of Fulgence’s bum, fiddling on Kate’s widely offered kitty. It was the sneaky licker who received the artist’s sceptre in her narrow arse, mooing on Kate’s bosom as she held her tight.
This side, I did not feel if he had tried elsewhere, but it was my butthole Erik drooled on to have his way in, Dagmar, legs parted over me, asked for a kindly munching.
The two overtime extras barked at their elapsing together, I felt the spits of his burning hose in my entrails and else the gentle flow of my tender pupil in my mouth at the same time. When she collapsed beside me, we robbed her socks, to lick her toes, again.

Under the mastery of Gauthier, the workings in deep of the new centrepiece of what remained our game stage and come to a first completion; Delffan’s spirits boiled in the wait to greet us at the multi-secure underground portal.
Since it had been decided that a complete slab of reinforced concrete be poured wall to wall in the caves, some excavation uncovered ancient foundations, offset on the nowadays map, of a thick, if not gigantic, tower, not mentioned in any document; as it was apparently a solid base for the upper constructions, otherwise resting on river alluvium in what wood piles had remained aligned, it had been deemed wiser to keep the tower and clean the emerging base; a side hatch gave sole access to a round-vaulted cellar where seven small-sized skeletons had lain; a sturdy corten grid had been sealed upon the mystery.
Now then, a granite-clad, including the ceiling, corridor, led from a room under our gym room to the garden of Michelle’s palace, functioning as a security airlock; at both ends, one’s face scan and grip of a sensor handle were registered. Delf, Annabelle, and Philippe had tried to fool the software by wearing wigs, hoods, glasses black or clear, holding the grip for each other, but nothing went, the machine seemed infallible. Only Michelle from her control room could register someone into the lock, and she asked us to undress —one of her childish foibles— before a replica of the doors, in her basement dungeon; whereby, we could then circulate at will through the two, and soon three, buildings.
Dagmar had been overjoyed to somewhat belong in a savant machine, and Delf had abused the situation when she had been scanned, playfully. Michelle livened up when she saw her, and asked a flurry of pertinent questions on our trip, first, and about her future as she knew about it.
A profuse buffet from A&S was offered in antique Russian silverware and English flowery abundance painted bone china; in the landscape lounge now stood up a ridiculously ornate all-gilded floor clock that felt like it had always reigned there. The spell of the candid colourful block-printed world operated magically, revealing —he had the whip hand on Michelle’s décor—Gauthier’s motherly penchant for theatrical camp.
All the time we had caroused amidst the husky-voiced macaws, Annabelle had shared a few welcoming beds around here, and there, even gay ones. James knew she would not remain with him in the outlying garden he had preserved for so long, good enough already if she landed in his linens once in a while. She had enjoyed a full operatic night with Hugo, to whom she had confessed all of her pathetic biographies, as to what he had firstly vowed total friendship for James, and then offered a commitment to her, just like she could see he had done with us, and our foundlings. She conceded that she had grown hopes that she would bid fair worth to dwell amongst us, the gentle way Natalia had retold her, or ask Liselotte to govern her soul, like the others’. It became time for me to rest my head somewhere smooth, the whim took me to enrapt Annabelle somewhere calm; on tiptoes, I drew her through the new underground pathway and up to the studio, where I unrolled the futon, still there, behind the red sofa, still smelling of Michelle’s Geranium-Orange, and I robbed her of all of her heather-pale rags.

Our apartment had become princely, other than two more comfy glades, to share some elation in the smooth percale bedding and the haphazard trails of bodily scents. Besides the grand bedrooms, we had gained a fully operative laundry overstuffed with elegant oversized machines and a heavy ironing table and innumerable closets. Two inviting smaller rooms with many shelves Gauthier saw as studies, a hallway opening on yet another staircase and a lift, all in all, enough more closet space to keep Gianni busy till the end of times.
Elsewhere, Fayelle prefered to stay in the bedsit at the top of our usual stairway; she could communicate with the other apartments, without walking through ours, by taking the lift across our landing and going out on the other side upstairs, then through the maze of dim-lit corridors and narrow stairs. The only, and not least, lovely damsel she would have to suffer the rain for would be Fæbian, whom Liselotte had lodged atop a remnant of clerical construction near Furstenberg square overlooking a pair of chestnut trees; and she, too, had more than one pathways up to her doors.
Our extension had been decorated with subdued earthly tones of satin stucco, in counterpoint with the washed down indigo and the pale mauve in the bedrooms, where the old-sized windows opened on a garden with one prosperous Chinese privet. The distressed wood floors still needed a decision, Dagmar chose thick wool, textured, sand-coloured, fitted carpeting, without ever caring for the price of it, but Gauthier obtained the promise she would let him christen it with her for a whole week, if he wished.

Hugo approved of the colour scheme as a challenge to his decorating vista, but he needed a deeper feel —so to speak— of the first boarders and thus invited Annabelle and Dagmar together downstairs, and further through his collections. The girls reemerged late in the morning, somewhat adrift of all he had led them through, but all the more fond of each other. They smelled of hawthorn dew, I subtly pushed my nose in Dagmar’s creased dress before she grasped I was nosing her. She tried to piece together the kaleidoscope he had mesmerised them by, besides shagging them silly on every other bed in his endless mental palace.
Gauthier had access to insider’s suppliers for hotels and official residences, so there would be no delay delivering a pair of grand beds monumentally thick, with more percale bedding than there had been sails on the Jolly Roger. But first, the carpet layer would stretch a dreamscape of mellow wool.
Meanwhile, there would be some catching up in the studio, Fayelle could explore further our library to find so many double entendre biblical representations; Delffan came, through the amusing new pathway, to steal away Dagmar for some non-captioned romance; Annabelle offered to read aloud some novella of Cortazar’s on the red sofa, that was a brilliant idea, but I had to cover her feet not to begin watching them; she laughed.

 

Hugo says:

Ushering these two young harlots in my haunt made me prance like a rooster on its manure pile, and since they had just only flown down from a higher branch, they did not wear much I could ask them to strip off. What a rich idea has my friend Louis’ scout had to buy out such a heartwrenching little slave. In hindsight, it feels that since I became besotted by Sarah, Kate and the chain of their polyamorous roundelays —all intuitions of Camille’s— I let myself be ensnared at a profit.
There had been a hunter’s relish savouring the here and now of some happenstance runaway beauty I would never know of better, like my father netted birds for the fine pleasure of releasing them, once carefully ringed. Now I slept all the more lightly that I imagined those I had greeted in —and how!— in the canopy of my secret province.
Like for most of my French peers, my German is miserable, only good enough to decipher sales catalogues, which anyhow tend to be translated to English nowadays. This strikingly tall, thin beauty with an all candid azure gaze and an even golden-amber complexion made me stutter and smiled frankly as if it were self-evident.
Next to her was the pale Fayelle, a tad more willing than she had been when I had happily shagged her in the drizzle of her blond speckles. They visibly craved each other, I had all my time to revel in that little rhyme. As if I dared not lunge at Dagmar’s quiet, I seized the dainty feet of Fayelle and sent impulse from my plexus to my fingertips, at what she responded with a small jolt, and so began a pleasant experiment, though Dagmar did not respond to my will strain attempt.
At my asking, Fayelle retold the best and sultrier parts of their tropical escapade, letting think it had been an unending shag in mellow winds, but she asserted, seizing Dagmar’s midriff, that it had gone with no damages or pain, then they both laughed at the evocation of the white macaws, Fayelle mimicking their squawks and wings flaps.
Though I craved jostling them upon my precious prayer rugs, I let them cuddle each other in their baby language, foreboding their life together in the Faerie of my invention. Some hunch led me to think that Fanny —who had been smuggled fundamental keys to by means of nondescript magazines in plain sight of her abuser— would fruitfully socialise with these two, if what I was tirelessly gazing as, then, fitted her tastes. Her intimate mentor, Camille, would faultlessly judge an opportunity such as this.
They had tasted enough of my Taiwan Highgrown Treasure tea to let me foresee some warm flows’ amusements later, as of now, I needed to see them walk side by side from behind, groping their faultless wazoos, Fayelle’s a tad more apple-shaped, on top of curvy legs; Dagmar’s is elongated like all of her silhouette. They made out, ignoring me like they did not need to be told twice. I wear still my long, variegated Uzbek silk gown and Kaftan against their backs, as I grope their finely educated bums.
In the rotunda with the cloudy mirrors, polished black panelling and layers of dark silk rugs scattered with vivid wildflowers stylisations, I switched on the sound system that already glowed low of its glass bulbs. It played longing breaths from Robert Fripp’s guitar’s many filters; and brought us upon the smooth padded burgundy velvet bed where Fayelle spread her lover’s so tapered legs to play her tongue in her sleek brooklet.
Dagmar had thrown her arms upwards in lovely surrender, and she was gazing at some sweet cohorts, Fayelle was offering her wrinkled rosebud, arching her loins for me to take, slide or tear. The mindy vixen had since long calculated me and knew I hid bottles of Swiss Navy anywhere near a bed. She would not interrupt her devotion to her heavenly bride while I thronged further into her entrails.
I had led them to my nightly blue ablution tower, entirely clad of dark mirror mosaics and golden stars and random symbols. They urged me to lay down so they could pee all over me and my face. One of them tasted spicier. I took loathly revenge peeing inside Dagmar’s unaware tight ringer all my content, so she gushed in the black marble basin while I forced her mouth down to my spear’s guard and discharged more while she rounded her jewel eyes at mine, in the shadow.
They fell asleep, enlaced, in the far end of my inextricable maze, some gentle ancillary would, much later, toilet and vest them like privileged choir girls, feed them sweet almond pastries and high-gardens tea, so as they would crave to tread upon my legendary rugs and play weird games with me.

Gauthier says:

I could obviously not have foreseen all the scope of undertaking the mere rescue of a candid-looking tight-butt blonde smaller maiden might mean as to that little square patch of that cosy part of Paris. Now, not only did we —I say “we” because I became luckily incumbent in my mastery to hold high-hand of this ever complicating prospect, Melchior having negotiated volumes on both sides of the Aviator’s Palace— secure the undergrounds almost to the high level of the Seine’s waters, stealthily unearthing some unknown well containing human remains, children’s bones of the middle ages, pour reinforced concrete with high-grade inox steel, just like the vaults of the Banque de France, next to the steamy brothel lairs of Philippe’s.
This undetected quantum shift has made me richer and mightier, faster than I would have ever dreamt. I can remember meeting long-known Kate and Sarah, rollicking at the Venice Biennale, along with Camille and Hugo, whom, after a night of shagging the girls —I had not yet figured were somewhat recovering from a dire breakdown— had casually groped and sucked my willie in the breakfast kitchen.
It had been like entering Neverland through the little garden door, and learning that Captain Hook had fled, leaving the keys with two very carnal Tinker Bells, and a host of not-So-Lost-Children.
This side of the Serpentine, the Faerie of the libertines still grew, unbeknown to the kind of well-to-do neighbours one rarely heard of.
Hugo had let out once the history of his realm. His own father had acquired the building before the war, in times when only such character as Natalie Barney deflowered white geese in the secluded temple at the far end of her park, an apple throw from here. Like himself later, father Decharny practised no definite trade but was getting richer in his son’s eyes.
Much like me later, Hugo was sent to an exclusive boarding school near Etampes, ran by the same crass caste as me, only worse at his time, and perfectionated all devious skills he found would hurt the souls of the so-called fathers. It had been all the more nonsensical, in his case, that his father had never believed in any god, nor did his own forebears.
I can tell Hugo had been a desirable prey, we have often partied upon the lovely Gitons we both were, and deep down mischievous, liars through our teeth in confession, that fowler’s net with what the priests made their way to the boys’ pants.
Like most of the boarders, Hugo had been a dedicated predator of pubescent victims, but unlike me, he did not blackmail the wax-faced adults —I can be downright evil, I always told the ones I love— only did he teach those he played with how to preserve their true souls, and shun the bad-breathed abusers. He was definitely expelled after he testified to a judge about the real reasons for a boy’s suicide, with desperate written letters naming names among the school’s supervisors.
After a stormy confrontation with his father, who had been menacing to lock him away on some Scottish island, he had eventually won his case and furthermore impressed his old man with his rhetorical talents —nonetheless, he had refused to consider law school.
After meandering through secondary studies and gleaned not much more than an array of literary degrees of the Sorbonne, nothing to brag about, he began using the family home as a sweet trap for the stray game before they ended at street level. But when he met Camille, who was less than sixteen, then, and had sold herself since like forever, firstly to her landlord, whom Hugo and some guys maimed badly when they moved Camille to Hugo’s, he confronted himself and decided she should, at least, own the same education as he did, while being or not his mistress, now their paths had crossed. Before her, three of his recurrent shags had died before they were twenty, by overdose or suicide, it took Camille much skill to help alleviate his half-accepted grief.
When Camille moved out of what felt like a mock household, she began sending other souls in pain to him, and hence, to the network of same-minded patrons.
Even before she graduated in her chosen art history curriculum, Camille was installed in her inviting rue de Tournon venue, modestly showing pieces of Hugo’s collections. She began hitting on art students who in turn liked her, and Hugo incited her to lodge Sarah in her attic, knowing that many other art school cuties would flock.
Kate was one of them, and Hugo saw her but she was, no more than Sarah, an available prey; unless she might wish to be living spot in the centre of the art district, as it happened.
And so, roughly told, this house became a growing hive of artists, prostitutes and the like, me included. Ever since Hugo sucked my morning shaft, with a smile, and I lost my romantic position at the French delegation in Valparaiso, Chile, dwelling under the apex of our three roofs, my life has been an endless succession of all manners of commissions, until TRÆVIX poured Michelle’s wealth on these uncustomary buildings for a worldwide operation.
Thanks to my address book, I could call the fast-shooters among the artisans, and play house, firstly, with the most fascinating mind I ever fucked with —yes, I shagged Michelle on a simple futon and we liked it— in an empty room under a cloud of Chihuly’s corollas.
Today, we wait for two large corbeille beds previously intended for the apartments of a head-of-state, since then disappeared, complete with rococo side chests, to assist the cabrioles of a refugee from the back-alleys and another stolen soul of stunning beauty, entirely for us to revive.