Sarah says:

Hugo had himself taken Fayelle at Prinz’s, the ultimate glove makers, to order a bespoke aviator bonnet in petal-rose kidskin; when it was delivered, next day but one, they found it so sexy that he ordered two others, one powder-blue, the other marigold, she would not have to feel like a crippled brat. Furthermore, the Professor had told her that past six months, her coconut would be tougher than ours.
Still centre-stage amidst the soft-coloured mishmash of cushions on her bed, she let be cuddled by her nude courtiers, eagerly listening to Annabelle’s embellished recalls of our night in the clouds, later joined by Lizon, in a new hairstyle, straight out at nape’s length, and Fæbian, eyes of jade in the shady brook under her fringe, I could not help disrobe and mingle in the fray.
And now, Fayelle’s and Kate’s seaside cavalier was announced in his prestigious Parisian estate, I would suppose the pretty brigade of the suave scents would lie in wait —such an appropriate term— but Kate, on the same wavelength as Fayelle about der Erhenmann, had warned that the 911 attribute might be not adequate in the tight city, that we used chauffeured cars to go get laid.
Other than immemorial threads that had established branches of his family on the much-praised island in the Seine, Lauritz’s granddad had not left a particularly nice scent nearby, but he would soon enough comprehend that sixty years of building Europe had cleared the atmosphere somewhat like André Malraux had washed the facades. No one would ever talk of my own granddad, or Kate’s.
I would relish scheming some shenanigan with Ayla, a pleasant one, that is, my buddy is a royal treat, in earnest, and so is her squiress, if I would say, I expected to hear from them soon.
Gauthier had received a truthful contract to revive the whole second floor of the von Peck estate on Quai de Bourbon and the keys to all the building had awaited him at a notary’s office. Nobody had seriously lived there since the war, but the doors had been sturdy enough not to be forced. Gauthier at once found enough quality antiques to put together a fine garçonnière, only the kitchen and bathrooms needed to be modernised, and necessities like the heating and the electricity. He set all this for two or three months of work by his overpaid teams, and it did not seem to bother Lauritz, but it might be wise for him to come ahead and stay in some hotel nearby.
Gauthier had been impressed by the contents of the building, and began to wonder about the provenance of such goods, so, with his fearless candour, he questioned Lauritz who did not baulk and addressed him to the French notary who might have kept the inventories in archives, so as, after a clerk consulted the files, all concerns about pillaged properties were lifted, all notable pieces had been there long before the war —i.e. the occupation.

Gauthier had been wearing a surgical mask once he had started to delve into what generations of Holy Empire’s plenipotentiaries had hoarded thickly into these walls, from all the stations they had haunted, at less than a gunshot from the seat of France’s head —they believed a few of them had been buried inside Notre-Dame, in a lead coffin.
Called for help in what was resembling a millenary debacle, Hugo advised moving all paper material to a safer outhouse for expertise; but when Gauthier unearthed trunks, filled with immemorial rags, kept whole, thanks to the camphor wood and other weird sachets, he was dumbstruck, thinking of his mother, a reputed costume designer who hunted such troves in all possible auctions, also, not so impartially, what Gianni might revive of the more recent Art Deco pieces on the daring libertines at home.
Lauritz was at least wary about these cubic meters of memories he had decided to alleviate from, and so, after having watched the videos Gauthier had streamed to him, told him to dispose of everything textile as he liked, for free.
So then, one pearly-grey morning over the river Seine, the notary clerk, Gauthier and his beloved mother Adeline, Hugo and Gianni, plus squads of burly stevedores at order, all equipped with powerful flashlights, began the squaring off of the von Speck estate, in good humour. All the carpets were reserved for the cleaner-restorer, duly inventoried because there happened to be prestigious names among them.
I showed up, with Dagmar in a long wrap-around coat of blueberry cashmere, so as Gianni saw a new challenge to his talent —he matter-of-factly untied the coat belt, seized my pupil’s waist and swayed his stare in approval, like most of the heavers present; she wore tight jeans and a fitted navy turtleneck jumper — he then turned to me and groped me as ever, he had had time to evaluate all sorts of queer outfits for a boy like me.
Back inside the Capharnaum, it was only Gauthier, Dagmar, and me, plus two art cleaners chasing dust on the floor, attentive to any other tiny bit or scrap. We went upstairs and opened a cranky window to breathe in. He was overjoyed by the look he had read in his mother’s smile; gently grabbing Dagmar against me, he kissed her for real and then watched us do, then returned to his laid-back normal and invited us to his place, that night. He also announced that he would throw a great new-year party in his own family château, big enough for all of us.

Gauthier’s bachelor pad is almost as spacious as our apartment was before the recent extensions, with a spectacular four-slant top bedroom, where I helped him greedily disrobe Dagmar, acting so as he understood she wasn’t one’s common loose girl, but he already knew all, we played wholeheartedly with the golden-nimbed totem pole he was retaining a tad longer to ensheathe in her rounded butt. She was so maddeningly obedient and defenceless, and nonetheless responsive to minute intentions. I breathed that he would, as he had done constantly, shelter that willowy, candid, cloud-walker from any further drift-nets or hooks. But he had also known she was on the higher-up’s radar, allowed to sleep in the Aviator’s legs upon the sublime futon, and so, we cuddled her between us and listen to her breathe till we hovered above the green towers of Denmark, afar from the murder of scarlet crows.
In the foggy dawn, the copper dreamer knight had stealthily fled, but after a ylang-ylang shower, nude, as our stuff had fallen downstairs, we were met by the amused smirk of Philippe, the current squire of whom we had just shagged. Still rummaging in the cupboard for tea and crumbs to feed my pet bird, I was tempted, because Gauthier had been mostly overwhelmed by Dagmar’s eyes and else, and so I wooed the young page-like, blond strands, amber-speckled eyes, fluffy cheeks, unable to hide he was hard-up for us, so I could hold, I turned my back on him, embraced Dagmar and did not wait long to feel a strong push in my back hatch. She laughed and offered her mouth over my shoulder, the cadet must have been frustrated with his night, because in a few ram hits he was already flushing me up so generously that I had to run to the loo at the great laughs of Dagmar. I promised Philippe he would be allowed other rounds of the game, but he was already confiding his shaft in the shower to a pretty humoured Dagmar who casually pumped him.
Had we met someone in the elevator down to where real tea was —Philippe had confessed they drank coffee— that one might have liked a pair of nudies with their rags on their arm, so did Fayelle and Kate, sniffing me with a cute smirk. They could not guess who had shagged us so early. Fayelle did not wear her bonnet, the long stitch was disappearing under the new crop of clear thatch, she only looked like she had done that to herself, Dagmar sat her on her lap. I brewed tea.
Kate had been reading messages from Lauritz, from Cynthia too, she was hustled and bustled morally, at the moment when she had shunned her brother’s choices, other figures of her youth resurfaced. It was time to reacquaint ourselves with our main walk of life, on our long table upstairs. Fayelle wanted so, Dagmar took her big jumper and said she was going, to learn languages with Delf, and it might have been true.

Fayelle had been a smidgen uneasy with our tidying of the studio; she was not only cicatrising her skull, she was searching for traces of her déjà vu curtain, but she was afraid to open the big volume of Cortazar. Kate floated an excellent choice in the short novels of Bruno Shulz, if she kept her dainty feet under the cover, and that recall of my teasing on the day she had skirted death tinkled in her smile.
In Saint Loup, a free seminary had examined what few documents had been left of Jewish Poland, Lithuania, Galicia, other than the photographs by Roman Vishniac and a few honest testimonies scavenged in some ruins, not the ignoble delectation by the extermination troupes of the misery they had devised themselves in the ghettos. There had existed a written masterful testimony of the Galician Jewish culture, in Yiddish and in New York, it was written by Isac Bashevis Singer. Then a dust storm had raised over Palestine and from there had clouded the testimonies, in the eyes of privileged schoolgirls like me.
Because of the name she bore, and the language she heard in the staircases she haunted, Camille, our now brilliant big sister, then hustling herself out of the destitution —that had eventually floated her adrift to Hugo’s door— had explored these tales of Pitchipoï but found in there no more valid epiphany so as to the inexorable misery of her sad lineage, than in any other manner of Bible, save the boon of beauty she had made a living off.
Only through Shulz transfigurative parables had she found the surreal harmonies Hugo had let her guess across the cosmic Orient. When she had enticed me into her bed, and then in the high perches of her already notable dwelling, we had lived a whole season of Shulz —for all good reasons— she liked the tone of my untraceable accent, and she repaid me opening windows of my soul.
When they had printed the drawings of Bruno Schulz, about whom had been known firstly “Sanatorium Pod Klepsydra”, —a Polish film by Werner Haas, a concatenation of Shulz’s themes, filmed in real vestiges of the post-war, long-putrefying Polish countryside— then, this black carnival of sordid passions, of child prostitutes put up for auction in front of sprawled down shop-keepers, not long after the same would have crawled in the mud of Klondike or the tenements of the Lower East-Side, Bruno Shulz had been one who missed the last boat, like millions of them.
I had, like some of my confidants, been troubled in my soul by the world in the drawings, somewhat like when I had roamed astray in the rear of the Saint Loup stables —straw and horse droppings— knowing full well the cossacks had been on the lookout. In the worse of my acting-outs, I had provoked the whip and shamefully gushed on my pulled down knickers. It had then been a harrowing expense to come to discuss that with Prof Achenbach.
Fayelle did not miss a word, a comma, but the studio was only just big enough to contain the elephant that stood in it, still. When I crawled to her gathered feet and fondled them, she kept on reading.
Annabelle had bypassed the elephant on the sly, she sat in her father’s armchair legs crossed, a handful of yellowed magazines she deposited on the carpet so as she would dissect them one by one. She was there to hear Fayelle, we all shared friendly glances, the elephant told me I was a bitch in heat.

Michelle was giving a grand dinner party for Cynthia’s opening, nonetheless, a more prudish gathering than had happened before in her inspiring salons, because a few tight-lipped Mandarins had answered they would attend. Cynthia’s attainments in Australia, plus the smell of sponsors’ money had let deem the event palatable.
And so, with Delf’s most appropriate diligence, and nought written trace anyone, the overall code would be of blunt sexual abstinence on ground-level and only the special TRÆVIX affiliates, those the AI knew of, would be admitted upstairs for whatever they wished —the security personnel would be Melchior’s elites. Of course, Liselotte would stealthily spawn her innuendoes with the bigwigs she had all the savoir-faire to hook up, but we doubted that medicine bosses would make interesting clients for her and her battalions.
Also, it had not been conceivable to ask Malo for a performance, an event in the vein of what we participated in under the stars would come later, for a different audience, so, she agreed to play her amplified cello, in a vermillion-red pantsuit, barefoot.
Otherwise, Cynthia, who had willy-nilly followed her parent’s trails, not bidding on the obvious of her being, but on hard work by more associations and awareness groups, had said that she would be very surprised if such a meeting, under all the might money provides, would garner one or two fruitful acknowledgements. Out of what she had read coming from France, this country still trailed back in scandalously outdated knowledge of the intersex world. Beyond the funny mind-games of gender-related semiology, and a fashion for mere cross-dressers and convenience reassignments, a population of newborns were still butchered in silence, in French hospitals, condemning them to a lifelong martyrdom of torture and surgeries, to no avail whatsoever to their personal lives.
A moral deal had been written, between Cynthia, Michelle, and Melchior, that her operation be a mere experiment, with a reckoning in three years, giving her latitude to fall back to some other sympathetic base —I would say Switzerland, IMHO— and not lose her funding.
Our own mollycoddled baldinette Delffan, from circus freak, like she had been set amidst a rough orgy, when we had let her sneak in our car, understood all the PR on the matter but dared not hope that Cynthia would enrol them aboard, yet jumpy made them pretty.
She disembarked at noon, the trip had been harrowing but she had been able to sleep in the second leg, from Dubaï. Kate had asked me to come with her, Delf, and Theo.

To some undeniable chagrin of Theo’s, Cynthia had been mostly enthralled to meet up with Delf, who embraced her every second, in a marigold yellow Indian sherwani, matched slim trousers and patent court flats that made them look as appetising as fresh lemon pie. It was sensitive that they had already knit some sweet syncrasy, complete, however, with a kind interface towards the univocal samples such as I.
Warned, Gauthier, Hugo and Philippe stood at attention before the lacquered Prussian blue double door with bronze plates onto the lower and middle rails, a discreet spyhole and a bronze colour keypad at man’s height.
One of the commendations had been to avoid mirrors, easy to use but disquieting to some of the persons she might happen to invite in. Not the case of Theo, the one Cynthia had entrusted to her youth lover as probably some kind of precursor, so it looked, who knew to find his image in the polish of panelled walls. Behind the electric door, a glazed security vestibule with a wall-to-wall doormat kept the already peaceful street traffic noise locked away. Then a traditional diagonal checkered marble floor inspired the hint you had probably not walked into a mere business operation, this echoed by two paintings of life-size jesters, wearing black and yellow tights and diamond-patterned leotards by Leonor Fini, looking at the visitor with a fine grin. A black and bronze curvy Roccoco desk with its chair stood aside on a black and gold acanthus motive Aubusson rug, against the salvaged glass bits mishmash, leaded window diffusing some artificial light, and before the radiant futurist gilded iron grid of the elevator.
On the desk, in a black and gold curved-striped blown Murano vase, an armful of marigolds, set for the obvious, smelled of a prairie dew. Cynthia, sincerely cuddling Delf, sported the clever look of someone who was just only mildly impressed by the circumstance decor, like mannerisms of the old world.
Only her, Delf and Gauthier could take the lift, we ran up to a different mood stage. Although still surrounded by blind yards, the first floor (in French denomination) seemed naturally lit, and was wall-to-wall carpeted with an old rose English thick pile —the investors had specifically oriented Gauthier’s choices towards the top drawer— and four empty offices, behind double doors, floated sheltered in virginal flax veilings, encircled with white empty bookcases, waiting for furniture.
On that morning, the sun lent a wing across the second tier upon the pastel blue carpeting, on the same layout of four corners, with stairs, bathrooms and closets concealed. A large window on the landing made it a liveable waiting room. Nought of medical practice was intended to take place in the building, the whole atmosphere should be that of some council office, a family lawyer, possibly, a moral refuge if necessary.
A key was necessary to reach the third floor, Cynthia’s apartment. The ceilings were lower, I could touch them, and the beams had been uncovered, then painted white. A large living room ran all the southern side, all tiled in antique red tommettes. Cynthia had wished to unearth a whole household of Biedermayer furniture that had been sleeping in a Hamburg storage unit since the family went into exile. These consisted of more or less Grecian-inspired shaped sofas and seats in clear-tone veneer, a Schubert cum Schlieman utopia, a tad like our starchy Danish self-conscience, but in the halfway rustic restoration of a Parisian Boheme interior, it sounded like a clavichord in a Hamershoï painting. I was curious, Kate had described a keenly sexual being, during her recent meteoric visit she had spent most of her time in aparté with Delf, would she remain distant from our polyamorous lifeways? —These were mere decorative considerations that wouldn’t retain any sort of value once she would undress Dagmar.

The best part of Cynthia’s domain began on the fourth floor, acceded by a bent staircase, and even beyond to some last levels much resembling those in Camille’s house, where I had been a happy squirrel for two years. And the last corridor led to a door in the new staircase, the original one to our new bedrooms. In these typical attic rooms, the decoration had been left blank, but Gauthier had devised clever bathrooms with unlikely geometry, future hideouts for nieces to come? Cynthia had ended cuddled-up with Delf on one bed, it would certainly go like so for a few days. I asked Delf to wake her for dinner with us.
What we had not visited was the subterranean structure, which appeared to have once supported a different construction, with massive ashlar stone foundations, the same one the tunnel between us and TRÆVIX was mazing through. There was another complete gym room and storage, but no access to the street level. A door gave on our part of the tunnel, with a keypad, but not directly on the highly secure one, and this now was about to be reviewed with the instalment of connected offices in the further adjoining building.
Hugo’s mood oscillated between wondered and jaded, this house we stood in had been shuttered and silent since he had known it, after its owner had fled to Argentina, and some distant relatives had asked the judge to declare him dead. Now, an equilibrium was tilting in the exo-cranium the writer had subconsciously let grow in the periphery of his sanctum, and only by him touching Cynthia would he resettle it upon its base.
When Cynthia Heard for real who was the Lauritz whose installation seemed to inflame the spirits of Gauthier’s team, now that her own was up, she felt pain and she told us. Didn’t Kate remember, in the merry Amrum-Sylt rally days how this spoiled rooster talked about her? He, then, was driving a black Karmann Beetle cabriolet. Kate and Simon were the daunting characters of the summertime youth, although no one imagined their deviant bond. Lauritz had a crush on Kate. When rumours began rumbling about some funky style attitudes in trio with a girl from Amrum, he set his anger and his stooges’ at spying on them and he discovered what was not seriously concealed anyhow. It had been before the invention of the social networks, but already, word-of-mouth on three or four cafe terraces fanned hate against the family house, hence the moving to Cynthia’s father’s sanatorium on Amrum where the beaches were less crowded. Lauritz’s ire, in the times, had spread as crass as one could then bear on sexual specificities, as offensive as you still may hear in football gatherings. No, really, he would have to let his head freeze for more than three days, in Canossa, to earn the peace, she looked down on him, and all the cutest does ate from her hand, nowadays.

Delf had shown Cynthia the way from her upper niches to our backdoor, then introducing her to Fayelle, in a blue-headed mood, who candidly mentioned her open-skull adventure, and also to a still bare-arsed Dagmar, in her wide-knit cocoon jumper, wide-eyed, leaving the wayfarer dumbfounded. Her first reflex was that of a doctor, she searched for Fayelle’s stare and held her hands, asking a flurry of questions, then, if she would take off the lovely helmet and let her see the stitch, almost instantly wowed for the even little zigzag through the amber-gleam lawn, and, to make the show, Fayelle herself knocked on the rewelded plate with a smirk.
Dagmar’s tale was a whole life to date and as they liked one another at once, they cuddled up at the far end of a sofa and Cynthia listened, terrified. The time was still long ahead of when she would tire of telling, but to that end, Prof. Méant had negotiated a visit, soon, with his referent, Prof. Nantoux to help her, like himself was doing with Fanny, recoup her valid soul.
Hugo had come up for dinner, and so did Michelle, in white and yellow layers of lose-fit knitwork and buttercup moleskin shorts with revers, wide enough to let slide a hand in; she was proud of Delf’s spirits, and she was for a lot in that.
Annabelle brought on James, who was all impressed by what he heard and saw, in German; he asked us to lend him some sketchbook and pencils —to alleviate his emotions. Natalia had, of course, known the number for the back door, she joshed it made the access all the easier, at what Kate seized her at the hips and mumbled in her tummy that she had always been our fairy bell. Beryl was with her, she had heard us say we did not shun her as a Victor stooge, and actually, Michelle liked her fine.
I brewed some high-grown Taiwanese Tung Ting tea, they delivered bottles of Kombucha, I saw that James had a silver flask in his jacket. There were six colourful chartreuses and bowls of sauces, crisp shoots and sprouts with balsamic cream, honey fruit chutney with some almond rice, creamy heart coconut cookies.

 

Kate says:

In order, probably, to soften the unavoidable social mingling she runs in, defending her cause, Cynthia has now let her straight thick black hair half-long with a cleared nape, so as to showcase the fluid moves of her slender neck above her square shoulders. Or did I think that way because of the boat collar, sleeveless, waistless, black crepe midi dress out of which her black-veiled legs were refolded, set out her long slender arms, as she retained her want to grope Dagmar, who knew it well.
Natalia had left me to go woo Annabelle for a while, so Cynthia linked me in the armrest conversation in German, retelling Dagmar of our lifelong relationship, and letting slip it was something similar to what she enjoyed with Delf, physically; so she nodded, interested. And as if enough was of her confession, she kissed Cynthia in the neck.
We had a heap of catching-up to do, Beryl and me, and she showed me she could still be the surprise pixie, worthy of the trust we had deemed her as for Natalia’s accomplishments. Raised amidst the fiercest debauchery, she was poised to reap a tenure in liberal arts, the field of Liselotte’s highly political influence, as we all knew. Her smell of heather honey and dragée enthralled me back to the time I was as heavenly submissive as a pillow in the coves of Victor’s genius, so I beseeched her to take me to bed and tie me up.

 

Sarah says:

Dagmar had lured away Cynthia and Delf to her new room, although this last one knew zilch of German —in spoken form, at least— and that could easily spin all fantasies. With Kate eloped in Beryl’s whims, remained a quaint hand to play.
I had let myself disrobed at Natalia’s kind want, Annabelle and her saviour taught English to the round-headed damsel, and Michelle was explaining some dainty pulley effect to Hugo who kept watching her pants, a prelude to the two’s fleeing downstairs.
I asked our house-fairy to regale me with some of her virtue tales under the sleight of Liselotte’s and, for us, she had a sweet tooth for telling how wily she could play, in French. Each time, It left me gobsmacked to hear what our long-overlooked comrade harboured of vice and craftiness to the relish of the rich and mighty, thus, however, siding her apart from the real evil, when abuse is not a play, by the way.
One evening, she had been asked for some endless use of her until dawn, at a price she had actually seen credited to the account she had indicated. She should be dressed as a middle-class housewife, in a skirt and no bras, a blouse, an undershirt, cotton knickers, a garter belt, and stockings. She should wear brown low-heels common shoes. The reference was a 1950 bride without children. She also had had her hair curled up like cathodic days TV presenter. She was to walk, with a red leather handbag, at eight, on the sidewalk by the garden of the Observatoire.
The weather had been sad, she had found a slate-grey mackintosh that made her look all the more like a prostitute, but her thin wool tailleur wouldn’t have stood rain. She did not have to stroll for long, without any noise, four men in black hoodies jumped out of a nondescript grey truck, seized her and pushed her inside the vehicle, pulling a black jersey bag over her face, cuffing her wrists in her back, and her ankles. A loud radio played a rap station.
After some twenty minutes, the truck stopped, the engine and the radio shut off and the four men jumped out, leaving her in it, blinded and cuffed. Through the bag on her head, there was a smell of printed paper. It began to get cold.
We had shut the bedroom door, it was dark, save coloured garlands of tiny LED lamps. She was obviously reviving a weird experience, she had heard them take her telephone apart and throw the pieces in the handbag, she could actually have disappeared.
When the slide doors were pulled, she heard the echo of a large covered space. A mighty hand held her right arm and dragged her, forcing her in ridiculous little steps. There were noises of glazed doors banging and shoes shuffling. Different male voices insulted her in the whole sexual repertoire, then she was uncuffed, the mac taken off, she was bound to a faux-leather chair, and her head uncovered.
There were three middle-aged men in cheap grey suits, wearing black jersey balaclavas, they called her Gillian.
Asking questions about a Bernard Berg and the Valerik network, and all gibberish they seemed not to make-up ad-lib, they succeeded at making me feel such a misgiving might become real any time. I had been patient, unfazed, but only with hurling absurd questions at me, always the same, and insults, did they make me cry for real.
The place looked like abandoned classrooms or offices, ageless yellowed paintworks and oak wood furniture, four white globes radiated a meagre light, two high windows were blanked with antique newspapers, so were the high glazings onto a corridor.
They had called her Dimitra, and there had been one in Ukraine, in the family tree. She felt weird, but she had known funky turns in Liselotte’s roundabout. She asked for the toilets, they said she could piss herself and laughed like boors.

As she was reliving the jolty experience of first-person cruelty theatre through which she lost, at sundry moments, her sense of reality, she was in sweats and her vagina dripped. There was sharp delectation in details, while we mostly rested in scissors face to face in pillows, eager to listen, eager to tell.
It had been unsetting, despite all, that these men had memorised the same argument, the same book, and she had felt like a double whore, beyond all she had readily served up. Amidst the jolts of shouting in her neck, she had wet herself and could not stop pouring down on her feet. They handed her up on her feet, her skirt drenched, and one of the handlers kicked the left shoe off, so she stood wonky while one buckled a thick leather collar at her neck and pulled the other end of the rope it was attached to, through a pulley on the ceiling, so as she barely stood on one shoe. Strong leather bracelets were buckled at her fists so her arms were extended sideways with two ropes.
During all the handling, there had been hands over her body, and they began cutting her clothes into shreds while playing their story to each other, a seemingly sombre affair of treason, worthy of the worst STASI times paranoia someone might actually be reviving for some reason.
Her deal did not include whipping or marking, but they knew how to make her contort in her bonds. Now they went barefoot, wearing only black tights with open crotch, and they were all erected. they wore adjusted black leather half-masks, with globular mirror eyes, that covered back their hair and ears, she couldn’t have recognised any of them, unless she would have fucked them before, but she was still new on the market, wasn’t she?
The play now was that Dimitra knew what she had chosen next, by not giving up her network and some alpha gave a signal by urinating on her nether waist, followed likewise by the whole posse. She stood in a pool of piss and understood a vague scent the floorboards had whiffed of from the start, she heard there was a plughole behind her. When all bladders had emptied, the alpha bantered on how she reeked, he pulled a hose ended with a long life-size penis-shaped bronze cannula, spewing warm perfumed water, inundated her, kicked the right shoe, letting her hang slightly tougher in the yoke so she could not even try to speak until they adjusted the rope.
They affixed anklets and pulled her legs at an angle, now they could finger her holes at a whim. The water flowed, not unwelcome, and the room became steamy, then she felt the hard nozzle at what it had been designed for, gushing in her arse and quim, to what she could no longer resist as she felt like endless diarrhoea washed away in the flow. That had been the most monstrous enema she ever had, the goons showed good humour and began some silly hokey pokey in her arse, a few humps in a file, of no consequence, with more gushes of water in between, so as she was widened, and rinsed.
Nought she would consider undue to a dignified whore like her, given the hefty reward, and she foresaw the thrill of being silently recognised by any of these bullies in the real world, possibly during jury work; would they hit on her?

They freed her ankles and wrists, leaving the bracelets and anklets in place, but kept her leashed as they wiped her dry, thoroughly. They handled her to the far end of the main corridor, sadly lit by globes, and up some bent stairs.
The whole empty venue was time-worn but clean, through ajar doors one could see desks and chests of drawers against two-toned brown wall-paint, some man-height plinth darker. She realised it must have been a genre of police offices, or whatever.
Her handlers brought her to a small door in a wall, pushed her inside and she heard the key lock. It was some kind of blank closet padded with oilcloth, soundproof, not even a dungeon, she could only stand. After a while, she crouched as she could. The door then sprung open and one of them hurled himself against her in the confinement, licking her face and contorting until he sheathed a vibrant rod in her, letting her figure a monstrous coupling, one knee up, her arms inevitably around his neck, all shuffled madly when he decided to bugger her and slid along her. She had in mind this cartoon she had seen of the last embrace after a train wreck. Once he had discharge amply in her bumhole, he recovered and shouted a loud “yes”, to what the door was unlatched, and another febrile man slid along her. The whole squad took turns, they smelled of soap, some forced her to pull her tongue in kisses that tasted weird like violet or anise. Her thighs were soaked, she slid on the wet lining, she must have fainted, crumbled in a pool of sperm.
On our unmade bed, we had already attained our peak a few times, but she remained wired up as a kid, out of pride that she had measured up to big-time sluts like us.
She had been chain-spread again, flat on a warm stone with a large hole under her butt, and a rolled towel in her nape. The lukewarm flow smelled of lotus and as she disgorged her innards, they seemed to massage every tiny sinew in her limbs, so as they sent her back in pleasure syncope, with great cheers. If only for that manner of torture did she long to return.
The next room had consisted of a nightly arena, lit only by a galaxy of minuscule light dots across a seamless vault over an obvious elevated bed, circled by a round of bar stools. They dragged me and chained my collar to the side of the bed which started to revolve slowly. Fully erect, masked men who could be not my previous tormentors, handling their penises to shape, took a seat on the dozen of stools. The alpha, pointing on some device, induced a roulette of purple lights under the stools until it stopped under the butt of her next shag. She was already plugged to the moon, wet and in bloom, they used her at the random of the rounding lottery, some of them twice, like some self-powered luxury contraption, until she was flushed down her inner vortex.
She had woken like a violet in a clearing, in a suite at the Continental where she called room service for breakfast. She wore a nicely fitted burgundy satin pyjama trimmed of emerald piping, she felt like she had slept for a week, and actually, she had been away for three whole days. When her telephone rang, it said Liselotte, who was overjoyed to speak to her. Her patron had already complimented her about the utmost class of her girl, who had withstood to the furthest climax, and still smiled in her sleep. He had been able to scan her body and brains in that state, for fruitful scientific reasons —at this, they both laughed— nevertheless, she tipped her devilish procuress that whoever they had been, they were otherworldly masseurs and she felt like Cyd Charisse in Silk Stockings, all fine, had retorted Liselotte, because Natalia was awaited for some dancing session at the Cité Bergeyre that very night, what a life! She felt she’d had her content of hydrotherapy, she did some cat toilet and found some manly jasmine enough to make heads swivel all afternoon at the Sorbonne, she sprayed her nethers and kept the bottle.
On an armchair, a most expensive set of clothes had been carefully folded, a peacock silk jersey long-sleeved pleated dress, black lace garter belt and black veil stockings. No knickers or bra, as a reminder. Night-blue flat Mary Janes and a statutory stiff black satin trench, in which pocket was a sleek leather box with a delicious line bracelet of lapis lazuli. The concierge winked at her when she left.

 

Kate says:

I suppose about the same time the Church of France, rich anew on the back of those who had had the presumptuousness to overthrow its ageless powers, was recollecting the stoneworks it owned, the “Ile de la Cité” had been almost entirely gutted, then covered with the mercantile architecture of piled family-sized units like crates for cabbages, clad with the ever-degenerating Beaux-Arts style emanating from such obese pastries as the Gare d’Orsay or the Opera house —not that it had shown any better anywhere else, had it?
And it was on the third floor of such a bourgeois stack on the “Quai Aux Fleurs” that our 911 high-roller had taken up his provisional residence, three bedrooms and a Portuguese housekeeper. He was all too happy with the view on the copy of the Town Hall.
He had been overjoyed with the late cavalcades with Fayelle and I, on Sylt, he had fancied —I would not undeceive him— a more spirited walk of life, just like I had, years back. He invited me alone one promising day, I did not know if he had learned about Fayelle’s accident, and he seemed touched, for he had liked her breaking-up folly, she had not treated him as the second choice.
It gave me the opportunity to embroider about our voyage back, and test if he would actually appreciate lesbian bed stories, but he had grown up a bit and demonstrated, on a Napoleon III sofa overlooking the Seine, that he would have like to carouse with us two.
I was damn ready for anything he might wish for, and he soon exhibited a proud flamberge to my taste. I had been wearing a large autumn-toned patchwork cashmere shirt-dress over another cotton one, and more, which gave a lot of buttons to play with to reach for my simple knit tights that slid down so easily.
He was as good a partner in a foreseeable blue Toile de Jouy clad bedroom in the heart of Paris than in the awkward bucket seats of his car. Once we had spent a mutually convincing welcoming round and I licked clean his rod like a mere bitch as I was sitting on the loo, I came ahead of questions of lifestyle, so I laid straight that he should fully adhere to the blank card circle, and I would introduce him to more willing pussies and holes he could ever shag, at no great risk, unlike what I had been doing with him, and again. He let me make an appointment for the next day afternoon and buggered me again in the lights of the tourists’ boats, of lustful memory, for me. Just like Fulgence and Erik, he was a steadfast stag, he would be in great demand in our undergrowths, and while I went on wanking, for him, I described, like a fairy tale, this life of debauchery.
He had scouted some possible restaurant on the right bank, at the edge of the bustling Marais, telling me they also accommodated for vegan sluts of my class, and in truth, they were young, gay and altogether loveable. Lauritz devoured his slices of lamb like it were my ladybits, and before long he had torn apart my expensive tights, only to know I was exposed on the red leather banquette. Like the doe at the threshold of the woods, I had munched all of my mishmash of greens and tempeh with a brown sweet-and-sour sauce of nuts, raisins and figs; besides the gentle groping, a sign that we weren’t finished was that he did not drink more than a glass of Chablis.

In the morning, we were to attend a workings visit in his private mansion, with Gauthier and staff, at an early hour, for a complacent harlot who had been threaded more and again, late in the night; but what suffocated me standing was to find, like a Xmas morning, three pairs of the very same tights he had torn, from the same shop, in near shades. I had no argument when, in my joyful effusion to his gesture, he decided to shag me a quick once before work. Even after a shower, I felt I would smell like a whore, all the more if Sarah was there, so, I swore she would be next watching the tourists’ boats.
Yes, she was here, and fully awake when she sniffed inside my three layers of tramp shirts, so I pulled her into a moderately clean bathroom to explain all I had been doing and be done to, and that I went that afternoon to sponsor Lauritz in the Hellfire Club, and last but not least, she was next on his list, thanks to me. I wanked her savagely, as she was trying to pee.
On the noble floor, the cumbersome piles of cartons had been sorted and stored elsewhere, an impressive decor was unveiled and scientifically scoured of almost a century of patina. In the grand salon, the main chimneypiece had been clad with a high panel of eglomised crystal after Jean Dupas in the vein of his unsurpassed decor for the Normandie first-class dining room. Hugo, who had been groping my butt against Sarah, said he had never heard or read about such a commission. The design was in the vein of some other famous wind-filled sails, in the Bordeaux harbour, a square composition twice the height of a man that gleamed in the light of the restorers’ flat lamps. Two fountains of light, in silver-mounted mate crystal volutes, would later shine on both sides of the radiant electric foyer, with old-rose round sofas as their pedestals. Other than the bygone, otherworldly transatlantic wealth of defunct steamers, it unmistakably evoked the Maisons Closes and might have been the weirdest of them all.
All the opposite facing wall to the foyer was clad with a white gold gilded wooden abstract low-relief, in plates reminding of Egyptian temples. In its centre, a gracile goddess was holding the disk of a luminary, in a dancing attitude, into the round of one arm, either offering or stealing the moon, with à la Carpeaux smile. A flurry of geometric textures that diffracted the reflection of the crystal wall across the room, at this time, pushed a weightless Sarah against me half-seated on a silver piano, the moment for a feline Lauritz to literally press her in some lustful tango, mocking in her gaze. I entered the game, holding back her arms. For the workings visit, she had been wearing a posh tracksuit of navy blue thick jersey, trimmed with white striped wide elastic bands and embroidered of a large spread eagle holding bolts of lightning. As Lauritz graze her thigh with his indefatigable erection, I could feel she was all nude under the tracksuit, and so I kissed her in the neck while he dared a hand under the belt. He took a softened voice to tell her in the eyes that I had promised she would come to his apartment at eight. She eased herself more upon me and let him grope her, silently.

There soon had been mundane matters to attend, the German black leopard quit us with what looked like a done deal. Sarah revelled in her slut-be-sold moment, she was all wet. Hugo got all the hunch of the exchange, that was that why he loved us so tight, he then affected to comment on the massive cornice, where stucco naiads swam around the ceiling, along with dolphins and sharks, splashings spirals of foam along with their lascivious escapes, thus blurring the edges of the fading whirlwind around a monumental chandelier in the shape of a wreath of beaded crystal shells that one slim tomboy of dark-fringed, black jeans and tattered jumper girl was patiently awaking one by one with kid gloves, atop a wobbly scaffolding, so as I knew that Sarah, whom I was then holding, in her warmth and emotions, would do anything to come to know and woo her. I breathed in her ear she sure would have the leopard and the filly, even together, come what may.
I took Lauritz to Sanne & Agnete small salon enlightened by the tall blind white walls of the yard. He agreed to try a few vegan nibbles, as I contented with a fruit salad and tea. He did like all the girls he saw there, few of whom spoke French. Still spellbound with all he had spent of me that night and the perverted deal with Sarah, who played whore, I let him twiddle my hands, knowing that before we went to the clinic I wanted to change myself, and hence let him in our place, and shag once more with the shower; he sure agreed, he could keep his sleek silk suit for the rest of the day.
At the clinic check-up, in the exam room, he managed to grow a new tough one, for the laugh of the nurse, a pretty one I wouldn’t bet would have refused a quick one, but she did her chores, unfazed, looking at me, and she also had to manipulate the thingy, she did all professionally. That, and all, was an overall good-humoured moment, he would pick up his black card the next day, fill some forms online and come with me —and probably Sarah— to Philippe’s, we would have warned Sami what magnitude of a patron he was.
By foot, and no Porsche in sight, he was a pleasant companion, even with no shag in mind for the rest of a sensitive, powdery-light, mid-season afternoon. I had time to tip him on where to shop or order all things one likes to have available near your bed when fucking some new acquaintance.
I set up a meeting with Liselotte for him next afternoon, once he would begin to wake from Sarah’s glare and all she does well. I let him go find himself bound into the web of Liselotte, the craftiest procuress at her altitudes, nonetheless our classmate.

 

Sarah says:

As for that lanky dancer up there, Kate had read me all clear, as soon as she had gone with the northern stag, I began my gentle touch manoeuvre, then I held firm the frame of the rickety contraption she worked on when she wished to come down. So, as she pulled aside her protective glasses, I asserted my hunch of a most lovable face with a cute slight squint of one of her chestnut eyes. She had a thick mane and a low fringe, she was tall and pale, I crack for those who match me. At lunchtime, she accepted my invitation to the corner brasserie. In less than ten minutes, I knew she was called Cécile Brigadin, a name she wrongly doomed as ridiculous, she was our manner of art student and thought she had been lucky to find that job. Ten more minutes and a blueberry pancake later, she bravely accepted to come along with me in the stag’s lair, none access barred as I had complacently described before, for a reward amounting to one week’s pay. She bantered that she had read me out at once and seen my gentle games with Kate, as I was fondling her knees under the table, we agreed on polyamorous lifeways.
I promised myself to make Gauthier grant her a pay raise, whatever he would appraise my being in her pants. She agreed to take the afternoon off so we could dandify her a tad before our soirée. She instinctively shunned woman’s clothes, so I took her first to buy true Chelsea boots because she has longer feet than us, if otherwise, I know there will be a pantsuit her size in our vestiary.
Grasping that the expensive shoes were a gift, she began wondering randomly what I was doing, so once we were home, apparently alone, I began to undress her eagerly. She smelled of fresh sweats and simple jasmine soap, her quim was as innocent as a little girl’s, with all its timid fleece. I threw her spread upon our grand bed and I made it brief that we were rich bitches with a taste for debauchery, collecting niceties of her kind, with none complaining to date.
She surrendered to what I did her, she responded instinctively, avowing her ignorance of things lustful. Then came time to prep our skins, and she had barely heard of anal sex all the least of an enema, but by then, she followed my lead, she saw me do, she let be done, and she feared what it might feel being buggered, but she kept mute, we had more to accomplish, with pink wax.
She had adored my bare coochie and she was only lightly hairy, she let me do and shouted a few times, all the more around her bumhole. When she could see herself smooth as a rose petal, I wanked and fisted her, using the ultimate unguents devised by Hugo, telling her she would know where to obtain all the supply she would need of the sort. I had sprayed her with my idea of a sensitive Cologne for an effeminate boy, a scent Gauthier would later single out, making him look at Cecile as one of ours. I gave her the whole bottle, we would be back to fetch it after we exhausted our man.
While she stood before the clothes racks, nude, blushing of her bare pubis, my crafty fingers in her holes, she whistled in awe, she had never seen a rich girl’s closet. Having fetched my tape measure, I reckoned I should go back a few years, and I found a silver pinstriped night blue three-piece boy’s suit, nicely fitted, even for her slightly more puffed breasts than mine, that let me wish she wore no shirt under the vest, an overt invitation to impish hands. I forbade all underwear.
As for myself, I chose the same kind of vesture, a double-breasted tuxedo with satin lapels and nothing under, now we looked like Berlin Belles, she could not tire of sliding a hand upon my devilberries. I shoed black patent Chelseas.
Almost on the threshold, Fayelle barged in and hugged the newbie and asked who she was. She was wearing her sky-blue bonnet, she smelled of mischief, she had been with Delf all day. I asked her if we should keep Cecile with us, she swayed her hips, slid a hand in the pale slit and said it was so smooth.

She was stunned when I called a car, a black one with no sign at all, and only slid a bill in the driver’s hand, so I told her he was being paid elsewhere. In the flickering lift, I see her up close, with no makeup, she is radiant, I did only a mere touch-up of the lashes and some secret liniment that did more good to my eyes than to hers. I gave her the folded bills and told her to stash them in an inner pocket. She blushed.
Lauritz didn’t spot her as the chandelier cleaner and it was all well, I introduced her as Cecile and matter-of-factly said that I had imagined he would not say two was less than one. As he was waking at the prospect that he had two sluts instead of one, he seized Cecile lapel, at what I “tst, tst” him, he should be gentle because she was kind of new, but willing. He roared back and thanked me, he was already zipping her fly open, kissing her full mouth.
He had started a random playlist on a boombox plugged into a laptop, with mostly eerie Nordisk jazz that seemed to synch with the dancing projectors of the tourists’ boats. He smelled of precious leathers and woods, like a luxury car with a hint of rum.
He made our two trousers fall together, he was enthralled with the settings I had devised, he relished watching us butt-naked in our formal jackets. Once he pulled out his noticeable dick, he told Cecile to suck, as one does to a whore, so she crouched, legs apart, and took his pride in her mouth, I felt a tang of excitement at watching a slut in the making. He did not warn but held her head firmly as he spurted deep, amazingly, she swallowed all she could, before I went and licked at her lips. He thanked her, rays of white light ran upon her face, she begged for my kisses.
Having learned from Kate the dos and don’ts of our otherwise desirable tribe, he had ordered from A&S what they knew we would crave for, and crates of their filtered fruit juices, pear, peach, cherry, whatever. There was a round table against the Trench window, he told us to fondle each other, then to remove our jackets and vest, then, if we would pause eating, go on the sofa masturbate one another.
It was Cecile he had a massive crush on, it was all in order since I had, too, thus I was helping him exert his ravage on her and I fingered myself while doing so. His shaft rekindled, he brushed her wet kitty with the glans before he gained enough bravery to plough through her narrowness and revel in her young moanings I knew weren’t of any suffering as I devoured her bloomy mouth.
Since I was the one who had brought the siren ashore to him, he went on overtly using me on her, and then he dared me to revive the rod in my mouth, as he was already licking her shy back hatch, holding her thighs spread wide. I evaded my mission to grab one foot and take the shoe off, I had not yet once sucked on her toes, and they were obscenely free to giggle with my tongue. Lauritz suddenly agreed he had overlooked these lively bits and shared with me for a while, I had debunked a fellow worshiper, I could show him around, indeed!
I still played with one foot when he began pressing his glans upon the supple skin draped in a star between her diminutive bum cheeks, so I cried for lubricant, was he out of his mind? It had been ready, there on the cupboard in a deep blue bottle, he apologised, not ceasing his pressure. I fetched it and splashed Cecile’s back brooklet with the clear goo that almost instantly defeated her defence, at my greater pleasure to see the pitiless manhood burrow its pink blunt head —probably for her first time ever— into the narrow little well we had refreshed together.

We dragged ourselves back drowsy in the wee hours, her head on my chest. Her current crashpad was far east, in Ivry, and she had not wished I see her there. Then Natalia did not understand but found Cecile smelled good, and since that bed had always been hers, she crept along the slender back and allowed herself liberties, to what was responded, until both unknown soughed in each other’s ear about who they were, and never minded.
Things became funnier when Kate, who had let herself be tumbled at whim in one of Hector’s tours —she would deny most of it in the morning— found one dark mane too many in her bed, and no, it wasn’t Lizon, but it smelled as good, and in the haywire of her conscience, knowing it was called Cecile and embraced Natalia —who is not a lousy mind— was enough.
When I landed from the green towers of Rosenborg, three languid alley cats were licking each other’s quims, my new recruit overwhelmed by the crafty pair. I did not budge at her rescue, but I admitted to some background. Kate jolted when she figured out the scaffolding kid, and she complimented the sharpness of my eye.
Natalia was overjoyed, forcing Cecile to remain in the raw at the breakfast table, where it took time to make her avow to being a coffee buff, she had no time for French toast, and I had decided to accompany her to work, I wanted to sort things with her bosses.
I scolded her who had left her money in the jacket, and helped her very inefficiently to slip on her own sort of working rags, I retold her in many ways she was mine, now, even with the others that she would befriend, too, Natalia was still kissing her.
On his worksite, Gauthier was an impressive bellwether, all in smart language and a sharp eye. He had grasped our round with Lauritz, but since it seemed to have been the reason why this palace reopened, he applauded. In short, I pushed him into a storage room and while, per usual, I groped him like a whore her client and made him register that the chandelier girl was mine, and ours, for that matter. He laughed, I wore a grey tracksuit with rainbow embroideries and a big “Castro” across the chest, so, it was all too easy to bare my arse and fondle. Nonetheless, he promised to pay attention to Cecile and see for her salary, he said, in earnest, that she was a skilled worker and she might earn degrees in the trade, with or without the arguments she had not extolled by herself till now. I understood that he would hit on her on the first occasion, I knew he his a fine comrade, but I would put her in the know. As often, the most part of my crush for her was to foresee all the carnal spending she would let me watch or report to my wicked mind, regardless of my truthful involvement in her well being.

Cecile had accepted that we two would be like together for at least a while, I dressed up in black, too, jeans, jumper, boots and trench, I knew I would look like a Vogue model taking out some stray kid, that was a start. I had promised Kate we would share her that night in our bed, but first, I had some ideas for her.
I had seen her work in threadbare sneakers, so I dragged her to Doc Martens to buy real security shoes that even her well-off schoolmates would wear; the attendant agreed to discard the old wrecks. Then, we bought a few pairs of Wranglers, the slightly higher waist more adapted to work moves, a heap of military-grade tee-shirts, fitted so as to let be seen her timid breasts, and a handful of boyish cotton briefs that would not show in jeans, anyway. All that did right for the working girl.
I floated the concept that the active professional needed some street armour, like a tough leather jacket. She retorted that it was either crappy or too expensive, so I stared straight in her disarming youth and flatly laid she was mine to spend for, as long as it made her more desirable, I wasn’t her pimp, I was her manager. But I would relish pushing her to sell herself. We found the real Perfecto by Schott, not in excess of chromes, but evocative zippers. She would show us her butt in this that same night.
Sitting in a brasserie with our bags, her smelling rough of the novelties she wore, she stamped her newly armoured feet refuting she was not so, but I showed her some of those seated near us who had quietly been gratified for their arses. The only evil limit was to let it be done for someone else’s account, for the rest, the money needed to flow, was mine more rotten? I tasted the kiss she granted me.
She was a suburb lily, her father had owned a prosperous café near a populous housing estate. In all her school years, her life spent in the tidy backyard of the café, not to mingle with the clientele, she had been noted for her artistic abilities, in the goodwill of her professors who convinced the family to steer her towards applied arts schools, demonstrating to her parents that, all in all, it would be as good as any for her future. At what time her father died of his clients’ second-hand cancer, followed by her mother, who had been selling them cigarettes and money games in the same air. The walls had not belonged to them, she was left with nought and was lucky enough to be hired by this small operation that Gauthier called on occasion.
Clutching my leg between hers, she raged that she could lead a proper profession, and please, that I did not take advantage of her, she had until then succeeded at looking like a nobody, she was tall enough to avoid the hustlers, and now I had singled her out and showered her with money and caresses, she did not know how to behave thus, she was utterly scared.
An only child with no medical history, she had grown up at the side of her overworked parents, self-teaching on the screen of good enough second-hand computers a discreet old neighbour provided at no cost, nobody ever had a hand in her jeans, with Lauriz, she had been a virgin.
The car that came to pick us up on the boulevard would not quiet my lily, it was a bulgy black Escalade with dark glazing, I made fun of it, groping her under the Perfecto, telling her I might take her in a jet, sometime.

Kate wouldn’t have the heart to get rid of Fayelle who had wished to stay with us, after all, she was another suburb lily, too. Her pretty head was all curls, now, not a sign of what terrible operation she had been through, and otherwise, Dr Pontchartrain did fully well with her. The only shade in the landscape was that now, Cynthia and Delffan had filched Dagmar for a long journey, as it seemed; and so, some Jiminy Cricket must have sung to her that the new shy one looked like good company if the other room became free, who knew? She deployed all the more easily all of her cajoleries that Cecile was a true white goose in disguise as a tomboy.
In good sense, Cecile had agreed she could not keep her new work-shoes at a fine dinner party, all the more now that she knew I had caught her interested glimpse at our bare feet, it had been a small complicit lapse by which I had touched her heart, beyond the blatant vision I kept of Lauritz’s chuck inside her untouched little well, but that might have happened beyond the realm of her conscience, or had it? All that was rooting in my own soul was that she was surrendering to me, come what may, and it referred me back to the heavenly days and the boxwoods —when only one last soul had missed me. Helped with Fayelle, who was eager to show herself a cunning little whore, we disrobed Cecile along with ourselves and I could fiddle with her toes in the leather smell of new shoes.
I had brewed some earthly black oolong and we had ordered creamy thick pies, all sweet had said the younglings, blueberry, chestnut, rhubarb, and carrot. Cecile listened to a gentle digest of Fayelle’s life with terror in her eyes, like she had never heard of what she had spared herself, but I could tell unmistakably the shivers she resented, as we all do, by grazing the lips of her quim, as wet as mine. We raised a toast to the resourceful Hector, and I warned her he could easily sweep her away to carnal expenses compared to what our amusements with Lauritz would seem like mere daisies. She asked like what, so we all had to retell true-to-life adventures all beginning in Hector’s grand cars towards secretive venues of unspeakable luxury where we might be given for use by squadrons of well-hung studs, at no harm, as she could touch. But we, in earnest, around this table, were merely wayward brats sheltered by fate, and we also cared for cases of ultimate despair who had resurged from the unfathomable abyss, but that did not make us more of some kind of saints.
Fayelle was magnetically drawn to Cecile, who might share some of her charisma with her, a gangly smoothie unfazed bohemian just like her. When Gauthier called in all neighbourliness we were all naked as in a Victorian painting, but Cecile had not fully grasped who was coming. Most thankfully, our best knight had manners, and he showed up in a Silk Road dream of a robe upon the liquid gold of a satin pyjama, barefoot, followed by blond Philippe in a deep ultramarine, tone-on-tone over-embroidered djellabah, both already overjoyed with the news they bore. Gauthier kissed everyone and came to Cecile last with funny whirls of his imaginary wings, then seizing her feet telling that no, he had not been one to single her out but one of his close friends did for him, so she belonged to his A-team, if she would, with a salary that made her jolt in disbelief. And whatever happened there, that night, she would still have to finish her extraordinary job on the von Speck chandelier. Sensing some nervous disarray in her new playmate, Fayelle took advantage to grab her tighter and congratulate her. At once, not waiting for an answer, Gauthier as a gangly moth came upon me, as Kate reacquainted herself with her already dearly partner.
Fayelle eloped with Cecile to her room, which was eventually the move to make, and, in our bed, I took, with the operatic Sultan, well-simmered revenge for the night with Lauritz —of which Gauthier did not even know— when I had been demoted to harem slave while he had deflowered the velvet-eyed odalisk, unbeknownst to her. I felt vindicated for my so timid champion, I cherished the golden fleece spear more and again, then swooned under the snowflakes on my evermore Tudor pinnacles.

Probably because I had pulled all the strain at Gauthier’s benefit, as he so deserved and responded, I remained an endless life in Manhattan cliffs like the scarlet crow searching for the bygone chimneys, painfully letting Kate pour some true tick-tocking life in my brains. Then I sprawled like a mindless kitten and grabbed her who smelled of jasmine already.
Most of Cecile’s wares were left, at attention, with a note. She wrote she was fondly grateful, but it was not fitted to stand, day long, hands up, on a trolley. She would wait for me at the end of her day’s work, she did not know what to think of what Mr Gauthier had said.
She had not made herself coffee, I felt bitterly guilty that I had bustled a forthright character with my easy money, and like a temperamental brat, I cried on Kate’s shoulder.
Fayelle, who had spent the night with my crush, as in our twisted world, mocked me. Whatever would go in Cecile’s workday, and she believed it was all for the best, my seduction handiwork remained to be done, Cecile was not like the others in our nevertheless kindly Areopagus, more or less weathered tramps, up for kinky tricks in good humour, no, her charm was of an unadulterated soul, and we could keep that, whatever I had ensnared her at Lauritz’s, the matter was not of a good shag in the arse, they eventually laughed with that.
I decided that the titanium plated on Fayelle’s skull had bestowed her with superior wisdom, and they convinced me to press the soft-pedal, then query our tutors, Hugo and Camille, on Cecile’s needs.
After a day when I forced myself to jot sketches, listening to Fayelle’s reading of Bruno Shulz, and Kate was fascinated, I was howbeit actually beating the pavement downstairs at the von Speck Hôtel at five, to hell what that looked like. When she saw that, Cecile was the wiser one, like she wiped my slate clean, with a smile, and let herself be kissed, whatever the other workers thought. She said she had a new permanent contract with Gauthier’s enterprise, all truthful, with a real-life salary, and he would enrol her for further training at the enterprise’s expense. Yes, he had been suave, letting her think there might be other private occasions, but nothing necessitating to close the door; she had kept that friendly impression that she was part of his world, now.
She wore her old sneakers —pop stars do— inside which I knew what hid, but she otherwise had kept the new fitted jeans on her narrow hips, and the Perfecto we both considered she had earned, and she blushed when I grazed it with the back of my hand, telling it looked good on her.
Sashaying like girls along the noisy quay, I had a hefty bag of beans to spill about what she might wonder about our weird beehive. No, nobody was being trafficked with, sexually or else, and then she had only seen the outskirts of the realm, I, myself, did not seek to know the heart of it, whereas it had been there, operated at my feet in our own studio for months, on a computer much smaller than one would think, by a ravishing blonde with aviator glasses I had nevertheless happily shagged. That would be another surprise.
Down the stairs to the lower quay, I stopped talking, pushed her against the still warm stones and nosed into the jacket along the collarbone, she smelled of household soap, that had been in the shower, mixed with new leather and a hint of sweat on the tee-shirt. I felt her surrender, again, to whatever I would. I made us sit down, only one guitarist played far enough not to bother us.
I waited for her to speak —Automobiles along the river are a major pest, and those who decided for that politic were scumbags, even if they perfumed themselves with a damned art literacy, to hell with Pompidou. I was contemplating Cecile’s hands, perfect nails, and blessed the makers of gloves; she laughed, taken aback, she had perfect teeth, too, bless the social security, she said she wore two pairs on top of the other, and Gauthier had checked that, too, giving her credit for as many gloves and masks as it took. In a moment when she had believed he would strip her undone, he had confided in her naive ear that until then, he worked only for the wealthiest, and should hope it would last like so. —Did she want to spend a season restoring Art Deco pieces in an apartment in New York? She might even take one of us along with her.
She remained in two minds, like in those dreams when the train goes insensibly faster and faster and one can never board —like sung the guitarist. Now we behaved like a girls’ couple, I offered to make her encounter in historic order the magicians in our lives, no strings attached. For now, she earned what she had earned, she would soon be famous as the chandelier girl, in the trade. I called Camille’s and Fanny answered. After a short blank, she said it would be sweet to meet Cecile and me around ten, after a pain-in-the-neck dinner Camille could not afford to avoid.

There was time, I took her to a quaint little place in the middle of that chunk of a maze that has survived between the Seine and the Boulevard Saint Germain. One of the stations where, in the days, I had tried to draw Kate’s attention, and none of my Swiss tricks would do, she was already an out-and-out slut for Victor, did I learn later. Not that she would shun me, but she made me resent I was all too plain for her, sexually —had she only known the wealth of turpitudes I had spun in the green paradise— she had enraged me until we found ourselves both trapped into Camille’s kindly web, and then she ran to perdition in Berlin’s underworld and no friend.
Cecile would not understand much of what I tried to unfurl for her. By now, she listened to my tales as I would have read Jane Austen or William Burroughs for her, but she was beginning to keep her eyes in mine and accept my touches as such. My vague Denmark and the East River did not make images for her, and I did not confide in my intimate drama, but Camille’s fairy tale enthralled her, and it was only a tiny thread of it.
This ageless restaurant bluntly called “La Marmite” was run by two grumpy old matrons, Suzanne and Maureen, and their metis daughter Alexandra. I have known them since I arrived in Paris, they love me as they do Kate, each time they put up an endless play as to why we do not come anymore and they are not stylish enough for us ladies, but there, they kept smiley but speechless, waiting for me to say I had not estranged from Kate, dumbfounded by the disarming charm of my vis-a-vis, whom they knew to read I was wooing. So I took my little girl tone to give news of Kate and all those lovely lesbians they counted us with, and they brought a hefty clay Römertopf brick that exhaled a cloud of motherly love when she lifted the top, and in another pan were fresh spaetzles to go with. Suzanne took pretext and looked Cecile in the eyes to tell her there was no obligation to finish, she would be honoured to accommodate her leftovers, punctuated with a tingy “darling” and an indiscernible knock of her elbow on my shoulder, I stifled a laugh in the grand napkin, Cecile blushed like a cherry tree, Suzanne was overjoyed. We actually did justice to the Alsacian-vegan pride, and no traces left, like people’s brats, she had been hands-up all day, burning carbs, and she could still bite a couple of bettelmans with black maraschino cherries on, mind you. After the swift draw of my card, we had to leave, and I did not prevent them from hugging my Cecile.
Well-fed, we strolled up to Camille’s in time, ringing at the all-new secured portal blocking altogether the entrance to the gallery and the home, that we had known more like a merry windmill, in the old days. I could sense that never would have Cecile walked inside at random, like many of us —darlings— had done, once.
Fanny tiptoed with joy as she greeted us welcome, she was radiant in some risqué sort of gym suit unmistakably Missoni pearly blue gleamy futurist, barefoot, she slid herself into the Perfecto, that near to smooching a dumbfounded Cecile. She smelled of jonquils in the sea breeze, I had a premonition that Hugo might invite Cecile to the islands of Scilly next season. Camille was princely, her bushy blonde mane still as silky as the dawn, she smelled of impudent gardenia as she seized my waist, if not my butt, we kissed as ever, full mouth, and she swiftly turned to Cecile, right like I had expected, she fell for her at once.
It was easy, she was no stranger, and certainly not inaccessible since she went out with my sort. I had seen Camille do with Lizon and Fayelle before, she could not misstep, her green eyes in Cecile’s dark unsettling ones in the shade of her wild fringe and frank brows, she took the heavy jacket at the collar and made it slide back, gently forcing her to reveal her shy breasts in the tee-shirt, in a split second, Cecile recollected all that I had said of Camille as our mentor.

The grand sandy hues apartment had not changed, as of yet, since Camille had become a considerable heiress, only a few more paintings gave a hint of her new might, and a tall six-panel gold lacquered with coloured birds screen by Jean Dunand. A triptych by Leonor Fini showed immodest courtisanes with meticulously depicted labia, in otherwise lavish outfits, of what the painter herself might have regaled a dying Marquess with. A large, all proportions kept, drawing by Hans Bellmer, which contorted, as per usual with an artist who had dwelled perpetually in carnal extremes, a whirl of interpenetrations, on matte soft-rose paper, framed in a bevelled mirror frame, gave Cecile a delicious hip sway that made Camille all the richer.
At the first tier of small-talk, there were three of us niggled by the necessity to unclad the tenderfoot, and so I started with her sneakers and socks, matter-of-factly, as Camille was, with Fanny on her chest, offloading her résumé, regardless of Cecile’s awe, leading me to fondle her chest to help her breathe. These were the burning roots of a hellish character, indeed, and Camille might have avoided the scary prelude, had I not been cuddling my candid trove of a girl. We had not yet heard a word of Fanny’s history, had we?
Rid of the poisonous core of her tale, Camille knew where she sailed towards when she relived her life of inescapable prostitution, showing evidence of a resilient soul. She had been so lucky while she skirted, at such a young age, she said, the mucky trails of alcohol, drugs, and suicide, the latter having been a longtime refrain in her tune. Only she had been fast, grabbing the basics at school while she made her rent with her bum, that kind of undetectable evil when the abuser is cunning enough not to leave traces, all until she met one elephant, she called them, who gave her, for free, apart what he made her do, a few fruitful addresses, amongst which Hugo’s, who loved little prostitutes but sent her back in school and upwards, on top of shagging her relentlessly, till now.
That was a fierce cavalcade for a shy loner, of whom I was, all the same, riding down the zip of her jeans, probably because she felt the smooth sofa velvet would set her best? Fanny, her periwinkle eyes rounded, came playfully to the rescue when the matter was to slide the pants away and remained at Cecile’s knees, chasing shudders on her thighs, skirting the elastic of her knickers with a dainty finger, ostensibly getting inebriated in the smell of her.
Then I pulled the tee-shirt away and Fanny the last patch of cotton, Cecile shook off her mane, which was her own way of hairstyling, and she was as disarming as a Burne-Jones captive. Camille said it would be time for her to show her cards, Fanny’s life could not be spilt like pebbles, she might invite Cecile in private to let her know, notwithstanding, she looked bedazzling.
Cecile was convinced that there was not much about herself, while our assiduous trio, less and lesser dressed, begged for details of her childhood, her waking to what she looked like now, but there was nothing she would want to say of her parents, except cry helplessly, and it appeared she had altogether shunned life as it went, collecting heaps of small heart tokens while learning techniques and skills of the art realm. She was constantly taking me for a witness, and she let out the event with Gauthier its consequences, to what Fanny applauded.

Camille had slowed the pace of passion, impressed by Cecile’s candour, but each of us relished a new feature of the girl. She wondered how a person could be living in a museum, I retorted she was currently working in such a private place no one knew about, and I had seen enough of them to keep her busy her whole life, with the talent I had seen of her and the famed social skills of Gauthier’s.
At least, Camille was aroused, all the more sharing her discovery with us. She asked Cecile to walk a bit, like a model, and she was excitingly docile, straightening up her shoulder line, stretching the legs, she kept saying she knew nothing but she eventually came to avow to have watched plenty of photos in the many magazines her mother sold, then, she told that, like all kids, as soon as she was granted a laptop at school, she had known where the free porn was, and not always the bad one, at twelve. otherwise, she had grasped not to go on the social networks, and fend off all the unsolicited mailings, she only had an official Gmail address, and used filters.
Thus, she wasn’t what kids call a retard, she was a luckily preserved working-class lily, the kind I had obviously never met, and I told her that, before I bribed her again into whoredom, so she would not think I manipulated her virgin soul.
She agreed to live with us, we would go together to pack her things in Ivry, she would camp around, and we might even find her a more private room. In the middle of the night, we called a car, she liked cuddling in a big car, and I would invite her on longer rides in bigger cars —if she liked.
The next morning, she had used the coffeemaker and cleaned it. The Doc Martens were missing, she had unpacked the tee shirts we had bought, hopefully, she had moved in.
I called Hugo, who knew already from two directions that there was a new bird in the dovecot, he wanted to have us that very evening, he deemed great importance to Camille’s advice, who had hailed my daintiness, besides my greediness for new pussy. Gauthier had taken time to retell the chandelier affair, and how my eye had been sharp enough to single the baby in the air.
At six, Cecile called from downstairs, I gave her the code and opened the second door, it had never been easy to come into our home. Because of TRÆVIX, there would soon be biometric cards for everyone, what colour would it be?
Yes, she was my warrior with tough shoes and a Perfecto, but with the money she had earned, she had bought new sneakers and a hoodie, she said. The chandelier was clean to the taste of Gauthier’s, the electrician would rewire it the next day. There were a dozen more lighting sculptures to take care of in the house. He had been overjoyed to see the big one, he had heavily hit on her, she had not known what to say, telling him I had things to see with her. As I was decorticating her armour, starting with her slender feet, then all the rest, I bantered on how much we should ask, now that he had tasted the fruit? It took her aback, for three seconds, and then she burst into laughter. She had also bought some Cologne shower gel, in her jeans it smelled of bliss.
I told her we were awaited by our grand Sorcerer for a night of magic, and so I would dress us as ladies of pleasure, which did not mean slaughter, our host was a true gentleman, she made me swear and spit on her quim.
In the lustful vein, I slid onto her an azurite blue long sleeves flared silk-twill gown lined in matching satin, all front-opened with only one gold button, it was an Ottoman delight to see her manoeuvre it around her lanky body, I made her note we weren’t leaving the house, we would go barefoot, but we could meet other boarders, which happened when Annabelle came down to find something to eat and did not think she needed permission and it went fine.
For myself, I knew I would please Hugo by wearing one of my heavy silk satin pyjamas, open fly, as Cecile could check, and Annabelle, navy-night and silver trimmings, we made such a couple of harlots that Annabelle, a bona fide damsel, was all aroused. She explained to Cecile where she slept.

As a homage to Hugo’s creativity, I chose to dare him to perfume our evening, both of us. He knows my skin like his first counting rhyme, but there would be a novelty, a particularly white one.
In a gold, red and blue Ikat robe, he greeted us with played greediness and knelt down to kiss Cecile’s feet, while she was all eyes for the fervently perverted version of a memorial iconostasis, a collection of mostly anonymous —for a reason— erotic depictions and lewd poses in the same labour of love quality as the so-boring tokens of universal bigotry.
She felt the layers of silk rugs at her feet while he chased up shivers inside her fluttering gown, then he thrust his fingers in the depth of her nape’s fleece and bent her face to the light, I knew what he was feasting his eyes off, beyond the freshness of youth, it was the true candour of the wild rose the gardener clears from the bramble, to share the witness of with a neighbouring soul, be her in pyjamas.
He sure groped Cecile any old manners as he led us, a crystal goblet of orgeat drink in hand, overseeing a few silky open beds, all of which I had been pushed into, once and again, at will or at a whim.
We reached the Ottoman harem lounge, she had never imagined she would once walk into such excessiveness, I would swear I saw a veil of dew on her forehead. Myself, I had not been brought there in a while, as to be shared with Hugo’s debaucher co-conspirators, the room was worthy not only of Topkapi palace but also the sublime skills of Al Andalus and the perversity of the demented age of the grand cosmopolitan brothels.
Three tall windows were glazed with geometric grids of contrasted multicoloured glass rear-lit at will; two grand French rock-crystal and gilt bronze chandeliers hung low over Pietre Dure round low tables; a centre divan of turquoise blue buttoned leather could receive the exhibitions of a herd in furore.
All around the room, fitted sofas welcomed guests of all minds —and Cecile was astounded by the capacity, I concurred I had seen crowds in there— a row of small columns ran atop the backs of the low seats, in different coloured stones, supporting little arches in black marble inlaid of mother-of-pearl; between them, the wall was clad with precious Persian ceramics in patterns of different stylised flowers. Drawn from the two hooks of the chandeliers, a web of gilt wood encased a swarm of little blown mirrors, til a cornice of convoluted gilded stucco clouds.
She couldn’t help toppling over on the centre bed, and we had known she would, she was so overwhelmed by so much fine labour in the privacy of a pleasure venue, she only once had resented an emotion so eerie, watching the ballroom of the Palazzo Valguarnera-Gangi in the movie Il Gattopardo —she had so identified with Claudia Cardinale, whose dark eyes looked at her.
Hugo displayed her hair around her face and watched me diddle her to a good ending, spread out in the circle of nightly silk.

She didn’t comprehend why I could entice her into doing anything —like selling her virginity to some apparent high-roller, who revealed himself a decent player— for her own best, so it seemed, or else rest laid, like so, available for someone she did not know but commanded a heap of unsuspected treasures. On the spur of one moment, she had fatefully clutched on me, and for all it had brought, as of yet, thankfully.
Hugo held the wild child’s head on his lap but he had not pulled his clothes aside, although I could swear he was stiff as a bamboo. Instead of requesting her mouth, he was unclothing me first, there would be more steps to relish, in all well-intended debauchery. As I served him my best, I played our tongues alternately so as she ended sucking along with me and then for good to what they call the bitter end that I shared as a good comrade.
And there we lay in the merry company and an extra I had not known before brought tea and nibbles on a silver tray, causing deliciously modest expressions on Cecile’s face. From then, Hugo would certainly ask her soon for a journey en tête-à-tête, wherefrom she would come back crowned as a frank libertine, but here he kept watching like he would have a newly acquired, secret, chryselephantine Chiparus.
Nonetheless, as for teaching good manners, he harboured grand tastes. As by magic, the smoothest aleatory music on a glass harmonica became heard from virtually nowhere, like the aeolian harp touched by some delusory god, and the bronze-toned extra approached on my side, grazing my cheek with the bulging pleats of his trousers, ostentatiously, like a good soldier. I had been consecrated to parade my easy arse for the edification of a Princess-to-be. Had I not guessed the young stooge had such a light-hearted mission on his badge? Hugo knows with me any lusty and polite goon will do, and this one was a thoroughbred Berber, doubtlessly from Sami’s brigade, I began at his feet.
Cecile was reclining over Hugo, so as he made her spread her thighs just as if she was next on the show, her gaze from under, like a mischievous brat, with a tight-lipped, half-baked, smile, not so long as Dris unsheathed his impressive weapon from my overflowed mouth and shoved it to the hilt in my blooming cunt, and furthermore unstoppable into my pleated rosebud, leaving me washed ashore, as the other days’ cossacks had taught me.
This one was not extinct, he relished his tea with some sugar and the best of his homeland delicacies, preening my hair over my ears, considerate and thankful, but now he fiddled with Cecile’s toes, and Hugo’s eyes were still bright, and her gazes were swift. Dris could have tamed a wild fawn with the sleight of his hand, but she had not foreseen to withdraw her ankle, nor any of her body, in the heady scent of our free flows, and I helped her take him in, still tense, with long sighs, and soon vibrant moanings.
Neither did she sway to avoid when Hugo, who supported her, pulled up her legs to let her buttcheeks spread and take way to her not so shy hole I had seen buggered before. As I offered my ravaged pussy to her well-intended mouth, I glimpsed at a quiet sister soul exulting, while another tongue blessed my relaxed little ring.

There, she had tasted a good swig of my discharge, I licked all of her face like a puppy while Hugo had fun pissing in our bumholes, in the patchy ceramics round shower room, a collection of pillaged tiles from the Silk Road ruins. Cecile knew what an enema was, there was a gilded bowl to evacuate and any smell soon disappeared. She was clung to my shoulders and begged for my eyes at all times, there wouldn’t be any reason why I should tire of this, anyone could see the bond.
Dris had vanished, but I knew we would feel him again before long, if I was to take Cecile to Philippe’s, to further her education, and apropos, she was to get up early, so Hugo, after he gave her a bottle of “Juniper, Ginger and Angelica”, a boyish enough scent to wear while working manually, and arouse the herd at the end of her day —if she felt like it. I dozed out in the images of her running through the high hays of a Miyazaki springtime.
Liselotte had been eager to meet my new flame, not only that I may allow her to inhale the flower of her armpits, but it had been retold that together, we did such an exciting sisterly pair. No way could she visit the grand procuress, one who could entrust her to whichever social acquaintances she might use at will —Natalia and the girls would tell her— in her butch armour, even if, once the leather was gently broken-in, she was all the sexier, beating the pavement clad as so. She did not question my playing doll with her in the vestiary, she agreed to wear, like me again, the kind of flared shirt-dress that let you butt-naked at a whim of your cavalier. Hers was up the knees, elbow-long sleeves, dark indigo milleraies velvet with a round collar and white piping trim, she could play the schoolgirl of the brothel, but we needed, say, Mary Janes her size, so we ran to rue du Bac —and profited to buy also calissons for Liselotte, a big diamond box of coochie-shaped nibbles— where she changed from bulky Docs to navy-blue patent flats one needs a hook to clip on, they also had opaline-white stockings. I donned a black, silk panne velvet, double-breasted, shawl lapels dress too short to wear stockings, but black no-crotch tights, and black patent boy’s court slippers with a grosgrain tip. She could wear her new signature scent, I put on the “iris, violet and ambergris” only Hugo could ever afford, knowing our naughty pair would knock down the sultriest of connoisseuses. At the last second, I bestowed her a choker of pearls, like some heartwrenching daddy’s girls’ wear.
It was only a gentle stroll away, we held hands. Liselotte invited us to her top perch, all sizzling at the sight of my find, and she demonstrated utter talent in finding the exact tuning of voice not to let Cecile clam shut. Before we sat, she held her hands, watched her, smelled her, complimented the stylist, and caught the troubling stare. She said mezzo-voce that Cecile knew probably who she was and what she randomly did, but she needed not to know more of Cecile’s, but she craved to see all of her. That had been bluntly saying. No sooner as she kissed my mouth, she slid a hand through my dress to take a whiff of my scent, from my holy slit.
She pressed the diamond-shaped box on her chest and bantered that we had, eventually, become old ladies, but she rested the delicacies and drew Cecile down at her side into one of the two deep, buttoned, maroon wool-velvet sofas I wondered how she could have had them hauled therein.
She had sensed Cecile was in my perverted influence, so, as if she was invincibly drawn by her perfume, she nosed in her neck and released one button, another, swayed so Cecile would bend on her shoulder, giving her way to throw her own left arm over her head, so as when she turned her head completely, they kissed while the right hand was grazing higher than her stockings.
I revelled in the savoir-faire of our true Queen-slut. In the froufrous of stuffs, I only murmured to Cecile how she was irresistible.

Liselotte had been pondering upon whom, amongst her influential patrons, might deserve a tad of carelessness in such a lovely game, thus worthy of any endeavour Cecile might set sail towards. Gauthier’s recommendation would, nowadays, suffice with most of the pundits she knew inside out, and she would, furthermore, hear what Hugo had to dream about.
Thence, having meandered these blistering concepts while twiddling the core argument of the poem, she suggested, at present, to look into what she was expected to offer to the meanest of clientèle. Turning to me, as she would dare some manner of a rival, she floated that she was in the know of a nearby trio of healthy schoolboys fundamentally devoted to demonstrating their generosity, and she burned to peep at the cries of her sweet cavalière. While she went for the door, I jumped on my protégée to fathom her heart and loins, she sniggered it couldn’t be worse than the previous gambols, could it?
All had been devised as an ambush, and the three stooges were all, save your garden variety wankers, card-carrier Philippe’s extras, best Cologne smelling buddies who had all shagged me at least once before. Finding themselves in company with bona fide Canova models, the least curtesy was to disrobe at once and let see the tension we had caused, in the tinkling laughs of Mother Goose herself in sapphire velvet mules, who chose, as the Madam of the house, the first allocations, handing the delicate Cecile over to a thick-set horseman, with feet double those of his prey, membered like a fair attraction, worthy of the moniker vine-stock in the deeper steam-rooms of the Palais-Royal. I was honoured by some cousin of my occasionally regretted Cossack, with a slanting stream of dirty blond hair and enough manners to wake me up at the tip of a vigorous tongue, whenas the supple Cecile arched backwards to suck all she could of her porter and thus offered her coochie to our host who was herself slain to the guard by a straight, long, warm sword of a penis at the pace of the hussars. No sooner had Cecile been put to the challenge to gulp the shot than she was pulled upon an armrest to be steadily threaded in by the most impressive chuck of the three, patiently, as she released the young discharge that this ploy anew of debauchery in confidence triggered, and again. The bulky operator had not been assigned with an evil mind, Liselotte knew his loving patience, she had witnessed him force mercy into the tautest of bumholes and hail victory, at his partner’s amazement, after an endless effort; he would have cried shame if anything had broke. Now, unfailingly, she would receive the opportunist homage of the two others in her suppler sheath, and overpour of so many discharges.
It had probably been Liselotte’s design to test my novice to the most, but regarding the rear path, it went in reverse and so it was the steely long one who opened the way —which I knew was no more virgin, not even close, now— with help of a lotus-smelling gooey gel that slid like bliss, while she gently lapped at my carnal frills.
Jam-packed as a bunker at wartime, Liselotte’s bathroom showed more or less of the same, with steam and foam, these merry souls had a lot of stamina, with good humour. Cecile and I enjoyed another humping while embraced, Liselotte was admirative.

Gauthier had made remarks on the fatigue-rings to Cecile’s eyes, on the mode that he, too, would love a bite of the fruit, as I should know. He reported that Lauritz came sniffing around like a mad wolf since something had happened that I probably knew of. I made him two promises, but at least for a few days, Cecile would go to bed early, with me.
Nothing would be more aleatory than my words about our schedule, and, for one, Lauritz was not small potatoes, now that he would hold court in the very heart of Paris, in own of the most astounding decor. There might be some windfall for Cecile’s fate, whatever gives…
My mind set on the good humour we had enjoyed in our parties in the whirling lights, I called Lauritz about nothing. I sailed the phonesex upwind like a cunning vixen, bringing him to name a price for a weekend in my pants, and I was proud enough of my worth, but would he overbid in the case of Cecile, hands and feet tied, on his carpet? He doubled the figure —tough on me— and thus I took him to his word, on condition that he clammed up and he let the girl in peace, till Friday. I asked for one hour to answer in Cecile’s name.
I danced her to the bed, she had been willing before at a week’s salary rate, now the Prince of Hamburg granted a month’s worth for two nights of virtue, would she sell? Without me, this time, he wouldn’t care for a shoehorn. Kate and Fayelle had been coddling each other’s brain box in the depth of one’s new room, they found us revelling in our débauché plot, which they envied, with full knowledge of the gentleman. It boiled over in pretty lewd lucubrations and laughs, so I went isolate my answering call in the studio, where I found a tranquil Annabelle in contemplation of a Unica Zürn album, pleasantly barefoot on the red sofa. Obviously, she listened, with a fine grin, to my conversation with Lauritz, and she heard me warn that I would not condone any small bruise on Cecile’s body, then laugh at the answer. When I hung up, she bantered the gesture of lifting her dress and asked me if I would be her pimp, too? We had some tender moments, I promised I would sell her to the Northern Lord, then I asked her downstairs, for it was pecking and babbling time. She had not yet plainly seen Cecile in all her clear details, so she was moved —like we all were.

By Friday afternoon, she had clocked out early to find me in the studio, where the mood had been of perennial exile from nowhere land to the mirage of Cinnamon shops, and Fayelle’s voice bloomed like hawthorns under black clouds. Cecile knew —for I had sung it— that I got my best high these days when I unbuckled her jeans and smelled the soap and sweat mix of her cotton underwear, same with the white socks. Kate watched, in wait, like the most selfless comrade this side of Utopia, for the minute I would grant her a sip of my new bliss.
We ran down to the wardrobe, her holding her pants up by one hand, because she had her grand appointment and another perfume to wear, although she seemed to distance herself —a trait that would yield her all the more lethal, on this facet of her career— While considering with me the most overwhelming backdrop for her candid jewel.
I felt the thrill to bedizen another self, with the tricky black eyes and the same angelic hips, same unaware butt, a whiter shade of pale. In the angle of the mirrors, I detailed her profile, differences were minute, forehead a dash more rounded, tiny cheekbone bumps, nose a tad longer and angled, a timid smidgen lump at the chin. She sported the same high slender neck, small cockleshell ears, stark charcoal paraph brows that spice our gazes.
She had been so docile with me, I wondered how she would respond to Lauritz on her own, now the marbles had been tossed. She stood bare in the soft light, I came to envy her small clouds of breasts, I fondled them from behind and made her soft on her knees.
In one of the frosty garment bags hanging there, was a sleek black, fitted, ratine redingote, adorned with gleamy black great mourning braids and lined with shivering crystal-patterned purple silk brocade, buttoned with small jet balls down to the lower belly. In that single piece of pomp costume, she could go with nought other, save some black moire cape, and black suede ballerines I had ordered in her size.
She had only time left to suffer the wax, the week next she would start a full body laser, like us, at the clinic and she would feel like a baby. She bit a wisp of the sheet, of pain, a few times, but after a lukewarm shower, the enema, a massage with the magic balm and a thorough wanking as a premium, she had become the utmost delight a Hanseatic heir could wish for, had it cost him a feather of his hat.
Kate and Fayelle had come to see the Friday girl, who did not protest at furtive touches to her perfumed quim. She made a giddy impression, as I tousled up her natural curls. I did not resist riding the car with her to the Quai aux Fleurs, where Lauritz waited, all sleek in black silk, he did not see me.

However happy, or envious, it had made us three to send her on a rich date —we had our share, hadn’t we? I had called Sami for a not so uncanny request, he mastered a perpetual Rolodex of refined debauchers who trusted his interpersonal skills —and would not baulk at expenses, in all senses.
Fayelle was like new, she had never seen any more axolotls, her sailor boy curls and leaner belly did marvel with white bell-bottom fall-front trousers and black-and-white boat-collar shirt, under a padded black twill caban a tad girlier.
Kate, too, had been somewhat snubbed by the resplendence of my new paramour, she mulled over some whorific outfit to un-wear with zest. She pulled out a wavy-knit jade silk jersey mid-thigh dress, with a scarf collar open down to her butt crack and armholes to the waist, so she could be ogled and groped in style. She would, too, go bare in thin silver straps sandals. I helped her make a curly updo in an elastic band, it called for kisses in her gracile neck. To make it so obvious, she buckled on a heavy contention collar in padded leather and steel that made me wet only watching her stare as so.
The only way apparently left for me to up the ante would have been to go in the raw, with a choker of sapphires, that would be a tad far-fetched, even in Sami’s car. In my turn, I felt like wearing the naughty tux, tropical-night silk velvet, lined in ultramarine satin, with crossed moire lapels, a diamonds brooch with a hazel-size blue spinel in the midst of it.
According to the elegant cocotes’ unwritten etiquette, this would be anything but a dinner party, and even if there turned out to be food, it would be richer to shun it, so we consoled our tummies in advance by way of calissons, riz à l’Impératrice, and Turkish delights, on the fly.
There was a one-piece black leather couch at the rear of the grand berline, and Sami had unfolded a jump seat from where he could watch and feel up to our pussies. He did not recognise the slim sailor and did not touch her knees until Fayelle revealed herself and let him unbutton her trousers to slide a hand. He noted that stockings or tights had been out of fashion that night. I let him crawl to my bumhole, too.
In a curve, we saw the lights of Paris, further below, soon, in the headlights, a double black-lacquered metal portal opened, and a colossal black athlete in a black suit ushered us in a neatly clipped park with modern sculptures by Calder, red on a lawn, and Augustin Cardenas upon white marble cubes. The car stopped under a glass marquise, before low steps to three bronze glazed doors. Black lacqueys in red vests stood at attention, holding their hands.
Yet another giant in a black suit saluted us, asked in pure English that we shut off our telephones and deposit them in a Victorian silver-repoussé jungle motive box, and led us through a mirrored door to a corridor that led to an all-glazed gallery that gave onto a second, bigger conservatory with a stained-glass roof. On both sides, long madder-red banquettes ran along the walls under draped El-Anatsui metal tapestries. From the left side entered an imposing African character in a gold-embroidered peacock blue gown, followed by a leaner one in a same-coloured gown, apparently the son.
The doors to the conservatory were pushed open, a warm breeze of Ylang Ylang fanned out, and a flock of exotic butterflies disbanded upwards to the multicoloured glass ceiling.
Our host —he was the most obvious alpha male I had ever felt— told us in the most class-coined Oxbridge accent that this conservatory of Zanzibar spice plants had been organised only so as to keep live butterflies, for he detested the dead ones in boxes, or, as of lately, pasted up as mandalas.
As the fluttering gems came back, curious of us, the Master of the place began tentatively to undress us one and the next, vaunting our coloured attires he let rest upon branches around, and we were naked. All around were large stools of padded crimson velvet on gilded wood carved in the shapes of ropes, he softly pulled Kate backwards upon one of them, as himself sat on the next, and asked her to open her legs, to let him graze her quim with some sort of syrup which took no time to attract the flickering crowds, making her moan as the Master thrust his tongue in her mouth.
The younger Sir was already smitten for my bum and tapped his fingertips up and down my proud abdominals, from my back where he made me already feel his nervous rod under the thin stiff cloth of his grand Boubou.

Someone must have helped him disrobe, for I soon felt a firm, warm body against mine and a glider shaft enter my bumhole as I was pushed down bent over a stool and so I had to part my legs. It was a sturdy long willy that succeeded to his balls and took its time knotting my entrails.
A manner of throne had been rolled in for the Master, two servants had pulled the gown over his head so he lay belly up and ordered fluffy-pussy Kate to come to sit her arse on his pride pole, while Fayelle’s pale orchid was carried up to his licking suckling mouth.
The iridescent blue, green, white, and all shades in-between, butterflies seemed aroused by the moves, the sweats and smells our group stirred up, with the nimbleness it took, not to be touched in our pleasure jolts.
My Prince was first to gush in me roaring, seizing my head back up to mumble unintelligible sarcasm in my ear, as I rather heard bells carillons in my blood pulse, and he didn’t care if I would know what he had said to my body.
The patriarch then discharged copiously —or was it that Kate accompanied him— so her lower belly flourished with flickering petals and they both rejected their heads back. Fayelle jumped off the massive neck.
In a fast vernacular, the patriarch gave such an order that one of the men in wait, who had already disrobed, seized Fayelle’s arms and forced a tauten up rod in her drooly minge over the stool, making her vocalise funny when he humped against the wall of her womb till he unbunged his load at no end. Then he held her ankles higher and went on in the lesser hatch all the way, at her great cries of passion.
The glimmering blue and green swarm was bustled away when a new colossus surged on and turned Kate face to the Master, who no sooner encunted her, and possessed the released bootyhole in one or two easy jostles, she was chock-full of their raging strain, but she lay her cheek on the Master’s chest, helping the tempo with the swirl of her hips, singing.
The signal had been heard for an open circus, in the conservatory, the sweet coloured angels remained up in the sphere, while we were shared at envy long after the Masters had gone, like what deserved the rich whores of our kind. Eventually, when we had surrendered all our wits, someone ordered we be brought to a grand gold mosaic basin filled with tepid rose water, after we could have expelled the traces of all these beautiful bullies in us, I could have spent days in such a bath, my whole belly was purring.
Long later, but before the water chilled, the light was gradually augmented and we could see that one of the blue flutter souls had followed us and clung to the painted tropical canopy on the oval domed ceiling. Two servants in red vests and bulgy trousers brought oversized towels and our vestures.
Sami, who had slept in an armchair in a waiting room, met us in the corridor where we were restituted our telephones, as well as little red-lacquered gift pouches and so we ran to the car. Sami was morose, obviously, he had not foreseen he would be treated as a mere flunky, and he mumbled it had been a matter of skin colour.
Looking at my pals, I read the same as I was thinking, that once the steam had been turned up, one or two more were an easy premium, so, Sami’s eyes lit up when we suggested they sopped the car in the far end of the Bois de Boulogne. The chauffeur, a regular, joined us as Sami had already his dick in my mouth, he lowered his trousers and threaded Fayelle in her pale back. We strived heartfully at emptying their sacks, when a few flashlights began glorifying our lewd mishmash, with cheering comments and splurts on the windows. The chauffeur had to climb over to go back to his seat. As per usual, Sami went on in Kate’s frenzied bottom till the last seconds, the car waited in front of the Legion Of Honour that he discharged a last one.
Fayelle decided that we take the elevator, it was the dead of the night, but we ran under the shower, like the filthy brats we had been. Still enamoured with each other, Fayelle straddling on my lap —her quim was all smooth and tepid— we looked into the gift bags to find bulgy envelopes and big-name red leather boxes containing three colours of gem line bracelets, sapphire —I opted— emerald, and topaz, so the count was right. On the envelopes, it was handwritten a thank you for our unbounded zeal. The amount left Fayelle speechless.

 

Kate says:

It would be a late brunch, Natalia and Beryl too, had overspent their precious hide, they relished massaging my sore shoulders as I retold bits of what I remembered, a line of emeralds at my wrist asserting we had been accomplished harlots, for a price. The two buddies finely laughed, because they, too, had fired their loins up, for some wealth. Liselotte had sent them to a top arcane psycho-analyst, the like you find only in Paris or Buenos Aires, for an “über-privaat seminar” of which neither recalled the matter.
Natalia, who had been genuinely relieved that we did not hold Victor’s misdeed against her soul-mate Beryl, had inextinguishable stamina when bantering her tricks with bigwig pill-popping men. My two harassed bedfellows, hearing the beloved voice, and still not tired of naughty gambols, her nifty holes rested, dawdled to the breakfast club enlaced like kindergarten buddies. Sarah was all the same not able to cook, even French toasts, so we ordered boxes of croissants, chocolate rolls, pastéis de nata, and some black cherry bettelmans that Natalia did not know of, yet.
There had been twelve —twelve?— disciples with the one that refuted any variety of titles, plus a sexually undetermined secretary. The two younglings had had to dress like little girls, white socks and black Mary Janes, dreary grey flannel skirts, white shirt with round collar and V-neck jumper with cable stitches, one spinach green, the other navy blue. the underwear would be a white ribbed jersey pure cotton knicker and a simple, white thin straps undershirt. They should be close friends in earnest, it had been stipulated, and they would be interrogated one about the other.
Nought makeup, nor nail varnish, hands or toes, thorough cleaning and enema, it would be all checked for. The reward was fat, but Liselotte had apprised the girls that it would most certainly evolve in the weird, as she remembered for herself, although the patrons would not condone any farcical twist in their set-up. Having been nurtured in Victor’s toxic backstages, Beryl owned a mite more acquaintance with the contemporary vernacular to which our schoolgirls’ gig might pertain, and of all magical gifts, her and Natalia interconnected by telepathy —like the magic horse— so they would overbid the Manitou’s wordplays towards carnal candy, for their money’s worth, as always given the imarcessible limits as to sadism and scatophagy, which could seem not self-evident for psychiatrists.
The tale promised some saucy twists and turns, and since we had the two cheeky lasses with us, we saw it had not become sour whatsoever, I drew them along on a sofa, manoeuvering to rip off their jeans first. They smelled like lively trouts in the watercress, like raspberries in the chilly dew, like they always did in my morning bed.
Dressed as dorks under their macs, they had walked to the puppeteer’s siege, minutes away from here, and repeated in the interphone that they were the sorry orphans.

Natalia retells:

There was a smaller door cut in the grand multi-centennial portal, and a resounding echo under the high vault closed, at the far end, by coloured, warped glazings on a dark yard. A big opal globe in a metal wire net dispensed a mean, yellowish light over two stone steps that led to a low-climbing white marble staircase, with a gracious iron and wood bannister, that led to a shady landing with distorting mirrored doors. One leaf was pulled open as we reached, hand in hand, the red and white checkered floor. A tall, sinister character in a shabby grey tweed jacket, shirt and trousers ushered us in a large room that might have been a ballroom long ago, lit by an uneven circle of candles on side tables next to the austere middle to aged men in nineteenth-century opulent-looking armchairs.
The vague factotum took away our macs with somewhat annoyed gestures and went to hang them in the entry corridor before locking the doors, then disappeared behind the sinister Areopagus, near three tall windows occulted with sombre red curtains. We stood in the centre oval of a wall to wall savonnerie carpet representing a faded cornucopia against a sunset sky. Before us was a low table with an apple on a little silver plate, on it.
The old man sitting in front of us in the axis of the room spoke with some manner of abrasive growl, he asked us our names, and straightforwardly what was our relationship and how we found ourselves there, with them. A few times he took a second and ordered us not to budge.
The faint noise of all the breathings was thickening as we spun the perfect yarn for them. After a pause, the apparent leader said the questions could go, so, still standing with our hands in our backs, we could feed the ghosts with our more and more lustful tales, well beyond what they had expected, without ever getting at odds with ourselves, since it was the truth.
We heard rufflings in the dark of the armchairs, at one time, the mastering voice spoke high in a language I did not know, so the grey goon came up with handcuffs for us, then the voice ordered us to eat the apple, as we could, to the core. We started bending over on each side to bite the fruit, we needed each other to push it. It rolled away on the carpet, we were ordered to pursue, like dogs. The apple went against some fine bespoke Derby shoes, with black silk socks in them, the owner did not move, but I felt his hand sliding under my skirt, all very kindly. His feet smelled like the cork of an ageless brandy, I was wetting myself.
There were cheers, like a sporting event, and surreptitiously the apple was replaced with a new one, and so we went offering our bum cheeks here and there for a while. Then it was enough, we were dishevelled and reddened, our common minion helped us up, wiped our faces with hot towels, wisened our hair and pulled down our knickers to mid-thigh. We stood like so as we recovered our breath, then the growl called us near, waving me closer, then fingering my holes with dexterity and smelling his manicured fingers. He told us to go to the doctors, who all wanted to palpate mostly our bumholes but avoided any hurry, scratch or discomfort. There were totally arcane comments, some others blandly obscene. They all smelled expensive Colognes.
Dicks were beginning to show up, and soon we had to suckle with no hands, but the Main speaking called us back to the centre. As we were, said he, we should take off our shoes and one sock. It probably was enjoyable for them to watch us contort, our privates already in bloom and wet. The goon came to take off our jumpers, not caring to arrange our shirts that had come out at our waists and took our stuff aside.
We were told to stand like so as a kind of verbal jousting unfurled with a sensitive fervour, an expense of metaphors and much applauded quotes I did not understand, at all. I looked at Beryl, whose eyes shone with lust, and I was a whore through and through.
It was easy to unzip the skirt and let it fall but many in the audience wanted to see us in our undershirts, probably lifted a tad up, so our flunky friend uncuffed our wrists so as we could unbutton our shirts calmly, in the continuing flurry of witticisms, and turn on ourselves to show our bums, then walk to the eager hands and dicks.
Now it had been time for dignified mayhem and spreading our legs on the padded armrests while, trousers down, the luminaries buggered two paid for students clad in one sock and a cotton vest. Some preferred the front, vaunting that they relished kissing the mouth while shagging deep in the cunt.
Unabashedly, they abandoned us on armchairs, intoxicated with words, our raggedy entrails filled with beastly fluids, mind you. The unfazed stooge came up and told us that before he would give us a bath, we ought to let him try each and all of our ways with a long, stiff cock he had pulled out of his fly. I told him he could fuck us all his whim in the tub and around, naked and aroused he no longer looked dreary. We walked back home with only our undershirts and knickers in our macs.

 

Kate says:

Assuredly, hearing Natalia reliving that summit symposium without a dash of discontent drew Fayelle near, to finish in undressing our all-time neighbour and cuddle up with her. We also had heaps to unload, for heaven’s sake, and so did we, until the yawnings became irrepressible so Fayelle took Natalia and Beryl to her bed, and I cuddled my only Sarah all over, who slept already.
It was late morning when my telephone was called by someone who was listed, I did not recall any “Branwell”, but I answered, knowing one would know I had been woken. A sassy voice, but toned down at once, engaged in a vibrant erotic fantasy onboard the Dragon Express, and in a suite at the Carlyle, Allo? I rolled out of bed to go pee, unable yet to return quips when he bantered that he was already wanking for me, did I want a video of that? I caught him up and showed him just what I was at. He laughed like a wild kid. He jumped to it and said he was at the Brighton Hotel, alone in a junior suite, till next morning, with nothing best to do than shag some privileged slut like me.
I reckoned that Sarah, regardless of whom she had devoted her tushy to, lately, would remain all day in wait of Cecile, so smitten had she become. I had no seductive strain to put on with an old shag mate, I slipped on a satin boxer, and a loose-fit, ribbed knit, Ténéré-grey, shawl collar, merinos set, with flared trousers, raw buffalo jodhpur boots, underneath a cashmere wrap-around trench overcoat. If that were not what he had just described that he would likely fuck.
Watching me do, Sarah wanted to know whom I was readying myself for, and I had to tell, and why I had devised to go by myself. Pointing one foot to my face, she laughed that I had guessed right, but she would nevertheless try to get hold of Dagmar’s tight nether cheeks, for the day, and she jested some childish considerations on Branwell’s weenie while rubbing her cooch.
The thought of this high-collar double-breasted wool armour revealed as a brilliant asset on the Senghor Passerelle, unlike that once when we had, like fool-headed, showed our butts to the boatloads of tourists. It was chilly and pearly misty, my heels tocked on the floorboards, the funfair had pulled up stakes, Branwell could already see me through the sparse remnant leaves.
Yes, he had ordered breakfast —although tea would have been the kind that one tames with milk. He had been a while in the Bahamas, his speckles shone like fool’s gold and his amber eyes were set off in girly lashes, his hands could at once grab whatever he pleased.
A low white sun invaded the sober ambience of the room, which could have been a Nordic bachelor pad, only an antique etching represented General LaFayette with feathers on his hat; behind double glazings, I was nude in the light, overlooking the garden, it wasn’t a frequent sensation, he came behind me and made me stretch up, feeling his morning rod on my bum.
I felt lazy, I asked him about his partner Bloom, he responded that she had only been with him haphazardly for these few weeks we met, and she went her way with an astronomer, somewhere on the Chilean highlands; he remembered I fancied her, groping me, he said that had he been a girl he would have been madly bisexual. He pushed me upon the grand bed and managed to hold my head on his dick and fuck my mouth with grace.
He knew some of our events since the Carlyle spree, but he was wide of the mark, he wouldn’t know of all our unconditional adoptions and the rise of TRÆVIX in our heartland; came a point when I wouldn’t speak more of the new configuration of our fancy planet, he should query through other channels upwards in the structure that paid for his travels and accommodations.
After the butterfly binge, I was in no need of sweaty banging, he let me induce some slow meanderings into the tightly muted bubble of the room. I had already lived, in time, moments like this when it felt like wasting one’s soul. He shagged me on the side, rounded and passive, waiting for his spurting like a sleeper.
At random with another teapot, we began trading confidences about our childhoods, and as I made no fuss avowing my special bond to my brother, he released, with some strain, that for him, incest had been harrowing torture. He had a twin sister, Jemima, physically different to him, dark-haired, black eyes, and matte skin. His father was an officer in the Royal Air Force, so, they had lived in sundry locations of the ghost Empire, at the care of nannies, in the kind of grand solitary installations I had known, too. Nobody had paid attention to that they had shared their beds, until around the age of seven, when their shallow-minded mother nevertheless decided to put an end to such a practice they had grown to revel in. It had been not much more than evasive little thrills and puppy games, probably guided au contraire by the verbal frame expressed by the nannies at bath time, appraising the mystery of their mutual corporal nether regions. Anyhow, their given reciprocal harmony thrived, unseen, into a passion, through a trove of invented Indian signs, until they got caught, big time, enlaced nude in a storage room and the face of the Pater Familias turned crimson. Jemima was immediately sent to an aunt’s in Ireland, while he was grounded, waiting for being locked up in a posh reform school in Australia. They never heard of each other again. Once his position granted him access to all sorts of confidential files, years later, he learned with heartwrenching rage that his sister had killed herself after a few months in Ireland, she had hung herself with a tie of his that she had kept.
He had stayed almost two years of his puberty in the harrowing abuse of the undying British sexual tradition, enduring his first ejaculations in the worst shameful manner possible, being blackmailed into replicating the hideous abuses himself on any weaker pupil, until his father died of cirrhosis and he went to a free high-school in Melbourne, feeling the branding of the horror years.
At his majority, with contempt for his frivolous mother, he sued his father’s estate to afford the tuition and expenses in Berkeley, California, where he lived with a man he had wooed first on the internet, the arrangement remained cool enough to bear, he graduated in political economy. He had then moved to London, with a flair for the socially arachnidian British ruling class, and befriended a most wanted criminal before being recruited at long arms-length by whom we both knew.
Although it would be a valuable asset in many configurations, he grew a distaste for the nurtured penchant for dicks. Through a nonetheless prolific, random sexuality, he kept, in the depth of his soul, searching for Jemima. The aunt had died of an overdose of gin and oxycodone, he could not yet find a smidgen of a clue in Ireland, they all said a Jemima Cerebus had never existed.
During one of the sessions that I also had, like Sarah and the crew, the privilege to be summoned to, at times, he had confessed without being asked that he bore two minds about his sexuality and was anxious to find some leads towards a hetero fulfilment, other than mere prostitution about which he would have a blockage.
The Seldom Seen, whom he had shagged with a few times, grabbed the knot of the maimed attachment towards his disappeared sister, and lauded the resilience of his soul, notwithstanding the pain. Then He granted him a prank admonition on prostitution’s refute that he should not be so sure of, having practised it himself at length, hadn’t he? Undisputably, forcing anyone to have any form of sex, whatever the means of coercion, was off the table, at any rate, included many manners of forced marriages. But then, adult women —and the criteria for adulthood might be argued— own the privacy of their lifeways, and ask for money against whatever shape of personal complacency belong in that realm. Beyond that freedom, as our Swiss cousins teach, transferring money between strangers is subjected to taxes and insurance, for the sake of living in a society.
And so, Branwell later found under his door a very recognisable, by him, envelope with, inside, a leaflet of names, numbers, and figures, in all the cities he might be sent to. Besides, for most of the travelling missions, he happened to be paired with quality partners such as Bloom, as I remembered well.

 

Cecile tells:

I suppose I might even have not come back here in this soul-shuddering apartment, but Lauritz himself didn’t think twice as to help me carry up my bags of gifts upstairs. He had bluntly decreed there should be my home, because Sarah’s dedication would help me stand, like the rosebush in an English garden.
Now, I needed to kick off the violet-brown loafers I had craved to wear along with rolled-up jeans like these pill-popping prep girls in the magazines, in revival features, isn’t it arousing when you do not fathom why you crave things? No sooner my white socks pulled —and she smelled them with a mischievous grin— than Sarah undid my new jeans and smelled me up like the playful bitch.
Lauritz watched all this with half-open eyes, his trousers bulged like it had been these two days. Saray wore only a mist-blue deep fleece trail suit, I waited for him to pull down the elastic pants, but Kate barged in from the wind, pulled out her loose overcoat and took to Lauritz’s neck and groin, like a sex buddy, that they were.
So, with not much transition, here I was, homey as never, like Sunday nights’ orgies had always existed, along with blueberry flan and macadamia-raisins shake. these two soul-sisters demanded my telling of a rich whore’s weekend. The john was being serviced in Kate’s mouth.
When Sarah brought me to the Quai aux Fleurs, she wouldn’t know that we didn’t go upstairs, but down to the water, where a lovely vintage wooden boat awaited, for us only. She sailed to the sunset, as Lauritz was easing me into his possession, the two-crew men remaining out of our sight. At Sarah’s pressing enjoining, I refused wine that I know would have knocked me out but I did not need that to let be done what he fancied of me, he had already given me a full taste of that.
In the chilly breath of waters, he gave me oversized sapphire-blue satin pyjamas, pearly piping-trimmed, with abalone buttons, that I will let you see, playfully demonstrating that then, he could take hold of any worshipable patch of me, while keeping most of me warm; there was a long fly to it with no buttons. Himself sported the maroon and gold version of the same, and his friendly peter was all out of the silk in my honour.
I wouldn’t insist how gentlemanly he toyed me over, and he didn’t wait for some reward except Kate then took him away to the bedroom and I would confide only to my intimate, dedicated pervertress. I lay down butt-naked, at her dainty hands, my only beacon her lazuli shards glimmering stare. She guides me like a willing filly in her marks, with grace.
Although I would stare at the city I had never seen so, he wished to be sucked in glory, I had a hunch I could make it faster, with the most zeal; his want had been piling up, he discharged before our route went backwards, and the Eiffel Tower lit up in universal analogy. Only the tips of Chaillot still glimmered gold, the big tourists’ barges fired their warfare projectors.
He was still coveting me and my body, nibbling at my toes much like he had seen Sarah do, as she was doing. We had been installed on some manner of a Roman couch, half-outside, facing forth. He fetched the famous boxes of A&S treats; no offence, he complied with all of my new big sisters’ tips.
He asked me to pull off my trousers and take his maypole into my tight rosebud, under a cosy shawl, jolted by the pitch and toss of the boat, fucked by random, wrung backwards for kisses of his mouth, my thighs widespread. He was mumbling gently in German and English.
Easterly, the moon was now glancing golden behind the fateful incinerator that I had known all my life by the river, the menacing beacon of my insignificance, so when the boat veered to my new hopes, I wriggled my best till I felt his warm squirt, then we collapsed, laughing.
The two crewmen smirked watching me reach the small toilet in my pyjama top, but I saw myself as appertaining to their unquestionable patron, thus immune of their appreciation, they could ogle me, as a premium.
Previous to disembarking, Lauritz had fetched in his bag of tricks a fleecy roomy lichen-green tracksuit, with comfy wide elastic bands for waist and joints, also a pair of matched sneakers, my size, as he had known. He tipped the lucky voyeurs, handled the duffle bag, and jumped up the stone stairs. We walked to the nearby house embraced like lovers, I saw myself like a good little soldier.
Once upstairs, on the third floor, he did not switch the lights on, because Sarah had vaunted the moving boats’ lights, only there weren’t any more, thence, only the sad sodium reflections. Decidedly not lacking initiatives, and willing to satiate his mind with the sight of my person, he lit up a few garlands he had already hung here and there, with some bratty snigger, then put on music of the spacey ambient genre.
He played plenty with my body into the loose cloth which smelled of some liquorice and lavender, some brands care. Kneeling down, he untied the sneakers and cherished my feet, while I kept imagining how Sarah would play whore with style; it felt voluptuous to be so, if that’s a way to love you, Sarah.
I reckoned I must have smelled rude when he pulled down the pants, I jolted and said I needed a shower, to what he retorted that he, too, so as he followed me and unabashedly started to piss over my lower waist, a harsh warm acid into my open thighs and my face, instantly vapoured out in the shower flow. He had bought an expensive jasmine allover creamy shampoo, we did all the same canoodling on each other, I snuck two daring fingers up his arse, too, and he groaned that he liked it.
He dolled me dry, brushed my hair and seemingly chased every muscle of my anatomy with that big name jasmine oil, up to another full orgasm he repaid with facilitated standing sodomy, that he rinsed away by means of a douche. As Sarah had bid, most men love our arses.
We lay on the carpet, aside a round silver repoussé tray bearing an ewer of orgeat drink and a plate of marzipan miniatures and Moroccan bitesize delicacies, I teased him he must have been on a diet, just so he kissed my words.
At day time, I woke up clutching his wide back, in a curtained-up poster bed, mellow gold and wilting rose, like a Visconti film set, minus the poisons. The morning was young, he turned over and I knew I would reap an early cock, as he craftily made me wet before he sabered my quim, deep in the creases of the ruffled linens, my face pressed against his hairy pectorals, feeling altogether beastly.
With a truthful manner of magic —and a malignant smile— he then pieced back together the porcelain-like shards he had just shattered, and kindly fiddled tepid water between my lips, and later handled craftily my tiny toes, said he, before announcing we would go shopping.
He had pointed out that, for all the delight he would garner walking alongside me, it would feel a tad too awkward if I went in my sumptuous black hetaira costume, he preferred, because it had been his natural whim, that I look like his niece or little sister, in the tracksuit, sneakers, sport undies.
It had felt like an element of grooming a whore, roaming through that top-notch department store, showering me with all niceties I had not even known existed, not even seeing when their price was paid. When he had seen me on the verge of cries, he had found stealthy manoeuvres to fondle my clit and wake the slut.
We had barely fit in the elevator, with all my bags, he revelled in my wet gazes, he buggered me over an armchair before the door was closed, I heard some neighbours snigger, but he only raised an eyebrow afterwards.
He had bought me a provocative ankle-long heavy black satin gown, draped down from the chest, the back scooped to the birth of the bum crack, slit from the hip down, he had let me guess where I was to wear so little of silk. There were black grosgrain mules and obviously crotchless black tights. I was already speechless when he added an anklet, black onyx articulated square plates inlaid with platinum geometric lines, some set with tiny diamonds, and he had made me lift my knee up onto a chair to try it on, as I saw the attendant watching my coochie, I was only a whore, wasn’t I?
As someone must have told him, he knew of a vintage shop where to find that slick black long-fringe shawl, as fresh as new, smelling of some imperishable priceless scent. In the car, I felt more than nude, saddled for fuck, like a beast, was it not what Sarah had described?
We arrived on one of those avenues I don’t stroll on, a black lacquered door with lots of shiny bronze trifle and an eyehole in a circle of lights that lit up when we walked near. On either side grew bushy evergreen gardens behind shiny black iron grids, in a manner that forbade sideways photography. He barked his name to a perforated polished plate, engraved “The Panopticon – Private Club”, and otherwise showed a visiting card close enough to be read. Nothing was asked about me, the current mount.
It was a silent black and red plush path, with a little red counter in a red booth where I consigned my shawl and let scan the black card I held in a tiny black grosgrain vanity embroidered with the eye of a cat. He did too, then we engaged in a bent corridor that led to a plain copper elevator door which opened at the push of a button, onto a cabin fully clad of black mirrors, where I liked what I saw. He stood upright, all black silk and patent boots, fitted Indian collared shirt, bulging dick up at my fingertips.
We had not felt any movement but the elevator opened tangent on a similarly curved corridor, with many black glazed doors, in regular sequence, bearing funny nameplates like Dove, Bouton d’Or, Tomtit, Cherub, Foxcub, Lillybelle, 404, Emeround, Dundass, Antim, etc… Eying closer through one pane, Lauritz pushed one “Galabelle” door, and we found a couple in the action, unabashed of our overlooking. She was nude, bent over a maroon leather sofa, the dick of a dignified moustached gent humping deep in her sluthole. She wore a demi-mask, which allowed my partner to thrust his spear in the blooming mouth while holding my waist firmly. The riding Lord asked to see me, so in a whirl of hand, Lauritz turned me around and lifted the front of my gown, to the whistling appreciation of the connoisseur who let go his discharge at great expense of rattles and gasps of agony, happy soul. We moved on.
Further in the round, a soft piano improvisation meddled with some vocal erring more in the obvious yowling register. The large room must have been round, for all one could discern of the obscure surroundings. A society of affable couples either stood at a black lacquered bar with a copper railing or meant to dance in thin rays of light, on a copper-clad floor. The pianist, a young man in a tuxedo with a long stream of hair, succeeded at pulsing enough deconstructed pace to allow the slow drift of the dancers. Most of the women had lost any vesture, some had kept evening shoes and jewellery, like real ladies of pleasure, others were integrally nude; some men displayed aroused manhoods, others kept undercover.
There were padded, curved black velvet banquettes, black varnished chairs and side tables, under a mess of thrown attires showing luxury linings and labels. Beyond the front circle, where the moanings raised from, feet were waved up out of tempo, shagging was on the loose.
Lauritz did not release my hand, he gave me his amorous kisses of the tongue, relished to guess I had never mingled with such a menagerie, eventually feeling I was utterly wet and excited.
One dreamer couple came, not inadvertently, brushing along my back. The man was older than Lauritz, but well kept up, grey temples and square shoulders; his dancer was nude, with long red hair and meadow green eyes, she had long tapered fingers and she searched for the opening in my dress and in my tights.
She had fondled me over, more to find some zipper or buttons to make my veilings vanish down, and, like the professional she probably was, found them. I was holding Lauritz’s spear as she undraped me, and went on sliding the tights away. Soon, another couple navigated close by, and I revelled my dancing more or less bent on Lauritz’s chest while being handled by delicate feminine hands. Then I was acquiescingly being fingered deep and unnaturally smoothly in my bumhole, for the convenience of whoever owned that febrile stem, and my squire liked to watch me pant, and kissed my mouth all over. For the kind of inauguration, I received two copious discharges with the dancing consolation of two delicate bargirls, my thighs running with smells. However, pulling the redhaired nymph between us, Lauritz disposed for a revanche and commanded the other blond one to prepare the shagee one as she had seen her do to me. This one had minute hands, she plunged them one and the next into the expecting hatch, her friend rolling her eyes.
As the two patrons had stripped down to black silk open tights, they wanted to be cleaned off the smear they had caused, with perverse stress in their voice, and thus the free slut forced me down to suck the soiled weenies, said they; I resented the dirtiness, but I obeyed with, in mind, predications Sarah had distilled into my ear, as to the delicious unquaint thrill of debauchery that would not tarnish the gleam of my soul. For having read, as a pubescent wild child in my cubbyhole a distressed copy of “La Philosophie Dans Le Boudoir”, to which happily —I know— the last third had been torn off, I had been in the know of the possibility of such vertigo as transgression, it had been fuel for my awkward masturbations. I have never succeeded to deduct who might have thrown such an ember among the refuses I sorted for bits of stray knowledge, precisely. My elegant handlers greatly appreciated and greeted Lauritz, I was a perfect whore.
As other tuxedo johns broke forth to invite my two comrades for whatever dance they took a whim for, I reckoned that I was in a brothel for good, and for that, too I had found bad literature in my path. But if indeed Lauritz was a playboy, I would not have framed him as a pimp. He still kept me near, as men like him played me, he even drew me along with two gentle-faced hunks, to the “Perdita” cabin where they all three of them used me as a toy, together, without damages, but a heartfelt plea to stop then. With a grin, he had washed me in a lovely bathroom, while telling me that all the mirrors were both ways, having my attires fetched, kissing me quiet.
Having half-dozed in the car, with his hand between my thighs, I staggered along to the elevator and accepted all the kisses he craved. In the glimmer of the salon, he wanted to suck every patch of skin to make sure I had been altogether safe, put apart my self-respect, beyond my acting as a bona fide trollop, but for that aspect, Sarah is my mentor, isn’t she?

 

Sarah says:

At my fingertips, I craved the pale mauve dash under Cecile’s eyes as she stared with pride of what she had been telling as if she dared me, would she? Wasn’t she still in one porcelain piece? In her funny cocktail vanity, with a jewel diamond corner at the flap, she fetched a tiny torn, folded note written “seresine@phil.xyz”, and grazed the crease upon her lips, so I seized her waist and told her that I had also met Seresine on an orgy scene, and I liked her ways. She mused and said she had felt like she were Lauritz’s whore, and as such safe to let be done. I lay down on her lap, as if I would talk to her quim, and whispered she was my whore, and Lauritz was a pretty cool player. She searched for my lips, I spread my thighs and ordered her to lick me.
Dagmar and Delf found us enlaced sleeping on a couch, under a convenient black shawl. Cecile Jolted at the pair’s little manners, then I sensed a rose at her plexus as she read Dagmar’s stare. Lauritz and Kate tried to sing Radiohead’s “I’m a creep” in the bathroom, I guessed they had been pissing together, then foamed everything, they had used the “geranium orange” gel.
Lauritz showed all sweetness towards Cecile, wrapping her in his arms, but both were under the new ones’ spell, mostly Dagmar’s gazes, the tall pixie had visibly profited from Cynthia’s abilities and held Delf’s hand. There hovered a lot of talking to do, I could order what was left at A&S’ shop, sundry sweet and salty pies, I brewed two large teapots.
Dagmar had regained the giant jumper in which she could refold up her senseless legs and let out her long feet to tear my heart. We all copied that style, I unhooked one of my centennial Boro coats that Lauritz appreciated at once, noting it could not be shut. Cecile did not speak German, but her hands did, for Dagmar’s relish. Lauritz was stunned by our tall rescapee’s tale, so Kate and I teased him it wouldn’t be the last of horrific fates he would come across in our orchard.
There happened funny round-head solidarity between Delf and Fayelle, leading to the occurrence of Lauritz witnessing Delf’s real nature, come what may, as they said. Kate felt more appropriate to explain a dainty case in German, like there would exist a Syltian vernacular between them, or to make it fast. Prima facie, it was weird, he had heard stuff but discarded it as urban legends, kinky tricks. There, he didn’t see much, and he, too, had shagged with Fayelle who was actually necking nicely with the pretty thing, who, by the way, appeared more on the smooth-feminine side, and whom no one expected him to fuck, whatsoever. He remained pensive, for a few seconds, no one had tipped him off ahead on that one.
It was a good Sunday tea, a safe bet would be that more jungle beasts would point their noses, and so came Natalia and Beryl, survivors of another fruitful metaphysical seminary which, once rinsed and rested, was killing them of laughter.
The devilish Natalia at once calculated Lauritz’s look of her, and she already knew all there was to know. She was jealous of my Boro coat, in what she groped me mad, asking to go pillage something fitter in our vestiary and not listening for an answer. She came back soon, stark naked in one of Kate’s Ikat robes, showing as if by accident her arsehole at Lauritz across the room, overjoyed. At the same time, she knew perfectly I was obsessed by her superb shape of ankles and feet I would always compare to those of Ayla, in the broom closet.
Dagmar made herself easy to Lauritz, while I knew there would be much more of holding her hand to Cecile, who was beginning to feel out of her depth. I wasn’t Lady of the house, so I breathed in Kate’s ear that I was eloping with Cecile upstairs, there were enough beds around for what would surely not be missed to happen, all the more if the usual minders showed up.
Still standing on the stairs, Cecile thanked me, she had felt all the pearly veils Lauritz had shielded her in vanish, more like Monday morning than Sunday night, when the wooden doll made it to school, with her saddest face. I shrugged at all these doldrums and recalled her to caress the onyx anklet still at her leg.
I put on my Saint Loup slow dance compilation CD and made her cry on me, some never wear out.

 

Cecile says:

Dagmar had said I could have her room, and so did my big sisters, although this whole life-changing scares me, but then what, last time I checked on my bank account, Lauritz’s money was there, glaring. Otherwise, Monday morning everyone expected me at work at Speck’s house, and later, Gauthier spoke to me like an old pal, he was happy with all I had done on the chandelier, now there were four wall lights of the same make, with a bursting abstract design, in bronze, iron, mesh, and frost glass, of which three shards were missing. He was testing me to find a way to replace them, there are only photos of the whole wall, so the motive on the sculpture is quite small.
Once and twice, he pushed me aside and kissed me, but then he said he would stop that, and risk his chance at home, among all the others. As for Lauritz, he came for the regular tour with all the contractors and he complimented my work in a forthright voice, but he came again to ask me about Saturday night, same punishment?
After a few hours on the Internet, I came up with a hunch that I might find documents of my missing panes in the Arts Decoratifs library, Gauthier liked the idea and gave me a name to call. Within a day, I found, not my very motives, but some very close ones, on other light decors for a cruise boat I could photograph sharp enough with my telephone. I bought a sketchbook and pencils at Sennelier’s and, at the feathery light price of being groped by Sarah, I asked her permission to use her table, and showed her I could draw, too.
The next morning, after an exhilarating night with Fayelle, Kate and Sarah, making up for all the time I had shunned girls’ tenderness, I presented my sketches to Gauthier who at once said that I had the exact matter, that I should redraw at the precise dimension, and bring it to the glass founders, he was thrilled, so he hugged me like a brother.
There still was work on the metal forms, the documents I had seen showed the amount of patina that had been devised from the start, the wiring had been serious, and we could try different strengths of light bulbs.
When I walked out at the end of the day, I saw Lauritz’s windows, where I would, again, behave like the part-time whore, but at dinner-time with the gang of privileged sluts as they called themselves, I could alleviate my soul, like one scrapes layers of old paints and rust, by telling them what had my old life been, and better more listening to those of Fayelle and Annabelle, and the ones I did not know yet.
One night, Dagmar and Delf had taken me to the TRÆVIX palace, if only, maybe, to make me realise what planet I had landed on. Michelle was away in New York for a few days. I had seen films and videos, my sight was educated by a few years at Dupeyré, but there, I was dumbfounded, and all the more that I could unclothe the fairies who lived in this eerie beautiful decor, kiss and smell them and let them do me the same. Ah, they danced for me in Neverland, Captain Hook!
On another fine day, Fulgence and Erik had shown up, it was the three of us, Fayelle was with Hugo and all the others had funky business to attend to. We had a warm mushroom and nuts pie and a fresh fruit salad. Sarah, who had known from the first glance that I would obey her blindly, sat next to me on the sofa after we had cleared all, and casually began unbuttoning my jeans, while inviting Fulgence, whom she had seen I crushed for, on the other side, vaunting what I smelled like, so as the boy bent down on my neck as she pulled the shirt aside. She was, again, selling me out, knowing I would wet my pants, and she invited Fulgence to feel himself, freeing the way down my quim. Visibly, he had been given heads-up, and he relished what she showed of the little slut who blushed. She had slid down on the rug to unshoe me and worship my feet, she called on Erik to join, and I was amazed, I had never thought of touching a black man, to say nothing of the pervasive suburban clichés I had been raised amongst, but it was Sarah who reached for his fly and disentangled a fierce black shaft, as he smiled to my face and eventually kissed me full mouth as he guided my hand to his pride.

 

Sarah says:

I was helping Erik’s jeans to fall off his ankles when Fulgence, who was being sucked on by Kate, looked up at Cecile and let out that she was young, and she only was obedient to my will, apparently. It had been true, I had to concur to having been relishing her docility, to the furthest extent as to let her anus be forced in by Lauritz’s considerable spear on the first encounter. I had so fostered the fantasy that she was another me, who had enjoyed being given away by a younger devil brat.
As a manner of answering, Cecile was now pumping Erik’s copious black cock, legs wide apart. And so, it is surprising how shy rosy slits accommodate sturdy rods in no time —if a proper method is applied. Furthermore, Fulgence could later garner some laurels into the lesser vent of her pliancy, thus playing a few marbles in my mind game of imprint I had had the intuition it be the lead for Cecile I loved.
Now Kate showed a pinch of distraught as to my seeming win over Fulgence’s daintiness, and I wouldn’t let any dust of salt cripple her love of me, so I playfully roughed her belly with my fist, asking her if she would not relish the tales of Natalia’s follies for some rich older loonies?
Cecile went to some crappy suburb to find Almels & Co who, according to Gauthier, could fabricate, at any price, new glass pieces. She was met by a Mr Armand, who recognized the work and congratulated her efforts. But he seized his scarcely bearded chin, looked her up, and said that it wasn’t flat pieces she needed, then he asked if he could come to see the apparatus.
The next morning, he came and was greeted by Gauthier with respect, he was awed by all the ageless artistic endeavour around the house, and about the glass restoration, he floated the idea that a curved mould should be made, could Cecile come and work it in their workshop?
Though he knew it was a thing she had probably overlooked long ago, Gauthier had a hunch that she would implicate herself profitably in an altogether limited try, so he undersigned the operation, Mr Armand was vindicated in his judgement, and Cecile blushed. Besides, Gauthier foresaw that if ever the attempt revealed pricy, Lauritz would condone an overstep by Cecile of whom Gauthier had sniffed he was smitten. Mr Armand borrowed one of the remaining shards, to sample the glass.
Whatsoever the debauchery she complied for me, with one or the other of my own regulars, she did marvels, in earnest, and won a badge of trustworthiness by Mr Armand, a step towards what we, the perverted bohemians who used her, started to foresee in her life.
In no time, she had learned to shape some crude earth to match the design, in relief, then cast the counter mould, and finally watch Mr Armand pour the melted glass into shape. He even came back to assist in the mounting of the new pieces, and he took Gauthier aside to laud Cecile’s adaptivity, taste, and dexterity. Beyond the crush he reckoned was well out of his reach, he had fathomed her harsh background and wished her well, Gauthier agreed wholeheartedly. When eventually switched alive, the lighting sculptures did sensation with the teams in place, they projected grand luxury, again, and Lauritz had missed nought of the accomplishment, besides expecting some prodigy for Saturday night.
By the bye, that evening, Gauthier asked if they could, Philippe and him, have our manner of dinner together, I liked the tone of his request, and Kate anticipated a tad of rampage. Cecile came home with a box of macarons, pride glistened in her eyes as I unclothed her, telling her she should impress Gauthier also gracefully, just like he had always shagged with us, she was family, wasn’t she?
Annabelle and Fayelle had spent their day reading in the same book, under the same covers, so they went on in English, on the couch, bare feet.
Gauthier was wearing an ample silk twill shirt printed of a large Art Deco motive by Tamara de Lempicka, sassily effective with his electric mane; his tight butt was fitted in a deep purple satin pair of jeans that I knew at once aroused Cecile, whom I had exposed in a gleamy blue-on-blue wavy pattern silk jersey tank dress, and nought else, I had painted her nails night blue, like mine. I wore not much more than her, a Chinese-collar midnight panne velvet very fitted gown, under the knees and long sleeves, Cecile had said it made me kind of obscene, as in a party at Suzy Solidor’s, we wore our anklets, it would certainly no deter our boy guests to lay at our feet. Kate had not played it anymore prudish than us, she had unearthed a long, wide lapelled silk-twill shirt printed of celadon paisley enlarged patterns against a contrasted ink-blue background, she was not trying to hide her thighs. Philippe wore a black and white sweater with random astray stripes and yummy fitted jeans letting be known of a more-than-boyish dick.

Insofar as we have all lived the luxurious lifeways of a polyamorous liberal pact, I wish I forgot the subordination I might become the one to assess in Cecile’s current life, her youth, her versatility, her beauty, and the blind faith she has vowed in Sarah. My worshipped mother has, most of the time, slept with her assistants and probably their offspring in such a manner that lust did not override the accomplishment of her always-on-the-brink, highly demanding, endeavours.
When Phillip and I descended upon the nest of saintly beauties, I had set my mind that I would first relish what and whom he would indulge with before allowing myself a taste of the new kid on the block. Lauritz, my considerable client but also one who shagged brilliantly most of the herd, had proudly, in aparté, vaunted the lustful complacency of my new recruit, sold to him by the unfathomable Sarah, such a tale for quenching Hugo’s thirst, who might elope with her to Bora Bora, for pearls. Meanwhile, I would expect some exploits by Phillip, who was in full bloom, actually, to garner the good graces of today’s wunderkind.
Before the baking sheets of finger food went in the oven, there floated a scent of gynaeceum reminding me of Chevillon, where my mother’s workshop swooshed in music —here more heady, like a red door house, I should say— the sisterhood had readied for the usual philandering and so I knew soon there was no cotton under the silks, for all the good it felt.
Although we talked little of her ongoing success, there was some squirrel wit in her puzzling gazes, and a tad more pout at her lips, she went at first easy with Philippe, who had acted more like some peer to her, on the workings set, though she would still be a mere haphazard intern, were it not for Sarah’s sharp eye.
Visibly, it amused the sister fairies to mate their new boarder with mine, and so, inasmuch Annabelle and the axolotl pixie warbled in their fluffy nook, left only my undaunted self to train their peculiar legerdemain on. when one of the two played tongue with me, I would say she was the best kisser I knew, anyone. They also had the manners to suck cock, one more lascivious than the other diligent —so to speak.
Once Cecile’s dress hitched up high, she showed a Thorwaldsen figure, with daintily arched feet and smooth knees on long slender legs, I was right about her feet, which wore a notch longer than ours —bringing her, or anyone who cared for her feet, inevitably to spend heaps for shoes, with fetish thrills— and her toes as free as little fishes. Between boys, albeit we did not frankly hang out together in the locker room, Lauritz had vaunted her shy quim, rosy pale dawn that would sheathe in a fully mature dong, and so for the lesser hatch, I was all aroused to watch that, as my two hosts frolicked between my legs and in my mouth.
My most cossetted pet boy behaved like a rich gigolo, swiftly pulling off the dress and saluting the merry twins and their blushy buds, in the nude, she lost all traces of social shyness, Sarah would make her a lady and an artist.
Phillip is well taught at letting be sucked, also at poking tongues in sensitive crannies, she retorted stroke for stroke, she had been taught the rose-leaf, Sarah confessed. Even with Kate soon perched upon my willie, we still commented what the younglings, on the other shore of the salon, were at, mezzo voce. They were beautiful as the Saxony Grand Elector’s private Meissen collection, they both gushed a few times on the couch without alarming anyone in the least.
I discharged a happy once in Kate’s honey-pot and intended to bugger my Sarah later, but meanwhile, I profited of my habitude with the blond prince to approach the rested bodies and fondle a contented Cecile, thereby I knew the suavity of her skin, the suppleness of her lips, and, without a word in all, licked her inundated pussy full of my lover’s cum. It was pure lubricity, just like it happened, always, in that house.

 

Cecile says:

It had been quite a balancing act in the timeless vessel of my thenceforth found sisters, Sarah knows she owns my soul, moreover, my body, to spend at whim. That she did, literally serving me up to my nonetheless boss, however craftily enough to keep Gauthier leashed along with the Lost Boy, and he revealed himself a Golden Knight in earnest, like all of them around here, worthy of their legend.
Now that Dagmar had declared, in French, that I could have the room next to Fayelle’s, with all the luxury space —because she lived with Delffan and Michelle in the TRÆVIX Palace— Sarah came around to also coach my becoming, and she bought me a worktable and the same chair she uses —on which she showed me all the naughty we could do— and came with me to Sennelier’s, to signal me too on the open account. Kate had ordered a nifty laptop and a sound system, they were spending as they shag, it made me dizzy, and feel a whore — like they say they are.
Sarah loved that I told her that Lauritz wanted me again for another round, she lauded Kate for luring her 911 suitor to the Seine’s quays, and she promised we would soon go to the Palais-Royal —if only to watch. We had a night the two of us, once Kate had eloped with Natalia and Beryl to their apartment and met a number of Fulgence’s stooges, I had loved the face she showed in the morning, it was the day when I would join Lauritz, she pulled me to her lap and smelled Sarah on me.
It was windy, under my black satin trench I had slid in a vermillion, ribbed-knit, mock-neck, long arms, knee-long cashmere dress, and knowing where I went, no underwear. I shoed mahogany-brown Chelsea boots and maroon over-the-knees tartan stockings —a present of Annabelle who had made me deliciously pay for them— in case it might tease him.
He was already waiting for me downstairs, he kissed me like in love.
A silent black car waited nearby that he called, he knew at once what I did not wear. It was a ten minutes ride on the right bank before we entered a nondescript white stone rational three-storeyed building with black mirror glazings. The unidentified door responded to the black card. We entered a low-lit, black mirror-clad corridor with large red-copper plates on the ceiling holed for projectors, the floor was a wall to wall dust mat. The proportion of the whole was of a bank, or any private institution with utter prestige, such was the perfection of details arrangement —and the size of the mirrors.
At the far end stood a red sliding copper elevator door, as indicated by call buttons. The cabin was of black mirrors with a thick red copper handrail. As he kissed me greedily, I wouldn’t have told if we went up or down, nor if it had landed.
Eerily, there would be no solution of continuity in style, on the landing, near a side copper door, was a plate inlaid with a round lens, pierced of speaker holes, an array of buttons and a card slot, one had to identify oneself by means of comparing the data on the card with facial recognition, both of us.
Now it smelled of musky cypress, over Lauritz’s Imperial Cologne, as he drew me through a blind maze of mirrors, black lacquer, and red copper walls in smaller corridors, and I could not fathom how he guided himself. At one time, he pressed the side of a copper panel that sprung open on a closet, where he told me to hang my clothes and shoes, so no one would ever steal anything. Out of his pocket, he took out a black suede pouch from which he poured a sparkling white gold and dark purplish-rose spinels necklace he clipped to my neck, then he turned me towards the mirror while he groped my loins to make me contort.
I was already smoothly frenzied and he pulled me further behind another door, tousling my hair and thoughts, necking like a mad cadet. After some dizziness had settled quiet, I noticed we had not been alone, some grapefruit smelling was inhaling in my neck and I couldn’t tell whose hand was furrowing in my bum, I heard him compliment in Lauritz’s ear.
This all-dark corridor ran along the backside of two-way mirrors on lewd scenes happening in sundry austere rooms, upon black leather benches and beds, some arousing me, regardless of the turmoil of having been pulled adrift defenceless, at the only certain end to saddle me up in one of these booths.
Pushing me tenderly against the black wall, Lauritz, who had now released his pecker out of his fly, took his smoothest voice and explained, bluntly, that I had already earned an extra week’s salary, and I could possibly double that, in going inside the roundabout, and I would reap a week’s worth more for each partner I would let do his whim on me, not more than what he did to me himself, but not less.

So as to prove to me that I was beyond myself, Lauritz diddled my quim and I gushed in a heartbeat, for the relish of a bystander who knelt to lick me. That had been more than acceptance, it felt like a bush of hawthorns had bloomed in my chest, as he handled my bum towards a copper door.
No sooner had Lauritz vanished behind I could not tell which panel, than a man in a tight black leather bodysuit, combed-back grey hair, thin moustache, a thick rod straight out with notable balls was onto me, with manners. First, he was watching my every nook and exposing them to the invisible watchers, then he held my temples so as I should lick all the way to his back hatch, in the red-trimmed slit of his tight, then humped in my throat to make me swallow the first load. and furthermore insisted that I suckled his glans to rekindle his want, while he did fairly well with my modest hooded pearl.
He perched me, legs widespread, on some barstool with swivel side-stirrups, so he could sheathe his whole length in my coochie while pressing me tight against the leather of his chest. It was well-devised and he could thrust in easily while I embraced him, thus he lasted a good deal of time before he spattered again, making me join the flow with truthful moans.
He was overjoyed, he thanked me because he said I did not look like what I did, and fled. I was in sweats, I lay on the high bed with rolling clouds in my womb.
A woman of no age in a white smock had barged in, telling me not to bother as she showed the way to a shower and toilet room, and said she would help me clean my privates between johns; she was unflinchingly professional and her touch was forthright as that of a surgeon, already threaded through and through, I let her do me all she did, and eventually, she massaged me all with some heavenly body milk —and let me dream.
There was a kindly tap on my shoulder, I lazily turned over to discover yet another eager man, Asian and bald, nude and stiff at attention, smiling and telling me things in a much worse English than mine. Eventually, I grabbed that he asked me to part my thighs high to show him all my treasures. He had known there was a command under the bed to adjust the height, so he brought my crotch conveniently to his mouth and started a treat worthy of Sarah’s, to what I sang softly. Noticing that I could no longer keep my legs up, he fetched steel chains rested on the wall behind me, tied me to the attached anklets and, from a control box, hung me high with no strain, discharging into his perpetual smile; he, too, was amorously dedicated around my creased bud, and it made me feel what would happen next, as it did.
Operating on the commands, he brought my arse at the top of his glans that I felt quivering, and rolled up some towel under my loins. After fetching a spurting bottle of lotus smelling lubricant, he began massaging my rectum as wide as he needed, together with my neighbouring labia and their secret. When he thrust in, I welcomed him with little restrain, and since he had been a kindly player, I offered him some twirling moves he liked so much that he spat twice in a row.
The maid showed me, low on the wall, a box with two big buttons, one green that was lit and read “next”, the other red that read “no”, the green was lit, which meant another john could come when she was finished servicing me, placidly.
The third was already up, a giggly talkative middle-aged man, tanned and considerably well-hung but I was already too far-flung in debauchery to be scared of it. He needed to palpate every tiny patch of me, which was not unnecessary to rekindle my nerves and behave otherly than a piece of meat, I smiled realising how bitchy I was becoming for Lauritz’s pleasure, and I also had the vision of Sarah’s smile when daring me to be like her.
The sun lover installed me laying on my back, my head tilted at the edge of the bed, so he could force his truncheon deeper than I would have feared he could, gradually but steadily, maintaining my head like a maniac, until he poured, at great grunts, a profuse spritz of bitter sauce he made me gulp with grimaces of his own face, raving that it would make of me a better slut. Then he upturned me on the bench nearby and tied me in the most obvious position, my arse protruding. laughing as he was fingering both my offered ways, he massaged my whole rump and spine with a masterful efficacy, bantering that he had seen how I had meandered my arse for my previous taster, with the talent he craved. He eased both paths at his width, patiently, thumping against my womb wall, then alternately unfurling my entrails, then again, with maestria. My mouth still overtaken by his beastly taste, I panted as he filled me to heart with frenzy. He chose to discharge away inside my bowels, it felt kind of unearthly, I had never sensed any shudder that would let me expect that.
This one had left me passed out, tied on the bench. Seeing the white frock, I had barely the courage to ask her to switch the beacon to red.

I woke in another room, with randomly alternate panels of gold leaf and maroon velvet. On a black plinth stood a wide opened Yupik transformation mask the size of a man’s arms span; the crow had revealed a disdainful mighty man who considered me in a slant of light. I smelled of forbidden delicacies, frangipani, tonka, and coumarin, I would not say why they would not have been allowed, then.
A hand touched my shoulder, as I was transfixed in the wake of all the abuse I had let be done with unabashed depravity, Lauritz smirked greedily. He casually explained that he craved me overspent, as I lay then, on a smooth, black, mellow silk velvet cover. He cuddled me all over and I responded as a purring slut.
Obviously, my quim was acutely sensitive, but not injured, nor my arsehole, I felt with cautious fingers. He lay against me, he was nude, I turned to face and enlace him, he showed a well-worked, sinewy figure —I had heard he spent time playing beach volley in the nude on Sylt— much to his advantage, compared to the gonks that had just shagged me, so much so that I let myself melt once more, as he had known I would.
And just like the trained runner garners new air beyond the threshold of desperation, all poisonous spikes vanished from my joints, muscles, skins, and linings, once again available and dewy, as in the docile puppet they paid for.
I wouldn’t know if we were watched, there, too, there were black glass panes here and there, but if there were onlookers, I purport they saw a faultless exhibition. That bed was endless, he plied me over and over like his mollycoddle to root his urges into warm flesh, bestowing to my body all the cardinal metaphors of the fantasised universe, letting me vision the rivers in the sand and the fire in the sky through the frenzy of his whipped up desire indefatigable till I passed out again.
Aeons later, I found myself amidst folds and pleats of percale cotton, weightless than candy floss on my new red knit glove, that once my so tall dad held my other hand, that I slide not on the snow, in the clinking lights of the funfair.
It was dusk, I cuddled in his woolly shoulder, in the silently gliding car, he held my hand, then my cheek, he searched for my neck, and I shivered with contentment. My telephone buzzed, it was Sarah, she asked no question I wouldn’t say yes to, in a low tone. He suggested that I open my bank application, the amount was regal, he laughed and said he wanted all my Saturdays.

 

Sarah says:

Cecile slouched back in about dinner time, she smelled of magnolia, like, in summer, the family of prim young trees in full sunlight near Harmony’s offices, where I had waited seated on the stone steps for my father who came to square out my life in Saint Loup, and I did not know my heart about it.
We went in the closets, she wanted some vague cotton and I offered to lend her one of my Boro coats, all rumpled as she felt to herself, it would set her out sexy, with the shady rings to her heavy gazes. As I devoured all I could grab of her skin, she only sighed that she was so rich, and retorted to my cuddles.
Kate was enthralled to see Cecile nude in the hastily knotted indigo mishmash, she dived both hands to seize her hips, mumbling that she sure looked fucked like a strumpet, before adding that she craved that on her, and blooming her lips to hers. Then she ostensibly crashed on a chair and mimicked some despair. She had learned in the afternoon that there was a stepsister with her father, an Anna Louise five years younger than her that Simon had met in Sylt for a mysterious week, he had said that she looked a lot like Kate. There was a threat that she might descend on Paris, which would make it the season of the Germans, indeed. Then she shrugged and took Cecile’s hand, eager to know how she had liked the 911 guy they had, Fayelle and her, wooed with great success, thus luring him back here on his ancestor’s scene. Cecile was defenceless, retelling her anonymous performances in a mirrored showcase, the unknown, utter abandon she had fallen into, the quivers of her womb thumping at her temples, she was indeed a gifted debaucher, a sweet vindication to me.
Playing footsie with her, I unveiled a few episodes of our own, to show some support that we were all sluts, indeed, our difference lay in that we had freely endorsed our walk of life, and probably helped a few sisters out of inadmissible dependency, after Hector or others had fished them off the fray.
The pumpkin and nuts pie with salty cookies was a success and a velvety Taiwanese black oolong. we groped each other on the bed watching the old animated Peter Pan as a contest of sexual innuendos, Cecile did some sleazy Tinker Bell.
Natalia, too, was overly curious about Cecile’s night on town, complimenting her when not teasing her tiny hooded bead with the tip of her tongue, she liked to be her view of Tiger Lily with twisted sexual craves; nonetheless, she had heard of Cecile’s marked success restoring Lauritz’s treasures and that excited her as well as the new smooth skin she grazed her cheek upon. She chained on telling she was seeing a rich collector of Art Deco and relished describing their dancing sessions, suggesting he might like a double feature, pressing her palm on Cecile’s still feverish lower belly.

The next morning, Wendy had gone back to school and we took our tea upstairs in the studio, Kate was on the phone with her brother, it turned out that he found Anna Louise had so many things in common with her, and she had obtained from their father that he gave her an apartment in Paris. She was more of a literary buff, Kate might want to see her.
On that, Fayelle, in her stars-strewed black flannel nightgown, barefoot, begging for a cup of tea, offered that Annabelle and her do the reading in English, as we liked. Kate was absent-minded anyway, I suggested Anaïs Nin’s “A Spy In The House Of Love” they hadn’t known yet. In the meantime, I had a little fun seated on the carpet at her feet.
Actually, there were emails by Anna Louise, boldly introducing herself, explaining that, from all that she wormed out of our brother, she reckoned it would be more fun to neighbour our tribe than to replicate a Berlin fiasco, and besides, she had the hunch that an exile in a new language —but she had gone to the same school as Kate, which went to show that her father bore no grudge— would help her unleash her literary writing.
Kate was more bent towards resenting she had received a monkey on her back, moreover, if she had fostered the thought that her family ties had been set clear, now there would be a potential stepmother. More attractive was that Simon had, carelessly, let float that they had already slept together.
In her neatened-up spoken English in which nothing survived of her Glaswegian quagmire, Annabelle played wonderfully a lie detector of no genre, altogether, within the same phrase, the candid perversity of Sabina. Transfixed, Fayelle unconsciously watched and mimicked the reader’s diction, in the hope of letting her lover’s spell bleed upon her soul, and I believed it would, but she couldn’t have read aloud the curly words of Nin.
It is such a sensuous luxury to listen to some live reader when you wander, or centre, on the work that needs to exist out of you. In Saint Loup, Tudor Weiss had brought us to the habit, in French and in turns; we were of the age for Dumas, Balzac, and all the literature that stemmed from the Revolution, but after almost a year, when we started working with the skylights open, some of us preferred hearing music, and Tudor had some authority time imposing a contemplative soundscape, I had been his best support against the disruptive bucking of punk rock.
That day, Kate had been sent freewheeling through a Wim Wenders mood, merely jotting doodles as her mind tried to make room for a sudden double of herself, in bed with Simon.
As my mother —whom I tend to shun— says, news won’t stay single, at the moment my rhetorical horses felt like being on the home straight, I switched on my phone and saw a message from Marie… Marie? She had not really tried to share her holy roundness —to our despite, actually— and her distancing had led us to avoid bothering her, we knew full well that she mastered all her life needs, and so we had remained in wait. Now she announced a baby girl, Nancy, and I could not repress a huge sigh of relief, so I had feared a boy, unthinkable in Marie’s life. She would need babysitters, but I purported to nought competence on that before the legal age; to me, toddlers always carry around weird odours and stubbornly wish to stick their fingers in your nostrils and mouth, in any order.
Somebody was at the new back door with a delivery for Ms Cecile, a handrest-height wooden crate heavier than one thought, someone had to sign for that, and tip. They let it in her room, it looked like an art transport. When she came back from work, she did not understand, and anyhow, it would take a screwdriver to open it. I reached Fulgence, although he wouldn’t like to do the factotum for anyone, but Cecile, maybe.
Chocked inside the crate with wood blocks and felt was the Yupik ceremonial mask Cecile had recently admired in most peculiar conditions, and now it made her quiver with joy. The piece was closed but already splendid, a polished and varnished crow head with a beak long as an arm and the impressive soulful eyes First Nations Indians draw. An occasion to send a video to Julia, a connoisseur if any, and a means to ring her for attention.
Fulgence and his buddy Erik were earnestly impressed, all the most when they surmised, undenied, the reason why this grand artefact had run aground in a girl’s room. But the awe was total once Cecile had explained how the mask should stand open on the black plinth, with the small creature inside, staring. In a manner of owning his tip already, Fulgence fondled Cecile’s butt, casually.

 

Kate says:

That should have been some propitious day, Sabina! News of my stepsister had fallen like a piano on my head, Marie had delivered a Nancy, and lastly, no sooner had a formidable sculpture been installed in Lauritz’s new flame’s room that she was already cavorting —as well as I would— with the team who had lent a little more than a hand, as it seems.
Annabelle had cunningly lured Fayelle to her father’s who deserved some amusement, and would assuredly relish a confession by the lanky Queen of the axolotls, a passion of his own putative daughter, a pure daydream, for James.
Sarah and I set up a conference call on a laptop, upstairs, with our Marie the Tree-hugger, and we admired two nude girls, one suckling on the other at no end. Marie was visibly tired, but also proud of her obstetrician who, despite the fact that it was her first, had granted an epidural block, and had not cut her perineum as most do, she showed an already rested quim, ready to shag a well-bred squire.
She took a good look at the camera before demanding we not go buying rags for Nancy, she had all set, we should only try and find something inspiring to hang on her walls, she trusted us for that, be understood that Nancy would remain a very little girl for a long time.
She knew she had to tell us she had enough help with a full-time woman from Lithuania who spoke French and English.
As expected, Nancy was a gnarly little thing with no real gaze to offer, but Sarah spoke nought but love omens —it being so ostensibly not her world. Once Marie had bantered us back to our free-fluttering lives, we wondered how she might have garnered the means to flaunt such serenity; Marie has no family support nor solid patronage, other than Camille?
Now, Anna Louise was trumpeting that our father afforded her a four rooms apartment on the top floor of a rue de Rivoli historic building, funnily next to where I had cavorted with Branwell recently, and she would have a tall view across to us. She asked me if I could recommend a good interior architect and I retorted a resounding yes, at a price, will you? I wouldn’t know if he could work for her, she joshed that she could grant him favours, as Simon said I did, so then I saw coming some family brawl, or not. I asked her where she was and what sort of telephone she used; satisfied, I questioned her on her lifeways. She boasted a restless Berliner lifestyle thankfully less risky than what I had deployed, in the days, but, as I heard, as licentious. As I pushed sleazily further, she proposed gamely to continue in video, saying we would get nearer that way. I was in for a big jolt, something like a kick of narcissism, so similar we looked. She had been wearing a casual flannel shirt, and she was pleasantly unbuttoning it, quipping about not sporting more breasts than me, did I? She was enticing incest —like she dropped she had gone as far with Simon, it ought to rest in our genes, would it not?
Matter-of-factly, I took off my own shirt and leggings, I had not been wearing knickers, we laughed like naughty brats, which must have intrigued Sarah, who found me nude —that was usual— watching myself on my monitor, a doppelganger who asked who that was. Never missing a batch of clear fun, Sarah already was nude on my lap, watching Anna Louise exposing her fine bum, explaining to her that there would be two of us, thenceforth, for her. Sarah quickly reckoned that there was no downside to the situation, as long as her father did not pull her out a stepsister from his own hat.
Anna would stay at the Hotel Du Continent, rue du Mont Thabor, the week after, I had told her we had boarders in every bed, which, at the sight of the twist things took, might soon be no hitch as to her coming with us; in the meantime, I told Sarah it scared me to meet Anna, it might have been easier if she had lived like a plain Jane, might it not?
Cecile was over-thrilled by Lauritz’s extravagant present that I could feel she had saluted worthily from the first minute, with two culprits on the run. As we had been naked, we remained so as to go with her to her bed and mollycoddle her. I couldn’t help fantasising that some peeper was watching us through the eyes of the divinity in the ultimate centre of the contraption, but that must have been because of the many times we had knowingly made a spectacle of ourselves

 

Sarah says:

Cecile still smelled of some manly shampoo she had used at Speck House, she had not used any soap to rinse her aparté with the handler boys, she had read somewhere that the abuse of soap made for the most part of dermatologists’ bread and butter; her skin, raw, smelled of lust, like after the swimming pool the girls at Saint Loup had scented amidst the boxwoods —she was one of them.
Now then, she gloated pride for a new prowess Gauthier had saluted about her work finesse. The workings on the lightings were done and well, so she had ferreted through the temporary bric à brac, and her eyes had been seduced by a tall three-fold screen of Jean Dunand’s representing a flock of white gold sea birds ascending a slanting course against the noble surface of black Chinese lacquer. Something had tickled her special eye for things, she had grazed the majestic pannels barehanded and became engrossed in the certainty that some layer of filth hid the true splendour of the piece, all the more when compared to the Dupas wall.
She had waited for Gauthier before attempting anything, only a tiny patch she had scraped and spat on clean would tell her beloved boss. He became to agree with her, but he stood cold feet as to the right method for safely cleaning such a peculiar material. Hugo would teach her the process, it was reason enough to bother him.
I could imagine Hugo’s eagerness to Cecile’s help, he longed to possess us both like sister fairies, like incestuous Undines, and he had restored many important Dunand’s panels and screens. She bantered that in front of the screen, while bending to scan the surface, he had been groping her in her work jeans, telling her how fine she smelled, and eventually dictating the composition of chemicals she would use, and how, so as she let him unbutton her for a while. He had proposed a trip to Corfu, I advised her to agree, and obviously, Gauthier would understand the escapade.
Kate had been titillated by her sister’s foolhardiness, she was up for some careless expense of ourselves at the Palais Royal that Cecile had not visited yet. The two of us had an easy game convincing Cecile to participate in one of our chronic debaucheries, she had grown to a bona fide libertine; I called Sami so he could advertise our coming ahead on some community boards. We did a full toilet that amused Cecile, she would wear a black-on-black embroidered silk satin, fit and flare, short-sleeved knees long dress lined of vivid ultramarine twill, buttoned upfront, only down to the paradise, with small jet buttons; a discreet lace garter belt held black veil stockings, she wore black patent and grosgrain pumps; she was stellar with a dash of makeup.
Kate was in heat, she chose one of her stand-alone blazers, cross-breasted, half-thigh long, stiff twill printed of pearly grey faded psychedelic twirls, lined of grey satin, and greyish crystal-pattern printed open tights, she added a white leather padded dog collar with palladium rings.
I wore an antique adjusted black worsted queue-de-pie that Gianni had lined with ecclesiastic purple brocade, purple epaulettes, matched fourragère, and braiding volutes on the left sleeve. A veil-thin white open wing-tips collar shirt, a low-waist white piquet vest, and a creamy suede drop front culotte to the knee; white silk stockings in black patent slippers.
I was obviously the most complicated one to undress, although one could tinker with my quim readily, and rid my pants off with three buttons, as Cecile could have a taste in the car. We paid utmost attention to smell as heavenly as regal sluts, down to our little private wells, with a neroli-scented edible balsam.
We had a table ready in the “tents” decor, it was one such night, we had time to eat lightly before Sami came to sit with us and devour Cecile alive, she smiled lips closed like a good girl, she slid a hand in my culotte. She found the arrangement of the privy round tables in striped little wigwams looked like the Piccaninny camp.
Undeterred by potential on-lookers —he had often said that there always was at least one table of stool pigeons in wait, a remnant of the time when the police were constantly sniffing for the matter to blackmail important people.

Sami had ushered us through the little door behind a screen in the familiar suite of narrow corridors and stairs all muted by thick maroon carpeting and vaulted ceiling. I held Cecile near, to reassure her, and tried to defuse Sami’s ardent stares, like jostling his already tense peter while whispering he would have his turn.
The room was dark, warm, and probably immense, as let think far voices and bustles. The infra-low hum of metro trains under the stone slabs aroused me. Sami took Cecile’s hand to move forward, as an array of lanterns were slowly powered up feebly, not enough to give faces to an assembly of nude men on strap couches, glimmering goblets in hand.
A golden glow was appearing around a large round padded red leather plateau —I did not remember having ever seen— in the middle of the musk smelling cenacle. Into Cecile’s neck, I breathed this was the most impressive fuck arena I had ever been dared to (I was most certainly lying, images of lines of hanging sheets drying haunted me still). It was Sami’s role and I could not refute when he firmly enlaced Cecile and kissed her full mouth, as he does, while pushing one by one the seven little facette balls back into their slits, to let uncover the lascivious, slender beauty he was dazing with his kiss. She made it all so easy for him that I wetted my culotte only watching.
The dress was thrown away, holding her face, he told her to unzip him and kneel on the stage to suck him, she opened her thighs wide as she reclined, offering the murmuring audience behind her a moving tableau.
I had enlaced Kate because Sami was so talented by himself —we both knew by heart— and it gave the signal for three fine Morrocan leather mask bearers to approach our couple while they now admired the long-length course of Sami’s shaft in Cecile’s runny sheath.
One player entered my game and called me a boy, dancing with me, still clothed, with his fingers in my arse, as I let him do, he buggered me with my culotte at my knees, like any old admiral a fresh cadet, and moreover, he called his pal to come profit of all the sliding goo he had poured in me. They were trained blades, I even spurted on the second sailor’s feet.
The low rumble came and went like hellish music, Nude men, not all of them tight-waisted, but still meaningfully tense of their disparate johnsons, surrounded up the leather arena to watch one another pleasure themselves with us. Then other nude sluts were brought into the round, among whom I singled long red hair as being the still willing Seresine’s and we grabbed hold of each other, our mouths proudly smelling of sperm. This tender encounter unfailingly inspired some of the merry customers who took their part in our embraces. I was rekindled by that a thick rod forced into my so natural coochie and filled it up like a jack plug carrying a megawatt of sound up my spinal cord.
Seven Rhinemaidens were chased around the slippery ring as men climbed up to compose triple figures or worse, like one jester who succeded at getting shagged by one of Cecile’s feet, wanking his half-baked doodle.
Once only the despaired cases still clung to us, Sami cleverly led our farandole to the shower cupola I had known before, a fine dome of ashlar local dull yellow stone, a remnant of the buried foundations under which ran the rumbling trains, to the difference of Berlin or London where they hurl next to one’s cellar.
We frolicked in the tepid waters raining from ornate heads affixed to the vault, a few altogether kind men helped us wash away all the fluids we had taken in, a good excuse to greedily insert cannulas into our exhausted bumholes, but then, eventually, we escaped clean and all smelling of violet and lotus; I proposed Severine joined us, but she had been here with some cavalier she would not dump harshly, we agreed to let Sami arrange a meeting at a lesser carnal expense, with us.

On their way back from the debauchery of their own, Natalia and Beryl found us worthless, like drunken wrecks, minus the smell that they relished over us. Kate mumbled Palais Royal so they grabbed it and fled laughing, having pulled up the covers upon us.
In the wee hours, Cecile wandered out of her dream and collected her wits to go to work. I detangled Kate’s face to let her breathe freer, and I caressed her butt crack only so she moaned feebly.
After that somewhat unexceptional night, when the sole issue had been putting Cecile to one more lecherous test, and she had withstood playfully, like us, since long, the carnal council of the herd, none offence taken.
Now, restlessness in my legs hurried me to bring her some manner of support at her workplace, be it a thermos of the best tea —and the embarrassment of being looked upon doing this, but I could soothe any such angst.
Kate was a pretty mite crumpled, but hazily overjoyed like each time she had skirted the old shallows under no other influence than raw wants, but now then she might expect a half-double in her life —as if Anna Louise had claimed a share on it.
Natalia barged in afresh, smelling like dawn in Amalfi —that idea had sprung up, I had been four or five years old when we had stayed, the whole family (and detail), in a villa clung to the rock, in Positano, between rows of lemon trees— fit for a morning encounter with one of her tutors in-situ, right under the grey nose of a posse of jaded civil servants —after all, her grades would be sincere, wouldn’t they?
She went jealous that I took Cecile to Philippe’s for a grand bang, whenas I had been so meanly protective of her, to what I retorted —while she was taking a taste of my convalescent ladyparts— that the three of us had begun long before she was of age for anything of that sort. After two seconds of reckoning, she concurred I could certainly not have taken her to such places but she had snuck into our bed before any hair had begun growing.
She sat on Kate’s lap, did magic passes on her swollen eyes, cuddled her forehead and said she was thrilled to have two of them, therefore.
Some serene moments after Natalia fled towards probably as many turpitudes as in our night, Annabelle and Fayelle, back from James’ asked if I would make French toast for them because they had found black cherry marmalade and had developed such a fantasy since. James, by the way, sent his love; he was currently writing all day, when not carousing with two young depraved beauties; the matter of the article lay in the unconscious strategies of visual seduction, beyond the lame merchandising of disruption. Whatsoever, the brilliant artist had given them sparkling eyes, and they smelled of hay rucked up with lavender, broom, and an afterthought of virginal rose, all that in the carnal sweats of a morning run, I would have damned myself in a pair of their still tepid socks.
Of course, I made too many toasts, and I was robbed of my slanting night tee, but I had vowed to bring some tea break to Cecile, so I filled a Thermos with… see, she would want coffee, wouldn’t she? and I wrapped the rest of the toasts, promising our readers that I would catch up in the House Of Love, later.
Damn the politics of the 1960s which indefinitely poisoned such a thoughtful cityscape, shame on you, Pompidou, the brainless contraption that bears your name does not, by far, makes up for the damage you do every day. And moreover, you dared live in this bland pastiche plastered up in the middle of the sacred perimeter.
Every princely detail of the Hotel was being refreshed by every trade body, each one its own routine. Someone showed me Cecile, under a bulky respirator connected by a yellow tube to a couple of high steel bottles on the floor. They had dismounted the folds of the screen and lay them on felted trestles, she was absorbed rubbing the surface with pads hafted onto handles, before discarding one by one in a lined bin nearby, on the floor. Actually, the toxic stench she worked in was aggressive. When she had seen me waving a hand, she lay the wet dirty pad on a tray and, indicating the next room, put her breathing contraption to rest, untied it and smiled, under a plastic charlotte.
I was totally vindicated by the welcome she granted to my sentimental toasts, but I discovered a shining, brand new percolator in what served as the staff room — Gauthier knows what it takes to let valuable workers work, his mother would always prefer to lose a job than hurt the feelings of someone in her workshop.
Cecile was nicely sugaring her little mouth, in dirty blue overalls. Under a black thick wool wrap overcoat, I had been wearing one of my old Danish boy shirts, and grey tones wavy-knit leggings, still, we had the visit of all the men, one by one, and one tasteful butch lady with the full tool-belt. It reminded me wistfully of school days, Cecile gave me the rough working girl full-mouth kiss, and we got caught. They all knew she was Lauritz’s crush.

On this chilly, windy, and sunny morning, Kate had gone, her soul split like a fracture would suddenly appear inside a gemstone, to meet Anna Louise, the step-sister that had revealed herself. Nought was it of her concern to sort why this altogether mundane geometry had come to light, only would she consider a visit to her mother by the Alster’s cold waters. Anna stayed, since the previous night, across the Seine in rue du Mont Thabor, at the Hotel Des Deux Rives, a quaint second-row boutique resort in a lively street, aside from the noisy Avenue she had experienced with Branwell.
Cecile had taken the crease of an early schedule and made her coffee on-site, courted by a good many of Gauthier’s posse who weren’t univocal. She had not yet rolled over in the storage rooms with any of them —unbeknownst to her, she’s a rich bitch, she shagged their bosses, and moreover the client himself.
Annabelle and Fayelle lived in the fusion stage of an intellectual affair and it did them a lot of good, thus they slept late, for what it meant. Natalia had not come let me smell her day, with my cup of tea, I felt in disuse like some holidays in the dorm house. I shook my head, slipped in a big fleece tracksuit and walked down in the secured maze for TRÆVIX palace, and other sweet girls, barefoot.
The place was warm, tidied up and vacant, except for service personnel, I had been scanned so many ways but still, I felt like I was spying. I could have climbed directly to the attic’s rooms where I imagined Dagmar and Delf inside a perfumed comforter, but I had a heartbeat for the one we had harboured behind the red sofa, the untiring pleasure it had been to pull her pants down while she lay enthralled by the multicoloured code on her monitor —and she had liked that.
The whole house knew who, and what I was, thus I had casually access to Michelle’s Sanctus Sanctorum in total silence, she would already see me in the corner of her screen. Yes, she was busy, but overjoyed to see and touch me, she cuddled my feet and pulled down the trousers, certain that I had not worn knickers to come and see her. As expected, however, she would be totally selfish, riveted on her virtual nuts and bolts, salving the rule of law, for all I could tell. She lost her Aviators for one split-second, as I pulled the sweatshirt over her bushy blond mane, then we were both smooth-naked, me on her back, chasing at her chakras down her spine, poking my tongue in her butt furrow. She lightly hummed her pleasure, which in the day’s mood was enough for me. At one moment, she told me to expect something, she had fed a live video of us to Delf’s computer. The roof pixies soon flew in, babbling with laughs, in their floating night tees. It felt like Dagmar was rewinding the ball of her spilt infancies, and Delf patiently mended the torn threads. Now then, when I made metaphoric love to her feet, Dagmar was only a sliver more present to it, not entirely deadened as she had been. In the secrecy of Michelle’s grand orb, she was learning her own intangible worth, and Fanny joined for imaginary potlach weeks —when Camille had to go to New York. I figured Michelle as the distant gardener of bonzaï souls achieving grace in a secluded recess of her cloistered universe, for the blessed minutes when the numbers finally spun on their own.
The laughs and the weird pidgin the pixies had come to speak had flown back away, Michelle asked me to detail our lewd expenses at Philippe’s or elsewhere, it freed her from her mazes. That night, I played to convince her to try once, like it was told that the Queen herself would have snuck in the opera grand ball to hitch up her regal skirts for strangers, some deadly times. Michelle’s coochie became as wet as the Macarena Virgin’s eyes, at the thought of some parenthesis of prostitution, unbeknown to anyone, thus she began asking if some woman could go masked, and I fancied up a mask with corrective eyepieces, letting her climax with my easy hand.

Sami had given me the address of the craftsman who fashioned such masks as I had been fucked by amidst the metro rumbles. Obtaining Michelle’s lenses’ parameters had revealed a tad more vicious; in a word —because in full daylight she did not clearly remember what the heck we had fantasised around. After I had made her wet her futon once more, she agreed to lend me one of her spare pairs of glasses, to have lenses cut to her sight. She gave me a copy of her prescription without her name on it. She did not pay attention while I was reporting the measurements of her skull on a sketch. I relished toying with her body while she was moving billions around, somewhere.
She pretended not to know what it was I elucubrated on, but, as long as Kate was busy catching up with her sister, Fayelle and Annabelle spun an idyllic romance with no better need, Cecile appreciated the comfort of her room to recover some stamina in view of next Saturday, and draw, with the faith of a debutant, and Natalia reaped fortunes serving her deranged patrons, I groomed one of the most secretively powerful women in the world in order to allow her a voyage in depravity land, where she might eventually shag her nemesis without knowing.
Luckily, She owned a black card and did checkups, she had understood the freedom it gave her on occasion when her house receptions went deliciously astray.
So, it was an aniline mauve and emerald green leather helmet covering down to the tip of the nose with some sort of owl beak that did not prevent full mouth kisses, as I checked. The leather was finely embossed of geometric fancies and big eyes glimmered iridescent metallic, the skull was elongated enough to hide the whole hair and curl up on the nape. Nude with that on her head, she was becoming a legendary beast of lust, she decreed that she could see through the oculars as well as her spectacles, she unclothed me without hesitation.
She decided that, unless a terror attack suddenly wiped the white house, we could wander in lust the next day from six to midnight —if I would hold her hand.
Sami had chartered an electric, statutory, titanium grey long body berline, she wore an oversized black hoodie. We had, according to what I had devised with Sami, dressed as expensive whores, she was in a Chinese-collared plum shantung straight long sleeves dress buttoned upfront, hold up black veil stockings, no underwear, round nose patent and grosgrain pumps —she had been wet ever since she had been dressed.
My own mask, so as she wouldn’t be possibly identified as a friend of mine, was a simpler black velvet Venetian domino. Since we would at once unclothe in our stockings, I wore a simple night blue milleraie velvet long tails shirt tied with a silk cord, high black silk stockings and grosgrain court slippers, all this wrapped in a crisp black satin trench.
We snuck out of a side door and moved away fast, Sami was sensuously intrigued, he was seated up front and I provoked him, not letting Michelle cross her legs so he could guess her quim, he thought he could gently hold her knee, I knew she was in turmoil, she begged for my mouth.
Somewhere near the Arc De Triomphe, the car glid down in a subterranean park, and let open a succession of metal doors to a white-tiled private garage moderately lit. The car stopped before a black lacquered door with a polished plate inlaid with a lens and a numeric pad, pierced of an array of little holes. Before we left our seats, Sami asked us to lift our skirts and show our open thighs as we kissed, she let herself be done.

Sami had given me the address of the craftsman who fashioned such masks as I had been fucked by amidst the metro rumbles. Obtaining Michelle’s lenses’ parameters had revealed a tad more vicious; in a word —because in full daylight she did not clearly remember what the heck we had fantasised around. After I had made her wet her futon once more, she agreed to lend me one of her spare pairs of glasses, to have lenses cut to her sight. She gave me a copy of her prescription without her name on it. She did not pay attention while I was reporting the measurements of her skull on a sketch. I relished toying with her body while she was moving billions around, somewhere.
She pretended not to know what it was I elucubrated on, but, as long as Kate was busy catching up with her sister, Fayelle and Annabelle spun an idyllic romance with no better need, Cecile appreciated the comfort of her room to recover some stamina in view of next Saturday, and draw, with the faith of a debutant, and Natalia reaped fortunes serving her deranged patrons, I groomed one of the most secretively powerful women in the world in order to allow her a voyage in depravity land, where she might eventually shag her nemesis without knowing.
Luckily, She owned a black card and did checkups, she had understood the freedom it gave her on occasion when her house receptions went deliciously astray.
So, it was an aniline mauve and emerald green leather helmet covering down to the tip of the nose with some sort of owl beak that did not prevent full mouth kisses, as I checked. The leather was finely embossed of geometric fancies and big eyes glimmered iridescent metallic, the skull was elongated enough to hide the whole hair and curl up on the nape. Nude with that on her head, she was becoming a legendary beast of lust, she decreed that she could see through the oculars as well as her spectacles, she unclothed me without hesitation.
She decided that, unless a terror attack suddenly wiped the white house, we could wander in lust the next day from six to midnight —if I would hold her hand.
Sami had chartered an electric, statutory, titanium grey long body berline, she wore an oversized black hoodie. We had, according to what I had devised with Sami, dressed as expensive whores, she was in a Chinese-collared plum shantung straight long sleeves dress buttoned upfront, hold up black veil stockings, no underwear, round nose patent and grosgrain pumps —she had been wet ever since she had been dressed.
My own mask, so as she wouldn’t be possibly identified as a friend of mine, was a simpler black velvet Venetian domino. Since we would at once unclothe in our stockings, I wore a simple night blue milleraie velvet long tails shirt tied with a silk cord, high black silk stockings and grosgrain court slippers, all this wrapped in a crisp black satin trench.
We snuck out of a side door and moved away fast, Sami was sensuously intrigued, he was seated up front and I provoked him, not letting Michelle cross her legs so he could guess her quim, he thought he could gently hold her knee, I knew she was in turmoil, she begged for my mouth.
Somewhere near the Arc De Triomphe, the car glid down in a subterranean park, and let open a succession of metal doors to a white-tiled private garage moderately lit. The car stopped before a black lacquered door with a polished plate inlaid with a lens and a numeric pad, pierced of an array of little holes. Before we left our seats, Sami asked us to lift our skirts and show our open thighs as we kissed, she let herself be done.
A large red doormat, windowless walls clad in black bevelled tiles, black lacquered ceiling holed for invisible mellow lightings, and a profusely chiselled vermillion double door, representing the opposite to any fall of the damned, inferno gates or other morbid pornography in art history, with exceptions —Delville’s “Treasures Of Satan”, despite the title, aren’t so much self-conscious, altogether— on these panels, doubtlessly Chinese craftsmen had sculpted the ascent of orgiastic combinations to the serenity of eternal twilight, the whole piece in a toned-down red satiny material appealing to the legends of old Shanghaï brothels.
The stunning door had silently swung in on an all-red entry of the same hue, and a tall middle-aged woman greeted us with casual manners, asking for our coats, and then for our dresses, wouldn’t we? She had seen the slight recoil of Michelle, so I, already boasting my proud fickleberries and my boyish shoulders, explained that my girlfriend here was new to the games we played, and that appraised her all the more, didn’t it?
The Madam smirked and considered what Michelle was reluctantly uncovering with all the lust she professed, addressing the weird motionless stare of the dark mask. Pinching matter-of-factly one of Michelle’s tits, she said that anyone was free to leave whenever they wished, but if they went into the mirror room, it should obviously be to let done all the patrons’ whims.

The woman wore an adjusted black lace full-length gown and nothing under, which displayed her nudity but kindly erased all dashes of ageing, she smelled of some of the long-unavailable perfume marvels of the bygone high-life era, it moved my discreet geranium-orange aviator when the mistress-whore gave her the best kiss she knew and began groping her like her little crush. She bestowed us gold necklaces with very readable figures on the oval plate, Michelle had the number nine and I the number twenty-one, we were turned into cattle, I felt a tingle in my lower loins, she was inundated and mute. Clutching the chain at Michelle’s neck, the madam told us low to go get fucked by the richest men in town, showing us the mahogany door with a brass handle.
I enlaced Michelle as we entered a long gallery, one side entirely of mirrors, with a line of gold-tone lights above them, all along. A few steps opposite ran a maroon velvet padded banquette, where half a dozen girls, in no more costume than ourselves, a few entirely nude, but all of them bare butt, legs uncrossed, talked, flirted, and kissed, all bore a number well in sight. They detailed the new ones and invited them in their midst, with eager lips and stray hands.
Only a few minutes later, a soft voice called number nine, and the aviator had to dawdle her way to the door at the other end of the gallery, where I would not wait too long to be called, too.
My first john was in a hurry —like he wouldn’t want to be charged more than the minimum half-hour— yet he smelled good, like a shop in the Burlington Arcade, leather and snuff, where I had dragged my all-loving Far, to buy me shoes. The room was more of a padded cabin upholstered in maroon velvet —seemingly the colour of all the house’s innards— with a tall mirror behind which I guessed a black booth hosted voyeurs, a grand clean percale bed assorted to the walls, and in a recess behind a drapery, a lavabo, a bidet and a toilet bowl, likely enough to clean what would be at work, in there. The window was fake, but the air was lively and the man’s shoes smelled like new.
He pulled down his trousers he lay on a chair, his dick stuck out of his trunks, stiff and pale. At once he held my waist too tight and mumbled he wanted me to suck him and then he would bugger my tight little body. I pulled a pillow to kneel on so he could force his cock deep and fuck my throat in a frenzy, thankfully even shorter than a pop song before he made me gurgle and thanked me, and turn me over on the bed while I begged for lube —in all logic, he would ram much longer in my arse, now— which was right there, on the side chest. He made some gracious compliments about my backside, telling me I was the kind of tomboy he craved, and he threaded me in, swiftly, moaning his pleasure, giving me not so harsh names, clutching my fists behind my back with one hand, slapping my bum cheeks with the other. I helped him by willingly rolling my hips and contracting my savvy butthole on his tempo, he wouldn’t have thought of coming so soon yet, and strong, that was. I heard some ruffling beyond the mirror. I let my john go limp in me, he still liked me and played with my foolberries, he said I was better than a boy, I ran to the bidet, found disposable cannulas for the enema pear and rinsed my anus for my next trick.
I had pulled my stockings back up and tousled my hair pretty when I walked back in the show window; a foreign true blonde grabbed me and played with my pussy, tenderly. A French white-skinned black-eyed emo type told me that my friend, if she was, had been called as soon as she had walked back.
As if it had been the after-theatre press, we were all called out and other girls came back, their pussies in bloom. My new john was a black man, he greeted me with a glutton kiss and fingered my relaxed arse before pushing me to the assigned door. That one had no bed but an array of padded bondage devices, leather benches and pillory that let me hope this room was seriously monitored, even if the client did not inspire fear. actually, he bantered he had been lectured on what not to inflict to the top-drawer models in Paris, but he craved to fuck well-strapped bodies that would jolt in their bonds and lay helpless at the tip of his shaft. That said, he asked me to pull off my stockings and shoes, then he forced me down on the pillory jaw and closed it, and cuffed my ankles parted on the black polished wood floor.

He took his time with the adjusting wheels so as my mouth and arse rested at a suitable height for his use of them, which meant back and forth trials that were, obviously, the most part of his relish. He was particularly abundant, like the buffalo in heat, he gushed twice, front and back, before he moved me panting upon the pommel horse, face down, arched up, so he could as well hump the wall of my womb or invade my entrails to the hilt, he was one of those experts.
He swore I would orgasm on his rod as many times as he liked to see me faint and cry, and I sincerely believed him and vindicated his ever-growing meat truncheon humping inside at a steady pace by discharging and pissing to his mad want. Still hard, but probably aching despite the lube, he untied me and left me, all spent, on the bench, where I dozed off.
When I hoovered down from the green brass pinnacles of my fairy homeland, swarms of butterflies inside my ploughed lower belly, I was being washed thoroughly by a ravishing young Asian maid all nude apart from a tiny thong. The Madam was hereby, too, sporting a sympathetic smile, she said that she had seemingly done me a certain favour sending me Mr Berving, otherwise known actor, with exceptional needs as she felt in me, her hand exploring my still exposed slits with some kind of balsam. She offered me some tea in a glass, and saw my hand sliding in the little black triangle of cloth on the maid’s quim.
She said that one of the girls on show that night had singled me out, but not my shy girlfriend, and there was no worry, whatsoever, Ms von K. Her tea tasted flowery and fresh, I surmised that it would rekindle my envies, whatever it was laced with. The Madam went on with her caresses, while the maid massaged me with holy milk. She suggested I go back to the show bench without the stockings and shoes because my feet were enticing. Holding my butt, she drew me to a concealed monitor to show me Michelle, lain between two lean Asians sharing her. She took over my mouth again, she was such a skilled lover.
I walked back behind the mirrors, it smelled like Grasse’s gardens in June, two of my fellow velvet nymphs seized me and raved how I was so much more exciting all in the raw, I heard a little voice saying she was Seresine and she loved me. Madam Susanne had said that we should openly frolic for our audience. By the bye, the calls rolled again and I was startled that I felt ready for more, after a Mr Berving.
My next trick was an older sucker in a dark suit with warm hands, in a Napoleonic green brocade and mahogany quaint room, chintz-lined curtains to the poster-bed, bee motives everywhere. He told me to lie down in the Maja pose as he disrobed. he showed a small willie, but I had endured the whole loaf of Kong just recently. That one leered eagerly and tried to make me take humiliating poses, to which I obeyed but I forced a tad on my distant natural, and he liked that. His erection beat up in tempo with his heart, but he was in no hurry. He made me sit on his face, then lick his arse, with spirit —what was that?— while he spurted over himself, then he stood up, went to clean himself, kissed my feet, dressed up adroitly and ran; was I huffed?

I had to straddle upon a football player for aeons; play school with an obese jester wallowed across the bed who made me turn my face to the corner of the crimson and gold striped upholstered walls and then piss in his mouth as he fingered my arse; read very blasphemous lines he had scribbled over those of a Bible he had brought.
Only one other, with slicked black curls, dark complexion, totally black eyes and a stentorian voice, in an orange and black stylish room, gave me shudders up my nape. He sported a phenomenal membrum and hanging testicles worthy of a bull. As I stood at attention while he undressed, he made me pivot on myself and wheedled all parts of me people I love had also vaunted, he called me the perfect ephebe with a ready cunt, he stared scaringly in my eyes and wished I never changed. He was burly, but he fucked like a smitten youngling, he eventually made me rest backwards on his belly and sodomised me at length with a pole as thick as my arm, while he twiddled my indefatigable hooded pearl to make me drip, and again, on his balls, as he whispered pretty compliments in my ear.
That would end my party beautifully, once I had washed, I roamed the rooms corridor in search of Madam, and I found her magically enlaced with my aviator in a flight pose. I joined and announced we would leave, so she called Sami, who had been in bed somewhere and smelled of hemp and patchouli.
Michelle was still stunned, although she had witnessed our life manners, she had not foreseen such woozy vertigos, now there were a few hints she grabbed in Dagmar’s attitudes, she longed to go sleep with her pet girls.
Only, what I knew would happen, happened, and Sami, softly, took up Michelle’s foot over his seat and begged for alms. I explained that it was a goodwill gesture to shag him after he had awaited all evening and that we did that in the car at some places where peepers wouldn’t miss a double-parked luxury car. She had a funny laugh and asked if Sami wanted her arse? I added I could do the chauffeur.

In the morning, Kate had been in two minds, she wouldn’t even listen to Natalia and I jousting about our sexually debased nights —at least, she hooked actual ambitions to them— or who might be my mysterious teammate. Meddling our feet, we let a layer of silence settle over pancakes and raspberry jam —the one with no nasty seeds, concocted by our cook genies, A&S, who had seen their trade prosper along with our polymorphic conspiracy— thus she gave word to both sides.
Assuredly, she had been dumbfounded when Anna Louise had shouted at her to come in at her room’s door and she had been nude in her bed, and she had thought it would be the breakfast, so she would have been as such with service, whoever it be. Kate had relaxed, silk twill, icebreaker leggings, barefoot, she had sat on the bed, hence waiting for her sister’s breakfast, which was actually rolled in by a young exotic waiter, blushing at the sight of her, unclothed.
At the remark I dared, she smirked and began to unbutton my shirt, testing the silk with an approbative nod. Same, almost same, Simon had described her with all her weak creases, she had retreated to an armchair in the vague sunlight.
Since about the time she had attended the same secondary school, Anna Louise had mythologised her mildly scandalous half-sister she so resembled. As a child, she might have crossed her on the Alster shores, since she, too, had been living in one of these statutory mansions with their feet in the water, on the Rondeelteich, minutes from them. And she had slept with Ms Blandin, the French teacher, be it to let her tell about her well known lesbian sister.

Kate says:

She could impersonate me in some of my mood swings, same jade gleams almond eyes, pale amber complexion, candid smile, all that Sarah raves about when she craves me, we could team in a scam, or a nifty libertine trap. To know she had slept with Simon aroused me, then overwhelmed me so that I recoiled an instant to recover my breath. She had been so brazen, like showing herself in the creased sheets to the waiter she barely knew —she sniggered to that one— and unbuttoning my shirt, that I took her at her own whim, and, not yet an hour that we had met, I joined her in her bed, naked.
Contrary to the flaming hysteria that her first impression might have let me fear, it had been a mezzo voce duet in no haste, a wordless reckoning of our similar tastes, a nonetheless revolting rebuke of my beliefs on the nurture vs nature debate —does Sarah share any other trait with her brother? Anna Louise is a languid slut like me, but I have, on my side of the mirror, learned from years of dwelling in the same bed as Sarah and her invincible rightfulness, even around carnal manners, thus I owned an altogether natural lead as the elder and we mindlessly wetted the sheets before we met the realty agent.
Anna Louise showed me how good our butts look in jeans, even as baggy as a Berliner bohemian might like, under a sailor striped wool jumper and a shabby fatigue parka. I looked like her posh mother in my priceless Chelseas against her raw hemp sneakers.
From the portal under the arcades on the rue de Rivoli, a stone throw from the Galignani bookstore, there had been a vertiginous staircase all clad with virtuoso stuccos inventing Neverland marbles, polished like regal gems. A frail elevator had been sadly affixed through the handrails later, we could not help grazing the young gopher in her sexy strict pinstripe skirt-suit, she might have thought she met some German mutants.
The bright weather now was deceiving, with a top floor view of the park, the river, and all the way to our roof, perhaps, it felt like a Hollywood set. Four rooms, a grand kitchen and two bathrooms, our elusive father had really granted free rein, it seemed. Anna showed me the room at the back where she would sit writing her soul out, the back was not that noisier than our own perch, was there hope for electric cars?
Gauthier arrived and was stunned by us two at first, then also because a young debutant could afford such a grand flat, although he had always been in the know of our father’s fortune, and found strange that I kept afar from it. In his expertise, he saw nothing to warn off about, even the bathrooms which are commonly the weak spot of Parisian dwellings, as for what the agent said the seller was an American diplomat, this explaining that. Anna would not tell about the price, to me, who might not be of any help on that, Hugo being my conscience in the matter, since I had lived with him and Sarah. We are kind of hydroponic flowers of sorts.
To the visible satisfaction of the decidedly palatable realtor —of whom Anna extorted her personal number— an appointment was scheduled between the competent lawyers after she had texted to her father that the choice was good.
As if she was taking over Paris in one bite, when the blushing gopher had received the green light to give a set of keys and left, she turned to Gauthier, asking him to wire a bid to manage the decoration of the place. I had already told her he and his teams would be the best choice, and when she heard he was working on the von Speck Hotel, she jumped on him for good. I felt malicious to leave them in the empty place, but according to my own feelings, Gauthier might like my sister, would she be only half.

Sarah says:

Kate returned, puzzled and pensive, soon after an exhilarating report that she had made love to her doppelganger, then passed her on to Gauthier, she went to the studio to call her mom, which, if it was more frequent than me calling mine, remained seldom.
Natalia had relished the kink of the sisters’ matinee, now she had grasped about my night in some new venue, and she could tell I had a tad overspent my stash, or not, did I prove to her poking a raspberry tongue in her disarming mouth. She obviously succeeded to confess my sins, with my hand in her jasmine knickers, but I did not flinch as to a partner. I knew she would trade her talents to Sami’s avowals, but it would let some time for Michelle to restore her wits.
All in all, I was ready to go back with our slutty house fairy, if she wanted, offering threesomes with a rebate, for I love to see her be fucked. She recalled the first time I brought her to Philippe’s, she said she had wanked herself for days after that. I needed to retell the trip to Hugo, and I could not, or would not, forbid Natalia to come along, her excitement would echo my own vice.
Michelle called, she wanted me for dinner or anything alike, and that I would retell to Dagmar our jaunt, in German. She knew that Camille had told Fanny of all her past, either tragic or willingly pervert, when her pet girl was overwhelmed with her own fate. Dagmar had been sturdy, but most of her imaginary hidey-holes had remained, till now, planked-out and that cramped her self-improvement.
As she was poking her nose in my groin, Natalia was still listening, she was enthused of a busy day, I would not shun her invincible candour. She mused that she had been gifted an altogether nonpareil childhood, never failed or misgiven on love streams, thanks to her astute mother and Hugo’s generous patience.
Hugo knew the place, and Madam Suzanne, he said Sami was a diligent connoisseur of all of Paris’ outlets, and obedient enough of safeguard rules such as not let minors to prostitution, said he, taking hold of Natalia vivacious feet she had offered. She bragged in a faint gentle voice, possibly because her mother might be listening —this was also her house, after all— that she had been prostituting herself since she went to college and it was still fun, and lucrative, for that matter. Hugo retorted that he might have known what Liselotte hatched amongst the Academia, but then again —and Hugo’s sleight hands had hitched up Natalia’s sweatshirt— she knew ways to keep control, and Natalia knew as well.
He drew us to his parade bed, clad with a grand Persian silk rug for nude conversations. The room had no sideways communications, we were among ourselves, mostly pummeling Natalia of kisses, were it only to hear her laughs. And when I went retelling my private forfeits in Madam’s cosy rooms, the cunning little slut licked me so eagerly that I should stop talking and Hugo took obviously advantage of my dripping quim, daring the house-fairy to clean him afterwards in her slutty mouth. Eventually, I had to promise that I would, once upon a  time, team up with Natalia in the mirrored corridor, she craved the fantasy of offering herself at all winds, for a profit. She played it so lewd that Hugo turned her upside down, creamed her bumhole thoroughly and buggered her to the hilt as I made her lick me again, that she did to my completion, my love for her would always make me come.

Michelle’s extravaganza left unsaid —and whom other than Sami could snitch? Natalia and me groomed each other in the shower upstairs. Kate was gone, probably for another mirror fling, Fayelle in her intensive English course, I texted them to order their dinner on the account while I would be at TRÆVIX Palace, and I would be in the studio the next morning.
Cecile came up and Natalia was overjoyed, she had not yet found a true occasion to befriend that one in her peculiar way. She had been obsessive on the Dunand pannels all day, she felt numb and cold, I would not have the heart not to tell her to come with us, all the more that Natalia had clutched her from the back and was sliding her hands in any aperture she found on her. The tiredness waned on Cecile’s face, she was soon off her day clothes and on with us to the rags closet. She still needed a bit of help to pace up with the lifestyle of the fairy house, and for that, I was responsible to her soul, as her sometimes aslant glares showed me. Out of arguments, she consented to pet with Natalia who had been sincere, while I decided for easy-going jersey lounge gowns, Niger indigo for Cecile, wavy subdued rainbow for Natalia, who claimed she would never return it, and I, in stark 1970s black and white horizontal stripes. I had sprayed my whole body with blaring white jasmine that would tame in time for a possible fuck, Natalia deserved some innocent fizzy rose that would certainly not discourage any assault she would condone, Cecile went to her room to adorn her gangly grace with her very own boyish Cologne, a gift, which caused Natalia a frenzy in her armpits.
Cecile was still vaguely scared by the subterranean maze that smelled of drying cement, She had not yet seen the skeletons in the low pit, Natalia, as brazen as ever, showed her whom she called the seven sisters, in their bed of rubble, while she unavoidably slid a hand between Cecile’s thighs, which made the sightless real, like adolescents revel in gore.
The house girls waited in the hall, dressed with visibly the same sneaky intimate hunches as us, Delf in a short, light mauve and gold fuzzy pattern butterflies printed crepe half-sleeves girly dress, no undies, barefoot, Dagmar in the decidedly fetish, faded periwinkle oversize knit sweater dress to her knees, with a lose low cleavage on her flat smooth chest that I adored. She had kept it from the first forays into our vestiary, I never had the idea that she could not make it hers forever.
While Natalia had made Delf stiff for her at once, I took charge of my two windfalls of pupils, for if Dagmar was staunchly trusting in me, with her utterly disarming eyes, Cecile couldn’t help the self-conscience and the angst that she was hardly justified in this otherworldly realm, something hinting her that she could as well be thrown overboard anytime, or later when she might become to look like her own mother in the murky souvenirs that haunted her, the smell of the ever warm mop near the expresso machine, when she had been reading her outdated magazines, behind the warped grid of her cubbyhole, below the line of sight of the harsh-smelling customers, in the whirly sounds and the trashy music of the doddery speakers.
It was mine to refound some steady base for them and others around, in compensation for my privileged youth, the rock-solid attention of a Danish Far, all the way to the Swiss paradise where I became of age, unfettered and armed. Dagmar had improved her pidgin French with typical Delf turns of phrase she almost unavoidably missed, but, at least in my view, her overwhelming eyes did for the rest. I set these two, arm in arm, and showed Cecile how smooth Dagmar felt, down from the neck, in the magic slope of the vague cleavage; In my eyes, she read that she could break away from her long-gone mires —like she had had to when Lauritz took her.

Michelle came down the stairs with a radiant smile, in what I knew of her personal code, it might have meant she had ripped open some cyber scheme, or she still felt butterflies in her womb, in any case, she regretted nought. She gave me a full-mouth kiss, held out her spectacles, and redid it with vigour. I seized her like the new slutty pal she had become, and I made her moan.
In the pearly room where Lee Junji did not pay attention to us, bent down in her tights, were four candelabras on the round table, amidst a crowd of visibly savoury pyramids on different heights footed dishes. Delf, who had already made a short pass at Natalia in the toilets, was all rejoiced of the playful edible landscape, she sported the smile that made me want to blow her —since that night I saw Delf as some superior feminine being, and besides, she wore a dress— I promised myself I would, and asked, mezzo-voce, Cecile if she did not find everybody so foxy that night, I reached for her breasts and asked her aloud about her painstaking work reviving of a historic treasure we would probably admire one day in the Speck Hotel, I had followed the need to assert her as a trusted craftswoman, not only my current crush, even lesser Lauritz’s shag, that which should be told later, as some badge of honour.
The nibbles were either garden fresh or crisp from the oven, There were crystal pitchers of Kombucha, which Michelle had adopted rather than sweeter drinks, and fruit juices, Delf had a whim for lychee juice. When I breathed in her ear that she was wearing a dress, she opened her legs for me like the mischievous pixie, I said I would let that thingy in me later, with pleasure.
I had to switch places to sit next to the blonde with unforgettable blue eyes, right by her thigh, and said in German that I would play her conference interpreter because Michelle would like to avow she had spent herself like a slut and she had liked it, like me. Dagmar took my arm and brought it to her heart, under the cloth, and told me in her eerie tongue that most of the time she had liked it, too, but she had not known better anyway. She reclined her head on my shoulder and I repeated softly Michelle’s escapade report.
It amused Delf, who had known all the bubbles in the cauldron, and was unconditionally grateful towards Michelle, bantering they would replay all of it themselves. Cecile was more fascinated than amused, she asked questions that let me think she would be more than tempted, in a safe ecosystem, and so she learned it had been, there were enough card-holders to serve, both ways.
When she heard that her putative tutor had let herself be done in all ways, Dagmar instinctively began to grope me, asking deliciously if I agreed. Michelle looked at us both from the top of her world, but she did not overstay on her bird-like appetite, which seemed to surprise only Cecile, who might have begun to like the aviator and the laid-back manner she retold how she could not have, this time, refused her bumhole to an over-thrilled gent, and found it like an intimate emotional roller-coaster unknown to the fucker.
Dagmar asked me detailed questions about my own conscience of self and the appeal of vice, that I could not trace back, only that it had always been in my bones, probably more aware than my neighbours, unfazed through some accidents I had met she was eager to hear. I told them of the main contingent turn that had eventually landed me at Saint Loup, after my Far reckoned I was a wreck in the making, be the International School as avant-garde as it was. She revelled in my school tales, she dreamt of the boxwoods and I welcomed her, and the other two.
We carried on Memory Lane at crossroads, a pack of fox cubs on the grand settee in flight amidst another Neverland with scattered follies and a monstrous clock that did not tell the hours. Snippets, in pidgin stimulated by the ever-good genie Delf, from Dagmar’s lonely corridors, bloodstains on lavender sheets, tears in liturgic silverware, tears on my chest.
Cecile was dumbfounded, these cumbersome phrases coming out of cold tombs, by the most desirable mouth she savoured, not as a ghost’s, for sure. Like before, she felt freer without clothes, that Lauritz had grasped at once, more finely than his repute would have let expect, although Fayelle had frankly relished the trip in the 911 —Kate had always looked down on him, anyway.
Delf took a whim on Cecile’s princely traits so much as to fuck her by great ploy, she would sneak her valiant little spur in anywhere she chose, and make herself be felt at no big expense, kindly. Dagmar drank all the moanings from Cecile’s mouth while her constant companion offered her a discovery. She was still lightheaded when I capsized her, later, on her bed, under the coloured wood exploded crow’s inner genie’s eye.

 

Kate says:

My unexpected step sister had dared me to stun her with Parisian resources in kinky situations, underestimating my own dire course of Berliner debauchery. So I called on Sami, offering Anna Louise as bait, for whatever trick he might concoct, given she was as brazenly lickerish as myself. Sarah was on some wicked plan dared by Seresine de Chalandin, one lithe red-haired nymph we had first met in the depths of the Palais Royal.
Not knowing if Sami would let us parade in costume to his inspiration, I floated the idea to exaggerate our sameness by clothing alike, but there was no time to bustle Gianni to the exercise, so we went to one of those crafty prêt-à-porter deluxe shops next to her hotel, and buy velvet tuxedoes and fluid crepe trousers, velvet slippers, and nothing more, she flames up at that!
Sami was bedazzled, he was leaning backwards on his seat and watched us in the slate-blue velvet cabin of the berline, I felt like giving him a classy teaser, kissing Anna for real as I half-opened her jacket. Feeling like the usual lust, he asked for her foot and unshoed and massaged it, enthralled with a younger me, and so be it, I don’t feel the wind.
We head west, she has already dropped her trousers when we reach a monitored gate portal in a forest, at the foot of a steep hill, hairpin bends of a neatly paved road meandering up through tall trees, so as to expect some other eclectic style, contorted mansion, left by the first industrial revolution, to appear in the last curve, but that was a tall blind rampart projecting a salient angle, crowned by an arrogant ledge of white ashlar stone, the hip of a cavalry times fortress jutting out in a darkening well of night. In the headlights’ beams, one could not envision the height of the construction.
The car glided slowly through some postern and stopped in a narrow yard laid in polished flagstones, sparingly lit by a surrounding row of frosted glass lanterns when the driver switched the car lights off. We remained, Sami grazing Anna’s thighs as she was reclined backwards on me and kissed me.
Two men in tight-fitting black suits and white gloves walked up to the car, letting me guess whose property it was we had stationed in. Sami walked out and our doors swivelled open. I had been Melchior’s guest before, but Anna was overawed, scantily covered in the black jacket, coldly overlooked by the nearest male, she would overcome her fear, I pressed her hand.
A rose-gold light beam was cast on the levelled floor when a stark rivetted door was pulled open, a nonetheless graceful path to follow Sami’s amused invite, I could read the pride he felt having been summoned to bring in our libertine pair, at the tip of our prime Parisian season.
Passed a tomb-like entry, the atmosphere became suddenly warm and airy, though austere like the bare squared limestone walls; scarce openings, in no other discernible order than some forgotten warfare logic, had been carved out, here and there, in the stone, without style.
On the floor sprawled outframed patterns of contrasted marbles, like a new layout would have been built over a previous scheme, and furniture of coffers, sofas, and rest-beds, composed yet another alignment with precious carpets and tapestry floor cushions.
Man-height, in canted and bevelled frames, richly ornate with gems and repoussé silver, night blue mirrors hanged alternately with large, haunting paintings by Ljuba, set in mock-tortoise, ebonised and guilloched wood, reversed profile cornices.
If the whole structure imposed an impeccable architectonic logic, it was without any recourse to symmetry. the plan was trapezoidal, the broken vaults were aslant, the huge fireplace was decentred. Over the entrance door, a stairway led to higher tiers. Owls hoots hovered somewhere high, so fittingly in accordance with the decor that we both smiled. The rugs looked so precious that we took our slippers off and felt the tight-knotted silk with a shiver of luxuriation.
Melchior stood behind us, in a golden yellow robe of silk moire with rows of brandenburgs and padded satin lapels, a riding crop in hand with a jewelled gold pommel. He seized our waist to usher us further near the dancing flames into which one of the black-clad servants had laid a new log. Before we sat, he pulled me close and poked his tongue between my lips, while he found the buttons to release my trousers down, saying that I too, had legs he knew so well. He waved Anna to sit across on the large ottoman, while he kept me at hand, approving of my laser-sleek thighs.
I wouldn’t be impressed, he had bonked me over quite a few times, I sat on the good side to slide a hand in the robe to his puffed up cock, and my slut of a sister let her lower belly wink at us. I congratulated Melchior on how fast he had known about my sister, and that he had manoeuvred the licentious confederacy so as to have us brought near him in the right dispositions.

I had not foreseen a top encounter so soon, Anna Louise did not know who she was facing, nude in her tuxedo, so I strained all my efforts to show, through my demeanour, the utter respect I bestowed to this mature gentleman in an extravagant outfit, glancing to make sure she read me.
Having parted my thighs high enough to fiddle in my bumhole, he spoke an order in sabir, hence one of the minders came so close to Anna that she could smell his fly, and did not repel it, moreover when the lad slid the zipper and fetched a sturdy young stem out of his boxer to annoy her lips with. Since I had met her, in the wake of Simon’s lustful bewilderment, she had played forward ho, and my attitude left no doubt as to the rule to play, so she gracefully butterflied around the offered glans, manifested that it smelled yummy, and let it fuck in her mouth, like a convenient whore, whenas it would apply in reverse.
Melchior watched greedily, congratulating our obvious kinship, and pulled my head to avail, too, toppling me so that I soon felt another of his janissaries forcing my lesser access hatch for a first time this one night.
Once they had splooged long spurts at the deepest of our available disposed conduits, the handsome factotums had run hiding their soiled flies, Melchior invited us to suck clean his own exhausted dick as well as our mutual cunnies in poses he relished and fetched from his pocket two little black suede pouches in which he took, first, a fine gold anklet of pea-sized green fire-opal beads he clipped at Anna Louise’s left ankle, to her girly bliss. Then he pulled out another row of the same stones in a choker he tied at my neck, quipping we could steal from each other.
A new servant carrying a large silver tray with two tall ewers showing fruit in water, through the dew, approached, unabashedly looking and smiling at us, so as I might have done him at once. Under the fire of Anna’s questions, Melchior, wallowed in his mauve satin pyjamas, fly opened, his peter reclined, recounted that the place had always seemed to harbour a dark mystery, then he shrugged off and stood, inviting us to follow him. In a corner was a small door, he opened it with a key on the ring he carried, to an obscure corridor where he pressed us and inhaled our beastly smells while the lights came up. He whispered how same we were, to what Anna Louise said that, moreover, I did not know our mothers were sisters, too, which left me speechless, only time to reckon it wasn’t worsening our case and I kissed her ragefully.
A few steps further was a library, entirely overlain of bookcases with only one tall arrow-slit, filled with non-descript cardboard files till high at the vaults feet. But what he wanted us to look at was the floor, one big slab of clear glass above a hollow space, and he made us, bare and pale in the diffuse light of four opaline globes, dance upon the void for a few voltes, before we began to comprehend what lay one man’s height below the glass. In a rummage of dry rubble, wormy wood shards, torn pieces of stuff and tatters, were resting scattered bones, and skulls of many dimensions, some entwined with soiled and warped jewellery and metal wares.
We stood transfixed, like spectres over a burst open cemetery, as he pulled us back to the threshold and cajoled our trembling heads. The remains were much older than the fortress, which had been built upon layers of ruins. As thorough as he had been able to privately investigate, there had been no explanation, the remains had lain under a low vault, apparently piled up in wood coffins and he had chosen to seal them again under this repository of soulless records. Thinking of it, the most intriguing was that the whole Capharnaum was seemingly intact, Melchior mused aloud he might open it to archaeologists one day.
Hoots concluded appropriately our morbid reverie, while he wrapped us into his robe and his prick stiffened up anew. Now he led us back to the stairs, to introduce us to the hoot makers. We walked through a high panelled hall, totally empty, where the blaze in the foyer reflected on the polished floorboards, found another flight of steps in an opposite corner, climbed before him who groped our butts more and more, till we found ourselves in a well of piled potteries with openings in the top timberwork I recognised as a dovecot. He said the pigeons had long deserted the place, perhaps because a family of owls had moved in, and anyhow he greatly preferred to hear the hoots at night than the pigeons coo all day. He prevented us to enter further because of all the bird shit on the floor.

From atop the piled earthenware pots that had been used as nests by the pigeons, so as it would be easy, by way of a full-height swivelling scale to visit the pots and steal the younglings, to eat them —old pigeons are as unpalatable as the crows, why should I know that?— a family of owls stared at us, unfazed, but it would probably be the only time of their lives they would see two nude party girls standing on their doorstep.
Melchior closed the door, a shuffle of wings rustled and he pushed us gently towards the other end of the bare stone and wooden floor landing where another flight of stairs descended in strange bends. Behind another halfway door, he ushered us in the raw messiness of strange fabricated bits of some scattered contraption, which were revealed to be pieces of an utterly complex astronomical clockwork left unfinished after the suicide of its maker, found in the very room, long after, his remains mingled with those of the clock that should have adorned the high gable of that tower, for almost no one to look at. The twirled wire he had hung himself with still dangled, up there.
One tier lower, a long corridor ran to a tall stained-glass window unreadable against the night. Rows of polished brass sconces holding concealed lamps behind transparent shells enlivened the colours of Persian runner rugs upon the polished slabs, which Melchior uncovered to show us mysterious Roman inscriptions nobody had been able to translate for him, although he had submitted reproductions to savvy academics —he would not have let them come to see them in situ.
He unlocked an imposing riveted steel door and invited us, by brushing over his opened robe and his gallant pecker, in a narrow entry, upholstered with medieval tapestry, lit by one thin porcelain lamp in the shape of a dragon, at the top of one wall. Another door opened on a corner of a grand bedroom with a four-poster bed in its centre and many eye-catching pieces up to the emblazoned coffered ceiling. One athletic gopher was attending to the fireplace.
If we had not felt chilled yet, then we took conscience of more liveable warmth and rolled embraced across the lush vermilion silk damask bedcover, in the desirous stare of Melchior’s, beyond the grip of the dead.
Head to head, we could marvel at the wonder sphere the room composed around the bedposts and lampas curtains of plum and saffron silk. Along the dark wood skirting were aligned antiquated black-studded coffers, preciously cobbled together cabinets, rare stones pedestals and plinths supporting sculptures and natural artefacts, large gogote stones the size of a sleeping swan, the portrait of a shy maiden by Brancusi, a rhodium-plated edition of Nogushi’s Undine, unobstructed on a porphyry column, an unknown gilded bronze pensive Greek boy, a slender neo-Greek pederastic thorn-puller, a smaller copy of the lain maiden with fingers entwined I had contemplated in the Ca Pesaro, a gilded bronze hopeful child by Henry Moore, and hovering over all this an arm span-width Calder mobile in black, red, yellow and gold.
In the second row on the Carpaccio-red silk bourette damask hung paintings, drawings, etchings and photographs in most finely crafted frames, like a hand-sized miniature by Dali in a cornelian and onyx composition with erotic micro-mosaïc medallions, a waned rose demi-raisin sized Bellmer pencil meta-rape in a dull grey mat, and a guilloché ebonised frame with a bevelled crystal pane, a tumbling legendary city by a rough seashore and crowds fleeing by the mystificator Monsu Desiderio in a Venetian cornice of black mirror bands and soldered dark purple, swirled glass rods. Above the fireplace, a large chiaroscuro scene by Odd Nerdrum detailed an unfettered orgy on a lonely seashore at dusk by a merrily frantic Areopagus, the whole much in tune with whatever we could expect in that moment.
Unfazed, the handsome fire-feeder stealthily drew near and watched us with approving nods, then took his clothes off, threw them on a chair and knelt on the bed, opposite the side where Hugo lay, still in his robe, his dick tense. The manly chap, observing notice of when to stop, seized Anna Louise’s foot, raised it high to bring her wet quim to avail, and gently began to insinuate his glans, and then the whole stem at her hurried demand. She moaned buoyantly, which probably caused other fit boys to rush in and strip bare, to my eager relief.

It suddenly smelled of lemony clove, cedarwood and chamomile, like the complete household was on us two, how could it have been otherwise, Melchior sported his most ingenuous smile, altogether with the most rigid penis, approving of what half a dozen of his myrmidons inflicted to our abandoned flesh. He kept declaiming our praise mingled with the rudest erotic diatribe that made Anna swoon with joy. Reminiscence of my abuse seasons, I saw my hands and feet as living flames twirl on any patch of skin they found.
That was a ferocious episode, then they joined their mouths at cleaning the overpouring, thence the smell became that of transcended animals, and Melchior sheathed in Anna’s arse, letting her relish all the loving insults he could speak.
It had merely been a skirmish, to them, they went on massaging every joint and anointing every hole, wiping our exhausted faces with hot towels. They rolled in a cart of restorative delicacies, while none of their penises seemed inclined to look down.
Melchior relished the novelty we had brought, and the shared easiness he bantered must be a genetic trait. He alluded to the other debutante he had caught a glimpse of, with Sarah and Lauritz von Speck —that otherwise nice young dilettante— he would persuade Sarah to take Cecile for a ride.
It felt like being the bunnies in the cage of big cats, the boys watched us again, waiting for the alpha’s whim. Melchior yawned of all his teeth, thanked us wholeheartedly, wrapped himself up and fled.
Half a dozen faces turned to us and the greed mumbling players grabbed whatever of us they found. I needed the loo, so they took that as an invite to watersports I would not repel, three of them followed me in the bathroom where a fuzzy green mosaic free-space shower aroused inventiveness. One was already humping my bumhole again, the other two lay down, in wait of gold to pour. Anna Louise, who must have heard the goings-on had escaped, to watch me piss and be pissed on, laughing, so as she was caught in the smelly game and eventually buggered in the rain. When we wiped ourselves, she granted me flourish names. Back on the bed, our servants left their prick seldom out in the open air, like maddened stags, and I reached an endless quiver that made me pass out in bliss.

 

Sarah says:

In the morning, Sami had dropped the wonder sisters, a tad emaciated but fresh as daisies, with bags of Danish pastries and tea from the most exclusive gardens. In Anna Louise’s tastes, there would never occur a faux-pas, she wooed at once our metal-head survivor, although she doubted the story, so inviting were our gangly tomboy and the wild rose of Scots, but Fayelle let her feel the scars and took advantage to kiss her like a true slag.
We moved up to the studio where, as Anna petted Fayelle in her jade green and blue paradise birds pyjamas —trimmed with turquoise piping— they described, still in awe, the new venue of our über-männlich patron, lost in the woods. Kate told me He craved to know Cecile better, so we would be invited soon, I would certainly not object, nor Cecile who was letting me steer her fine debauchery.
Gauthier called Anna’s phone, she took a mellow tone of voice and said she was on her way. Fayelle, although she had been aroused by the sisters’ odyssey, took on her reading of Bruno Schulz’s “Street Of The Crocodiles”
Later, Natalia and —long time no see— Lizon stealthily crept in, to our feet; she had cut her hair with a short nape and a side parting, all apparent reminder of a sad past had waned. As she fiddled with my feet and toes, I recalled our grand tours of the city, the reweaving of her torn soul and the unbending of her spine, with some coaching. The two had hurtled in on a hunch of naughtiness, Liselotte had a novel stratagem on her charts to be given a try, she had sent them over so I would style their allure, she knew I would love to do that in her trends.
There were unexplored treasures in Kate’s Victorian times’ garment bags, she had overspent in clothes, too. I picked a black, burgundy, and gold jungle giant pattern printed velvet shirt dress half thigh, that fitted Natalia next to wearing nothing, a silver charms anklet and black velvet Stubbs & Wooton slippers embroidered with gold-thread question marks. Not only Natalia had been in our souls but also in our shoes. She stole a pocket spray of “Wild Rose and Thorns”, before I made her pay, in kind.
As for Lizon, I had kept a spleen about her, something in the manner of a lost girl in Anaïs Nin, or an alley-cat under a street lamp, set by Brassaï, and although she had overcome her misery and lived by Louis’ largesse, she would still quiver in my plexus like the lost fledgling. There was this knee-long deep purple panne dress, waistless, flared, poet sleeves, which wide Peter Pan collar set her gracile neck so as to call for a necklace and thus I fetched a vivid violet beaded choker, with matched wrist and ankle bands; there were lots of black patent leather flats to chose from. With only a dash of eyeshadow, she looked like a Balzac murderess, she deserved an old-style gardenia, without the vulgarity of modern musks, and Hugo had provided just that.
Now, they turned to me, bare as an angel under my boyish curls, and Gianni had conveniently refitted a lean gentleman’s redingote, double-breasted, half-thigh long, outrageously lined of a violet-blue twill that could kill whoever dared open the coat’s panel on me. I donned round-nosed grosgrain pumps with cute strass knots on top, and then my platinum, white jade, onyx, and diamonds choker. To woo anyone of Lislotte’s confederates, I would rely on a bottled meditation Hugo had achieved from a lotus, all the appeal of roses amongst the boxwoods in the rain, barefoot in the grass —some of us had liked to get soaked while kissing.
Liselotte was nested in a corner of the large car banquette, she whistled at us when we climbed aboard, whiffs and smiles, she moaned of relish as she snuck cunning hands up our thighs. In her grand signature manner, she sported a floating, long bishop sleeves, wide notched collar, vorticism-patterned printed silk-twill shirt, opened on her bare chest to the navel, tucked into a high waisted flared black crepe skirt already hitched up by her sitting, above her black silk open tights. She wore black glazed leather laced ankle boots. The driver slowed his course. She wanted news about our wind sent little sister, I joshed Kate would recover, her replicate was as licentious as she.
That must not have been far from the Arc De Triomphe I had seen pass by, a double-height passage through a nondescript, shuttered off, apartment building. Two security guards checked a Qr code on Liselotte’s phone and let the portal open. The path led to a massive brick disused structure with a few winter sad butterfly bushes rooted in the tar cracks, otherwise, all cleared out.
On the ground level were aligned large metal double-doors altogether a structure one might have expected for a big post-office. One of the doors was opened inwards and lit. The car glided silently, at a walking pace, to an empty hall where a collection of the same polished autobodies rested under a cobweb-like frost-glass roof, three tiers higher, in a perfect state and a few yellowish, meshed, light globes, hanging in lines.
A smell of dry old paper floated when we walked arm in arm towards the only possibly live entrance perron adorned with bushes of Jacqueline roses in full bloom. A young man in a frock and a ponytail awaited us at attention; Liselotte whispered something towards his dickey, and so he promptly ushered us through a side door in the soft-lit, vaulted brick corridor.

Liselotte flaunted her most cunning smile when we were met by two hostesses in strict black worsted suits, calf-long, veil stockings and office pumps. They smelled of English Cologne and looked us in the eye. They led us through a few vestiaries packed with long garment trolleys like we were in some couture factory.
We reached a warm brick-vaulted room, circled in high built-in wardrobes with a gigantic massive wood table that transported me to some Venetian sacristy where Kate and I had been right-out sacrilegious. So then again, the polite ladies ordered us to disrobe, as if it had been agreed upon —of course, it had. They made us parade and floated some heartfelt compliments, Natalia was even lightly fondled. Though they found us as clean as blue tits after the rain, they wished to water off our bumholes, with noises, in a fully tiled vaulted bathroom adjoined; when dry, they powdered our much-praised bodies with light-handed puffs.
From a drawer, they fetched a few lace trinkets lain in tissue paper, in oblong chip-wood boxes, which revealed to be symbolic aprons and garters they affixed on us, so we looked like bona fide prostitutes in the Paris’ Sphinx’ cocktail lounge, in the 1920s —that I had seen in Hugo’s photo archives. They knew to tie elegant knots, with tempting bands at our butt’s height. Keeping a faint straight face with sparkling eyes, they tested our body response to fondling, to wanking, to kisses, and told us we were gifted sluts, I could have played in their parts, too.
Through another door, they led us to a spacious galley room, with men staff in white cotton uniforms at once rolling their eyes upon us. We were told to pick each a small silver tray with each four one-third filled glasses of champagne and walk in the salon at the guests’ whim, either coming back for a refill as needed or, most certainly, following any of them to where he wanted, how he wanted, to that end, we would find the place was unlimited.
There were the two glazed swinging doors, one labelled “In” and the other “Out”, we entered in a file in a gentle crowd of black-tied gentlemen and evening gown ladies, babbling mostly in broken English, ogling us only stealthily. On a low stage played an odd sextet around a muted grand piano, what sounded like revamped Gipsy and Klezmer standards, downtempo. The smell was blared by towering bouquets of lilies or cascades of daturas mingled with all the expensive scents everybody wore, resulting in the disorienting whirl that emanates from frequented perfume shops.
I soon made a success with my drinks, and my arse, which was kindly tested on its way, even by a grey-haired blue-eyed lady. In the corner of my eye, I saw Natalia taken by an arm towards a far-side corridor, she smiled like a trained actress. As for me, I was a few times struck by characters I might have met before in my rare appearances at my Far’s side, and that might have stiffened my face so as to chill any suitor, but Liselotte, with her below gazes, met me at the first refill, joshing that we were less in demand than the kitten, still playing subdued. At our return, Lizon was gone, my shyberries had devouts because it made me sway like a reed. A mature, bulky well mannered Egyptian type took a fancy of my apron and nodded towards a nearby curtained opening, thus I left my tray on a convenient trolley and walked to the unspecified exit while he petted my bum cheeks.
In the dim-lit vaulted brick corridor, alcoves alternated like no end, people were busy at diverse sexual tricks, all the women wore the same genre of lace aprons as I did. We entered a shell-like padded cove, the man kissed me hungrily, then told me to suck him hard, which he needed as a matter of fact, but he soon became tight enough to bugger me standing, his trousers on his knees, granting me his best shot, asking me to clean him dry afterwards, for my sleazy shame and twisted pleasure. He mumbled awkward compliments and left fast. As I guessed, there was a convenient bathroom behind the shell, with warm water and the clean canula I needed for a rightful enema.

On my way out, I was grabbed apart by an all-nude slim bald fellow who was already balls-deep into a bent long-haired blonde and asked me to face him and make her lick my arse, seated and spread on a stool with convenient foot-rests. I obliged, the fucked servant too, she was probably more skilled at that than swaying her butt, I came thankfully and that made him fill her in a few jolts with sharp cries. He made me clean a burly rod that still drooled of bitter fluid, and the toilet was to be reconsidered, in doing so, brushing her native wheat yellow flow, I found her more than palatable —if we were to be granted any initiative— her name was Valine.
The powder on my skin smelled of iris and violet, I needed no silver tray to be seized under one of my arms each step I tried, and I heard a full rainbow of bashful insults as manicured hands vaunted the suppleness of my loins. A couple with a thick German accent and a high-waisted pearl-blue satin gown, a spiralled chignon and noticeable diamonds at the thin wrist, circled me out to yet another outlet row of wilt mauve refuges a black ponytailed, middle-aged woman in a black bodysuit and sneakers was finishing to clear.
The German lady let me hitch her gown up as her cavalier told me, his hand in my crotch. She was as slender as Woglinde if she wisely remains in the legendary flows, her nude pussy mound flourished of the said gold, smelling of broom flower honey, while he buggered me like Alberich with a white-hot rod. She gushed to my face beautifully — thankfully her skirt had been gathered up— more than once, as I hurled my mouth on her inextinguishable bead of grit and her aristocratic arsehole until she fainted like a Fuseli dreamer and I, on my side, received long spurts of sap, deep inside. Woglinde joined me licking her master’s declining shaft, but he ordered she drink his outcome from my arse, which she did —after she gave me a periwinkle wink.
I felt so licked leading her to the bathroom, unwrapping her from her precious befitted dress, sensing Alberich had more grudge to his ire when he saw my gentle nose amidst the pallors of his wife, he ordered me to come and lick his own while he would bugger her, capsized over the bathroom stool. Her name was Waldine, she wrote my number in her dress, he smirked.
Back amongst the starched-up Niebelungen, I singled the pretty skull of Natalia being thoroughly tongued by an amber-skinned, black-curled demigod, so I intuited to mingle into their prelude and joined my hand in her backside, the manner I always do with her. A pair of topaz wheels whirled straight to the back of my brain but mellowed when he began reading my intentions, so he pulled us away to the nearby recess in drunken peonies plush, expecting me to only assist his toppling over of our shimmering baby whore. I let her rest overbent on my chest as he sheathed a long curved up dick in her quim humping her womb’s wall just like she felt and she discharged a spill of bliss. Then he made me lay and hold her, kissing her beloved face, our thighs both spread so as to play the full register of his envy and I was fondly available when he thurst full length into my pleated hibiscus for a time, waiting for more, but he expired, outspent, in Natalia’s cherished innards and ran, like a thief nobody accused, leaving us to a well deserved mutual grooming.
The party was still dreaming on, smelling a tad more of beastly scents, like boxwoods and roses, piss in the gillyflowers. Lizon was lying back, legs spread open across a grey couple’s laps in black and mauve silk, the shimmery-headed woman poking her tongue in that of the always obedient lounge liana, her companion merely able to finger the convolvulus corolla, he waved at me and asked that I helped him in my mouth. I found a half-baked peen buried in savoury linings of cotton and made a case of reviving it enough to bugger an eager Lizon all set, I did earn a tinsel star on this, at least my lanky pal drooled of something merry I could lick dutifully. This one, too, wrote down Lizon’s number.
A rangy old beau had observed the scene, wanking in the creases of his high-waisted pleated trousers, so when my good deed was done he winked me over to join him in the corridor, grabbing me close at once like his fiancee, nude as a whore, but yet. He spent a long time kissing —that he did in a dazing manner, even after all the spendings I had done— letting out a lazy lizard to my care; I hate to soil real tailoring, so I suggested he stripped, but he kept on his long tails shirt that smelled of tradition and Cologne. I was becoming a professional, with a funny conscience, I pumped him like he had been the mad Cossack who had kept his whip in hand to excite me, when no one had seen me respond to his invite  —only Julia Grant had known, she submitted to the bastard, too, sometimes. This one held my head firmly when I guessed he was about to stuff my throat with semen, I did not lose a drop.

Liselotte said my mouth still smelled of spunk, I retorted she could as well lick my arse, after all, what were we there for? Our little playlet amused some military-type character who had been ogling my butt for a few minutes and conveyed us to a private lunette, upon a black buttoned-leather rounded settee in the midst of which he stood, waiting that we undress him, with care, said he. He was erect and smelled of benzoin, much in Liselotte’s taste, who gulped his dick right away, while he pawed my body repeating that I was the pure angel he had sought for, a dry figure with real vagina and arse, a dreamy face and heavenly eyes, he kissed me deeply, holding my nape, and concluded I tasted like a whore with a smile.
He discharged in Liselotte’s throat, she made it all disappear swiftly, at the officer relish who told her not to stop yet. He held me down backwards on the leather, lifted my legs, said he had known boys, but I was an angel to shag, which he did, fastly as to keep his strength, then into my released starfish, with an overjoyed expression on his face, moreover with Liselotte’s tongue stirring hell in his own. His tool pistoned my rectum beautifully with a long amplitude and steady return, I was running my fluids upon my touchy flesh ring, more and again, the madness of us made us exult together, inescapably, for Liselotte’s complete awe, she called me Tomboy of the galaxy. The proud Pacha asked for both numbers.
Now I felt justified to sleep some, Liselotte did not argue, but it wouldn’t be a doddle to catch the other two, I made up that we had to be in Brussels in the morning, to tame those who had not yet abused our talents, and ran the place in search of our babies. Lizon was skewered up by the master while the mistress cajoled her, we helped them earn their profit faster and pulled a dripping, though gracious beanpole on the run, we worked at three to drain off two musketeers who shared Natalia, some esoteric practices on the perineum achieved an artesian flux of seminal want, acknowledgements, gratitude, bye.
In the sacristy, the two wardens had slept but we cheered them to dream on, we had time to rinse the invisible stains of our turpitudes, in and out, to powder our hides and adjust our rags, Liselotte ordered the car and Natalia slept before we reached our door. I begged Liselotte to sleep with us and see the changes, I brewed some tea and let them find night wears to their tastes, Lizon wrapped herself in an oversize Capri-blue cashmere cardigan with no buttons, Liselotte found black satin pyjamas trimmed with old gold piping, Natalia nestled, kitten-way, in the middle of the bed, in a vast rainbow night-tee, slept; I slid in one of my shapeless Boro coats and let Liselotte and Lizon play with my boyish berries, the Pacha had not been the worst of my johns.

I would have craved to hear about the passes Natalia had played through, she is such a witty slut, and no cheater, hence the slumbers I could not help and go feel her —like I guess one does with an exhausted child. Her breath was as unfazed as clockwork; she also knew how to draw limits, she has always owned us.
Now, Liselotte savoured all the concealed patches in the vague blue knit around Lizon, I joined them, I was famished for girls’ feet, those which need to be warmed up. In her neck, it smelled busy like a mock brawl in the gym cloakrooms, when all was about the knickers of that week’s new crush, and she had used her father’s Cologne, and she pretended to be immobilized by one of your pals. Then, days of palavers to obtain pardon, to stay so close as to hear heartbeats, touch innocent places like the back of the hand, the jaw, whatever until she let herself locked in the broom closet that smelled of wax and mop, with me. Lizon had never been there, when she covered herself with the old cover of her own old cradle and watched the confederacy of rats on the flat roof across, scattered with refuse. Louis had entrusted her to our realm —like he does— and she had kept her marsh green gazes, aslant in melancholy, possibly deadly. Now she could dwell amidst us, we have architects and planners (I always had) to secure our doors.
Supported by Louis through his liegeman Hector, she wouldn’t have seen the profit of asking Liselotte for easy tricks —if anything resembling what she had just thrown us in deserved to be called easy— nevertheless, she enjoyed fantasies curated by Sami at Philippe’s. Like Kate, she had sailed through the dire paths of chemical addictions, now then, some rude moments of carnal abuse at the hands of a cunning maestro, altogether drinking freshwater, with thoroughly vetted partners, was her paradoxical redemption, and she had been writing journals on that cause.
Fayelle and Lizon had stories to trade, they went on the Senghor bridge to speak over the river stream how steep the fall had felt from the fragile and vain houses of their infancy, and the saviour who would not even take credit, saying he had profited all the same after a sharp eye had singled them out of the sewer. They laughed and cuddled, since now they dwelled in the places where you may kiss a girl in the open and not be martyrised, it let them appraise their luck. Princesses like me need to be taught the scope of their privilege, as Camille does with her catches. I had been sinking in the regrets of my castles and parks, the petrichor scent of the rainy rendez-vous, with fresh hands on my belly and elsewhere. My father, my Far, fiddling my bare feet, all due distance, on the banquette of the emptied afternoon lounge of the restaurant on the Lake Geneva, had only meant I could encompass human life as I pleased, he would have accepted that I remained in Neverland. Whoever sent me to Paris, Tudor Weiss or Anaïs Nin? Camille’s gallery showed signals like Hans Bellmer or Heinz Stängl, she owned the flair of an orchid who had to pay the rent with her arse at twelve, and eventually had told her deadly secret to the greatest collector of souls, who bought her shoes and attires, and a window on the city.
Just in time, Princesses of all blood drifted in her gossamer traps, her mohair velvet sofas and her courtesan percale bed. Her alliance with Hugo had made of her my beacon of existence while I would have blamed myself if I had cramped my Far with demands. Moreover, Camille revealed my taste for making a trade of my body, in the safe ring of her own patrons, and later the connections of Liselotte’s —one I had overlooked in the Beaux-Arts corridors.

The day after our carnal rampage under the warm brick vaults, we tried our old routine, there were ongoing paintings on the boards, but it was helpless, firstly, Annabelle was in a crush for Lizon and wanted her to tell how she had let herself be done with the socials in bespoke stuffs, a sleazy pretext to steal her socks under our very eyes. They knew I would not help from creeping to their bared feet and warming them in my breath.
Annabelle fanned the embers when she avowed she had merely been a backroom hireling when James had picked her in a pub and rid himself of her pimp, all she knew of bright debauchery had been with James, but most of us knew what it meant, he is a reliable soul. Upon the once more unrolled famous futon —I would tell Michelle that— She had made the easy slender lass comfortable, the blue cashmere creases following her whims on the lissome animal. She fancied parading nude in the suave smelling assembly, given to whatever they would use her for —provided it would not ruin her manicure.
Kate was away with her sister again, they still wondered at each other, chasing that incestuous gene of theirs, and Gauthier was their confidant. Simon was announced as soon as Anna’s quarters would be set. Liselotte had fled early to the necessities of her office, rewards had been granted in order, causing Lizon to bestow me one of her deepest kisses, only for the joy of it.
Having found the henhouse empty, Cecile had climbed up, wisely unshoed but still armoured in her jeans, a black and red flannel and a teeshirt. She sat on the red sofa and listened. It was the part where Lizon had been taken to a side recess by a well-to-do mature couple, asked to put on a collar and a leash, then told to piss in two white porcelain teacups a butler had brought —casually grazing Lizon’s shy breasts on his way— then stand on all fours and come lap the lady’s uncovered muff in antique open knickers while they drank, after what the man lubed her and engulfed a notable dick in her arse, not that she had seen him strip anyway. He lasted well enough to make her spurt on the carpet, then he discharged like a month’s worth of semen as deep as he could, a rectum can be deep. That was not the end for her, she had to clean the actually massive penis, only just out of her arse, but while she did, she felt the lips and tongue of the lady regaling of her relaxed arse, with foreign commentaries and giggles. they had let her go to the nearby bathroom when the so-called butler pushed her in and pulled his pants down, holding her with the leash, so she sat on her heels and pumped the bastard as if that would be enough, which wasn’t, but he chose to plough her vagina, earning a splash of pussy orgasm triggering his own outpour, then he washed on the bidet and ran. It was mundane whorehouse hustle and bustle.
I had been drawn to Cecile’s feet, obviously, and although she had grown up away from any sort of society life, let alone of promiscuous incline, I could tell she was aroused by the girls’ wantonness when I reached for her jeans’ waist buttons and slid away the stiff cloth. I could gleefully tell she had been fucking not long ago, yet still, her quim smelled as fresh as a Swiss brooklet in May. She did no manners to tell an assembly of gentle doxies that Lauritz had ruffled her up, before he ran to Hamburg for a day, in the attics.
Now then, I needed to present her to Camille, our ever unfailing Swan Keeper of sorts, who had bestowed the two candid foreigners we had been, Kate and I, a map of Paris treasures once it was awfully certain our schooling would not, to say the least.
Cecile was of another breeding, an outcast in her own province, a gem I had stumbled on, in its natural gangue, because anytime I will nuzzle at girls’ noses, on hunches. Only, then, her wanderings had brought the rendition I had revelled in, and thence her docile availability for Lauritz, whom, for all we had known, was no more than an aristocratic playboy of the German kind. It rested on my smitten soul to provide the stranded damsel with the same safety net we all bounced in, with the benefits. One of the essential anchor points would be sealed, no doubt, in Corfu with Hugo, but before that, without breaching good manners, I would relish watching Camille’s unfazed green eyes twirled into Cecile’s subtly eerie gazes.
In all incestuous grace, the family of two Camille had bonded with Fanny had withstood the late upheaval. Materially —if I may speak so— Fanny was content of the burly visits by Mathew Mulder, the New York attorney for Camille’s newly inherited firm, whom I personally testify he shags like a full-fledged quarterback, with style. The Gallery was becoming more esoteric by the day, but that line had hooked up such worthy catches as Fayelle, in recent times, so Camille kept it attractive to desirable wandering tramp girls.

Certainly not the verbose breeds from the stud farms on rue Saint-Guillaume or rue d’Ulm, nor the loaded, overworked killers of med school, but the scruffy stranded loners dropped out of art school, or the literary angels in ideal tatters, of the mellow genre, that would not withstand the heavenly scents of her luxurious bathrooms, for starters.
As Cecile let me clench her waist while we toured the private collection —after we wisely took off our shoes— Camille allowed herself, with manners, to touch her feet with the tip of her toes while she lauded the magic (no magical thinking, whatsoever) in a wondrous domestic sized panel by Monsu Desiderio —the signature of a couple of French XVIIth century painters, François de Nomé and Didier Barra, established in Naples— she, herself was stunned she had bought.
The painting showed an oneiric view of Venice’s Bacino di San Marco, drawn out of some written description, with all the elements of the Piazetta like they might as well had been, but are not. Cecile has a sharp eye, she bent forward a chink to read the minute crowd standing on the quay watching some sort of Grand Duke’s galley —nothing near the Bucentaur one sees drawn by Canaletto— and thus grazed softly Camille’s breast, who seized the occasion, firstly, to hold her arm, then try a kiss at the corner of her lips, unavoided, avowed, answered.
But then, in a way taking her softly from me, she let her scan the painting, not a technical prodigy per se, but still, an endearing echo of wilder epochs, though not so direr than those around the nearby Dado or Ljuba, or the Filonov on the opposite wall. Cecile spoke with candid respect as if she were already devising the means to revive the Desiderio in the tones she guessed under an oxidised varnish, to what Cecile seized her from the back, letting her float some reflexive insight beyond the frame while she cautiously pulled open the zip of her perfecto and slid a feathery hand upon the modest breasts, under one of my best cashmere jumpers —heart-throb of mine.
Camille showed no hurry, her hands might venture inside the leggings of the same wool, and she gleaned kisses in the newbie’s nape. Fanny was amused, she did not wear a thing in her ample off-white cotton peasant shirt, her legs so gracile lightly supporting her grace, she relished seeing Camille court a timid newcomer, probably assured she would have her turn, no one ever escaped her whim.
Oh, yes, she had sexy abs, indeed, they rolled over the back of a massive mohair sofa, correcting tentatively their position as a middle-aged woman, black-haired, black-eyed, in a dark yellow pantsuit, pushed a service cart towards us, loaded with food and drinks and disappeared at Camille’s thank you. She still held Cecile’s hand, she avowed that she had visited Speck House on Sunday, at Gauthier’s incitation, and apart from all the treasures that bedazzled her, he had vaunted the work done by the young crush of mine, on the monumental chandeliers and on the Dunand’s panels. He agreed with me that there was sufficient talent and dedication to constitute a future —the aforementioned subject was blooming crimson— so, they might league together to establish Cecile, some way or another on the trail to a fruitful career, wouldn’t they?
And the way I had laid her inside Lauritz’s bed, and then she had shagged Gauthier lightheartedly did nought to her value, she had shown she was a dependable craftswoman, to start with, and being hired in Gauthier’s firm, she would be granted all the work available in the friendly collections. He had wondered furthermore if some connections could give her access to specialised studies, titles she could post and print if she was to fly independently. This enthused Fanny, who took the pretext to jump stages and sit next to Cecile who let her do her fantasy on her.
Doing my best J. Worthington Foulfellow —Pinocchio’s fox— impersonation, I also floated that our friend Liselotte owned some funnier means to grant access to some statutory shield —if she wanted to comply with her ways. At my perverted insinuation, Fanny burst into laughter, bantering Cecile would pair along with Natalia whoring to the high-wigs of Academia, whenas Camille wouldn’t let her. She uncovered Cecile’s navel to nose in, I groped her enkindled little butt.

 

Camille says:

Unexpected vision of an offish hipster babe in boyfriend jeans and expensive Perfecto, though her fine feet told why Sarah would be smitten, Cecile casually envisioned my Desiderio with engaging manners, revealing herself just what Sarah had vaunted, a graceful Parisian doe who did not shun flirting once she had heard wise talking.
I wouldn’t doubt Sarah had gripped that stray soul in no time, in the going shamble of workings, she’s gifted at that. Now, she relished watching my own schoolkid roll her loins irresistibly for gathering caresses while undoing the buttons one by one. I was struck, in my turn, by what body that shy working girl had kept hidden in her baggy rags, indeed Sarah had taste, and Lauritz was no fool.
We soon were lying au naturel on the sofa in a stampede of niceties to leave Cecile breathless, Fanny’s fist humping in her womb until she discharged. Sarah was roosted, spread wide, on the backrest, so as to let Fanny lick her while she was poked in her bumhole by me.
We all tiptoed to the bathroom, Cecile, who had been buried in the cushions while cumming was in sweats and I licked that all, I had a glimpse of her true nature and I loved it, too.
She’s a spared singleton of the shuffled suburban herds, just like me before her, I feel compelled to let her guess —if Sarah didn’t tell— we came out of the same jungle, and she reached the tipping point when she won’t ever cope again with her sores, I have heard that in her voice when she mused about an outworldly Desiderio —given whatever she was born in.
I couldn’t help touching that sleek pallor, the timid breasts underlay by boyish muscles, her slender neck. She was no trained slut as we were, she had never been butchered to the boors’ want, her lust was pure native. Her eyes’ elusive squint made one feel off-guarded, unread, allowed to stare greedily at her innocent grin.
Chasing at her explorative looks upon my obvious wealth, I prefered to warn her all this had not been a godsend, only the goodwill of Hugo’s after I had washed up to his doorstep as the little whore I had been always, even before I became an orphan at twelve and the landlord saw it as an opportunity. Now, beyond an epic destiny of wandering, the only one left of my lineage had left me with an uncountable might, in the best of all peerages. Her eyes swayed in the flow, I told her I had given Hugo permission to answer all the questions about me when they would fly to Corfu.
Fanny jumped on her like a swarm of butterfly kisses on her tits. After she captivated her gazes and made sure she relished the feel of her namesake fanny on her belly, she lashed out as banter that she, too, had been born a pussygirl, raised for a henchman’s whims and redeemed through magazines. She was her own Tinker Bell self, she joked her therapist couldn’t even write a book about her case, she said Kate had given her the magic number in the trying booth of a shop in Venice and she would never forget it. After a befuddling moment, Cecile responded to my pupil’s unavoidable kisses, while Sarah poked her tongue in her daring and valiant little arse.
It was her turn at the truth game, obviously. Fanny asked her since when she had been a fille de joie, she retorted since she had met Sarah, and laughed candidly.
In her mellow-toned, rounded voice, like someone who had consistently avoided language confrontation through the many educational straits, she described life in the metaphorical undergrowths of a social gathering graben of sorts, in the midst of a devoiding suburb waiting for redevelopment. Thankfully, the law forbade her to stand in the public area, where her father held the bar with one or two barmaids and her mother sold money games and magazines.
Although it might not have been trendy among the colourful schoolmates, she had adored school, plain bleach and wax clean venue of knowledge other than betting and football, the only programs her father would tune in the house TV sets. By the unseen anthropology of these forlorn territories, being the daughter of the joint where their own fathers offloaded their grudges and a chunk of their pay, gave her some social status amidst the unpredictable schoolyard, she also had reckoned the system of seductive markers, she had never worn girlie attires and colours, and although she could read in some teachers’ eyes, she had mercifully avoided becoming any teacher’s pet.

With Fanny’s smile resting on her chest, she grasped that I was enthralled by her tale, and Sarah was proud of her, clenched to her back, kissing her neck and shoulder. I refrained from stealing any more kisses, to hear that sparrow of a voice telling the rhyme of a child’s wisdom. All of what I had ever been deprived of.
Her only mates had been the shy ones, the neglected, those who would disappear from a fate they had merely glimpsed upon, those the institutions failed and no one cared.
There was a blind room where her mother —a country girl, of whom she thought she had been the cause of her sad marriage, as she blamed herself for— stored the magazines she sold. There was a wire-meshed vent at floor level through which she saw the public room from below, reading the magazines she stole from the piles with the tacit knowledge of her depressed mother.
Fanny cried upon her as they recollected what both naive little girls had found in the same middle-class printed sources of wisdom, furthermore the softcore porn magazines full of terrible literature and botched photography that could be sold there. Cecile avowed her jeans had always been roomy enough to let her masturbate, reclined on the rags she folded near the vent; Fanny had a whole different story about her father’s porn. Not long after she had confided to her mother that there had been blood in her knickers, and she had been shown how to use tampons, some booklets had happened in the piles she kept, from the family planning, all-wise and clear, and she had learned to look at her sorrowful mother in another way, but it had been too late, she wouldn’t speak of that time.
In the following years, she had steadily worn black. The new counsellor was a woman who took Cecile in friendship and tried to reach out to her father, in vain, the death of his wife did not grieve him affectively, on the whole, but left him unable to run his business, and so he drank to his death before the year-end. Cecile was still a minor, the café was sold by a legal tutor who managed her assets so as to rent a proper bedsitter in a safe building and live a correct lifestyle. After her diploma, she was admitted to an applied arts school and showed promising talents, it had been them who had sent her in an internship with the firm Gauthier had called in for the Speck Hotel.
Fanny was overjoyed, she foresaw that we would be able to keep Cecile among us, one whose soul had fed upon the same French magazines as her, and whose lips tasted like peach.
I was bewitched, as Sarah could plainly see, and it recalled me of the early days with herself, whom I had beguiled in the gallery, and so it doubled up on my pleasure. Fanny wanted Cecile to move in, but she had nested richly in Castle Hugo, and Fanny could not altogether move out because of her protected status —and my love of her.
I could tell her we were three sponsors greatly motivated to let her establish herself and liable to maintain her as a multipurpose practitioner on precious artefacts, teamed with Gauthier she had not frankly shunned as of yet. Hugo had said that, in the wake of the recent reshaping of the group of buildings between his and TRÆVIX, he had acquired groundfloor surfaces above his projected subterranean art storage space currently being fireproofed, like mine, downstairs.
While Fanny was deploying her craftiest ruses over all her body, I elaborated that she was young and free to endeavour an enviable career in Gauthier’s steps, she replied it had gone so fast, a few weeks back she was a mere journeyman —said other genderwise it would sound kinky. Sarah jumped in to claim she had not yet ferreted her out, then, and that had been a game-changing crush. Besides, she had been a lot poorer, too. Melting under everyone’s skilled tongues, she conceded it was all true.
At the cost of a heap of tender promises to Fanny, they succeeded at getting dressed again and running, it was only time Sarah cradle her amidst the storm of new expectations, earnest.

 

Sarah says:

A dream of white parrots amidst the green pinnacles of Denmark had settled the morning mood as serene, there was a message Cecile “You own me, hard luck, take me anywhere at your whim I let you do me” I answered with an “I love you at five o’, boss of me”.
Our groceries had been done, the biggest silver basket was brimming like a cornucopia, I needed to squeeze lemons in a mango smoothie, haunted by the Duchess of Kircaldy, cry, baby, who knows?
Putting on an off-white tracksuit —with knickers, every drop marks through in this kind of fleece— I climbed upstairs for tea, expecting the heath fairies and their whiff of kind news. Camille called, Fanny had stayed in her bed and they had dreamt of my pupil, so overwhelming. She felt she was a keeper, she teased I had seen her feet first, I said her squinted eyes through her bangs had killed me at once and it had been hard work to peel her off her jeans to her toes. She said Hugo could use the Melchior Wings Express on Tuesday morning to elope with my fiancée, to Venice, Cecile had shown the destination would beguile her more. Anyhow, he had promised her he had not even begun his courtship of her and thus she owed him nought. However, the season was fit for museum hunting, he would revel in watching her discover the troves of the Serenissima. If all went smooth —why wouldn’t it?— Cecile would then be in affective condition to learn a bit of practice on the Desiderio, with Master Sylvestre, back here.
I had, myself, a vague remembrance of Corfu in the springtime, a gigantic wisteria enlaced in a cypress tree, inside the old Venetian fortress. It had been a school trip, with Tudor Weiss, our art teacher, who then slept with a few of us, in his cautious way. Moreover, a few Cossacks had been onboard, too. I concurred that, whatever Hugo would spend to the lust of her, she would gather more fruit for thoughts in the ghostly palazzi of the wet Serenissima than in its now vulgarized distant colony —Next, he should take a Perdita like me to the Pausilippo, to break his loins in the scent of lemon trees.
In the meantime, it was a chilled end of a sunny afternoon when I walked to pick Cecile on the Quai d’Anjou. I wore a shamefully rich black twelve-strains knit vicuna wool leggings and jumper ensemble — a gift of Melchior’s— under a stiff silk-satin trench, black calf Jodhpur boots. She had found a striking red tartan flannel shirt that blazed under the black leather, the sturdy Docs had complied to her feet in vermillion socks —she did not wear black Wayfarers. She had frankly borrowed some man’s cologne, and that earned her a spirited kiss on the Pont Saint-Louis.
Despite the harrowing rumour of automobiles on the rightfully named Pompidou highway, we strolled all the way to the Louvre and the Palais-Royal where Sami waited for us. She had time to query my eyes a few times to assert a faith she said she had not encountered before in true life, all I did was to let her warm her hands under my wools and speak my soul, forehead against forehead, reminding her of what she had asked for.
Sami offered us fresh cane juice with hibiscus flower red tea, at Philippe’s bar, rolling his eyes on the tiny bits he could see of Cecile, I enraged him by unbuttoning a notch more of her flannel, so as he could not wait and ushered us through a private door I did not remember beside the service door. I held Cecile by the waist in a short dark corridor giving on downwards steep steps, then, as per usual, as I told her, a maze of gloomy passages with scarce chilly vents here and there, ultimately opening on a dim-lit sombre wood-panelled un-dressing room where he took time to peel us entirely and return him the courtesy, he was stiff as a horn when I made her suck him like a debutante on prom night, knelt on a convenient cushion.
From a drawer, he tinkered with some tinkling accessories and came up with two padded dog collars and a solid gilded chain, buckled us up like animals, paired us and clipped a leash between us to lead us behind a heavy dark wood door, beyond a thick, plum violet, soft on us, chiselled velvet drape, into a low vaulted, warm salon around a black, buttoned bed-stage bathed in a golden gleam.
Sami pulled us all around the ballroom-size salon, along the bearing walls where deep armchairs sheltered vague shadows of people in disparate outfits and costumes, some women in various postures of wanton, dresses with convenient creases and slits in an overtly suggestive manner, many of the gents showing off their genitals matter-of-factly.
I enlaced my protégée in a way that aroused the audience, and Cecile, who had already visited the Panopticum, was moving with the simple grace she showed when in the nude, unfazed of what might happen to her since I was there, too.

I had no clue as to what these roisterers belonged, I could only trust Sami who had had to advertise our peppy arses in a day’s course, and thus far seemed to make a sensation, as showed his sleek weenie. It would appear mostly that they had convened to some live performance, men showed no sign other than exhibiting their tense pricks, and Sami led us like thoroughbreds at an auction, from hand to hand, gleaning well-phrased compliments and indiscrete fingers.
It all had the vicious feel of a clubmen’s amusement, were it not for certain offish rebuffs from the women they forced to stroke and kiss us, whom they called degrading names while ripping apart their expensive underwear. Trying to keep my composure, and relishing Cecile’s natural at that, I rolled my eyes towards Sami, who whispered, smiling, that some Board Of Directors had brought the ladies, that night, unbeknownst to them.
So, that perverted twist rekindled my loins, and I started to woo these women who might have been inclined to look down on us, showed them how good it was to kiss Cecile while their husband fingered my arse. The comedy of ascendancy flourished like prickles on a wasteland, some revolted in outrage but none could leave the scene, as the rich outfits fell at their feet.
The craftiest of these spouses acted as to take what was offered, and some revived their boarding school nostalgias, wanking us in tune, others let be done with affected exasperation, thus I gave them a glimpse of as good a game as what they had endured since prom night, eventually at their profit, although they would not confess. Once convinced of full secrecy, with the proper incitation from their domineering cuckolds, they might arrange their lives with Sami’s extended resources, more than one was highly palatable.
In the racket of chains, Sami eventually laid us, Cecile, upon me, trying to open the wider as possible for his unflinching rod, and he owned the style for humping in a novel bumhole while the party of office revellers applauded, their astounded females somewhat deflowered.
However, after one hour of that impromptu, having spent my talent at watching for Cecile safety and showing the housewives the true colours of life, I still had not been properly shagged, although my quim drooled like a toddler.
Sami reckoned that the swinger’s party would roll by itself, like another trading room, he led us through a new tunnel, ignoring calls for our lustful bums, to the gallery of voyeurs, overlooking a dozen salons I already knew. He unlocked our bracelets, explaining he had feared the roosters might have fought for Cecile. Looking through the glass panes, at couples and groups having a go in inspiring poses, she said it was like the round in the Panopticum and she liked that, clenching at my side. Sami had a grin and led us to the other side to let us show ourselves to whomever.
It was a posh, kitsch, viridian green lampas and contorted gilt stucco pleasure box with a grand ceremonial bed, clad of opalescent taffeta, two chests with white marble tops and dimmed festooned candelabras and three gilt almost papal armchairs. A prolific bronze faux-rococo chandelier dispenced a mellow rose light on Cecile’s skin as we entered. She wanted the loo, the bathroom was as spacious as expected, with mirrors in every view angle, and we took our time to clean and rinse out our privates and come very near to the mirrors, to show the glory of our youth.
Predictably, Sami’s fresh team of amber-skinned minions —the kind our fool husbands would have usefully hired at their needy wives service— had snuck in, dicks tensed up, smelling of Zanzibar, zealous and considerate, enthralled by Cecile’s black eyes swayed aside, so much so that I chose to stroke her nerves as they assailed on all sides, leaving me the pale buds of her nipples which I knew how to wake and bustle. She was splendidly disjointed, expanded, ravaged and her cry was a long low song, syncopated by humpings in her throat.
In a shudder along my spine, I felt the unseen hold of another muscular body and soon I guessed whose spur was sheathed into my willing rosebud, Sami had seen my sacrifice, but I was all that his Johnnie longed for —after he had long shagged Cecile upon me. He lasted to my complete spill and collapse.

 

Hugo says:

On the afternoon trip to Le Bourget, Cecile had wicked fables to retell. She had been at work all morning, she smelled of Cologne soap, her fringe was silky to my nose, she was proud of having been frankly slutty lately, at the whim —that would be a euphemism— of Sarah, and then Lauritz, who sent me earnest greetings. She was funnily bundled up in her street warrior outfit, a rich vermilion scarf tucked in the aslant neck of her jacket, she had brought a brand new forest green backpack with mixed colours pockets and flaps that tamed down a bit the black leather Sarah had clad her with.
Being so blatantly singled out by whom she saw like one of those unreachable aristocrats amidst Lauritz’s otherworldly workings, then propelled on the fast track into her magazine fantasy —including the kinky ones— all this luxuriation topped by the indubitable proposal of the princely Camille who dared vaunt she had been a child whore, just like this moon-fairy she lived with, all the clocks and watches in her miraculously preserved soul had been wound-up, also the self wonderment of waking unharmed through breathtaking debauchery.
She had not yet encompassed the worth fate had deemed her, I let her comment their visit at Phillipe’s, causing me a hard-on at the thought of them two chained together, then her whirly night with Lauritz she had to interrupt when we glid upon the tarmac until the Falcon’s stairs, she had not yet understood we would fly in a private jet, it left her wide-eyed and speechless.
Melchior’s staff all knew pretty squirrels weren’t natural nieces, but none would sneer or look away, Cecile answered candidly to all salutes, she was a relish to watch do, I kept silent in wonderment. The blonde attendant welcomed her and asked if she wanted to unshoe; she wore mismatched woolly socks, one white and one black, in the manner of my upstairs boarders, where she now lived fully, and so she could gather her feet on the precious leather seat, eager to watch the take-off.
I pushed down, off the way, the armrest between us, and looked over her shoulder the sparse shards of a dirty yellow dusk light spun around as the vessel rolled; she said she had never flown, I let my craving hold her warm and moist feet, the cashmere socks were gifts of Sarah’s. From her seat, the attendant showed me that we ought to buckle up, it was an understood pretext to touch her some, then feel her heartbeat when the Falcon braked at the standstill pad, then gradually freed the full thrust of its engines and sped off till she raised her eyebrows when the sleek machine dived up into the dark in comparative quiet.
She mumbled when we reached out of the clouds and a mellow sunbeam grazed her face in a bend manoeuvre; she was thrilled to hear the captain say we would fly at 15000 mètres height.
She agreed to my foot-massages, she said she had never figured that real persons, like she thought she was, lived the way she had seen us do, all the most with the sensuous mingling at liberty, while none of mostly women in that realm seemed to fear for themselves, many of whom she had heard recovered from horrendous pasts, except Sarah, who actually gave a feeling she was one of her snow angels, in the flesh.
I felt I had to answer these, thus far, Cecile had not gambled away any smidgen of her life in playing with a mild confederacy of polyamorous privileged bohemians, she could still —I would see no offence— live tranquil in her own bedsit and be hired by Gauthier’s well-established firm all the while leading any manner of love streams she would.
Now, over the tipsy golden tops of the Alps, she was calmly feeding a greedily present passion in me, and her feet smelled of leather and cardamom. I left it to the journey on the black waters of the laguna to allow more laisser faire without breaking the thin glass of her free will. Although she had as yet complied with Sarah’s wicked wants, I had my own courtship to achieve, too, at no detriment to those she had finally come to play with, for her benefit.
Entered into the city of cities by the unremarkable Cannaregio Canale, the sleek taxi-boat had to slow down by law and I invited Cecile to stand up along with the sailor as we would sail down the most sumptuous avenue in the world —like most connoisseurs can’t help do. The man was visibly proud of his boat, pampered like a regal coach, an intelligent manner of justifying his rates. He did not fully grasp what a black bespoke-clad gentleman my age was tangling with a cute swanky fashionista, but given the name of the place we went to, he refrained any other judgement than ogling her fresh muzzle in the wind.

The Amigoni Hotel stands in the straight part between the Rialto and the Ca’ Foscari. A row of four elaborate rosy rib glass lanterns affixed on ornate stands into the solid stone walls sided the landing portal. Lines of black and gold spiral-painted piles with gold-turned tops marked the Palazzo’s outskirts. When I paid the sailor handsomely, he gave me a funny eye, Cecile had already jumped upon the welcoming carpet and the red gilet porter was holding her the door. Some usual Influence had granted us a dignified suite with two large windows on the Canale in the salon and two stately bedrooms where I knew boatloads of virtue had been spent.
Time to tip the young boy who carried my bag, she had disappeared in the bathroom and came back only five minutes later, all nude in an hotel plush robe, so as to wipe off all moral precautions on my part, she played Sarah’s advice to a baby courtesan. She had put back her fluffy socks as a token of her leeway, she believed Fanny’s incentive, Sarah’s promise and there were cuddly loveseats everywhere.
I kicked my shoes and tossed my jacket so as to kneel before her and devoured her treasures until I heard her cry warm tears.
Shivering in fright of having caused her distress, I wrapped her back in the robe, cuddled her tousled head and drank away the bitter tears. She sobbed, mumbling that I should not pay attention, it had been only angst of not being worth it, she was better at being let done than do, all of us had been so crafty with her little bird of a soul, she could not fly on her own.
That was beauty, redemption for all the luxuries here and around, a dazzlement in the crystal only Sarah could have mined out and set free. With my forehead on her chest, I vowed not to forget the lesson, then I shrugged off my own sobs and said we should order dinner, or else.
In my awkward Italian, I persuaded the chef that we were vegetarians, with eggs and cheese, so he swore that he could treat us, all the same. Truth be told, Italian chefs I know are the next best thing to motherly love. Although two waiters had come set a table in the salon, I had told Cecile to remain as she had been and let them eye her up, and so she did, with rosy eye rims, pretending she read one of the displayed magazines, looking up at me so as to show I wasn’t the cause of her tears, letting surreptitiously the robe slightly parted on her thighs, playing whore.
Under the silver bowls of our large plates was chopped penny buns spaghetti in a creamy sauce, slices of a colourful chartreuse, polenta and grilled artichoke buds. Indeed Cecile had been starving, had she been at a French table she would have naughtily mopped up her plate. Like they would have to newlyweds, they brought dessert with coffee, small heaps of shuffled nougat, almonds, hazels, and candied fruit amidst torn shreds of sugar paste, stuck with little spears of caramel, all enough to make her eyes sparkle anew.
For sure, there would only be one undone bed, that night —and the following. She had devoured all the sweets and she showed a ravishing sugar rush, across the satiny sheets, she demonstrated all the nasty she had learned the preceding loose nights and candidly gushed a few times for my reward. She was all the way as cunning as my own Sarah and did not bargain for her pleated rear bud into which I offloaded heaps of manly want, to her joyful cries. We were lethally spent when I washed her in the shower and she pissed on me —as her mistress had taught her.

In the morning, the Canale had dissolved into a whitish veil only lashed through by the shrieking lights of the vaporettos, she stood enthralled, in the crumpled nightshirt she had brought, because she had once read one should never sleep naked at the risk of wryneck pains at waking; she was so right, and her tone of voice saying that had enthused me. I enwrapped her against the bleakness of light in the cosy cloud of the palazzo.
She was a coffee person in the epicentre of coffee roasting and preparing, I had brought some vintage Darjeeling all to myself and it was brewed and waiting in no time, in an English silver pot. She had found the Gallimard guide of Venice in the bookcases and read avidly while dunking her almond biscotti like a little girl. I suggested we start our stay with a visit to San Marco and the Palazzo Ducale and then some refined shopping if she let me play doll with her. The guide concurred with my choices.
A boat took us swiftly to the Piazzetta that she recognised from the painting she had seen at Camille’s and craved to help restore; she asserted the whimsical representation on the painting but anyhow was seized by the eerie magic of the decor, so far from anything she had sauntered by in Paris, where symmetry is the godly rule.
She wouldn’t need a teacher, she stood, bewitched, uptight in that fuzzy drawn outfit I knew what she hid in, hands deep in the side pockets, her small face hidden in the red scarf. I was there to look, for the umpteenth time, the glorious theatre unfurled around another passenger who would, her lifelong, recall these hours of mist.
Granting me one of her trick gazes, she pivoted towards the jumble of San Marco, I followed. Was a time she couldn’t walk in without her hair covered, now they wouldn’t know what gender she hid. I am still of two minds as to San Marco, a cumbersome extravaganza of shady loot, but the golden domes have a psychedelic effect on me, and so on my muse, who needed to rest her nape on my shoulder not to topple back. She smelled of Byzantine intrigues, she invented tessellated mythologies, and she was becoming the new Theodora, black-eyed courtesan and Empress.
A privilege of the cold season, the Palazzo Ducale was deserted, dark and resounding, she had read and agreed that she was mainly concerned by the bewildering ceilings in the power rooms. She almost fell into a panic attack, when we reached the hall of the Mazor Consejo —the Major Council— in my arms. I took it on myself to call her attention to the Veronese medallions when one of the attendants began making a ruckus on her telephone; that had happened before, it could be endless; I did what Leonardo San Vio had told me to, I went to her, pulled out my own telephone, mimicked that I was recording her and made the horrendous gesture of cutting my throat; she went to pursue her scene elsewhere. We sat on a side bench, hand in hand. I could tell she had her fill. We walked out under the murderer look of the mostly feminine attendants.
We needed warm food, there was a still delicious place for that on the first floor of the ridiculous Napoleonic ballroom, we hasted so as to shake up the contemplative torpor in our limbs. We found a small round table next to a high window on the mist. She was in the mood for hot cocoa and dunked biscotti and she marvelled at the creamy thickness of Italian cocoa. She doubled her order with the niftiest of smiles.
She had opened the Perfecto, but the rough denim frustrated me, so when she came back from the loo, I told her the most desirable shops for girls were just over there, in the other corner. As we kissed under the ground floor vaults, I proposed a complete Venetian styling, starting with some swanky boots. I promised I would carry the bags like a gentleman. I was enthralled when the young shop attendant helped her try on some navy blue suede Chelsea boots and held her feet, advising her she could fetch finer socks, while literally fondling the tepid cashmere. Black calf, lashed Jodhpurs fit her wonderfully too, and it became that the whole Bottega would, as well. She kept on the blue Chelseas, I would carry all the rest, but suddenly, it was jotted to my mind that she couldn’t keep running the museums in box-new shoes, thus she needed soft elegant sneakers, the kind every chic bootmaker does, nowadays. She was grateful for my dreamlike fatherly concern, but I assured her it would then very soon turn to incest.
Next door lay other irresistible trappings, I assailed her for hours in the Loro Piana shop with fabrics she had no idea of before she slid her legs into, and my hand grazed upon. Now then, she would run her daily life in assault-proof denim and leather, and she would glide her evening affairs in fluffy weaves, perhaps Sarah would convince her to put on easy dresses, sometimes? She muttered she had, already, and had felt totally slutty.

Cecile had not seen my card fly by to settle my enamoured spree, the shop manager offered to transport all the bags to our hotel  —next morning for the three trousers that should be hemmed— that would be a blessing because she furthermore had to disrobe somewhere else to try on under-niceties, even if, like her mistress, she wouldn’t wear much.
Bar the bras she had no use for, La Perla makes all the silky stuff a woman’s body likes to flow around, and her stay with the herd had woken the taste in her for such pyjamas and slip dresses like Annabelle was wooing everyone around in, she had wandered her hands on her as so. The shop attendant was a young tasty vixen, with no useless makeup, she had a crush on Cecile, so I let them spend at her taste, it would have hardly been my place to stand idle in the store. I granted them forty-five minutes.
That very night, I wanted some marking token of my affection, beyond what I might bestow any city harlot. She was a trove of Sarah’s, most assuredly one of us, now on. I knew a jeweller nearby where I had bought ancient pieces before. I felt like a choker and I knew her size. The elegant man showed me a sumptuous unsigned tutti-frutti I hesitated to buy on my own, also a flat articulated Art Deco platinum band with square blue stones in the corner of the aligned diamond-pavé plates, onto which the working was top notch. he said the blue stones were true Kashmir sapphires, hence a hefty tag; he had all the gemmology certificates, same for the Jaïpur tutti-frutti. He spoke excellent French, he probably recognised me from before; he offered a deal for both pieces I did not let myself refuse —That sometimes off-kilter stare of the new kid had made me utterly frantic.
The two snazzy gamines chatting in pidgin whatnot in the all transparent shop were a living invite to enter there, the bag was light but the tag was long, nothing compared with the impulse I just had had, my plastic card was fireproof, anyhow; I clearly sensed an invite in the swift gaze of the green eyes who handed me back my card, had I been with Kate or Sarah she would have fast learned where to join us for dinner.
Cecile was exhausted, more with the excitements of the day than physical strain. She said the shop attendant had groped her in the trying booth and she had liked it. I told her she might need one or two other pairs of stockings the next day, this hussy beauty had given me the eye, too; it would merely be a matter of money, though, but I relished that Cecile buy —so to speak— a prostitute on her first trip to Venice.
Up in the apartment, my hands burrowed through all her expensive rags, and they fell off easily, but we agreed it was not time yet, we needed a shower and I had dreamt of pissing onto her as she did on me, I felt like a Prince of Wales. She put on a night blue satin pyjama with vermilion piping in the fresh Hotel robe, I did the same in foulard motive silk jersey. I thought I would remain hard all evening. Before the room service dinner, we called Sarah in video on my laptop, but it was Fayelle, with new blond curls and not much more on her, she had seen it would be me, Sarah was in the shower with Annabelle for the moment. She asked to see where we stayed and cried for envy when Cecile clenched to my side. They had spent a most gracious night at TRÆVIX, with the boys, she bantered that she liked dick. Sarah joined in, nude and radiant, and marvelled at Cecile’s pyjama. then listened to our day’s events, predictably ready to come over. She asked if we would go visit Murano, show Cecile a real furnace, and pay respect to the Virgin who looked like her, I asserted it was a good idea. Sarah melted at the idea we would invite the silk attendant in our bed, she said she would have done right away, at the description Cecile retold. That night, she would be out with devilish Natalia in one of Liselotte’s schemes. Before we hung up, she asked that Cecile open the pyjama jacket and let be kissed by me, we were interrupted by the waiter pushing his cart.
It would be spaghetti with asparagus tips, then artichoke hearts with mushroom and walnuts filling. But before, I drew her before the mirror and fetched the thin black box in which her present sparkled on grey velvet, parted the robe and clasped the band to her pretty neck. In silence, I saw the tears overflow, and I wrapped my arms around her because she was stunned.
While we ate, each time she rested her knife, she would smooth her neck with the back of her hand to feel the stones, she said it made her feel belonging, like an animal, and she liked it. We drifted about the night before we flew, she said Lauritz had announced he would enter the little ad hoc firm for her, like the others. He trusted her talent and character, while he knew he would remain a playboy with a Porsche. She had told him she had no better idea and she had enjoyed all of his shenanigans with her.

There was no greater need to expedite the refined meal, thus I pressed her to relate the romantic side of her latter night with her Hanseatic gallant so as to titillate my taste of her at the whim of another. She had abided by that penchant since Sarah had so blindly seduced her as to have overthrown her along in Lauritz’s bed and others, still proving to her the dearest attention. She could have lucubrated to being the flower of a unique passion to a man who had not even seen her in his own salon but he had played to her level, spilling his easy nuggets amongst the sidewalk pebbles so as to tell her to pick them. He had incarnated the lousy pornographic literature she had been reading in the solitude of her cubbyhole, just like she had seen fit, without any lie nor abuse.
After the previous extravagant weekends, when she reciprocated his altogether harmless, if spectacular, fantasies, he invited her inside the very place she worked in, for she might help him confront some demonic leftovers of bygone mayhem, with her unfazed candour.
As a matter of fact, it had become patent that Lauritz’s family estate in Paris had served, in times of nazi military rule, as a special bawdy house for a-lister persons the secret services wished to influence or blackmail, in conjunction with Alfred Greven, Chief Executive of the Continental-Films set up by Goebbels as a propaganda tool, which lured a wealth of pretty unscrupulous younglings among whom to find the honeytraps for the Speck hive, or “Der Bienenstock”, as it was referred to in some confidential notes.
Lauritz had drawn Cecile upstairs, in the now almost tidied rooms, and after an apparently most dignified first act on a brand new mattress —her eyes gleamed of pride while confiding me her exploits— they had washed in the brothel’s bathroom, he had lent her a silk robe that smelled of him, told her to sit and look. He had fetched out a set of keys he explained he had ferreted out in Hamburg lately, opened the walk-in closet and operated a sliding panel, behind which piled up columns of grey metal lockers. There it was, and he told her it might not be the only cache in his house, they would soon begin scanning the cellars, too. He had made her swear on her soul that she would tell no one, apart from Sarah, Kate, and me, obviously.
Some eighty years later, files contained there were potentially poisonous for all sorts of private and public affairs, he wanted to keep the high hand about the necessary historical work, or a definitive silence. He pulled one brown folder and showed me a series of fine-grained photo prints of a middle-aged man in bed with different young persons in interesting positions who visibly knew they were pictured. The age of little harlots had not been a concern in the pre-war houses.
Whatever the moral and political reason for these documents, Lauritz had not been able to dissimulate they aroused him —his erection bulged under his own robe.
After a few seconds query for a nod of me, she went on confessing that she had long been indulging in watching pornography, I spared her strains, holding her hands so she could just casually relate her tastes, and proposed to let her skim through my own collections back home, or even pose for me.
Having sensed her pleasant stir, Lauritz had displayed the prints before her on the bed and obtained to bugger her while she rested her head on her wrists. She had overflowed beyond expectations, so suggestive was the black and white work of the operator, with the perfect balance of contrast, said her. She had asked if the cameras and devices were still in place, obviously behind the mirrors, based on the view angles, so they went looking, and found the Leicas in place and film rolls in closed tubes. All the rooms had been equipped, Lauritz had suspected that there would be other hidey-holes, he had put a brake on the renovation of the upper floors until he knew where all the keys he had unearthed from his family safe went.
Laid bare on the thick pile Art Deco rug in the refurbished grand salon, before the heat flow of the renovated electric fireplace, the four big coils heated to red, Lauritz had pursued his caresses, fantasising that she had been enslaved to his mob of vicious spooks, at no mercy. He had entrusted her the mission to rummage through every nook of the house, with all the contraptions she would need. No one would pay attention, they were all smitten with her jeans, she was the owner’s pet.

She welcomed my total complicity, Lauritz had foreseen that. She relished the talent he had deployed with her till then, most of all she felt so strongly bound to Sarah, and I could not have agreed more on that. The dessert arrived with hot coffee, a charivari of three chocolates, crushed praliné meringue, and a splash of raspberry sauce.
I connected my laptop to the Bluetooth port of the sound system, played Schönberg’s Verklaerte Nacht and invited her to dance onto my stiff desire, in the shuffle of silks, spinning my best flights of spy fancy, figuring I would shag young Ninotchka herself, biting her earlobe. I spared her mouth, I had had a hunch she was too young to offer it heartily, however, she responded vividly to my mouth over her honey slits and poking of the tongue. By the bye, she had let say that Sarah could kill her with that sort of smile, and I joked she had graduated in the best school for it, along with an international elite of carnal knowledge Cecile might happen to meet if she would. As we joked together, she prepared herself, lay upon me backwards on the rug and inserted my maddened shaft into her bunghole, ever so slowly as she spread her arms and legs and rested her head so as to speak in my ear, asking if I liked the rolling of her hips on me.
When Kate purposedly called on Skype, she had guessed I would be shagging the new pixie, and I clenched Cecile at my side, tousled. In Paris, she was proud that she and her sister had done the same a moment before. Onscreen, the likeness was spectacularly kinky when they played tongue judo for us and that excited Cecile. But Kate had a weird request to make, Lauritz had hit on her when she had found him fucking Sarah on the dinner table, lightheartedly, and he had invited the sisters for a round at the Panopticon, next night, had Cecile any hint on that? Cecile laughed, her body fidgeted for my instant excitement, and she said clearly that they should have fun there, and Lauritz was a forthright cavalier. Otherwise, Kate obviously knew better than her what went on in these clubs, they would certainly fuck till faint in the display booths. They showed us one more tight embrace and wished we go back to it ourselves. It had probably been a test of Lauritz’ handling of Cecile’s young soul because Kate had long known him more offish than caring, I was sure she had recorded the call to scrutinise Cecile’s expression, in case.
Cecile wondered if Kate and Louise had been overall candid in their call, she thought she had nought to add to what she had already retold about the debauchery jaunt Lauritz had pulled her into. Since she had more or less blindly followed Sarah, she had simply followed the lovely pack and revelled in their manners. I would think so, my guess was that Kate had only wished to share some of Lauritz’ wind since they had been long time partners on the northern shores, nothing more.
The mist had turned into fog, the vaporettos blew powerful horns, blaring projectors had been lit every stone-throw along the canale, she went near the stained-glass pane in the blurry lights, I took off her robe and watched her gradually take the pose of the Houdon statue “La Frileuse” until it made me feel only cruel so I wrapped her again in a tender cover.
All the guilt in the Laguna assailed me when the wake of a boat light gleamed on her tears, I began to feel like the boor trying to hold Saxony porcelain and about to break it. She shook off her torpour and spoke fastly, staring at me like a trapped animal, swearing she had not wanted to cry, for it had been an overwhelming day for her and she was all mine and words froze in her throat.
I took her to bed, pulled her night tee from under the pillow and dressed her in the proper Winnicottian piece of rag I had not been the one to buy. She read my move, but I did not let her demean the whole attitude, she was in her own right, nought to taunt about, and we were even.
When she stopped sniffing in the hotel’s tissues, I made my apologies, raging that I had had a disgracefully heavy hand on her, after all the metamorphoses she had accepted. I proposed she call Sarah, whom I believed she had vowed herself to, but she sighed, pulled me on the sheets, embraced me, and dared me to fuck her —for all she deserved, in her shabby shirt.

The Venetian night distils a quintessential aroma into the dreams of who sleeps amidst the primordial soup of the laguna, in the warm of the nevertheless frail architectures roosting upon a sunken forest of alder trunks. Be it only the blessing of resting at a long distance of the automobile pest —boat engines, as rowdy as the vaporettos manoeuvres may sound, run with some legato rumour, against an elusive element.
To be attentive in the Accademia at winter sunrise, I had ordered breakfast at eight, as so suggested a crystalline voice in the heavily gracious white handset of the Cinecitta telephone. I was on my own, Cecile had already ordered coffee —had my mother ever once made some, comparable to this?— and rolls. She studied the day catalogue on her IPad and the Gallimard guide, cross-legged, her quim available at the hem of her easy shirt. She jumped up, only to find herself rubbing against my morning glory she had just rekindled. She said a young courser from Loro Piana had brought the finished garments and had received a considerable tip. She would not elaborate, she knew I would fantasise some quick favour, or shag, but she added the boy had had his money, too.
She began trying on the three trousers, without her shirt on, along with the different shoes, and gave me a demonstration that she could as well wear the Doc Marten’s because she was thin and the trousers perfectly cut. Although I could have greedily accepted a thoroughly grateful fellatio with my tea, I reminded her she wanted to pass her number to the zealous lingerie shop attendant and it might be a good idea to try it before our diving in the sublime if she would join us for dinner, and more. Cecile let her eyes sway and reckoned it was a nifty plan.
Obviously, I love to walk through Venice, hoping to get lost anywhere new, and she ran swiftly in her all-black outfit, The long, peak lapels double-breasted overcoat with tennis stripes fluttering at her calves. We circled by the Rialto bridge shivering like an erased pencil sketch, she went into the shop with an already folded hotel note, came back soon with a small pouch and a smile, she muttered it had not been so expensive, and clenched my arm on the way to the Accademia. The most pedestrian route in town was deserted, the antique books shop presented touching illustrated editions of Pierre Louÿs’ Songs Of Bilitis and other more salacious works that could not be fully displayed at children’s height.
We climbed the endlessly ridiculous wooden bridge, provisory since 1933 —and in the light of what manner of a reception Venetian citizen bestowed to the Ponte Della Reppublica, chances are they will keep their toy logs forever. Venetians are no more worthy of Venice, says Francesco.
Cecile was ethereal when she walked under the ceiling of a million wings, and I held myself ready to take hold of her if she capsized again, swooning in bliss, and she did, for me. Of course, she knew by heart the greatest museum in the world, to which she owned a pass, but she had read enough intelligent preambles in the morning not to overlook this anyhow comely venue, refreshingly unpretentious, disorderly, un-Napoleonic, thus, she felt home, finding her way to the gems of the collection.
She had hardly been in school yet when the controversy about the restoration of the Louvre’s “The Wedding At Cana” burst among diverse big-mouths in Paris, not all of them in the least competent. As she did not spend all of her hideyhole time masturbating on lost magazines, she was caught on the matter, now she was keen to approach “The Feast In The House Of Levi’s”, the other painting of the pair, the one Napoleon had not stolen, and that had been hung opposite in the hall for which they had specifically been painted.
She smiled, first, and became subtly reflexive, having obviously opened the third eye, scanning the inner framework of the enormous picture, asserting the truth of what she had read in the morning, butt-naked on the brocade sofa.
It was her first visit, just like everything had been first since she had involuntarily wooed Sarah from high on her scaffolding, she was trustful she would come back, with me or others. That day she had reckoned that she could withstand three major encounters, I had brought so many of my muses, interested or not, in these rooms, that I knew how to let be awhile, but what I was watching was Cecile.
Without much comment, but a tender embrace, we walked to the smaller rooms where radiated the legendary “Tempest” and recently restored small paintings by Bellini and others, who came and went through the years. She jaunted her special stare while I casually supported her back, she mumbled kindly without asking nought.
I felt she was eager to confront the Carpaccios, and that was what it was, first the city scenes with the theatrical flat perspective, the demonstrative poses, the multicoloured mundane details.

She was overjoyed, letting me hold her under her coat and jacket, she explained that she had been able to zoom in on her tablet’s fine screen, so it was exhilarating to recapture the cosy details amidst the actual polyphony, although she had no clue about the cleanliness of the pictural layers and the painting medium used, she found the famous reds more or less the result of oxidization —as it is for raw meat, by the way.
The monumental procession by Gentile Bellini around the Piazza San Marco impressed her in a radically different manner, the composition is utterly boring and you feel that all these little portraits have been politically ordered, but it was neat and solemn, San Marco still fired up of all the gold that time has ripped away.
At the end of a famous corridor, I was in for a big surprise, not only the Legend Of Santa Ursula was opened to visitors, but it had been thoroughly restored on the Save Venice American fund. Just like Sarah when I had brought her there, Cecile was enchanted and began to move like a courtier, and again like a boy page, not like a maiden, she too, would kill to get armorial tights like these Ambassadors, I told her about Sarah, that made her proud and lustful.
She wouldn’t want to know any iconology that only paid for bookworms try to impede your candid brains with. American students were seated on the floor drawing sketches of the compositions, she agreed that was the right manner to glean some wits of great works indeed. For then, she was looked up at like some movie face by them, because they grasped the flair of what she wore while she sported her curls and bangs like some rebel. Had she stood a tad closer to me they would have deemed her a daddy girl or a whore. All this might have crossed her mind, but she kept changing view angles, knowing how not to be obtrusive for them. In my virtual diary, was summoning Carpaccio to bear witness to Cecile’s elegance, and she was guessing something of the kind.
She had a last wonderment, like many, on the threshold outwards, the door is cut out in a wall to wall painting, as well as a second one inscribed in faux stone foundations on top of what Titien has painted that blonde little girl addressing the people in the doorway of a palace, while the crowd which has followed her remains distant on the other side. I wouldn’t waste my time grasping what she does there, but she radiates obviously like a divine person. In any event, Titien patrons said it would be the poor infant Virgin Mary already groomed to become pregnant of an air draft, and no one cries foul. Cecile was seized by the heavenly light in the painting, well beyond the hot air so many people died for, and still.
As the Accademia still doesn’t offer a tea room, and I did not wish to hurry a visit to Ms Peggy Guggenheim’s collection, we crossed back the bridge in the purple fog and went to the Campo Santo Stefano, where they know how to mix coffee, chocolate and almond biscotti. Cecile was proud of the manner I had let her be. She told me she wished she would stand Sarah’s worth, whatever it meant.
She took out her telephone and told me she skyped for Sarah, who wasn’t long to answer from her drawing desk, in her vague off-white tracksuit; she asked to have a look at the café we sat in and gave me an irresistible nod. She took as good news the return of Saint Ursula, she said Cecile would have to invite her next time upon a mist. we laughed, Fayelle came to sit in Sarah’s arms and she did not wear much; Annabelle’s curly head appeared in the frame, she said they’d been working English and pulled the tip of her tongue, Cecile said she would retell our night later.
The boat picked us across the Accademia, it was a short trip and it felt he could have navigated eyes closed. I ordered tea, she could drink coffee anytime. In the salon, I unclothed her entirely, her feet smelled of the new shoes, which had left them unharmed through hours of random trampling. Now that the mock-neck was off, I could relish the necklace upon her slender neck, she gave the deep sapphires an inner life.
I was letting a mystery hover on our evening like the fog on the city, she tacitly approved of that, even when we played watersports in the shower. She donned the night blue pyjamas that designed the shape of her labia —if she would. She jumped up when her telephone rang and she answered mezzo voce that we waited for her to dinner.

Annachiara was at the age when a day’s work won’t cramp an evening flair, Cecile never told, but damn, this one looked expensive, and altogether gratified being there. Like all good professionals, she was dressed like a corporate executive, blessed with natural blond hair she would untie if asked. She showed a honey glow complexion and her fine hands had natural short nails, like one who could fondle flippantly the patrons she craved —like had been the case.
Cecile embraced her without fuss before she could lay her statutory handbag somewhere —there had been a tad more than tickles in that trying booth. She introduced me, so Annachiara gave me her hand with no strain to take it back, while Cecile succeeded to unshoe her with her own impish bare feet. The little harlot let go of herself in the cushions and I soon could feel the utter quality of the finery she sold daily.
When the waiter pushed his cart near the little round table, I could tell he knew Annachiara, and she sensed I had grasped that, so she smirked and I made clear I liked her ways. I asked her if she would like champagne or prosecco, on her own because we were teetotaller originals, she finely said she wouldn’t need any.
There was cashew cream linguine with shavings of truffle, then grilled mushroom tops stuffed with a mix of artichoke heart, figs and pine kernels in a ruccola bed, in balsamic cream. Cecile’s invitée had pretty table manners, and her opened high-waisted jacket let see the pale nipples I had watched before, through the deceptive immaculate crepe blouse.
The dessert was shards of praline meringue mingled with maraschino cherries and laced with hardened caramel drippings, the two easy nymphets had coffee, with sugar, back on the sofa after Cecile got rid of Annachiara’s disguise, orderly laid on an armchair. Her own suit had flown in a breath, I stood at arm’s length, but I couldn’t help pulling away the expensive little triangle of silk veil, then bring her foot up to my lips, thus parting her thighs for Cecile.
She smelled of honeysuckle at sunrise with all the bees, her armpits whiffed of chamomille and broom, her vulva some of freshly crushed violets, overall, aside from Cecile’s perfume, all hints of blue sky infancy, the pure antinomy of what she was actually doing there, I began to foresee eventual reactions of the other angels of the flock, but it would not exist that I would neglect a Venetian windfall, be it in the worst of fogs.
Meanwhile, as Cecile was delighting in the taste of wild violets, Annachiara was turning her parted mouth to me, unavoidably, and she was gifted, so much so that I gave her a taste of my lineage that she was skilled enough to make disappear. Her pale grey eyes had not flinched as I had slid deep to her throat, because of all that, I kept thinking of Fanny, the other Venetian stray angel.
Cecile had rolled upon the cushions and was asking to be lapped, thus letting her lover present her heart-shaped bum, in which I poked my tongue keenly. She wriggled a while, then turned her head aside to tell me she had condoms in her bag —please— so I could bugger her all my whim.
Given the hour, I imagined she might want to run for some other tricks, but when I proposed she come back next evening, all same conditions, she granted me a blooming smile and hastily answered yes, with grace. Cecile helped her dress, with pride, and walked her to the door, in the nude.
I was dumbfounded, and in a way reassured I was, as I told to that decidedly amazing young recruit of Sarah’s. She never wanted to tell me if and how much she had paid, she retold me all that Sarah had taught her of prostitution, I was thankful I would not have to. I entrusted her with my instant embarrassment towards this young pleasure girl, so she geared on at once, that she had fallen for her in seconds, whatever fate keep her in, or not, we would sort chances next evening.
In the shower, while she pissed along my legs and gulped my tongue in her candid mouth, she decidedly readied me again so as to serve her the same punishment as to the little blonde lace merchant, the moment before.

The next morning, remained in the air a hint of our visitor, and I was the one to find her minuscule thong behind the armchair, a proud token of trouble that we might have caused her, or only that she carried many others, in her bag of tricks. Nonetheless, it smelled beautifully of her, and Cecile agreed, ready to wank that off.
In that teeshirt that I was becoming to like, she had already texted the whole affair to her mentor, but was back at Carpaccio on her screen. Breakfast came in, the cute waiter was looking stealthily in Cecile’s direction, for she had omitted to dress a smidgen and I could see her pink labia with a deliberate amount of amusement. When the boy, who could hardly dissimulate his trouble, ran out, I bantered that Annachiara had already rubbed off on her and dared her to score with the boy, she mused up and said she could do it the next day morning  —if I liked.
We realised that the world had changed, and I found that she was all the more irresistible because the sun blared outside and all the way into the mirrors and the grand chandelier. She looked up the weather forecasts and three of them agreed that it would last three days more. I had ordered the plane for the next day but one in the evening.
I devised that we go revel in the Scuola Dei Schiavone, then sail to Murano and meet my all-time faithful Virgin at Santi Maria e Donato —and she would understand.
Among the volume of apparel we had accumulated, there was a deep purple velvet shirt that set off her necklace, but I insisted that she take the new black vicuna scarf because the wind would sting, on the boat, moreover, she needed gloves and there were shops for that all over. It took us a good twenty minutes to find the shop, grab three pairs of marigold yellow, cornflower blue, and onyx black kid gloves and back to our waiting boat.
The sun was bleached white, in eternal connivance with that miracle Istria stone that has kept Venice kempt up for millenniums, was I raving inside, as we stood up like plenipotentiaries behind our happy sailor who had his day made. Ever so slowly, we passed along the litany of self-absorbed facades until beyond the Vivaldi Pietà, so as my ally the brilliant courtesan would be bestowed another course in Carpaccio magic she would never forget.
Sentimentally, the Scuola di San Giorgio Degli Schiavone, inside its grids and dull madder curtains, passionately furnished and burnished, sets up an epitome of secrecy, as to all the trafficks that had masqueraded as devotion upon these solid benches. The genius of the place had placed, made to measure, a rich meta-narrative more suited to our nowadays deconstructed adhesion than the almost contemporaneous otherworldly, preterhuman vision of Michelangelo. —that, by the tender bye she had let be of herself, I was willing to follow with her, in Rome and Florence.
We stamped around, close together, the cordoned-off benches did not help the visit but it would be so forever. I spent my resources of stoicism, Cecile was like over the moon. The sailor had been conveniently awaiting across the nearby bridge, he cast off towards Murano, skirting the cemetery walls and the largest human ashes repository in the world.
Santi Maria e Donato is such a gracious little church, greeting the visitors from the canal by showing them its round bottom of rosy bricks, and I wouldn’t think the orientation has a religious motive. It is said that is the place where a dignified glass blower wants to get married but, as promised, the Virgin in the goldfield waited for us and the whole world, candidly showing her palms, like the immemorial pagan pacificator she ever was, just as the goddess Kwan-Yin superseded the all-male avatars of Buddha in the unwritten legend.
My plexus flamed up at watching Cecile’s awe when she saw the bounden stare of the black eyes upon us all, the casual attitude denoted by the position of the Virgin’s feet, and we could sit there, clenched together, as sinful as we would.
Probably because I have been querying wisdom from that single image for all those years, and our novel scion sensed that through me, we felt rekindled, and so, in the sacristy, we bought out the stock of nicely made photographs of the Holy Virgin, but one, against the charity of a propitious donation well over the price asked; Cecile asked for a handful of them, she wasn’t thus that lonely, after all.
At the trattoria across the bridge, she asked for a double espresso and dunked yellow Venetian biscotti without losing one. her mood was uplifted, she said the place smelled better than her father’s joint, the sailor was having his coffee at the bar.
We sailed north to Mazzorbo, next to Burano, where I knew the Trattoria Alla Maddalena that could provide quality verdure fritte and polenta, then a plate of house pastries along with Cecile’s coffee and my cioccolata. Our Captain Sylvio was having mixed grilled fish at a different table at my account.

Cecile had been a trifle unsettled after my sentimental bout in the church, hence she derided herself as less worthy than this Annachiara who had folded her in her pocket with a few well-appraised hand plays, fishing for truthful opinions of her character, as if Sarah’s spell on her soul was waning.
The boat had moored next to the Basilica Santa Maria Assunta, yet another occurrence of that pervasive marial cult the protestants had so violently fought against, among other quibbles. Cecile saw me drift towards the literary bee in my bonnet about the many catholic sanctuaries dedicated to Maria Maddalena, a not so virtuous girl turned fanatic mourner on the Man’s feet, at the freat despise of the Romans, she dared me to call her a whore.
We hugged in front of the majestic mosaic wall, as much to warm each other than to commune in awe. Behind us, Maria was now holding the Holy toddler and it felt like we did not need the disappointment. The somewhat plain architecture —if considered as the precursor to San Marco as a symbol of the Venetians as a people— owes probably more to the Byzantine rituals I ignore.
The sunlight began powdering gold through the high windows, and our mariner had done a busy day waiting, Cecile’s curls smelled of imaginary myrrh, incense, and more of her dreams when I mumbled through them that we should then follow the sunset. This time, the transparent awning was pulled, and we cuddled on the comfy banquettes. Our captain had ceased watching us as an immoral couple, it appeared that Cecile’s candid allure in her well-cut outfit had alleviated his references —he looked contented with the reward.
At the hotel, we ordered some more coffee, tea, and biscotti. It was so warm and dry that I could watch my own little harlot dip her biscuits in the nude, all along with recalling the rich trajectory from the meditation of San Girolamo at his sophisticated pulpit to the mischievous constatation that contraception had changed humanity, at least the life of its most numerous half.
I too had dropped my tweeds and donned layers of foulard printed jersey, which rendered all the more obvious my grateful erection. But she took a meditative expression to muse out she ought to tell me elements of her past. I retorted swiftly she wouldn’t have to, on the hunch that she had intaken personally my rave about Maddalena. But she went on as if it was unavoidable.
She had not the least been spared, in the murky swamp she had grown in, she had inexorably been abused by the nearest male in the fray, her father’s younger brother who helped with the deliveries to the cellar where he had regularly easily entrapped her. Although she had been a regular at the school’s infirmary to ask for the next day pill or else, no concern had ever been raised, it would seem that she was far from being the only case, and the poor nurse’s main worry was to avoid those early pregnancies.
I had pressed her against me, in a now-on more innocent manner, but she wasn’t finished. Overall, it had not been so painful, he was a cunning swine, and she had sussed out it would be less of an ordeal to let herself be done than fight a bastard triple her weight. Nonetheless, what continued to bear on her soul was that she had killed the scumbag. She had known, at thirteen, how to make one of the bricks, on which the ladder he used to climb down in the cellar rested, slide aside under his weight and make him fall. She had fled the other way, by the stairs he pulled her down through each time he wanted her. Nobody had suspected foul play, her father had made concrete stairs built down the bar hatch, she had recovered the peace into her cubby hole, watching her discarded magazines.
So then, as I preened her black curls at her temples, I conjured her to let the bastards bury the bastards, so she cried for the little girls who could not loosen the ladder’s stanchion. I promised her I would keep her secret so as she would not bear it alone, she could tell Sarah, she knew whom she could entrust it with, and anyhow at the bottom line she risked nothing, the slate had been rained upon too long.
She might want to know that many of the little stray cats I had conveyed to Venice once, whether they craved Carpaccio or not, had horrendous stories to tell, even privileged angels like Sarah had a murder of crows in their dreams.

I wouldn’t have dared the featheriest inkling as to what had weighted in Cecile’s candid soul, I did not wish to let the hoarfrost of psychology hamper my want of her, thus we talked it open as she breathed in my neck, until Annachiara found us in the dark.
But she had made a point of irradiating as the most staggering gem we could afford. She quit her petal-pink patent boots to feel the rich rugs —to woo me, that is— and let us admire the winter flourishing she wore. It was a tweed-like ash-grey and withered pink houndstooth ample double-breasted blazer with spike lapels opened on rose-quartz glazed kidskin jeans and a form-hugging matched silk jersey tee.
I raved of delight and Cecile waved a hand to have her sit next, I could smell her sinful gaiety as she displayed her rosy toenails upon the coffee table’s edge. As they were kissing like schoolgirls, I whispered that I wouldn’t let her pay this time.
Our waiter, too, was astounded, it should be said that Annachiara’s wide-opened thighs in those jeans were unmatched. I could see the herds of masked popinjays peeping over the balustrades for the next Dogaressa in times when the republic was hardly ruled by shaky old fogeys. Both devilish courtesans could tell trouble in the boy’s pants — Cecile did not attempt to refold up her pyjamas— but he succeeded at serving the tagliatelle with baby fungi and figs, the chestnuts, olives, hazelnuts and dried apricots ragù, and the little round mounds of rice pudding scattered with candied fruit. I would guess he would glean some reward on top of what I gave him, by the wink Annachiara sent.
On the off chance, I floated out that I ought to call some important dealer and fled to the bedroom for that, waiting, as long as I had foreseen, for the door to be shut, and Cecile to come to find me, as nude as Phryne. They had been so kind, Annachiara had lost her jeans and the rest, her mouth smelled of the boy’s copious youth, I was as horny as San Giorgio’s spear.
In triumphant bloom, Annachiara meant that she had sensed I would have brought her back in our plane, but she would decline, she was living a brilliant life to her taste. She grabbed the thin dawn-shaded jeans we both had fallen for and asked how much we thought it cost, bespoke? She laughed and said she neither, the owner of the brand had taken her for a tour of his factories in the backcountry, once, in his red Maserati Ghibli. She still saw him with pleasure and profit, said she with a lopsided grin.
Cecile had been captivated, all the more after Annachiara had made her do so well with the waiter, she longed to hear her seducer’s tale. Annachiara was the only child of a working-class couple who had descended from their Friulane village, before her birth, to work all sorts of trades in the tourist industry. They had lived in a modest apartment on Sacca Fisola, overlooking the laguna, at a short Vaporetto hop of the city. It had been a quiet life, her mother did not need to work, she spent her time cleaning, cooking, and eating her cakes with the neighbours. At the age of thirteen, her school had given computers to the pupils, and the quarter had been connected to fast ADSL, but no one taught the parents how to manage their children connections, let alone install a firewall to spare the younglings in the cyber-hell —if there ever was such a possibility.
At fourteen, Pasquelina, a girl she was attracted to in the higher grade invited her in her bedroom, the same sort of bedroom she lived in, firstly taught her all the delights of lesbian love, then unveiled for her the realm of online porn, and eventually online peepshows, where there was money to be made for cute brats like them. The only restraint at their young age was that they would need a bank account of some sort, that girl was paid for the tricks she did in front of her webcam on her older brother’s account, all he asked in return was to shag her for free.
It had been a bustled season, on the one hand, she was enthralled by Pasquelina’s love manners, on the other she was already selling her to her brother Lucca, who had been already ogling her, and was as desirable as his sister. She was no snowflake, even before Pasquelina had given flesh to her intimate thrills, but above all, it was the money she saw Pasqueline spend that busted Annachiara’s reservations. She was thin, her complexion was flawless, and Pasqueline had once said that, by judging on what Annachiara’s mom looked like, it would last long enough.
The two baby-sluts had given their first joint performances to Pasqueline’s clients and the response was roaring, so much so that she called Lucca to deflower Annachiara right then, in three’s company, and it went pretty well because they had been so aroused.
Next, she brought her laptop over and Lucca configured her account to the same site as Pasqueline, under the alias Flimline, he would give her her money in cash.

We were all ears, she was a good teller, totally unabashed and daring, she had let me her feet as they were enlaced, quietly wanking each other.
Every week or so, she met Lucca in his room, nearby on the Giudecca where he rented a student bedsit, and they fucked online for his own channel, he was a gifted partner so he could renew his herd, but he insisted that she come as often as she could.
It had not been bright years at school, but the programs weren’t that competitive, she had caught up with a lesser course of commercial practice, and English, because she needed it to smooth-talk to the invisible token-bidders making her rich beyond her control board, also typing lewd answers to vicious questions.
Her parents saw her fit —she worked out like a pro— joyous, and easy to live with, they never inquired into the course of her life, they still didn’t. She was so lucky Lucca did not drift to worse than he did with her, he had wanted to become an engineer and he did. After she could run her own finances and spare good money, she decided to buy a farm on the island of Sant Erasmo, because that was what her father had been talking about, and he was still healthy enough to run one as he had seen in his country youth. Like other happy prostitutes I know, she bantered she had made her dad happy with her arse without him touching her, in her case.
When she became major, she rented a clear apartment near San Tomà, set up a cosy screening room and played her game solo or along with Pasqueline —Lucca had moved to Bologna— when Pasqueline was hit on by some Venetian woman who had recognised her and offered money for sex, took her to her apartment on the Canale Grande and after a heated session exposed her business venture in organised prostitution in the more or less legal frame of Italian law. That woman, who had been an escort for ten years all over Italy, was the owner of the lingerie shop where we had met Annachiara, her name was Carlotta, she taught them all the etiquette of safe prostitution, commencing with patronising the good hotels, home is not safe unless there is a burly matador behind the door, and then he will pocket your money.
Annachiara then joshed she had shagged all the hotel managers and concierges above four stars, and also the trustworthy barmen, and also a cute waiter here and there, as we knew. In return, Carlotta could send them any time to these dream venues, silently connive with some of the stealth worldly power brokers beyond their security details, even, sometimes, in afterwards of special pre-tasters, at a price.
Cecile hovered in her magazine fantasy, beautifully rested on her back so that it was her I wanted to fuck with the help of Annachiara, I carried her in my arms to the bedroom and we feasted of her overspent remains, the modern Venetian Dogaressa moaned with the tip of my tongue in her bumhole. Eventually, she dressed up in a blink, gracefully took a well-deserved tip and ran towards another richly upholstered bedroom for another number, promising us to be there for the last of our four nights.
Once our heartbeats paced down again seamlessly, Cecile headed for the shower, I followed her and our animal ablutions lasted until all the unsaid had been washed away like sand after the tide.

The sacrosanct night-tee had been washed and tumbled, it smelled like a toilet in an airport, I had to lull her into a perverted tale she would have let happen in the VIP salon at Berlin Brandenburg with a Polish prostitute whom she made pass water in her crotch and many things she heard no more, the page in the magazine was an advertisement for the night. She had described this habit she had had to fall asleep on a vacuous page in her cubbyhole and no one cared.
In the morning, she had been up recapping in her diary the profuse emotions of yesterday. They brought more coffee and Baicoli for her. She agreed to go visit two or three churches, as they contained major elements of social metaphysics other than San Marco’s hodgepodge.
The sky was a flat grey, she chose the long itinerary that circled all the way to come back to San Sebastiano that I had emphasised she needed to see —and probably pray in, like I knew she had, in her delectable idiosyncrasy, to the Virgin Mary that looked like her.
This comely little venue had been entirely designed and curated by Paolo Veronese, as some extraneous concession to a strong mind the Republic wished to keep fostering, while the Church was at odds with all he meant to express —as wittily addressed in his written response to the fierce remonstrances claimed by the Inquisition to the Master’s envision of the Last Supper they forced him to retitle Supper At Levi’s.
A worldwide confederacy of rich patrons has made good to wholesomely restore the building and the artworks it harbours, it stands now as a manifest of Renaissance, that is the forthcoming victory of mind over blind faith, whatever attires the demonstration borrow, who cares today about the foolishly concatenated holy scriptures and the esoteric rhetorical keys? Whatever stubborn brains will continue to spin, at this date art and “geometry” had chosen another tangent through the galaxies, until the profitable chain of catastrophes that started in Paris in 1789.
She considered my rants like a squirrel a button, with witty eyes, more fascinated by the ceiling when she rested her head backwards upon my neck. After a half-hour, need be not conjure any high powers for it to happen, a young man with a wealth of curly hair carefully opened the painted doors of the organ and, without a flinch, started playing a discursive game of baroque improvisation, to the true rapture of Cecile and a handful of stunned visitors, until the cold seized us and we walked out.
The neighbourhood, like many in new Venice, was a collegiate one, we found a warm café in which we passed for what we were, but she made a sensation, to what I saw her do the stare that had killed Sarah instantly. We did not stay long enough to create an actual ruckus but it had not been so far.
We boarded towards the next big attraction under the mystified look of many a pretty lad, Cecile confirmed. She had been so wise to wear some fluffy wool tights, she had been aroused and smelled of chamomile, I dared a deep kiss behind her scarf. She wore new vermilion gloves, she seized the lapels of my thick-woven Irish tweed overcoat and mumbled to my face that she loved how I cared for her, with all her soul.
We approached the Chiesa Santa Maria Gloriosa Dei Frari from the facade, the wind was nasty, Cecile’s black coat flapped so I clenched her to my side. The main portal was closed, we entered through the mundane door on the square, in the midst of the arch-baroque funeral monument of Doge Giovanni Pezzaro designed by the great Baldassare Longhena, author of the Church of Salute —that Monsù Desiderio missed being told abo, in his dreams. Formidable, disruptive, erotic, the four black Atlases overwhelmed, if any more, Cecile’s plexus and life strains so as I sensed through her spine upon my arm, this much for Giovanni Pezzaro beyond inferno.
There were seats for relief, sighed she, and she probed my eyes to ask if it would actually go on direr in ecstasy, I could only assure her she was the first I knew who swooned so candidly in Stendhal’s syndrome, I meant it as a heartfelt compliment.
To her supposedly dispirited suburban soul, Phoenix of washed-out shores, the conspiracies who had built such extravagant structures had vanquished the stench of death, she fathomed the long stream of endless sacrifices consented for the sake of one inextricable fantasy and she reckoned she was grateful to be able to sidestep, without losing the bliss of transcendence in art.
She smelled of the hotel elusive shampoo at the temples, a reminiscence of burnt spices and potpourri roses that responded to the dead scents of bygone hopes that skirted these mad walls, the vain offerings of the Three Wise Men.
I warned her before we neared Donatello’s John The Baptist, a rebuke to any legend of his death to the unswerving whim of the possessed nymphet Salome. Here stood a human shard of otherworldly eloquence, but she would not listen, she hovered in the fantasy of a Gustave Moreau dancer —or was I?

Now she tired of the whole religious caboodle and stuff, she muttered that the swine she had killed not only went to church but had pissed her off with his scuzzy guilt after he repacked his murky organ. She said she had just had a flashback of the bastard’s self-indulgent stare among those posers up there on the altarpiece.
She agreed to a pizza on the Campo San Polo, the sailor was happy to leave us alone for an hour. The self-called birreria rekindled her with a hustle and bustle style she stood up to with grace, and the two of us brought enough supposed flair to avoid a long penitential wait at the bar, a considered childish limonata in hand.
She liked the wholesome pizza strewed with grilled vegetables, olives and capers, she withstood the peppered oil despite my warning. She asked for a double espresso along with the true Tiramisu.
She said she did not fathom what would remain in her memory, of the overall dark vision of the gigantic Church, whether the four black giants had hit her carnally —like she wouldn’t deem any candour of style to their bold stance, among this beyond-death wishful stone apparatus, there had had connivance of innuendo between the old potentate and the material author of his last will. Bluntly said, she felt the tomb constituted an ultimate manifesto of homosexuality, regardless of the colour of the four giants’ gleaming skin. She made no mystery these lucubrations helped her to alleviate the retching that all the liturgic contraptions around had reawakened.
I concurred that it would be enough for catholic porn, I floated the idea of the Correr museum that displays mostly lay elements of the historical life of Venice as a state and stands next to the best shops. Somewhat unquieted by her morning bitter epiphany, she wandered in the galleries, mostly attracted by the grand chandeliers, outclassing those at the hotel by much; it made her nose up, while her black, flared silhouette floated like a silent revenant with the pale face of some oracle. She flew over the odds and ends of the long-dead empire, expired in the throes of dereliction and the blade of the executioner.
She finally cuddled me against an embrasure, like a little alley cat, asking if she had been boring me. We were lucky not to be reprimanded, her wools were so fluffy to my hand, she wondered if she would be any more than a slut.
Like her mentor Sarah, she wouldn’t care for wearing a Codognato ring unless I would require it as an erotic token, besides, I possessed a whole collection to try on and put back to rest. Nevertheless, she had been moving around dashingly enough to make me wish to thread on a ring to her finger, Nardi did not flame any desire either, she already foresaw the cabrioles with Annachiara. I called the boat as the sun was glowing red beyond the Salute.
On her nonetheless subdued register, she had become a tad grumpy and wished to cuddle up to me in the glazed cabin on the short trip to the hotel. We ordered coffee and tea and Venetian cookies so she would soothe her nerves by dipping them. She showed no reluctance when I began with untying her shoes, fiddling with her feet in the moist cashmere, pulling all layers of warm wool until she lay bare, at my want. I told her how much I was reliving my encounter with Sarah —when Camille had then pushed her in my arms, and so in my bed. That thought revived Cecile, who teased my nose with her foot. Reawakening her sullen quim seemed proper, it smelled of elderberry flowers by a gentle stream, I did my utmost to make her murmur the little cavatina of her soul.
When Annachiara swished in past the door curtain, we had remained in the near-dark, I had stacked away all our clothes and put on a foulard jersey robe after we had splashed each other under the shower and perfumed ourselves of the same hesperide thought that the hotel granted us, and Annachiara relished that. She boasted of having just then been shagged by the hotel manager, who had kept her pants as a trophy; she smelled of bon ton debauchery, the bloke had used a condom. There was that perverted thrill, that Cecile shared, of unabashed animality, and obviously, Annachiara had known that. She joked we could have hired her after the end of her night, couldn’t we?

Annachiara had been wearing a variegated silk jersey calf-long flared shirt-dress over a sheer black crotchless bodystocking and flat black patent rounded opera pumps with taffeta knots I hastened to worship while the two birds pecked at each other, and the waiter had been totally silent. Cecile was her all-slutty self again, she whispered an invite to use her mouth, from where she knelt at the armrest, letting her hand sidle up the boy’s fly, swiftly pulling the zipper and welcoming a fierce dick to suck.
From the other end of the sofa, I could gently bash the bishop watching the two floozies extort the lucky lad of his intimate passion, Annachiara keeping her tongue poked in my beloved miscreant’s arse, until she gulped a bitter appetizer. Breathless, the pretty apprentice even thanked the devilish pixies before running, trying to pull up the zipper.
I reckoned then that it would be the right time to abuse Cecile’s all wet back alleyway, as her dedicated whore would hold her tight, arse up. It was such a delight to bugger her, after a day of her heartfelt candour, in the mid shadows of legendary Venetian vice.
There were linguines, laced with thin strips of zucchini, peppers, and orange, in a creamy olive sauce, then roasted stuffed artichokes, and for dessert, tiramisu scattered with toffee splinters, and coffee. Annachiara had been more famished of Cecile’s ticklish riches than food, she heard our impressions, first of San Sebastiano’s homely feel, where she had heard heartwrenching madrigals sung by a countertenor friend of hers she made a point to prove was a valiant swordsman, too, in any daring of beauty. Together with his lover organist, they had, said she, enjoyed heated rehearsals in the locked little venue at night.
After the tiramisu, Cecile’s quim tasted of a hint of vanilla, and she was ready to thread ecstasies like a randy child. Annachiara begged her to stay with her and so she would make her a Queen-whore of the Canale Grande. Cecile retorted she was enough of a loose-living art practician and I was building her the shop of her dreams; she added that Annachiara was most welcome to visit the merry herd which could make her the Queen-slut of Notre-Dame!
On our bed, I took Annachiara reversed upon my revived spur, letting her swear in Italian while Cecile tortured the most precious conch pearl at no end, and I lasted till the edge of her fainting, hearing Cecile drink with joyous comments.
I wondered how she could possibly run from there to another number, but from the flows of the shower, she said her next was a tranquil antique who would merely shove his manicured fingers everywhere on her as she would retell all we had just been doing, against a severe ransom.
While she slid back on her titillating costume, we exchanged our coordinates and I warned her that she would soon be summoned on my recommendation by some impressive patron she would care to consider, did I smile, and Cecile noded.
Once all goodbyes were said, Cecile still smelled of spunk, but I quieted her it would not hurt her innards to keep in what had not dripped out of them. She said she felt happy, she would be glad we fly back to all she had going, now.
In the morning, she teased me with having shagged already our decidedly assiduous waiter, a quick once over the backrest, and the smell to confirm it, I congratulated my slutty pet girl, but I disapproved of her lack of precaution, to what she retorted he had used a condom, before gushing upon her belly I licked.
Still fascinated by the way she dunked the biscotti in coffee, I announced that before we left at five, we would visit a private grand décor palazzo, the Ca’ Corvarin, after a tour of Peggy Guggenheim’s collection, across from it.
She donned the slate-purple, palladium-striped ample pantsuit with a black ribbed mock neck jumper, no underwear behind the buttoned fly she could leave open, at whim. She dared slip in the black calf jodhpur strapped boots, judging they were soft enough.
When still at school, she had keenly seen the show around André Breton at the Pompidou Centre, and the teacher who had advised her, besides luring her into dark closets, had granted her some keys to open her mind to surrealism and given her catalogues, so as to tell he had not only been a self-centred predator.
She revelled in the smaller, uncompleted arrangement of the building, and fell for the Giacometti white maiden in the garden. Of course, all the glorious mavericks of the times had been right here, so far from the toxic luxury of venues like the dizzying Hotel von Speck, yet she longed to go back to wallow herself with Lauritz’ poisonous photographs. I reassured her that friends like Sarah would teach her how to bear more than two minds alive in that lovely mortal skull.

We had been greeted in the Palazzo Corvarin by a greyish, stiff bearing, German-sounding Majordomo who kept his smiles for Cecile, as per good taste. He Ushered us through the vast checkered-slabbed vast vestibule visibly arranged to let floods spread a few hours, once in an aqua-alta. Two sealed-in marble benches, on each side, fired up curvaceous caprices around fierce armorial shields, under where one should lay one’s cumbersome mantels of old times. Traditional boat lanterns with contorted ribbed glass facets stood on decorated staffs, emitting the proper gleam in Cecile’s eyes.
Between two burly atlantes hurling their cries across the ceiling’s painted beams opened the glazed doors of the anteroom at the start of the double staircase, itself lit by other silky glass lanterns, overlooked by a saraband of slender ambiguous creatures playing with flows of elegantly creased drapes only to conceal their lower bellies. Another cage of ancient clear stained-glass opened to the side of the long centre portego floored in traditional purplish terrazzo covered with Persian rugs.
Cecile was stricken by the enfilade of five man-sized chandeliers, like glittering ballet acrobats hanging down by their feet in a long chorus of sparkles hovering upon us, Cecile docilely letting me lull her into her bliss, in a faultless errant waltz.
She felt like a blackbird in a rosebush, the flaps of her coat whirling like wings. In a sliding when she entrusted her lithe body to my grip, I seized the wide collar and tossed away the overcoat, then, in the balancing of my arms, the jacket and the trousers, all slipping easily on the rich satin of their linings. She let me rest her, in her skin-fit jumper and unclasped bootstraps, as naughty as she had felt in all this decorum, vindicated of the resentment that she had felt smothered on, the day before, at the display of the sombre catholic porn. Nude amidst the head-spinning luxuries of innumerable generations of powdered pillagers, she willfully danced to my egotismic whim, such as I could have dreamt of for another century, had it not been by a friendly favour from the high spheres.
Alerted afar by a gentle cavatina of bustled crystal, we went, her clenched to my alpaca and silk chest, to the side door where shadows flittered and discovered, under another spirit of a multicoloured chandelier, that table had been set for two, young French-style lackeys awaiting behind the gilded rococo chairs, unfazed as to Cecile’s style, and she was amused.
It was a facade room, with a widely exaggerated cornice of stucco drapes and nude slender angels flying on them, some of them daring timid breasts. On the walls, like some wondrous scree, a bold disorderliness of broken etched mirrors, clouded by oxidation chimaeras, the whole décor visibly responding to Cecile’s fantasmatic throes, though kept afar, like the von Speck grand salon and its cohort of orgiastic testimonies. She mumbled of having shivers, thus a lackey ran to fetch a long iridescent gauze domino, the layers of which idealised her pale body more than it disguised it. She was candidly amused by the turn this lively capriccio evolved like.
Under ornate silver bell-covers with overtly burlesque finials —penises in glory and their flourished testicles— steamed creamy pasta under shavings of truffle smelled properly of edible profligacy.
Her lackey had taken good care of displaying the dark curls upon the stiffing corolla of variegated silk, she was not certain he had not caressed her nape doing so, stealthily.
The next course was a roasted half onion squash stuffed with a stew of chestnuts, penny-buns, prunes, apricots, and olives. Next, coffee was poured from a gold pot ornate with a saraband of nymphets in a most precious porcelain cup ornate with the painting of the rape of a shepherdess by a greedy faun, she saw me watching out for her smile when she dipped her biscuits carefully.
I don’t know if she saw my wink at the lackey who stepped up to her, but she showed no surprise when he slid a slow hand down to the lace that kept the domino on her shoulders, her gaze told me she had seen my act coming and was at the very least ready for my pagan schemes, so long as nought remained of morbid religiosity in my tricks.
The boy was her age, he had been vetted by the same ex-Machina that had devised most of our wants, far apart from the herds, wore a gold interlacing against black background motive open silk jacquard waistcoat on a white frilled front and cuffs shirt, off-white knee-long breeches and white silk stockings in flat black patent pumps. His physical emotion had been obvious for a while behind the drop-front of his breeches, so it would merely be charity that Cecile undid the three buttons that retained it.

In all likelihood, it spawned from a concern of balance that I considered I was, too, sided on my left by a jolly chap —I had been granted a green light as to the lads’ willingness in both currents. The breeches were thick satin, I slid quietly to the crotch, forcing it gently open, and I found the cloth-clad buttons to unleash a manly dick I held up while staring into his brown eyes. It smelled of honey and clove, almond and straw, he might have been a cavalier, somewhere in the hinterland. Cecile scoffed funnily when she realised I was doing the same as she did on her side, but I told her she would soon have the two sailors to herself! I thought mine was lovely in his shirt alone. He had an apple-rounded bum and sinewy legs, he was lightly benevolent, I made him say that if he did not refute my wanking him, he would prefer shagging my young friend over there. I retorted I would let them do both, provided I could fondle their bodies while they did.
Along the wall opposite to the windows to the Canale spread a chiselled velvet banquette which destination made no doubts, as Cecile grasped, once she had disrobed her gallant; he was keen on her, he might not have encountered such refined-mannered all willing pixies yet, neither his compadre I had to let go for the royal piece.
In my shirt, I was reclining behind the trio and fiddled with whatever came near, but mostly girly feet. Then I helped them sheathe a frantic rod in the pleated rosebud —one of the boys had known to fetch some lubricant, they were no newbies— the other one went smoothly into the dripping coochie, and as she stretched backwards, I could ask to be sucked so gently, for I knew I was not about to see her go out of my life so soon. The two younglings were trained, well-fed, polite and considerate, they fired a good three times each, revealing herself to a panting Cecile that I finally could not help bugger in the shower, so animal she was smelling.
However, I tipped considerably the two sportsmen, trying to convey the idea that such an orgy had been only good fun, as did Cecile approve of, although faintly.
The boat already awaited at the pontoon, our luggage in order, the management had fetched a new suit bag for Cecile. The two lackeys in costume did not even feel awkward, it might not be the last such celebration they would attend.
Cecile slept all the flight, stumbled with a childish nod to the customs officer, and slept again in the car home. I could kiss her serene forehead, she smelled of the Acqua di Magnolia di Santa Maria Novella that had happened to be on the tablet in the anachronic Liberty tiles clad bathroom of a madly pagan venue in the forgone Repubblica marinara, laced with poisonous beauty, where my Venetian friends had invited us in.
I felt urged to witness her come back to her room in the Faerie perch, see Sarah, nude in an antique Boro coat she could not keep closed, enlace her novel crush and smell her with greed, telling what she had been doing, gourmand. My express orders from the Amazon galaxy were piled near the bed foot, Cecile gashed open the cartons one by one and jolted up at the names of all she had seen these few days. I knew Sarah and Kate already had them all in their studio, but Sarah said nought, all enthralled of Cecile’s neck, and more else.
There had been missed video calls from Annachiara, to whom Cecile had promised to introduce Sarah and the flock; she called on a larger pad and the cunning vixen appeared, at once bowled over to finally see Sarah, nude in her artsy indigo rags, holding her lately lover at the tips of her lithe hands, under the cobalt blue eyes.
In my head passed a heavy puff of completion, I could plainly see I had succeeded at my escapade, not luring myself that it always was an easy game, even more so than retelling it worthily. In any event, I felt I would sleep happily very soon —unless I met Natalia on the way to my bed.

 

Sarah says:

Years of magazine shed living have made her a stealthy stoat, this morning yet I missed her white belly already, I should not wank myself with the laundry basket smells, would there be expensive cashmere socks in it. Nosier than passion, I gazed at her loot in the wardrobe and cast a tender spell at Hugo.
Kate had been back in our stately bed and slid her hands in Natalia’s jeans, like any other schooldays morning omen; they had been waiting for me to brew tea in the pumpkin Yixing pot. Natalia smelled irresistibly boyish, Kate’s aura was faltering in lotus gardenia marshes her sister must have showered her in. I had merely used Cecile’s straight cologne soap, hence I was flattered when Natalia visited my dawnberries with sighs.
As the talk went in the grandest of towns, Anna Louise was setting camp and had already suffused the muted corridors at Philippe’s with her Berliner accents —when it comes to sex, Hamburg sounds a tad gross. Fulgence and his burly mate had obliged.
Licking her fingers of the French toasts sugar, Natalia raved about Cecile’s mauve eye rings when spent out, I retorted she had better purchase sunglasses, then, because Lauritz had not seen her for days, but it would not shy her, anyway, in the Bateau-Mouche’s blaze or on the moon, but if she was famished for pussy, she could devour mine.
Later, after I had rubbed Natalia’s wonderful abs and sworn she was still our house fairy, before she fled, Kate and I climbed upstairs where the low winter sun gilded our walls and bookshelves. We wore not much more than battered tracksuits, the new dryer made life so easy but shapeless; it did not make her waistband less attractive, restlessness was our treasure.
Un-extraordinarily, Hugo was first to sneak in, as he owned the first privilege to, all clad of the finest silks. We had some idea the Venetian adventure had unveiled some unforeseen gleams of our new boarder’s spell, and he was admittedly smitten. He updated us on the project to install a workshop on the ground floor, where Natalia had grown up, among other uses to set up, Cecile with Gauthier and himself in an art restoration practice, with funds from whom we guessed.
There was a whole new tier to Cecile’s past, said he, that she would confide to us, possibly, like most of our escapees, particularly two that landed opportunely, on bare feet, and begged for tea. Hugo retold the touching little mania of Cecile’s of dunking her biscuits. Annabelle, who was wearing rose nail varnish at her toes, recalled having been scolded for doing so, but still did when alone, that was never, by then; all the fun, and she saw that I looked at her feet, was to soak the pastry but not lose it to the bottom of the cup. Hugo concurred, cuddling Fayelle, whose flannel pyjama happened to let see her navel.
We heard about Cecile’s remote silence when her mind was being seized by an art call, how she had perambulated amidst the newly restored Carpaccios of Saint Ursula, in that turpentine scent she knew so well.
Finally wallowed on the rug, I kept Annabelle’s feet upon my tummy when he described Cecile’s enthrallment in the music on San Sebastiano’s organ, then we surrendered all reason at the tale of Cecile buying, on her own, a prostitute for the evening, to share with Hugo. As I had had a hunch of, that slender butch on her scaffolding had some to teach us.
Hugo left us with Cortazar, Fayelle needed closure, her therapist had suggested, all her scans and test were optimal, she was already less frightened of mirrors. Anyhow, while she kept reading unfazed, Kate snuck along her back on the red sofa.

Annabelle had insisted she buy dinner, she said Liselotte had made her rich, lately, sending her to a patron in a suite at the Belitski who had asked for a truly British slut. He wasn’t even close or afar a subject of Her Preterhuman Majesty, but he had chased James’ at once wicked and good fae to every nook and corner of the apartment ordering her to speak Glaswegian with the toughest rooted accent. She had ended ragged, tagged, bagged, and shagged, waking in a deep bed upon a hefty envelope, alone, her clothes all cleaned and folded. No one had dared ask her anything, but the concierge had smirked finely to her face.
Now, she had ordered fruit pies, pineapple and plums, rhubarb and cherries, pears and grapes, apples and oranges, and we were seated naked on the mismatched Windsor chairs, each of us smelling of the same Liberty dawn of broom and heather Annabelle had lathered us with.
On a naughty hunch, our brawny neighbours rang at the new door, and we all agreed to share our pies, as a start. Natalia, Beryl, and the rest of the chorus were busy in town, Fulgence and Erik were overjoyed to find us wired and triggered in the raw, but they asked about the rookie they had, of course, grown a taste for. Gauthier had hurried them to the ground floor works, with specific princely requirements, no pun intended.
As is my imperious wont, I was first to flush out Fulgence’s comely penis of his evening jeans —I had smelled his work outfit many times before and found it arousing, too— should I be heralded as the greediest slut of the house. Was it Cortazar, a seditious fever was about to flare-up, and Fulgence, his renowned staff already into my mouth, evoked the possibility of a new pair of Cossacks Liselotte was teaching French to. That zealous varmint had been in the know for my secret Slavic stables fantasy but in any case, the two brothers had been in a heap of pornographic videos before fleeing totalitarian conscription; we would then owe them some reward, if we understood life, but it would remain well within our grasp, so to speak.
Fulgence relished my suckling but did not force it to completion, he had sensibly not been frustrated, whereas Erik was already ploughing the one he had always looked up to, Annabelle in pourings and moanings, so pale around the dark, urging, loins.
Kirill and Marat are twins, shaved and waxed to perfection like years of public fornication had nurtured a new life form to them. Fulgence went downstairs to usher them in, they rolled their eyes seeing us in bloom, Erik kept plunging his stubborn rod, in a tighter burrow this time, and as a skilled professional, one of the two Cossacks jumped to cuddle the dawny blonde whore in throes of revelry, so as so she ended assailed both ways, and a third proposed the tip of his shaft to the tip of her tongue.
Out of the blue, the tall silhouette of Dagmar was here, all smile and tousled mane, in her fetish oversized jumper, making eyes at the Cossack invasion, who inquired for permission to Fulgence in regards to the visible new quim atop an ideal pair of legs.
Michelle had whisked away Delf for a trip to New York, Dagmar had sulked off the hustle and bustle, declared that she would beg for refuge with us. That would mean cling to my neck thus I would not think twice, neither would Fulgence, who let the twins prowl with a smirk.
Dagmar breathed in my ear that she did not regret the hunch that brought her with us, one of the brothers was giving her the spiel in his rough-cut sabir, while his hands burrowed under the wool, meeting mine. The other of the pair, reckoning the situation, turned to Kate and Fayelle heads-on inquiring if they were lesbian exclusive but Fayelle as soon fell on her knees showed him her talents while Kate bewitched his tongue.
Eventually, Dagmar let go of her magic wrapper, to Marat’s wonderment, and we enlaced while pretty soon being buggered each on our side, one leg held up, allegro. I relished watching the Steppenwolf cubs round their eyes on each of us, barely catching their breath before shagging whoever agreed. They had been sent over by Fæbian who had met them shooting a video in Prag, asking Liselotte to grant them refuge.
We wouldn’t have the heart to rush off the squad of spearmen out in the wee hours, I took Dagmar in what had been her nesting box, she was stunned by the changes and shied by the grand mask. I warned her it most certainly concealed a peeping device and pushed her on the bed, bantering there would only be lovely things to watch, whatsoever. The pillows smelled of Cecile, Dagmar asked where I had ferreted that one from, so I lulled her with an odd version of the Rhinegold she liked me to pull, in my weird German; she smelled of wet hay along a sunken lane, at dusk.
Would it have been the magic of my tale, we woke up three, Cecile was clenched to Dagmar’s wings and breathed in her nape, she read in my gaze that I found them moving. The morning light through the veilings was miserly yet and Dagmar, warily twirling inside Cecile’s embrace, discovered a shrub of dark curls through what a pair of black eyes blinked through thick lashes. It was Cecile who said hello, letting her free hand stroke the angel’s tummy and chest.
My best morning love ways would be of a platter of french toasts, and Kate never missed thanking me. The male pack had fled, leaving heady wet towels for us to inhale. Cecile didn’t hurry anywhere, Lauritz was in Hamburg and she, Gauthier, and possibly Hugo, had decisions to take, downstairs. Meanwhile, she sheltered a huge crush for a German angel who let her cuddle her feet on her lap, under the table; I had been doing that, too,
As Annabelle would teach the round-headed girl English in the Memoirs Of A Woman Of Pleasure, that day, and these other two were gathering their separate pots —coffee didn’t like Dagmar— with a dish of my toasts, to be taken towards the eye of the God Crow so as to trade secrets before a day’s work, who knew, Kate and I also moved camp to the studio and plugged our long-deserted Soma radio.

Cecile says:

When Gauthier came to show us downstairs and found Dagmar and me, in the raw, watching a big album about Veronese, he smirked and tickled us out. She could only slip on her magic jumper, I could not resist giving her one of my cashmere leggings, and her to roll of pleasure at the feel of it.
The venue in question was being stripped of all fixtures and partitions, it made a connecting row of rooms that might have been stables and carriage shed in the horse-drawn times. The light from the high bays was poor, but the view, on some plot of vegetation beyond black-lackered gratings, thick ivy running upwards on some blind lattice walls, did not miss poetry, it was the landscape outside Hugo’s first floor high windows, most of which were stained glass.
Jaunting around in her powder blue and white sneakers, ash grey leggings, and fallen hood wide knit dawn grey jumper, Dagmar gave us a sense of architectonic scale —even if I would have better shag Gauthier right there— and I knew I would trust him. Only intelligible request, a glazed studio space, out of the dust I envisioned myself doing, and a storage room, or two, at the far end, for miscellaneous documentations.
Natalia barged in, it seems that’s what she does, always with the most disarming gaze; she moaned that she was born there, only to swiftly add that her mother was so proud of her new apartment in the heights. She grasped there was some brain grinding going on, so she invited Dagmar in some mute dance they were both gifted for. Gauthier had taken out a notepad and a laser telemeter, all measurements and annotations would be stored in the digital toolbox he had set up for my next realm. As candid looking as the stoat who has seen fresh blood, Natalia was letting Dagmar teach her German.
Hugo came down, embraced me and took me for a turn of my soon-to-be domain, describing sound-proof double panes here, an Italian shower there, a securitized cellar I had not seen, converting the previous kitchen as storage for solvents with permanent ventilation, building a replica of my refuge cubbyhole, if ever. He was still addressing me like we would go to bed next, but he also invited the two others, for tea —or coffee.
As planned by Camille, I went to a secluded backyard near the Arts et Métiers where blaring lights signalled from inside not so clean glazings Cyprien Merindol’s workshop. He was a mature, lean type, tall bushy-grey comely man, giving all signs of social frustration that I related to full well. After some pass of banalities, he dared look at me and then called me “The Venetian Maiden” that Ms Stern had asked him to consider for a trainee, while she entrusted him with a browned-out panel by Monsù Desiderio. He went as far as to lift up my hair like he would have on some pricey art piece, only to stutter back in excuses, his breath smelled of anise.
I was clad in my street warrior outfit, a gift of my beloved Sarah, I carried my overalls and old sneakers in my backpack. Cyprien showed me to a clean cloakroom with real showers and a properly closed and clean toilet. I would not, by what I had felt in his gaze, bet he was not watching or recording, but also, by how I had heard him speak of Ms Stern, I didn’t fear any mishap, thus I stripped bravely and slid on my weary whites.
The painting I had seen at Camille’s before, a small arm span wide, stood under a flood of white light, on an up-straight easel with a removable crank. It had been transferred to a new linen canvas, it smelled of hide glue, it was properly even, with a tiny web of cracks and layers of dirt.
Cyprien explained that, while I could feel like giving the whole thing a sweeping scrub, it was the exact opposite that I would do, little patch after little patch, constantly surveying my action. He stood behind me and he had grabbed my hand, so as to show the amplitude of the movement I should keep, then he looked at it, pressed it and told me I should find gloves my exact size in the cupboard, or go to the store and buy some because all of the products I would use were harsh to the skin —luckily, one of the previous trainees had left a box of my size. He also drifted into old-style compliments, the sort I had read in magazines.
I was to firstly clean the actual time dirt, with basic soft soap and pieces of natural sponge and two buckets of lukewarm demineralised water. He told me that would be enough for my day, and upped the volume of Bach’s piano music in high-shelved speakers. Starting from the upper left corner, I pampered slowly the old crust until I saw the bare varnish. It was not before a few well-tempered variations that I took notice that he was, from a few steps away, perched on his stool legs crossed, he was drawing my profile, matter-of-factly, much as they do in an art studio, I kept my cool.
The blessing of Bach is perpetual, when I reached the lower-right end, dusk had fallen outside, Cyprien flaunted a truly boyish smile in front of the Desiderio and pulled out his sketchbook to show me all the fine drawings he had done of my left side. We both blushed, but I could tell he was gifted. I busied myself going to empty the dirty water, tear off the gloves; he stood in front of the painting and declared that I would attack the varnish next time. Then he turned a shy misty-blue stare in mine and asked if I would, whenever I liked, agree to pose for him, honourably, for a few hours?

Our arrangement with Lauritz ran on weekends, he called me das Sonntagsmädchen but it was more of a Saturday night affair in all the nasty venues he could find in an hour’s flight from Paris —since after an inheritance he had bought a jetplane of his own. Always keen about my intimacy tales, Hugo called me a night flyer and kept an eye on me but he agreed I might go with Lauritz to visit Munich’s unavoidable museums —and whorehouses.
We had still kept sorting out the sordid archives in the von Speck hotel, he had acquired all the equipment to digitise the pictures and the documents, and perversely shag, anywhere in the haunted old brothel. I owed Sarah my becoming to a life of free-flowing pleasure and altogether accomplished —beyond any magazine gibberish.
On our ground floor, the teams had finished the fireproof cellar and the freight elevator, I could load down pieces larger than myself. Gauthier had designed the same kind of shower room as he had done upstairs and we tried it together, Gauthier is a demigod in one’s arse.
Monsù Desiderio had, as Cyprien said, properly executed the work, so I could, in smaller patches, dissolve the brownish oxidised varnish without weird surprises. But now, an old offwhite linen sheet had been spread on a high-back sofa with pillows on the side, and the teacher anxiously awaited that I deign to arise out of my working whites and lay down before his pencil in whatever glory he relished out of me. When I had retold Hugo, nought complaining, of this amiable routine, he wished he could see the drawings; since he was one of my main investors, there would be nothing bizarre to his visit. He loved the Desiderio, then casually inquired about my portraits, looked at them while Goldberg spun time far in the background, and asked to buy a good handful of them, to Cyprien’s great amazement. Not only did he offer a high market-wise price, but he announced there would be plenty of commissions —if he would. After that visit, as the painstaking swab chase of tiny specks went on, Sarah was first to come along and asked to pose for Hugo’s benefit. Shy Cyprien was sorry when came some restoration work he could not delay.
Obviously, Sarah was princely, if ever, I thought only her could be so wholly provocative and angelic. It was her idea, in the gleam of her sapphire eyes, she recounted all the comments she had ever heard of her physical traits, androgynous, tomboy, ambisexual, whatnot. Cyprien sniggered, because he liked what he saw, and told her she might be the best of two worlds, he loved our kind. Thus, she mused aloud if he would dare draw a real flesh and soul hermaphrodite? I was already smiling because I knew where she was headed.
Cyprien was caught in parenthesis of divergent strabism that made him look like some ecstatic Mater Dolorosa, then he retorted to Sarah’s blue sparkles that he wouldn’t dare take advantage of someone’s singularity, that he was not a mindless camera of sorts. Sarah, who was lain spread and aloof, fully aware of the torture she had invented by pushing the draughtsman out of his meditation while still imperceptibly rolling her hips, took her smoothest tone of voice and said it could be arranged gradually, the person in cause did not resent their exception as abnormal, and the lifeways they had found did not bear any complication; moreover, they would themself teach Cyprien all there is to be known about hermaphroditism.
That day, Sarah bought the drawings he had done of her, for the same price as Hugo had paid, then she almost raped me to tease Cyprien who remained somewhat agog and aghast. She said she would be back with a portfolio to take away her purchases, we dressed up and she took me shopping.
After we kissed like teenagers against a portal, she took me to the Heschung shop where she had had an idea for me, they made these huntsman’s laced ankle boots, leather and hessian, perfect for walking on pavements. To the attendant’s amusement, she did the trying herself, relished to show she fondled my feet in my expensive socks. The whole shop smelled of leather chemistry like a British berline. I knew I could not think of not accepting, I would keep the Docs for very bad days, I acted like I was the plaything of some imperious lesbian princess, I gave the attendant the eye, for all she deserved.
We walked back talking of Cyprien’s talent, I wondered if Camille had known he was an artist at heart I wanted drawings of Sarah and the others in my room, she would do the translation for Dagmar, too. The three of us ordered stuffed mushrooms with Wakame gravy and a pecan pie. I realised that Dagmar was catching up in French and English, she told Sarah that Fanny insisted she go live with Camille and her, since they attended the same school; she could have a room of her own, too, and anyhow remain easy to get together with her. Later, Sarah wanted us to watch the pilot episode of Twin Peaks that we did not know —none of us had been born when it had happened— watching her cry threw us into tears, of sublime erotic essence, respect be paid to Master David.

In the workshop of Bach realm —Cyprien seemed to have edited a long loop of all Richter’s Bach recordings, with enough breathing air between the pieces, and he told me, in a bland tone of voice, when it would be another cycle. I agreed that the solo work helped me focus on the painstaking chore of wiping away the centuries of brown soot-ish matter, with alcohol on swab after swab I rolled on the tip of a lollipop stick, ready to stop the process at once with the other swab of turpentine in my left hand.
On his part, he had soon reckoned that the money he had been paid for his nude drawings compensated his lack of commitment towards work he had taken in commission, but some time after I had let him draw me nude and it had not wreaked havoc, of sorts, he avowed that he had never met the chance to get to know such easy company as our lovely brigade, ready to lay undressed for his eyes. Thence he felt he had met his epiphany, and he fostered the hunch that Ms Stern had been well aware of what it would beget by sending me to his watch. I could only reassure him that, thus far, he had behaved faultlessly and I intended to summon all the muses in the Faerie to come and sit still, therein Richter’s paradise.
Indeed I was living a blessing well worth of my cubbyhole years when women’s magazines had taught me a haphazardly hotchpotch of poor man’s yoga and gymnastics, nonetheless conferring my long frame with graceful muscles, besides what Sarah had called the random chances of genetics, and the sad quality of the food I had been granted.
Had I not been amply fulfilled in my carnal wants, either on the ethereal sapphic mode on any perch in the four winds castle I had come to live in or in the gentlemanly, boyish, or brotherly manners of my suitors and their goons, who had so skilfully upturned my soul through all my holes that, as a result, I felt glowing in the dark, I could have attempted to bestow some rosy flesh of mine to Cyprien’s obvious masturbation, but no way did he show the complexion of a pathological neurosis, thus I reckoned that he would eventually come to freshen his embers with one in the perfumed brigade I had happened to join.
Predictably, Cyprien turned mute the day I brought Dagmar along, so he wouldn’t dare ask her for more than holding her head on three sides, only letting out, possibly because he thought she would not understand, that she truly personified an angel, and that brought a smile in her outworldly eyes. She responded supremely to the music, which had not been a given, Bach could have stirred ancient ordeals in her soul.
The Desiderio had been deemed clean, herefrom, but was visible only while a thin film of turpentine dried off on it, Cyprien explained that it needed to be properly varnished, and that operation was better left to specialists who would spray a film, flat in a dedicated cabin, as they did for most museum pieces, these days.
Dagmar was wearing a thinly knit cool pink, turquoise, and pearl zigzag silk dress and matched leggings —lent by Lizon who had just only discovered her— and turquoise all-stars lows. Her nipples played through the silk, she kept disarmingly aloof.
Again short-breathed, Cyprien asked me about choices of cornices for framing the painting, he had an assortment given by the framer. Closely enlaced with Dagmar under Cyprien’s knowledgeable eye, we exchanged in our usual double Dutch —not as senseless as anyone thought, and we kept her trying— to eventually rest on a choice of timeless ebonised wood rows of small diamond points, and Cyprien beamed, for it had been his intimate choice, too. Enkindled, he dared touch Dagmar’s arm and mumbled that he would love us to sit together, just as we stood, if only I accepted to take off my whites, which I did, to Dagmar’s amusement.
Followed a more or less vacant week, Lauritz had lost the habit of telling me his whereabouts, except for Saturday nights. Camille came over at breakfast time as if to see for herself that I actually dunked the Baicoli biscuits that Annachiara had sent me in lovely yellow metal boxes. Camille loved my telling her I had bought a prostitute in Venice and shared her with Hugo three nights long for real, she swore she would go invite her too, with me if I wished, and she had her hand on my sleepy quim. After she took a moment licking me like a she-wolf, she helped me dress in stone-blue, high-waisted Katherine Hepburn trousers, and a plum thin crew-neck cashmere jumper that she could hardly take her hands off. She raved about my new shoes and muttered Sarah always had the good idea and begged me to let her slide my fluffy socks on, then she ordered me to pull her my tongue.

Since we went out on a worksite, my new Perfecto felt appropriate, so much so that Camille seized both lapels to snog me eagerly. She asked who had put such a classy piece on me, certainly not Hugo. She was overjoyed to know it had been Sarah and hummed that her old flame was undoubtedly more enthralled with me than she had seen, I blushed, but I did not snitch on what conversations we had had with Sarah before she had thrown me into Lauritz’ bed and other grand vessels, I only asked my spirited sponsor if she wouldn’t be doing a scene? She held me to the door and muttered I could have whatever I wished from her.
They had been pouring the concrete slab in the cellar, except for a three-step wide square at the far end, pretty boy Philippe explained that when they had cleared the old rubble bed, they had stumbled upon three lead coffins and they waited for Hugo to decide what to do with the discovery. It would seem that, with Gauthier and a few of his scholar friends they would look into the well-preserved coffers then leave them there, as they had left the “seven sisters” in their rounded oubliette which impressed so much Delf and Dagmar. The ashlar walls and vaults had been cleaned and pointed with the powerful dry brush and vacuum method that had left no traces, said Philippe.
To the contractor who witnessed our tour, I must have felt like the coddled plaything of the real customer, and Camille’s craving for my rump obvious, but then Gauthier, his prideful head adorned with copper strands, and Hugo, tough grey tweed and paisley silk vest, both demonstrating the affectionate attention I knew of them for the mere girl I was, moreover accepting Camille’s flirting, all set me square in the centre of the matter, and ushered me in a role I wouldn’t shy from, although in such a moment I missed Sarah’s gaze upon me.
At the ground level, a new pavement eased the access from the porch and the street, enough to convey large pieces at no risk. Near the entrance and the elevator hatch, stood the administration glazed booth, at the far end, a door gave, one side on the cloakroom, toilets and shower legal requirements, the other on my pet whim, a storage room of precise dimensions, of which no one figured why it comprised these grided vents, my inner refuge, the well of magazines.
Cyprien had already been hired to boot me up at what would become an extension of his trade, without bustling him from his own modus operandi we all had come to cherish now —and Camille gave my candour credit for that— insofar as there should not be a conflict in the field he owned undisputedly, my workshop would remain vassal to his, unless he preferred definitively devote his skills to the unending pursuit of the fleeting graces who came sit in his lights, and he had assumed a taste for, at the tip of his pencil.
Nonetheless, my master had presently put me in front of the darker quagmire of a painting one could guess had been either a Virgin Mary or a mere lady, painted on a linden panel the size of two by three hand-spans, more or less. One guessed a hand rested on some window sill, a few vague bluish shadows of a vesture, but the centre, thus the face, was missing, terribly, like a large scale had fallen off. At my side, I could feel life through my coarse work whites, Cyprien grazed the painting with a turpentine pad, to give it some readability and show me it had been high-quality workmanship, hence I would revive all that remained, like a devoted surgeon, and then fill the missing scales with flush layers of gesso, the same kind of lean primer these Cinquecento painters used. Although it had been coated on both sides, the panel would be utterly sensitive to water, thus I should squeeze my sponge each time before I touched the surface to clean or rinse. Then we would all gradually test the pure pharmaceutical alcohol; if, given the aspect of the painting, it turned out insufficient to dissolve the resins in the varnish, he would show me how to wear a respirator mask with compressed air bottles when using poisonous solvents, and he would leave me alone with it until the room would be ventilated thoroughly. He took me to a metallic locker and showed me large tins bearing serious warnings in many colours, then said I would have to read and learn at least three manuals about these before I called myself a responsible professional, he would write down the references for me, and meanwhile, he was finally groping my bum and my belly, I could feel he was really hard, but he swiftly kissed my temple and walked away; I stood a bit dumb, and I smiled to myself.

As Delf had returned from New York and found Dagmar had moved back in her old bed I wasn’t always sleeping in, they ran to hear better news than they had gathered from the TRÆVIX penthouse, or rather the first-floor swimming pool where they had attracted, as a boy, some consideration mostly from closeted men. Michelle had warned them that, apart from a few impromptus they could score with Mathew Mulder, her lawyer, they still would have had better chances of fun staying home near us.
I had not been there for their reunion, Lauritz had flown me to an orgy on the Via Appia in Rome and I still maundered between Charybdis and Scylla with my entrails crazed when I shored home for coffee. Delf had lost their timeline and the smell of coffee drew them by, after hours of elegant shagging I still found them likeable with their unmatched childish seriousness. They too wanted to play the dunking routine, they were as good as me. They became transfixed when I retold my night, part of them missed being a mere playtoy, they climbed on me to sniff all creases of my body, with priceless little manners. Lauritz had asked that I dress like a candid debutante —with no undies. I had borrowed a night-blue, waistless, high-gathered flared short dress trimmed with pearl-white grosgrain, white veil open tights bought at Annachiara’s and black patent court slippers.
With only a few hours of sleep, I ought to go to Cyprien’s, so the idea bloomed to tell Delf they could exhibit their unique body to a most gifted draughtsman, provided they were ready to pose and not expect from him to shag them. We could bring sleepy Dagmar, I would try to not maim the faceless lady meanwhile.
I heard splashes and laughs afar, and since they had undressed me before running at my idea, II felt like joining them under the tepid rain. None of us was properly awake, but we massaged the tiredness out and eventually, in the foam, Delf found the energy to thread in my so trained arse.
Across the Pont Des Arts, we danced our steps like wired schoolkids, a whole box of Annachiara’s Baicoli was firing up a sugar rush, it rang in my mind that I should soon try to call and retell her how she had become a happy token in my already joyful new life, I had a wish Camille would bring her over, such a cunning little whore she was.
I could not have warned Cyprien there would be three of us, but there I saw that his inner eye would whirl at the sight of the elfin pair I was following. Indeed, he was stunned, and Delf knew perfectly why, they had their malicious glint in their gaze.
They both were scared by the painting of the ghost, I told them they had time to see what would become of it, albeit I remained overall puzzled about that, but the surroundings of the accident had come fine under my swabs, it appeared to show a rough landscape with tormented trees, a deer on the lookout, a maiden looking down into a well. Everything clean and dry, it was time to lay the gesso in place of the missing chips, on the bared underlayer of fine brown cloth. With a pointed brush, I began the painstaking labour of applying the layers, waiting till they dried, gently sanding them, and over again.
Behind my back, things bloomed gently. I had suggested that Cyprien show the fairies, they sat, two of them now embraced on the sofa, the drawings he still had of me, all the more the risqué ones, so as to trigger Delf’s naughtiness. Inevitably, he was in for a dreamlike playlet I would have bet it made him cry, when shoes first, then leggings and all other finery disappeared magically from the lissome bodies who already invented poses à la Carpeaux. I called up Cyprien so that he took his pad and pencils, he was enthralled. He did not react when Delf made obvious their cute anatomy, this occurrence might have had time to root in his mind so he was only slightly underwhelmed when it became real, but their witty spur stayed rested after he had honoured our carnal ways in the morning. It seemed to me that the somewhat naive boy he had managed to remain was quieted in regard to a rare phenomenon he then reckoned did not threaten him the least.
We all let Richter pilot the flight, they found laid back attitudes and eventually fell asleep in the most sublime abandonment, Cyprien was in sweats, in my slowly distorting mind, he stood amidst the pride of lions to whom I had availed my gentle person for a good share of the night.

Due to the certain diligence of Gauthier’s teams, my ground floor quarters’ conversion was completed before expected. A new floor heating replaced the previous radiators, most of the pipes and wires were concealed, wide remote-controlled lighting panels hung from the ceiling without visible cords. The main ashlar walls had been exposed and the partitions doubled with sleek light grey panels or closets. I had hesitated about the three tall bays, between clear or frosted glazing, the existence of neighbouring windows made me decide for the latter, and an inaugural shag with Gauthier and Philippe, in the heady smells of the works drying, on leftover cardboard sheets, had definitely convinced me this would be my place.
Everyone wanted to help me shop around for furniture, but one morning, I found a statutory deep British hi-back buttoned maroon wool velvet sofa in the middle of the second room, I was told it was a tradition of sorts, and the person to thank certainly was Hugo; he wouldn’t confirm, but he revelled in the thankings I offered him upon the object in question.
The next morning, on a blatantly clean new easel, rested the view of the Piazzetta in Venice by Monsù Desiderio, vibrant in a coat of perfect varnish, framed with austere rows of black diamond-points, adorned with a wide laguna-green moire ribbon in a gift-knot and a Camille Stern card bearing an innuendo compliment I was all too willing to accept.
It was so simple to take a lift down to the door that all the bees in the hive wanted to test the new sofa compared to Kate and Sarah’s famous altar of depravation, and it was a hectic tie game. Delf even brought Michelle who could not ignore a new extension of the domain. I had not acquainted much yet with the legendary Aviator, I was beguiled when she, of all the genteel sluts nearby, began to slide her slender hands upon me. She was wearing off-white silk velvet jeans, an aurora chiffon blouse under an all-embroidered white-on-beige vest, thus it was only a breath to denude her to a tiny mauve knicker. Behind the crystal lenses, her stare took a weird intensity because of her pinpoint pupils, she explained she had been using eyedrops, because of the screens light, not morphine.
From all the tales I had guessed be told, I was overawed to feel the fine skin of the futon girl in the invariable scent of the Geranium&Orange she used since she had found some in Kate and Sarah’s studio bathroom. Her quim tasted of bitter-almond frangipane, her tongue was swift like a squirrel, she showed enthralling bed manners, Delf was overjoyed to watch us do. Eventually, Michelle gushed to my face with a smooth low moan, while her pet child did too, upon my labia, panting. licking my lips, I said I loved the smell of us, she retorted that she was overly pleased I would never be able to consider her an insensitive nerd, I assured her I had never heard anything like that about her and we cuddled, in our own scents. Her telephone gave a tiny squeak, to what she dressed with a sorry smile, said she was overjoyed to have me near, poked her tongue swiftly in my lips and ran the way she had come by. Delf pulled me to them, undeterred to fuck me again.
A while later, I let Lauritz find us as such, I was amused to watch him wonder what he saw, so was the double pixie who foraged casually into his fly no sooner he sat between us and gave him a lordly treat, while he considered the funny orchid between their parted thighs. I confirmed the obvious and told him they were Michelle’s merry partner, as prone to flutter around the many beds of the château they owned all the access codes to, as Michelle was to dematerialise amidst code lines. After he spurted in Delf’s little mouth, he cajoled them and reckoned that the sofa must have already been honourably christened. It was timely to some impromptu supper in that club someone card-carrier had shown him in, behind his house. We would certainly be dressy enough to wallow on the couches, served by half-naked submissives, he called for a car.

The clearing of the portrait I had been assiduous with, regardless of all the turmoil I seemed to have brought into Cyprien’s life, and nought he would complain about, now let see a delicate painting, the second hand of the sitter holding a blue tit. It only felt disastrous that her face lay under a crying white splodge. When I could feel the primer perfectly flush with the painting, like Cyprien had directed me to obtain, it dawned in my mind that he should give her a worthy face, since he spent his days depicting all my friends’ faces. He hesitated, but I demonstrated that whatever he would attempt on the painting would not offend what was left of it, which was not showable anyhow.
He tended to agree, it might be an easy game to play to procure to Dagmar some noble ancestor, just as I knew he would say. I kept silent, made some coffee in the big Bialetti I had bought, to dunk the langue-de-chat biscuits that were the closest to Annachiara’s Baicoli. Cyprien had been passionate with the few images I had retold him of my trip to Venice, bar the scabrous aspects, and he liked to hear me speak about Carpaccio so much that he was considering a few days stay to see the Sant’ Ursula suite restored.
The next day, after a splendid night with Sarah in the warm workshop —sturdy tables, silver Aeon chairs and all sorts of chests of drawers, all that on wheels, had been delivered and mounted— when she was raving about me and made me gush like such a skilled courtesan, I found the maimed portrait on a different easel, on what had been my dedicated one had been mounted a newly relined canvas with scars, apparently depicting a deep forest with cavaliers riding through it. It was a long format, a full arm-span wide and more, and it was awfully dirty. He conjured to take my time, it was an important piece and I should never rush according to the size of the piece, plus, he said candidly he had come to love my presence, he pressed his hands on my shoulders and sniffed through my hair, all lightly.
He was sort of disgruntled when I explained that Dagmar would be scarce, now on, because she had to attend school and not remain a mere plaything, thus she had moved in with Camille’s adoptive daughter, in their house he knew. I promised the pair would come to see him some day off.
Shuffling through his drawings, he regretted his idea of drawing Dagmar in the white void, but then I figured there was another pair I could ask for him, and I gave him a description of Annabelle and Fayelle, the heather fairies, guessing whom of them he would choose to incarnate the immemorial Princess.
That night, I had been invited by Natalia upstairs, with some genteel courtiers, had she said with a grin and after a day along with the incurable immaturity of Cyprien’s, I longed to be properly manhandled, and that, Natalia had read it in my soul. Beforehand, I searched for the pale mist witches and found them nude, wrapped into a quilted Liberty comforter, at the feet of Kate and Sarah professedly at work, Fayelle reading Cortazar aloud. My proposal pleased them, they craved wooing some stranger and undressing for his eyes, like they had been trained for, now that it would be for their own benefit. Meeting me on the loo, sparkle-eyed Sarah swiftly rode me upon and while she peed over my quim, she whispered she too would party at Natalia’s, and the Cossack Prince would be there. After a quick freshening, I joined the blondes in the quilt and stole one of Kate’s striped socks, for a bite.
Natalia had asked us to wear pyjamas, like high-class whorehouse kitties, so did we, from the legendary wardrobe. Sarah put me in some sleek black satin with the rainbow trim, telling me with her hand on my bum that it fitted exactly, she donned an extravagant night-blue duchess satin ensemble randomly scattered with embroidered silver stars, barefoot, and with her hand, she showed me our trousers were lined so as not to be stained if we dripped, these were not outfits made for sleeping.
Natalia had found for herself some light-mauve dupion silk for a mandarin suit, wide-legged but fitted bum, she looked slimmer than in her day clothes, she palpated at once that I wore no undies, she demonstrated a consumed art of snogging I savoured of letting her do.
From the recently subsumed staircase and corridors in another adjoined building in the masterplan of TRÆVIX enterprises emanating, it seems, from the dainty lover on my sofa the night last, the two familiar black and white hustlers could run barefoot, in ample tracksuits, Caterpillar yellow and black lettering for Fulgence, powder-blue with white trimmings for Erik, Natalia was proud of her beautiful minders, she let them overtly pet her, like the cat who wasn’t there. Sarah cuddled me like her own just as I had liked it since she had singled me out.
The vivacious Cologne lads had brought along the said pair of “Cossacks” and I sensed a quiver along Sarah’s nerves, she had precise memories of their carnal skills.

The twins smelled of Morello kirsch and aspic oil, more like some weird embrocation with an after-taste of wet weed fire, but they behaved inescapably, like raged puppies. One was at once over me, I could not parry off his hold, would I want it. He had been wearing a black nylon quilted jacket and baggy distressed jeans, he suddenly was tanned and satiny, dangerous as a mad poney, all I could wish for, and I saw Sarah was even more surrendering to the same fury, maddening her mouth on her fun mugger who had chosen not tear away her nightly silks but rub them in an avid sleight of hand on her abandoned body.
My own handler had rid me of my costume and thrown me across the wide padded ottoman, Natalia played to mingle in his kisses in my neck, my armpits, my groin, till she reached his uptight spur and sucked it as deep as he would, willing or not thus exposing her butt to Fulgences want, as he had been on the lookout for. Erik joined our side and seized my hips, he couldn’t help whispering kind obscenities to the new kid in the corral, while he pulled my trousers down so I could offer some gap in my crotch, but it was a Cossack who prevailed, only for the time Erik grabbed the lotus lubricant on the side table. I exulted standing amidst the formidable strains of the two animals, feeling as light as an armful of wildflowers, their confronted thrusting in deep, like mischievous brats at a pillow fight. I had ceased all efforts at their whims when they gushed in my bedazzled innards.
Eventually, we panted, scattered in the room, proud of our happy debacle, already covered in sweats and juices, in the rude scent of elation soon guessing what would happen of our troupe in the steam of the shower.
The devilish brothers had been bantering together in their fast vernacular and I sensed that I was the joke as they cunningly crept so as to hedge me in, still muttering, simply making me feel utterly desired, like a fiddle in a may field.
They easily obtained that I rekindle their bitter-tasting penises while they returned the politeness, I loved the smell of saliva upon us, though puffs of such redolences still raised from a doomed, bygone cellar, to my weird indulging. Then too, letting them use me, bones and flesh, unfazed, I felt this heave in the chest from long ago, when the dark short-haired little girl I had been wetted her knickers watching the butcher, who had never had a twisted word for her, slash through the supple maroon pieces of gleaming meat, constantly edging his knife on a steel, and I would lower my eyes down on my worn sneakers, in the sawdust.
I was entrusting my disarmed carcass to the savoir-faire of the two jugglers who let me read in their eyes the bliss they found at possessing me both. Erik had not given up, he came to ask my mouth to gulp his dong in reverse, so he could push at will as I was again kneaded like a pure lubricious ectoplasm, like vindicated of all the stupid tears I might have wept.
The soap in Natalia’s shower was predictably as naughty as Bombay gin but smooth to the thinner skin that Sarah and Natalia both fondled gently. We had fought off the adorable brutes, asserting there would be another round. Sarah muttered about the taste of vice in my mouth, with proud eyes, and asked Natalia her idea about it, bringing her to grab my head at both hands and pull me her also disarming tongue.
We starved, Natalia took out flat boxes of easy nibbles and displayed separately the salted and the sweet on large platters she lay where we had been shagging, on the ottoman. She brewed white tea in a big glass pot. Yes, our mouths had tasted of semen, but spices and sweets helped, like new dreams wash old angst away, like the alcohol pads wipe the soot and the blemishes.
They still fought to share me, I could not close my legs, then Beryl came home with a younger stray cat who, at first, rounded her eyes at our allure. Her name was Apolline Silas, her auburn hair was braided in rows to the nape, her candid eyes were reed-shore brown. In her slim-fit jeans and grey velvet hoodie embroidered “restricted” in red caps across the chest, red ankle sneakers, she remained dumbfounded with a half-smile until Beryl, who had been to the loo, asked her to take off her shoes. She wore funny mismatched socks with spiders and skulls, Sarah could not resist and took her to the sofa to fiddle with her toes. Our amoral courtiers understood that this one was not the same slutty class as us, Fulgence, in a most classic stance, claimed there were no rapists around and she was safe in Beryl and Natalia’s home; nonetheless she was in the know what simmered behind our eyes as we looked at her.
We did a round of presentations, she probably singled out the twins that had been all over the generational pornoverse, Then Beryl let out that she had found Apolline somewhat lost in a corridor at Victor’s realm where she was still herself a house pet.

The advent of a shy beautiful street urchin amidst the libertine Areopagus I had just lately been deflowered in, hardly unsettled the naked feasting guests, satiated anyway, but broke the mood somewhat earlier than foreseen by indefatigable buggers. We all gathered our clothes and kissed good night. The quieted newbie found enough wits to appreciate our styles, Sarah, anew in her impressive polar night silks, asked Apolline to meet again, whenever they wished, Beryl kissed her heatedly. She said they would need some time, possibly.

In the morning, the rooftop fairies came down at breakfast, eager to show their pampered face to the artist. Like everyone in the house, they mocked me and my biscuits, Annabelle sat next to me within reach so I could fiddle her quim.
We needed umbrellas and trench coats, they didn’t have time to protest, I swore we would hire a car on the way back. Cyprien greeted us and stared at me as if to ask me if there were many others in our posse?
On the cosmic metronome of Bach, it was scheduled to restart at the well-tempered heart and the magic operated. We made coffee and tea, Annabelle stole my biscuits and they quietly began the sitting. There was no need to hurry, the models enthralled Cyprien, the painting had the time to dry.
I preferred to have a screen unfolded in my back, hour after hour, I began discerning crowds of details in the undergrowth of the forest I had been summoned in, I overheard the murmuring of the damsels. Annabelle wore a printed paisley verdigris cotton boat-neck knee-long flared dress Fayelle a mullein yellow off-shoulder waistless vague dress, I knew they wore no undies, I was wondering what kind of effect it would bring to Cyprien’s pencil. Like in a classroom, he let his preys gambol and go peep in the bathroom. At midday, they ate Chinese, I was content with my biscuits in black coffee, I did my best not to let Cyprien guess that I had slept, and more, with them —he wouldn’t have suspected of that with Dagmar and Delf— neither would he need to know any hint of their past, they offered the fittingly candid gaze required for a Renaissance portrait, most of all, they inspired his pencil.
Since I had been prime awakener, I intuited the manner to undress the angels, sufficed to allude to the series he had sold to Hugo, in which he had not dodged detailing my vulva in bloom. Matter-of-factly heard evoked by me, it did not trigger any sniggers by my dear fellow creatures who then affected to obey me, disrobing all at last. Cyprien accepted their gesture as some welcome windfall, mutely turning a page of his tall drawing book, sending me a grateful glance. For as long as they would bliss out in the ethereal crystallisations of Bach music, he could fruitfully nurture his anachronic talent to all extents, a whole web of connoisseurs awaiting for him at L’Etoile Amusée.
On my part, I had been encountering unexpected behaviour at the tip of my pads, some weird brownish murky matter that came under the varnish and smeared the cotton wads. I had to call Cyprien for help and I understood he could not refrain his lead, as of yet, so I went to the bathroom, then made more tea and coffee.
He tried himself, smelled what oozed up, spread a dab of it on a piece of glass, smelled it and called it the pest of all restorators, the pervasive resort of all the artistic crooks of the XIXth century, what fool headed art suppliers sold as “mummy brown”, a rich transparent overtone supposedly obtained from grinding the vast quantities of animal mummies unearthed in Egypt, mere bitumen, actually. It features the particularity of never hardening, unlike oil, resins and pigments otherwise used for painting, thus, in the present case, a layer of the stuff had been applied to the painting, to achieve a uniform warm patina, and the resin of the varnish had haphazardly dried over it. The owner of the piece would face a big surprise, good or bad.
Fayelle had dozed out, crashed by Mathew’s Passion; later, the car went smoothly upon the glittery causeways; I had wanted to shower, as if the weird stench of the mummy tar had clung onto me, so, then I smelled of Cyprien’s shower soap, Penhaligon’s Juniper Sling, so Annabelle nosed in my neck with heaps of afterthoughts. I invited them to Agnete&Sanne’s where the rain must have chased the customers. My tender posse might not have been dressed for dining outside, but it would be all the more fun if a whim took them to let their nethers be seen by some shrewd rubbernecker.

Each time I went to bed in my room, most often with a desirable company of whatever manners of life, I gave a wink to the leaping dancer with his fists wielded forth in the centre of the parted mask, so entrenched had become the certitude that Lauritz, and whomever of his choice, would watch, all the more reason to sway my arse a mere tad more than naturally before laying down, hiking up my nightshirt as if I had been asked to.
That night, Kate and Sarah would spend their evening cavorting elsewhere, the novel attraction upstairs might have bustled their course adrift, Kate seemed bemused by reliving her past through the eyes of her unsuspected sister, together with her incestuous brother, on the other bank of the river.
I revelled in the perverse tales of my two redeemed slappers, letting them boast about the many mean vengeful tricks they had lived by, sapping their tormentors’ souls, were it in vain, into more booze and drugs. I played candour, even if Sarah’s selfless grooming had soon brought me on par with them, long after I had nullified my abuser —but that, I did not tell, then.
I was up on my track early, that chore of ridding the forest of the mummy murk was driving me, I would dip my biscuits later at the workshop. Cyprien was tense amidst his last drawings, he said he was indecisive as to whom might figure the redeemed Lady. I concurred it was a balanced choice, moreover, one of the sitters would possibly be vexed, in the end; he was tempted to draw a mix of the two.
My pads returned gunky all day, but the original painting began to re-surface in its liveliness, it seemed to be a notch more ancient than when it rested under the layers of its weird varnishing, in a brighter key. It took another haul of preludes to clear up a somewhat primaeval scene in a golden age, with three brutal scratches across and a good many stains Cyprien said were oil overpaints that I needed to wipe down carefully with alcohol.
On his side, he had pinned up the portraits of my lady friends and had been mingling their traits into one unknown cousin of them he was proud of. I agreed it resolved the whole matter worthily.
The next three days, Lauritz took me aboard his black Learjet with the red armchairs to Munich. He had required that I wear my black cashmere waistless shirtdress, open tights, laced ankle boots, and my black gabardine trench, the perfect outfit for an expensive tramp. He promised we would spend our daytime in the extraordinary museums there, he would only smirk about nighttime, he played footsie reminding me what I had enjoyed in Venice, with another sponsor of my shy allure. As the aeroplane was taking off, I opened my dress for him.
We boarded in a posh, padded, fluffed, tucked hotel between the Residenz and the museums, a suite worthy of my wantonness, where he ordered a cart of desserts with a fruit bavaroise and black coffee. The waiter had been so discreet that he caught me nude on a silver-blue chiselled-velvet sofa, I chose to stay still and turn to him a candid gaze, he pretended to ignore me. Lauritz had witnessed my deft looseness and he liked that in me. He told me to lay flat on the padded ottoman that must have been bearing legions of tender bellies before and he licked me like a wolf then unclothed and buggered me long.
The two tiers of the cart were covered with porcelain plates for portions of rich cakes which I tasted most, under his wild eyes. The coffee was still hot in a vacuum silver pot. He wanted more of my submissive debauchery and I knew he would abuse smoothly till I faint.
At dark dawn, I was again drawn by the scent of coffee and I rolled my hips, feeling gently unbound, not shied to sit bare upon him while he sorted his messages. He had ordered a plate of dry biscuits, he was smitten. I answered Sarah who had wondered where I had been, she envied my tight little arse, I retold her she could have it anytime after I have lost my breath in the Brueghels and protested I loved her most.
In the bathroom, was an assortment of toiletries Lauritz said of which didn’t fit his idea of me, instead he proposed his own luxury Cologne, by game.
He let me be impatient to go worship one of the most impressive collections in the world, had I read in a magazine. Be it because we were in Germany, Lauritz stayed along with me and agreed with the comments I could read from a guide in French. Every hour or so, we sat in a dreamlike cafeteria with sky-high light-brown brick walls, he laughed at that I had found Speculoos to dip, I preferred not to go lunch in a restaurant, him either.
We had moments of synchronicity before the Dutch ribald paradisiacal humanity sceneries, he wished he owned Henry De Clerck’s earthly paradise, he also envied Ruben’s orgiastic ballets, whatever the subject, I was a tad discomforted by so much overflow, to say the least, thus he slid a hand in my dress. I felt homey in a Momper invention like I had with Desiderio, but the vertigos I resented in Rubens did not enthral me as Veronese’s had, I did not claim it.

With his long sun-bleached strand of hair, squinted eyes and aquiline profile, he really looked like Siegfried the hero for magazines, but he was kind to me, and I did not abuse that. Once our brains had overflown with emotion and a carmine twilight hovered on the museum lawn, he said we had time to go hunting and called a cab. The shop was Enterfelder & Co and seemed to date back to the Biedermayer age, the windows framed with brass columns, Lauritz too had decided to play doll with the little penniless tramp. He had lived for three years in Munich and thus knew what he was doing, his idea being to lay silk jersey on my sleek belly, so I dared not decipher any labels. He attired me like the shickeria icon out of Noughtinland, my flat heels ankle-boots de-phased enough to stamp my style.
It had become so easy to let flow these sublime Italian fabrics upon my bare pubis, in long, flared, thin straps gowns barely hiding my humble nipples, printed in tiny old gold or indigo paisley motives on black background, shamefully gleaming and we also took a black Barberis Canonico alpaca serge tall-lapels calf-long coat lined in prune duchess satin. He looked overjoyed like one who has fulfilled a dear troth, in the car back, slanted upon his chest, I wondered if he had known of Hugo’s similar buying spree for my slutty person’s benefit in Venice?
As he made me spin with awe before we left the hotel to I did not care where, he kept his boyish grin and said I could also wear what was inside a slim black leather box he let me open. It was a strand of Tahitian black pearls the size of my little finger with a platinum and diamond clasp, I felt a pang in my little girl’s chest, she that I had barely been in my cubbyhole. It fitted as a low choker, we looked at me in the full-length mirror, I was wet like a magazine princess. He wore a slick silky black suit, a lavender mandarin-collar shirt, and patent leather oxford shoes, I understood his luggage had been brought and tidied up.
A sand colour taxi took us to Hahn’s, a two-storeyed opulent-looking brick villa amidst tall trees, with a paved forecourt and two black symmetrical cast-iron lampposts figuring nymphs in flight holding facetted globes. A black man in a gold-trimmed dark green and black livery held the door.
A scent of benzoin hovered in a sparsely lit corridor of dark architectural wood decor with panoplies of gleaming exotic weapons or whatnots. I gave my coat to a cloakroom attendant who eyed me up with some kind of poise, I began to feel Lauritz was a returning regular. He held me by the waist and whispered that I be reassured, it was merely a pleasure venue, he asked me to present my black card in a wall teller machine on the side.
We pushed double stained-glass doors and found ourselves in a round hall with a spectacular painted ceiling showing a flight of nude younglings across a golden dawn sky, the whole in a somewhat awkward manner, enough to reckon it was in a bawdy house, not a chamber of commerce, although, sometimes…
A faraway piano improvised brilliantly along roaring twenties themes, giving me a sway of syncopation altogether as cool as our Bach tapestries in the workshop, I let Lauritz drive the dance. Sundry of salons opened around, lit by arrays of miniature lamps in varied bowls, Just like candles without the smoke.
As we passed by in the subdued light, I understood that the couples in the low sofas were all in different phases of lovemaking, all genres mingled. Clenched at Lauritz’ side, I was struck by the beauty of two boys, artfully half-denuded, handling each other in no haste, and Lauritz asked if I wanted one, or both?
The musician began a possibly endless rendition of “Tea For Two” that brought us to dance slowly and predictably my dress to slide down on the thick carpet, soon to be met by other couples of which one was also nude, and I began to feel some fondlings here and there, while my cavalier wanted my tongue. I heard low voices in german near my ears, sometimes Lauritz would translate kindly admirative appreciations or utterly lewd propositions, underlined with the smooth grazing of my butt-crack.
I acquired the sensation that they all were on drugs, but cool ones, what Lauritz confirmed. To me, it reminded the feeling I grew when, behind the grid of my closet, the populace was altogether drunk and I began to ramble by empathy. Picking up the dress he had just offered me, he drew me, and my suitors too, towards the majestuous stairs of the kind you do not feel climbing, and the upper gallery where carved doors opened on mostly busy bedrooms.
The herd I had gathered entered a muted dark space around a narrow dance floor softly lit from under and above, Lauritz asked me to take off my shoes and go dancing, as eager pairs of eyes scattered around on invisible couches. I remembered my first night in the Panopticon, I knew I would deserve an endless shag before Lauritz put a final period to it.

A feminine voice from the crowd demanded in a rocky French that I pull off the stockings, too, and seemed to be asserted by the rest of the attendance. So, I wore only a few pearls when I stepped into the lights and Paul Oakenfold pulsed irresistible rhythms through a mighty system, making my booty shake beyond my will.
But suddenly, somebody’s hand pushed a gilded bowl near my dancing feet, shouting something I thought I guessed, so I swayed sideways down on my parted legs, under their applauds, and waited that I peed in their bowl, which eventually happened in an ovation, a meagre quantity, though, they should have made me drink before.
When I was finished, it was swiftly stolen, and a nude greyish head crept under me to lick whatever would still come and make me moan. They all talked softly, I singled Lauritz’ voice in French, telling how he relished seeing me spending with strangers, but I should not let myself endure above the heed of my own whim, he had seen me do before. Now the creeper had pushed ahead and was penetrating me from under, I let my vagina find his measure and soon felt fingers applying lubricant at both my pleasure entryway and another strain upon the tight rear burrow, me still crouching at their avail. One of the boys who had diddled with his friend’s dick came up to thrust his in my throat and seemed to vaunt my ability to swallow sabres.
They went under tempo, making me feel the feverish gush each time and the next, my feet were sliding so I had to stand on fours and lay back upon he who chose my butthole, then Lauritz announced something and the carousel ended, he carried me to a scented bathtub and rinsed me thoroughly, calling me dirty names.
As I climbed down, dressed up but easily indecent, I had to let be kissed and groped by amiable admirers, those who had gently used me on the dancefloor.
Lauritz decided it was time to go back, he ordered my platter of fruit bavaroises but forbade coffee, having been told I could have elderberry lemonade. Unwittingly, I managed to let the waiter peep on me nude, he earned a proper tip, too.
Lauritz disrobed, his command staff showed full well what he needed from an unabashed whore like me, and his want had been wound tight for some three hours, he gushed in my throat after the sweets but I took every drop of his. He spared none of my well-trained orifices, with the help of the Swiss Navy.
It snowed on Munich that night, as if my perversions allowed the grand erasement of the world’s mundanities, through the high bay, I stood nude in the cautious yellow enlightenment as the innocent fluffs descended upon the town. Lauritz had been looking all over the apartment for me, he wore a satin pyjama and was hard up, already. He quipped that I could do some apparition for the waiter who was bringing up breakfast. They had found some crisp lemon biscuits for me, Lauritz sat against my back and asked me for all that was leaping to my dreamy mind in the taste of the drenched little cakes, so I did not avoid the dishevelled tales of an Andersen-ish secret orphan in the pathways of a workman’s tippling-house at the hour of the first pint of dry white wine, stealing away her heavy cup of black liquor to dip in the kind of biscuits that no longer exist, doing fast her late homework in the closet before running in the still crackling snow to the all lit-up realm of school. Lauritz protested that there be no lemon in my dreary tale, I answered I had never tasted lemon biscuits before and it was sweeter than all the semen I had drunk in the kitsch mansion of the rutting deer, but I would remain his bitch for the while, whatever the fantasy of the Posilippo’s lemons in the blue moonlight, and then I woke up.
As always, I longed for a second sight of the Pinakothek treasures, but he regretted we had only three days and there were other important venues in the museum quarter, he promised we would return at once if the moderns bored me, but at least I should cast an eye upon von Stück, he was certain I would relish his “Sin” painting, all the more that I knew no such concept as sin.
Firstly, we had been light-headed improvident as to wintertime hazards such as cold and snow, and so it made Lauritz laugh that my bag would be growing heavier, the reason why he had said nought when I had followed him with no luggage.
He took me to Stil & Manier, another purveyor of the sterling style men had recently craved to wrap me in, at any expense, obviously, seeing the already cleared bit of sidewalk that led from the car to the dark red lacquered shop. Un-regretfully, these displayed mostly masculine apparel, but I had no wish to remain in my windy shirt-dress, plus I craved women in boyfriend’s attire, like Sarah and Kate would, at least in the daytime, and Lauritz opportunely loved me as a crossover, saying I would not risk looking too mannish, whatsoever.

A genteel moustachioed attendant listened to Lauritz’ demand While ogling my unassumingly depraved little person and obviously fondling me in a manner of marking my measurements, so as I recalled what I had raved about my lemon cookies, while Lauritz’ eyes glimmered. Unavoidably, I had to denude for the old boy, in a fitting salon wide enough for us three, where I could not understand what they mumbled about, only that it be me, and the lavender stooge did not refrain manhandling my butt at his whim, with my mute obedience.
I wouldn’t ask myself if he fathomed what kind of game Lauritz and I played, he did not ask for anything else than palpating my already well broken-in body and selling to my master three full top-quality outfits, large hemmed trousers, high-waisted fitted jackets, Oxford boys’ shirts —he had dutifully constated that my chest was all flat and smooth— fancy vests in timid colours, mock school ties like I had seen in Sarah’s wardrobe.
I kept on my new boots and took some cream cashmere knee-high socks — accepting the tailor’s fingers about my butthole— slipped on fresh boys’ trunks, sand worsted trousers with a buttoned fly, a dawn-mauve shirt with a most classic collar and a black and old-gold striped silk tie the boy showed me how to knot, holding me from the back, a maroon knit vest with flat browned copper buttons, a dark purplish herringbone tweed fitted jacket, both men were in awe in front of me. All the rest of my wares would be delivered while we visited the Neue Pinakothek, I put back on my warm coat, the snow continued, the car glided slowly to the museum.
Lauritz said he was so proud of me, he wondered if the old boy would survive me. I was searching for my reflection in the pictures’ glass panes, I had never in my life worn a tie. All the skylights were buffered out by the snow, it was an eerie night. Albeit he was cautiously cuddling me, I kept grumbling I wish they had other treats than French gone-by Seine shores. Anyhow, I wasn’t rude enough not to give it a try, but frankly, is it the same painter who did the Isle Of Dead and Sugar Daddy On The Riviera?
I had known Walter Crane’s Horses Of Neptune but I did not expect to see them there amidst heavily catholic meadows and mountainous throes. But Lauritz had his idea, only a blink for an ethereal Klimt musician —who would take me to Vienna? They also have rich bawdyhouses, over there— I found myself in front of that growling black and gold setting for a deadly Venus of the all confusing times, “immarcescible Nemesis in a Badelaireen opera”, would have edicted the critic of The New Realm review. Hugo had regretted not to show me Venice’s Salome by Klimt, I would lure Sarah there, for the sake of Annachiara.
Lauritz called a car that was not a cab to take us despite the snow to the Lenbachhaus museum which was a stone throw away. He assured me he wasn’t vexed with my unfazed disdain for a whole heap of Germanic art, there had been time enough for letting him unbutton my fly while I gave him a devilish kiss.
It was a rigorous heavy-yellow exercise of Italian architecture, coupled with a parallelepipedic blind golden container, in an unimpressive size, surrounded with distant, uptight office volumes and a Greek-ish colonnade leading to some sort of parade grounds. Lauritz told me we would have some coffee and biscuits in one of the two facing pavilions over there, later, and I might like some antiquities, too.
Meanwhile, we let our coats and walked into the small building, dedicated mainly to the Blue Rider group and the birth of abstract art, I had read that. There had been a special issue of Telerama on Kandinski, I liked him, this was where it had happened. I liked the ever-so-kind Paul Klee, and a grown man was eyeing me special because my fly had remained open, Lauritz wouldn’t tell.
It smelled of cleaning stuff, all the paintings were in the pristine state in crystalline white light, I had lost the pitch for the Blue Rider and my stomach felt hollow. I tried to hurry Lauritz, then, but first, he pushed me into a recess and fingered me like a bad boy. So, it was how it would play in three days, we walked in the tracks to the one pavilion where he knew they would serve me good coffee, and possibly lemon biscuits, too.

The cafeteria in the Glyptothek was held by gay old boys, totally friendly although I did not look like one, and the toilets were faultless. Lauritz teased me that he had merely seen me eat cakes and coffee. I retorted that it was a trait of my immaturity, I had read, I had grown in a place where people fed on ham or saucisson sandwiches with wine or beer, I hated all that, I stole packets of biscuits my mother sold beside the loto counter, mostly Oreos, which are junk, as we know. Sometimes, I would go next door, where the owner gave me fries and grilled tomatoes but would always fondle my butt, though he never tried any worse —there, I refrained from telling Lauritz all that happened to my destitute little person before I became who I am. He fixed his wolf-like stare in mine and bit one of the two large sausages he had ordered with fries.
People like me, almost a Parisian, live in the pervasive presence of marble or stone sculptures, once they quit their native wastelands, so it took me a gentle lecture to learn that these here were the almost real thing, if not, copies done in the Roman times. Yes, the sleeping faun under his cupola, in the face of Medusa, moved me in my womb, and the bronze Apolo of Tenea on another key, merit an accessit in the gay Pantheon. Be praised the owners not to have let copies debase their grandeur.
The otherworldly mood of a snow-day light lay a blessing upon the airy display of mainly marble statues, I told Lauritz he looked like the Alexander portrait, thud he pursued me to some dark nook and made me suck him, for the bliss of a stealth wanker who had followed us.
We walked to the other pavilion, following withering tracks, in the seizing silence. I wasn’t so available, all the more with that well-known bitterness in my mouth, to consider a display of antique pottery troves, really, until we remarked the funerary jewellery, the gold foil crowns in their spotless gleam I would have craved to reshape anew —they wisely do not— and as I bent forward to see the work, he was discreetly stroking my arse crack.
I wanted to go back and order coffee in our room, he ordered a car and we went under the said Propylaen, whatever it meant, on the third side of the almost virginal esplanade, to wait on dry ground. A white berline covered in ads flashed its lights, soon.
This time, our first waiter found me in my shirt and trunks, barefoot, nothing other than eager glances occurred but Lauritz liked that, also some coffee and lemon biscuits. He inquired my stare silently, read that I was fit and said that we would go party, to what I retorted that it had been my easy guess. I used a dash of the curtesy skincare cream to wipe stains on my shoes, he said we would let them outside our door at night and they would clean themselves, for a tip.
After he groped me in front of the mirror, he made me slip on the fine subdued-coloured stripes on black whipcord trousers, a black fitted jacket with wide satin lapels and a buttercup yellow flannel vest, so I looked like a worldly debutant and he said I had the perfect face for that. He said the luxury men’s Cologne I had used all over me, citrus, cloves and lavender would make me utterly sinful for the damned Bavarian Catholics who would thence be hard as wood when they would confess their throes to a most certain predator.
We headed to “Der Rote Flügel” through another snowfall, the car rode at walking pace and the radio played the Electric Light Orchestra in Wembley, the driver asked if he should shunt it off, ogling me, Lauritz said no and hugged me with his hand in my fly, daintily. We would have certainly turned to stone when the car stopped under a porch lit by gas flames and a red-vested bell boy opened my door, it felt even more shickeria than the night before. The music through the snow had stirred my blood, we left our coats to a black cloakroom attendant and showed our cards in the slot.
The glaring vermilion carpeting and the black-lacquered posh mouldings led to a vast nightly arena of black padded leather alcoves under galaxies of low-glowing colourful balls hanging unevenly from a stamped red copper tiles ceiling. A heavy bass deep house music pumped on the chest and swirled in the belly from all sides, red livery waiters shifted about, holding serving trays of diverse drinks and bottles, a black usher showed us to a rounded recess and asked what we would drink, Lauritz told me he had ordered a refined lemonade for me. He watched me twirl my neck and shoulders to the deconstructed endless music. As my eyes accustomed to the obscurity, I was not surprised to understand that the other patrons behaved at first sight unusually, a few of the women wore no clothes, seemingly moving from table to table. I question Lauritz who offhandedly said we were in a brothel, proper. He knew of my funny game in Venice, he told me to pick one of the girls to play with or be played by. Now my trousers were undone, my shirt open, men were considering me.

Lauritz asked me which part I wished to hold, being picked or picking one of the wooing ladies, he would come along, either way. A handsome grey-temples had leapt to my side, smooth-mannered, considering he was grazing my chest, saying in English that he had wondered if I were AC or DC, but he could now feel I was palatable either way. As I sipped some of my delicate peach lemonade, my suitors shook hands over my bare belly, then proposed I accompany them to a room, the Britton sported a wide smile, probably because he had learned I would be for free.
Up a flight of stairs, my outfit in disarray, I followed the two gents who exchanged about me to an almost empty room, where a grand bed was neatly tucked in, two deep armchairs with wide armrests, a padded bench as wide as the bed, side tables at the headrest. The walls were waxed, the carpet was extraordinarily thick, to wonder why there was a bed.
It seemed the Brit would do all the moves, he took away my jacket, asked for my shoes and trousers, looked at me holding my hands, telling me I would make a lovely twink, too, then he took the shirt and pulled down the underpants, sniffed my quim and moaned, possibly of pleasure. The light came from the indirect wall fixtures, he made me turn and dance to what reached us of the ground floor music. He asked me my name but he did not tell his, he raved about my body, asserting I was indeed a feminine beauty, with the most gracile of legs and feet, a sweet apple of an arse, a faultless belly with none of the tits he wouldn’t have liked anyhow.
I appraised the quality of the carpet when he said I should kneel while he disrobed with the scent of lavender but then he did something I did not grasp at once, he was now holding his belt and began to whip my buttcheeks, firmly, pushing me to hold the bench there, watching Lauritz’s staff out of the bushes, stiff in his hand.
It was my first whipping, I moaned and cried, but then the men slid fingers in my vagina, only to assess that I liked the treatment that did not last long. He wanted to be sucked by a crying whore, would I? Unsurprisingly, he sported a straight, long and lean dick that, soon, thrust at the narrow end of my throat, and he complimented Lauritz’ on his training, I felt like a beast and I dripped all the more. He came in my mouth and made sure I swallowed, then praised my effort, inviting Lauritz to make the most of my inundated vagina, gathered his clothes and snuck to the bathroom. Lauritz was ready, my obedience to the stranger had tautened him like a spear, he seized my hands in my back, bent me upon the bench and made me feel the whole length of his want in one endless go, then in my neighbouring shy hibiscus that could not refuse his drenched glans in, then the full course inside his prefered game place.
He carried me up onto the bed, the rough bloke had disappeared, he cuddled me, only until a new lad barged in and told me to suck him like he would a house girl, and in fact, I was, he smelled of patchouli, had thick black hair and big gonads, a tough spur he had difficulty to fit in my mouth, so he asked I offer my groin and I was ready to engulf his truncheon for the few humps he took to come with copious squirts. After he regained his breath, he thanked me and went fetch towels, then left.
Word had been circulated of my fresh complacent arse, a third, a fourth and others came up, one after the other, sometimes interrupted by my own stallion who kept aroused. It could have lasted to no end, I chose to pass out, and I woke inside a car, all properly dressed, Lauriz at my side, overjoyed to see me smile as I told him he had made the grade, bastard. On the radio was Pharell Williams, Lauritz wasn’t jaded about my fly.
Before he deposited our shoes outside our door, I saw him slide some bills into them. I sensed that as a final omen before I dozed out for good.

I had woken, tormented bowels and nether parts itching. The tepid water stream on the bidet almost set me back in dream mode and let me tilt; that cleared my mind somewhat so as I walked in the shower and turned the intuitive tap of the sophisticated mixer, only to be seized by a gush of cold water, soon warming up to steam dimension before I found the proper caress. I realised the smell of semen in my hair, I sniggered at the conscience that I had become so fastly accustomed to vast ablutions but I appreciated the presence of holding rails. The complimentary shampoo smelled of may field and wild rose, it produced inextinguishable lather that made me cry in the flow. When half of me had been dissolved away, I shut the waters and waited for the mist to clear off the mirrors to look at my face; I liked it, with the purplish rings of shade at my wilding eyes, nonetheless those I had always seen in my sweetest solitude. I wiped and combed my curls so as they covered my stare, Lauritz remained sound asleep, I clung back to his wing.
In the morning, beyond the ultimate shores of a sketchy funfair along the river, I woke up from under the comforter with Lauritz smelling me like I was some exotic fruit, I said nought and stretched wide open to his delight. He must have guessed of my nightly redemptions and other witchcraft he would only crave the outcome of, he stared as I dunked my childish subsistence in the black coffee.
For our last day, he conceded I wanted to return to the Alte Pinakothek, although at my pace a thorough would have necessitated as many years as I had wandered in the Louvre. To blunt off any attempt of his, I meandered to his morning joe and sucked him dry, like the sharp professional I could not deny I had become, besides my cravings for transcendent workmanship. I made him gush his want like a little boy and he helped me dress in fresh linen, black hi-waist trousers of which he made me promise I would keep the fly open, be it for the mere idea of it, black cashmere socks. The jacket was of black and cream houndstooth tweed, it made me look like Las Vegas. Obviously, my shoes had been fussed over and smelled of beeswax; a glance outside showed a pale winter sun and dry frozen snow.
Lauritz had time only to nose into my neck and call me names, swearing he would never betray me, I was already devising plans to retell my delicious sins to Sarah, and ask her if she would care for my utter confessions. Anyhow, he embroiled me so as to put me in front of the Marquise de Pompadour, a grand pristine canvas by Boucher, with the exquisite innuendo of the Royal mistress’ little mules, the blue acme of oil painting, I felt the pang in my chest although my idea of the historic character did not wake any enthusiasm, so it must have been the painter, him who had shown Miss O’Murphy teasing her divine right Master as a periwinkle —I had been exhilarated to learn she died of very old age, after three widowhoods. He bantered there had been a von Speck in Versailles at the time, as depraved as all of them.
The light was ethereal and would imprint in my memory the pagan frenzy that Fayelle had told me about after her fine escapade to Antwerp with Kate, Lauritz was amused they had fled Sylt together, he asked me to bring Fayelle to his bed, I asked him if he would not better accommodate both her and Annabelle, they made a courtly pair of genteel harlots, if he would; I had lent myself with them, a few times, and I did not despair to bring Cyprien to draw them in pretty situations; at coffee break, I told him about the defaced portrait and the rebirth we had devised, he said he might like to buy such a near forgery, I should mark him as an option; I retorted that Hugo might already have made his move, he had been enthralled by the licentious poses of Sarah’s and bought most of them, bar one to be hung in my bedroom.
This second tour of a truly regal collection, after the limitless carnal throes of the night, skimmed away unessential views that I felt my mind wouldn’t foster long. Lauritz promised he would have all the related books delivered to my place.
We fiddled with one another under our coats on the way to the airport, he was hard as a pick-axe and he made me drenched, I told him how I valued to be able to entrust him, he retorted he would cheat on that, I said I knew that. His jet was on the lookout, we boarded like thieves on the run. He joshed in German with the two men team who turned to me meaningfully and shook hands, casually; I grabbed I was not the first party girl to fly in the von Speck big bird. He showed me to the last row of seats, the sunset gilded the snowfields around the track, he had already unleashed my belt when we ascended in pursuit of the sun. He had pushed down the armrests and pulled my trousers and trunks, he said he relished seeing my arse aside, amidst my shirt tails, he tried in vain to bugger me but then he went all his length into my vagina and I climaxed before him.

 

Sarah says:

We had been in bed watching Christian Petzold’s “Jericho”, only to melt for Nina Hoss, when I heard voices afar and I guessed Cecile was back from Munich. I was wearing a cotton flannel pyjama printed of teal and indigo paisley as I found Cecile in a white boy’s shirt and periwinkle striped trunks, looking overspent. I could figure out all that she had been done to at her beautifully weary eyes, I could not help pulling her onto her bed, she mumbled she needed a shower, but I was already sniffing of sperm inside her trunk so she let me do the dirty.
On my part, the week had begun soft, I was beginning to miss Kate, the devilish sisters were all the talk at Philippe’s and slept the rest of their time. Only last night Hugo made me sleep in his bed and I woke up smelling of blue roses in fumes of opium, my nether petals soothed and balmy, he had said I had been otherworldly and he showed me photographs.
Cecile had liked to retell me her episode with our Celtic Alpha wolf and flaunted the tributes he had bestowed her, in the suit-bags hanging in her closet, I was proud of her, I promised to take her with me to Florence, even on Melchior’s wings, if she liked it kinkier. She made me gush once or twice, joshing that she had had her fill with hard dicks.
In the morning, she had reclothed me with my pyjama —buttoned in the wrong holes— she had made her coffee and found the yellow boxes of Venetian Baicoli sent by Annachiara, her friend “mondana” we all wished to know, I said I would suggest to Hugo to invite her so we could feast of her, Cecile said she was worth it and Hugo knew it.
They had unclothed Cecile who stood on Fayelle’s lap, dipping her biscuits with dexterity, as much as the loving little whore did in her vulva.
They spoke of Cyprien’s work but kept it for Cecile to discover, they scattered to dress and go, I fetched an oversized grege tracksuit embroidered FATALE in red caps across the chest, thick Norvegian raw wool socks and I resented Kate’s absence when I climbed up to the studio. After hours of chasing the gossamers of my inspiration on varied subjectiles, helped in that by the long loop of music from Soma FM —I had noticed that played very low, Rusty Hodges’ choice of ambient pieces aroused a mental reflex counterpoint most useful at building the profitable isolation I needed— until the early winter dusk chased me out of myself with the idea of that new guest in the high coves with Beryl and Natalia. My two minds quarrelled around a pot of Taiwanese “Oriental Beauty” Oolong tea, one that is transfigured by the cicadas on its leaves (Queen Victoria never knew of the insects) and I called Natalia who said she had been thinking of doing the same, so as to introduce their new wonder Apolline to me, and yes, they should have done that before. In my reconciled mood, I invited them for a welcoming dinner.
Beryl had been gallivanting around town for two days, Natalia brought their attractive new catch, a tall, slender, slicked reed-blond haired, lissome creature with pale blue eyes and thatch-coloured lashes and brows, a wide smile and a thin nose in a narrow face, she looked straight at me. she wore a long-sleeve body-hugging short dress of textured oatmeal-coloured cotton. She had those long hands and feet, white braided ribbed tights, low grege sneakers.
Natalia was siding her close, they smelled of a reminiscence of lime trees in bloom, honeysuckle in the dew, something candidly childish, but their gazes slanted. With a light sigh, Natalia grabbed my waistband, we were all three in our intimacy circle and Apolline said to my face she was a trans woman, nothing unbearable to me, they had been a few in my lakeshore high school. I hugged her welcome, her chest felt frail, she was emotional, Natalia said she had told her I would not shy away.
The three others came back in good wits, aroused to see a new face. Lifting my brows at only Apolline’s attention, I sought permission to introduce her knowingly as whom she was, she mutely entrusted me to, pouting. It induced a round of curiosity, Apolline having asserted that she would like being a “she”, though we already had a “they” in our hearts. As the table was set up for dinner, she said she didn’t mind spilling off her marbles, not that much more bizarre than anyone, in sum.
Head-on, she announced that she had been born an ordinary boy, and she had not undergone surgery which would disgust her. Only she had steadily insisted, since kindergarten days, on being treated as a girl, and called Apolline whereas she had been called Apollinaire by her loving father. Growing up had been easy as long as no one would frisk her in her slip, she truly was a pretty blonde feminine child.

Aged eight, her frail little lie —in her view— was uncovered and denounced, retold to school parents and outright unlawfully forbidden, causing her to gradually depress, lose her friends and her will to live on. She was expelled from her school, her parents could not afford, or did not know of, schools like mine, where she would have chosen her transition unbeknown to all others than my good Prof. Achenbach and Dr Selen Bonte.
Apolline had had to consult and convince battalions of psychiatrists, each their own chapel, and judges, amongst whom some let out disparaging comments of her. By then, she had learned on the web the medical necessities of a successful transition, she feared the onset of her dreaded hormones, it was some race to demonstrate before the decision-making panels that she knew, sometimes more than they did, all the life-engaging consequences of what she wanted to be allowed to do.
She had been twelve when she gratefully received the first injections and implant, she knew that it would last for her life, but one of the doctors she met once told her that it is, willy nilly, the case for many persons in life. Her fight, at an age when you expect kids to follow the herd, be it in a shambolic way, had strained the nerves of her parents, sent them to all savours of therapy, and eventually broke their marriage, her mother moving out with her brother, who had despised and bullied her —so we were both daddy’s girls.
She obtained a new birth certificate, under the name ” Apollinaire aka Apolline” and the mention of the sex she lived in. She had won the race against an unfit nature, her penis regressed to an angel’s size and the testicles remained embryonic. Nonetheless, she had always touched herself and kept erecting her fiddly toy with pleasure. At fourteen, she sensed her first orgasm with a few drops of happiness. In the course of her self-taught study of her situation, she had explored the professed possibilities of reassignment surgery, and she had been terrified. She had thought, after all, that millions of gay men led a satisfying life without an imitation vagina, she would try it that way, only it would be longer than she had foreseen to only dare fabricate a discourse towards a partner she would desire, most boys are sexual idiots, not to mention uncommon nurtures. It was much easier to stay with girls, of whom a vast majority are stealthily gay at heart and more prone to accept her exceptional conformation, anyhow, truly sweet to play with.
Her fate seemed to be settled, unlike the ordeal that our two last floor imps had endured —they both showed a massive crush for Natalia’s friend— but her father died in his car, they said he had had a stroke while driving and crashed into a truck. Her brother had been beyond all limits of moral filthiness, forcing her out of the family apartment to sell it, embezzling her so that she could merely afford a shady bedsit.
Apolline didn’t own many credentials, she spoke good English and was fluent in computer tricks, like so many, nowadays. She knew she possessed that eerie beauty people like her may develop, she was a success on Instagram and tik-tok; that had been where Victor had eventually been tipped-off by one of his stooges to find her, and made her a true functional party-girl, teaching her to shag with grace.
Beryl, who had long been the house fairy at Victor’s and spared of his nasty traits and mood swings, mostly caused by his drug habits, had fallen for Apolline, during some of the orgies Victor still paid her to come to —Beryl is a superlative slut— and she did not like his manners around his new trans toy, hence her being with us, eyeing me —if I read right.
We ate mushroom pies, cinnamon butternut squash and pecans, figs and frangipane tart, Apolline loved the elderberries kombucha, she said that Natalia had vaunted our lifeways, I seized her hand and told her she had only seen the least of them. Cecile, still swayed by her debaucheries in the snow, had listened to the heartfelt confession of that beautiful sylphid at the hands of Natalia, she wondered if no one had ever abused that ethereal being? and Apolline heard, she retorted one could have called what happened to her at Victor’s abuse, or not. With Natalia’s nods, I told her what girls like me did and were done to in the ogre’s lair, and possibly again, if he finally succeeded at making proper amends to someone he had most unwantedly raped, and thus, later, had defaced him in all manners, depriving him of the largest part of his wealth, Apolline remained wide-eyed, Natalia had not revealed the great Victor chastisement.
As an angel flew across the room, Cecile announced that Cyprien had begun drawing the new face of the maimed portrait, and it would be some common ancestor of both Fayelle and Annabelle. Besides, Cecile had devilishly manoeuvered, while underlayers dried, to bring shy Cyprien to draw the two nymphs enlaced, naked and aroused. I turned to Apolline and summarised

I jumped on the ready-found pretext of asking Apolline if she would accept to sit for Cyprien au naturel, or if I should lead her to the dance? Cecile, as the foxy fast-learner, jumped in too, offering that it could now take place in her new ground-floor workshop. To Apolline, these were hot air, but she smiled and I made a carnivorous jolt to a kiss, only my lips, a few more nanoseconds than any butterfly would dare, a clutch in her soul.
As a wise growing-up reed, Natalia had first chosen Kate as mistress, gliding, once in a free night, undetected, in her side of the bed, learning to harness her whims long before it would become avowable to do so. She had of all times owned the keys and codes of all stages in the castle, and thus teased with her tight little butt anyone that could. Thence, she had intuited the career this angel, fallen of Victor’s waning winds, would accomplish amongst our tribe, all the more now that a sure-fire guide in nonbinary issues, in the person of Cynthia, dwelled in the bang midst of the realm. However, as in all the good Faerie plays, existed unseen trails of passion that Natalia excelled at running, she was then and now threading me in Apolline’s fate, she pushed her onto me.
Seen so close-up, her face radiated like the new Grandiflora in the secret garden, the misty swan at the reed shore, lively and playful, though, fully aware of my greedy thirst for her I had known in a mere flutter of wings. And my hand was creeping up her skirt.
As she was pulling a chair on my other side, Cecile was holding back her breath, sliding a hand under the fleece so as to remind me she had not told me all, yet, before I flew worshipping a new windfall angel, she would fly along.
We were sat as naughty schoolgirls caught in the cramps of a stealth courting in the classroom, I shrugged and took them by the hand to our grand ever-elating bed, throwing a wink at Natalia, who followed. In a heartbeat, I threw the two younglings together and began to pluck them bare, feasting my eyes at Apolline’s legs while Natalia preened Cecile’s heavenly wings.
There it stood straight, an early clear drop at the tiny tip of its rosy hat. I took all liberty to gulp it like a trembling dummy, while Cecile was tackling down the angel’s wings onto the bed and fooling in her mouth like a puppy. Natalia chose rather licking Cecile’s arse while it was offered up, Apolline shook in sobs as she gushed a spurt in my throat, the taste of the wildflowers’ sap we innocently tried while told not to.
Her belly was tight, satiny, I knew where to poke with my tongue to give her quivers, she finally lay back at our whims, she had won.
Natalia wasn’t done with my own returning recruit, and it was to her liking. She told Cecile, mezzo voce, all the perverted kindness she fostered for her —while demonstrating her innate talents to bring girls to surrender. After her whim was contented, she played with Cecile’s mousy nipples, bantering about the perdition appointments she might bring her along to, but Cecile retorted with her naughtiest exploits and promised she would introduce Natalia to Lauriz in such a manner. I was, by all means, moved to see them appreciate each other, moreover when Cecile invited Natalia downstairs and they ran half-naked to it.
The two rooftop doves had fled, as they did, so Apolline was all mine, faultlessly feminine, with that inoffensive flesh toy and a sensitive bumhole. Her narrow hips did certainly not evoke maternity, but neither did mine, her skin was heavenly smooth and had been nourished by her hostesses, she smelled of all the lickings we had done to her and an afterthought of linden.
She had been told of Cynthia and also Delf, I answered all the questions, even the ones I guessed hovered in her mind. I let her figure that our house was not only a bawdy house of sorts, even if everyone in it would unfailingly hit on her, with manners. I did not elude, either, that she would encounter, randomly, all aspects and sizes of valiant dicks at her disposal and will, I assured her none boorish individual had ever had the keys to step in and bother any of our pretty arses. Of course, I knew that she would overwhelm Hugo as soon as I would tell him. The way I narrated the way all of us had ended in the hive as it grew made her marvel, I sensed she was ready to move in and I played demonstrating all the possible traps and dangers, endlessly till we yawned our heads off and she dozed out in my arms.

Morning coffee evoked the blessed young times, the school refectory and a wealth of dreamy faces, the birth of my passion for French toast —even a cossack had shared with me the last morsels in the plate. It felt Cecile had somewhat tamed the House Fairy, now both were standing at the ready and twiddled each other’s hands, they had made a good night.
Cecile said she would love to introduce Apolline to Cyprien, if she agreed, in the evening, in the workshop downstairs. I had lent her a golden dawn landscape kimono, she had wanted to wear her hidey knickers, Natalia, in her street runner outfit, boyfriend jeans, black cashmere turtle neck in a Venetian red wool hooded parka, black Chelsea boots, and a black and gold striped messenger bag, said in my ear it was Prof (…) day —she looked so innocent.
The heather pixies, all eyes for Apolline whom they saw beaming, were ready for the last day on Cyprien’s sofa and demonstrated to the next shy sitter how well-behaved he had been. Apolline chose to follow my taste, more for my pretty eyes, whatsoever, she loved the toasts with Danish raspberry jelly.
I was smitten, I helped her dare stare at me when she recalled her fears, growing up on the wrong track, muzzling her wants and penchants. She agreed that one good thing would be to meet Cynthia; as a means to split from her natural course, she had acquired reasonably fluent English, I trusted the savoir-faire of Cynthia who already had an ongoing relation to Delf.
Before I invited my new crush to the studio, Kate barged in, a few pounds leaner, in a sage green Donegal tweed suit, William Morris printed silk twill opened shirt, two-tones ankle boots, verdigris wide lapels trench, her “debauch me, would you?” smile over her cup. Wherever she was coming from, she was amazed by our guest, so as I had to hold Apolline’s hand in a manner that she would grasp we had slept together and she was only shied.
I made the presentations as candidly as it would fly, and I just warned that she would hear pretty risqué tales from my dear companion, she smirked, wasn’t it what she longed for? Anna Louise and Simon —a major chunk to swallow for Apolline upfront, just to show her there are so many available sideways— had gone together to Verbier for a week of skiing, Kate had declined, her mischievous little sister seemed more resilient than her when she had glided down the same kind of slopes, snow or not.
As expected, Sami had driven them around to the most exclusive venues, and again Melchior. I juggled my words not to sound too off the wall but eventually came the moment to tip off Kate about the true nature of angels. She was stunned, Apolline is so faultless.
She felt unfit, there, in her worldly suit, she said she needed the loo, disappeared in the vestiary and surprised us in grand kissing, my hand in Apolline’s knickers. She had slid on a rainbow-fitted leotard and coarse-knitted legwarmers, but she showed a mindblowing pair of thighs and Apolline agreed to that. Kate was the superlative slut and she smiled like a twelve-year-old.
We climbed up to the studio, now that she had displayed her legs, Kate needed more of like a tracksuit, like me, but once we had shown our high lair, Apolline felt au contraire and dropped her kimono to lay on the sofa and regale Kate’s eyes. I wouldn’t risk picking a pencil as Cyprien would, very soon, I have avoided all such training and it would be too late, also then Apolline asked permission to cover herself, anyhow, I found her a long nightgown to wear under the kimono, she remained barefoot.
I brewed some dark Keemun, I knew full well we wouldn’t even try to work, so we chatted, we did not lie about our lifeways, all her young fears. Kate eventually crept at her feet and began to feel her legs the way she quested permission for in the light blue gaze. Once the creased linen was hiked up, she coquetted with the tiny master at such an adorable tune that I could not remain seated but crawled to her feet and warmed them with my lips.
We spent the best of the day on the red sofa, in different fashions; she loved to lick a pussy while being feasted upon herself, she asked and again if it was for real, we retold her that she was as worthy as any of the angels in the choir, and most of all —because Natalia had been her shepherd— the house fairy was the most trustworthy slut in Paris.
Later, we dressed her in an open black bodystocking and a black chiselled velvet mid-length vest, so she could perturb who she wanted with a sight of her toy. I asked her to smell me and say if I needed a fresher outfit, they both did thoroughly and begged me not to change my girly scent.

 

Cecile says:

My return to painstaking Bach in the enchanted forest restored some balance in my soul. After the thorough washing off the Romantic errs, a web of crevasses let the under-layers be showing, thus I should fill them with meagre gesso before reconnecting the motive with Restauro colours which will not darken in time. Firstly, then, Cyprien gave me a tiny steel cutting spatula and showed me how to make sure the edges of the genuine scales of paint stuck to the back layers. Despite the cosmic steadiness of Bach galaxies, the task meant a huge chore, so he assured me that my work would be paid by the hour, to what I could not help grinning at the irony of comparison with the harvest I had made lately, simply laying on my back. Cyprien came up with a non-descript cardboard box and took out a weird looking contraption that revealed to be a pair of magnifiers with a tiny focussed lamp, to be worn like spectacles. I checked in a hand mirror that hung to the easel and effectively, this thing made me look weird. He said the battery was to last a certain time, so then I would make some coffee, plug the thingy into the mains and rest until the pinpoint light turned green again.
All the while, the two nude heather pixies had spied and whispered, the inexorable flow of the piano keeping them happy, all the more now that Cyprien paid them a normal fee for sitting. Camille had bought the lesbian drawings and was asking for more. Effectively, the magnifiers helped close into the work with less effort, I was surprised when the light waned off. As we all took a tea and coffee break, as Cyprien fetched ornate boxes of crisp speculoos, thus asking me about my recent vision of the delicious Netherlands, I felt drawn to Fayelle’s heart-shaped bottoms and casually fondled her in front of Annabelle who winked.
There would be a friendly gathering in the new workshop, Sarah —and whoever she wished— was managing the subsistence, in style. Gauthier took pride in showing me he had grasped my gestalt, as he called that, thus every element he had brought into that space spoused my want, I even shagged him inside the perfect cubbyhole he had designed for my intimacy, some others kept watch upon that door.
It was softly sensuous to walk barefoot upon the warm polished concrete floor, as long as I would not scatter scraps and splinters of whatever material redemption, just like a two-doors chest, an Austrian wonder of Dagobert Peche, mistakenly over-varnished, currently awaiting under a padded cloth slipcover along the far wall.
My devilish wavy copper mane associate —I saw everyone in the realm let him mingle lust and work at no damage, besides, we owned equal shares— boasted some elegant, timeless functional furniture he said the idea of me working in there had inspired his quest. Around a heavy cast-iron, oak-top table I could gather three Aeron chairs and a few antique wrought-iron battlefield chairs for visitors. On the off-chance, my workshop wouldn’t cast a straightforward Vulcan attitude, there was a deep, maroon mohair velvet, scrolled armrest sofa that had already here greeted a few bare arses, and a military folding wire-bed with a thick wool mattress and comfy quilted indienne plaids.
Wooden easels and drawing tables showed that I did not intend to be working alone, but I thought it would take time before I would hire anyone. Under the bays stood large chests of thin drawers for flat storage. For one night were displayed the treats Sarah had ordered, a tall gilt samovar I did not know, and bottles of different soft drinks in a large silver cooler.
Kate, Sarah and the adorable newbie Apolline had done the catering service with A&S, Hugo came early and was thrilled to tell me that Annachiara would attend, I thanked him for all the books he had delivered to me, and, while he grazed my thigh, I got him aroused with my adventures in the Munich snow, I agreed to end the evening with them in Hugo’s sheets; we shared appreciations on the new wonder, Natalia had warned him. Meanwhile, Sarah showed a white-heated passion for Apolline, vaunting her to Kate.
I had the utter honour of a casual visit by Michelle and Delf, lightly dressed in slim-fit embroidered dawn petal silk satin pyjamas, the Aviatrix was overjoyed with her investment and begged, up close, that I visit her any night and Delf would be with us. They discovered Apolline and were obviously stunned, Delf wouldn’t let go of the prodigy’s hand, like smelling her up as a rare peony. As they —a tad of genderqueer semantics occurred— had always won hearts and souls, such as lately with disarmed Dagmar, they captivated a twirl in Apolline’s soul and went on vaunting the guidance of Cynthia’s, whom they hoped would show up at such a distinguished party in her backyard. Delf knew that I overheard.
My Viking flew in, more aloof than ever but almost demonstrative around me, which earned me round eyes from Kate and Fayelle who had been devising another escapade, to Bruges, it seemed.

It is an easy penchant for alpha males to exchange about their collections, their horses and their mistresses, these two couldn’t talk about cars, I felt wet as Lauritz and Hugo affected not to weigh me up together, as would Sarah say, bitches’ pride. Along with Michelle, they had offered me this superclass venue, possibly much sounder than my timely freshness, hadn’t they?
Cyprien, from under his fuzzy eyebrows, lapped up everyone’s words, such was his thankfulness for a new existence. I assured him he could have all the pretty creatures he dared not yet fully stare at on his settee, in the baroque cloud of Bach. He ran to literally bow down to Camille when she walked in along with a stellar couple of Fanny and Dagmar, this one in a night-blue gleamy pantsuit open on her honey-gold chest, her smile even more disarming than we knew, Fanny at her side in a frilled white shirt and wool white tights and flat white patent Maryjanes. They ran to Kate and ended all three bouncing in the camp bed like toddlers. Camille seized me to walk around the place, said she was proud she had trusted me. In front of the Desiderio, she properly hit on me and said she would be alone home the next day evening, she knew I were in Hugo’s that night, she asked me how it felt to be in high demand —in that sort of way— and promised she would tell me of her growing-up poor, too.
Gauthier, Philippe, and also Theo that I did not know, took a stroll at the same time as Cynthia walked in, wearing a dull violet velvet pantsuit and owls embroidered slippers, coveting Kate and letting her introduce Apolline to her, while Delf had seized her arm. Theo joined, too, blushing as a schoolboy. Sarah had explained Cynthia to me, and indeed she was fascinating like a natural alpha female, I felt nude when she gave me the friendly neighbourly talk, and more, I understood how Kate had been at her whims for years and went all at sea when she left. Cynthia listened to Delf carefully, who held Apolline’s hand, then eventually gave her a long stare while she promised to listen to her upstairs very soon.
Philippe had been captured by Kate, she made him give angelic smiles with probably lewd proposals. Gauthier posed as the trusted feal to Lauritz, and I was one to know, on my life. I was so proud to be his whore and Hugo’s, whoever had been watching me through the eyes of the crow-mask genie.
Natalia, Beryl and their minders, Cossacks for Sarah, showed in and Apolline beamed, Natalia wore black ankle boots, black smooth leggings, and a deep purple glittery silk perfecto-cut jacket on her bare baby breasts. She was another one I wanted to throw myself at, I had this fantasy that Sarah could sell me to her. She overtly made out with Apolline who did not wish for more.
How was I the lady of the house? Once the significant adults had left, I begged Sarah to suggest the meeting was over, she retorted she would, only if I took her along with me to Hugo’s, so I rolled her the Frenchiest of all kisses, and those who had their minds and more set on each other would be welcome two stages up to ease out. Hugo said later he had seen Camille walk out with Cynthia and it looked fine.
Lauritz had grasped at once that I would not be available, but he exchanged a word with Beryl and Natalia and they fled together. Delf spent all her best magic to entrap Apolline to TRÆVIX palace, along with Dagmar and Fanny. Kate seemed ready to face together the Cossacks plus the gay squires, along with the heather fairies.
Hugo liked me in Sarah’s arms, it would not hurt our Venetian spell, and he told Sarah who was stripping me bare.