Sarah says:

We stayed at the Galileo Grand Hotel by the river Arno, the transport had been smooth, I was proud that Camille had let me keep my promise by lending us the SEVEN STREAMS wings, and thrilled that I would own Cecile all to myself for a few days. She was eager to encounter materially the acme of humanist art, she had grown bored of religious iconography, as desirable as Virgin Maries be and troubling the San Sebastians.
She had been wearing adjusted violet velvet jeans, a deep purple high-waisted crew collar alpaca jumper —a tribute by one of her sponsors— and the black Perfecto I had offered her not so long after I crushed for her. Nowadays, she walked in black calf Jodhpur boots, well broken in, with warm parme cashmere socks in them, soon abandoned under an armchair.
I had worn a night blue silk velvet pantsuit with a fitted jacket and spiked lapels, a bright cobalt silk-twill shirt she had liked to fondle during the flight under the keen eyes of the blonde flight attendant who knew me. I had chosen navy blue buffalo leather Chelsea boots.
We ordered linguines with fungi porcini and zucchini in cashew cream, frozen nougat, and the ginger lemonade they proposed and proved to be witty with our meal.
Mischievous as she likes to become in posh hotels —I have been retold so, by her lovers— she already was in her ample black satin pyjama jacket and shorts, lustful at least, when the waiter pushed in the dinner cart, and she wouldn’t have known he be so young and jaunty, she almost blushed but folded up one foot on the cushion and caught his eye briefly. Of course, nothing else could happen, I gave the boy his tip, with a grin that meant there might be a follow-up, eventually.
I went to call her funny names and snog her over the backrest. The food was up to the house’s reputation. Meanwhile, under the table, she gently pushed her foot between my thighs and mumbled I should pull off my trousers, which I did, staring at her, and my travel knickers. I kept my shirt on, spring was still young, I needed some cover on my neck and shoulders, but I showed her my body.
She mused that she felt aroused but lazy, asked if I ever tried to hire a prostitute in Italy, as I knew she had, along with Hugo, done in Venice? I told her that I had thought, when Kate had been hit on by Fanny in the fitting room of her shop, that it had been something of the kind; the follow-on had demonstrated it had not, at least it had turned differently. She questioned me about Fanny’s story, she said it gave her shivers, so we went into the spacious bed. She renounced ordering coffee as she would, we wanted to jump up early. Nonetheless, she was enthralled with Fanny’s redemption, not avoiding the weird implicit arousing of an angel raised in slavery, the consequent massacre, and the brilliant wisdom she now thence radiated. I explained all of Camille’s dedication, by one who had survived an ordeal, and the skills of a Dr Méant —our long nights waiting outside his double-door that Fanny ended to cry her life out.
Cecile was clutched to my imaginary wings, she said she would probably need a Dr Méant, too, but her story was even heavier to unearth, she asked me If I would accept to become an accomplice after-the-fact with her? I was chilled, she still looked that same cheeky-angel self she could distance herself by, but her black eyes gleamed under the bangs, fierce.
I tried to soothe her nerves kissing her nose’s tip, but she awaited an answer, thus I cuddled her up and asked her how dire was her secret so she mumbled she had killed someone. I was dumbfounded, I would never have seen anything like that coming, through my affection for Cecile, the scaffolding babe, the nymphet in the boyfriend jeans.
In the enthralling smell of her now sweaty hair, I tried to get a grip back on my galloping soul, I wondered aloud where this started, telling her I would stop her if I could not cope with the tale. She was the little girl who wouldn’t cry, she could barely breathe amidst a logorrhea of terror, humping my chest with her forehead, all the way to the bottom of that fateful ladder. She did not say.
I lulled her into the idea to sleep on what she had confusingly let out and that I was unquestioning with her, one of ours, then on. I small-talked about the cubbyhole kid and promised I would shag her amidst her magazines, whenever she would want.
In the morning, the smell of Italian coffee and some rustling warned me not to barge into the salon, I spied her, in her pyjamas top, making out with the waiter, dick in the wind, but he was already fighting away; she was of all seduction, a slut princess whom I took already full pride at satisfying, there on the armrest.
Of course, afterwards, she quested my eyes, but I paid attention to signal mutely that I approved of her present misconduct, moreover I had not been scared off by all she had rambled, in the bed last night, only that it could wait until tonight. In the small galley, there was a kettle and a Salam teapot for me to brew some tea I had brought along in my bag.

As a rule, I would normally wait at least ten minutes infusion before I find the proper aromas in my Darjeeling, chosen for me by Elizabeth, in her trustworthy counter on rue du Bac, she sells each year the utter SFTGFOP grades of the first flush in the winning garden. I had time to pull my sinner into the shower and beg her to pee between my thighs, with a girly quiver.
The weather was clear but chilly, I wrapped myself in a black thick double-breasted silk trench, her lambskin jacket did not cover her gracious butt. She made a founded remark on the ugliness of the other bank; when the sidewalk became too narrow for us to walk side by side, we leaned on the parapet in a stubborn kiss, only to be whistled at by some passing bel Ragazzo.
I let Cecile know that I had once whored one Liselotte’s patron who thus bestowed me a highly symbolic grant, with the promise of privileged access to many sought-after venues, like the Uffizi, for one. She shamed me envious when I showed some QR code on my telephone to the guard standing at the back door of the illustrious fortress. I joshed that she might make her way into the Opificio delle Pietre dure in the same manner, leaving to later the explanation of what it would be.
I cornered her in the elevator, warning her to brace herself for what was about to happen to her. Italy owns half of our world’s heritage, I mean ours like the immemorial confluence of bygone realms in Egypt, Mesopotamia, Greece, Rome seen as the whole of the Mediterranean. Tant pis for those who wouldn’t fit, my father once showed me the Treasure Of Sutton Hoo, in the British Museum to tell me how deep he had felt related to its otherworldly beauty, but then, my international education according to most European languages —the dominant ones— have eventually adeemed the heteroclite legacies in my imaginarium, even if nevertheless I would crave bringing Cecile to Andalusia for another honeymoon.
There and now, she would face another cornerstone, one even direr than Hugo’s Venice, the audacious pledge of a resplendent miscreant family, the deadly impious Medici, who became stealth rulers of France and let us the core of what begot the splendour of Renaissance, in the face of the Catholic Church.
Just like all of us have known, she was underwhelmed in the long dark corridor of what remained an office building, one that Napoleon’s goons had not come around to tear down. Her delicious little chin began to unclutch open along in the salons on the side, although she mocked at all the once more unavoidable religious madness, I sensed she was first hooked by the scandalously lustful “Charity” by Salviati, which subject fits so willingly the frame that one owns her already, famished of that offered breast while she looks elsewhere, she couldn’t help sniff the varnish, only to trigger the alarm and need to woo the guard, blushing.
She was stunned by the prowess of drawing and composition of Paolo Uccelo’s panel of San Romano, like an elegantly synthetic theatrical parade, with the insolence of the white horse’s butthole.
I allowed myself to call her attention to Artemisia Gentileschi’s bloody Judith —because I relished telling her the story of a truly extraordinary woman— so as to watch moods fly across her forehead, like flocks of clouds in the moonlight, her eerie gaze afar. She had always had this arousing exophoria, like the indelible aftermath of an otherworldly ecstasy, or the trace of unremittable suffering, whenas it was merely a catchy trait of her spell.
Although —much like me— she wouldn’t buy into iconology, moreover religious, she swiftly took notice that on the wide nativity by Filippino Lippi, black Balthasar was hidden along one edge, she said she liked Balthasar since she saw him, dressed in a white robe, by Hieronymus Bosch, in a magazine. I teased her if she had ever shagged a black man, be him a King or not, she sniggered no, thus I retorted I would arrange that at Philippe’s on our way home.
Her lovely mind had set sail away from her last night angst, I kept coddling her —because I liked it, and I figured it helped her. The real pangs of emotion began with Leonardo’s keen angels, the one holding the robes of a near immodest Christ being baptized by his pal, in another sensuous balderdash no one ever dared to impose on my blue mind, the other telling Maria she’s been impregnated by holy whomever, like many single mothers in dire times, I would believe this Gabriel make me pregnant by the mere spell of his gaze, wouldn’t I? Cecile sneered no more, she sensed the properly legerdemain brush moves of a wondrous adolescent mastery. She had long worshipped the Virgin and Saint Anne, and the Virgin With The Rocks in her Louvres days, after she had read some inspiring article by a Gilbert Lascault in her magazines. I let myself rave about the three feet of the Virgin and her sister, she kissed me with a sacrilegious aftertaste.

She owned up to having overlooked the Virgin in Munich, she had had her doubts as to her face, her somewhat mean eyes, compared to the angelos here. I wasn’t inquiring, she had overjoyed me with her speed romance and shopping in the snow, I loved Lauritz’s chivalry, even Cynthia condoned his Porsche whirrings, sometimes.
Past some wealth of unique masterpieces worthy of a few more lifetimes’ dedications, we entered the Botticelli room, foreseeably awestruck. My own most recent visit had been a school trip when I had been already smitten with Kate, to what she would not respond. I had acted the “beau ténébreux” at no avail and missed, like most of us young game, the marvels around us, with not so much help from our lazy-minded chaperones —it had nonetheless brought me in the bed of a curly-black-haired who had properly broken my loins for most of one night, nothing to brag about, I would have longed to watch the Faerie Queen be done to in the same manner.
Now, Cecile was pulling me around like her puppet and I did not dislike that, I smelled the flowers of her neck, licked the lobes of her ears, she remained fascinated, and when we reached “the Allegory Of Spring” she swooned out on me, so I carried her to a bench. She cried softly, I cried too, any self-conscience of us waned, nobody sniggered. She rested her head down over her arm, upon my lap, staring at the legendary scene. Sobs would surge again, she was overwhelmed. Visitors shied off, mute, I spent tissues wiping her redded face and eyes, she was beautiful, I did not feel dumb.
I walked her all the way to the sunny terrace where she recovered her breath and smiled, then in the nearby cafeteria, she found a double espresso and cookies to dunk. Then she needed the loo and let me come with her, I wanked her good and she shook her tensions off, she was too spent to succeed with me, I finished myself with my nose in her neck. We agreed to come back the next morning, they had been waiting for centuries. Strolling in churches while bantering carnal inventions felt inspiring.
We walked to Santa Maria Del Fiore, but half the world was queuing at its doors, so I remembered a sensuous address nearby, the crypt-like shop of Aqua Flor, so as to flutter some whims. Wherever he came from, the middle-aged attendant who greeted us incarnated the witty Florentine style, all the more when he guessed we came from Paris. He read very well in our relationship and abided by our manners and glances. From the top of my head, I told him I recalled hints of perfumes around the famous Florentine iris, for my girlfriend Cecile. So there it went, in style. He ushered us to a pair of posh leather armchairs but did not blink that we sat both in one, we might have not been the firsts. Like a magician, he begged for Cecile’s fine hand only to rub it with a fingertip of something and sniff, just like Hugo would have, to intuit some bases of my lover’s skin. After the bout of weeping an hour ago, the soft-spoken man could have, at some tenuous signs, fancied that I was trying to make amends for some crisis of sorts, I let out that we had just seen the Botticellis and Cecile hinted a stare from under the bangs. Then, judging upon the finish of our garments that indicated such dedicated handiwork, he handed us paper test strips with drops of the restricted collection, while explaining the long process of extracting the scent of iris, from the roots, after three years of maturation and three other years of drying, then extraction by means of solvents, making the absolute of iris one of the most precious, thus expensive, materia prima of perfumery. Cecile, holding the thin white paper strip that a tenth of a drop had suffused, was about to capsize again. The attendant took a seat and stared at me, warning this —he was pointing with a paper strip— would be the most expensive perfume ever, unavailable in the trade. Enough for me to bid, I could smell it in Cecile’s collar, these carnal emanations that her modest look had nonetheless hinted upon our first encounter, whenas she had smelled of candid Cologne. In fear of Hugo’s sanction upon a folly well above my competence, the scent of it twirling on my soul, I tried to haggle that he would give the formula with the extract, he then smiled and agreed, but said no one could fabricate the scent nowadays, any manner. Besides, I could only buy utter concentration. The price was that of flawless diamonds Cecile would barely wear, anyhow. The flask was a nondescript dark amber professional cylinder with an octagon stopper sealed in a kidskin. The label read “Ultime d’Iris, 1947”. The man wrote by hand a lengthy esoteric formula, dated and signed as I popped out a sober black plastic card. He handed to Cecile a travel-size spray in a cream velvet pouch embroidered with a Florentine lily, telling her tenderly no more than one touch, ever.
I asked what he thought of my own skin, he turned up my wrist and bent over me, I thought he was about to sniff in my neck, but he didn’t.

A tad euphoric, he went fetch another blank phial containing an opalescent liquid, dipped paper strips in, handed them to us, and asked Cecile what she found in it, for me. Cypress, leather, quince, gardenia, jasmine, it was like a velvety silver-white flower found on a windy cliff, I was flattered, and it said sex, vice and ironed linens; like nightly jasmine in the boxwood alcoves at a forbidden rendez-vous. I had to acquiesce at this tour de force, this time the iris had been masked, I had to pay dear, too, with pride. I signed a voucher so as my extravagances be delivered, and the mephistophelian alchemist only had eyes for Cecile, who was being lost in a rain of flowers.
Out of a whirlwind I had wished and would hover in her soul forever, in the Medici potted garden, the Hesperides were in bloom, too, behind the tall walls of the Palazzo Medici-Riccardi, we found there a tranquil corner to kiss and nose at each other; unbuckling her belt, I asked her to spray one note on her lower belly, I did likewise, so then after our games, we could illuminate the wants of those who eyed us so keenly.
We agreed that the palazzo has not been built as a graceful venue for soft-power entertainment, but more as a fortress in a swashbuckler city at war with its neighbour —the most gracious Sienna— but I knew some of it’s inside, though not as enthralling as the morning swoon, was worthy of some awe, would brand Cecile’s soul-searching with one more indubitable hallmark, what she wanted.
And no emotional accelerando would play, like a distant premonition of some Eroica first assault notes, nowadays one enters this bygone nerve centre through its most astounding marvel and, I warned my near-panting iris girl, might as well reverse the course of one’s steps. We didn’t, of course, but then we feigned a jaded sway of our hips and returned to the Gozzoli chapel of the rich Magi.
The day was still young, pale sunlight grazed the market outside of the sombre San Lorenzo I was keeping for later, now, an affable woman sold yellow biscotti in glassine paper, I needed no injunction to purchase a couple of bags, they smelled fresh of lemon and almonds, we sat in a common café so she would order a double espresso. I didn’t try to ask for tea, they made me a rich enough cioccolata to myself dip the cookies. As I had unlocked my telephone, I noticed a message from some Italian name. a Dottore Flavio di Lucca writing he had seen my name and number in reference to Prof. Elsigno, who had thought we might meet if I had time. I googled the inviter, he happened to be a notable middle-aged, slim, smiling type in the Florentine art milieu, and the two of us would not risk dear at meeting him. Thus I answered candidly that it might be an honour to meet him next evening, we were to leave the day after. He proposed to join him on the ground floor of the Uffizi and decide which place to go for dinner, I accepted, once I told him our frugal preferences —I had never inquired the actual tastes of Cecile’s, she retorted she had long fed herself with bread, coffee, and whatever, but since she had known me she liked what I ate, as long as I let her dunk some biscuits, sometimes— he laughed and said that Florence was a city of eateries, of any obediences.
Cecile went to the toilets, hinting not to follow her, I called Liselotte about Prof. E. and she remembered how slutty I had behaved for him;, I sure would be in his books, in purple ink. She asked about my last crush, I told her how heartfully sensitive she had been, in my word she wasn’t a one-trick pony.
That had been a hard work’s day, she dived face down upon the bed, expecting me to unclothe her and massage her dainty loins, she owned all rights to such treatment, even if she dozed out about it. I took my time to tidy our clothes on hangers and crept at her side, breathing her air.
The shower was steamy and whippy, we used honeysuckle orange lather, she saw crowds of Renaissance looks in the phosphenes caused by the hot streams upon her lids. The marshmallow colour terry robes were deliciously oversized. We ordered Walnut stuffed artichokes, hummus and funghi porcini farfalle, Napoletano rice pudding filled with candied fruit, along with a fresh carafe of the bittersweet almond water the barman downstairs used in his cocktails.
Just as I would expect, the waiter was our previously noted admirer, and the look he gave to my gradually opening robe gave me permission to reach for his fly and feel decisive want, Cecile had grabbed the manoeuvre and sat upon the backrest of an armchair, letting him glance at her little quim.
Our meals were under covers, I figured he could allow himself an impromptu, be it some fore note to a worthier shag later in the evening, or not, what would have been taken weren’t to be claimed for, his choice. The robes fell, I lowered his pants, he sported a proud standard. I felt he was ogling Cecile’s all-offered crotch and thus I brought him to her. To me, watching her get threaded, at the ready, in my arms, in that cavalier position, was the utmost reward after a day of attending her first bloomings in so many manners.

She washed in the bidet like a sparrow in a puddle, sat in front of her plate, and now she was crying mutely; in a slip of the tongue, she muttered that had been the way she had shamed herself for years, at his hands, and she had been coming, unabashedly. I played footsie under the table, she did not refuse, I joshed that I would go to hell with her if she let me.
I told her to eat, firstly, the food was light-hearted and she had been hungry, I was showing her she could take up all she wished of my time to alleviate her soul, so long as she would lend me all I wished of her skin. I am crucially not a therapist, only have I often helped broken beings who merely see me listen to the telling of their inner deadlocks, so as to untie the morbid old bonds. I am fully aware that I can only help those I love, probably carnally, and in a social liveability —moreover, I could not deal with the addictions I shied away from since long ago— also, I think I can tell when some hardwired practice is needed, I used one with Prof. Achenbach (one of the few I did never tried to shag) and I have seen probing redemptions all around me.
Hence, it was my sketchy opening to any confession she wished to offload upon my light head and thank the laisser-faire of her upbringing, she had never ingrained the mephitic concept of confession, between the whatever courageous ideals of most of her overworked masters and the chaotic hot air in her random magazine, she would pretty soon, if not already, hold her own wind on her boat.
Yes she had put an end to a life of abuse, and seen the house around her cubbyhole crumble rightfully, the whole perimeter around the great incinerator was poisoned, anyhow —she would carry the concealed angst of dioxin her whole life— but then, were we safer in the heart of the heart of a first magnitude source of microparticles?
Meanwhile, the City of Florence had since long forbidden auto traffic, the chilly wind had waned down the Arno river, and a tiny swish in the salon meant that our Scaramouche liked to fandango. I psst out to call him, or not if it wasn’t him, a curly young head glanced past the dark bedroom’s doorframe, “Vieni qui!” needed I to say.
He was indeed smitten with Cecile, but she read that I craved a good shag of the horn I was blowing, thus she threaded me herself with it, laying on my back, then straddled me so he could lick her all his fill. He was young and plentiful, no sooner had he gorged my grateful vagina than I handed him into my tighter hole, by surprise, so as he humped me even deeper for an outright spend, but soon unsheathed at the benefit of the even tighter gape he had furiously been poking his tongue in Cecile’s arse, and she shouted rage.
After all these expenses, he collapsed, in sweats, so we cleaned him like puppies and the room smelled of licking, the heady scent of assumed vice. His name was Ermelino, his body was silky tawny and his face lighter, he did not shave a feminine dash of a moustache, he sported pectoral and abdominal muscles and a full grown-up Italian cazzo with weighty furry balls. He must have been pursued around the muted corridors of this lavish hotel, where dilettanti like us take easily their whims for granted, but he did not behave like your post coïtum fugitive, so, after a refreshing glass of his own orgeat, he let himself be done the treats of the French, till he was taken into Cecile’s zealous bumhole once more, backwards so I could lap her dizzy clitoris and tasty outpours.
The next morning, she would have wanted to return, first thing, to Botticelli, but since we had this appointment there before dinner, I proposed one or two things before, the frescoes in Santa Maria Novella, and after a coffee dip pause, the stupefying Medici Chapels in San Lorenzo and the Michelangelo Sacristy. She was stretching like a merry kitten, we had played in the shower and perfumed our bellies, we walked in sparkling light chatting about fandango.
Inside the wide nave of Santa Maria Novella, on the simple slabs pavement, some children were left to themselves, we bought a leaflet to sort out the many painters who adorned many peripheral chapels, but I sensed she had pulled the lay curtain and was about to commiserate with the poor artists who had had to execute the religulously lame stories for the priests.
She said nought; a nondescript imbecile tried to sermonise us in Italian about our supposedly immodest attitude, I only retorted he had a crippled mind and I dawdled nonchalantly with my lover towards outside; she did not need to know what he had rambled about. Across the grand place, we found a comely terrace where they did not seem to reprove pretty women, be them arm in arm. An older waiter grasped exactly what I wished for Cecile, with almond biscotti, and even made me some black Scotland tea in a Sheffield pot.

Whatever a useless old fart had made of us, she was all classy in style, with a black silk crepe pantsuit with satin lapels and cuffs, see-through black round neck shirt, black veil stockings and black patent leather round-toed oxfords. She had been mulling over her coffee, she wondered mezzo-voce if she had disappointed me, I swore straight to her eyes it had never crossed my mind, I was the one responsible, she had been kind enough to trust me and I vowed we would have a better day on, I took her hand.
I had been fostering this vision of the Basilica di San Lorenzo in the heydays of our family travels, on a Saturday night we, miscreants, wouldn’t pay attention that it was holy Saturday, thus the church resounded with choirboys chants in the shivering light of candles. The huge gilded portal behind the master altar had been widely opened towards the Princes’ Chapel where an abundance of white flowers sprays adorned the Medici sarcophagus. The scent of all this wealth and the harmonies attuned in the high vaults at that moment had almost let me leak in my knickers, hence run to some shadow to pull off the white knickers, under the keen eye of an innocent older Christian nearby who probably took it as an omen. This would be the kind of stories she craved to hear from me, thus although she believed all that I retold of Michelangelo’s preterhuman genius, she preferred my kiss with my hand on her chest to a round of extrapolations on visibly unachieved ambitions.
As it turned out to be all the more a mischievous sacrilegious escapade, she explained to me, with her hand in my pants, that she wasn’t ready to confront these high spheres of metaphysics, it would break her. If ever she was met with any such matter, she would run to Hugo, Gauthier, or those patrons of mine she would reward of the same currency I did. She had felt driven to the Desiderio dreamt Venice, and seemingly to the best avail. It had revealed to her the magical scope of her long-simmering desire, she begged me to cut corners as for the high-wigs of art history she knew I did not abide with.
I was exhilarated by her unfettered aplomb, I had swiped aside her fringe and her lopsided gaze aroused me more, I told her I could have brought her back to our room, but it would shuffle my conscience about her. Only she did not need to wittingly learn anything there, only let stream the visuals in whatever part of her memory, she would find they would remain in wait. As we wandered disorderly, then, I told her what I had read of the visit by Mark Rothko in these premises, the series of eerie maroon canvases it had inspired, far-fetched echoes of the strictly balanced architecture of white and grey lineature —she didn’t need to know of Rothko unless a proper show be set, like the one our most desirable herd had been drawn to by sweet teacher Tudor Weiss in the holy times, Cecile envied these memories of mine. I floated the promise to take her to London, she found that sexy, she had read a rich article about Turner in a magazine, the painter made her cry, too.
So, there were moments when we would be alone in the lower sacristy, and she had understood it was an all-unfinished work, neither the settings nor the sculptures had been achieved by their most-prolific originator, thus giving leeway to generations of exegetes and rhetoricians, such as a few I had whored myself to, at the devilish advice of Liselotte, she would see some aftermath of this later on that evening, I warned her.
Anywise, she longed to run back to her painterly crush, I saw her beat the pavement like an unnerved colt, I would have craved to abuse of that for favours, but I could obtain all I wanted, couldn’t I? The day was still bright when we ran towards the holy room.
I teased her to cast a crumb of mind at Cellini’s Medusa head, she step-sided for a second, but put it off for later, she had built up a withdrawal, of sorts. We checked in through the back door and took a lift up to the perfect floor. Now she would have seemed to perambulate aimlessly, savouring her steps to ecstasy. She allowed me to let her snuggle her back onto me, like some still dance before the Spring panel. She said one could unleash one’s fantasies here candidly, whatever Zephyr sang to Flora, whoever had impregnated all the seemingly pregnant tall dancers, and Primavera herself, it made for a jolly polyamorist hymn of profane praise, long before our liberated times. I told her that history had it that perfect visions like this caused a horrendous reaction at the time, and many Botticelli paintings were burned on injunctions of a mad monk Savonarola. She frowned, she did not want to know, she kissed me backwards.

An irresistible soft tone voice murmured a compliment in French near us and it was indeed meant for us, Flavio di Luca stood one step beside us, we had been flagged in his computer. He was a gentlemanly curly black-haired, fair-skinned, eager-eyed, young Tuscan, I couldn’t help giving my hand to that he kissed like we were in his home, weren’t we? And he kept Cecile’s all the while I introduced her, as I guessed he knew all the best about me. He wore a double-breasted, misty grey flannel suit, a dull rose shirt and a scale-pattern silver tie.
As I see it happen oftentimes, he was captivated by the dark squinty gaze overshadowed by black curls, he listened to my pushy credentials for my obvious girlfriend, that I held clutched at my side, now,, and he nodded at the names of Gauthier and Cyprien, who had deigned to associate with her, after a most demonstrative work at the von Speck hotel he didn’t know of. He seized the matter to boast his closeness to the Opificio delle Pietre Dure, which pertained to the same Medici foundation as the Uffizi.
Laying what I read as fishing nets, he let Cecile guess he could facilitate all manners of sponsoring, if need be, with the Opificio, in any synergy with the French National Heritage networks. A senior museum attendant in his polyester slate-blue suit had passed to signal that the premises were closing down to visitors.
Hearing how violently Cecile had reacted to the presence of the actual paintings of Botticelli’s, Flavio retold he had broken in tears in front of the “Uffizi Madonna” by Filippo Lippi, and as we had missed it in our tour, he led us to it. We had to concede that our quasi-phobia for all things religulous might have made us run too fast, the portrait was spellbinding, erotic enticing, although the sprogs look like retired clerks. Cecile listened carefully to all the technical processes they had implemented for the conservation of the panel, as he was nonchalantly sniffing her scent, watching for my gaze.
There were some swift wolfly glances, now he was like on the hunt, weighing what of truth amounted about us in the comments Prof. E. had let and seemed to arouse him. At the time I had been introduced, Liselotte had played procuress, I sensed that now then I should induce some frankly libertine manoeuvre to break the ice, so I reached for the glitzy zipper-puller of my dreamy girlfriend and lowered it entirely, then slid my hand in, showing Flavio how docile she rested her head in my neck, letting him the way free as I seized Cecile’s graceful chin to kiss her.
We followed him to his own office in the mostly deserted building, a scarcely furnished, tall ceiling room behind doubled doors. To make clear that he was a bonafide member of the same whatever circle as us, he took out of his wallet the black card and inserted it in the slot at the side of his keyboard, to make appear an elaborate blue rosace on his screen, inscribed “Bienvenue” in a circle, the same screen that lit up when we tested our own same cards, thus the games were opened.
After we had slid back our glossy black vade mecums into our slim lady wallets and into the invisible pockets of our underarms, I was half seated upon his desk, holding Cecile backwards, her fly blooming, she held her head tilted in my neck, available, I was playing with her nipples. With only an innocent murmur, Flavio floated his hand up the thighs and unclutched an easy belt jewel clip that let the trousers blossom in two mauve satin leaves around the bare fruit of Cecile’s quiet vulva. He quested both our mouths and asked if we would follow him to the Cellini Palace Hotel close by.
Having kissed almost ceremoniously Cecile’s quim, he closed her outfit with the dedication of an art expert, then he led us through many corridors, across one street, into a coded backdoor of a high-end hotel. A keen-styled grizzled fit man in a sharp cut black uniform with golden trims looked at me like he had seen me before —but they do that, don’t they? Plus, I would be merely flattered— as Flavio held him another plastic card to scan.
On the noble floors, we entered a private entry to an impressive suite, first, a tall ceiling of blackened beams and joists lit by a Chinese full-room-length paper dragon lantern. The walls of textured mat vermilion, framed in blackened weathered wood, rested on high skirtings of the same. One high bottle-bottoms stained-glass window, out of reach in a corner projected chimaeras. Two deep couches, black leather frames and alternate puffy liquorice and cream coloured cushions faced each other around a large padded black leather ottoman, were encompassing a large yellow polished battered copper irregular disk with a vertical suture-like crevice in its midst, just like the top of a giant cranium. End tables were made of black hardwood inlaid with checkered bone marquetry.
A young, eager eye, black-maned waiter, in a spotless white livery, brought a copper tray bearing deep red amaretto drink, then plates of oven-hot finger-food.

Flavio let us sit side by side, on the other couch, he looked at me freeing Cecile genteel bust of her jacket, the light shirt drawing shadows of her smooth muscles and breasts, one could tell she was a physical operator, as dainty it be. Since her heart confession, I sensed a boundless trust from her, and the need to be dolled up, a fetish I had learned to love since long, in the scented nooks of Paradise.
Still wearing my fuzzy dark-grey-carmine silk tweed two-piece suit, I knelt to unshoe her and play, and I felt Flavio’s hand on my butt and my trousers sliding down. I let him, as I fetched a wet kiss on Cecile’s lips. It is a flawed legend to speak of birdlike appetite since birds actually eat a lot more than I and Cecile do, moreover when it’s time to fulfil a Cavaliere’s wants. With a flurry of swishes and moans, we all finished au naturel upon the graphic cushions, Flavio was totally the type to be watched at, in the slim grace of a classic musculature but the true amplitude of a tensed up penis, not the miserable weewee that crowds of virgins applaud on a famed David.
He relished watching us cuddle up with each other like astray cousins, intuited that Cecile would comply with crude orders he might utter in the right tone of urgency, he told her to accept his dripping glans through her lips, then insensibly further and on as she movingly played abandon, whenas I had seen her the night before gulp in another proud sabre.
At that moment, Flavio, who kept all of his superb in the nude, glanced over us and mused aloud if we would accept another greenhorn stallion in our game, that would be an apple in my basket since he, himself would unfailingly shag my most abiding partner very soon. I retorted he must have had some idea, so he laughed that the young waiter was still at the door, probably as tense as a mooring rope and safe as a newborn, tested.
Bruno didn’t wait for anyone to unclothe him, he smelled of lemony Cologne and was groomed as a bride. At once I sensed that he would be a trifle more than a mere abettor to Flavio, who, while he was deep in Cecile’s cunt, took pleasure to guide the boy’s maddened dick to my nasty mouth. I am some fairly trained slut, despite any candid looks I might be deemed for, so it was a mere petty game to confiscate the toyboy and ignite his loins in my own right.
He was a decent-minded playboy, once I enlaced him inside my widely parted thighs, he queried my eyes and ventured half a smile, so I knew I could give him all the leeway a courtesan would not. I wasn’t that older than him, but I could respect a truthful set of mutual elation he could live by, come what may, it seemed he wasn’t boarded on the wrong boat, as to that.
Flavio summoned all to the grand bed in the next room, so we could mingle closer, both had discharged a first merry load, my bumhole was drooling thus, and I had not been too surprised to discover the full array of sexual toiletries in the bathroom, Bruno had eventually buggered me at no damage, he wasn’t so much of a debutant. Now Flavio craved to watch him satisfy Cecile.
The room was also red, and dark, except for an opportune chandelier above the bed —lamps don’t set fire anymore— hanging in the pleats of the bold striped liquorice-and-cream hanging around the canopy, above the same satin sheets and same colours checkered pillows.
I asked Cecile to let herself be done another round and I knew she would swoon in awe as a new mouth seized on hers, then travelled greedily down to her womb and flourished vulva. Flavio had casually poked a tongue in Bruno’s bald butt-crack, once Cecile was ensheathed again, I gave my wet petals to her tongue. Then, seeing that his minion went prettily deep into her at no end, he upturned me so as I kiss her beloved mouth and he shag alternately my willing holes.
Once we recovered our wits, and Bruno was all eyes for Cecile, we dipped into a common bath in a sarcophagus-shaped basin, in a
neroli yellow and white jasmine scent as little innocent as the Vatican banner, and Flavio was profusely grateful, expansive with wishes to see us again and help Cecile earn all the credit she would in Florence. Bruno then stood at attention again, but Cecile had given all, only a weathered slut like myself could endure one last cartridge through the lather.

All-powerful he be in the city, Flavio wouldn’t shy walking two French damsels back to their hotel, but it was at my arm that Cecile clung, modestly. He promised to send heaps of documentation and to open the database for Cecile, and I sure knew he would. Now that he had let us in the know of all his carnal tastes, I ventured I might suggest a visit by our friend Theo, a genteel, congenial intersex Australian writer who would excel on the matter of Florence in the Grand Tour days. My plea, and my telling that I had let Theo play all he wanted of me, interested Flavio. He sent us up to our sleep in the mute of night, begging that we return, with a tad more glances on Cecile’s side.
Back in our room, we were in love with each other, we disrobed and hugged in rounds. Then she was hungry, we ordered coffee, biscotti, panettone and a bottle of Ferrarelle. Little did we foresee who would drive our trolley, and he was all smiles, like a sure gainer. We were dancing one foot another like a pair of mischievous damsels, but I wouldn’t have the heart to beat him cold since we had been slutty enough to use him the night before, so then I dropped my robe like your casual tart, not knowing what my companion felt like —she had just been more than honoured by two dedicated swordsmen— and I reached for his belt buckle as he mouthed my well-trained lips. My intention was to drain him properly, like a faultless whore, so I sat down on my heels and freed his cock at attention. Nevertheless, he wanted at least to ogle shy Cecile, so in a one-finger grab he unleashed her robe belt and he pulled her close while helping my nape in the pumping. Thankfully, his gun was still on the first perkiness that night, thus he offloaded a mouthful before I would even start to bore, and I let him as clean as a baby, telling him it had been a windfall to have him; rightfully soothed, he understood it had been a farewell treat, so he let Cecile dunk enormous shreds of panettone in her coffee.
On the pillow, she said I still smelled of hints of semen, and it made her feel like a happy little harlot, with me. Then, in a weightless lapse, it was an orderly morning of telephone accommodations, tea much too dark, Cecile’s eyes through her bushy bangs, the taste of her almond biscuits and coffee in her kisses. A silent black berline was allowed to take us away to the airport, she wore plum silk velvet jeans and a nympheas fluid jersey crop top, she thanked me for the staple in her heart, I knew that a truckload of books in many languages had already been dispatched to her room, we all know that. I teased her that she would droop under all the demands to accompany her to Florence, but she retorted that, to her, Botticelli would always smell of me that day, when I had gathered her, swooning, in my arms. It was said in a voice that broke my tears, only one Ayla Naveen had branded my soul that way, I began to retell her story to Cecile, who made me promise I would let her know my little Swiss whore.

Kate says:

Sarah was so proud of her trip to Florence with Cecile, it wouldn’t be long before all of us feel the urge to go, too, and woo the irresistible Cavaliere, are we not sluts?
Meanwhile, our transangel Appoline was overjoyed after a night next door with my devoted Cynthia, who had impeccably taken up the Parisian pace, polished her French and sorted out a social life. Her latest book, called “Cherubino’s slipper” was actively being translated to French under Hugo’s supervision and Theo’s mediation, programs were being recorded for the French public radio.
We had a genteel conspiracy dinner in Cynthia’s ethereal aviary where I was the only plain female libertine, with benefits. Remained to procure Appoline with the psychological help she claimed, the nearest already saw Fayelle in therapy, she wouldn’t foster a friend of hers, and I had not personally broken properly the ice with her.
I found it amusing that Theo and she became plausible lovers, unabashedly even in my bed so as I participated, at Natalia’s awe when she surprised us. My over-the-mills sister had soon crossed many lines that I would not condone, like, for one, getting drunk and sputter hate speech, thus, as much fun it had been fucking with two siblings at once, I put a stop and she went cruising with the wrong crowds I had since long reneged, Oh, Sarah!
Whatever went, now I felt out of step towards Cecile who aroused me as well. I had sensed that she could smell me fine, I had the hunch she was a submissive tramp, with a beautiful soul, though, that my slut Sarah had sniffed out at once. Cecile had relished being pimped richly by Lauritz, more than he ever did of me, I invited her on a random journey with Hector.
I felt I should put Sarah in the confidence, so I told her my whim in bed, while everyone was romancing elsewhere. She read me fine, like she always did when I opened up to her, she told me more about Cecile’s craving to let be done, once she had set her trust in someone, she would be a born prostitute, but she had chosen where to moor her skiff. Sarah protested she was no one to grant permission, but she assured me I would share heaps of pleasure going out with Cecile in Hector’s car.
I chose we go nude in traditional Uzbek man’s black velvet richly embroidered in gold, lined in the smooth caress of padded black silk velvet; as for myself, the same manner of thick chapan man’s coat in plum velvet embroidered of silver arabesques, also lined in black padded velvet. Black stay-up stockings can be a hassle if one were to walk or dance, but they are the only elegant wear of legs willing to part at a whim. She had strass knots patent leather court slippers lustfully fit for her slender feet Sarah worshipped, I slipped in silver round-toed ballerines, we made-out gently, so as to make sure we could act as dignified prossies in Hectorland.
Slate blue velvet on the plump rear seats of life-size cars flatters so much more the raw skin of the butts which wallow upon them. She smelled of some English perversion of Florentine iris, Hector was instantly spellbound, as he sat on the other side of my so innocent-looking comrade. He would not long miss that it sufficed to let his hand glide up to meet the warm promise.
I knew the chauffeur, too, of boundless memories. The car was a deepest-black varnished long body berline, certainly not one to be missed. It smoothed away along the river Seine, the Concorde place up to the Arch of Triumph in the moment of the balance of all lights against the dusk, and down along a side road of the Avenue Foch. Not was it uncanny to fathom why the two stooges had steered under these winds, the puppetmaster craved to stare at this new lamb in the throes, under the greedy awe of the mad wankers.
In the filtered glow of the passenger’s lights, I wondered if it was her weird diet or else stealthy gymnastics that gave her that slim belly, not that the comparison shame my own, but she would show the two rows of ticklish abs muscles we all have grown a taste for. We necked like a pair of swans, I made her pump on Hector’s dick… and it was time already to move under the police blinking lights, to the dismay of many a good family man caught in the act of grabbing a chunk of free lust.
We headed through the Bois de Boulogne and westerly, to one of these secluded, timeless neighbourhoods that smelled of lime trees in bloom. The unavoidable portal was signalled with two dim lamp posts, Hector operated the doors from his telephone, and the wooded property was shielded behind man-height banks planted of evergreens and rhododendrons, and enough sunken space for a dozen cars was almost filled with luxury cars when we parked. Hector said we should have some fun, the chauffeur followed us in, through glazes doors, a dark mirror-walled entry leading to the counter where we all showed our credentials and gave up our coats and telephones.

It was warm in there, dark with here and there a dash of polished bronze, it smelled of benzoin, frankincense and myrrh, expensive sweats and fluids; subdued music gave me the idea that Miles Davis’ team of A Silent Way still waiting for him, biding their time ad-lib. The black thick-pile carpeting made walking a game, Cecile snugging at my side. Our minders had kept on their tuxedos and patent leather loafers but Hector had his hands on our butts.
A true blonde sylph swayed her narrow hips before me, pinched one of Cecile’s nipples and asked if the girl was mine, I retorted she would have to lick my bum before she could play with her, so she laughed and pushed us upside down in a loveseat she had already aimed at and showed us how to perform like a purebred bitch. I had to concede and my bride was drawn away after she kissed me farewell. Still, I followed with Hector’s hand gaining clout in my bum crack.
The depraved blonde brought smirking Cecile to an arm-span red copper plate on the ground, with sundry attendance around, mostly half-shagging, and fetched a considerable cat o’ nine lives while two other nude bitches held her by the arms, jittering. At the first strokes across her rumps, I wetted like a schoolgirl at the parade, to my dismay, but then soon I ran to put myself in harm’s way, clutched at Cecile’s back, amidst bolsters of laughs and cheers to the whip. When the tormentor was spent, we both shone with red imprints and kissed out of our minds while three black dancers began anointing us with the soothing oil that they were dripping with themselves, their pulsating cocks pricked up. Cecile muttered that her womb was beating like a drum, I felt I was hardily penetrated, the splendid men began the hokey pokey gang alternately, driving us on edge, eventually gushing at the crowd’s applause. Seeing us so defenceless, at the ready, men with different calibres and lengths swarmed upon us on the slippery warm metal, unflinching, two or three at a time. It was the cock-pit of gold-diggers, our now naked minder Hector fending off the unwelcome brutes.
I must have swooned at some extremity, I woke up in Cecile’s arms, in the midst of a pearly grey plush bed, my nether parts purring, my anus supple as a glove. We were fresh and smooth, we smelled of that sacred lotus I had dreamt before; holding Cecile, I was wondering what had actually happened to us, she laughed that we had for good been ragged, tagged, bagged, and shagged Navy-style and we had liked it.
Our chauffeur, who showed desirably lusty feet, brought a tray with pastries and drinks to our taste, and uncovered the massive knocker I had already experienced in our expeditions; if he had not been one of our assailants, he would certainly claim his reward in the same currency, and I would certainly not neglect the safeguard they brought to sluts of our precious kind. Besides, as I revelled up close to Cecile’s dainty face, I knew we very well could fuck another army.
Something in the play was missing, and the fact that our rightfully called bodyguards had not yet arrogated our mouths kept me on watch, until, of course, Louis came out of the shades in one of his signature Victorian silk robes, dark purple printed with black thistles, black padded satin shawl lapels, he sat with us, watching us eat and drink, caressing Cecile’s foot he had never seen.
As the two olive-skin stooges kept standing aside from the bed, their boss vaunted our unmatched grace at being devastated, he asked Cecile where she came from, she preferred to tell she was a stray orphan that Sarah had singled out on a scaffolding, which was the funny truth anyhow. Louis had known of her escapade to Venice, and Hugo had vaunted the talents of Annachiara whom he thought of inviting to Paris, did Cecile actually hire her?
The roué aesthete wanted to sniff our martyrised innards before he asked the tray be taken and that his flunkeys help themselves of us right there before him and no sooner had he given the orders than Hector seized Cecile’s nape and let her amuse him with curlicues of her tongue while the hunky chauffeur ensnared me so well as to readily hump on my bumhole he knew would require not more than his spit to let slide even a burly cosh like his own, taking time to feel me roll my loins, kiss him backwards like a mermaid, knead the desire that had been on the verge of completion since he had had to watch us being ravaged utmostly; he gushed to the farthest of my shivering innards, arched against my basin, and I dripped along our clutched thighs in yet another maddening crisis. Cecile had been capsised legs in the air, Louis’ dick into her throat, Hector’s drill all the way deep inside her genteel anus, moaning at each of the ultimate humpings they gave, wanking her tiny nerves till she gushed over her belly while both abettors invaded her insides.

Louis told his stud horses to fetch towels behind the headboard, he did not want us to wash, but to keep smelling of all our animal juices, whatever the whim be, I had known some of the most fantasmatic bathrooms in his Parisian hotel, and moreover, once the excesses licked clean, I too relished the lewd smells of sweats and juices, only here then I needed to piss elsewhere than in the midst of the bed.
The master took my hand and ushered us —Cecile would have a leak, too— to a white marble cubic shower room with an elegant bowl near the door, but he asked us to piss over him as he lay on the floor, that we did, crouching face to face holding hands, to the last drop, but the indefatigable debaucher requested the most of vice, he told his two servants to urinate fully into our arses to further the game another round. It was a dizzying sensation to defecate all the warm liquid out of our bowels upon the pale skin of Louis, and he admitted we all then needed a shower. They wiped us tenderly in every nook and led us back to the bed, embraced, her tight little tummy slightly gurgling, making me banter that I would not bet we be out of the woods, so far. And foreseeably, while Louis niggled Cecile’s candid face and mouth anew with a half-baked willie, the other two had rekindled their guns with clear intentions, since all boundaries had been joked off and lubed in, only physical pain or collapse would have sagged the want. Hector was already halfway back in Cecile’s vagina this time as she pumped back stamina from Hugo’s glory, having not budged from my sideways pose, I was enjoying the stubborn strain into my relaxed arse by the silent one who panted in my neck, I turned my head to suck on his febrile tongue as he pressed the root of his balls in my bum crack and hurled his glans in my sensitive guts.
One last saxophone lucubrated his loaded genius from a muted alcove as we straddled over indecent sleepers and gathered our coats, on faltering hips. Our loyal chauffeur rolled glistening eyes, the car felt like a ghost ship through the blue mists of dawn.
At home, someone had displayed a new tin of Venetian baicoli near a bouquet of dark Baccara roses. Endlessly lascivious, Cecile persisted in making some coffee as I helped her stand with my hands on her satiny breasts, from her back.

Cecile says:

Kate was all enamoured of me in the surreal scent of roses and coffee, she tried a biscuit, as I do, in my cup, so as to show me she still wasn’t overspent, and she did not let a chip sink. I wanted her to sleep with me, in my usual room, and Appoline was already there, dreaming of angels, her minute spur erected like the last joke to our epic journey. Kate had fetched some herb-smelling ointment for our hustled and bustled lady parts that almost made me come again when she applied it thoroughly in. Eventually, we collapsed on each side of our elusive cherub, her toy-like pee-wee in my hand.
Through the cross motive of the metal plate through the partition of my stealth cubbyhole, from the folded comforter I lay on, I have the vision of a world of trouser flies and women’s undergarments, dirty shenanigans and shabby dogs sniffing me out. Once in a while, I see a woman bend upon a man’s dick and suck while I feel her glance at me with swaying eyes. They all smell of filth and smoke, hot mop and coffee, semen of when he lets me run from the cellar or the toilet, with the cruddy face of his sick content. They have walled up many of the houses in the neighbourhood, I have to walk much further to buy bread for my empty-stare father, but I like that, I had better continue all the way to Paris if the police wouldn’t find me. I read in a magazine that evil people hunt for brats like myself to enslave them, and it has made me touch myself, I had better do the slave for thieves than be used on a toilet seat by my smelly uncle. Now they have torn down most of the streets around, I have seen the plain of rubbles in the moonlight. I hear my father say he will never concede his property, and he says the construction teams are good clients. Now then I pee and poop in a bucket since they chased me in the corridor to tear off my jeans, just like the other pig. My mother will never listen when she hurries me for school, buttering my rusks and pouring a bowl of coffee for me she has done herself on the stove because she won’t use the machine. When I try to tell her what happens to me in the windowless maze of their hovel, she frowns and shakes her head, what has she done to the good Lord? At school, for six hours and the canteen hour, I mimic the children who smell of fancy soaps and wear branded sneakers, watching the whereabouts of the guarding adult to avoid being cornered by bigger boys, they all want their hands down in my jeans, my mother never allowed me to wear two knickers, what has she done to the good Lord. I was in Mister Estival’s class for two years, he smelled of mint and lavender, even about his fly which was often right under our noses. He never touched me other than a funny scratching on my hair when he read that I had understood some remark. Sometimes, I had a fantasy of being Mister Estival’s slave, with a collar and a leash as I had seen in those magazines my mother kept under the counter and were sold in garish wrappers. Contrary to most pupils, I loved dictations and the following explanations the next morning, the good teacher was imprinting our foolish minds with indelible language and moral tricks that, for me, never wore off. Mister Estival was savvy enough not to let me stand out as his pet.
I woke up to the superlative prowess of Kate’s lips and tongue upon my labia, still touchy from Louis’ and his guests’ stampede of us, she wanted to query my pardon for having thrown me to the wolfpack, that was why I told her my dream, naked at the breakfast table when Natalia barged in and pulled a chair next to mine. Rather than pinching my tits, like I knew she would have, she grazed my body like one would a child, I understood that she was so fully aware of her privileges, daughter of a housemaid but under propitious stars, devilish little mistress in Kate’s bed, an expensive courtesan at her own account, she was overwhelmed to see me as I was, and she knew the easiest part of my life. She wore a snazzy gold watch, it was time to run to school, not only did she was shagging the professors, but she attended classes.
Kate had been crying about my past, I welcomed her downstairs where Richter set us on track. She had slid on mist-grey ribbed icebreaker leggings, with no undies, and an oversized lichen-green cowl neckline sweater, she wore grey suede Egyptians. She was proud of the pile of books I had received from Florence, she almost raped me softly guessing how we had made the Cavaliere’s head spin, thus it was a nicer tale to give her the urges to wank me there on the table, and she was not surprised by what Sarah had made me do.
There were a few lavish albums on Botticelli, she was amazed when I told her of my total entrancement in front of the actual paintings, my fainting into Sarah’s arms she envied so much —Richter couldn’t save me that one time.

Sarah says:

I had received a tin-sounding call from in-flight Michelle wondering about Appoline, who had not followed them on a brief New York trip. I wouldn’t know where the Cherubino had been, I promised to call when she would come up. All I knew was that things had gotten interesting between the transgirl and Cynthia, there would occur no further inquiry as to where she perched and whom she cuddled, she smelled like an almond and honey baby, her gazes rounded up.
She liked the pair of the Heather Fairies who let her cuddle under their wings —or more. That morning, they had decided Annabelle would read Marcel Schwob’s “The Wooden Star” that we all knew already, only Appoline began to sniffle and cry after a few pages, urging Annabelle to continue and muffing her cries in the plaid. She had been barefoot in slippers, I crawled down to kiss them, it soothed her just like my father had said about myself, in the days of verdigris steeples and grey-vested crows.
James announced himself, the all-incestuous adoptive father of Annabelle’s after the ordeal she had lived in Glasgow’s slums, he has been rare lately, not leaving his Montmartre hideout, but he was overjoyed his blond fairy had nested amongst us, he had always vowed utter trust in Hugo. I knew he loved to seat in the studio, in the red armchair he had himself bought, but then slanky Apolline was resting on it, with her slender feet at my whim. James ignored the trans nature of that new candid angel, and the thick fleece of the misty blue tracksuit let only guess some timid breasts. Apoline did not play queer, after stretching all her length, she squarely told in James’ stare that she was trans, from always. James joshed it certainly be no inconvenient to him, by what he could see, and he winked at me massaging her feet. She briefly hiked up her sweater so he could ogle her perfectly smooth bust and a pair of timid breasts that made James whistle like a London cabbie. He took his ease on the red sofa —another gift of his— keeping care of not hustling Annabelle who read upon her folded legs. Now he craved literally to see what it was of Apolline, and it would be no hard guess she would abide by his want, so she stood candidly in her own light, soon erect as a street brat, for the awe of the old artist who muttered they would have hidden such delights until our blessed times. He hurt his coquetry in pulling out his spectacles to admire the smoothest skin on Appoline’s belly, and couldn’t help fiddle pizzicato to hear some falsetto laughs, he flew on cloud nine.
When I sat back in my chair, she ran to sit on me, she was light as a cat. Candid children still believed they would board for Holy Land when a twist of fate brought Delf, as casual as they would be at home, happened at our door, begging for pardon. They wore an overwashed rose tracksuit and no shoes, their feet delightedly small on the rug. Proud of her incident, not in the least bothered to find Appoline naked on my lap, they walked up and cuddled up on her companion’s shoulder, explaining mezzo-voce that since Appoline had not been flying along with them, they had decided neither to go.
Meanwhile, Annabelle had lost sight of the children’s crusade, of course, there we had two disarming souls, one rested au naturel upon me, not insensibly, the other rocking my swivel chair for pardon. I took pretext of the loo to abandon the place, and when I came back, I went to sit by James, who accepted a brief update on Delf’s essentials while reckoning it had been a while since he last smell me.
Delf knew how to unroll the futon behind the sofa, a tribute to their main lover, would they know? Annabelle cried when she discovered she had all along read the heartwrenching story of the little children’s death, vowed to the mirage of a deep-sea Jerusalem, by the will of evil-minded humanity. Fayelle should console her and reap a scattered swag of James’ kisses on her nape and everywhere else.
Thus, pretending to be engrossed in my work, I reckoned It might still be time to tell Liselotte I would tout de suite avail my person to a skilled shaft, I needed some dick. Unnoticeable, I covered my work, screwed my colour phials, and tiptoed downstairs. Yes, Liselotte figured my heartbeats, she craved to feel me such, slutty and fool-hardy. She gave me thirty minutes to ready my hide.
First reassurance, the car was long-body and new, silver sheen and silent, the leather seats night-blue, the rear windows shaded; it glided eastward through Cecile’s desert, further in wooded lands in the middle of which we attained a finely wrought portal higher than the cavalier with a feather in his hat.
I had donned a luxuriously fluttering oversized shirt dress of azurite and teal ribbed twill, in biais with loose wrists, already opened til my navel. I had had time to paint my nails navy black, and clutched on my neck a cobalt crystal choker —Liselotte had ordered me never to wear my expensive jujus on these random occasions. Shimmering sapphire silk stockings held up to stripe bands alone, my thighs slim enough not to let them slip down; matched patent opera pumps with grosgrain knots were eventually making of me the kind of game Liselotte sold, at a price.

The chauffeur, of whom I had not seen the eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, operated the doors with his telephone and drove at a walking speed through a “Capability” manner of a park, a meandering road leading from a viewpoint to the next in the headlights’ beams, meeting sundry enlightened animal eyes, visibly used to the encounters. I lowered the pane so as a heady forest scent wrapped me over, stronger than the souvenir of a Florentine cellar my nose would no longer discern on my own skin, only on my elbow’s vein.
The seemingly vast estate had to have been something midway between an abbey and a folly desert in the manner of the Hellfire Club, of Sir Francis Dashwood. We passed posterns and walled alleyways, unterminated gable corners, all mindfully draped with climbing roses and wisterias, amidst the untouched clutters of wilderness, statues in candid immodesty in their exact rendition of ideal nudity, bar the size of manhoods. Random lamposts dispensed a timid mauve light at inconspicuous places.
Standing on an open, disorderly slabbed space, a tall black man awaited, in a high-collared deep purple velvet cape, Cossack-style dancing boots with maroon lapels, and a fitted black livery. At a stone throw behind him raised large apparatus walls of what should have been the stronghold, some towers remaining solid, one hatted with a bartizan, against the moonrise.
The chauffeur had run to my door and kept his hand on my doorknob until I looked up to let it open, lighting my path from under. The tall usher saluted me by my name as the car whispered away. He was holding his telephone up to me, so I could see Liselotte smiling her best manipulative way, but I had asked, hadn’t I? She told me to untie the last buttons, she had bet —with whom?— that I wore nothing, and her cameraman showed her top to bottom. I wasn’t even wet, yet, she simply said that I should trust and indulge the whole household, that of a dignified connoisseur she had long pondered to have me delivered to, as she had herself been guest many times, since middle school. She recommended Balthasar, I understood It would be he, who smiled at me as he shut the conversation. And once he had slid the phone into an inner pocket, he seized my chin and pulled me against him with a delicious wet kiss. Already in the core of the matter, my mischievous mind recalled the conversation Cecile and I had had in Florence about Balthasar, so I titillated myself with the fantasy of my slutty kitten grappling with this sculptural being.
Once he had, under the laughs of the local gang of owls, tested my complete willingness to whore smartly, he led me to the mostly ruins where a few windows gleamed goldenly behind uneven stained glass. Before we reached the door, there was another predictable waypoint atop the marble octopus on the pillar at the edge of the perron stairs, my feet gathered upon the tentacles, my quim flaunted to the Royal staff I had unleashed from his trunks. Liselotte, in her sous-entendu, had been right. My anus was kissing the smooth skull the size of a watermelon, my tuppence between the protruding eyes of the undersea ghost, Balthazar, holding my waist safe, sheathed a long heated penis in my offered entrails, like the best recollection of my back-stables carnal ventures, with the same whirl of abandon and the echoes of Ayla’s laughter calling me a whore. In the best of all omens, we christened in unison the predisposed figure; I asked if he would wish I cleaned the mess on his staff.
He considered me with awe, showering me with chosen compliments, calling me appraising names, vaunting my boyish figure and my taunting docility. He fiddled on a lit keypad by a low arched door and pushed. A whiff of warm, scented air, blew my dress around my hips, I walked in like a little soldier.
A long corridor ended in the dark, the black polished floor scattered with antique runner rugs, dissimilar wall faces of ashlar stone, brick, and timber frames succeeded randomly like an immemorial street, under an uneven beams ceiling. It smelled of sandalwood, copal, and leather soap like in a rich, noxious saddlery, with a hint of fresh hay.
He told me that I wouldn’t want to wear anything that hide my desirable features, down to my feet, to which he relished the finely varnished toenails, how in the hell do girls find the time? He tidied all my belongings in a closet, embraced me more and walked me into the maze.

As he knew he would remain a conduit, a well-provided one, at that, Balthasar led me grudgingly forward, his dick still jolted upon my belly as he offered me the skill of his lips, but we reached a taller arched door between two Venetian lanterns on staffs, made of the ribbed glass Hugo had said made my eyes sparkle, at San Rocco.
The room was convoluted and labyrinthine, arch-knowledgeably panelled of dark polished wood, draped at the whim with dark yellow brocade and all the operatic trimmings, bobbles and silk ropes, the full swell of brothel lyricism, a Ziegfeld set for me to star in, Balthazar drumming upon my bum.
It reminded me of the Speck grand salon, Cecile had confided to me —Cecile would always confide all to me— the place had served as a licentious hive to the needs of the occupying German special services. With attention not to form any symmetry, russet velvet bed-settees with back-rests offered sundry invites to lay on, for an elegant crew in all stages of untidiness. In the clearer spot, a richly unbuttoned player eyed me invitingly while a nude blondish nymph pumped him lazily, who happened to be sweet Fæbian Elsterwelt, a random recruit of Liselotte’s, famed in all the most expensive bawdy palaces of Imperial memory, whose history —she is merely my age— gives me honeysuckle roses in my womb, a bonafide courtesan on par with my dear Ayla.
The music seemed to unfurl as a top hifi of Robin Guthrie and Harold Budd, resting her befuddled partner, she jumped up to my neck for a slow sarabande that earned a few applause. At once, she knew what I had let myself be done to, she named the perpetrator at the taste of my quim. She drew me aside to a crooked recess leading to the wet room, lovingly tiled of disparate potsherds, slabbed of veined black marble.
Yes, Liselotte had brought her back from the eastern cattle farms to these healthier altitudes, this one she suspected belonged to Victor, Kate’s old mighty paramour, unwittingly disgraced after he tentatively raped Michelle, the Aviator in our firmament, since. But Fæbian, while wanking me in a basin of tepid fragrances, wanted to hear from me that I shared her vices, I asserted it had been a chance I did not hold shop of my arse full time, we laughed and I soiled the waters, at her hand.
The suitor she had only half-served had not drawn a conclusion, thus he awaited, fully undressed, dick in hand. He must have been some horseman, he manoeuvred my weight so that I straddled him as he wished, skewered to the hilt, as he told Fæbian to deploy her tongue twirls in my arse and his balls. Since he had refrained, it didn’t take long, my hip swivelling helping, for him to gush a good swig into my vagina, with hearty growls.
Hence, I had been enthroned a most valid lightweight slut, and like in a marigot the crocodiles, rascals in arms raised from all sides, with manners. A smooth voice, I believed that of he who had taken a turn into my drippy vagina, asked permission to bugger me; judging on his easy allure, I retorted him to help himself, that he did properly, for my unabashed contentment and cheers from Fæbian, who was afforded the same on her part.
It had been a fixture of Victor’s parties to mingle plain bourgeois with mischievous hedonists like us, nowadays I would suspect that he use the setup to compromise his acquaintances. Half of the onlookers still wore their evening garbs, men in dark silk suits, their likely wives in long gowns, acting horribly self-conscious. When I had enough of being outright used and I coaxed Fæbian to the wet room, and she revelled like a toddler in a puddle, we devised to go pervert all these babes in the woods.
Devilish and refreshed, we returned as three obvious taxi boys were bringing large silver platters of hors-d’oeuvre, hence the amateurs overcame their sideration and moved even so remotely, allowing me to come and sit next to a palatable peacock-green shantung sheath-dress ginger bride in her twenties who blushed at my naughty face and couldn’t help sniffing my scent.
I entangled her in small talk, for the relish of her fiancé who couldn’t have denied being bulgingly aroused. I knew where the zipper of her backless gown was, and she must have complied with her beau’s whim not to wear much else. She had dawn gold eyes and natural flaming lashes. Turning towards her, I parted my thighs, offering a sight of my bare labia, so I knew she had been a dormitory queen not so long ago. Around us, ice was being broken under liberal flows of champagne, and a tray of black mirror bore lines of a blue powder I recognised well. I got hold of her hand, her name was Percy, they lived in London and they had disembarked from the Eurostar in the afternoon. Scenes were heating up around us, Fæbian’s arse was being licked thoroughly by a still fully dressed white-skinned brunette, Percy could not imagine a tomboy like me she had seen buggered thrice on the same bench as she sat on would let her alone.

Fiddling with her fine tapered fingers and iridescent-painted real nails, guessing a forlorn society girl on the verge of high-flying prostitution, my preferred kind of relish since my paradise school years. I told her there would not be rape in any manner, but she could verily enjoy the time of her life, unbeknown to her parents, under my greedy watch, and my hand was sneaking in her thighs, she wore no undies.
She rolled helpless eyes, like allowing me all the leeway I craved, her dress fell silently, and her owner had freed an honourable dick that spersed clear drops of impatience while we whirled our tongues like true comrades.
I called, so as her precious gown be taken care of, Balthazar winked an approval of what Percy now showed, her thin golden sandals as the only costume of the perfect whore she was becoming, I revelled telling her that, and she blushed wonderfully. She wouldn’t be the first white goose I would help spread her wings, and I do it for mere pleasure, don’t I?
I felt she needed to be called by all the names of her precious features, beginning with the rose petal of a tongue I forced her to pull for me, and showed her to frolic with upon the glans of her overjoyed fiancé I had told to disrobe since he would not leave. She had visibly not been schooled in fellatio, firstly, I had to demonstrate that liquid dripping from the little slit was not disgusting and merely tasted like tears, she blushed again when I told her to lick my eyes.
She should keep in mind that male want is more instantly ruthless, so we should quench this one before we could frolic together or whatever? She was a fast learner, as fast as I had made her fall for me, She was horrified to watch me swallow the sabre to the hilt, but, all vices having suffused in her veins, she succeeded to withstand until he gushed in deep, then obey my order to gulp it all. Her mouth tasted like all the perverted little games I had ever known, my first had been that fisherman’s son, in his rowboat at Christiansø.
He had understood that he should go mingle with the genteel crew of which most love paths had now become available; I fostered the fantasy to watch Percy being buggered by Balthazar —if we could rekindle him and his prodigious spear. We amused our desacralised mouths with candied fruit, she said she had never, at twenty-two, been part of an orgy, at least with men, for she had been raised in a girls-only school, and I could tell by the way she made me come at the tip of her tongue.
She was one of the country-house milieu, her father had been a known barrister before being swept in a society scandal and taking his own life inside the family vault where he was found years later; he hadn’t been a beloved father, he had constantly slid his hands on her while masturbating in his handkerchief. Her mother had come from a rich traders’ family, had despised her father ever since she had been born, rinsed her teeth with vodka and slept around in musician circles, she had died of an overdose of Oxycodone the previous year.
Upon these happenstances, she had learned she had better refuse her inheritance that was crippled with debts and shame anyhow. She had been fostered in the custody of an old uncle who lived in a listed manor near Guildford and did not wait longer than a week to start to mislay his hands in her knickers, telling her he knew how good a girl she had been to her father.
Her current “fiancé” was the son of that uncle —who had one day lost his balance on the top step of his antique stairs— Rycroft was a cokehead trader for the City, rich enough to buy her things, but not liberal enough to pay her way to college. As I had witnessed, he had not inherited all the family vices, she said his foremost fantasy consisted in shagging her nude in the vintage Jaguar he owned before a troupe of voyeurs, to which I agreed I could do that, too.
A sniffling blond cavalier rested a kind hand upon my shoulder as we talked, with astutely sorted compliments and the soft pressure of his dick on my bum crack. I read she would hold me while the boy I did not see but she gazed on smiling would shag me, I complied, lifting my leg and arching my back. He pushed on my rear pleated corolla, I had to tell him to fetch the Swiss Navy before he could navigate my innards. Percy was aroused, now, all the more that it seemed she had unloaded some hefty confessions upon my heart. Baltazar happened to pass by, he grasped perfectly what my stare meant, and Percy saw me. In her posture, she would only need to gather one leg forward, so as to ease the way to her coochie, wouldn’t she?
She begged him not to force his way through the blind hibiscus, he tried to demonstrate some skill at that but it wouldn’t yield a tad ease in. Then he began rubbing his glans along her runny slit and the song became touching, guiding him to the wall of her womb, looking at me with naughty pride.

I nodded so Balthazar would listen to what I whispered in his ear, that we would leave, now, and Fæbian with me if she wanted. Percy’s ear was close and she heard. She begged that I took her with me, at any cost, she would be my bitch. Little did need so much, I breathed that she grabbed her dress and run to the corridor; I walked to an overspent Fæbian and asked if she needed a lift, she was too glad to join me, she did not ask about Percy, Balthazar led the way, we took our attires in the closet and walked into the dawn light, no one had followed us; the tall silky athlete waved his hand. The car was here in a matter of minutes, two and a half whores in the smell of their turpitudes, I wasn’t even sure of Percy’s age.
We woke in the heart of Paris at daybreak, I held Percy’s hand like in an elopement, she gathered her skirts high to climb the stairs, and Fæbian whistled of admiration. Upstairs, the grand bed was deserted, I brewed some oolong tea and invited them to some fun in the shower. Percy was thrilled with all she saw, she cried with joy; I dared her to piss down my legs like I was doing to her.
On the pillow, in the scent of Britton broom flower I had sprayed her with, she wouldn’t sleep anymore, she said it must hide some trap, we all were too lovely to be true. I had revelled in her melodrama, there she lay nude in my arms, I felt compelled to avow I cracked oftentimes for lovely young fairies, but I knew not of any who regretted it. I had an idea that Cecile, or Camille, would willingly care for Percy. All she should know was that she had met some darn lucky brats clad with privilege, but it wouldn’t go the same way for Fæbian, who slept now, and who had been sold to dire prostitution, at an age when you would merely think of candy boys. Her skin was heavenly smooth, I lulled her out into her own slumbers.
Hours later, finding us three loosely enlaced in bed, two bodies unknown to her, Cecile was Intrigued, possibly annoyed for no avowable reason. She dropped her tracksuit and slid alongside Percy whom she couldn’t help begin to fondle at no end, daintily enough not to wake her, or me: that is what she confessed after I understood what was being played before my sleepy eyes, and relished.
She had felt a pinch —as if I had recanted what I had given before— she regretted it, but all the demonstrations she offered to Percy served more her own lust anyhow. I proposed the whip, we did our breakfast lucubrating on the sadomasochistic procedures she would have to submit herself to, and Percy, with a disarming class accent, was not last to refine the tortures.
The tutelary spirit that ran our humdrum routine for us had provided the necessities of French toast, including vanilla sugar. Cecile, the worthy pupil of my greedy soul, fell outright for Percy, just like I had, and that made Fæbian joyous and gourmand, with blueberry jam.
There would be no reading in the studio that day, a new boarder being potentially a whole library of emotions, and they seemed to flock to my basket, this season.
Cecile had fetched for her a famously oversized lichen-green cashmere sweater dress in which Percy could smell of another girl, she didn’t need more, she showed lean child feet, I would obsess, thus I condoned some Novegian socks. She might ask for underwear, later.
Then Cecile felt the call of duty, Hugo had made delivered sublime pieces of Viennese Hoffman furniture in a sad state of decay, hoping she would return their glory. Since their Venetian escapade, they seemed to spin the same vein of camaraderie as Hugo and I had cultivated for years; she was a true soul-mate, she would crave Percy’s tight hips to the point that she would offer them to Lauritz, so as to look at them.
The heather fairies had been invited to James’ homely lair on the Montmartre’s heights, it would be time for wisterias over the balconies, their scent entwined to that of wild roses. Annabelle would probably crush on pale orphan Percy and feel the urge to bring her to Daddy.
That said novice let Fæbian spin her cruel and arousing tale, in the same casually lustful attitude they had met along with. The pair composed academic groups across our decidedly indispensable red sofa. A whispering low Soma FM loop in our speakers did like recast all of Fæbian’s sufferings to the past, where she pleasantly distanced herself, except for the loss of her sister.
As I would have guessed, with skilled fingertips up and down her legs, Percy fancied a rakish lifestyle, and she would soon be served —if she would. By the bye, Liselotte called, she had had some complaint by a frustrated British gentleman who accused me of abducting his bride. I would deny nought, the truth was that I had been enthralled by a desperate English rose who had deliberately jumped in our car and was presently making out with beautiful Fæbian, and that, Liselotte would know some about.

Hugo wanted to see this new windfall of mine right away, he invited us three, he hadn’t seen Fæbian in aeons, for dinner. I talked Percy into preparing her wits for the idea of being presented to that bustling herd of libertines, no leash, no bonds whatsoever. Our munificent guest had wished to greet us “as we were”, that is as scantily dressed as we liked. There hung a collection of pyjamas in the closets, Percy shone in Kate’s Liberty’s centennial jade Hera peacock silk jersey print pyjama, trimmed with almond green piping, lapelled legs and open fly like a boy’s, I refrained my ardours, not to crease the gleam on her puffed pubis, as of yet.
In the overflow of rare fabrics the house’s Neapolitan tailor has constantly stuffed our camphor-wood coffers with —to say our Gianni, whom, after having dressed Hugo for most of their lives, took a fancy for us girls, who knows at whomever’s expense— Fæbian was vamping us, hips swayed atop her swanky legs, twidling mindlessly her candid tits. I pulled that bias-cut washed crepe, misty jade Chinese two-piece —at one pull of the string the trousers would fall upon her slender feet.
I draped myself in the constellation-printed night blue satin daddy’s pyjama with white piping, in which I swayed like a high Cary Grant. We all smelled of timid Cologne soap, it might amuse the naughty cabalist on the noble floor to guess a fragrance for each of our skins, in playful intimacy.
We painted our nails of carmine, emerald, and onyx like jujus to play with. Percy smelled of her excitement, she took my hand as we silently climbed down the carpeted stairs.
In a light whiff of benzoin, Hugo greeted us in an ample maroon brocade robe, accepted a provocative smooch from Fæbian who worshipped him since he had helped her recover her inheritance, thus one could feel a stiff dick inside the creases when I let him discover the blushing rose I held at my side. I had known he would snap at the sound of her voice, and I played the mistress of vices selling the new novice to an eminence, making her fuddle as I unbuttoned her chest slower than her would-be predator’s hands —and Hugo had long ago done Kate out of the same silk, if a dick remembers.
He was thankful, I threw my left arm over his shoulder as he begged for my tongue, sliding his hand between our two quims, finding Percy’s wet labia through the convenient slit in the silk. He led us to the grand salon peopled by a wealth of white peonies in antique silver buckets, illuminated by tall candles in silver candelabras. The feast lay on the low table, little mounds of crusty little nibbles, bite-sized pies, wreaths of fruit, all in all, frugal for damsels. Tall Venetian goblets and ewers stood upon convoluted ornaments, fruit slices, and leaves floating in the lemonade. The gilt samovar throned upon a side table with little chirpings, circled by enamelled tea-glasses.
As a house girl of this fantasmatic emporium, still holding my pupil in immodest attire at my side on the divan, I could foresee the moment when I should help clear the table to lay one of us with some cushions upon it to be shagged, at least.
He was in no such hurry, but he denuded Fæbian —if only to demonstrate for Percy that he knew how to treat young whores— and after he sprayed her with Amalfi moods, he gave her stylish cunnilingus soon crowned with gold laurels, before conniving with her to help him untidy the lilies of the English valley. All of us wanted a part in that manner of a feast, Percy turned her pouty mouth to mine, so as not to see the few of her covers being pulled. Against the rich motives of the fine rug, she appeared snowy virginal, he seized her foot, winking at me in my craving, but for the moment being, I relished the posture of holding her at their whims. While Fæbian maddened the rosy tits, she drove the right hand to her own blooming labia, and at this, a proper boarding schoolgirl knew to comply as well as a runaway tramp.
Putting her on top of me, I spread my thighs so as she did such, Hugo had dropped his robe and stood at attention to thread the pearl, while Fæbian had crept down the divan to reach our all-innocent brooklets from under, holding Hugo’s dick towards a newer well of shivers, I felt a cunning tongue in my own anus, thus I spread wider.
I fiddled both nipples to hasten the crisis in my weightless passenger, Fæbian, her tongue still harassing my arse, had reached a hand on the British button and was annoying the cavalier’s bumhole. Dream-likely, I enjoyed sensing the girl’s quivers along with mine and Hugo’s long gush. Fæbian jumped upon my face to ask for a reward, thus, I took pride to show I did as well as Hugo and she would not deny it.
He had carried his prey upon the other couch, and the insatiable Fæbian was cleaning their semen soaked privates, she raised to his ear, embraced an overspent Percy girl with her eyes swaying, hence offering her loins for a turn. He buggered the pleated wink with all the vigour she had just only pumped back in it. So inspired, I reached for the more or less virginal arse of my novice, only to feel if she might respond to my nasty fingertips. I wetted my fingers in her quim and tested the shy one, I wasn’t that surprised to be able to slide in two straight ones, then, as she spread her thighs, masturbate the silly pink arse all my want, eventually feeling a gentle tepid flow I did my best to lick, while Hugo filled in Fæbian’s.

After I woke, I could still smell the Amalfi terraces, as a mere metaphor, because I never went there (our stay in Naples had been a disaster of thunderstorms and wet jeans, so I had collected my intentions so as to sneak into the teacher’s bed, earning sniggers of the group and a vague sensation in my bum crack).
I could hear Fæbian and Percy reckoning last night’s party, laughing like blue tits in a fountain. I had cooked a golden mound of French bread, I longed to eye some dainty navels on fresh bellies, I was soon fulfilled. Unsurprisingly, Hugo texted me to let my line open for him, he wanted to thank me for the delicious encounter, I offered to let him talk to the ginger bird.
More or less discreet and to show that she could have a private talk with the Lord of the house, I invited Fæbian on my lap, she wore no more of anything than I, they had played already, she was excited to meet Liselotte after a while of roaming astray.
When Percy hung up, Hugo had made of her a blushing debutante again, despite all that she had agreed to, which meant bliss, in itself. He had invited her for a few days to Capri, in a princely villa, alone. I couldn’t help burst into laughter, but I refrained before she was vexed, that she deserved not. I grabbed her arm and pulled her against us, Fæbian enlacing her waist, I said casually that we might be a gang of perfumed fools, we were fools of our word; I had foreseen Hugo’s move, because that is what he does, but she could read me that he would keep all the promises he would do to her, as he had to all of us.
Fæbian retold how they had stayed in the Alpina in Gstaad like father and daughter, but she had chased amongst the waiters, it is so easy when the suite is large enough and the tips unforgettable. She said her own father had gone to Gstadt, and it had sounded like the moon to her, Fæbian laughed that it was, indeed, the moon. She had worked on these Swiss planets, as an expensive escort, but she had missed people like us, and she earned enough at Liselotte’s addresses, now that her saviour had secured some homely nest for her.
Hence, from a near marriage she had sharply escaped from, sweet lustful Percy was taking conscience she was also casually discussing prostitution for real, and that coloured her cheeks desirably. Having brewed another pot of Darjeeling, I told the story of Ayla, instinctively circling my bare wrist, the braided bracelet had long gone, I had not known when. All tears being drunk, I was certain my Far had wanted to save her, pay for her pension, and he probably had. I ought to return alone to Lausanne and Zurich, or possibly was I alone thinking, I would pull Ayla in the broom closet, for free.
Kate burst laughing, discovering our trio naked at the table, and jolted at the sight of a new pearly mouth that talked, with the Received Pronunciation, of smutty insanities. Just like me, she fell for her instantly, not that Fæbian’s lurid stare would not bustle her lower waist, either. Taking place, almost disrobing candidly, she awaited a presentation, squinting her grey eyes that missed a few hours of sleep. Faultlessly, she poured all her goodwill upon the coppery-rye little head she could guess had played rich with us and maybe more. She was enthralled with the idea that Percy was an actual runaway, and we had partied in Hugo’s salon. She relished hearing that in the proper tone of a Chelsea girl.
Eventually, as much in the raw as us, she affected to make out with me and to scold me on the number of damsels I had ensnared in my debauchery, lately, and went on easily with Percy in all manners of welcome.
Gauthier texted that he would like to have a word with us, about some project for the following season. I retorted that he could find us in the best apparel if he ran up for tea. He was here in the minute, kissing hands with demigod grace, granting Percy a mirabulous smile as he unflinchingly sat next to Fæbian and her, accepting a glass of tea.
His worshipped mother ran a costume workshop in the family château of Chevillon, along with many east-European seamstresses, such it had happened. He had always desired to let us see that wonderland he had been raised in, and chased from by his father who had discovered his unconventional sex cravings —the brute rotted in hell since— after he vowed his delicate son to the hands of the dirty fathers of the Catholic cult, who later reaped all reasons to regret it.
A grand pretext was that mom’s dream factory could use us as living dummies for a still undisclosed production they had been given arch-poetic style indications for and an undisputed budget.
It all sounded like rhapsodies, all the more that we knew what professional clout Gauthier had gained over the years, we managed dates, it even let Percy damn herself in the Capri escapade, Gauthier liked that.

Visibly regretting to part from Percy’s company, Gauthier ran to sort out some stuff with Cecile downstairs, Kate later sniggered about the kind of stuff the two might happen to be sorting, she wished she could help. I could tell she was mulling over a plan to get to rape Cecile upon some back seat or in a leather-clad dungeon.
At midday, the heather fairies landed back from James’s retreat with bouquets and pastries. Annabelle was awestruck by the new all-British maiden, with whom she gently lay the truth of her origins before she dared graze a blushing nipple. We cleared the place and climbed upstairs while the cleaning lady would see after our rooms.
All banters ran on the necessity of a new settee, of sorts, since I could not help lure beauties to our Epicurean court. The matter should be submitted to Gauthier, so one of us should have to reward the coppery-maned knight in whatever way he chose, shouldn’t she?
Liselotte found us and looked overjoyed to see Percy amidst her abductors, she approved of the manoeuvre, she predicted a blooming success to the pretty feet I was cajoling. We unrolled the decided roué Michelle’s futon and the blue thistle maidens went to fetch cushions in their perch. Our Queen bee demanded a taste of the blushing debutante, and she knew to make that feel more of what she gave than what she took, she had manners.
Liselotte was impressed by Gauthier, who wasn’t actually one of her practices, but she begged us to ask him to invite her to his chateau gathering, it should be some event, indeed. Then Cecile appeared with a big panettone in its box, she avowed she had had a good share of dick for the afternoon, she had lured Gauthier into her secret closet, and she, too was excited by the projected theatrical orgy. She was all in shapeless knit grege cashmere, barefoot, I invited her on my lap and l mislaid my hands into the creases, her neck smelled of the licks the greedy fox had made, she whispered she was taking me out that night.
Warned on a little piece of paper, Kate measured at once that she had leeway to lay her hands on Percy. When she saw her prey going to the loo, she jumped after her and the shuffles I heard told of soft sharings. I went so well that Fayelle, after she knocked, prefered to go pee upstairs. Liselotte was teaching Fæbian a sweet lesson.
Cecile wore a priceless workman’s watch, it gave her authority to order us out, first downstairs to the wardrobe, she said it would be chic and sluttish, silk jersey split high on the hips, silk stockings and no underwear. She chose a scale pattern of indigo and fir, I went for azurite and obsidian, we drew a dash of eyeliner, sprinkled our quims with our fetish scents, put on patent court slippers, hid our magic cards where to, and ran.
There was a bouncer at the hotel von Speck’s door, but he opened for us on sight. From the porch, it smelled of white sage, sandalwood, and frankincense, all the splendid light fittings Cecile had worked on were dimmed down as we climbed up the crimson carpet to meet Lauritz in black silk frock and white collarless shirt, a wide unfeigned smile, he was all different from the Porsche bragger and I knew he would shag me again.
He claimed we were the first guests in his Parisian sleazy lair, although magnificent it shone, and at least a dozen guests in evening attire eyed us, I took Cecile by the waist and kissed her, I knew the place was a bawdy house. Lauritz laughed and put a hand on my butt so as to feel I was nude. Between us, he said his guests all hoped to fuck us, but it was our call, as we knew.
Most stood up to be presented, Cecile was introduced as the restorer of the artworks, I was an artist friend. I jolted when faint music began hovering from a dark corner of the salon, because none other than Malo played such sensuous mélopée on her soul-reaching cello. Lauritz had known it would move me, and as I explained to Cecile who Malo was, he was sliding his fingers into my bum crack, unfazed.
A sharp-looking couple had been introduced as von Herfen and I had heard that name in my family circles, but they did not flinch to mine, and as she was being translated, the lady was already fondling me some, making me her whore, and she wasn’t ugly. I meandered away and drew Cecile to see Malo who, as usual, was in the nude, still slender and shapely. She beamed at me so that I could hear it in her chords, she looked up at Cecile and I showed her we were lovers, too.
Then Cecile went behind Malo and caressed her neck and shoulders, gathering the hair that had flown to her face, and Malo smiled.
On a side table by the electric fireplace, restored in its radiant orange glow, reigned a monumental silver samovar with a deep blue glazed teapot on its top, Lauritz pulled me near to serve me a cup of true Russian blend of oolong, dried citrus peels, cloves and cinnamon, addictive enough to fill my bladder, for the amateurs.

The music ended, and Lauritz showed Malo and her timid pallor in the centre of the wall-to-wall cubist design rug to gather some polite applause. She invited Cecile to her arms, turned a while then found the unique zipper of her dress that slowly fell around their feet and there was another round of applause when they kissed.
Out of a real-looking bakelite and chrome jukebox came muted slow jazz to what the girls began dancing while Lauritz picked up Cecile’s dress and gave it to a white-tie waiter. Distinguished gents came forward to invite the nude dancers aside, I was gently seized by the rump and led beautifully, hands sliding in any slit of my convenient gown —until I had to lose it.
A few of the elegant wives were invited, rid of their expensive togs piece by piece, beautiful obedient fillies, fantasies of the whip, they would take the brunt of the beastly surge when their junkers would unleash. I had seen Cecile withstand heavy hordes, but I felt sensitive for her slender frame.
One of the up-straight ladies retrieved me politely from an already bulging partner, she asked me in German if I liked women and was stunned that I responded, asking me if I was Swiss. I said I was Danish, she asked if we were prostitutes, I said we were amateurs, friends of Lauritz’ she muttered she was a whore, too, and kissed me full mouth, then told me to disrobe her.
She had been wearing a hand-finished foulard print silk twill the colours of brook-pebbles, no bra, and a straight, trout-grey fishbone tweed skirt, a black Brazilian, hold-up slate-grey stockings, and grey suede pumps, round-toed, mid-heels. Once she was bare-arsed, she became a lot more troubling, and she thanked me for my stare. I told her I needed the loo, like any school pal, and she followed me to the new dull-gold mosaic wet room, with only one closed cabin at the far end. One wall was a full-height stream. I asked her if she wanted me to pee for her, she said yes, rolled her stockings, got down on all fours and told me to piss in her crack, which I did. Behind the fountain wall was a shower room, she told me to get rid of my stockings and follow her there. A man had been there, apparently wanking for us, naked. He greeted us but she didn’t pay attention, she wanted me tight against her as she began to leak, she smelled of freshly mowed hay. The man enlaced us and stubbornly pushed a bent-up dick in my bum crack until I conceded my quim, wet more by the incongruity of the situation than proper arousal, and my German called me names and insults so I understood I had been set up and I laughed to their faces, waited patiently and spit she was not game. After a shower, I wiped myself and returned to the party, not even snitching on them. Lauritz grabbed me kindly and licked my neck from behind, asking me if I had been shagged already, I retorted not really. Pawing my belly he said he loved, he drew me into a dark corridor to a small room with screens. I acted as if I did not know that they had found the double walls of the house, which wasn’t, after all, a big surprise. Only now he had revamped the whole machinery and it was anew very reprehensible and dangerous; venues like Philippe’s or the Panopticon did not tape the clients, these were Gestapo means, he was risking his life and ours, who were these people having fun with Cecile and Malo? he was disheartened, I helped him unplug the boxes and said we were leaving, I was totally sorry. Had he spied on Cecile the whole time? It would take hard work if I ever was to trust him again, and nonetheless, here I stood in a secret room at his mercy?
It took me some time to gather Cecile, Malo and some decency, they were scared to watch me doing, but we returned safely and I could not think of a wiser person than Hugo, whom I must have frightened, he had found some way to lure Percy into his bed.
It was a total urgency, but I excluded to poison the conscience of those who knew nought, hence I invented that Malo —Hugo was bemused to see her there— would entertain Percy for two hours in a faraway post of Hugo’s realm while we conferred secretly on grave matters. Malo was overjoyed with such a windfall, Percy was already a trifle light-headed by the pleasure she had garnered from Hugo that night, she let be drawn, making Cecile envious. I read that, I swore she would lay her in her magazine cubbyhole, very soon.
Otherwise, Hugo was dismayed, Lauritz had lacked a grain of common sense and he had his neck in the knot. Hugo summoned, as kindly as the hour allowed, Gauthier who bore responsibilities, albeit I would have sworn he never had these keys and had no reasons to sound those walls, that all had been built at the extreme expense by the secret police and it had remained unnoticed for some seventy years.
Cecile retold what Lauritz had shown her, the archives of a blackmail industry, years of unbeknownst pornography that could explain details of modern history. At least, Cecile had seen nought that would relate to the massacres of the time, there were only explicit scenes of the kind Hugo kept in his albums, on high-quality prints.
Hugo declared he felt compelled to open up on the matter with higher-ups of his knowledge, thus he would meet with Lauritz on neutral grounds, before he saw the special services ring his doorbell. He had keys to Cecile’s workshop, and she needed to work there these days, I offered that we stay with her as a watch. She decided her work would wait, she would remain in her room and study, she had received a whole course of the Opificio Delle Pietre Dure, honest!
when I went to free the tender recluses, I found them asleep enlaced, I only tucked them in, with a little pang in my chest.
Hugo was tired, Cecile yawned on Gauthier’s lap, I was furious. We climbed back up to Cecile’s bed, I watched Gauthier shag her with feeling —before I dozed out.

In the morning, Gauthier had left a note on the breakfast table that he ran like a hare. Cecile was making her pot of coffee last, transcribing the text of her course to french, through three windows on her screen, she was fresh as a Lippo Lippi, although Malo showed purple circles to her eyes.
I brewed tea, I wouldn’t cook french toast for myself, Cecile had drowned a pack of speculoos, I felt frustrated. I dived under the table to capture a pair of vivacious feet out of nordic socks, she kinda giggled and let me have them. Even my Far had been able, in heavenly times, to crawl for my own feet, nowadays he would have them after coffee in posh restaurants, ones in which you have real life-space. Malo had long been amused by my feet shenanigans and she herself knew the power her own had when she played, even if she offered her whole body behind the cello.
I had probably pissed Lauritz direly, but I felt at peace. In earnest, since my pals and I had long been frequenters of online porn, the eventuality of finding ourselves caught had loomed in the places where we knew, it was game, that the mirrors had two ways. In venues like Philippe’s and its peripherals, we had inferred that the lightings were too low, and the stakes too steep to allow spy tricks, besides, players like Sami or Hector knew better than the defunct vice squads and had demonstrated a savoir-faire against human trafficking.
I set myself with my sister’s feet between my thighs on my chair while I sipped my tea. I read the text messages. Gauthier had had the locks seriously changed on the workshop’s doors, he sent them up. Lauritz admitted a full exploration of his property by the French National Archives, he had rid of all tentative equipment he might have fiddled with, he contemplated a donation of the documents in the secret cabinets.
Cecile received a phone call from Cyprien who had found himself locked out, he had returned to his other bank. When a noticeable new maid with a short fringe hairdo knocked at the door to give us new keys, we all agreed to set camp down there. Now Kate enslaved herself to Percy who showed no signs of tiring from it, she too, was reviving the best of dormitory behaviours.
Liselotte had not fled, she had caught up with her special protégée Fæbian, they showed up like wet puppies and famish, so I could barely refuse to bake for them —Liselotte knew that— she groped my butt, complimenting its firmness, like any cowboy. She scented there was a wolf somewhere, so she pursued her groping of me, until I let out that she would know soon, I gave her my mouth to seal the promise.
As the French say, Lauritz had felt the wind of the bullet, he did not show up, nor did he write to Cecile whom I knew he loved deeply, beyond their inventiveness. Gauthier had designed Cecile’s workshop like a Victorian Emporium, and every piece of furniture had wheels to be pushed aside by necessity. Now, there were lustful pairs on all the settees and armchairs that ordinarily felt like available antiques for would-be customers.
Cecile there had a true Italian espresso machine capable of big cups. She had grown under such a contraption, it was what had remained of her father whom she wouldn’t have been able to tell the colour of his eyes. There also stood a sophisticated kettle with temperature control, because she had taken note of my recommendations, and I would root for her eternally, for that. She insisted that we saved the used leaves and dregs in a special bin, so she could mix her compost in hopes of growing some plants on the tiny border of the shady yard, she did not avow what else she would throw in the compost bin.
Her sound system, from the ceiling, was copied on that of Cyprien and she happened to also play Bach marathons, she had been a brilliant learner and, as a matter-of-fact still was, of the late bloomer sensuous draughtsman. She had been for something in his revelation, Camille also had cast some spell, they had never slept together, whatever poses she had shown him, but there hereafter existed a sacred bond between them.
While the flock attended to their genteel lifeways, with sundry manners of immodesty, upon a sublime collection of hand-darned Indiennes from Hugo’s coffers, I stood near Cecile, watching her work on a small bonheur-du-jour of Joseph Hoffman’s, with inlays of bronze and ivory, that had suffered for years in the soot and grease of a mechanics workshop. She stood in the very attitude I had first seen her, wearing the same tough gloves, her sharp obsidian eyes through the bramble of her fringe, I was so proud.
In a long sigh, she tilted back the Aeron chair, pulled out her gloves and reached for me, telling me to come. She pulled me to the corridor that led to a storage room on the left, her cubby-hole on the right, and the wet room at the end. She whispered she needed to pee, which I understood as she wanted to do silly.

We were looked at when we dared come out, Cecile offered a candid smile, I must have looked like a naughty brat, I could still smell the carnal fire in her armpits and she had made me climax just like Ayla in the times. As my playmate returned to the ghost from Vienna, Kate pushed me and slid a hand in my track pants, so as to taste me, I told her to do such with the new pearl thus she did.
Appoline and Delf had looked for us, Appoline wore shorts that made her legs sylphic, she sat across me on the big cushion and I could twiddle her weenie all she liked. Cecile saw us with the perplexed grin she turned on our non-binary pets, I had told her to try and fuck in their ways, she stubbornly resisted. She liked Cynthia’s style, but she wouldn’t ask for clarification either. It might be a soft cure to see me do the way I liked it. Apolline had become a willowy gazelle since she had lived at the TRÆVIX palace and seriously worked her languages in the iridescent mist of Delf, and they made furious parties upon the Queen’s futons, even when a hunky lawyer flew in from over the rainbow. Apolline said I smelled of lilac, it had been the dew on Cecile’s chest when she recovered her breath, Appoline lay her ear to listen to my Danish heart.
For not any excuse, Michelle was throwing a party and her cook awaited for the green light. There would be most of the hive, if we could trace Lizon, for one. Our futon Aviatrix had become so immensely rich that she could easily keep away the social quagmire and revel with her unclassifiable soul sisters in ethereal games, keeping at hand the numbers of some faithful Cossacks, like a born lady.
Our side of the privileged menagerie enthused to what I sensed as a counterbalance to the sad Lauritz’ faux pas, and most as another unforeseen windfall upon the Faerie. Perhaps the tutelary mothers had then heard of new gems in our pond.

Sergei Belitski and Yaguil Roustang, our best-appointed “Cossacks” —albeit no one, bar Kate, knew of my ancient strawbale propensity and, once, toleration of the whip before a stiff shagging— had decided we should no longer grant them a comparison with the mythic light cavalry of the Don region, as was currently the case by a despicable herd of thugs in martyred Ukraine; otherly, the moniker of Hussars might resound as less tainted, albeit they would know we did not condone drunks.
This be told because that prancing avant-garde already kissed the feet and path of the house pets when we barged en masse in the perfumed salons of the cyber-aviatrix. The ultimate florist had just only finished peopling the pervasive army of antique silver buckets with springtime blessings that Gauthier’s flock of bohemians in fresh, vivid coloured tracksuits and no shoes gambolled proudly upon Michelle’s soft rugs, debating eagerly on Appoline’s gender, un-deterring their bids at cuddling such a sylphic pair of legs, whatever the reward at their midst.
Camille had entered with her now inseparable four men detail through a lesser door, letting two of them, hired scrum pillars, in the ground floor service den to watch TV or possibly follow Kate to one of the attics rooms, later. She instantly fell, too, for Appoline thus Delf showed her pride, but Camille’s mastery went beyond thieving anyone’s passion, if she craved the newbie, she would share all of her blessings; besides, she approved of Michelle’s affection and she respected Delf’s dainty thinking, much like the whole colony.
Fanny and Dagmar made a stellar couple, as well in their posh school as in their exclusive gym factory. Fanny’s therapist had helped find a proper colleague to let Dagmar detangle her bruised soul’s threads, all of these vital stations situated at walking distance of the attic I had lived happily in before Hugo lured me into the castle. Dagmar wore an ample white silk twill double-breasted unstructured blazer trimmed with navy piping, over the matched hemmed shorts, and no shoes. Her pal had cut her hair public school style, she sported nifty ears, and a platinum choker with sculpted emeralds and rubies. She walked obviously nude in a thinly knit, wavy patterned, opalescent coloured fluid short dress, no shoes either, but the recall of her necklace at her ankle. In the windy cleavage of Dagmar’s swayed three strands of hawthorn white pearls, so too on her ankle.
I could read Camille’s motherly pride as the whispers blew in the angels’ wake, and my plexus beamed at the confidence that none other than a few of us would ever know their silent secrets. I was thrilled when they sat against my wings and spoke together so I heard not much but slid my eager hands. We could talk in proper English, they both smelled of powdery white orchid, with a hint of sun blast ozone on Fanny, and an apostrophe of dragée in Dagmar’s neck.
Kate ran to Fanny’s feet and cried, again, like each time she saw her Venetian orphan, reviving her fateful heart in the fitting booth.
There were high-pitched praises when Marie, who had been away long, giving birth to whom revealed to be a boy, no, his name was Ariel. My fear, thinking of her, beyond sending flowers and fruit baskets, had been futilely the unredeemable bodily damages, Marie was a natural earthly girl, a perpetual adolescent right on her feet, unwary of her grace. She had shunned us when her belly had rounded extraordinarily, I had seen my mother’s stretch marks, and heard her reproaches. Now Marie was doing a handstand in the middle of the room, so as her moss-green ribbed tank-dress fell over her face, and she exhibited the slickest belly and thighs, only a tad girlier hips, as yummy as ever. As I dared caress her bald quim, she confided that she had been wonderfully coached and attended, holding my fingers to feel she had not needed to be cut, she had trusted all along the elasticity of her hide. The two blonde rescapees at my sides, while Marie was monkeying on my lap, had been caught unaware and stared, ill at ease, not knowing whom or what. At the first words, they froze, and then it took Marie’s sleight of hand to convince them they would not have to participate in some unsavoury ploy they’d rather leave alone! Marie demonstrated it had not defused her wants by unbuckling Dagmar’s belt to inhale the mood of her crotch.
Then Marie noticed some semblance of a house girl, barefoot in a thick black tracksuit and she wanted to get to know her.
I joshed she was the new wizard in our undergrowths and a terrific amorous for those who pleased her, she lived amidst us, if Marie would. Cecile had been mulling over Lauritz’ misbehaving, she missed him and his whimsical jaunts, but Marie knew nought of the current affairs, she deployed her spells for a new desirable maiden and it earned her smiles, in that place, with us across the room, Marie could not be evil.

Against the lavish dawn gradient on the wall of the landscape room, a new picture in a rich renaissance frame, sculpted of acanthus leaves, was hung, it was the revived portrait on which Cecile had laboured and Cyprien inscribed a dexterous chimaera of both faces of Annabella and Fayelle, one could see either of them. Nought of the subterfuge showed, Cyprien’s hand near mimicked the rendering of Filippo Lippi, it could have been one of these bride portraits a rich family sent beforehand to a rich suitor —who cared that in this real case the affair had probably turned ugly?
It allowed me to congratulate Cecile in front of Marie, who became all the more of a fawner while I knew she mostly craved for my little sister’s pants. Not that it would be any inconvenience, I would love it if I could help. I let them close together, Cecile’s navel winked.
Fæbian and Lizon did not wait long to show off as luxury tramps, Lizon merely wore a black pinstripe blazer and jewellery. At one ear, a supple Art Deco platinum pendant with a big engraved emerald, framed in a symmetrical pattern of lesser square diamonds, at her gracile neck a choker of the same vein, square emeralds encased in lines of small square diamonds, also at her ankle a fine line of alternate emeralds and diamonds —it might have been said that nobody would wear any shoes. Fæbian also went practically nude already, in a loose off-white shantung shirt scattered with gold thread embroidered bees, her chest ran with fine gold chains and jewel bees, at her wrist and ankle, little sundry crowds of gold charms. These two, smitten with each other, half-seated on a settee, kindling the stares of the male crew at other than their jewellery.
To make a difference, Natalia donned sumptuous manly black pyjamas in satin with tie-manner strips of yellow and red, she had slimmed down, she showed style as a high-end lady of the night, Liselotte was utterly proud of her and Beryl. Even if Camille seems to have delayed her sideline plan of a Gallery in New York, she keeps Natalia in her books, whatever she schemes.
Being our closest neighbour —and for good reason— would not forfend Hugo to come upon us with the unforeseen. He appeared with, at his arm, some jailbait of a find, it seemed, till Cecile saw her and ran to her. he had vaunted Annachiara as the most expensive whim Hugo had allowed her during their Venetian fling, she had been lyrical, but that subject, in the flesh, shone beyond words reach. That was the Grecian honeytrap bee blonde herself, laying her unassuming sunny grey gaze upon our chosen court, in the pride of the reward she already had wired to her account, for our benefit, I supposed. She wore a shapeless misty-blue knit shawl-collar short cardigan dress and half-thigh pale grey stockings letting some sleek skin be craved, candid round-toed grey suede slippers. Cecile became animated over her gift, everyone kept them in the corner of their eyes, Hugo whispered in my ear that he already had his money’s worth, and he groped me watching at the nymphets on the settee. He wore a richly gold embroidered deep cobalt Kaftan over a white collarless wild silk shirt and white Casimir trousers, white stockings and embroidered blue slippers, like on the funny Louvre’s military sculptures, his fall-front let admire an appropriate erection that I flattered with a feathery hand.
Sufficed of one outstanding new gem on display to bustle the harmony of our grand Diwan, and Annachiara’s belly grazed by Cecile’s maroon lacquered nails set a fervour moment that drew me behind Cecile to uncover her bottoms as she kissed her genteel harlot. Someone went to apprise Michelle of some lovely event in her own salon, and indeed she was charmed, and sat at the Venetian’s feet, watching the curly kitten lap at a tiny cunt with relish. A round of blessings spun from all those who had a sight of Annachiara’s bumhole. Easygoing with her thighs spread, casually boasting her worth, she chattered in Cecile’s ear, causing smirks to raise and soon after, a subtle signal at Erik’s attention and the unabashed cuddling to his trousers, Annachiara had longed for a first-ever black-skinned player, and he lay between the two available sluts, his well-known staff at order. Michelle had remained at their feet and helped pull Erik’s jeans, shorts, and socks. Annachiara gave him a glutton kiss, mumbling a “vieni dentro di me” he needed not to translate otherly than hurl his pride at the Venetian dinky quim and let it glide in slowly, also sensing Her Majesty’s very incarnate tongue upon his balls and his virgin hole.
Cecile was proud of her own puttana’s depravity, altogether reckoning how profitable she would turn her days among the Parisian society. I saw Hector rounding his eyes upon the scene, I decided he might be of help with my fiery womb, he showed me he agreed with that, but the night was young, regardless of the hostess’ whimsical prelude.

The round palladium-leaf clad dinner table in the pearly Jinju Lee room had been scattered with a crowd of low-glowing free-standing lamps, possibly in the shape of silver sea-bed creatures bearing sundry coloured glass bulbs seemingly ligatured in metallic strips, hovering above platters of freshly baked finger-food, fancy coloured verrines, and carbon-consuming exotic fruit. The satiny white chairs had been pulled around silvery-dressed lesser round tables beyond the three grey velvet sofas, each holding a small tree-like chandelier of the same vein as the little ones.
In her boxed solitary gardens, Jinju Lee, unfazed, muttered so low that no one heard. The smells brought most of us, except the queen bee’s posse in their ecstasies. Kate had called her sister, who had somewhat shunned our gentle tribe, possibly not daring enough to her taste, and she was standing a trifle flabbergasted by the turn she saw things unfurling in a bedazzling luxury. Their couple again aroused the Hussars and Anna Louise had not much to let fall to show them what they craved, her abs muscles showed Kate the work she had to catch up on the torture machines, I promised myself to put her at it.
Yaguil had long known my appreciation of his sinewy arched legs, such as I might have lent him a whip to lash my lecherous rump. i confided this to Hector who already held me unclothed in a warm shady corner of the grisaille salon opposite the dining room, he mutely agreed to a three-play, not that he would covet a boy’s arse as Hugo would certainly indulge in Yaguil’s tight hips and tense dick, furthermore while buggering me. Hector remained your garden-variety cissexual, relishing fine male anatomy when they would use or serve his feminine affections, and he said he had always lusted after my tomboyish frame ever since he had made me pee for Louis that first night, and possessed me over his boss’ body. My hussar had no restraint at letting me toy with his sabre along with Hector’s, his kiss lulled my brains silly and my quim runny, I was lightweight enough to stand up between them duly assailed both ways, still lost in the hussar’s stubborn kiss, and Hugo happened to be watching us.
Our acrobatics, with the convenience of an armchair backrest to lay high my foot, did not cramp my ability to climax like a worldly lady and Lizon, who had seen half of the manoeuvre, to come to sniff our outpours, only to reap Hugo’s stiffened rod into her obliging petals ring, hung at my shoulders; she still smelled of some idea of angelica and sang like a doe.
The bathroom stood across the hall, we ran and met Michelle and her Rhinemaidens, all three as dripping as us. Michelle was not fully acquainted with Lizon, but with the rich soap lather helping, she diverted her hands into yet another whore’s easy beats and found she liked her whore gaze, although she had lived unfazed amidst us. Lizon grasped Cecile’s submissive penchant, then, while buggering her with her fist, took notice of my care for her and she knew why she trusted me. Annachiara stood on top of her world, her legs parted like a wired kid, her labia in bloom in the running streams.
Though it would certainly not be the train of ordinary for the house staff, they kept the same professional smile as ever, gratifying me of a Ms Sarah on occasion, not restraining their stares at eye level. A coffee pot was brought to Ms Cecile, with a plate of Baicoli, and Michelle and Lizon kept fondling her
Upon the couch of his exploits, Erik had almost dozed out, I wanted to hear his confidences on Michelle’s uncommon laisser-faire, thus I earned that by cleaning his black dick thoroughly in my mouth, and he confided it had gone like shagging a fragile little girl, making him all the more stiff and dangerous, but the other two had cheered her into vice, like mistresses sluts, pinching her nipples and wanking her anus, then his discharged had triggered her beautiful crisis, of what she was all proud. She had been as sweet as an apple bloom in a bright spell, he wished he would have her a whole night. He had been right, Michelle had vanished, as per usual.
There was a second service, it was late when Gauthier, Philippe and Theo came up. A dedicated waiter brought a new teapot on the samovar, I wanted to play water games with Natalia, who had retold me a trick she had been doing with her headmaster, I forced her to drink, and she was never more arousing than when she was spent already. Fæbian overheard us and made Natalia lean on her to dance to the ethereal low music as she misled her hands under the elastic belt.
Dagmar and Fanny, inseparable, had captured Percy who wasn’t the most elusive prey around, although she blushed at the sight of immodest pussies. Their prey had shown up in an English green man’s pyjama and the fly wouldn’t shut, for starters. the two mischievous angels knew they became the focus of a few greedy males, but they played as if Percy would be shagged first.

Having spied out, in impeccable style, that Percy was British, the so hunky Mulder I swore would take me before morning joined in with the girls, his eyes on the slit in the satin, and the quality of the fabric was such that nought of the sleek perfection of the body it lined was erased. Fanny had long overridden Camille’s hindrance as to her access in Mathew’s trousers, it amused her to watch him sabre an even younger filly than herself, Dagmar let him see her arsehole, tentatively, and the cunning lawyer couldn’t figure that it wasn’t done on purpose. He probably thought that some rich have better pastimes than others he knew. He deliberately stripped down, showing a dignified penis that frightened none in the trio, but began to fascinate Theo, who stood nearby and tightened his thighs cutely. Our icon of a quarterback, with manners, seized just what I would have —as I had approached and I held Dagmar’s cheek upon my quim, tinkering in her hair as she smiled— Percy’s nervous feet with deep-green lacquered nails, and he unequivocally sucked them, while it was still Natalia’s hand in the silky slit.
I pulled away Dagmar’s blazer and threw it on an armchair, while her shorts bloomed open by themselves and there was a puff of sacred lotus. She tilted her head back for a kiss and I wished there was some hussar to shag her in my arms. Mathews’ colleague, a brown-skinned metrosexual professional who had not said a word, caught my widened stare at him, as in “what are you waiting for”? He was a lawyer, he wondered if I was asking him in —he had a smooth, well-educated voice, Dagmar and I were nude— I told him “yes, please”.
Fanny had helped slide the silk away, and pulled hers over her boyish head.
Now, our all-American studs were puzzled, but I gently suggested my Latino applicant give as much pleasure as he could to my blond sister because she was a very obedient slut and it made her beautiful when she stretched her thighs and wetted her lips like that, adding gestures to my talking. He quipped that my labia, too, was wet; I retorted I would be all the more aroused to watch her be shagged by a New World athlete, thus I lay her on my crossed legs and gave her a long thorough kiss while he licked her, first.
Meanwhile, Mathew humped in Percy’s womb at a stubborn pace and Fanny straddled her face to make her service her pussy like a good Brit boarder who moreover wanked her bumhole with two fingers, hence showing her good education. In no time she was splashed over with scented flows, and also gushed into her other end with thick American semen.
Dagmar makes a soft muted moan when she climaxes —a reminder of her perverted upbringing as a child prostitute in secretive venues— and I speak nonsense to her as if to help her from a convulsion, until she wakes back and smiles at Mathew who presses her in a wild embrace. I graze his superb back and I wish he humped me too.
We did not dither showing our dripping hides across the salons, to reach the warm cascades in the shower room, our boys rekindling their cloakroom virile manners and stamina, I marshalled his never-ending pride into my slippery bumhole while crashing a whimpering Dagmar upon my heart, and the warmth of the flows is untiring, too.
Randomly, the precious battery-operated lamps waned, and no one tried to revive some light upon the sumptuous debauchery scenes, only the garden cast a dubious dusk upon the satiated desires. Black silk ghosts gathered the scattered porcelains and crystals, renewed the ewers and the soul of the samovar, no more coffee was needed by Cecile who slept aside of Camille and Marie. Dagmar and Fanny had gently fled, Kate, Anna Louise, and the heather fairies had lured the brigade of hussars upstairs.
Hugo had recommended that Annachiara spoke to me, I did not fathom if he wanted me to charm her, but that was what she did to me. Liselotte, whom I liked better undressed and fresh from the shower —like she showed after she had ridden the waiters— joined us with some frank opinions about society life as we were groping the loveliest Venetian courtesan for free. Letting us toy with her finest features, she nonetheless claimed she would return to her soaked jewel casket and wait for our visits there.

When the three of us woke in Cecile’s bed, yawning happy, Annachiara took fright of the enormous black polished beak at our feet, and I made Cecile explain what it was, and why it had been shut. Be it because we had frolicked in the raw most of the night, we shivered out of the covers, so I brought them in the vestiary where they chose some rags, Annachiara raved on cashmere leggings, swearing it was better than masturbation, Cecile remained bare-arsed in a parme, vague wide-knit unspun wool cocoon and gathered her feet on her chair while Annachiara was moved to see her and her coffee, just like she had known her in a Gran Canale palazzo. I had donned lush turquoise silk satin pyjamas that smelled of Jicky from some long-gone orgy, I supposed, and Annachiara did not miss that.
Our new laguna marvel indeed was befuddled by Lauritz’s blunder if it had been just that. Firstly she was fascinated by the tale of some vice archaeology in the very core of Paris, her who was living in a somewhat eternal brothel, always sheltered in the crimson brocades of the catholic utmost swindle.
For her comfort, Hugo had booked a first-class cabin for her in the night coach train that night, she had come to hate airlines and endless waits in hideous venues and their brand shops. She would board her cabin, tease the conductor if he was comely, browse the web, chat with unknown and eventually wank watching schoolgirls do the nasty for tokens before the hubbub of the train would lull her out.
Cecile had been right about her adorable little whore’s legs and feet, I ended up taking hold of them as she relished the year’s best Darjeeling, before we slipped in thick wool socks to run down to the workshop, where I would abuse —was it for free?— of her precious skin on a velvet couch.
Cecile had been commissioned about a chic Wiener Werkstäte bonheur-du-jour designed by Dagobert Peche and rudely defaced by all kinds of sticky chemicals and paints. While we were disputing which of us was the sluttier, she was hidden in her whites, mask, goggles, and gloves trying means to clean her baby. Suddenly, there was a cry behind the mask, and, at the tip of tweezers, she showed us a plate of half-gleaming metal inlaid with pebbles. She was jumping in her boots, she brought the object to a workbench, fetched a number of skull-labelled containers and began trying one after the other till another cry meant she had the proper solvent, showing us to stay away.
She took her find, half stuck on some dirty paper, the container, and walked to the door opposite her secret cubby-hole, where she pulled a burlap cover from over a bulky extractor hood and she hit a few buttons, triggering a howling note. Inside this draft, she resumed the clearing of a sumptuous Secession brooch, a gold rectangle inlaid with tumbled precious stones, sapphires, opals and moonstones, it was a most stylish pledge of wit, it bore many hallmarks on the reverse, when she shut off the extractor, she was crying.
She was almost out of breath, she took off all of her armour, she was in black shorts, tee-shirt, and socks, I pulled her on the couch and kissed her all over, she had sweated, I was enthralled, and Annachiara mocked me but was the same. Cecile held her trove like a child girl, she said she wanted me to have it, so it was my turn to cry.
The bonheur-du-jour belonged to Hugo, it was honest to call him. He didn’t waste time, he was overwhelmed, too, when he heard the whole incident. He told us to come with him to check for the hallmarks in the books, it was the proper series to attest it would be a design by Joseph Hoffmann, and he put it in my hand, just saying I deserved all my gifts, and Cecile, who was delightfully almost nude, cuddled up to me and we cried, along with the loveliest puttana of Venice.
Kate had followed the fairies to the heights where James reigned, we organised a dinner at Hugo’s and soon lost all our vestures, albeit it would be beyond time to fan the embers again, but anyhow Annachiara had to dress up for travel. We promised to visit her at home, it was a heartache to release her dainty feet.
Once we had seen her in the car, Hugo wanted us in his bed, look at us lick our souls out, bugger our magician Cecile with her feet high in the air.

 

Kate says:

It had a mellow taste of days gone by, when some invincible spell called youth was unswervingly bending fate to my undeserved advantage, attiring my egotistical soul of vain seductions like the blown glass trifles in the Xmas tree. If I summarise, before Sarah’s godsent —what a father she had been blessed with— superego took fancy of my pants, I had lived a free-for-all rakehell at Victor’s whim, attuned with the sloppy spendings of my German art-school complacency.
I will never know if Victor had been given heads-up about me that night when he showed me what impeccable whore I was, when, from the scented leathers of his luxury car, he had ordered me to exhibit my gleaming cunt for the voyeurs of deserted back alleys as a prelude to a blue powder fueled fuck frenzy, of what I scarcely remembered when I woke in that same luxurious bed enlaced with the same elusive Beryl girl.
She was healing my pleasure holes, it was what I resented all through the unforeseen after-party she had drawn me to, and certainly not unwillingly, and joshed that she had been paid a hefty loot for her intervention, and besides, she had been fucked as much as I.
I needed to clear up my mind with Sarah, as to my allegiance to Michelle’s web as far as her politics were implied, but not the intimacy of my vices, that she had never wished for. Since our once private perch had become a fluttery hive, at any moment, I summoned my blue-soul saviour in possibly triple entendre terms in Hugo’s lair, since, after all, he somewhat owned us.
After the TRÆVIX gathering, he had taken Marie who had behaved as much a crafty slut as before —he smirked saying this— picking our own togs one by one, because his prodigious intuition had led him to grab that it would be some flesh and soul matter. He wore a white long linen shirt under a variegated Silkroad kaftan. I made my confession the sleaziest way — as I sensed it— and Sarah knew where in my womb I was still pulsing. Kneading my lower belly, she was granting me the worst insults with a greedy smile. As a manner of expiation, I had to swallow thoroughly Hugo’s morning gush, and Sarah tasted that it had flushed away.
She matter-of-factly dropped that we should pay a visit to the alpha nerd —if only to massage her feet, Hugo approved warmly, telling Sarah she was a motherly soul. Lightly dressed, we moused our way to the sanctum sanctorum and found Appoline in a mere tee-shirt, catching the best of a sun-ray on the grand salon carpet, she kindly told them that Michelle would sleep and they should text on the private channel. We sat crossed-legged close to her, I noticed her weenie was erected, then. At her demand, a tray with perfect tea in a purple clay pot and shortcakes was brought, eventually, she lay back on me to get wanked and sucked by us. She weighted nought, Sarah had seized her lean feet and kneaded every bone to them, ever so gently, like she would have done to the Pavlova.
In the sun, a tiny down shone on her thighs, she moaned how happy she was in this palace. Delf trotted in, still a tad fuddled, overjoyed to find her companion abandoned at my hands, thus she straddled us so as her funny willie grazed Appoline’s and I took both in my hand. Not breaking the good mood, I said I wished to have a word with Michelle, I was told she was in the bathroom, after a morning exercise. It wasn’t forbidden to walk up.
She stood in the wide-raining shower, singing in proper Spanish “Por Siempre Tú”, in tune, out of her mind. I desvetirse promptly and joined her, holding her face to the rain, she sang on. When the song ended, she shut the water and smiled, I wouldn’t say for sure she cried. She let me wipe us softly, she only let that someone had taught her Xtina Aguilera’s song. She begged for a true deep kiss, she was all sensuous, then she said she knew where I had been and she wouldn’t hold it against me, fuck no; she liked my slutty ways, she pulled me onto the futon in her monitors’ room, the lights blinkered as she gushed to my face for my better relief.

 

Cecile says:

I sensed this whirly grace in my plexus, being able to give out, right away, a treasure I had just only unwrapped, at the tip of my knife, to the very person that had freed me, upon the unauspicious manners I had composed of myself, no questions asked. It simply went to show a token of my worth in the world she had availed to me, and she had owned up to me —in my whites.
With all due consideration, the exceptional find went, on Hugo’s advice, to the jeweller so as to be refurbished and secured, but nonetheless, my gesture had struck home. Now then, another gravitational gesture had reached me, and I needed Sarah to help me gather my wits about it.
Mid-morning, before I had decided to end my cosy propitious morning ceremonies, UPS men assailed my door, in charge of what they called a hefty parcel to my very name, no identifiable provenance in my knowledge, I let them roll it to the workshop and signed the receipt.
That neat wooden box, of the kind they use to pack artworks, weighted more than I do, I was impressed, It had been secure with screws, no nails. There would be an orderly sequence to unscrew the boards, I came armed with a fully charged battery screwdriver. Indeed it had been encased like a high-valued item, with pads of thick felt in every nook and a double box, I was becoming nervous, like unpacking a bomb of some sort.
Eventually, I found myself gazing at a massive lingam stone of polished fine porphyry, not as high as myself seated crosslegged, and an envelope bearing a red gryphon looking west holding a sword, the Speck family crest. Inside, a simple white card inscribed “my bad, I miss you, Lauritz”. I called Sarah to tell her, she came down, barefoot in a thistle-blue tracksuit, ready to capsize me over the couch. She was charmed by the gesture, caressed the stone in awe, tried it upon her cheek, then pushed me back in the cushions, hugged me, with her hand inside my pants, and questioned me about my spell on Lauritz.
Later, Hugo conceded that, besides a considerable bid on our bond, he acknowledged his blunder, thus I should follow my hunch, as it was readable I wished not to lose Lauritz and his long drift erotic intrigues, and asked Sarah to help me mend that weird relationship, as she had done before, to start with.
We devised a new set of keys in a small ebrù covered Italian box, sealed it in a cardboard envelope and sent it to the Quai d’Anjou by currier, then waited, in the cubby hole. Fifty-four minutes later, an answer arrived in the guise of a small scented violet bouquet begging me to tell an hour, so we decided dinner time. There was some heavy-duty cart available, we tipped the stone over a folded cover on it, heavy as a century of remorse, then pushed it to the lift that claimed to support five people, Sarah let me go with my stone, then she was already at the door upstairs and I licked her sweats like a puppy.
The deep-red lingam matched happily with the grand crow and all the beacons of my higher room, we fornicated again amidst the creases of frosty percale like otters in the snow, in case anyone watched through the eyes of the homunculus in the wide-open mask. Sarah was she who had given me to my master, she would again, and take part, Princess of the crimson crows I had seen in her dreams.
We set table downstairs just like Gauthier, my ever inspired home designer, had foreseen, upon a big red sun printed on some Indian cotton hanging. They delivered pies and salad, with a few bottles of kombucha, nothing harsher for a repentance ambush with two self-avowed sluts he knew through and through.
Lauritz bantered with a childish expression as if the keys had worked by chance, then, having read our faces, he showed relief and fell in an armchair, contemplating our bare feet. Sarah was nude in an indigo Boro coat that would open anytime, I was overwrapped in a gigantic misty knit sweater below which only my feet crept, I could see he was instantly aroused by us, our smiles did not refute our welcome.
At a somewhat lousy patting of the cushion, he reached for our feet and accepted a pillow on the floor, and that made for a touching scene after all.
I initiated the talking, Sarah was not supposed to be in the know of the Speck house secrets. When she knew, we were both nude at Lauritz’s convenience and I helped him disrobe like the good wife, Sarah arranged to be shagged first, such I liked. We all had a festive round in the wet room, he wanted us to pee in his mouth, then eventually he buggered me standing against Sarah.
Clutching me at his wing all during dinner on the bench, he elaborated on his mistake, I recalled how excited we had been when rummaging through the lewd archives of the brothel; he invited Sarah to make a visit next evening, if she would, of course, she would.

He had merely collapsed unresponsive after his last release into my arse, I had dragged myself to a last wash-up, Sarah hardly breathed in the pillow, I gently turned her up and wiped her nose like a baby, she smiled from whatever skies she flew. Lauritz unconsciously enwrapped me, we slept a whole season.
In the morning, I was lying snug deep under the covers, alone, not yet driven to move up, intrigued by some purplish rounded bollard further left of the grand bird soul. My dream had been of playing off-ground tag in a vast yard at once Desiderio and tall industrial chimneys, boys would touch me when they caught me.
Then, as I needed the loo, the gracious reality reenacted and I smiled at the thought of how Lauritz was a genteel swordsman, thus my plexus bloomed. I slid in a jersey gown and went for coffee and cookies, my stash was deep on the higher shelf, everybody knew that. I felt blissful, my knight of debauchery was redeemed, and Sarah would lend a flighty rump at our nightly games.
As I meditated idly upon the tiny black round mirror where I dared my cookies, I smelled of some orange and lavender, a cute childish Cologne that made me raise my eyes on Percy, standing at the table as if she had been called for punishment, which was exactly what she inspired me, before I embraced her waist and kissed her navel.
Grazing my foot with a timid toe, she begged for some of my coffee, I retorted I couldn’t see how I would not oblige such a pretty maiden, sliding a feathery finger at her candid quim, she could also steal of my biscuits, if she dared dip.
I had made her good-humoured, she went on playing footsie, trying to guess what I had been doing, till I told her so as she wowed. Nobody had slept with her, but she wouldn’t say. We went on to compare playing with men or women. We compared those we had shagged with, revealing we were pretty sluts, weren’t we? She told me to take off my gown because she liked to watch, and I parted my legs high, for her.
Since she had nothing better to do, I kept her along, telling her I would have to leave her at dinner time. We masturbated in the shower, her bumhole was gentle and tight, I told her she would make a lot of money with that, she blushed. I told her most of the girls in the house weren’t actually prostitutes, but money poured on them like windfall because of their easy manners, obviously, no need to blush.
The idea came that she would make a pretty innocent model for Cyprien, who had not known why the workshop stayed closed. She liked the idea, I told her he would give her a share of the sale, and I was certain she would sell easily. I called Cyprien and gave him a summary while the damsel gave me her tongue.
Before my teacher arrived, I covered the sofa with a dull violet velvet drape and tried to install her so she could rest for a long pose, and it was not easy not to succumb to her teases, she was a playful teen and now that she had found a kindly shelter, she was letting her whimsical self whirl, and I profited, hoping it would, some way or another, befit the draughtsman.
She liked the workshop, she liked Bach, she liked me. I lent her an aquamarine terry robe to prance around waiting for Cyprien who did not drag on, kissed me like an apple and admired what I showed him of Percy, that is the whole of her. He agreed with my set-up of her, nude reclined upon the mid-value colour, asked me to gently tousle her hair —while she was making me wet my labia, as if he did not see her.
He asked her to let the music talk to her, not him, he must have liked her face, then, I did not see, I turned my back to keep working on the bonheur-du-jour of Dagobert Peche, scraping the layers of whatever muck stuck on the lacquer and the mother-of-pearl inlays, a bone paper-knife did the trick, but it was demanding; I forgot that other quiet scene, for the better of us all.
Then Percy rightfully asked for a pee pause, I wouldn’t miss that occasion —Sarah has given me such tastes— my white overalls’ fly opens all the way along my crotch so as to let me do my business without unclothing, Percy was aroused to know I wore no undies, it reminded her of school shenanigans.
I made some coffee, Cyprien appreciated my espressos. It was a Brandenburg Concertos moment, I had come seat beside Percy. She teased Cyprien that I was nude in my whites, and thus began lowering the zipper, which I let her do casually; when she reached my pubis, she parted the edges so as to expose me, at what Cyprien jolted and said she froze, grabbing his pad and pencil to try and catch the scene, not stopping my country damsel from tickling my tits mischievously. He mumbled he would love to make that a painting, a manner of a modern days conversation piece, it let me foresee many returns of Percy unzipping my whites, I smiled.

Indeed, the sketches were promising, I fawned Cyprien in hopes he might teach me drawing, I was reckoning my school training had been wanting; he agreed, evasively. Otherly, I was keeping in mind our evening of shady perversion and bygone espionage and more suggestive black-and-white photography than modern porn. Yet, given the moral crisis of Lauritz’s nonchalance or not, and the erotic benefits Sarah and I cunningly expected at the denouement, it would be out of the matter to bring my candid tinker fairy ring her bell at our bedside.
I floated the idea that Cyprien could take her to dinner at Agnete & Sanne’s understated shop, nearby, if he would walk her home safely. In any case, that befitted both, so I called to book a table. I had still no clue about Cyprien’s sexual attitudes, he would never even graze the back of my hand, whenas many others would already be in my pants. At worse, Percy would end the evening chatting online with a virtual suitor, whatever bed she chose up there.
Sarah was expecting some arousing voyage into the disreputable archaeologies, she made us groom ourselves like worldly whores, I was already wet like a beast while we painted our nails black or night. I had only never worn garters, I found that so kinky with silk stockings, it set up my slinky blink like a promise. I wondered what would Cyprien do of such a sight, in the array of the satin linings, suggestively underlined by a pair of patent leather court pumps?
Sarah had donned a Borealis Iceland blue silk panne fluid dress lined in steel black satin, I poked my tongue into her bumhole as she invented the sleaziest of insults for me. She chose for me a one-strap glistening silk jersey mini dress, flush with the edge of my stockings, obviously to show my thighs she would always praise, all the more without knickers, we were en route to the brothel, weren’t we?
Like in the movies, we wrapped ourselves in girted black trenches as we climbed in the car, the driver gave us a nod of approval. On Quai D’Anjou, the codes were still valid, we snuck in like nosy little whores. The lights were kept low, warm, cosy. Lauritz was walking down the master stairs, in fitted black silk and no tie, his constant grin as he took my hand to kiss me on the stairs, then he held us both by the waist and put a lick in Sarah’s neck.
We crashed like mischievous teens in the glazed chestnut mohair armchairs, not wary of what he readily saw of our legs, no incident had happened. I was proud, in the dimmed glimmer, to sense life in the majestic salon, no wonder then that it had enticed all manners of laisser-faire by presumably genteel personalities, I had given my scale in the rescue, it had earned me Sarah’s unfettered affection.
Lauritz ordered our savoury bites, some petit-fours, tea and coffee. He drank Crystal Champagne from a silver cooler. He explained all the good he thought of Hugo, the flair he had demonstrated to the resolution of the incident. I could tell Sarah drinking his words out of his mouth. Hugo had been utmost envious of the photo collection, but had admitted it stay, as a black crystal on this island, like a long-life radioactive leftover, under the von Speck discretion —and relish too, so it might happen, as we very well knew.
There was no need for visual curiosas to enkindle our wombs, we were already in full bloom, legs spread like stranded puppets, and Lauritz liked the taste of my sister. Half-undone, we followed the great alpha to the treasure room, where the fatidic binders had begun to be piled, with cryptic numbers on each. A bed was large enough for full-fledged parties, it was fitted with russet velvet, it had in times been covered with furs as the photos showed.
From my consumption of old cinema magazines, I could show some acquaintance with many faces that were exposed there, in lustful attitudes, along with sundry men in diverse attitudes and vestures, most of them keeping the socks-holders as a last token of civilisation. No doubt a talent like Hugo’s might ramble some crusty intrigues from the sequences that the nine-hundred frames military cameras could electrically shoot gave the course of the predictable events. It was obvious that the women knew they were captured on film, most were trained actresses, most had steered clear of the liberation bustle, unlike the helpless prostitutes that some despicable louts had publicly shaved for the worth of a stupid example.
In the limits of male domination, the whole range of turpitudes had been recorded, some guests entertained multiple partners or shared the same woman, some girls appeared to be quite young and obedient, in a few scenes, a syringe was used to inject liquids in different veins, concealed or not, causing some ecstatic poses or morbid abandon at the whim of the john.

My damning pale-skin mentor was beautifully aroused, she smelled of rainy ferns and winked at His Lordship’s bulgy fly. As to me, who had already carnally voyaged on these vicious depictions, with his maddened spur deep in me, I had not been expecting a straight tailwind course that night either, and the behaviour of the young houseboy who was then bringing a tray-table with more coffee and tea made me give a stare at Lauritz’s eyes to read that he was at his games again. I found composure licking my sister’s quim, as she was licking his dick out of the black silk.
He said he had opened the armoured door to the photographic lab in the cellar, sufficiently dry and cool to have kept all the original negatives and more. He led us, unclothed and at ease, to a concealed spiral staircase behind a plain door behind that of a bathroom corridor, which must have had been built from the beginning in that weird house, said I to its current owner who shut my mouth in one of his aristocratic kisses.
The whole maze was squeaky clean and healthy, not rot nor saltpetre, it was all gamely to graze one another in the flickering beam of Lauritz’s serious flashlight; he kept his willie out at Sarah’s hand, he would kiss me when she was sucking him. That confined space into finely adjusted stones smelled of our sweats and ardours, like animals in a burrow.
We attained a landing before a half-rusted door inscribed “Achtung Gefahr” in white stencilled letters. Lauritz took a set of flat keys in his pocket and, after he read on them, turned them successively in the recessed slot in the side of the door that swung heavily under his push, with not much of a noise.
He probably had rewired the lighting in place, he lit up four white glass globes hanging from the ceiling, beside the red ones. It did not feel like a torture chamber, it was a workplace with bare walls, even if there were traces that pictures had once been pinned. There were other doors, from inside, and possibly corridors and cells. He opened a walk-in closet with plenty of shelves, boxes and flasks predictable in a photo lab, I was shivering in my cubby-hole mood, I cuddled up to Sarah with lustful intentions that Lauritz sussed out, pinching her twiddleberries against my chest as he pushed his spear against her unprepared frowned rosace.
After a pleasant scuffle, he went on the visit and fetched a wooden box at the far end that he brought upon the work table, he had the small key on his ring. In there were other binders of imitation black leather and cloth corners, a well-documented style of stationery, with undecipherable handwritten gothic labels, now then I felt like one of these prostitutes shown upstairs, he chose one of the binders, neat with inner flaps, it contained views of this house’s main floor salons peopled of either formally dressed or merely jewelled crowds, the arrogant fauna of a full-fledged brothel in evening uniforms and bespoke apparel, many faces I had seen in much less gallant situations.
Lauritz said he had searched for the photographer’s name to no avail. He could tell, otherwise, that we both, born long after the end of the universal ordeal, were frankly aroused by the situations exposed, Sarah had found some richly clad platinum blond matron with her hand between the thighs of a young beauty eye swayed, she added that it could possibly have been her grandmother or some of the shameful side of her name.
The mute servant had found us, he held his faithful tray, lay it on the table and began groping my backside, casually. He was dark-haired, crew cut and close shave, dark-rimmed brandy-brown iris, he kissed like a girl, I wouldn’t even think of not letting him, It had been so with Lauritz, he craved me in others’ arms, Sarah, too, liked me slut. It would be torture for my well-hung German trouper because we went on exploring the detailed letter-sized glossy prints and he was waiting that I unclothe him, till he was ardent enough to bugger me standing, the clear dripping of impatience helping him in. Sarah, in turn, was honoured such, bending over the Third Reich follies —that I thought as an insult to the persons she had evoked before— and we climaxed in concert like a pair of fool headed whores.
Sarah spoke in German with my still hard cavalier, she craved him too, I knew that like always, his name was Arno, he came from Hamburg and “worked” part-time for Lauritz while studying French in immersion, which made us laugh and gave Sarah enough of a diversion to rush for his genteel cock that she sucked unabashedly while Lauritz tilted me back over free space on the table to revel into my inundated vagina, he thanked me for being his little whore, I retorted he wasn’t my pimp.

 

Sarah says:

The next morning, I woke up with Percy between my legs, in Cecile’s bed, under the eyes of Homunculus I persisted not to consider hostile, whatsoever happened in this bed not be deemed reprehensible, if ever delectable to whoever would watch. I concentrated on the puppy’s rage and let her have a victory, she tasted like my juices all over, I told her I loved her all the more so for that. Even if I would wonder telling her our nightly explorations, she had one of her own, possibly.
When Cyprien had taken her to the restaurant, she had become a little bored of posing, albeit she liked Cecile’s tracklists and she had serendipitously started the series of Shostakovich’s symphonies, triggering a farandole of imagery in the shrubberies of her idle mind, much like the phantasmagories of cannabis, said she.
He had seemed joyous to make her talk of all her mishaps and evasions, she had awaited he do something in the least carnal, he had been ogling her in the nude most of the day, she had ended mystified, he had walked her back at ten o’clock, seemingly not aware of her unease, telling her he would not be early, next.
I relished cajoling her, we went and did nasty things under the shower, she had touches of laughter like branches of blooming hawthorn in a sunny morning, she called me a magician, I offered her a wreath of foolish names, I filled up her sweet box with compliments, telling her to remember them on rainy days, she said she liked the rain.
If Cecile had been there, Percy would have drunk sweetened coffee, but she asked me for some of my tea and made me retell the legend of tea and Robert Fortune stealing the trees from China. She properly made me blush about my French toasts, I decided to look into Cyprien’s too polite attitude, was it the secret of such good work that he made?
Cecile had been too hot, she had changed for a near-distressed tee-shirt that made me crave her boyish breasts, slim jeans covered in wash-resistant paint stains, battered opera kid gloves, I found her all the sexier than ever. In her smile gleamed the waters of our night, in a sumptuous rebuttal of her raggedy togs. I kissed Cyprien on the cheeks if only to smell him, and it was a distinguished Cologne with a peppery note. I kept my hands on Percy who wore an easy lichen green tracksuit and nothing else.
Under Cecile’s amused glimpses, I prepared a sitting background on a black gold-dotted quilt thrown upon the sofa. Percy became elated at the idea of posing in my arms, we meandered on each other to find a settled balance, I dared ask Cyprien if my hand should rest, like that, near Cecile’s pubis, he engaged in the comparison of the erotic tension we could suggest, i.e. the Venus Of Urbino. He went on matter-of-factly praising the fashion, among our tribe of girls, to wax so carefully, he would hate to draw fuzzy hair —has hair remained on parts of the human body for some visual wisdom? Thus what with the beard? My right hand kept grazing Cecile’s lower belly, not covering her labia.
So then, it was patent that Cyprien was a sound spirit, that he properly saw the erotic finesse amidst all our debaucheries, but he kept unflinching respect towards free will. He eventually grasped Percy’s quizzical when he did not engage in seducing her, and that made him laugh. He then explained that he had been raised in a bonafide naturist family, hence he could abstract all libido from social interaction, and he had overall succeeded, until Camille had sent Cecile in his workshop, with her seducing cohorts.
Ever since my first art classes, I had been asked to pose, probably because of my easiness with nudity, sans doute in the same vein as Cyprien had avowed, my summers on Denmark sands had been happily unclothed, until my ill-fated brother dashed a full stop to my puberty metamorphosis, so thinly close to killing me. Thinking, my Far had been the brilliant soothsayer, during the enchanted parenthesis of us two in magical London town, he had devised an army of blue helmets on a safeguarded lakeshore, oh, my, whom would I take with me to Switzerland, this time?
Cecile had made coffee and tea, Cyprien poured creamer and sugar under our amazed eyes, Cecile dipped, Percy had sunk her ship and tried to salvage delicious spongy crumbs, I wondered why Cecile had learned all the science of perfect tea, was it only for me?
At a tiny message of my fingers in her palm, Percy followed me stealthily in the bathroom where I sat on the bowl and asked her to straddle me and let go of her pee, maddening her English mouth upon mine, my spinning mind already devising some escapade with her, somewhere.

Gauthier relished feeling the lifestyle he had greatly endeavoured in for Cecile’s envision and spell. Although he remained the undetermined playboy, she had trapped a shred of his soul inside her cubby-hole, but he revelled watching her shag his pretty assistant Philippe. He brought a pouch of Italian biscotti from Bartolomeo’s that were a convenient pretext for more coffee and tea —then again, someone had snitched that the afternoon favourite was the “Oriental Beauty” brewed in a different Yixing teapot, or was Cecile in love with me?
Nonetheless, Gauthier came to sit against Percy and tousled her hair because copper heads have their ways, breaking the pose. This time, it was Cecile who winked me to the middle door, for whatever whim. It was easy, I was stark naked and I had simmered in Percy’s scents, she pushed me into the magazine closet and gave me salacious names, a delicious reverse of her otherwise submissive attitude, but we had been together in the confidence of the lewdest stables of a bygone past, she could play a Cossack for me, we came fastly.
They all smirked, and dipped, and now Gauthier had disrobed and reclined like an Etruscan holding his willing captive, Cyprien had played their game, the only risk was that our bright knight’s spear rest so near to his preferred sheath. I could not hear what he whispered in the petal conch of the prairie princess, but they held still for the following hour. I did not ask permission to steal away Cecile’s shoes and socks as I crouched down at her feet, she kept burnishing the dainty details of the bonheur-du-jour.
I casually drew near Cyprien’s shoulder to gather an impression of what he made of a tall gracile boy like a ballet principal courting a gracious hopeful, had it ever existed. The sketch was mindful, and just as sexy as it be, I could frame it for our walls, inspiring. I was letting myself lean on Cyprien’s back when he decided his drawing had reached its impression, thus he rested the pad and, unnoticed, held my bare hip and bottom like it would not be the first time he touched anyone of us, allowing me to respond in sliding a hand in his shirt’s collar, so slowly as not to break the spell. When he stood up, I followed his move and found myself looking at his face, telling him low in my best candid tone that he had been touching me, for my pride. Had he ever seen my eyes, actually? I kissed him properly, as I knew the couple on the sofa was releasing its tension and shagged gently, Percy offering herself backwards.
Soon, Cyprien caressed my neck, shoulders, and somewhat agitated chest, taking a soothing voice to shower me with elaborate compliments, so as to mean, even if he slid his hand onto my impeccably smooth quim, that nothing further such would happen, then.
It had only been pleasant, Cecile had peeped the last of it, she made noise and walked to the private door leaned upon it, with her hand on the knob, until I grasp to join her, leaving the fastest pencil of both banks staring at a copper-speckled pair coupling slow. Cecile would not believe I had not plotted the affair, I was as wet as an Olivia Rodrigo fan.
When we came back, Cyprien had gone and the airy deer was still buggering the innocent damsel across the galaxy, we joined. It had been Gauthier who had chosen the sofa, it had withstood.
While they freshened, we ordered this and that of the truffle pies and the chestnuts turbans they could still regale us with at this hour. Percy, as much overspent her fierce dancer had left her, gazed nonetheless lovingly at Cecile peeling off her work rags, and this one was responding like a crystal glass full of sweet bubbles.
I was twiddling Gauthier’s marrot, to no avail as of yet; he sat up and querying our eyes around, proposed his idea of a grand artistic gathering at his family’s château, where his mother ran a costume workshop since his father had died. It was no more than an hour from Paris, a brigade of mostly Eastern-European seamstresses lived all over the place, they might like to improvise a charivari with all our gracious Parisian silhouettes, wouldn’t we?
He knew the current production set would be cleared in two weeks’ time, we conspired to warn all members of our octopus so as to make the grand design happen; I remembered the delicious stories Gauthier had recalled of his mother’s enchanted realm, before his father go nuclear finding his son in bed with a boy.
This time the sofa held fast with a party of four listening to our emotional piper retelling his bustling holidays in richly scented neverland, passing the fall from grace and the hard-learned evil tricks of an endless boarding school with no more escapes —there had been casualties, not his angelic side. Percy smelled of warm hay and Cecile licked the ardent traces of the games she had been played onto, describing aloud what unleashed mental imagery she scented in the rose creases.

Given that neither Camille nor Michelle, along with their multi-faceted details, would miss Gauthier’s grand midsummer folly, it had been warned that the château, which was surrounded by moats, would nonetheless be under siege by security all the while. I assumed it only meant more surveillance cameras and a few hunky lads whom to tip in kind.
It had happened so that while I had been enthralled with mine, Kate and the heather nymphs had rented a car —only Kate had a licence— to see Brugge for two days, and now Fayelle cultivated a passion for Flemish art, the fresh air of Gerard David, the miraculous cities afar, the motherly greeneries of blessed innocence.
They had slept, all but innocently, in Flemish overstuffed featherbeds and the scent of wild roses, they were back in the studio and Annabelle was barelegged. They enthused at the news of a midsummer carnival in an authentic château, at the mercy of a brigade of savvy seamstresses, and asked if all of the genteel tribe would be invited. It made no doubt the Lord of the Manor intended to lodge the whole cohort in the twenty-seven bedrooms available.
Some whiffs of candour about my previous raves with the disarming Percy had rung some tiny tinker bells in my daydream, I believed late morning would be an appropriate schedule to solicit Ayla for a yawning conversation. I went down to our bed and plugged my phone into the big video. My forever pet girl from school set no sham to answer me from her bed and show me the fluid line of her hips, she was alone in the dull rose percale battlefield of her bed —she boasted she had just lately rekindled the ardours of one of the cores of Swiss capitalism, but then also Switzerland owns the soul of pharmaceutical potency, doesn’t it?
She owned up that Esther, her own pet partner, had tentatively left her for some wealthy arrangement on account of a German client who had wanted her available in Gstadt, where he made her dwell in a posh salon as an expensive escort where he would come smell her when she was spent, before they went to the bathroom together. The john was rich and genteel, she had sensed an easy manner to feather her nest, Ayla had rooted for the princely caprice, she even had visited Esther as a client, unbeknownst to her sponsor, and found the conveniences of the deal palatable.
As always, Ayla was drawing me to her shores of gilded depravity, and I let her. She responded unblinkingly to Gauthier’s proposal, once she grasped there would be no other code of conduct than that we had always followed, then we reminded each other of the scent of May -roses in the boxwoods, where the willing little imps would await us.
Back in the studio, as no reading was going on, I felt inspired by Ayla’s tale, and our two redeemed tramps liked that.
Fayelle soon returned to the kindly dazzled dream of an art-filled beguinage, she had uncovered the plenty of books on Flemish Renaissance on our shelves, I only hitched up Annabelle’s skirts some more to get tipsy in the whiff of rainy hay.
Kate wore jade-green velvet slippers, but no knickers, she asked if I would also call Julia, among my school buddies, she had a vivid memory of her mad twin nephews who had so vibrantly exhausted us on our first New-York tour together. I could only leave a message and wait for the clock to turn.
Annabelle and I were rolling on the rug, I suggested we let the studious ones at their studies and find a bed downstairs, we crept out like mice, through the veilings of our window, dainty notes of wisteria whirled in the mellow light, we devised how to lure a hunky pair of hussars to our knees, and more.

 

Kate says:

I must confess to that while I dishevelled my foolhardy family ties in different venues, beyond the Parisian looking glass, I had envied Sarah’s ability to succumb to an outright infatuation upon a whim and make it flourish. And Cecile had even subjugated Lauritz in the manner I —who had all my life flirted with that Sylt playboy as a mere pastime, entwined into my incestuous passion— wouldn’t even have considered feasible. This lanky loner in her inconsiderable vestures had revealed a true charmer that Sarah, and Camille, had singled out and groomed.
Fayelle herself had relished long shags upon the Porsche hood under the Schleswig-Holstein moon —and she craved for Cecile in the nude, but who wouldn’t? We had someway fled Sylt that one time, and found a deep affection in the carnal scents of a puffed-up Flemish comforter in Antwerp, with the promise of tender returns.
Hence, we now had rented a glimmering blue Tesla car —only I had a licence— en route to Brugge, in the fruitful vein of Fayelle’s studies in the Flemish Renaissance, along with her now permanent relationship with Annabelle that I sensed as a windfall, these two escapee whores being ethereal lovemakers, true to the drawings Cyprien had made of them. After we had fun with the driving tutorial, I felt confident in safe mode, Fayelle’s head on my lap, Annabelle sleeping against her convenient bag, I could plug into our Tidal favourite playlists, and the sound was crisp.
It would be freeway all the way, flat and bleak beetroot land with the sun on our back, but I wouldn’t dare yet the autopilot. My booty imps smelled of Cotswold hedges, Fayelle wore no undies. I had booked a suite at “L’Oiseau Bleu” (sic) and let them not wonder how many beds would be populated. The diamond pattern stained windows opened over the waters of a historical canal, and the car could recharge and sleep safely.
Annabelle found a vegan café not far from us under the odd name “The Caribou”, a tall blond boyish fine waitress told us the first owner of the place had been a Canadian girl, then laughed like a schoolgirl. They made, among other things, refined poke bowls with the produce of their own garden and hydroponic greenhouses. We were impressed, she was too, all the more that I think Annabelle was already grazing her calf with the top of her bare foot.
In the days before, James had not spared us his psychoanalytic of the arts, to what Annabelle, perforce, would finely smirk, the fundamentals of art having somewhat waned in the academic circles she endured willy nilly. Thus, while I relished trading a bite of rhubarb and almond pie for Fayelle’s whip cream strawberries, the touching Glasgow thistle fairy was gently garnering a rendez-vous with our waitress who did not shy in the least. I wasn’t displeased thinking I would undoubtedly allow myself to ogle that nymph au naturel. I sensed that Fayelle second-guessed me, and we began playing footsie with each other while making eyes at our wily Scot enchantress.
Annabelle wished to devour her prey on her own; she had held her hand since she had appeared, lively, in the small pathway beyond the café. There was a young crowd in the car-free streets, the engaging Erasmus backpackers, but we wouldn’t waste time unnecessarily. Once in the chintz-frilled apartment that smelled of the potpourris and pomanders that the hosts had concealed in bibelots everywhere, Annabelle ushered her ballerina into the dusk-lit bedroom and closed the door behind her, ever so smoothly. I kept a vision of a slim tapered ankle in the laces of a barefoot sandal, the whiffle of a flared fuzzy-print skirt. I pulled amused Fayelle into the deep-buttoned vieux-rose satin loveseat and freed her out of her misty frost fern green foliage printed poplin shirt dress.
At the golden tip of dawn, Fayelle had turned her back on me, I could gaze at her little whore’s bottom under the lush down comforter and fantasise of all the times I had seen it worshipped in so many ways. Yet, I envied whom Sarah had gathered in the prairie of innocence —for all I knew— and watched bloom into lust, unfazed, adulated by all.
Hadn’t I been served beautifully with a Fanny unexpected in a Venetian fitting room, and then? For years, wasn’t I whom Natalia slid alongside, at her delightful whim? It was due time to shrug at my complacent self and kiss the palladium-clad cranium of my still-sleeping blond curled axolotl.
As I sat peeing in the bowl, it took me a pair of seconds to fathom whose thighs I fondled under a short vague sleeping shirt, I almost apologised looking up to that one Gwen, smiling at the situation. I nosed in her crotch, she smelled of fresh birch wood and orange blossom, I did not ask permission, but she took my head and said she, too, needed…
As I stood stark to her nose, she poked her tongue onto my lower belly to make me wriggle, she was your burly Friesian lass, and she knew to handle sluts like myself, I kissed her good day.

Annabelle was overjoyed to see Gwen and I hand play impudently, Fayelle wouldn’t keep quiet either, the hostess had not flinched when asked for a supplementary cup. I had been churning my phrases inside out so as to come to know if this bright maiden there had been expecting some manner of an extra tip from us, and she eventually owned up that it would be what she did with some men. We had a good laugh and forced her to take what she protested was more than she usually got, so we warned her she was booked again for the next night.
The heather fairies were beginning to let her know of their bygone fate when, checking on my telephone, I saw a flagged message from Sarah and opened it. She said Beryl had just told her that Victor had died of an overdose, they had found him on the floor of his Chaillot control room, now the pathologists said that a blue powder in a bejewelled snuffbox contained some deadly Fentanyl mixed with cocaine and oxycodone.
I had not felt the need to dress, but so then I was seized by shivers of cold, visions of these boxes of Victor’s and tiny gold spoons kept me from articulating sensible thoughts. I eventually read that the girls were catching fright, thus, after I swathed myself in a tracksuit and wool socks, I retold them of my high rolling liaison with the sexiest powerhorse I had happened to near, potentially at a deadly cost, insofar as Sarah just hardly saved my hide —that be a very long yarn to spin, if ever, wouldn’t it?
Live, Sarah added that there was some emotional hubbub across TRÆVIX territory and annexes, Mathew’s team had been called in addition to the crews beyond Michelle’s walls, the world had quivered. When the forensic teams visited Victor’s realm, Beryl’s mother had opened all doors of the maze, to the great fright of the officers who had never heard of such a fortress across from the Eiffel Tower.
The computer wizards brought to the sanctum sanctorum —after it had been made clear there wouldn’t remain a single microdot of a trace on the grounded copper surfaces— found the mega-machine totally silent, empty, any cloud connection idle, which comported either with suicide or a murder. In the morning when Beryl was called up by her mother, who lived inside the building, all the access codes to the cyber-mill where Michelle had been a galley slave before the night we exfiltrated —so to speak— her away from being raped by Victor, had been nulled.
Delf had called for me, then asked Sarah to take care of Appoline and herself, as long as Michelle would remain transfixed before her flickering screens, talking weird tongues with Melchior in her headset, too tense to accept caresses. Now they had gathered in Cecile’s lair, too agitated to pose for Cyprien who filled sketchbooks with furtive notations of all of them.
Aeons afar from a potential cyber war raging at home, a young sun bathed our pedestrian mind-soothing travel to the timeless tranquillity of the Groeningenmuseum, while I updated them on what Sarah just said. Neither Annabelle nor Fayelle had lived through the ascent of our darling Aviator, they would hardly believe that whom they knew as a tight-arsed, honey-smooth fairy be the worldly warrior I said she be. Annabelle succumbed to a chocolate emporium and bought a pouch of damn-fine pralines that made me crave a Belgian drip coffee at a lazy terrace.
Fayelle has been aroused by Gwen’s light-hearted walk of life, and a tad frustrated to see her hogged away by Annabelle, she would want revenge, but she also took pride in rekindling the connection we had enjoyed before apropos the tranquil humanism behind the Flemish Renaissance art, once liberated of the Spanish who had had definitely nothing to do around there.
Nonetheless, the girls had both sensed that the news from Paris had resounded far beyond my attitude, thus as we walked along the canal in the magic scent of lime trees, I began to reminisce the best of what Victor had done of me, with a nonpareil flair for smut and, till an acme of absurd, the inspiration for a deathwish. My two dear tramp-hearted damsels, whose short frocks swayed in the wind followed my yarn with smirks up to the disaster of my fall from horse in the Berlin rubbles and a botched attempt in a psychiatric dry dock.
Annabelle joshed at my metaphors, she knew how Sarah had pulled me back home after the rabbit Professor had clicked back my clock, and how then she had taken the place I had shunned in Hugo’s bed, whenas I had been posing in the raw for his camera, wearing the jewels of his collection, thus teasing whomever buyers he might have. Yes, I concurred Victor had made of me as much a whore as some rakehells had done cheaply of my lovely mates.
Mostly thanks to Camille, who had been Sarah’s mentor while I wasted my hide for some tiny spoons of a blue powder, I had thence let Hugo tilt back up my extravagant lifeways, so much so that I had thrown myself again, sometimes, into Victor’s snakepit, bringing along Sarah, at a fair reward.

This Groningen should be the best venue anywhere to show artworks in, and apart from the unneeded frankly-coloured wall coverings, the visit would unfurl fluently, Fayelle holding my hand, Annabelle stroking her butt under the vague layers of chiffon, a token of her pride about the night’s win. I was set to abide by their couple’s arrangements I had seen thrive in our garden since Fayelle’s accident. James had relished their candid tale and that they were following our steps, Sarah and I. He also had come up with new arguments for Fayelle not to let be impressed with yet another display of religious ardour in the sumptuous panels we strolled along by, thus she had been lectured in James’ psychoanalytic art criticism, she acted just like a seasoned academic and stopped only at what gave her that pang of emotion in the plexus she had begun to discern apart from the banal scan of what another new painting tells.
Adrift from whatever intentions had brought us up to madiæval quaint, I became noticing that nonchalant bushy dark red-haired, spreckled-faced Erasmus boy who seemed like leveraging his free pass to culture venues to cruise for some company —I couldn’t tell either wind he sailed. My own team currently gabbled more about Gwen’s lithe features than the limpidity of light in Gerard David, thus, I strolled by the gingerbread goliard easily enough so that he could have shunted me out with a smirk, without prejudice. He smelled of one of those outlandish Jermyn street scents, leastways in my frustrated mind —Fayelle, dissatisfied to watch her soulmate revel in the bosom of the candid new harlotee, had merely half-heartedly lulled me out the night before— for I very soon learned that he was no Brit but Dane, from Nordschleswig, I made him laugh with what I talked of Sylt dialect.
He sported a sleek chin, a straight narrow nose and strikingly long lashes on black inscrutable eyes, he was no more boylike than my own Sarah. I displayed my crush before he could wonder, my clothes, my watch and necklace showed enough I was no hostel tramp like so many roam our good old Europe year long, he paid attention to me.
As a manner of a dare in front of my interested buddies, after a less than subtle stare in his direction, I dawdled with that dubious smirk to the restroom where I pretended to blow my nose. I sensed the euphoric shudder when I saw him wander in the mirror, in one and a half steps back from the powdering console, I bustled him softly, earning a muffled mumbling, enough to reach for the door with the male icon on it, it wouldn’t matter if I was seen in there.
In the outworldly smell of the maniacally clean toilet, I nosed right into his shirt collar, his dainty complexion letting me expect the genteel penis he let me dig out of his soft maroon corduroy slack and fresh undershorts.
I had been wearing a light teal fuzzy print cotton twill hi-waist flared tank dress under a cloud blue poplin boy shirt, he was swift to steal my lichen green shorty and the rest, I stepped one foot upon the bowl’s lid, I was dewy already. Like a trained slut, I whispered through his acajou buckles that I would lend him my mouth, if he cared, and thus I sat, legs parted upon the lacquered wood and played with his steadfast dick, properly fit to soon reach my willing throat without hurdles.
He smelled of lavender soap, down here, and textile softener, with a hint of morning sweats, he fucked my face tenderly and did not warn when he gushed in deep, I sucked fiercely so as to swallow all and make him stagger on his legs. My right hand had succeeded at doing a jolly climax while he would not wane inside my mouth, I decided he could spend his proud youth in whichever of my other holes he wished, hence I stood up and showed him my bum, legs apart, my vagina was so easy to sheathe in, I rolled my hips to abet his drive, he had all the stamina I craved for, I clutched the walls to withstand his ardour, it went as long as could hope for, thunder rolling in my womb, we had not spoken three words.
There had been a manly voice on the other side of the door, I made use of a whole roll of paper towel to wipe off my soiled crotch, we frankly smiled as we tidied each other’s clothes, he said his name was Finlan.

Most predictably, not only did my buddies roll eyes at us but sniffed out the lustful scent of our escapade. Sotto voce, they showered us with lewd allusions, dragging on Finlan into their cute familiarity in a way to make him suss how intimate we were. He did not lose his cool, even when Anabelle overtly clutched to his wing and took her seediest Glaswegian tones to woo him, only to let him glance the misty rose of her complexion through her opportune cleavage.
Finlan von Blåskove —that Danish ancestry would make for a new angel on Sarah’s terrace— willingly agreed to our libertinage and we re-tuned our violins to the more expected discretion in a museum. He had known all of the masterpieces herein, enough to contemplate writing a thesis on the secret teachings in the artists’ guilds before the Powers That Be ripped them off their privileges and prerogatives. He had been there mostly to ascertain his predilection for Gerard David, about whom he said he would relish in disproving E. Panowsky, the Warburg all too copious art exegete I could never read, resting myself in the wisdom of Gombrich, Panowsky’s Nemesis.
Since it had been upon Fayelle’s whim —our precious tin-head full of axolotls— in the wake of our Antwerp escapade that we had driven out here, she felt she ought to appropriate all of Finlan’s attention, deploying a wealth of larimar gazes, eventually seizing his elbow. As we allowed them aside, Annabelle asked how it had gone in the locked toilet, thus I fanned her wants like a good comrade, vaunting exactly what I still sensed in my womb.
At a few steps walk, we chose a terrace on a canal, the waters looked fresh and clean, and sundry barks filled with tourists slid by. They made us sparkling lemonade with strawberries in it, we ordered omelettes and fries. I waited for the moment when the axolotl fairy would bid for her turn, it wasn’t long before she went to the restrooms; I seized Finlan’s finely cured hand so as to mean all the good I felt that he go catch up with my genteel buddy, for he was bound to serve as many of us we liked.
Sporting her cunning smile, Annabelle knew I would watch her pour ketchup over her fries, she only floated that it had been her only food as a defiled puppy and she couldn’t yet heal the core of her wounds. Meanwhile, she was playing footsie with me, out of her sandals, and she was quite a gifted slut. From inside her vest, her telephone growled, one of the listed allowed-through numbers, it was James calling on video and he liked what he saw. He asked her to show me and dared me to hitch up my dress as he guessed I wore nought. He was proud to show the creamy white wisterias around him, filtering the sunlight as he sat in his ornate wicker chair on the wooden gallery of his Parisian hideaway. She spoke to him lovingly, letting him guess of her night with Gwen, in mezzo voce metaphors because a family with two nosy blond heads had taken place at the table next to ours. I could not have told which genre these cute children were, my eyes wandered to their shorts and the elder’s parted thighs, only to let me see a pure white hem and no more; I woke and then saw Fayelle, languidly meandering through the scattered white furniture, returning to her cold fries upon which she burst her egg yolks, she sighed as she sprinkled some salt, and realised she was being videoed and peeped on by two pairs of periwinkle eyes. She too stole a glance between the smooth legs, the parents being totally absorbed in reading different guides, she garnered a mischievous grin, and then Finlan strolled by and sat so as to block the sight to the blond imps; he shared kind gazes, with a new feather in his cap. James asked to see that new squire, owning that we never wasted time, and addressed Finlan in his most courteous received pronunciation of English. After he vaunted all of us shamefully, he asserted the boy should follow us to Paris, for he had just met the finest tribe he ever would, and there were more, provided he wouldn’t shy off our pansexual penchants. Finlan admitted he was fiercely tempted, and James retorted money was not an issue.
I had a hunch that our Tesla would be packed, all the more that I had scented that our little whore Gwen would gladly embark on our ship, too. Finlan asked for a stroke of microwaves on his chips, another witty waitress told him eggs did not withstand that, but they could give the whole a turn in the frying pan, and he liked that.
Later, on the walk to the old hospital to see the Memlings, it became all too obvious that Annabelle claimed her turn, in the finely threaded English she, a street slapper child, had learned from James, retold the sexiest of her shady upbringing to the dainty aristocrat, who revelled hearing that. They walked arm in arm, she nosed in the collar of his shirt; Fayelle held my hand, sisterly.

When our hard-working waitress cleared our white-dressed table for dessert, I couldn’t help getting to know she had lost her panties and she was in bloom. She smelled of iris douche and sperm, which made me fiercely horny but she had more passes to give, as I saw, while Finlan stroke Fayelle’s well-known brooklet under the table cloth while he kept confessing to his forbidden decadent shenanigans; and the servant’s daughter had one of her own, now, ready to learn, once he would bury his ghostly parents.
After I punched my code for truly fine dining and all the gratuities thereupon, we left and waited for Gwen in the delicious moonlit pathway where Finlan let himself be raped more than one way. When Gwen joined us eventually, she was holding a rounded duffle bag and declared that she would be coming with us, wouldn’t she? She owed nothing to the restaurant owners, and not any hard feelings, anyway. It behoved me to welcome yet another dove to the cote, then, as I hugged our so depravedly smelling loot, a boyish tone in my back asked if we also had room for one as lean as he was, while I felt a dainty hand on my bum; he took hold of the derisory possessions of our somewhat artless alley cat, so as to free her hands while we loosely flirted our way to our room.
Obviously, these two desirable tramps had loved each other for some while, and we would relish watching them shag each other like stray cats. Gwen had some girly tits, just enough to be sucked on, and Finlan’s crack wasn’t so bushy that I couldn’t exert a proper rim job to his rosy bud.
Merely unflustered, she had, in her day, already withstood a brigade of hungry cocks, and now she was hacking our train unleashing her own throes with Finlan for true; I reckoned it smelled like a honey trap, indeed, but the pair was startingly appealing, I foresaw a sensation in all the alcoves of our libertine convent, the thrust of passion when Sarah would steal Gwen’s socks and fondle her long lean feet.
She had refused all the money I handed her, she asked me for thrills, and she was at it. Our Erasmus squire did not sweat his act, but he sheathed his blade to the hilt with devotion, and again; I asked permission to send a few heated photos to Sarah.
I had forbidden Gwen from washing after he had splurted deep in her loins, she smelled of wet garden soil and freshly crushed roots, to my exacerbated mind at least, but nevertheless, she woke me not long later for she said her bumhole itched, thus we had a little more fun in the bathroom. The rest of the band were all rounded like a litter of puppies, with fleshy lips to kiss, Finlan smelled of fruit like my own brother.
We woke late, we had cancelled any last-minute visits, and the day was powdery golden, with a breath of the nearby seashore. I went to fetch the Tesla, Finlan roared at the sight of it. I claimed Gwen at my side, they fitted quaintly on the back seat. I could not notice much underwear —either— about them. We drove to Finlan’s hostel and Annabelle went to help him pack his case and a guitar. We joshed it might have been a poor idea, but soon Gwen and I were leaning backwards, chatting face to the casually wide parted thighs of Fayelle who explained to the newcomer how whorish we all were and had been.
Prettily recovered from her altogether harassing workday —so would it have felt, to me— Gwen enthused about telling her harrowing personal story to an all-loving audience, though it took her a while to understand what was so unusual in her perception of our group. She had simply never travelled inside an electric car, and this one was the epitome of one; she was overjoyed, all the more that my hand was free to go at my whim.
She was no more than twenty, I was apprehensive about hearing another tear-pulling tale like those of Dagmar’s or Delffan, but I would not shun the role of leading the Good Samaritans, even if the lone Saxon’s fly was already unzipped. Gwen had been born in a near-anarchist Dutch hippies commune in the southwest of France, on land tentatively reclaimed from military drills. not even worthy for sheep breeding, only rich with seasonal mushrooms, when the supposed grownups weren’t too high to move out to go fight for them.
As far as she remembered, the only vital activity they complied with was mendicity, besides peddling pills in raves and orgies where she was eventually sold too, which at least earned her some grooming and nice hair at her mother’s hand. She had been lucky enough not to reach puberty and menarche before the age of sixteen, thus she had soon grown tall enough to fight and run if needed. As we could see, she sported square shoulders, timid breasts, and big feet I had already singled out. Her mother OD’ed on ecstasy from a bad batch, no one would think of that, it happened in a backlot of a squatted barn, and she had been gang-raped on the spot by the very scumbags who had poisoned her mom.
She had run, like a rat, until some country boy saw her nude in a river and behaved humanly. He went to his home and brought back some approximate-fitting boy’s clothing of his big brother, even the socks and shoes fit.

His name was Martin, dirty-blond hair, sparrow-brown eyes, and freckles. He wouldn’t smile. He also brought a comb he washed in the river before he fought her fuzzy mane; it lasted hours. He tried to know where she came from and if she ran away from something, somebody. She said the least so as to make him understand she was on the lam. He had grasped she wouldn’t like him to grope her, besides, she was all boy-like, but he was all the more interested. He took her along the brook to a small dilapidated mill he told her was his lair on rainy days. The place smelled of rotten straw, an owl family had been shitting from high in the beams for ages, and one was glaring at them. Seeing Gwen frightened by the bird’s fixed eyes, Martin slid a hand under the sweatshirt and grazed her tummy, she let him a few seconds too long, so he smiled and pulled his young dick out, gently forcing her down to suck. She had been doing that so many times at her mother’s will that this one seemed clean and easy, she made him come in a couple of minutes flat and pumped him dry and clean. When she stood back up, he seized her head and wanted to smell her mouth.
He cleared the litter in the corner of the single room where the hard-beaten soil was dry, away from the bird’s mess, they went to steal armfuls of the hay drying in the fields, she still remembered the scent, rich and heady, in which the birds’ dejections became a redolent note. Martin never attempted to rape her, but he inevitably succeeded at disrobing her and making her spread her thighs while sucking him, he wouldn’t know how to carnally reward her, she did not ask for anything, and she wouldn’t even masturbate. All he did was fondle her slits with wet fingers.
It was a blessed season, Martin brought thick honey bread his mother made in the farm oven, and enough dried figs and nuts to feed her. He had to go to school, but he came to the mill every free minute till dinner time; when he hadn’t had his daily treat, he escaped in the night to come and force-filled her mouth as he revelled. On free days, he also brought comic magazines he had scavenged here and there, he stole clothes for her, he liked her in boys’ briefs while they decyphered nonsensical tales, inasmuch as she had learned reading from an honest wanderlust pipe-head, in the quieter days of the commune, before all the pills nightmare took over.
It was doomed to end. She had told Martin that a kindly dog came silently visiting now and then. When she described the brown-speckled dog and its aloof attitude, Martin went scared. He did not say, but only a few days later, the huntsman who had followed his dog kicked the bodged-up door open, pointing his shotgun at her and ordering her to disrobe and lie down. She had known worse, she obeyed in full knowledge of what the boor wanted. He told her to take his dick out, still holding the shotgun, and then stand on all fours. As she felt he pressed upon her dry pussy and couldn’t make his way, the mayhem burst, the huntsman fell aside her, the dog barked and fled, and when she turned back, Martin’s face was torn away by the gunshot the evil bastard had triggered in the last jolt before his own death. Martin still held the rock he had shattered the skull with. As she collected her clothes in sideration, the dog was howling, the owl flapped its wings, and the smell of powder made her cry.
She knew the river would meet a bridge somewhere, a road. Martin had cut her hair short, she looked like a boy; no one saw her walking that night before she reached a parking lot on the freeway.
She did not need to make faces to hook up a man, she chose a clean Spaniard en route back home before he let her in the cabin, he wanted to check she was the girl she pretended, and so what she would agree to do for the price of her trip. He used her properly in any possible way on the cabin bunk, he took her to the showers, and to the restaurants. She forgot the horrible sight she had left behind.
He drove all the way to Marbella, she came to like how he treated her, the smell of his skin, of his dick. He relished the way she sucked him clean while he drove, but moreover, he craved her bumhole in the lather of a shower. He did not give a thought that the colleagues thought he was a faggot who had abducted a boy whore, he liked it like that.
He had tried to grasp who and what she was, he convinced himself she was some random stray kid and thus he began to mull on her fate. He could not keep her longer in his cabin, but he was totally smitten with her ways, her skin, and her silence. Hence, he matter-of-factly explained to her that she would work for him in a snug bordello he knew well while he would drive his deliveries to Germany and back, each week. She did not argue, he had been a blameless lover and paid attention that she came, too; moreover, what did she know?

Madame Estefania was a steadfast character, clear-skinned, with straight black hair with a bang and a swift jay glare. She met Gwen and her driver, whom she then learned was called Leandro, in her kitchen at the back of a big white townhouse, poured some coffee, displayed cookies on a plate and asked Gwen to unclothe entirely.
Once she had fondled all creases of the pale blond body, she took Gwen upon her lap and casually wanked her while sniffing her armpit, hiking up her own skirt to avoid any dripping from the little slut she liked right away. She made her come easily and turned to Leandro, telling him that was certainly a valuable bait although she would have to sell her in private appointments because Gwen was too obviously underage and no fake passport would trick any cop.
Leandro had thus stated he did not want any money in the deal, only he would have her on his leave days every week at some address or in his cabin. Madame Estefania then took Gwen to a perfumed room and astounded her with her skills. Later, a manicure and a hairdresser made the stray cat look even more like a well-bred tomboy, and everyone took a tender toll off her mouth and lady bits, anyhow.
A greying lady took her in a chauffeured car to different shops where they provided ambiguous attires and white cotton undies, no dresses or skirts, but quite a few rich jersey tracksuits so easily pulled down.
She could choose a dozen different pairs of sneakers because they wane so fast in the want of perverts. The bag of socks alone weighed more than a day’s crop of mushrooms.
She lived upstairs in the house of the man who drove her to her appointments in something like a cab. He had a wife who brought her meals and coffee. She discovered television. There was a telephone but it was a private line. Every day, at first once, then twice or three times and more, she was told what to wear and smell, and Alfonso drove her to some posh villa and waited for her.
She should comply with all whims of that new cosmopolitan breed of customers, and she knew that when she accepted the whip there would be a better reward, although she reckoned that the figures Madame Estefania kept of her gains might as well be a pure delusion, with what however she had already repaid her expensive wardrobe, and she had receipts.
The first time Leandro had picked her up in his bobtail he had been wowed by her candy green tracksuit and pristine white thick-soled sneakers, he had driven to some backyard he knew not far and relished pulling down the elastic belt of her pants to kiss the freshly waxed pubis and crack. That evening he came in every hole and again in her mouth before they dozed in their sweats on the bunk.
He also had a miserable room inside the garage they had been parked behind, meagerly furnished but with a king-size bed and a vast shower room. She was starving and she smelled bad, he called an Uber’eats and ordered all she liked, but before the delivery came he buggered her in the lather under the shower.
He could not tire of her body, nor of the tales of all she had let her customers do her, she enjoyed making his eyes glimmer until he would shag her, making sure she flowed like a beast.

 

Gwen recalls:

On the whole, given the ancient lifeways that I tried not to remember, the new schedule seemed all the most liveable, and I loved my wardrobe and the lazy downtimes. Soon, there was some patronage of old boys in pristine white hilltop villas with crystalline pools who played with my body and did not ask much for their own carnal needs. One, however, paid all the extras to have me terrorised, chained and whipped so as to piss on the marks and make me shriek in his cellar. Madame insisted that I returned because the bastard was supposedly making me rich.
One lived in a stunning rose marble vaulted lair with an infinite pool, half-encroached inside a grand ballroom, where he threw lavish parties for his cronies with some waterfowl my kind in any genre for them to play with, and they did.
Now and again, Madame summoned me to her private apartments; she relished grooming my body by herself, cutting my hair and polishing my nails. I saw her doctor, who quietly drew some phials of my blood, asked me to piss in a plastic cup, and nevertheless buggered me over my mistress’ body; he found no sign of puberty happening to me and told me I might altogether avoid it because I was so desirable like that. She took me to a dentist who undressed me before I lay on his chair; he liked my teeth, thus he made me suck his dick while both of them wanked me.
Madame relentlessly taught me precepts to preserve the windfall capital of beauty nature had granted me, her main stresses were about smoking and drinking alcohol, she would always sniff my breath and check the white of my eyes, before spanking me out of joy. She avoided the lecture on drugs, for I already knew longer than she did on the matter.
After a few feasts in Leandro’s cabin and his dark lair, he ceased his visits and Madame claimed she knew null of his fate, he had not given any whereabouts nor a phone number. It was a bitter reckoning, he had treated me heartily but I sussed he had merely sold me to traffic.
Apart from the visits with Madame, who now took pleasure to have me shagged by the riffraff of her staff so as to lick me over once they were done, my schedule became busier, such as I could not finish an episode of Downtown Abbey before I should clean, lube, and perfume my arse before I went back to Wonderland.
One day at noon, while it seemed the entire country was napping, I ran again. I carried a sage green backpack that made me look like any schoolgirl, some change of clothes and a stash of bills, given by some of my contented johns, sewn in the hem of my sweatshirt. I knew that walking downwards would lead me to the seashore.
There, a crowd of foreigners avid for sunburns did not abide by the Spanish timeline, I bought a funny hat and began cruising by, keeping in the shadows. I had manners, I had been raised a harlot and I could tell where the action was. After a few misfires, I was gently accosted by a slender Asian man in a fine off-white suit and a Panama hat who believed I was a boy until he slid his manicured hand in my briefs, in his air-conditioned panoramic suite at a nearby palace hotel. He spoke in a weirdly tinkling French but I understood he craved my body and asked for my price. Madame had once let out some figures, for comparison, thus while he was trying to pull my clothes and lick my neck, I whispered the right number so he fetched the notes and looked in my eyes while my trousers went down.
He smelled of dry Martini —like in my mom’s missed last words— with lemon peel and an olive. Closer, a hint of some balmy wax I had found on some sportsmen, a massage oil of sorts. His dick was slimmer than most I had had to endure, like Leandro’s truncheon, but firmly tense against my belly as he kissed me with mad hunger. I had no restraint to let him plunge it deep into my throat and hump my skull in style, I fantasised he was a dancer when at the acme of his rhythm he thrust all his length and ejaculated in a sequence of jolts, caring that I gulp it all thoroughly, joyous of my skills.
He confiscated all my clothing and dumped them in the laundry basket, bar the fat hem I kept in sight. then he asked if I would like to pee; it had been hot and I felt dry as a brick. He smirked and called out for a bucket of tea. He held me constantly, repeating he would not let me go, we would sail on his boat to the Côte d’Azur and I was thinking it was what I would have hoped for.
I did not have time to go hide when the waiter brought the tea, he ogled me for the obvious pride of my client, Toshi, who took time to tip the waiter so that he could take a good glance at my bare pussy —who can tell a girl’s age nowadays? After he poured light green tea into porcelain cups, Toshi seized my feet and detailed them at the tip of his fingers, complimenting the care they showed, then asking me to knead his balls with my toes. The tea was only perfectly warm and smooth, I knew why he forced me to drink more. He said his boat was moored in Alcantara but he had hoped he would find beauty for hire, just like me; he wasn’t set on genre, only the age and the figure, besides, I offered a promising slit to sheathe in.

Toshi wouldn’t be the first one to play water games with me, while he kept vaunting a mirific journey he would take me on along the Mediterranean coast, at his unfazed expense, I was holding back my bladder and he knew it. He led me to a truly grand expansive bathroom with a walk-in shower where he lay down, begging me to pee all over him at first. It must have been the tea, my urine smelled of fresh-cut hay and fennel; he licked my labia as I filled his mouth, he laughed and gurgled. When I ran dry of tepid gold, he asked me to straddle upon his stiff spur, to what I easily shaped my vagina, and churned like in a game while he pissed in.
I know not if all of you tried this one Finlan’s wee-wee, but to me, he gives the same exhilaration of being an easy carnal bilboquet, doesn’t he, sluts who have been in his brief since I have been here telling of my exploits? Did you know I was the one who sent this genteel offspring of legendary British Steel after you?
Then he kept his playful pace until he gushed in thick blobs against the wall of my womb, holding my face to read my gaze. My nether parts were tense with elation, no one had ever done such acrobatics inside me, he wanted to know I was unhurt and still willing, hence I answered his deep kisses like a queen of sluts.
We then slept enlaced upon an immense bed, until the loud flutter of wings felt on my face, the owl of the abandoned mill with Martin’s shattered face, one eye dangling at me in the fumes of gun powder, only the dainty hand of Toshi’s trying to chase my fear. Already stiff again, he was dripping clear cum on my lips, waiting for my tongue to lick it, so I was soon at it, suckling in half conscience, back in my new part playing, swallowing a bitter swig.
I discovered the transcendent luxury of five stars shacks, mainly the utmost ease of room service, when Toshi never inquire about the time when he ordered salads to my taste, eggs Benedict on warm buns, nude under the lavender-smelling damask napkin. And word had undoubtedly been circulated about some new pet in Mr Toshi’s apartment, thus I soon guessed what awaited my pretty queer silhouette.
In what felt like the middle of that night, a fleet of foot Moroccan boy pushed in a trolley bearing rice pudding and fruit salad, my favourites. He had been gazing at me like a daring raptor, he showed manly nipples under the thin white jacket. In a dash, Toshi grazed him from the back, his penis taut, as it seemed the boy was acquainted with it, slid a tight roll of money in his hand while he soughed a brief word to his ear.
The boy, he was called Issa, came collectedly sit next to me and grabbed my nape to kiss me dumb, so I had nothing better to do than undo one by one the buttons of his uniform, which he eased off with care and rested at the end of the sofa, while Toshi was slowly wanking with marcasite eyes —my mother had some ageless brooch with such eager little stones on it.
Once I had taken care of the rest of his work outfit, I murmured that he was a handsome warrior and showed him the skill of my mouth while he pushed open my thighs as I knelt over him. Unfailingly, as Issa went on shagging down my throat, I felt the stubborn push into my bumhole which surrendered easily.
Issa smelled of bitter almond and seaweed, he was clean as a bride, I did not give him choice but to spurt his load into my hard sucking throat, in long overwhelmed sobs that triggered Toshi’s crisis deep into my loins. My head upon Issa’s chest, I remained in want, Toshi, to whom I granted full avail of my holes, did not yet earn me climax from the back, he was aware of that. So then from where we stood, only Issa could help my greedy innards, thus I choked in again his young full-fledged morsel in the hope his youth would saddle me back and it sure did.
As I lay spent aside on the cushion, I watched Toshi help my beautiful stud clothe back, all the while groping what he would, visibly envious of the intimate parts I thought he was certainly not the only one in the hotel to call for. Most of the top-notch brigade of waiters became to know and use me as seconds, but then it was a dream of a lifeway, far above what Estefania had trapped me in.
The ship had been christened Tara, Toshi gave me a new, expensive, almond-green tracksuit embroidered with the name so we went to see her harboured nearby in the small port where she stood out. I understood she was a fifty meters unit with a crew of twelve among whom were three women, I asked Toshi if that meant I would have to serve ten dicks all the while? He retorted it would be up to me, did I complain? He loved me whore, don’t you?

We weighed anchor the next morning, face to the sun. The all-white and chrome vessel cruised quietly, Toshi stripped me but showed me the closet where my bag and a lot more wares were piled, in my own bathroom, the one on the port side, Toshi only used his for poop. The master bed was worth its name, it rested upon stabilisers and felt like the luxury cars I had been shagged in.
The captain, a burly greek sea dog called Demis asked to see my passport as the law obliged. I took Toshi aside in our cabin and eventually explained that I had no identity at all and did not know when and where I had been born. He looked a tad crossed, but as I sat on the bed, arched back on my extended arms, under the subdued light of the shades, he melted down once more for the skin of my flat chest and my tiny nipples, so he capsized me and he forgot all else.
I did not know what Toshi had told the captain, but that one groped me as often as the rest of the crew, women included. He had encouraged me to misbehave as much as I would, preferably not in the crew quarters, there were enough guest cabins to fool in, since there were no other guests than I, and then run back to him dirty and drippy, for his relish. it would not be otherwise advisable to party openly as he had me do in the hotel.
Hence, sailors, waiters, and cooks seemed on the watch for my arse most of their time, at my whim. It was the way I had been raised, anyhow, used and abused by whoever was not too high to rape me. Did I tell you I am a miracle?
There was a smell of pepper and clove in the captain’s carré, and he sported a round-headed spear I would swear I never saw limp. He repeated I had fallen from another world, and once he had humped me a good once or twice, he let me sit on the master seat and told me stories of the countries he had visited.
The others were young Ukrainians or Lithuanians, the cook was Greek and made my salads and rice. Toshi spent hours with his computer in the master cabin, he was thrilled when he could smell and feel that I had been used in every way like a mop. He would then let me doze out in my grime and eventually woke me with the poker in my arse, then he would pamper me like a doll. We all know what a proper whore likes.
However, when we approached Cartagena, an impressive roaring boat of the Servicio Maritimo De La Guardia Civil came alongside and saw me first thing, bare as a lily. When they blew the siren and I felt the engines quiet, I realised I had probably better cover myself some, and stay in our cabin. Two officers had climbed aboard, and after thirty minutes they asked about me, so one sailor asked me to show up and it went from bad to worse until they decided to take me on land, so there I was, with my backpack and a fistful of money that Toshi gave me —a lot, actually— in a big roaring speedboat with soldiers in black uniforms who smelled of Spanish soap and mint.
They berthed in some fenced-out harbour and ushered me into a bright white building where I had to unravel, in French, my non-life, undress again for a uniformed redhead woman, and because I carried strictly not any document pertaining to my identity, pose for photographs, give my set of prints, and, last but not least, a swab of saliva for DNA testing.
Everybody was kind and forthcoming, the woman who had, nonetheless, fingered my arse, told me approximately that prostitution was not forbidden in Spain beyond eighteen —I said nought. I was taken upstairs to a spacious and clear room, with a military-looking table and chairs, a single bed, and a television on the wall. There was a prison-type bathroom with metal bowl and sink, and a walk-in shower, I was in jail.
No sooner had I begun to try and operate the TV than a young plain-clothed man knocked and introduced himself, in flawless French, as a social worker for minors. He was comely, he smelled of lavender and his smile showed splendid teeth, I tried on him all my bag of tricks, but he remained aloof and complacent, he took a cute little notebook from an inside pocket and twiddled a two-cents ballpoint, listening to my rave, unfazed with my apparent incoherences.
We had a delicious lunch together, fish and rice in a tomato sauce, the redhead woman officer of my arse brought a pot of coffee and gave me the eye. My confessor Sebastian still pushed me in my tales, weirder and weirder, and he checked that I was not lost in the woods, I could tell the growing emotional tension in his voice.
When my prefered redhead came again, he asked her to stay with me for he did not want to let me alone. Others took turns during my sleep, I forgot to think of them, it was my no life over again, the owl let me sleep in my expensive tracksuit.
You should not cry, Kate, it is me in your car, and you pretty well know I am still in one piece and we are driving to your faerie home, do you prefer that I kick off my shoes?

Sebastian and his red-haired cohort only began to believe my double Dutch and, in all modesty, to love my ways. while keeping on grilling me again in front of a voice recorder which he said could listen to me a whole day through, they had pulled out chairs under a canopy beside the captaincy and provided me with anise green spandex shorts and crop top I would not wear all the time. I had become the monkey of the barracks, lightly dressed, I knew I possessed more than their attention. I even pushed my luck so as to make my arse-searcher clip my toenails, we had intimacy, hadn’t we?
However, I wasn’t let foreseeing my return aboard Tara, and they said that Toshi had somewhat disappeared. Two French plain cloth officers, or whatever, arrived one afternoon, sweating under the killer sun. I hated their manners at once, in that they considered me from all their self-importance, unaware I could tilt their judgement with only a sleight of my legs. They dropped their jackets, pulled their sleeves up, accepted some coffee, and fetched the binders in their satchels.
Now it was me listening, and Sebastian kept on the lookout for any expression on my face he had become in love with. These two uptight fellow countrymen were teaching me who I was, better than I had ever known. I had been born sixteen years ago in Dordrecht in the Netherlands, my name was Gwen van der Molen; my mother had been found dead of a drug overdose in the south of France, Nobody knew I existed before my DNA matched hers and the Dutch unearthed a single mention of me in their birth ledgers, my father was said unknown.
Then, they had put me at the crime scene in the mill where two men had been found dead with a dog howling mad. Sebastian was flabbergasted, there was a lot more to my tale, but I had not been lying. The dictaphones spawned up again. I asked for lemonade.
As you can tell, I become a true chatterbox once anyone caught my trust. I did not conceal Madame Estefania’s traffic, although I could not have said where she operated.
Nonetheless, I claimed I had been with Toshi of my own free will, and was happy, at that —I could not, in all likelihood, begin to plead to a gathering of judiciaries that, with due manners, I liked being a whore and there wouldn’t remain a slim chance I would ever do otherwise, since I had been raised so.
My precise explanation of the tragedy in the ruined mill moved all the cops whom I felt were all ogling my floating tee-shirt, wondering if they had suddenly turned paedophiles, my search specialist did not.
The French declared that I wouldn’t be further inquired about and thus be handed over to the Dutch, who appeared two days later, apparently more interested in the boats than in me. They spoke good French, on their flight they had listened to the recording of my seemingly already famous memoirs among the services. They let me think that, once I had complied with my legal situation’s chores, I might eventually ask a judge to emancipate me, which did not mean I could go back straight to my ordinary trade before the age of eighteen, but the two hunky Friesians obviously infringed my privacy zone as they spoke to me. One of them went as far as grazing my thigh as I stared at him in the next seat on the plane, nothing very new to me.
I sensed a zest of admiration in the eyes of my Spanish interlocutors, and moreover a touch of despair in my dear ginger rapist’s eyes, hasta la vista, they say, I showed her she was forgiven.
I was driven to a boring brick venue that happened to be some sort of orphanage for special needs children, mind you, and to hell if there were, in there. I was put in a first examination room, with willow-green lacquered walls and light-minded iron garden furniture and a comfy single bed. there were two grillage windows that reflected on a polished lino floor. I joshed to myself that it was another prison cell made pretty for my kind of monster, whenas I had spent the better of last months in five stars luxury. I saw the tiny cameras watching me, I was tempted to strip for them, but I reckoned it would happen anyhow.
A young lad in jeans, sneakers, and a multicolour sweatshirt crept in as I was contemplating a wood patch afar in a greenfield. The Spanish sun felt so long gone. A mild voice with an accent was asking me if I did not feel the cold with my bare feet on the floor, he wouldn’t the first to look at them. As he lay a slim brown binder on the round table, I went to sit cross-legged on the bed, he asked if I wanted coffee or something, I felt like creamed sweet coffee, and thus he called for that on his telephone.
He said he was Kees, a psychiatrist in charge of my most unusual case, but there was no reason to get anxious, he, too, had listened to my tales and he showed he was altogether impressed. He decidedly liked my feet.

One help in a marsh-green smock she read in my eyes that I instantly saw she wore nothing under, pushed in a trolley bearing, mind you, a set of blue decorated earthenware, plus slices of a rich sponge cake.
I came to sit next to Kees, not across the round table, and casually dared to woo him, because that is what I do, right?
He did not lose composure, he said I was fiercely desirable when I cropped up my feet on my seat and wriggled my toes, it would make a pretty scene on the watch cameras. Nevertheless, I made sure he saw me through the open bathroom door when I pulled down my trousers to pee, he learned I wore no knickers.
Unfazed, he taught me I had grandparents, reputed pharmacists in the city of s’Hertogenbosch (Duke’s wood), and they had been informed about my existence, of what they had never known until then. I sure wasn’t thrilled anyhow, the family had never been in my categories, but Kees took a funny attitude to tell me there was no legal way I could avoid seeing my grandmother, then he could not help but seize my foot, hence I puffed myself up in victory.
Doctors in white coats were puzzled about meI let them auscultate whatever they would, as long as they kept manners, even, of course, about my nether parts, after they had discovered I had never yet reached puberty although I told them I had always led a full-fledged sex life, and I looked like it, through the conversations. They could not reach any conclusions, they made me promise I would have my blood drawn twice a year for research, but I did not myself believe I would.
My grandmother came over to meet me; she was a tall and slim elegant woman who could not help going emotional, so much I resembled her lost daughter. She, for one, had not listened to my recordings, I let her hold my hands over the table, and, knowing full well that it would be taped, I served her a gentle version of my novel, watching out for the moments when she might crack up, but she was a woman of the world, she grasped full well that I had been a slapper all along, just like she had known that my mother had pillaged her father’s pharmacy since middle school. She owned up to me that through the hell I had grown in I was some kind of a girl indeed. As she darted loving eyes on me, I suddenly pulled my tracksuit off and tiptoed around to show my all valuable hide, before she embraced me wholeheartedly. She smelled of that jasmine and rose magic and her breasts felt like doves as I sat on her lap. Her name was Jacobine.
I was granted a big television with plenty of French-speaking channels, on warmer days I relished lazing nude watching any kind of program and Kees did not shy seeing me so, even when I could tell of his obvious erection, he wrote down the random raves that I threaded about my usual life, I avoided the bad memories and the rapes, I vaunted my skills as an off-limits little harlot.
The system assigned me to dwell with my grandparents, but my grandfather, after he came to the judge’s chambers, refused to have me around his house and store, so he rented a quaint apartment Jacobine had chosen for me on the top floor of an old Dutch house on a lively old street. Being law offices, the lower floors were empty at night, there was no risk I could trouble anyone’s peace. I was given my first ID card and my first bank account where they had the surprise to see me bring at the counter a pouch of crumpled notes for a nonetheless hefty sum, Toshi had not been mean to me. My grandparents would feed my account, and so would the state, but I should be seen by Kees twice a month and check with the city hospital about my so unique case. I learned to master a smartphone, I am still at it.
I attended courses in Dutch, reawakening old memories, my early commune had been peopled with Dutch hippies and rapists, I found in my brains and mouth the funny twists of the language. As expected, at the first visit by Kees, about noontime in my cosy mess, I ensnared him into my unmade bed and deployed my skills so as to leave him to sleep in my arms at dinner-time and go again at it after a Chinese meal. The next morning he was gone, I was certain he would return, I was such a windfall to him and his career, as it seemed.
Kees never elaborated on what the doctors had observed in my nonpareil clockwork and chemical signature, nor would they do before my coming of age. All in all, I am merely a lucky intersexed whore, if you will, and don’t you laugh, in the back seat, I am very happy.
Kees was a tranquil companion, he did not mind my shagging around, he always warned, so as no one would be there in his place when he came to frolic with me. Eventually, once, he bumped into my grandma on his way out; she knew all about our affair and menaced him to go tell upwards if it did not stop at once. After two weeks I received a call from a woman who said she had arranged to follow suit in Kees’ work. I never saw her.

Meanwhile, in the biochemical realm, I had grasped that a good part of my allowance depended on true blood deliveries in the hospital where a surly woman with a thick braid took pride in bleeding out a few phials every two weeks, so be it. But I, a captive rapted on a millionaire’s yacht, resented being manhandled like a lab monkey, whoring my blood to some abstruse research in what I wouldn’t even bear my name.
Nevertheless, I could live leisurely and go shopping in Antwerp or Amsterdam, let my hair grow, ride my bike, and learn hypertext subtleties with my Tinder hotshots, and online games that taught me cyberenglish. Mellow smelling clubbers visited my bed, of lustful repute, until some truly gifted shagger began infatuating about me and elaborating on fantasies I had let spin in my bedtime rants. His life plan would begin with pimping me in a club he owned with upstairs bunks for innumerable romps with his fellow immigrant jockeys.
Irfan was a second-generation immigrant exceptionally endowed with sexual stamina, and though he could see I kept fooling around unabashedly, he smelled of rose laurel and oud, his potent spear and balls were thoroughly bald, and he could rummage through my innards for hours and again. He strained to reach my limits while he ferreted all over my life. I could very well enjoy a full-fledged gang-bang to the stubborn sound of darbuka and oud, but I guessed he was fomenting to selling my arse every day, no less.
He misfired when he began trying to stealthily hook me on apache — fentanyl— so then I was arrested after the first flagged blood test I did in my routine that Irfan had overlooked, and therefore I collapsed morally, that was the very pest that had killed my mother. I snitched, wholeheartedly, and was locked in a padded cell —a tad overkill, but I sweetened the purge by shagging the warden, a sign that my addiction would soon wane.
They tended to believe my good faith, as they were keeping months of records of my blood checks.
I was encouraged to move on to Antwerp, where I became of age, and took a job as a chambermaid, with all benefits, if you will, then on to Bruges, where I expected to get hits amongst the younger Erasmus travellers, wasn’t I right?

 

Sarah says:

Kate had, unusually, texted that they would arrive, with some surprise we might not want to miss. Cecile and I had been watching again Ghost In The Shell – Innocence, on Kate’s and my bed, au naturel, with mutual liberties. Therefore, when shuffling sounds warned us of their happening, we found ourselves nude in front of young attractive strangers, neither of us uncomfortable, however.
Kate and the heather fairies relished the high-strung moment, I posed so as to enlace Cecile and sway my hips to that unfazed gangly tomboy who showed none but a tender invite that hinted she was a playgirl. She sported thick wavy short reed-fair hair, parted on the side, dawn-grey eyes, sand-golden skin. She stood square shoulders, and flaunted flat breasts, I joshed she was the perfect daughter of Kate and me, she enlaced me, while her companion, a boyish cherry red-haired speckled Saxon was already hitting on a willing Cecile. She wore jeans shorts and a multicolour striped teeshirt that I pulled over her head while she unbuttoned her fly herself. Kate had moved near and asked me about the surprise, who smelled of some violet gingerbread.
Whiffs of Kenji Kawaï’s soundtrack still snuck calling from the bedroom door, but Cecile was already gently pumping her half-denuded squire on a sofa, Annabelle profiting from her exposed bum, thus we all feasted on one another across the facing sofas. I was stricken with the golden down on Gwen’s pubic mons, so she bantered that puberty had spared her, therefore, she remained a baby, with a full-fledged vagina, if I would. I retorted she would meet a few other spared angels in our genteel hive, also a world-renowned expert on the matter, herself a genderqueer marvel.
We ordered what A&S offered of their random inspiration in pies, Gwen was impressed knowledgeably, having served the kind of meals for months, she nibbled artfully, aware of my craving for her silky chest.
Cecile and Finlan escaped first, the lithesome maidens, obviously still under Gwen’s spell, excused themselves soon after, leaving us to strip bare Kate, who, arguing she needed a shower, pulled us to the bathroom. Gwen had shily said she needed to pee, we begged her to flow along our legs, it smelled of treaded wild weeds, and she said she would be our thing.
They soon dozed out, and I revelled in a half-sleeping beauty, she had sinewy long feet, and I craved to hear her tale, later. However, the next morning, as she spooned plum marmalade on my French toasts, wearing a peacock-coloured, fine knit jersey oversized jumper, a call from downstairs taught me that some greedy landlord had had wind of our nonpareil new recruits, in clear, Hugo begged me to visit him with any of them, through his shutters the air from the garden was utmost sensuous with the scent of magnolias.
My own teal blue silk jersey nightshirt was no more scandalous, I grabbed Gwen’s hand and led her down the carpeted stairs, she still wondered where she had wound up, on a landing, I stole a deep kiss from her sweetened mouth, and joshed we were to see the filthy libertine who owned the castle and us in it.
When I hitched up her wear amidst the mirific decor of the salon, she candidly rolled her eyes while Hugo stood awestruck. I hugged her from the back and licked her neck, we both smelled a faint hint of geranium-orange from the shower. So then, she pulled her cards and began to woo the man in an ecru linen robe, whom she saw was erected like a connoisseur.
He seized her finely smile and asked her if she was for hire, she did not flinch, held his dick in the open and asked where he might have heard such a rime? He kissed her fondly, then said he loved pretty young harlots, ask me.
He wanted to luxuriate at that moment when one learns the spell of a living treasure, I knew he would relish in watching me pimp her for him, while he held her feet and asked her to spin her tale. I had grabbed that it would be a long, complicated one, but Hugo convinced her that he was no inquisitor and he had listened to horrendous stories from fragile damsels whom he still befriended at their whim. I floated the idea that I could leave them to cavort upon the priceless silks, I reckoned that she had confronted multitudes of such patrons, and I could entrust my life to this one; so as their dialogue led closer to the need for some deeper bed, I ran up and found Cecile and Finlan in the scent of coffee. He wore some silk pyjamas she had fetched in our wardrobe, I secretly betted I would fastly see him greet me.
I made no efforts to conceal my bare arse under my shirt’s hem. To me, because it seemed he had had a delicious night with Cecile he barely knew, he dared ask if we were all prostitutes. I answered I was, of unneeded, amused to trade myself or others for money, but it remained mere debauchery, and Cecile approved. There he stood at attention, and as I wanked him, out of the trousers, he went on telling us of Gwen’s miseries, begging that we did not squash her with our outlandish lifestyle.

Cecile invited her appreciated date to her workshop, harlot or not, there was a sixteenth-century portrait belonging to Hugo that awaited intensive care downstairs. I cleared their table and made more Puttabong tea, then attempted a call to those splendidly redeemed victims that Camille kept in her orb. Dagmar said that Fanny was out on duty, at a meeting for her college application, Natalia had flagged the way, which I sussed out what it could mean. We both laughed.
She sounded calm and collected, she drifted to French, as a manner to let me think she was still my girl, still on course, and I figured of her long legs in the giant sweater. She agreed it would be a good idea to meet Gwen, all the more so as Fanny and she gained some food for thought by helping survivors.
We did not avoid the evocation of the obvious charm Gwen had me transfixed at once with, and Dagmar bantered that if any, I certainly was not an easy target, was I? Hence, she was fiercely baited and agreed to come over for a bite at sunset, I was certain Kate had already advertised the news to Cynthia and the TRÆVIX lambkins. Finlan might feel ostracised, but I reckoned that Cecile would bloom over him.
The Thistle sisters joined me later in the studio, we did a convent of engrossed admirers, even if Fayelle was a tad jealous about Finlan’s rapture in Cecile’s cobweb. Eventually, Annabelle read us a novella of her own, “Glistening Pavements In Stockbridge” in her chiselled crystal pronunciation; I cried, and Fayelle hid her face inside the art books she had fetched on our shelves about all the works we had shunned in Bruge the days before.
The A&S girls sent pies, salads, eggs, and cumin buns, Apolline and Delf were firsts, disappointed not to see Gwen, whom Hugo baulked at releasing yet, before she agreed to fly away with him for an exotic escapade.
Kate and Cynthia smelled of ardours and heed, our self-conscious neighbour half-dressed in a thick maroon satin pyjama trimmed with a tin grey piping, abalone buttons, no shoes, the epitome of the triumphant courtesan, at the antipodes of the Doctoral gravitas she donned in social life. Appoline wore an overprinted ultramarine blue Tana Lawn cotton trapeze tank dress edged with three rows of white biais at the hem and the square neckline, anyone saw her white ribbed cotton jersey knickers, and anyone ogled her legs. At a wink, Cynthia asked her to the far end, in one of the bedrooms, we did not notice when they came back, the same serene lips on their beaming faces.
Gwen rushed in, fresh as a may tree and was soon bare and free except for a new row of faceted aquamarine stones chocking her lithe neck. When Delf saw her, she crouched at her feet and begged for a kiss.
As Kate was recounting how they had randomly sat in that chic restaurant in Bruge, Gwen seized the word and looked straight in Cynthia’s eye while improvising a tale of a wanderlust orphan turned prostitute, pertinently starting to stroke Cynthia’s knee. Kate grazed the pale naked rounded bum, wondering if only a hunch had led Gwen to her all-time mistress.
Cecile candidly misbehaved with Finlan’s fly, as Fayelle came over to them on the trail of what might have happened during the trip back, the only true boy aboard revelled in the situation, I set my watch on him, whatever time I would find fit.
Natalia had the brilliant hunch to bring along her minders, she knelt to kiss Kate, mostly to ogle how Cynthia was properly shagging a new nymphet to her taste, then calling Fanny out to give her good news on her application earlier in the day; she finely added that someone had suggested to see them together, after a pause, Fanny laughed, she too would have to comply to the fetishes of an old don, but if Natalia had survived through that, so would she, and retell funny episodes of the Parisian elite.
In a Cossack-turned-Mameluk moment, I grabbed Erik by the crotch and warned him joshingly I would give him more than he wished for, he whispered in my ear they both had only just shagged Natalia silly, thus he needed some rekindling, but he sneakered a hand so as to wank me like a true slut tamer.
Gauthier had sussed some event was roaring at our floor, he barged in with lovely Philippe whom Annabelle raptured in a whim, well aware that he would not shun a dawn fairy in tremours. Gauthier singled out the new Saxon Baronet and, come what may, his own camaraderie with Cecile allowing, crouched by for a little chat as she held Finlan’s dick up. She aptly knew her associate’s talents and leanings, thus she wasn’t too surprised watching him gulp the stiff elegant cock she still held in hand, she poked her tongue into the boy’s mouth while Gauthier was pulling his jeans and the rest down.

Erik had said he needed the loo, I read that as an invite, why would he say? I threw away my shirt and helped him disrobe entirely before ushering him into our shower and I kissed him until I felt jolts of warm piss on my thighs, then I sat down and asked him to piss on me all over, it smelled horsey and vile. A girly voice behind him asked what the hell we were doing, it was Gwen who squinted yer eyes and smirked, I asked her if ever she had a leak for me, too. She swiftly skirted our lewd scene, spread her thighs and parted her labia to let flow a straight gush to my face, I opened my mouth, to her great rejoice, she tasted vicious and salty. Then, spitting her waters, I grabbed her and forced her down on all fours, then peed on her own face, while Erick tried his severe shaft against her wet quim. She moaned as he humped against her entrails, I slid down to embrace her and share our disgusting tongues, she quivered a few times before he brimmed her tiny slit with gooey splatters.
We needed an all-over shampoo, Gwen liked the Geranium orange scent, she scrubbed my hair, stared me in the eyes and murmured she understood what the girls had said about me.
In the morning, there were four of us in our grand bed, Cynthia held Gwen between Kate and me, I went to brew some morning Darjeeling. It was already mild enough not to wear anything, my feet upon the table, for I had not been hungry. My telephone rang, somewhere in the room, it had slippered under the sofa, it rang again, Percy wanted to visit, she wouldn’t say where she had been lately. She showed up at the inner door, she smelled of gold and lilies, she was pale as a cloud and wore a dawn-rose sheer gathered dress and gilded sandals, a clumsy patched grand bag at her shoulder.
She relished seeing me in the raw, said she, waiting for me to strip her. She said she had been to places I knew, at Melchior’s whim, and just only now disembarked from a black berline at our doorstep. Drinking tea, she mused she had all along felt like a slapper, even if her meagre bank account had swollen beyond reason, and I knew why.
Rycroft had eventually shunned her, claiming he could no longer looker at her otherly than a mere whore. She reckoned wisely that he had not put up to see her allow her own debauchery, letting him stand in second while others connived in my ardours. During what recalled like a world trip, she had morally thrown her cotillions to the shrubs and exulted like a murmuration of multicolour starlings like never otherwise. She begged me to pinch her dainty arm to prove she was awake, I pinched her nifty clit all the same.
Kate had singled out the voice, she tiptoed out and closed the bedroom door, she hugged and kissed yet another immigrant, still only half woken, my prefered sight of her.
I told Percy that we had garnered yet another two wonder tramps, on the opposite slope she came from, for one, a sylphic stray kitten Kate had literally bought in Flanders, and a fellow aristocrat in disarray, though he be outright handsome and well-spoken, both of them versed into polyamorous eroticism, as she might guess.
Apropos, a limber genie in smooth pale amber skin had heard me and crept to Kate’s wing, cheekily giving the eye to the young newcomer, rushing out again to the loo in a cute manoeuvre to let be seen her apple bottom.
Cecile and Finlan had probably run downstairs, I could figure him languorously exposed on the sitting couch while she ostinato scrubbed dirt at the tip of her swabs, a mask on her face, Cyprien keeping at once an eye on her working and the nude body of a Saxon wanderer, all under the perfect climes of the Well Tempered Clavier.
Cynthia shuffled in, her sumptuous pyjama buttoned Monday with Tuesday, thus Gwen, in the mood of their night, went unscramble the proper order, and, by the way, titillated the purplish nipples, which made me touch my own and Percy suckle on them.
Kate was still so close to Cynthia that I might envy their manners, —although Percy was petting me amorously— she candidly enquired if Cynthia would look into Gwen’s files that would seem to sit right in her field of competence, and there I was learning a slight hint to the hidden miracle of the Dutch tomboy. Cynthia said that Gwen had told her of having been the subject matter of a medical study, and there Gwen intervened to lift out any confidentiality on her case she was sooner proud of. Cynthia pondered that there might be a chance to access the Dutch archives through Gwen’s healthcare number, though she be no longer a minor —if need be, she could be declared in France as an au-pair, if we would. In the meantime, if, in all likelihood, she participated in our Black Card watch, Cynthia could specify and fund which analyses be done.
But overall, from what she had resented heart to heart in their delicious fling, no hard feeling would linger between them two, Cynthia invited Gwen on the next day evening to a tour of her professional venues and apartment, although she be afraid that it would turn up as another delicious date, wouldn’t it?

Those who knew demanded that I make French toasts, I paraded in the cooking apron with my bum naked like in a brothel scene. Cynthia loved that and the toasts which I had laced with soft raisins, but she had duties to attend to, beyond our walls. Gwen cuddled Kate, asking for a stroll in our best-loved Paris, I claimed it was a terrific idea, all the more that the weather appeared to smile.
I dolled her up in a short cornflower blue tank dress, buttercup yellow knickers and assorted low sneakers, I donned a variegated jersey crop top, jean boyfriend shorts, white briefs and denim blue flat strap sandals. We managed to smell British cologne. Kate was the impression of a seagull, wearing all white, oversized cotton poplin shirt, tight cotton twill shorts and Egyptian Birkenstocks, and jasmine, helichrysum and neroli as a muslin veil to her Panama hat.
Percy had followed the Glaswegian light-skirts downstairs stairs in the hope to find Master Finlan sitting loosely for Cyprien, besides, she also had a keen eye for Cecile.
Gwen had not kept her crystalline aquamarine brooklet gift clutched to her neck, I gave her a thin gold chain holding a blue opal in a gold oval ring, thus Kate gave her another gold chain binding a gold-mounted quartz pebble enclosing fine lines of black tourmaline, like a pause captured in a beloved song.
We ran our shops, and everyone knew what to think of the impish tomboy we paid her whims for. She kept some of her street clouts, she amused us by telling which of the gents she might have chatted up, and for what kind of reward. At a terrace, we explained why we would not cruise our vices on the sidewalks, albeit we avowed it would bring a heap of pleasurable thrills, and apropos, we booked an appointment that evening with the lab, for Gwen obviously needed a black card as ours, that we showed her.
Born into a near-dumpster and further crushed by near-dead junkies, she nonetheless had a natural flair for the most expensive shops, and for shoes anyway, she sized the same as us. She discovered some almond-green deerskin one-button Maryjanes, emerald green Mexican round-toed ankle boots, and teal green preppy loafers, because she said we missed some of the colour green, for what she had seen.
We promise we would do good as to the underwear, because we might also have ideas from the john’s point of relish, though we let her buy cute cotton for her cute sassy arse.
She had been used to give blood and all the biotech pandemonium. The lab already had received requests from Cynthia for a full 3D scan of her innards, that, she had never seen yet. She agreed that all the exam reports be sent to Cynthia’s office, once more and she liked her new doctor. As always, there was a mix of lustful anticipation with us who knew the realm of the Hellfire Circle, whatever it was called, and of undeniable wisdom in preventing early mishaps in our bodily contraption, whatever one call it.
Gwen warned our usual gynaecologist of what he would discover beyond her labia, and she needed not any contraception because she would never pass puberty, as weird as it be. The expert looked into it, switched on her ultrasound scan, splattered some gooey gel over Gwen’s pubis, and explored a whole new world. She smirked in half-dismay, only to listen to an otherworldly description of the life of a survivor child prostitute. She mentioned that, if ever Gwen be minor, now then she would be bound to refer to the judiciary. she sighed when she read Gwen’s cards, and when she learned that the Dutch files would be shared with Cynthia’s office.
We waited for an hour or so in the tan and beige lounge of the practice, Gwen across Kate’s lap, her tapered legs over the armrest. Then the chief Doctor ushered us into the control room, gave Gwen her apparently blank card with a number on it, and said she would be looking forward to hearing about such an exceptional nature of hers, Gwen stuttered her vague agreement, clutching to Kate’s side, then we fled.
Hence she had been vetted to fly unfettered into the citadel of all whims. It was a mellow French dusk, I suggested we went right away to the Palais-Royal, and show her our own “Garden Of Delights”. Once she had enthused to a full-fledged debauchery night, I knew Sami’s number by heart to book a table at Philippe’s. I joshed it bore no bound to a high-tech corporation where she came from. I only told her our Philippe was cousin to the King Louis the sixteenth, owner of the Palais-Royal, a sworn libertine, who had promoted this finest estate in Paris she was about to see, managing a realm of concealed pathways and stairs leading to sundry of venues used as a thriving luxury brothel —clandestine or not— ever since, with one single exception during the Commune de Paris.

Sami knew we would not invite any fast fling into the most concealed empire he kept watch over, and no one had ever spilt the marbles far enough to unsettle the course of a trade as subtle as that of diamonds. There had been attempts, bouts of malfeasance in retaliation for insoluble shameful defeats, so to speak, but none had ever scratched the invisible glass dome under which a suave self-abiding republic sighs under dark heated vaults. The property of the upper venues since the construction of the new estate on park grounds had, naturally or not, followed a course of discretion in the Morroco briefcases of powerful notarial firms. Notably, the loyalty amongst members of such a republic had relied on the infrangible philosophy governing the interactions between duly consenting adults, attested by the constant updating of the access card. There had obviously blown a wind of panic at the onset of the AIDS infection, the organisation had shut off for a few years, time to acquire dependable testing apparatus, by the way, expanded to any kind of STD or pandemic. Lately, tests screened also for deadly drugs like opioids and strong amphetamines, bar recreative substances most patrons dealt with for themselves. Very few cases of distress had had to be rushed to a medical structure.
I had texted Cecile and Hugo about our plan, and they both cheered. When we entered the restaurant, Sami was already sitting at the bar, and two of us could read the awe in his gaze, trying not as yet to detail our new fairy pet’s features, by the bye more seasoned than he would ever figure.
He ushered us into one of the decor tents in the main dining room, only one other tent was peopled by a pair of starlet types who granted us the eye so as they knew we would soon carouse together when their patron arrive, Gwen breathed that they were floozies, just like her. Sami came back with a waiter who carried a tray with three salad bowls livened up with sundry coloured capucines. Visibly, the other two were vexed not to have received any such sort of amuse-bouche, Gwen naturally swayed her head to invite them on, like buddies. They barely spoke any known language, but seen up close, they shamed our flowers for freshness and they smelled of expensive scents. Gwen appropriated them with street flair, sliding a hand under the younger one’s crimson jersey skirt, sharing a yellow and maroon capucine on their lips.
Sami was now bringing ornate glasses filled with whirling streams of ice cream, sprinkled with crystallized violets and candy vermicelli, an order of the little featherbrained wonders one could figure feed on desserts. They fled like a pair of bluetits holding sherbets when some oriental gentleman in a night blue silk tuxedo stood at attention before the deserted tent where they touched down on the rounded banquette. Gwen repressed a gulp and backed upon the velvet, murmuring “Toshi” in a breath, then wiggled so as to turn her back to the other table, waffling a random comment on our sweet-and-sour salads.
It wouldn’t provoke any fuss that Gwen encountered the high flier patron the Guardia Civil had recaptured her from, she seemed to overall reckon there remained no hard feelings about an overall pleasurable cruise. Only that Mr Toshi might foster a grudge about what he figured Gwen had retold the authorities, she concluded he had known little of her, anyhow.
The sweet creams had half-melted, at the bottom of the glasses, when they left behind the known jungle decor screen. I told Gwen that was the way we would follow, too, and thus she possibly would meet again Mr Toshi, still amateur of her tight little bum, but we would chaperone her in any case. Kate had heard the full array of Mr Toshi’s misbehaving, he probably was currently on the same kind of binge, which only meant Gwen had a chance to gambol anew with him, and a pair of sweet-tasting bluetits with fake passports.
Sami came to sit along with us, and he was enthralled with Gwen, telling Kate and me that we were acute hunters, too, around hedges’ pretty sparrows. Yes, Mr Toshi had been a recent regular, and he mainly brought very young wildfowl he relished to see been ragged with pleasure, but he knew how to soothe them. Of recurring concern was that his little tramps were always only very recently adults, with printer-fresh passports, but they had always been vetted legit.
He turned to Gwen, giving her a feel of his renowned sleight, only grazing her arm with the back of his wing, I could tell the black dupion silk of his trousers was already tense with want.

Our customary puppeteer was altogether brought to boiling point and humbled by the youth and angelic spell of our little toy whore, thus he played three-cushion billiard, no sooner had we passed the threshold of the velvet maze than he was shoving his shaft into my throat in some corner, watching Kate hitch up Gwen’s easy dress to her boyish nipples at arms’ reach of Sami. She showed of not being any babe in the woods, neither, so he grabbed her nape and poked his tongue in her mouth, then helped me up and pushed us, Gwen at the tip of his drippy glans, along the corridors and stairs.
As he had done with us when Hugo had shown us the fatidic door, of long memory, after we disrobed in some sort of low vaulted sacristy, Sami pushed us to the voyeur lounge, first. Since we were keeping with her and enkindled her lust in the muffed atmosphere of vaulted crimson velvet —and the gardenia cry of abandon— she was more than available, when we passed the first opportune banquette, to ensheathe a full-length circumcised ardour in her unfettered vagina. Kate knew to madden her pinpoint nipples, I suckled her toes, just like I had been taught at school, she pumped for Sami’s relish and gulped the first load of heady semen, in bliss.
We licked her clean, now she smelled of utter lechery, the wilder scent of saliva on the skin, I lapped up her downy armpits. Along the dark viewing gallery, through the She was not intrigued seeing, through the framed two-way mirrors, half-dressed or nude women taking lewd poses on undone beds, or else giving all flavours of intercourse to men in their shirts and socks, she had done that herself, albeit not in such sumptuous decors.
Sami led us to one window to watch our two icecream lickers sharing a masterful dildo butt to butt, while being shagged in their throats by two sinewy sailors, under the eager eyes of Toshi, entirely nude, his kindly remembered by Gwen, his stiff dick in hand; and she said the baby dolls would next unmistakably be buggered doggy in boisterous turns of comparison, while kissing each other; the Japanese master was predictable, he was a constant wanker.
After the convulsive ending went remarkably simultaneously, the executioners were frankly sent away and the breathless playthings collapsed with one another, dripping out in an obscene manner, under the heated cheers of Toshi, still taut like an army flagstaff. Sami held me at my bumhole, Kate and Gwen kissed like a Hieronymus Bosch, and we were pushed on down to the hammam room.
The two Finno-Ugric sisters were already babbling under the abundant rain of the shower in a black slate alcove, Toshi, happier than ever, opened rounded eyes —as much as his oriental style allowed— when discovering Gwen, all smiles, his abducted muse. Unfazed, she muttered a few tentatively Japanese words and went to kneel at his feet; Nippon dicks are better fitted to be fully gulped, the Mikado, who had revelled in frustrating his envy, could not vanquish the skill of our savvy whore and soon hurled his load into the dedicated mouth that had just lately been trained, and so she knew he would die in bliss, she swallowed every gooey lump of it. Her victim seized her up in his arms and tasted his own in her mouth, but he certainly found no other scent than her candid tongue, he bore her to the large marble basin, sibling to that of Madame de Montespan, filled with orange blossom scented waters.
Mr Toshi was overjoyed with all of us, Sami had slipped away as the excellent conduit he was, he could count we would allow him plenty of other chances to relish Gwen’s minute arse. Toshi, while his entourage had now enriched, took a fancy to me, as I was freely devouring the smiling sisters’ quims; he grazed my bum cheeks and poked his tongue into my willing rosette, I wouldn’t have expected that he bugger me like so, he fitted in the easy manner, I helped him of all my slutty skills.
He asked for an orgy room and available extras, a tall, silky black daredevil with a tilted-up howitzer came and seized Gwen away to another tour of velvet corridors that ended in a round, vaulted, padded pit under a large black mirror beyond which we could rest assured a random audience would appreciate our debauchery rounds. Three other well-oiled black Abyssinians, all remarkably endowed, rushed in breathing heavily, so as it would end like an open bar party backstage at a hard-rock concert mayhem, none of us was spared, we ended drenched of sperm and lubricant, dismembered and dumbfounded, extinct.
I woke up in one of Sami’s berlines, Gwen cuddling up to me, Kate smiling like Xanadu, at our long-deserted street door. We smelled of jasmine and ocean dew, we slept like forgotten lullabies.

That would be a well-deserved wasted day, but the maddened tribes must have massaged our spent remains with magic hands, most of them being fully trained, professional dancers with manners. Stretching our spines, though not as easy as Gwen bantered, was not so painful, after a few steps.
A copious armful of yellow roses had been delivered in a gilt bucket with a simple card handwritten in Japanese. No one could suss how Toshi had known —unless Sami be wooed or bribed— where Gwen was hidden. She was not afraid in the least; the roses exhaled a cloud of lust, the stealth brigade that moves things over around us, here, had brought them upstairs. Also, a large purple-lacquered paper box with a famous monogram ingrained contained a harlequin abundance of macarons and pastries, such that I called Cecile and the thistle sisters for help. Everybody knew we had been mischievous till morning, Cecile had heard us go to bed stumbling, they smelled us and unabashedly fondled Gwen, who giggled. They measured the breadth of our unrepentant misdeeds by the magnificence of the bouquet of “Golden Celebration” roses, so said Annabelle —with internet wisdom. We had to retell our night, everybody wanted to court Gwen, and, as a matter of fact, everybody did.
Finlan, who had just taken a break from a sitting session, was visibly excited at the evocation of such a bawdy place as Philippe’s, thus Kate took pity, or, as drunkards say, she needed a hair of the wolf that bit her, she duly sucked the rosy pale dick of our cherry-red haired squire.
Halfway in a black macaron, Fayelle frowned that I wouldn’t chaperone her through Paris as I had with Liseron, or now a tinker-bell so pretty she scratches glass only looking at it. Everybody cheered, Fayelle wore a loose-knit cashmere morning camisole and her breasts smelled of bitter almond and orange blossom. She was right, I had been shied off by the unfathomable gaze of the axolotl while she lay with her smaller shaved head bandaged, though the imperious surgeon, whose sight made my womb melt, said she was home-free, had he known where that was. Before her collapse, she had feared a split conscience and wished to tell a professional soul-mender, who had sussed the symptom of a stroke in the making. Solicited by the powerfuls in our entourage, the Faculty had spent time gaining the certainty her mishap wouldn’t repeat, but Fayelle, while she bonded with James’ reclaimed little tramp, had begun knitting her truth with a sworn psychiatrist who certainly wouldn’t want to hear the extent of a Parisian cavalcade as some of us, and Liseron, revelled in.
Cecile, pressed to return to her work, came to hug Fayelle and told her not to dive into cold waters, to what Fayelle dared her to come with her visit the axolotls in the Jardin Des Plantes.
By courier, we then received the VIP documentation for Gauthier’s event at the Belvedere in Viena, with a heartfelt handwritten card asking us not to attend the worldly inauguration where Hugo would confront a herd of outlandish bigots. However, he would gladly treat all of us in the suites of the Hotel Sacher, if only to visit the Secession Pavilion, once the foam and chores settle. Hence it would be a caravan like a corps de ballet on tour, already in the know, Camille texted she had booked a whole platform inside the hotel, with terraces, there would be like twenty-one beds, and the new Bombardier jet could accommodate nineteen of us. Michelle had been undecided, the aftermaths of Victor’s death were shaking the grounds and metaphorically warned off a consequential tsunami. She and her pet imps loved Gauthier, thus they might fly their own wings, eventually.
It struck me that Kate had not found a moment to tell me that Victor had died. She had been able to show me into her ex’s realm, but she kept a diamond-hard secret in what had been their relationship before she had fled to Berlin and ended in the nuthouse. She only confided that they had found him on his command room floor, with extravagant levels of deadly substances in his system and no visible injection marks whatsoever, but we knew he usually did that under his tongue. More blasting was that all of his data had been irremediably erased, even the FBI were baffled, if ever. I kept mouthwatering memories, to say the least, of the expenditures at his hand, until that night when he had morally trespassed a red, red line.
I slid my hand to Fayelle’s coochie and whispered she would have some action, already, in Vienna, plus a moment before Klimt’s Kiss. Annabelle joshed we might very well capture another waitress floozie, Josephine Muntzenbacher awaited us in a Sacher’s corridor, I retorted that Bambi always made me cry.

It had been a longtime pet project of Gauthier’s, ever since school days; he would have preferred to conquer a more potent venue, the likes of Versailles or Blenheim, but the clock had run and now he had all the support he needed to properly implement his vision, be it in a truly gracious setting, not in the least evocative of the imperial might that built it. A cohort of dedicated Chinese craftsmen had constructed gigantic models of chain sequences that would look like they burst out from the ground here and there and burrow back in further. On the presentation photograph, each link was as high as him, covered in rust and decay like a titanic war’s remnants.
Gauthier rested sybilline and quizzical about his show’s meaning, he knew the visual counterpoint would operate, whatsoever; we knew that his glorious stature would make for prime public relations, one might dedicate a heartbeat to the thought of what Victor would have resented in the Belvedere Park.
The said afternoon, a motorcade of three silent berlines took away most of us and our bags; Hugo had been ahead; Cecile and Finlan flew with Lauritz, and Michelle with her protegees was still uncertain. Gwen met Fanny and Dagmar in Camille’s car, she wooed them right away, just like she had pocketed Kate and the heather imps at the restaurant in Brugge. Cynthia was ushered by Apolline into Camille’s car.
It was a new aeroplane, bigger and white, Liselotte had succeeded to be on the guest list, probably through Natalia who radiated and devoured Gwen with greedy stares. Fæbian and Lizon had achieved the proper spoiled preppy look, I was all aroused, they had thinned like Konstanz socialites.
Fæbian and I fitted snug into one of the manly-sized seats, we wore about the same manner of travel outfit, rich sportswear with loose waistbands, she gathered up her feet in pristine white sneaker socks, and I wiggled out to face her, she smelled of vanilla gardenia cologne like a rich college slut.
At one time in the two-hours flight, Natalia crouched before us and nibbled at Fæbian’s feet. She had cut her hazel hair short with the nape high, she wore a fitted caramel tank top and tight mauve dupion silk jeans, bare feet; she too looked expensive; more than once, she candidly nosed Fæbian’s crotch; I was proud of them.
It took a fleet of black passenger vans to bring us all to the centre of Vienna, and a couple of Sacher red bellboys to load the baggage trolleys. Neither Kate nor I knew whom to tip, good for them, it was Gauthier’s opening, we couldn’t be mean.
Just as I had figured, we plunged into a world of schmalzy opulence, something like a Radetsky Imperial Brothel that gave me urges to play around in the nude. Fæbian sensed I was wired so that it would be fun to keep with me, and we had some mutual catch-up to do. She roared when I unfolded my hanger bag and that she saw my parade outfits. Like a true high-flyer escort, she had, for her part, brought wise clean-cut, bespoke cocktail suits; fortunately, she could spice her game by showing a tad too much of her splendidly worked out sinewy body, and so would I.
Natalia had already donned a rounded hemmed high-waisted sequined jacket in dark motley efflorescence patterns, that set off her navel like a gem on a cloud above the crimson shantung fitted indecent trousers uncovering her slender feet in gilded thin straps flat sandals, she said Hugo and Gianni had masterminded her looks —at a price.
Kate would be nude in a flowing, gleaming, Missoni round neckline, half-length sleeves short dress, and maroon patent flat pumps; she had pulled out a Liberty set of fire opals and gold jewellery, princess necklace and wide bracelet, one only encased oval stone dangling at her left ear. Gwen couldn’t take her eyes off her.
Kate and I had connived to dress up the miracle tramp of Flanders who purred like a kitten. She would wear a smooth ironed white poplin shirt covered with white embroidered festoons and foliages like one would tell of a liturgical vesture, I had found this in the coffers of my family home in Copenhagen — had been shagged a few happy times wearing it— it reached almost to the knees, it was gathered by a mother-of-pearl plates belt. It only hid fitted shorts of shimmering white silk panne velvet, just like you would think. at her ear, the other opal stone, she couldn’t possibly wear her aquamarines together with it. She was proud to wear white grosgrain flat pumps, she was devilishly yummy.
And Gwen had not slipped off the sharp eye of Liselotte, who looked like a Weimar Berlin provocateur, in a shifted checkers satin jacket dress over a black silk bodysuit and knee-high cavalier boots —I suspected the crotch was very loosely stitched. She wore ultramarine eyeshadow and some powder, she smelled of tuberose, coumarin, frankincense and lewd desires, Gwen let herself be done, clutched to Kate’s wing, so Liselotte blessed them; at her neck, a delirious band of jet black shards and a smoothly perverted blue vein beat.

The domain was closing to the public, and we were greeted at the grand gates by the copper-headed knight himself, in a sharp peacock blue silk cady suit and a blue gardenia at his lapel. No sooner had he come forward to press hands than I had sussed out the hunky security detail around us, many of whom I had had the advantage of practising carnally, at Melchior’s estates.
The installation was displayed on the Belvedere Lake, The segments of the giant chain surging from the water and burrowing aside in the lawn, giving an impression of enormous weight and yellowing rust and decay.
On a dressed round table, a braided blonde-haired waitress attended a majestic silver samovar with its ornate teapot on top, she handed me and Fæbian glasses in silver holders, and I joshed that it might be risky to try and play games later.
Camille had joined her mighty associate Melchior in a circle of chairs, so he could ogle her new protégée, Dagmar, and Fanny, they pretended to contemplate the chained garden they had probably financed. The two girls wore fluttering chalk-blue linen short dresses, to their fun, one could figure all they kept under the veils, but we all knew Fanny was off-limits.
Predictably, a heavy, black, silent limousine stopped at the gate and Delf, in a cream and gold-striped silk adjusted suit, without a shirt, white socks in white patent opera pumps, led her bestie Apolline in a periwinkle short layered dress with bell sleeves, over frill white satin pantaloons, light blue suede ankle-strap sandals, this true-crime of a pair followed by the golden blonde Aviator in a double-breasted sunflower yellow smoking jacket with satin lapels and not much else than gold flat ankle boots, a golden telephone dangling at her wrist. Behind the thick glasses, it was obvious that she relished her entrée, for a few of us, she would always keep the smile she displayed when she raised from behind the red sofa, mostly to go pee, at the mercy of any of us in the bathroom. An unexpected band of black grosgrain across her lapel seemed to salute Victor, she would be the only one.
The sleek black silk hunks managed the cars queue with obvious authority on the avenue, next, out of a long German carriage trotted my girl Cecile, in a black silk twill with big crimson dots, waistless ruffled minidress opened to the navel, black veil tights, and black patent round-toed ballerines with a crimson knot; She sported a new set choker and bracelet of ruby cabochons. She had dressed up her ember-haired fancy squire with a black and red tartan short jacket, black silk trousers, shirt and bowtie, and black Chelseas. They were closely followed by Lauritz, crisp black in a checker-textured alpaca mix slim fit suit and a blue diamonds printed scarf-twill shirt closed with a lazuli blue bowtie, he wore black patent oxfords. She cast the gaze of an unrepentant overspent floozie, she nodded at me playfully, there were no cameras, no pauses.
Next, I felt a pang of emotion before I read through the obscured windows. Hugo had invited Ayla, and also Annachiara, as an effect of having made them meet, and considerably more, in Venice, unbeknown to me, whom he found to be smitten elsewhere, for one.
She was terrific, indecent, nude in a blouse of a transparent black veil, woven of sundry purple tartan stripes, frilled at the neck and the wrists, under a grey mauve shuffled sequined vest, her devilish hips tight in black Tussah silk trousers, black satin low pumps with three straps.
We hugged emotionally, we cried for Hugo’s relish, and she opened my shirt to let trickle on my neck, Annachiara brought tissues, they smelled of a garden with tree peonies, datura angels, wisterias and boxwoods, Hugo took my arm and led us to the restrooms. Ayla was all pride to show the others the disarray she had caused me like she always had. We dared not yet do more than pee on each other’s fingers, like mischievous brats, and Annachiara laughed.
Ayla was a perfect girl in her world, she fawned on Gauthier about his work, letting him read she had more arrows in her quiver, if ever. She sussed that she could waylay him about letting her see the Klimt inside the castle, he grinned at us and muttered that he could tell which of the guards to bribe, in-kind.
It was a pair of beer-belly bulky boys, readily amused to see rich fillies like us, Ayla easily coaxed them they would do all they liked of us if they took us to The Kiss, we needed not to be left alone, they could watch one another, and the light was still high enough. The chief told us which door to go to and wait, at the far end of the restrooms, no one would wonder what we did again in the restrooms.
When the door was unlocked, we were pulled into a dark corridor, and there were already more than two of them, but it was too late. Anyhow, obviously thinking we wouldn’t mind a little extra work, they hurried us into service pathways and stairs, until we stood before Klimt’s masterpiece.

It was time to pay upfront and they were five eager strapping lads releasing warm wooden spears, I liked that, I addressed the chief and asked what he wanted best. He seized me by my arms, sat me on the guard’s chair and told me to suck. Another had seen Ayla’s tits ants wanted more, she preferred to tell them she would disrobe, rather than her clothes be torn. As I pumped hard, keeping an eye on The Kiss, she earned some admiration and promised they would all drain their dicks. Annachiara already had a spear deep between her bum cheeks and she wiggled, taking a rest on the wall, so as her bull gushed first, followed by the next. My john forced into my throat and discharged, overjoyed to feel I swallowed all his load. The second one was thinner and long, he played easily and came fast.
All in all, so to speak, we served the seven dwarfs with all due compliments, in front of the most revered painting in Vienna. We took our time, the last of our pals in his seat watching us dress back, trampling splurting condoms so he had to fetch a broom and a mop, we found it funny, he had no idea. On the way back, he wanted to finger my arse for a minute, I let him do.
Gauthier’s eyes sparkled, he smelled us and said he was proud of us, moreover when he learned we had done the whole brigade. We spoke about Klimt. He commanded that we go to the Secession Pavilion almost first thing in the morning and misbehave in the Beethoven cellar.
Then he said Theo had arrived with Florenz Marc and had been enthralled by Gwen who spoke in innuendo poetry with Cynthia. True was that she was a walking Klimt character, strikingly swaying her hips to everyone’s eyes. Ayla asked me to introduce her. For the time being, I saw the Doctor torn as to which kind of curiosity to foster towards the white Flanders damsel whom she had already scrutinised in and out. I tentatively foresaw what sort of curveball towards Kate’s field would help keep the play sane, mostly for Gwen who had only just emerged into paradise. That one sensed I was pondering on her fate, she smiled at me and Ayla read that at the speed of the squirrel.
Liselotte had paid deferent homage to all the present mighties she had at least once catered to, and now she was bantering about the rich tableau Michelle and her composed together in contrasting colours. She couldn’t tame the fierce sex appeal of The Aviator on which most of us had bruised our wings. For the moment, Michelle kept a swift eye on the slender Hilliard Saxon and she reckoned not being alone at that watch. Her own firefly brigade of light-handed immaturity was currently bringing counterpoint to the massive volume of the rings, childishly talking with their hands, bright innocent subjects amidst the heavy drama. In an ellipse, she learned what she needed about the candid boy who seemed not to grasp all the events that had brought him there, and thus she sussed what he was interested in her. Shooting arrows from behind her crystal lenses, she fetched a slim golden telephone and called up her car.
Liselotte stood bewitched by what she had just seen happen and noticed that Delf was now answering a call, shimmying playfully. She would never comprehend the unquestionable bond that had built between the airy magician and the most spectacular mastermind she ever knew of, all she had succeeded in had been to watch Delf display her dainty nonpareil anatomy, but at that, there wasn’t a party where she wouldn’t do it. She had once succeeded at licking the small chimaera, but she had soon been shunned away, whimsically. Before Apolline moved in with Delf at Michelle’s, she had had a few light romps and boasted the glory of having gulped a drop of harmless jubilation which tasted like tears. For herself, Liselotte craved an expansive male the likes of Melchior’s unfazed security hunks, like I had retold her we had entertained at Mustique. She envied our escapades at the tycoon’s whim, but she held another part in the theatre.
While Florenz and Hugo probably traded insiders’ confidences, Theo flirted with Apolline, in conversation with Cynthia, his mentor. Natalia and Kate overtly wooed the security six-footers, enlaced so as to let be foreseen a joint venture. Ayla drew Annachiara along when Melchior left the scene with nods to all, they rushed into a long black chrome kind of Maybach preceded and followed by the squad. I could tell Natalia and Kate had made later appointments.
Cecile had designs on Gwen and Finlan, for the greater craving of the licentious overlord she abode to serve, in a mutual understanding I still had my share in, come what may.
Albeit I had gleaned a good serving of turpitude earlier, all hail to Klimt, I was in a needy mood when I began ogling the samovar girl, whose elusive glances had strewed a few embers in my shrubs that began to smell of fever. She was a young, tall, slender, Mediterranean dark-haired soft-mannered maiden, with long sleek strands gathered in a ponytail.

She was collecting used cups in wooden crates beside the table, I could tell of her firm rounded bums each time she bent. A little voice inside asked me if I weren’t a mere predator, by any chance? I remained close by the table so that when she saw me again, looking up from her chores, she smiled like despondently and I asked her name, half-candidly. She did not draw herself up and nobody was looking, she said matter-of-factly Loredana, she came from Moldova but she was Romanian; she spoke proper Middle-Bavarian at first but we drifted to French that she spoke frankly with the kindly rolled R.
When the crockery was tidied and the spectacular samovar was muffed out, she remained idle, hips swayed, her black eyes reading my mouth. I dared ask if she would like money to go out with me, I offered the figure Kate had said she paid Gwen on the first night; I received a swift slash of her black stare then she asked if I stayed at the Sacher, I reached for her hand then told her my name and number, warning that most of the party would be there, too but I did not care to attend dinner, we would order room service, wouldn’t we? We shared our numbers, she would be free at six.
Once she had gone with her boss, and I read in a gaze she gave me what manner of a boss that was, I returned to the party that was about to disband. Kate came up and watched me in the eye, asking if I had just dated the tea maid. I retold her the truth, including the price she had inspired me to offer, for the same agreement. She congratulated me, bantering that she bid the same herself for the next night, unless I plan to adopt a new filly in my stables. Unsurprisingly, Fæbian also had fathomed my moves from around the corner of her eye and came up to ask for her name, telling me she would have no future in these kinds of locations where any runaway from Hungary scored for the price of a Macdo and she knew the subject; she begged me to let her into my bed with the newbie, I understood I would have to let things happen, as long as it went smooth, and Fæbian knew better than me, as the seasoned whore in a clandestine smuggler shack as she had been, right off after she ran from her Swiss convent. I easily convinced myself that Loredan would relish my suave-mannered siblings just like I did.
As I went lauding the inventor of what would be a formidable set for a Richard Strauss opera, he said that it had been exactly what his mother had said when she had visited with her brigade of theatre fairies, so as so he was pondering on the possibility to transport the decor to their château, sprouting out of the moat. In my protestation of affection for him, he hugged me to whisper in my ear pipe that I should pay attention to the tea maid because he had sussed out that the butler manager at the hotel was her pimp.
At six, I stood on that lush kind of lookout, nude in a plush grey hotel robe, when she knocked. I almost did not recognise her, with big dark glasses, a night-blue scarf over her head, a black silk trench, stockings and flats. She was amused but kept her cool as she bustled me back in and pushed me against the closed door. She mumbled asking if that was what I had asked for? She had luscious lips and no make-up, I licked them animally, crudely, greedily, as she had inspired me.
She unbound my robe and I discovered there was nothing else under her trench, lined with deep purple satin. At her neck, a violet Morrocan leather collar offered a black metal ring big enough to hold her with. She smelled of Sissi’s garden in Corfu, at the hour of the white Nicotiana, under the orange trees, and the irrepressible waft I was already wanking out of her shadowy vulva.
She kneaded all my muscles, creases and nooks, she finger-fucked me like a professional and I took revenge in her shy bumhole that I made surrender. She kept saying she loved me, a tad beyond what I had paid for, then she was about to cry for real. I gathered her lush strands of hair and answered that, anyway, morrow night I would be gone, wouldn’t I?
I ordered lemonade, and a trolley of what the house is world-famous for; she kept hidden while I regaled the waiter with the best half of my anatomy, out of the hastily thrown robe, I tipped him royally —he could have fucked me right away, I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be my bitch’s owner, by the manner his gazes swayed. She confirmed.
I looked at her as she pecked at the outlandish chocolate torte and the other delights she knew too well. She said it was not because I had given her more money than anyone before, I knew she had been ogling me since I had commented about the tea she had been serving. She would do anything for me if I took her away from this place, she would go hustling if it were for me.
As if to help me think it over, I recognised the knock on the door, Fæbian wore only a loose colour-changing Missoni jersey lounge dress, barefoot. I called Loredana, who appeared shyly out of the dressing-room.

As the true cunning alleycat she was, Fæbian reclined on the puffed-rich pillows, her tapered feet towards where Loredana should sit, that she did, unfazed, after a glance of approval from me, I relished that mock clout on my girls. But to Fæbian’s surprise, the dark-eyed floozie began caressing her feet, with some talent, and slide up under the dress. Fæbian moaned with admiration, asking in Middle German where she might have come from; Loredana answered in French, casting an interrogative glare.
Fæbian listened silently, stroking the caramel-latte-toned skin, preciously sleek and already warmed in our heated clinch. Insofar as a shred of truth existed in the wastelands she had escaped from, she had been born in a truck, at a refugee camp, and her mother had vanished, so had said one old man who had brought her to a UNHCR station. She had unwittingly been considered a Roma, although it meant nought with regard to a famished newborn. At two, she had survived a meningitis epidemic and was transported to various structures in Eastern Europe where she had received decent pre-schooling, then to an orphanage in Slovakia where dedicated women saw to her proper multilingual primary education. Then she had been adopted by a well-to-do Slovakian couple of pharmacists in Bratislava who sent her to a Catholic school where she rebelled against what she resented as outdated obscurantism and a single language she barely understood. In the home, life very soon turned sour, the man gradually besotted her who had grown up beyond her real age, and his wife, who, aware of her husband’s shenanigans, began calling the girl all the names hate gives to Roma people in the rags of the Austrian Empire, and obsessed on finding cold-blooded vexations she could inflict her.
Since long terrorized by the outer world, she wouldn’t know whom to complain to, her mandatory experience of confession to the school chaplain having resulted in worse, and her first lessons in fellatio, under a heap of even worst insults breathed in her ear. The pharmacist knew of it all, the priest was regularly invited for dinner and her adopter ordered me not to wear knickers while she sat at the table hearing double talk about the concerns Roma populations caused to the country.
The pharmacist was a despicable dastard, he began paying her for his abuses and giving her pills to block puberty, although I had not yet seen my periods, he also drugged her, in a rear storage shack, so she would let herself be done in every manner. She had firstly mulled over the poisoning of the trio, then she discovered that Vienna was near Bratislava. She invented that the police had asked her for some ID, and said she should carry one because of all the Roms in town.
She was barely fifteen when she went to withdraw the little laminated card bearing the name she had been bearing through all systems because she had not yet been fully adopted, and chances were she would never be.
Her plan did well, having stashed most of the money she had earned whoring with the pharmacist in different creases of her jeans and coat, she had gone in the morning and watched upon the cars near a hotel, with Austrian plates, found one decent customer about to board in a recent car, and asked boldly if he would take her to Vienna. She realised too late that he had taken her for an underage prostitute and thus he drove to a retired place in the forest and raped her.
This man happened to be Juergen, head butler at the Sacher, he lived in a pretty house with a vast garden in the suburbs. He had relished what he had taken with her, he drove straight into his garage and took her to a basement room like a prison cell, just as if he had awaited her. He ripped her off everything, saying she would only need towels to clean her arse, from now on. The windows had been occulted with glass blocks, she could tell day from night, but she had lost her timeline.
He groomed her thoroughly into endless prostitution, taking pleasure in washing her, styling her hair, clipping her nails, waxing her crotch when her hair grew, and teaching her to wear a pear-shaped dildo in her arse, and do an enema when asked. A television screen could only show some twenty porn channels, lighting was concealed in a cornice at the top of the walls and the colour could be changed. It was always warm and she had not even a sheet to cover herself.
Once, a man she did not know woke her and used her a few times, insulting her while he recovered, then on she became a full-time toy, although she console herself that it wasn’t worse than what she had lived before, she used lubricant and forgot.
One morning, her abductor told her that she was now of age to work openly as a prostitute in the hotel where he was a head butler. She would pretend to be a chambermaid, bringing coffee or drinks where he would tell her and comply with any request by the clients. He was keeping her ID, she would give him all the tip money she would get and satisfy all whims of his superiors.

He began bringing her clothes, stockings, and shoes, but no underwear. He opened an adjoining room to hers to make her do her tricks in a more mundane venue, with some furniture. He affixed metal mirrors in the bathroom so she could look at herself but not break them. With ordinary television programs, she recovered a time schedule in pace with day and night. She could reckon she had to shag three or four johns per day, willy-nilly, plus Juergen who prefered when she smelled of having been copiously jizzed on.
He began another level in her training, adding chosen compliments to his lewd insults, showing her what was desirable about her and why, spending time at making her reach as many orgasms as he could. He brought plenty of sex toys, a Sybian and a fuck machine, strapping her upon the bench until she passed out. He organised parties where she served a few insatiable studs at once, but most of all, he made her like doing that sort of life when all she ever had to do was to open up her innards to anonymous dicks.
She started in the hotel as a night chambermaid, in the luxurious corridors and the back passages of the gigantic hotel. All the chain of command abused her, and then she was called to sumptuous suites where her only service was to present a fresh-smelling cunt and a clean arsehole. She never saw money but Juergen took her to exclusive shops for her shoes, her clothes and the best silk stockings. When he heard about Gauthier’s event, they said that mighty patrons would attend, hence putting her at the samovar stand where I had hit on her.
She was exhausted, now, and Fæbian had formed her decision, she would come with us, ID or not. She could not tire of the splendid mouth, she bantered that one of her regulars had been a good dentist and she was brought to his practice by night, in a truck, so he would put her under for hours in the chair and do all he wanted, including to treat her teeth.
I shuffled in my phone and decided that Camille would be the best person to call for the present course of affairs. She roared laughing when I explained I wanted to extract a young slapper from the trap she was entangled in. I didn’t know who Camille was with, but she demanded a video of my catch, and so then, having recognised the samovar girl, she assured me she was on it by all her means, Lauredana would be in Paris safe next morrow.
We had a capriccio night, our find wanted more of our own epics, she had never spoken with another harlot, in life. In the morning, Kate and Gwen came at breakfast time with all the props to make a dirty-blond tourist out of a Roma beauty. Gwen loved her, and for a reason. Two of the black silk men, the kind I would offer myself to any time, joined and watched us shower and dress up, they were not only armed. I was sure they had known all of us since long, as the French say.
We would not skedaddle like rabbits so as to cause a commotion, we endowed one of the impressive hunks to embody a fiancé for Lauredana —renamed Mara, her own idea— with the licence to act thus in every manner, which he played so well. From a side door, two cars ran off to the unmissable Secession Pavilion, and then Mara would never be seen in Vienna again for years.
Cecile and Lauritz were already listening to a gentlewoman curator who recounted the history of the unfinished frieze, Cecile was beautifully transfixed, Lauritz had gone through changes, since his mistake with the cameras in his home bawdyhouse, he had wholeheartedly befriended Hugo, who stood two steps away, watching Cecile captivated by an idea of Beethoven.
Camille had joshed that Kate and I had turned into fierce hunters lately but if she craved Gwen openly, she had missed the samovar girl, Kate had dressed her in a verdigris Liberty waistless, layered, short dress of her’s, light grey Egyptian sandals and a loose-knit ash-white cashmere shawl; behind her Hollywood shades and a puff of honeysuckle Cologne, she was impossible to spot.
Mara had null idea where and what we had come to, but she could tell all about the sturdy gallant who held her; he was dedicated enough to snog her two or three convincing long ones. I might plead his cause with his hierarchy to let him unwind some of the perceptible tension, once in the clear.
The thistle sisters were all too lovely with their chins up, they accepted the invitation by Cecile to join, eventually, the curator spoke for a much larger audience and it lasted a good hour longer, for her benefit. As of me, the throes of unleashed Belvedere guards had imprinted a dizzy spell of Klimt’s own cherubic soul, I still felt the dance of water serpents in my womb.
Aboard the aeroplane, Camille stole my samovar nymph, undid the disguise and fell in love with a Gipsy princess who had never boarded a plane before, her long Egyptian eyes queried mine for directions, so I showed her that Camille was a perfect sister, I did not let her guess she owned the whole flying bandwagon, too, and also her black silk panther.

Camille always remained my long-time mistress and never failed the remembrance of my days in her timeless attic; also was she unflinching as to her wants, all the more so now that she held near-infinite might. She told my right mind that we would sleep with Mara in her bed, not ours.
I had seen that before, the Gipsy rose knew not any composure to live by, therefrom. Another black silk man had given her back her ID and a fat stash of money, she stood nude in a vast remote apartment with two lovingly attentive women. Camille only wished that I kept taming Mara’s soul, and she counted on days of articulate conversations with Fanny and Dagmar, possibly Dr Meant, if he would, to rekindle a still young bloom of a mind.
Ms Stern’s domain had now then taken on a pace akin to a Cecil B Demille production, outworldly yet liveable for whom she decided.
The collation was brought on a silver tray by her black silk security, I jump to ask about the assumed fiancé we had used, and Mara shyly nosed in my neck. Camille grasped a gossamer link in my little whore’s affects and liked to be recalled of her past, by me, of all the sluts she had nurtured with unfailing love. She rested her cheek upon Mara’s belly and said Bernhardt would be hers all she would like.
Fanny and Dagmar touched down at my side upon the rich taupe mohair velvet cushion and playfully unclothed each other so as not to mismatch our tableau, overjoyed to share their toyish graces with a newbie whose becoming had shared much of their own, they were bringing heaps of comforting memories, they craved the dark slant of Mara’s inwards gaze, they revived the gems of spring through the frost, suddenly, we spoke a mad cornucopia of all European tongues, with crystalline fits of laughter that made Camille cry.
When Mara asked for the loo, I was faster to seize her fingers and lead her to the midst of the lavish dark gold wavy mosaic water room, hugged her tight and ordered her to pee on me, so I saw her eyes sway aside in a small abandon as I felt the warm strains down my thighs, in the overwhelming scent of boxwoods, and I let flow myself, carrying my samovar princess away to Saint Loup.

Certainly, Camille and her nixes wouldn’t let us cavort all alone. and anyone could afford a dance with a soul in need, couldn’t they? she had all the more to hear of the pair’s yarns, the good society of our redeemed alley cats who peed on us in the tepid rain. It felt a ritual, under the new escapee name of Mara, she owned a life to unchain as much of her soul as any, and sing to my own snow angels if she would.
They helped her wash the long lush strands of black hair, Fanny bantered that it must be a constant hurdle in daily life, before owning to that it was the least an expensive lady for hire should mind, in a way, but, tossing around her short bob in the shower rain, she added that she knew a snappy scissors’ artist who had bought all of her own mane once, and she never regretted because it let her run faster. While rinsing, she held the ponytail in her hand, we all sighted her dainty little ears, and then Camille shushed us saying Mara could afford long braids if she would.
We wetted quite a few towels dolling ourselves. We sat upon the convenient rattan causeuse and chair so as to pretend to groom she did not need, she retold that Juergen did that every night, all the more when she had served clients and still smelled of effusions. We tried so many and more fragrances on her, she prefered a classic, timeless, priceless idea of an iris lost in the foggy mountains of my own nordic shores, with calls of purple gillyflower, that cried out it had been done for her skin and gave her the flair of a costly prostitute.
On Camille’s grand bed, we left none province of her holy land rest, and all of us were so savvy at turning a lady senseless, we had to reckon Jurgen had supremely well broken her in, so far beyond the care of a samovar, we had stolen a gem.
I woke up alone in the Imperial bed, contented with my high-flying dreams amidst the pinnacles of Drømmeborg, greeted by the crimson ravens’ salutes, a gipsy gamine with dangling braids swirling in my back as she clutched at my wings. As I shuffled along the corridor to the breakfast room, I met that of our minders who had remembered me with wit. Nude as a picture, I stood before him and looked up to him until he dared come near and kiss me. He smelled of bay leaf, just like all of them when I had dared them in the coral stone cellar, a rekindling of my laundry room expenses in Saint Loup dormitory basements. His trousers and shorts slid down swiftly, I knew what to find, he was dripping clear drops, I pulled him back to his boss’ bed and let him slay me through like I deserved, with style. I didn’t suss the mocking notes among the merry Carillion my ears invented, then it was Camille’s laughter as she joined our sweet tussle. She whispered in my ear that she loved to watch me be humped and the big strong man actually did. When he let go of his rage and semen, he doggedly kept his staff rested against my womb wall, as I asked for more. Then he waned off and slipped out of me. Camille thanked him, casually, he grabbed his things and ran to the bathroom.
As I lay face down, she kept her face close to mine, saying she always had loved this unabashed candour of mine, that these porcelain blue eyes of mine, snug under my straight black brows had ever been a lucky charm to her, and the outlandish bawdy yarns of my schooldays.
In the kitchen, around the solid round Thonet table, their gracefully rounded arses visible through the bentwood of the chairs, the trio of born-sluts exchanged the ignominious fortuities of their respective fates, astray German terms in Dagmar’s episodes making Mara snigger.
My mistress and I acted casually, I brewed tea in the big Yixing dragon pot and in the yellow one with a braided string holding the lid, it would be a special vintage of Oriental Beauty Oolong Taiwan leaves, courier-sent by Melchior, a blessing for such an idle day. She fetched bags of lemon cookies to fill a turned burr wood bowl for the windfall doves to peck on.
She drew me to an aerated willow green moiré silk boudoir with a newly upholstered Paul Iribe “spiral” set of chairs in meerschaum-white art deco brocade that struck my self-conscience as to not seat my sleazy arse on them. She burst in laughters and boasted she would lick me clean as a rose, if I knelt backwards and spread open to her greedy tongue.
Since Fanny and Dagmar had moved next door in their own dovecote, Camille had missed a younger pet maiden, and she had fallen for the samovar girl as soon as they had been seated on the plane, I certainly knew what she meant, and she kept stroking my blooming cunt. However, she thought that, as had been the case with others of our self-interested redemptions of astray prostitutes, Hugo should first assess the core damages and put words on the wounds, metaphorically clamp the spiritual loopholes left by misery, see to refer to professional help, if any, although we know ordinary shrinks rarely care for prostitutes, whose money would be taboo.

So, Hugo had ordered the charivari of Italian verdure, salads and pies, offhandedly displayed upon the red hardwood platter resting on a life-size wooden sculpture of three crouching nymphs intertwined, in all anatomic details and à la Carpeaux gleeful smiles, a tour de force of digital modelling, the three girls had been scanned in less than two hours, while the five axes milling machine had been burrowing into an enormous block of lime tree wood glued solid. She had had to dismount one of her windows to have the piece brought in place, fortunately, it weighed less than it looked. The chairs, too, were weightless gilt aluminium cast reproduction Greek Klismos. Surreptitiously, Camille dressed Hugo in a long off-white flax robe and Egyptian sandals, although there was a contest of affection, Mara had read through me that he was there for her, and thus she wooed him and was proud to see her success.
Hugo speaks scholar German, so he grasped most of Mara’s Presburgerish talk mix, she had not really chatted with any real person since her days at the pharmacy, and her catholic school teaching was like locked in a different box she shied from. Like an archaeologist brushing off the dust from a precious artefact, Hugo reached for what could be deemed the truth of Mara’s origin, casually fondling her thighs while Dagmar licked the clear drops of his want. There was the example of Fanny —a chosen name, too— and the manner she had been granted a made-up certificate of birth and then on. Would Mara like to own an undisputable European identity, and live, like Fanny had, as an au pair with Camille, go to school and have all the fun she would?
She gulped uneasily, she did not find the question that knotted her guts, and our friendliness did not help. Fanny had a light beam, putting frankly on the table the prostitution thing, so as to swear to Mara nobody would sell her anymore to anyone, unless she asked for it, like we all did, per mere vice, or not. Come what may, she might very well meet some hunky lad and decide to root a family with him, or else a woman, who knew? We would then reckon we had had a good time with her and she had gone her way.
Of course, these were fairy tales to her —had she ever known one— but she couldn’t overlook all the knock-solid evidence of all the new wealth around her. When Dagmar eventually gulped in Hugo’s discharge, he took her on his lap and I pulled my samovar princess to a low waned-rose velvet side sofa, willing and ready to answer each and any of her doubts.
Her black eyes were inescapable, I depicted myself as your poster privilege brat, and she never had enough of my far, couldn’t stomach that he never abused further than kneading my feet, didn’t he? On the other hand, she did not feel such horror in that my brother had raped me, drunk; she had merely never had to cope with anything else but rape, herself, she reckoned, and she fostered only faint notions of what a brother was.
Fanny had a crush on her, she came on the other side and boasted about her own original quagmire, and the work one accomplishes in therapy to overcome the poisons of memory. For the night, all Mara needed was a demonstration of her worth in boundless cuddles. I turned to Hugo and offered to be his slave till morning, we dressed only enough to let the taxi driver see the road.
Although Dagmar had treated him as an archbishop, he remained frustrated not having Mara for a few days; he wanted her in his pandemonium, and he had elaborated a character of the concealed Sacher escort, like any of us, he had been smitten by the Egyptian black eyes. Finally, he asked me if I would take a dose of a narcotic so he could play with my absentee body. I was tired, and I trusted him that much.
The next day, I woke smelling of lotus and iris and mystical balsams, shagged to a happy pulp. Not inopportunely, the culprit was locked up somewhere in his labyrinth. I crossed Lena in her kitchen, who firstly took a good eye on my bare body, then hugged me tight; she had always been there.
Upstairs, Kate was mulling over her phone and a cup of tea gone cold, she wore a neatly ironed oversize white poplin shirt and no undies. She smiled greedily when I retold what Hugo had done to me, it gave her thrills but she saw me as the indestructible tomboy. I explained it brought back none of my brother’s wrongdoing and retold her what Mara had thought of them. She seized my foolberries and said that no one could figure what shame I had been hurled to, in the foggy sands, bleeding. Mara would have to put up with her own dragons if any, all we knew was a Gypsy princess’ stolen life, and we craved of her.

Ayla had slept at TRÆVIX palace, intoxicated by luxury, enthralled by Michelle’s security detail, cheered at by the two non-binary pearls when she scattered herself in the boys’ wild off-duty whims. Upon her princely futon, the Aviatrix herself had relished the heady scents of the carnal gambols on her feet, she had afterwards let Ayla kiss her true eyes in the raining shower, they had peed on each other’s feet. Ayla had woken to the sight of Michelle operating her worldwide controls standing on her head, and now she was invited to New York in the SEVEN STREAMS penthouse. We laughed at Michelle’s sudden vagaries, but we knew Ayla was worthy of it, we told her she had no idea of the lifestyle the two associates sustained along with Melchior in New York, and I told her of the terrible twins of Julia’s, worth a week length by themselves. Besides, I knew she would hook up clubmen in heat ready to bankroll her tight little bum, had she ever met the consortium’s lawyer and his goons? She liked my tea, she casually fondled Kate’s peachy quim and said she was available.
The gang of fruity-smelling nymphets barged in from the city Sun. I did not fathom who was the slender-necked Louise Brooks, nor did Kate and Ayla who were making out lazy on the couch. Natalia had been called to rescue but could not help the decision to cut Mara’s thick hair spectacularly.
La new girl wore a light mauve jersey tank dress with navy hem bands, a sugar-wired Natalia made her whirl by the tip of her fingers, then pulled down the dress, Mara flaunted timid breasts, her skin cinnamon latte smooth as raw clay. Ayla had twigged out a sister and relished the natural hip sway, I bet she was thinking of a price for that she saw. They had found the perfect matching tennis shoes, but I needed to cuddle the feet. Her crotch smelled of vanilla tonka marzipan, I was the first to taste it.
They had brought bags of candied fruit cookies from Delaplace and told us the tall lady boss still reigned in her faux-marble counter, they also said that a blond attendant had arrived from some flourished province with a head-turning alto voice, Maya laughed when she sat on my lap, she was my girl, I licked her neck.
Natalia joshed she was impatient to show another new bomb to the highly intellectual clients she entertained at home. I claimed I had first say and we had an appointment for the first check-up that evening, hence I explained to the Sacher maid what the black card I fetched was, and the network of vetted suitors it would recommend her to. All that, she grasped swiftly, she undoubtedly was some savvy harlot.
Alya had a sweet tooth for Natalia’s candy, she offered to go along with her, that was a devilish deal, I swore I wanted a full report. She texted something and soon had a funny answer.
Mara was turning my black blank card with a pensive gaze, she was only now acknowledging I was as much of a prostitute as she had been, however, remained to substantiate I did not feed some manner of a pimp, au contraire. I decided we would christen her new vademecum of lust no later than that night, and Kate was in with us. Camille bantered that sluts will be sluts and Mara had codes. Fanny was still barred from proper prostitution, she had still harrowing conversations with Dr Méant who feared they had not yet cleared all of her mental minefields. However, they would relish listening to Mara’s report of Fantasyland that at least Dagmar had experimented.
We went to the usual practice together with Kate and unclothed entirely for the habitual swift palpation Mara never had had. She commented that the operator was gifted with the needle, Juergen had not been that dainty with her baby veins. I explained we did the test every month or so, and so did our would-be partners, I had never known of any incident or contamination. We made fun of the speculum, just like schoolgirls, breathed deep when the nurse took a smear of our wombs, and then she was in for some ultrasound and she did not know what it was, she was impressed to see what the operator told her was her live organs, in bluish grey, then in colours, she obviously was in full health. Kate and I didn’t need that for now. We dressed and sat in a salon waiting for more, as a proper contraceptive solution for Mara. As she sat on my lap, I made her feel the tiny implant under the skin of my inner arm, we vaunted the comfort of a two-year solution which was monitored by our regular checkups. Anyhow, the gynaecologist would see Mara alone and make sure she did a personal educated choice.
One hour or so later, after we hit on a lovely redhead nurse who ignored nought of our lustful lifeways, for good reason —we traded our numbers— Mara received her shiny card with one golden number on it. My want was to show her, without prejudice, our best amusement house, in the most elegant estate in Paris. We needed no further sartorial attention, we walked across the pedestrian bridge.

The Jardin Des Tuileries was still open and crowded with naughty strollers who took us for what we were, Mara said Juergen had made her cruise many times and bring the johns in a parked van to ogle her and get sucked under the concealed cameras; she was raped sometimes and the boor was plundered before he ended, in front of her who made some comedy.
She liked the Palais Royal under the waning skies, we showed ourselves at Philippe’s and asked for Sami, who had been called out, I could guess what for. An Alexandre then ushered us to the painted mirrors-clad room, not our usual but quiet and elegant. He spoke chastised French, stood straight-up in a black silk three-piece suit, a lilac pale shirt and matching tie, he bore black curls combed back. He saw us crush on him but he was all eyes for Mara who played shy cunningly. He grasped that we were on a visit tour but he asked for our cards, noticing one was sparling new.
As we fussed about a dinner, Alexandre proposed to bring an Imperial rice pudding and let us play with it. Indeed it was a rich creamy moulded mound rife with candied fruit, the recipe from the Sultan’s harem, an odalisk dream. As we refused alcohol, he brought pitchers of orange blossom orgeat. I joshed they didn’t have a samovar and a slave attendant. Kate muttered there probably were keen eyes behind the crackled mirrors some who had seen us numerous times in all postures but Mara never, hence the whole labyrinth must be buzzing about the Gypsy Princess and her slender wrists and ankles, the sunglasses having kept her eyes concealed.
We took some childish tease to announce what she was about to witness into these walls, unbeknown to the bustling Parisian populace, a thorough parade of the worldly debauchery, all the consented turpitudes of leisurely libertines, so much more enlightening than any kind of sports. Money was expended, obviously, though so much more sensibly than in gambling, for the profit of the highest talents in harlotry. Here, mothers sold their daughters in the first bloom, uncles auctioned their prized nieces, and college sluts cashed in for their sparkling smiles, just like the shrewd shop attendants who had enough of sweating their day in cheap underwear in their nylon smocks for some miserable paycheck, and saw no future marrying some beer belching lad who would beat them when they would have enough of his despicable dick, raise children who would become the only wealth of their sad lives, provided they did not sink into an addiction or another.
There, there, we had not come to sell her like her Austrian boor had tutored her to bend in, we were her johns, still, from an inside pocket I fetched the same money I had first paid her and told her to pocket it, to mark the line of reality, and I slid a hand under a dress I had worn too, she wore no knickers.
I had sensed her inner clockwork tick when she had reckoned she was my bitch, again, and thus also Kate’s. Those who were peeping on us now, not impossibly in the higher circles of the Club, must have relished her deferent attitude then, and the marks of lasciviousness in a well-trained for-hire girl.
We had time, she was bent on my shoulder and her skirt was almost hitched-up, my and Kate’s hands grazing her thighs, serving her some promises she had probably heard before, avowing we were actually the biggest whores in that place, and there was no going back, but we would watch out that, from then on, she owned her own self, like the genteel floozies she had seen at home, and all those we had adopted, whatever vices she would indulge in, bar threatening her life.
When Alexandre returned, with apologies —but I was certain, having known the routines for years, that he, and whomever, had appreciated the kind lecturing of our young newbie— he smirked seeing she had lost her shoes and her undies, like he would see so much more soon. Mara’s shoes in hand, we followed him through a turnstile of antique doors in one of those warm corridors where he suddenly cornered us three to steal a frank kiss on Mara’s pouting mouth, then asked her in broken German if she was there to get shagged, like us. She had a whirling move of her neck and said, in French: “gently”. He laughed and made her giggle pecking behind her ear, while he was lifting the whole dress off and kneading her buttcheeks. Not willing to rest beholden, my hands found his considerable prick and freed it with fierce envy to suck it. Kate was in love with Mara’s toy breasts.
He pushed us ahead towards one of the narrow spiral staircases that climb through all the main walls and told us to go down into a round vaulted room thickly carpeted with crimson wool, lit feebly with a line running at the base of the walls, it smelled of an old-time potpourri, cinnamon, benzoin, and roses. He turned to Mara, fingered her open quim, told her she was soaked with desire and that he craved humping in, that he did as we were cuddling her.

She spread open wide inflight, moaning for some mindless drilling of her tight entrails by the trigger-happy stud she hadn’t seen less than two hours ago but who had scented her wants as much as ours. And she uttered a litany of heartfelt “Jawolhs!” and “Jas!” on each thrust of her practised pelvis so much so I came to doubt of being the best fucker around.
And she was learned in exulting unfettered or was it that our welcome opening had struck all the right chords in her best song? Alexandre’s juice tasted of elderberry, out of Mara’s blooming coochie, and Kate was sucking clean a worthy stand-in for Sami’s flesh gun.
And now we could see that a becoming young lad in some simple creased off-white pyjama and no shoes, brawny yet svelte, had trailed us and carried all our abandoned wares, with meticulous care, albeit not avoiding one glance of our frolics, hence our course down to this plush dungeon had been sneakily scripted, regardless of my promises of remaining inconsequential. However, Mara enjoyed heedlessly the expense, Alexandre having pulled her up in his arms, she was kissing him avidly while I saw her drip like a beast.
The next room was one of the baths, with a round middle basin of green marble, sized for an orgy, already peopled by sundry nudities obviously ready to play. He carried his greedy catch till under a generous shower of tepid water under which we had nought better to do than kissing, too, as ever, Kate whispered that she had been a tad more cautious as to Gwen’s, so I confessed that here my intentions had been overridden and my samovar princess was a hell of a happy whore, would she teach us of a subterranean realm underneath the Hofburg?
The discreet gofer was back, hands-free, nothing more to pick up from us, only that my sassy womb itched. He was still beardless, with the lashes of a girl to his madder-brown eyes, a straight wise nose, a most appetising mouth with perfect teeth, he must have been hand-picked by the likes of Sami who is as pushy about male trainees as he is for the part-time nymphs. Letting him stare at my insolent smile, I deftly rummaged through his light vesture and found the mere riband that held up his trousers. The orderly at attention belied the smooth adolescent face, and so did the playful set of balls, I asked him if he would partner us, Kate untying his shirt buttons downwards. He had been well educated, he pouted his mouth to mine and the kiss was worthy of my best elations, I could smell a hint of my roses and boxwoods shadows, I loved him for that.
Nude, he was flawless and groomed to perfection, we all slid into the waters on the polished stones. With help from my soul-sister, his young staff went steady to the hilt into my greedy vagina at the whim of our weightless bodies, one onlooker making his move along to ask for Kate’s permission for her arse that she graciously offered to the offence while she continued gleaning love all over our faces. Once the ranks were broken, it became free for all and thus I soon felt another stubborn push on my pleated intimacy while the intruder growled in my ear that he had done me quite a few times before, I only had to spread a mite wider and he loved me, I swam so as to keep the Botticelli in due place, he would be all the more massaged to completion, which burst no sooner than he understood what went on in me.
Mara and Alexandre dipped in another group of the whirled cauldron, and Mara was stolen away by stooges of Poseidon, out of her depth in the centre of turmoil, soon refloated with a spur in her bumhole and ready for more. A face of a mermaid that came to help her afloat surged amidst my merry bustle, Seresine! a regular water lily of these wells, a gracious full-time libertine, well-bred with some conversation and suave fragrances, she would ensnare a young Mara in her realm.
My opposite humpers gushed almost simultaneously, tightening their clench till I passed out, briefly, while Kate panted and Mara was heaved out by Seresine towards a padded mat on dry grounds and cunningly cuddled.
The arabesques that cum drew in the waters slowly drifted to the drains, a scent of freshly crushed weeds, a longtime precursor of that of boxwoods for me —Kate would tell of dune creases— I went to claim my little sister harlotee, and by chance, Seresine did not speak German.
Seresine conceded to my manner of ownership of a treasure I had stolen from her pimp and who had now justly demonstrated her talents, she understood —we liked each other kindly— that Mara was not for sale by me or by anyone but herself. I went on fiddling with her toes, Seresine poked her tongue all over her face and twirled her hair into a Greek mane, she kept fawning me as if Mara grasped her words.
In the wee hours, we let be driven home, I kissed Kate and I took Mara with me to the first floor, we went tiptoeing into Hugo’s grand bed, where he would find us.