Hugo says:

For months, Gauthier had been sweating at night over this grand friendship masquerade at his mother’s dream factory. He had come into being among us with opportune synchronicity during that diversionary visit the girls and I expended to the predictably inane Biennale in Venice. Kate, then, sleepwalked under the formidable influence of good Prof. Schubert’s hypnosis, Sarah on the lookout for drift symptoms, Camille proud of both of them.
There had existed a perspective of mutual attention in their schooldays, the polyamorous flair of the copper-headed knight and his slender bearing cast him a tad ahead of times and right into tomboy Sarah’s leanings, thus reflected also upon our evasive fairy, whom she had long craved, while she dwelled in Camille’s bed. Patient Sarah, little did we know then, which lifestyle Kate had indulged inside Victor’s pandemonium.
His father gone, like a draft on grey dust, however not escaping thus Gautier’s grudge, his mother sent him to Berkley, California, in hopes he shake the French provincial crust. At the time we crossed him in the Venice Biennale’s eatery, he had landed an otherworldly position in Valparaiso, Chile, though it seemed more romantic than anything.
No sooner had he shared Kate and Sarah’s bed than I felt free to fondle, wank and suck his treasure in the burgundy silk robe.
While he prolonged his stay with us, enthralled by the games I stirred up in my own house, asking him to oversee the workings necessary so as to offer a dignified installation for my resident artists’ mistresses, he learned that Valparaiso had burned with most of his earthly possessions, and seemingly his sentimental bonds or hopes there.
I introduced him to the elusive Melchior —who had heard me sing— so then on he could afford a proper standing, although as a private address he prized the den he had shaped up under our roof, next to other favourites’ dwellings, such as whom had grown to be the house fairy, only daughter of Lena, my Ukrainian all-time housekeeper, Natalia whose lively presence could surge anytime but never at contretemps (I relished discerning her hidden in the shadows peeping unabashedly on whatever was happening in my bed). His first grand amour, Donovan, son of one of his mother’s British seamstresses, had visited often and then set the track for a career in Edinburgh.
After they inherited the cumbersome château amidst its moat, he took over a total work-up to re-make it his mother’s home and workshop. At the time when Gautier’s father had blown all his fuses finding him in bed with Donovan who had just given him his first ejaculations, she had moved out her whole operation of costume design for theatre and films to a large disused farm elsewhere, and not talked again to her husband till his death.
Nowadays, the grand attics of the two wings remaining of the ageless building, in one corner of the vast paved square yard, contained one the proper sewing workshop, the other the fitting stage, lit on all sides with dormer windows, provided with all the necessary utility and comfort rooms.
The main floor, on a restored rustic layout, can’t lodge many private bedrooms, thus allowing a gentle barrack lifestyle and indefinite shenanigans, all the more that there exists only one common shower room in each wing, with some aligned washbasins on one side.
Gauthier, still inhabited by the elating efflorescence of his childhood summertimes, together with the cosmopolitan colony of the seamstress ladies’ brood finally speaking with their hands, had spent care and attention to comfort mostly granted by lots of space, if not privacy. And he had learned from Sarah the kind of polyamorous laisser-faire she had revelled in at her singular boarding school in Switzerland, while Gauthier willy-nilly learned the deadly games of hypocrisy with the so-called good fathers and the confession game.
Nonetheless, he had been able to arrange twenty-some formal additional guests’ apartments in the old commons on the other sides of the yard, and the old bare-walls chapel provided a small theatre for companies.
In the parc, where one walked in across two bridges at a right angle from the yard sides, furthered on by lime trees alleys, Gauthier had overindulged his mother with a collection of follies and gazebos, some new, some reclaimed, and a rounded swimming pool, where a pond had once been. A family of gardeners lived on the far end of the outer wall. Gauthier told me he had yet said nought to Sarah about a remaining box trees grove amidst which he had transported a two-floors cottage with external stairs up to a pokey but snug lovenest, we tried bets as to with whom she might elope in there. Most anyone in the suave crew, had he said.

After the miscreant but dignified agapes in Vienna, I had sussed that Sarah needed some favour from me, and I had made her pay upfront — not that she should regret any— that being only to vet her last crush on a higher tier than she could have, the little prostitute she had asked the power that be to help steal from her pimp showing deep moral loopholes, or not.
I had heard the same manner of demand from Camille about the fair imp Gwen, so, being altogether a dependable friend and a major debaucher, I conveyed both sweet hirelings to my perfumed lair, to cavort, obviously, and to test if a voyage in my company would meet their favour? A faraway, lazy sojourn with only the sun, my dick, and my brain to care for, not even jet lag in Seychelles, a most private parenthesis to spill whatever beans, pebbles, or embers they would, hopefully, to help them sort their fate.
Both of them had been sold like sidewalk puppies and albeit had apparently not derailed, if carnal beauty means —as I tend to believe— superior wisdom of being, although it may kill all the same. On a hunch, I pushed the envelope a tad further and offered a fee, just like I would to Ayla or Annachiara, I am a trustworthy client, and so it worked, for now, giving us time to rewind our clocks gently.
After I handed the fresh notes in two envelopes, I took all the time to watch them dither like blue tits on your plate, so I told them all they should do, little by little, to disrobe each other, like the puppeteer with invisible strings, they let me do.
Incidentally, I was glad to inform Ms Mara Lupu she would detain a first new passport once she meets our good Samaritan friend from the secret services who had procured one for Fanny, he would be all too happy to meet her at morrow lunchtime, right here. I had agreed to meet casually one of his correspondents on the islands, also, she might help by retelling her already bustled course at the hands of her abusers, Camille and anyone they chose could help her, and Fanny would certainly oblige.
Mara could not frankly buy up my tales as news, but Gwen explained where she had been coming from, so as to give credit to our clout. And anyhow she would have to feed her fingerprints into the network, by the way.
They enlaced like baby otters and kicked at my fiddling their toes. Mara showed faultless laser-sleek legs and pubis, purring at my compliments but reckoning it was the result of Juergen’s fetish, and she also had had to pay his friend dermatologist in kind, a reason why he had been so thorough, like the dentist.
Gwen liked to banter about not growing hair elsewhere than on her skull, she is such an easy wonder, she is the wild rose that grew amidst a heap of rubbish, in spite of it all. She said the man called Kees gave her a yen for exact language, then he was sacked for having slept with her, who was his patient in the State’s custody. No one listened that she needed him. He disappeared.
They kept clinging to each other, like dreamy castaways, unaware that I could desire their lanky pair, although my crinkled shirt in the open kaftan let see considerable interest. Neither did they manifest for food that lay a little further on the table. the moment should have been filmed, with subtitles, like an uncompromising art manifesto.
In those few days, Mara had gained over Lauredana the free swirls of the neck and up-chin poses, with lovely self-conscious fringe sways, nought of the underbearing gazes by the samovar odalisk Sarah could have afforded so easily. She gave us a hilarious rendition of the confession of a naughty little girl to a drooly priest, although she knew none of Pierre Louÿs’, yet. She, too, owned the correct language albeit it had been laced with the poison of bigotted education at a time when she nonetheless had to endure the apothecary’s vices and experiments —quite a few times, she had fainted in the classroom after he had drugged her the night before, therefore he had restricted his practice to Saturdays, causing her to sleepwalk at Sunday Mass. Later, when Juergen injected sleep-inducing poisons into her veins, she began to like it, like so when he sold her to his buddy the dentist, who left her clean and light-headed after an afternoon of she did not know what, but her smile was stellar. She feared being a hardwired toxicomaniac, though not properly an addict. Gwen too, by the time she was the Marbella Lolita, had been drugged for vice a few times, she had liked the wakening dreams, except when her bumhole had been inconveniently busted, but overall she wouldn’t ask for more of that.
With my achingly hard dick in hand, I was figuring my own ghostly nights with Sarah smiling to the angels, or at the crimson crows of Jægersborg Dyrehave.

Next dawn, they held each other like featherweight cubs, like not breathing at all, serene. The willow-green silk quilt I had thrown upon them was still in place. Null hurry, the car would await downstairs in an hour, Mara responded to my foot massage, Sarah had converted me to total foot adoration, fine, slender apparatus that shoes seldom did justice to, although I surprise myself leering at tennis sneakers, simple pervasive ones, those Kate and Sarah always had shared, designed to perfection a century ago, when I meet gangs of school kids on our narrow sidewalks —the invention of invisible socks has heightened the seduction, uncovering the essential Achile’s tendon.
Gwen preferred coffee and dipped in it her toasts, overloaded in mirabelles jam, Mara tasted my tea in my cup and liked it, wandering a hand to my dick, at the risk of killing me, making Gwen snigger.
They would travel very light, having been told they would gambol in the nude most of the time. For the flight, Sarah had dressed Mara in a simpler-than-that-you-die burgundy jersey t-dress and for Gwen, an oversize white mostly unbuttoned cotton shirt. They had stuffed a haphazard change of clothes in their backpacks, I carried a much more considerable suitcase.
Our friend in the not-so-secret services, a great admirer of Fanny’s since her evasion to here, was again smitten by rescuees on our shores. He already knew most there was to know, he only needed Mara’s prints to seal the biometrics in the passport chip and lay the transparent film on the main page. He had brought a compact case with him, he connected the computer in it to our wifi and scanned Mara’s fingertips, keeping her hand a tad longer and she let him. He warned her that this passport would raise eyebrows at most controls, particularly if she went to America, but at worst it would mean one or two hours of checking. The girls had not really taken the time to slip on underwear, and now, the officer could see it, he blushed, they apologised, he looked up to me and he fled.
On the slate-blue backseat of the berline, they still held hands, face to face, eyes in eyes, to continue their savoury tales of forbidden exploits of which none raised vital alarm as to their further becoming, not that I would be blasé of more depraved courtesan stories, they are my miscreant gospel of sorts, all the more when uttered by candid voices. I listened, with dedication, any means of recording, even a pencil, would ruin the magic flow, if need be, in the end, it would be the highly specialised task of a professional to help them sift through their own bright souls.
Mara came again about her new passport, it felt magic, she hadn’t even known her birth date before. Gwen told her not to worry, they had told her everything about her, too. At the boarding desk, they also noted that the passport was brand new, but the computer confirmed it was valid, a car took us to a Falcon, it would be a ten hours flight.
I wore a limestone white silk and flax suit and braided leather oxfords, I would soon change that for radical off-white djellabah and babouches, such is the luxury of flying private.
We had a blonde Lithuanian attendant, Canadian pilot and copilot much in the taste of my excited gremlins who had kicked off their sneakers before we rolled to the runway. They smelled of the same seashore Cologne they had ferreted in my cabinets, a tad rosier on Mara who stole me a wet kiss the attendant did not see.
We came to obey and strap down on our seats while we reached fifty thousand feet and my two imps were exhilarated by the blaring light, we would soon cross the Mediterranean and then the Sahara, what a lovely planet.
We were offered decent tea and coffee, lemon cookies and shortbread, but the skinny imps weren’t interested. Mara cuddled up along my side and Gwen along with Mara, who continued to unspin her eerie clew of a life; she, too, would have now to assess where it had once started to pull.
We needed comparisons, I asked Gwen to show her Dutch passport, and I pulled out mine. Although she kept vague memories of an errant misery as a manhandled little thing, she had once learned where and when to prune off the dead scales of bygone palm leaves, whatever they had been, just like a long-stray sheep would be sheared off the overgrown wool —Both of them had seen that video on youtube with some hunch of Deja Vu.
We mingled unabashedly on the double seat, the attendant had retired to her booth. Gwen dared read my passport, which boringly stated that I was born where I currently live, and I should say the same of my whole ancestry since the great Revolution when all the christening archives were burned —a rare quality as such, did I banter with my hand on Mara’s thigh, considering that Paris has grown from 500 000 inhabitants in 1790 to 11 million today. I served them a considerably romanced biography of mine, justifying my apparent ascendancy and wealth, avowing it be a condition one is born in.

In case it would trouble them, I protested my strong belief in culture as opposed to nature, as in I wouldn’t think I would have done better than them in the situation they grew up in, and as far as I could tell, they had managed to glean enough seeds as to flourish, just like Lady Hamilton hitting London’s pavement at thirteen; the hen mothers in the coop would help them learn and grow up, just as the others of their delightful kind they had already met.
One by one, I retold them what I felt I could of each of the radiant boarders. They were fascinated by Michelle so I told them she would be the most elusive of all, to what Gwen bantered she had slept with her and it had been all tenderness, I was stunned.
Camille would deserve a ten-pound novel to herself, Mara said that Sarah had given her to Camille but she loved the manner Sarah loved her. I tried to disentangle these wires, starting with Sarah’s character —letting Mara sway her gazes all she would— the tomboy daughter of a high-ranking UN diplomat who had, since her suckling and crying age, been the only one shushing her by twiddling her tiny feet and he unabashedly still did nowadays, assuming the incestuous grace it showed, even in the posh restaurants he took her to. From misty Denmark, she had moved at six to all-sunny New York City, to live on the fantasy-rich terraces of Tudor City, between the glass curtain of the UN and the steampunk ghost of the ConEd dead east River plant. It had been an unreal epoch of VIP venues and terrorised bodyguards, dance lessons and highly monitored teaching with cosmopolitan pupils, the fairytale version of the latchkey child, with unexpected Sunday brunches at the Met.
Then she had been awfully betrayed to the core of her soul. With her brother, they went to Denmark in the summer, cousins had a grand house on the Jutland coast, she was the youngest of the tribe of teens. One morning, she had woken with the worst hangover, nude in the cold sand, blood tracks on her thighs, in the wild behind the property. She snuck back inside, washed and cried endlessly. It had not taken long before her boorish brother, fifteen months her elder, showed by mocking her that he had been there all along watching and using her too, with details. He had always fostered hellish jealousy towards his father’s flaunted pet girl, he hated her said porcelain-blue eyes, he wished he had killed her. Without snitching, not showing she was suffering in every manner, she obtained to be sent back home, like a whim spoiled brats have. She spent the rest of the summer watching the old power plant being torn down. It wouldn’t be before next year’s spring break, her disquieted father having taken her to a grand London week, that she retold the sad affair of why she was disturbed. For months, her dad had understood she was troubled, though her mother had nil concern about her since her birth —that had been complicated. He had been mulling over a solution, hinted by some colleagues, so, between a hilarious luncheon at Simpson’s and opera dance, he announced she would board at the creative lake shore house of Saint Loup —no hyphen— a ball-kick away from the many agencies of the UN in Geneva, thus he would meet her even more than in New York, and this is where she learned the core of her magic, you will find.
She carried an impressive portfolio when she joined, on a grossly outdated idea, the Paris Beaux-Arts and met the Franco-German northern fairy Kate, as unabashedly libertine as herself, was it revealed. She had been steadily incestuous with her brother Simon and was fondly in love with Cynthia you have met, a poster figure of middlesex pride, who recently settled a much-needed French non-binary research office in the midst of our labyrinthine walls, as it happened, after Michelle found some precious affection near Delf, the stray nonbinary found by Kate in a worldly orgy, somewhere rich.
My two scruffy companions had moved to the same side, so as to keep fondling each other while I interminably sketched a frame of what magical garden they seemed to have set foot in, more ways than any, if they pleased. They learned that many of our daily shipmates had been rescuees in their sore lives, we entertained stooges to bring us amendable human wrecks, provided their case would not rather pertain to a hospital that we are not.
Mara asked more questions about all the palatable characters she had had the leisure to leer on from behind her samovar, with her hard-learned sense of lustful affairs. I did not pursue naming names, but I thought I was elaborate enough to let her feel that I depicted genuine sad fates turned as blooming as she could see. And I swore there would not be any other manner of penance or cult-abiding hotchpotch, no one ever more owned either their bodies and minds, even if Mara craved to belong to Sarah as helpless as she had to her pimp.

Gwen knew more of life’s reality than Mara, only just out of her shackles, but she relished the obedient dedication of her kisses and canoodlings, she kept nosing in her neck to sniff her girly soul. She asked just aptly about the unnamed fellowship of black cards. No one would know for sure who had pulled the strings, it had existed in the times of proper brothels, when Royal Princes and sundry Lordships had feared mainly syphilis for which no cure existed, but an appetite for all available lust raged all the same. In London, a Hellfire club provided very young virgins in derisory hope they would not have been tainted yet, which alas was rarely the case as to the poor population entrapped in prostitution. A century later, an even worse curse spawned out of the jungle in the middle of the enchanted parenthesis science had bestowed on humanity and spread helplessly.
Hence, while personal computers accomplished their universal copulation, and Roland Moreno fathered the now ubiquitous intelligent plastic card, some among us sussed we should promote a universal shield against all sorts of health menaces and furthermore constitute an efficient tool for preventive medicine, copied by some Swiss health insurances.
Isn’t it worth the quick blood test to thence be allowed to cavort freely through the warm corridors at Philippe’s?
According to an ante request, we were served vegetarian delicacies, bar some eggs and cheese to concoct a thick asparagus and cheese pie. I frankly knew not what these slender animals had been fed before they come to graze on our grounds, but they confirmed they liked our ordinary, in puny shares. They went to pee together, I heard giggles.
They needed to know my compliment on every person in the Court, and it was indeed a princely amusement to show them where our fantasy peerage had been salvaged from, as selflessly on my part as I could, in the situation I revelled in, aboard a private plane with two irresistibly unkempt courtesans. Nevertheless, I did not rest in my self-assigned damage assessment mission.
Firstly, to let them do their trade here frankly and I do mine, no fuss and no sham promises, neither Kate nor Sarah had been out to collect fresh meat, these two had called for help, out of the mash of their situations, I would see to it —and Camille wanted to adopt another damaged sparrow.
Now, Mara’s taut abdominal belt moved me, and more, as Gwen remarked, who had hitched up her buddy’s dress, leaned over to suck my willy like someone who did it since she had been walking. Out there, the desert continued endlessly.

 

Sarah says:

They had returned from the heaven of flying foxes, one of the most gracious animals on earth, And they had already been invited to the glamour golds of TRÆVIX, meaning that I found my samovar nymph without even a mere kerchief on her skin in the arms of Apolline and Delf on a grand salon sofa, lights muted. The scene enchanted Camille and Hugo across the room, she handed me to sit by her, repeating that she stole my little whore. I retorted I knew of means to turn Mara into a delightfully crying captive, just like she had done with me, in times; she made sure I did not wear knickers under my casual powder-blue tracksuit.
To my mundane questions, Hugo made harebrained answers that I decrypted as altogether serene foreseeings, just as in my own hunch. I crept on the carpet to my prisoner’s feet and licked like a puppy to her moanings. Gwen had been somewhere happy with Michelle who held her at the waist, she wore one of my grandfather’s shirts, with a blue-crowned monogram on the chest, Michelle was apparently nude in a gleamy dusk-yellow jersey lounge gown.
Cecile and Finlan arrived, smiling, a few steps from each other, he wore black twill jeans, a black silk polka dots shirt and new black chelseas, she had played with the boy, obviously. Gwen ran to hug him, and so he liked to feel her in the simple shirt, she introduced him to Michelle, who did not shun his eyes, either. Kate followed, with Fayelle and Annabelle, for once showing her dainty legs out of sage-green-crepe adjusted shorts I craved to put my hands on. None of them wore shoes, Fayelle went bare in a white Bansky love rat printed tee-shirt, and Kate also showed almost all under a much more expensive variegated zigzag jersey silk minidress —all her nails iridescent mauve. The trio looked like they went partying. Kate pushed Finlan onto a sofa and caressed his neck, sniffing whatever Cecile had left in his hair, then begged for a real kiss while her hand grazed his fly.
Cecile wore indecently wide black silk taffeta shorts under an ironed white poplin oversize shirt, Camille called her over and capsized her over, she smelled of magnolia.
Gauthier and Natalia, having sussed another legs-in-the-air gathering, had conveyed men-at-arms, and indeed I needed a cock to dance on. Fulgence had always feared I shunned him; in a head sway, I invited him to look at the new damsel who showed her licked bumhole, but I seized his dick at once and meandered so as he couldn’t avoid shagging me while we shared sucking Mara’s arse.
Camille knew, because he told her these sorts of confidences, that Cecile liked Gauthier’s lance and the way he used it, so while they embraced, she lowered the shorts in an obvious manner for the copper-headed knight to poke his tongue and make it swagger sideways until he felt like hurling his staff into the perfect rosette, which he did at Cecile’s puff and pant pace.
The momentum was quietly building, our two new fillies at ease with their much-deserved vogue, myself thoroughly humped to the hilt. However, in a glimpse, I caught a wisp of fondness in a not-unknown gaze and the familiar black silk livery, all the more reason to arch my rump to my present genteel assailant, so as to kindle the returning lansquenet.
So thus I guessed —after a vibrant wave short-circuited my brains for a scrap of eternal and gush in unison with Fulgence, showing him we could partner just as well as the Czarina and her Cossacks, with both hands he twisted my neck to give me a full mouth of friendship— that our ewe lambs and their shepherd would have flown back from the islands in an almighty company, so as the leering eagle-eye Mirebalais attested? I took my newly appointed trusted operator to the convenient shower room, I told him he had never before shagged me so well; he had started to lick my face over in the tepid stream when I felt another stiff diddle easing its way into my prized bunghole, he smelled of bay rum and Mustique, Fulgence hugged me tight so as I could let myself be done in a dream.
Melchior sat at the far end of the round table in the silver room, opposite the double door, at peace with Jinju Lee’s millimetric dramaturgy, tasting fruits déguisés from La Mamounia in the blinking light of English silver candelabras. Gwen and Mara, aloof, shared a seat next to him and he beckoned me to grant him a kiss while he was making sure I had been as loose as a beast with a little boy’s frimousse; he hummed at his fingertips then he poured some deep-ruby cherry juice in a high-footed Venetian goblet for me, made me sit on his lap and asked me who was that sinewy stud, there, who seemed to love me so dearly?

His Undisputed High Handedness has made achieved the furnishings in the buildings next to the TRÆVIX palace, with concealed access, which gives him latitude to appear in a floor-long marigold yellow silk damask dressing gown, white pique waistcoat, white bridge tights in yellow velvet slippers. In this Grand Siècle attire, he could at once tell me to lend my mouth, only to let me show how docile I was to him, he could have clasped me a chain and collar, he did not gush in my throat, he bestowed me a tender kiss, asked me to button him back up, and left, leaving his goons at their ardours.
In the grisaille salon, in a misty chiaroscuro, Dagmar was very much in demand, her long tapered legs thrown apart and her mouth ploughed into masterfully by the goon she, too, knew. I knelt so as to reach her pink pearl and twiddle it with two soaked fingers, she sang like an inspired blackbird. Once she was copiously sparged and smelly, I embraced her all the more, leading her for another shower, she couldn’t see through the spillage of semen; I closed the door, and in my arms, she gave to the German language all the tender notes you wouldn’t expect. Later, Mara knocked, she was whom I wanted to enrapt with us to one of the attic rooms, to prattle till extinction.

 

Kate says:

I could tell Cynthia Had set her mind to private exultation, that rose gold sequined short dress allowed less of her usual body language — legs parted in indiscernible trousers, like a teamster in the Hollywood sun. She was trying to find some middle-of-the-road seduction with Apolline, of whom she had already spilt her bag of secrets with due tact, when I rolled up on her lap with my laughing Bruges’ purchase clutched in my arms.
Apolline and Gwen had already flirted beyond banalities, and I knew Cynthia was bound to hear the dainty monkey who had jumped on my back on our Flanders track. Gwen offered her lips, and then asked her if she would buy the whole orphan for a tender while; without releasing my neck. I saw fire in Cynthia’s gaze, as heated as it had always been, and revelled in watching her deploy fluffy tenderness like clouds in golden dawn, knowing full well that a bereft young soul was on the alert deep in the concealed blue pit of her immemorial misery. She offered a trade, unabashedly hovering in Gwen’s eyes, bantering she was as expensive as the most ravishing fugitive, be her in the wings of an all-time accomplice, and she couldn’t help her hand graze up the smooth thigh.
After the Grand Sorcerer had dubbed the two new fresh faces and showed Sarah to his master cock —and so she obliged— the party spalled insensibly, Michelle had borrowed away the black cherry curls, Sarah vanished to German woodlands, and whoever had shown no knickers could thus greet Melchior’s brigade.
By the time we attained the bottom landing of the lift to Cynthia’s eyrie, both our blooming harlots had yielded all veils and it smelled like the blessing of rain on Amrum Island, of sacred memory. Cynthia’s white apartment needed no lighting; there must have been a full moon over Paris; she swiftly slid off her dress, and tapped on her phone so music welled up around us, I knew what, and she must have been smitten by my godsend monkey, because it was that Elgar’s concerto played by Jacqueline Du Pré, like an endless lament in a black and white film on the cliffs of sorrow —the lanky child she danced with might soon weep in her neck.
Looking elsewhere, Apolline murmured she needed to pee and I pursued her for nasty games. After she sat on my lap and peed on my crotch, I pushed her down into the shower to piss on her face and in her mouth, we were so dirty that our hearts beat like tumbling avalanches upon each other as we kissed. She pushed me to the nearby bed, her tiny spur pridefully offered to my tremulous fioriture. Legs wide spread, she looked as sleek as a grand dove, but she spurted like a boy and I knew she let genteel squires thread in her willing little knot. In return, she spent a garland of tongue artistry on all my wet frills, saying I, too, brandished a savoury pink pearl. She was lovingly stubborn, she made me gush on her mouth and then, gleefully tilted up my legs and buggered me with a proud smirk on her face. Her armpits smelled of warm laundry and more than a girl, she pulled me to the shower, in the lather of neroli and lavender, I sodomised her with my two fingers.
In the morning, Gwen had joined us and nested between us, Cynthia worked early. I was happy to find them both, we took the elevator all the way down, and then the other one to our den; they knew my fingerprints.
Soon, Sarah beamed up with her samovar goddess; there had been a confederacy of hireling vaginas, in a garret of the all-mighty, and then all their clothes had disappeared. I retold her I had found a hunch of her recurring laundry scents —when I listened to her sensuous remembrances— nested in Gwen’s armpit sweats, and thus that one shimmied on her chair, owning one of Sarah’s intimate fantasies as hinted in the permanent subconscious of her soul-sister, she proudly let Sarah nose into her armpit, as Mara tasted the other. Sarah could not confirm, only she liked what went to her head and promised mysteriously to take her visit her old school at night, then she put herself at brewing tea for all. There weren’t ingredients to fry French toasts, but someone had thoughtfully brought a tin of Danish cookies, which triggered one of those cheery synchronicities that made Cecile appear, who never sank a cookie in her coffee. On the doorstep, she looked like a Melancholy by Francesco Hayez, her morning clothes still on her arm, but she was only numb from an overspent night. Finlan’s scruffy wet garnet ringlets unfurled in her neck as she let him clutch on her, still hungry for her blueberry scents.
She charged the snarly black chrome coffee machine we had bought mostly to be able to leer at her perfect arse while she operated, thus I was fulfilled, and Apolline couldn’t help feel wowed, too. Inside the rather large biscuits tin box laid a row of these “cat-tongues” she naturally considered hers to dip, and she did, as we affected to gaze around, until we, intimates, burst in laughter and love. Sarah moved to her and said she tasted like her admiral uncle’s prefered chocolates.

Gauthier and Natalia barged in together smelling of the same Cologne shower that told all of us what they had just done, and when she sat on my lap, I found her quim was wet as the morning dew. She had elated the copper angel, Sarah grazed his sensitised crotch in a gesture of covetousness. He announced that the Mercedes motorcade would carry us away the next day but one, just like a worldly fashion event, the château extravaganza would eventually happen, a whole province and a fleet of luxury coaches had been put on alert like for some star-studded production event; locals were told of some media shenanigan, they were long used to Ms de Joux’ —she no longer used her husband’s patronym— spectaculars.
Gauthier beamed like a choir boy before Xmas —and he knew about that, he had once been wearing the tantalising alb— and Natalia was proud of him. He protested that the superlative venues that SEVEN STREAMS had been instating into most adjacent buildings around Michelle’s lair hampered his prized filial endeavour, until the idea of participating in a grand play-doll frenzy —the reverse of a de Bestegui costume ball, in which our scrumptious cast would only be dressed up at the end, for their eyes, and else— sparked throughout the high social spheres like a midsummer epiphany; His Higher Might had also leered upon some new attendances at Michelle’s last gathering to date.
Gwen was musing in aloofness, her daintily tapered hand seized a cat tongue in the tin box and unabashedly dipped it in Cecile’s cup, swiftly enough to bring it whole to her mouth, and smile at Cecile, her nipples stiffened. Cecile dreamily pushed the cup a tad towards the reedy-blond trespasser, inviting her to her workshop so that she could pose for Cyprien’s sketches, she needed not to dress, did she? Moreover, Finlan and her could pair any way they pleased on the sofa, daring to the artist’s pencil swiftness. Cecile would play Eric Satie’s dewy laces and work at reviving some allegoric scene one could read as a heavenly brothel full of nude nymphets strolling on thin-vaulted galleries along with tamed wolves and lions; the length-of-an-arm horizontal panel seemingly dated from the early Renaissance, Camille had not wished to let it undergo all the forensic appraisings before Cecile revive it.
Gwen stretched her folded wings, so as to beg for kisses on her tits, showing thus she would abide any whim of Cecile’s, musing she wanted to ogle them fuck for the show, hence Cecile said she would buy Cyprien’s rendition of the scenes, half the price due to them, unabashed harlots. We all laughed that it was only fair, hadn’t I bought Gwen myself for a start?
Gauthier gone to attend to whatever magic he was currently providing his potent sponsors, before leaving Paris; Cecile pushing the lovebirds out to her den, Natalia now attempted to woo Mara out of Sarah’s caresses, overjoyed to let me witness her guile; once she grabbed the hand of the eloped hotel mouse, she proposed to take her along to her own wealthy patrons, in a manner to line their pockets while they played together. Sarah agreed it would make to provide for good bawdy tales, acknowledging that Natalia had grown into a master slut and Mara would prosper in that companionship, to what Natalia devoured Mara’s mouth, then taped her code on her telephone and spoke to someone, staring in Mara’s black eyes.
I remembered the times when the house genie would sneak into our bed and fondle me in my half-wake, I told Sarah it made me shamefully proud and she retorted that Natalia and Beryl had built their lives fully aware, including of the unconditional support they nurtured in their intimate garden.
Tea had perfused through both of us like in a carnal clepsydra, we needed no words to run to the shower and pee ourselves like naughty brats, I let myself weep on all the distrust I had vowed erst to my unfettered Tomboy; she listened to my poor rant and gave me one of her sharp blue porcelain gazes.
Natalia owned our wardrobe, legitimately, since she had grown up into our sizes, thus she had dressed up her cohort and herself like posh debutantes. Years of persistent coaching under Juergen’s whip had given Mara sumptuous loins and a straight back; she wore clothes like a true fitting model. She wore one of Sarah’s double-breasted blazer dresses, with silk velvet lapels, letting her show most of her nudity and a mere patch of peach satin. She had shoed flat opera pumps in black patent leather. Her cavalier had always had a weakness for Sarah’s mock military attire like Danish fanfare uniforms or this black cadet dress coat trimmed with red tubing Gianni had lined with crimson satin she closed with only one of the gold buttons over her slim bareness; she wouldn’t have found other than flat-heeled shoes, such as these black split-vamp court shoes. All in all, they looked like expensive floozies, with no other visible makeup than a dash of blush and a touch of mascara; it cringed in my womb and I decided we should go out to perdition, too.

 

Sarah says:

Natalia called for a car, and they fled. I ran at Kate’s throat and beseeched we go somewhere to trash ourselves, too. Apolline said she would better move back to TRÆVIX, along with her kin, but first, inevitably, Kate and I teamed up to make sure she spurt to our faces, after what we all smelled of her bittersweet angelica scent and we lathered our enkindled bodies in the shower with the wildest intentions. She went in a mere tee shirt she found that smelled good.
Hector went ballistic at my demand; he asked for thirty minutes to sound some trumpets around, and he made sure we be ready to roll fast, I said we were in high spirits.
Like naughty sprogs on a sugar rush, we knew we had called for the furthest of adventures, but there would always be a lavish backseat to bring us home timely and in good nick. Natalia’s boldness had aroused me, I wanted to overbid wearing our supersized heavy silk men’s pyjamas with an outrageously sensual feel under the hand of beasts. Kate, in silvery fluid satin, blessed herself with Hugo’s bespoke quintessential fragrance he had once concocted for her redemption starting from a stash of ambergris he owned, purchased in an auction from a fisherman in the Baltic who had found the bloc floating adrift. With the idea of our lost fairy’s grey gaze, he had constructed a misty vault of white fragrances, dewy lotus, dreamt irises, and sambac jasmine harvested on the Nile shores; she would embalm till the last of the night’s paramours.
In my wide-legged star-spangled night-blue suit and slippers, I had sprayed myself with a blue fantasy of gardenia, tuberose and violet in an invisible casket of sacred sandal, enough to turn a sworn bodyguard into a savage plunderer —at the tilt of my coming of age, I had played enough on the verge of these deadly games before my own brother betrayed me, at that.
Before anyone returned, we sneaked out to where the big black cloud kept its cool, Hector greeted us in the backseat with restless hands; at every red light, the chauffeur fiddled with the rearview mirror. We headed south, he had the time to unclothe us; he had not been wearing much more himself; he ordered me to spread wide, so that Kate could savour my quim while he buggered me already upon the disposable cushion for lubricant stains, and I knew I had called the right number.
The chauffeur had not muttered a sound, but the car was stopped in a dark spot; he opened the door on Kate’s side, asked her to present her behind, and since he was the same black stooge as ever, I could not glimpse at what he was pushing into her bumhole, only did I remember it was serious. I could only console my poor sister who had, however, seen it coming.
Now the whole car smelled of beastly lechery when we reached a high portal at the end of a road, posted with military-style warnings, that lit up when we stopped near. The chauffeur called, identified us, and soon the metal frame doors slid sideways to open the way. In the headlights unfurled tight wilderness of thicket under tall trees but the road was cleared. It followed a deepening dell and the air freshened, but Hector held us clenched.
The road ended at a roundabout under an overhang before which a new plain grey metal door was lit; it opened inwards and the car rolled to an underground parking space where half a dozen glistening black clouds like ours rested, a crowd of tiny coloured lamps blinking randomly in their shady insides. It vaguely smelled of fresh paintwork but the air was smooth through our loose silks, Hector revelled in making us prance around like models in a salon.
Though the light was subdued, we surmised that they were watching us and why. Hector had been there before, he led us to some sort of red-carpeted porch before bronze-coloured doors with a judas lens; they produced a pneumatic sound when they recessed aside, opening the way to a succession of easy stairways. Now the walls dug out in the rock were plane, sleek limestone, stark bare above the red carpeting.
On the first landing awaited a gracious nude young girl, leaning sideways, an elbow resting on a small Carlo Bugatti desk, her unabashed little arse resting on the small matching chair, an eye on a slim laptop, the other in my open shirt. She gently asked to see our Club cards, and that we entrust her with all our threads, shoes, and whatever belongings bar the jewellery. When Hector and Kate’s bugger abided to the demand, she approvingly smirked at the size of their weenies that she could smell had been ours a moment away. She grabbed our silks, showed that she knew where the wallets hid and turned towards the recess where to hang them, with Hector’s hand on her bum. She beckoned us towards the next flight of stairs, then allowed Hector to embrace her for real; I could have done that, too, but my hustled innards kept me still, I asked for the loo, and she led us to a fully fitted bathroom, to the greedy satisfaction of our minders who remained with her. When we were finished, she was moaning between the two.

Her name was Trine; she said her shift would be over in an hour, and nothing barred her from making herself available; on that, she returned to her desk where she was watching the security cameras. She was teenage-blond with sage-green eyes and alabaster skin. She obviously did not waste all of her life underground as a white endive sprout, but she was creamed-honey pale and smelled of sunny fresh hay.
Kate enlaced me, joshing it felt like we were already in the bedroom. A little further, sundry vague twirling shapes began to raise hither, and tither from the plain surface of the stone, which began to make us figure the whole space had been carved out from the centre of the staircase, with the formal intention to extricate in the foreground the carnal mayhem we now contemplated in furious details, some uninhibited version of Jean Delville’s “Treasures Of Satan” once Satan had deserted our candid souls.
The railing unfurled a daring counterpoint, from an austere row of square forged rungs, progressively to waves of swirls and swirlier, entwined with gilded acanthus leaves, then diving embraces of polished bronze naiads, their course flaring out amongst the spiralling flight of fornicating angels in a murmuration of golden feathers.
From the last landing, one penetrated a distraught undergrowth in The Twilight Of The Gods, not only did the elfin creatures fly in grace, but they also precisely copulate in fervour, whatever apparent sex or age; never such a saraband could be publicly visited without causing dire turmoil.
The walls were losing plumb, following the carnal tremours that hurtled around, but our minders retrieved inspiration to exacerbate their wants as it felt appropriate. The chauffeur, who smelled of heated vanilla, tonka, coumarin and bay leaf, made me feel the inexorable might of his grip as he brought me down on the floor, thus I parted my thighs to let him plough kindly in my soaked coochie, staring at his happy smile amidst the shameless pandemonium. I heard the long moans of Kate being thoroughly reamed by Hector, and I discovered that our beloved patron Louis, half-covered by a gold embroidered royal blue kaftan relished what he saw, so as he teased Kate’s frenzied mouth with his dripping glans.
Unabashed of having been caught with their fingers in the cake, the two trusted lieutenants finished us the best as we could, then led us to the master host who sniffed us en connoisseur and asked us not to wash yet. He was proud to read the amazement on our faces.
While handling me like a Royal masseur, he explained, for once, the extravagance of the venue. He had once bought the property with the forest that had long been hunting grounds for unimaginative heirs of some kind, but where we two had a few times been sweet game at his parties. Though it was situated an hour from Paris or so —depending on impatient rushes along the way, had it not? it had sheltered this utterly achieved grotesque for a century, far too licentious in what it depicted to be seen by the many, or even tolerated by the law. The author had been a renowned sculptor, a partner of Toulouse Lautrec and Rodin, but altogether enthralled in glorifying pornography on a level with the grandiose hypocrisy of triumphant industrial decor. Born rich, he inherited the domain where he had known the abandoned quarries since the holy times when they had sheltered the lustful shenanigans with cousins of all sexes. At age twenty-seven, seized by rage, he hired quarrymen to begin clearing the volumes and roughing out the staircase. The experts confirmed that it was a thick bank of the best Lutetian limestone, though not of extensive surface —which had to have stopped its exploitation some time but inferred none of his growing interest to it.
As he pleasantly narrated one more of his befuddling tales, Louis had pulled me towards the cushioned confident seat that stood in the middle of the crooked corridor and made me lay upon him before I could notice whose other pair of caring hands were on my buttcheeks, giving way to a well-prepared dick in my complacent arse. Louis relished reading my face while his stooge worked me harder and deeper, he complimented me when I felt the splurt into my innards, and he carried me to a small grotto where he watched me shower and expel the effluents in a toilet bowl after he had playfully inserted the tepid orange blossom water hose inside.
When he brought me back to the party, as he owned me, Kate was in the throes of being blithely shared by a squad of well-hung minions exchanging colourful comments as they switched holes, leaving her properly inundated and spent as they all ran to where we came from.
Louis ushered me further towards a wider clearing, like the fantasy of a ballroom under the roots of a giant tree, where more ardent crews pointed their tongues as an invite and rolled eyes when I lay along Louis, my thighs parted as he had just asked.
Nosing at my temples and my ears, he went on with the legend of this Artaman de Sternfeld who had engulfed his life so totally into these mirabulous rooms that none trace of him and his cohorts was ever found when it became patent that the estate had been abandoned.

Louis smelled of balsam; and Tuscan cypresses when the early sun tingles on San Miniato of the Dead, the soul of the white giaggiole on an old man’s skin, a present of his unfettered abettor Hugo —in all their passions astray— I wished the greedy herd let me read the ceiling for a while. He beckoned at a thin cinnamon-skinned imp who featherily blessed my thinnest skins with unguents, as in an innocent little game, in a childhood brooklet.
Kate joined us only just powdered of Violet Insolence, she had had her fill of rag doll style abandon, we could have fallen asleep, then. Louis cajoled us, sniggered that we had called for what we had been served, and he had not even started himself yet.
When he felt our nerves be untangled, he took us further into the enchanted burrows. In an oval cul-de-sac, a long bank of greenish velvet pads mimicked the moss in a winter forest, upon which our old-time acquaintance Sérésine de Chalandin entertained a good scrummage of burly rumps, at variance with the high relief Grecian-inspired scenes that overflew them, depicting young boys serving in all manners their elders. Sérésine, from where she was afloat, suddenly singled me out, remembering our mutual niceties amidst Philippe’s steams. She let the pestle she had in her mouth go, smiled and in a rump twirl she was up, covered in gooey streams, seizing my hand, running to the immaculate silver mosaic shell of a much more recent shower recess. She had thinned, her breasts had vanished and I raved about that; she was a tad feverish and when she turned to Kate, I reconned signs I had read on her before she had fled to Berlin. Seresine was beseeching that we take her along with us and she would do anything we wished, her roommate Soline had died in her bath, she was on the pavement and Sami had told her she could not camp in Philippe’s.
After a complicit wink, Kate and I began to question and twiddle her mind and body; she avowed taking drugs, but none that we, ourselves, would not indulge hither and tither. Louis too knew that stray kitten, and he led us all to a comfy recess where we could abuse her at her will, her sorrow had aroused him and so he buggered her while we coddled all the rest, and then he decided we take care of her.
Before we ask Hector to drive us back, Louis wanted to show us some daunting place at the far end of the subterranean emporium, the last corridor that ended in a mass of rubble; chances were that the preterhuman genius of Artaman de Sternfeld was buried in there. Louis asked us to bring Seresine to Gauthier’s gathering, and also Trine, if we had a taste for her, she should not spend her whole youth in a mushroom grove.
Hector still harboured enough impetus for his lickerish routine, and he coveted Seresine’s pale carnal lacework from the front seat. After he typed on his phone, he told Adel, the chauffeur, where to go, so we soon glided silently in some park alley, in the overwhelming scent of lime trees in bloom, and we stopped on a high terrace under a thin moon crescent. Luxury cars don’t even hum nowadays, but they had found us and wanked in a circle around the muted lights in our cabin so they could watch Hector, who had tilted his backrest, conscientiously ravage all manners of Seresine in our arms, until the windows were blurred with goo. On the way to our home, she had to swallow Adel’s load, and I relished seeing her comply. It was far in the blue hours, but we took time for a cup of tea and a whole box of calissons. Seresine looked spent, to say the least, but she was still beautiful, I wouldn’t want to let her free rein before I was certain she did not suffer any addiction; I had hidden all her meagre wares and she did not try to close the bathroom door.
I wanted to know if she had been brought to the grottoes by Louis or his men, but she said she had been with Cachou, a friend of Sami’s who had been the talk at Philippe’s and The Panopticon although —or because— she had been still sixteen, in truth. Her slanting topaz eyes had teased us quite a few times at random society rallies, Louis knew what he did handing her to our whim.
Kate had had it over her head with my inquiries about whom was a card-carrying bona fide slut, said she as she repossessed our catch by the waist, asking her what tree she had fallen from.

 

Seresine recounts:

Indeed, it had been Louis’ plotting so as to hurling me into your arms, he’s a long-time patron of mine, and so is he of yours, thus when you granted him a sudden night of his whims, and I had been crying at his feet for days since Cachou’s death, he figured that you would enrol me in your most desirable troupe, as Hector told, right? I supposed I offer palatable enough creds for Mr Renart’s grand orgy?
I was born an arrow-stroke from here, in a Faubourg decadent stronghold none of my kin could afford to heat, was I told, since the abolition of primogeniture in 1849, as if it had procured any good to me, who had three elder brothers. Therefore, those whom my mere existence depended on, besides counting their worthless innumerable escutcheon quarterings —I could show you my family’s as a prize-winning widow’s patchwork quilt— having lost their lands on the green baizes of the Palais-Royal or the lime-ash of the race tracks, petrified in the timeless taboos of the Salic Law, began to discount the memorabilia of their coffers shamefully, in total ignorance since none of them had been properly schooled anyhow. See?
Anyhow, as a girl, and my mother only fifteen at my birth, I was given away to the conspiracy of religious cultists that still haunt some pathological lineages like many in my name family have enough bad taste to pertain. I have no remembrance other than meagre organ music before the age of six when my elder uncle Cloridan brought me back to Paris and sent me to day school, taken care of by some distant cousin. I would have thought I was a normal child amongst others of my kind, learning to write with a steel quill, reciting the counting rhymes and pronouncing so-called prayers in a language no one seemed to know, moreover, it wouldn’t have been worthy of my name to ask questions. I wore good clothes from nondescript stores and was escorted to school by one of the big girls who took malice at telling me weird tales she said happened in the streets when no one looked on. For what it was worth, I was a good pupil.
Our house was sombre and dirty, no one accepted to work for a disparaged crew who would not keep their word to the personnel. Uncle Cloridan was as much of a drunk as the rest of them, the older ones had died in sores and moans at the far end of the nightly corridors, I had seen the coffins pulled away, I had stayed dumb in the church where I never confessed any manner of sin in the strange contraptions where I had been learned to go and kneel every other week —and I knew what could happen in there, girls in my class let be done things under their skirts and into their mouths, all with some dirty pride that I envied because I died of boredom. That was all I cared for at my grandparent’s funerals, while a black crowd knelt and coughed around the long box covered with flowers.
Time and again, Cloridan came into my desolated bedroom, when I was reading children’s books from another century, wearing my tracksuit printed with stylised animals in a candy green prairie. He smelled of rum and cigars, he had washed-out blue eyes in heavy rims, bushy white eyebrows and sideburns, he still had all his teeth the colour of a small ivory statue of a nude Chinese woman I kept behind a drawer of my antiquated desk.
He must have been a good hunter, I never heard him come, he was sitting there, caressing my feet, drinking rum from a pocket flask, making me smell the evil of it, and, stealthily, pouring a few drops on a sugar lump me made me suckle. I took a taste of it, the house was altogether muffed, his hands strayed in the warmth of me, in the course of one season he had me undressed and willing, drunk like a quail, would have said my despicable father.
It had been a few years, the confessional sluts still tried to draw me into their vices, I did not tell them what I was up to myself, but I learned from them how to let the bastard take his pleasure at a lesser price in the lesser hole he craved all the more, anyhow.
I could invite some of them on Wednesdays and Saturdays, so, inevitably, it ended with fingers in my holes by all manners, and I learned to wank and come.
Cloridan, who had nothing better to do, came to know what games we played in the quiet. Once he spied on the amount and nature of secrets we shared, he snuck in, unannounced, sat on the bed where he must have seen our games, and casually twiddled with Cachou’s feet. I had pulled down my hoodie, under which he knew I no longer wore knickers, and I was in the position I had when Cachou had licked me. He was all amused, he asked her if she liked to play with my feet, nibble them or lick them, while his hand was creeping up her jeans and found the buttons undone. In a swift hocus-pocus, he left her bare arsed while he pushed her nose to where it had been between my legs. Then he pulled out the sugar lumps, and he made us drunk, our legs parted and up, so as to tickle our pleated buds. He asked Cachou to poke and drool in mine like she had not yet done, and then he buggered me softly and long.

Then, in six months, both my parents died. My father had never seen a doctor, the one who came with the police diagnosed pancreatic cancer, the crowd could not enter whole for his funeral, the box drooped under the flowers, and some purple eminence bored us with historical nonsense. One of my brothers bustled his ear like a secret serviceman, the other one had not been able to make it from California. Cloridan de Chalendin —and of many other bygone places— played well enough head of the family, he was buggering his niece almost every night, and also many of the well-bred classmates she brought to him to teach them immemorial manners.
My mother, once her maternity duties accomplished unintendedly from the tender age of fifteen, had long retired from reality, were it the disputable one she was moving into, had long slept with her practitioner in exchange for magic pills, like many housewives, until she eventually blurred the notion of a tolerable dose. The little church was only half peopled but the mound of flowers hid her smaller box entirely. No purple queen for her, but a woman came up and sang old music that made everybody cry and I passed out in Cloridan’s arms.
The estate rested on the four of us, and my brothers had the bitter surprise to find me not on their side, whenas they had organised a swindle to cut me out. Cloridan retorted that he was marrying me, which in our crackpot universe seemed feasible, I had reached fifteen and some, meanwhile.
On a cold November night, The whole house burned and the rest of my so-called family was found among the ashes. Cloridan’s silver overlay flask bottle had melted over his hip bone, I could never drink alcohol ever since and that was what I loved with you, to start with.
Money was made out of the property, I was placed in trusteeship and Louis told me it had been done properly; I reap enough to be able to spit in anyone’s eye and for the munificence, I can sell my arse rather well, what do you think?
Up to now, since we carry the same vade mecum, we crossed paths in the same venues, procured around by the same so to speak masterminds, I bothered Liselotte a number of times to send me on your tracks but it seemed more and more elusive. Does Hector always exhibit you to this gang of voyeurs? That was creepy, wasn’t it?
And so, what about Cachou, you may ask? She was the sweetest of friends, since we had been sharing sugar lumps. The name had been bestowed by her father, because of her round black eyes set in her pale dreamy face, and she liked it, she flaunted it. Firstly, she met sleazy types with money who took their kicks torturing her, she would need a week to heal but she showed me her stash of money with a horrible smirk. Then, these scumbags wanted her stoned, like dead stoned, thus injected Morphine in her vagina and I did not know that before it was too late, Sami told me she was out of the Circle, no longer checking up on her health constants, she was out of his reach, he couldn’t deal with an addict, bar having her locked in a detoxication clinic, but if she had repeatedly experienced substance euphoria mixed with moral and sexual masochism, we could no longer pull her out of the drain, she would have me die with her. Once in a while, she would crash in our pad, some of her gang had fallen, dead or worse, she gulped handfuls of downers and slept, only to wake up in tremours, begged me to paint her face, and run again to perdition. I would be left crying, dumbfounded, and crashed with the guilt that before she joined me, and my perverted uncle, on my bed, she had been a candid little elf, and hence I had lured her into that trash, with my extravagant outworldly realm of nowhere names and sugar cubes. Good thing, however, that the police treated me harshly after I had to call them to see Cachou cold dead, her eyes wide open, her dainty neck stained with dried vomit. Unlike what you see in fictions, there was no attorney, no cup of anything, I wore my old tracksuit and my flipflops and zilch, I was thoroughly searched by a boor who sported a hard-on and made me suck like his whore. Eventually, some righteous soul figured that there was a human being, obviously not an addict in withdrawal, for whom not any paperwork had been filled, who sat prostrated in a blind cell with a bottle of water and a stinking bucket. This man —he wore a clean blue striped shirt and smelled of Cologne— called the medical emergency ward that sent an ambulance to fetch me and he then entrusted me with women doctors and nurses who, after a brief talk, first conducted a rape test, at my utter fright of becoming a cop snitch, but that doctor had faithful hands and gazes, she persuaded me that I would see later if I saw fit to complain. As she lent me a telephone, I could not think of any wiser than Louis’ number to recount my worries in the voicemail, and thus, two hours later, after I had been lovingly washed and preened and given fresh white pyjamas, a young, astute attorney introduced himself on Louis’ behalf and fell instantly smitten with my feet.

His name was Ariel Kahn, and he was fine-mannered by all means, he instantly upturned me back to the real slut I am at heart. He asked me what I wanted as clothes and shoes and called for express delivery of an almond green tracksuit and white thick-sole sneakers. Amongst the hospital ambience, I did not care about showing him my butt and all, or did I? he kept smiling while he switched on a tiny recorder to hear my story, afresh, and he knew all about the functioning of junkies, his cornflower blue eyes astray over my brand new white socks.
In the cab to my place, he said that Louis had sent help to clean whatever the police had made of it, thus I was not returning to a hell place. I really tried all my tricks to entrap him in my pants, but he saw me come from leagues afar. Once in our actually tidied nest, all I could obtain was to make him knead my toes.
The next morning, Louis sent a chauffeur to help me move to a basement hideaway in his mansion while he torpedoed the services that had mistreated me. He said the boors had all been reassigned in such fancy places as Montluçon, then he consoled me in a lilac velvet padded boudoir and made me avow my crush on his young lawyer, promising me that I would shag him before long, then he buggered me finer than Cloridan. He said as long as my checkups remain attuned, they would react and cover all my moves, whatsoever; what he had heard from Ariel’s interview had convinced him, so he shagged me long.
Ariel had been amongst my courtiers in the grottoes, but well-fed and groomed, I had outlasted a good many of them plus him, if only to put my lineage to shame, wouldn’t I? Louis had tipped me to pay attention to you two, that you would become my life raft, after the grand country hoopla you will, please, take me to. Like a methodical whore, I accepted to join Ariel at the Intercontinental on Thursdays, provided I dressed like a full-fledged secretary, meaning like a class escort.

 

Sarah says:

I had texted a clear message to Gauthier asking him to welcome yet another stray filly from our loitering at Louis’, so I wasn’t surprised to hear someone like him making out with our recruit in our very bed. By the way, Louis had already beaten the drum in praise of Seresine, in case we missed that she was answerable to him, come what may. Gauthier had reckoned these manners a tad contorted, and took a crush as virulent as ours for the ultimate blood of the Chalendins —and other bygone names.
The caravan was set to move at the end of the morning, I explained to Seresine that she needed no sartorial worries, who knew what costume she might end up in. Together, we packed a bag of knickers, stockings, and shoes in different styles, from our limitless wardrobe. She showed adorable feet my size. I gave her a travel spray of Highgate Cedar that she fell for, and transported me instantly in some rainy box trees.
Our all-new silent black minivans were stationed on both accesses of the colony, and the burly black chauffeurs sympathised with the whingers in the queue, all the more when they saw who were embarking. Then we swished away in a breeze. On my left, everyone could relish the immodesty of my new fancy in whites, a long-tails pînstripe poplin shirt and trunks wide enough to flutter in the wind. Cecile was the fastest to introduce herself on the other side, her pointed nipples under a night blue jersey shirt dress, she let the yet smooth road judders help her skilled hand on Seresine’s thigh while introducing herself as a stray suburbanite I had abducted when she was underage and willing. She wore slate blue grosgrain flat-heeled bottines, striped low silk socks and nothing much else, they liked each other. She still depended on me emotionally. I let out that Seresine was mourning her best friend, despite appearance, thus all thorns vanished from the roses and Cecile took her head in her neck.
Camille and Liselotte’s same black transports had joined ours near the Porte D’Orléans, we were all impressive when we reached the toll booths. Gauthier texted a hallelujah to the whole school.
To the visible great pride of Cecile, Seresine soon dozed on her chest. The tinting of the windows, though it did not affect outside colours, rendered a cinematic ambience, like a meditative Wim Wenders movie. In a lustful conspiracy, we let ourselves grope Seresine at the border of her dream, and she smiled childishly, parting her thighs little by little.
Our shiny black convoy stopped at a service area, although it wouldn’t need to refuel but most of our cute bladders needed to extol. Seresine frowned, grazed the hand on her quim and reckoned she too, needed the loo. However, the queue was ridiculous, thus I casually led my two fillies and showed them to pee standing, holding aside my loose trunks and we laughed, as we would have for the relish of the Cossacks, behind the hay shed, as they titillated my butt cheeks with the long whip. Gwen joined us, she was capable of a long jet, she ogled Seresine like the cat a mouse, and Kate and I winked at each other. Mara had been sleeping in Gwen’s scent of wildflowers and ginger, she grabbed her from the back and sulked, then couldn’t resist pulling her shirt, spreading her legs and pissing towards me. My gang of salvaged floozies.
For the second stage, I found myself in the centre, Seresine was captivated by the wheatfields, and I was getting krunk on Cecile’s scent, just like the first time in her overalls. I did not need to ask if she was happy. Suddenly, she showed something in the fast lane, and it was a 911 passing, quietly. I grabbed that she had prefered to smell me with my new orphan, she gave me a low-eyelids gaze and all it let be hoped.
The road led straight down to a bridge over the moat. From the portal, on both sides of the alley, tall convoluted sculptures of giant flowers set Gauthier’s signature with grace. The reclaimed chains from Vienna had been disposed at the park’s far end, on the edge of the woodland, one end like sealed into the prairie. Our convoy rolled at a walking pace in the cobbled yard to corral in the shadow of the main building, before a line of dressed tables, and Gauthier had run to bring Mara in front of the samovar he had bought from Sacher’s —after the turmoil had settled. A young crew-cut blond boy was attending the gleaming contraption, now; Mara wasn’t long to learn he was Czech, they spoke fast, they laughed, and he was a real success with the tea. I saw the sparkle of tears in Mara’s eyes. The sly black 911 purred to align itself with the none less black pachyderms.
The battalions of seamstresses in white smocks flowed out of every door and wanted to hug every one of us, it was a grand brouhaha. Apart from the towers at every corner, the château offered the gregarious overall of a somewhat bigger farmhouse, and with no ostentatious stances on the lintels, it felt overall breathable  —the stairs felt quiet to climb. We were vaguely oriented towards possible sleeping quarters, Gauthier had attested to our utter sociability, and the place regularly saw troupes of merry entertainers.

The bathrooms were scarce but vast and pristine clean; the whole layout attested that it had been drawn for some kind of school at one time, hence my arousal, there should be a laundry room somewhere. I remembered Gauthier’s unfortunate adventures in the showers; it smelled of Annabelle’s Faerie, like rainy days heathers and lavender.
We tentatively elected residence in a Regence style wood-panelled cream room with four double beds ready to accommodate our best expectations.
Once our menial stuff gathered in the tall wardrobe, we heard that the hosts would love to show us the workshop upstairs. It was a whole space, lit on three sides, under an impressive timber work in cracked oak trunks that had been cut in the days of the Black Death epidemic, and gave refuge to a colony of cats who looked down on us, for now. Half a dozen ping-pong-sized tables and as many sparkling sewing machines lined the panelled walls covered with pinned notes and memos, sketches, photos, and samples. But it felt everything had been sorted, cleaned, checked.
Gauthier’s mother, Adeline Mérigny, Could possibly never disavow her son, so flagrant was the physical kinship; same flouncy mane of golden dawn curls, fragile speckled skin a tad thinner than her son’s, letting show through some shady veins in her open cleavage. She smelled of sunny camomile, blond pipe tobacco, and the box tree where a climbing rose bloomed, she let me nuzzle in her neck like we had been frolicsome schoolgirls. then she stared at me with a happy grin, her espresso black eyes as if stealing mine, she said that when Gauthier spoke of me he called me the blue tomboy, and thus she couldn’t help kissing me as a lover would.
Therefore, it happened we were left in peace, and Cecile had pulled Seresine away to a storage room in the other wing, so Kate took hold of Mara and Gwen and found a convenient sofa bed for hand games. Seeing all that, the team of seamstresses ladies must have concluded that it would be the usual follies, and thus began to woo anyone to their taste amongst the new fillies, in all the tongues imaginable.
Gauthier supervened with fine laughter, singing that it had been bound to happen and the night wasn’t even sure, yet. He was with Ayla and Annachiara, whom Hugo had transported in his own carriage, and were merely dressed in ribbons; Adeline could no better than surrender to the crafty little courtesans who claimed me as game and offered her to share me on a table; they smelled of obvious hanky-panky, they had frisked out somewhere in the forest on the way, Hugo had invited Sami to drive them.
A majestic Phantom IV with yellow flanks brought Theo, who had subjugated Finlan, whose shirt had slipped out of his trousers, and had lent him a flimsy Bordeaux shantung suit and patent ankle boots. Under acclaims, a white refrigerated truck stopped behind the dark fleet and two lively girls in white light livery that I made out as A&S Danish students began to bring out so many boxes that Gauthier asked to see the delivery slip and then did the gesture of a large bow towards a few culprits. I regretted one of the delivery girls, but they should return their truck; I spoke to her in my faded vernacular, I grasped she was in a couple with the other one, but after I tipped her insanely, she said she was Anja, and wrote her number on a piece of cardboard, then smiled the way I had fallen for. Adeline had totally sussed my trick, she casually fondled my butt, breathing in my neck that her son had not overstated his description of me, anywise, and it tickled.
Now Louis’ grand barge of a car approached in silence, driven by Hector, mind you, with another drop-dead surprise aboard, such as a new skinny British tramp, dressed like a Kpop miniature with a short sequined purplish blue variegated tank dress and matched ankle boots. She was as tall as me and sported an angled bob hairdo of natural tobacco-blond hair, my lips drifted in her neck to let me sniff an expensive miracle of roses and jasmine, radically at odds with her formulaic look; she wore no undies, Hector winked at me; her name was Josephine, I was beginning to feel dizzy, I invited her to the samovar, on the off-chance.
We were joined by Cecile, who had been given a terrific black Borsalino that fit her like my old signature hats in my schooldays, in exchange for letting one of the seamstresses make sure she did not wear panties. She clenched Seresine and said that this girl needed me, so matter-of-factly that she blushed, thus I took her and smelled the craved scent of licks in her neck. Cecile remained so as to show she wasn’t crossed, along with the fanciful contraption, Gauthier had obviously bought the tea recipe, too.
Adeline showed that she relished my two bosom buddies, all the more Seresine whom she began to figure in all manners of costumes, but currently, rather none, did I taunt her; she agreed but I kept a hand on my sugar-lump girl before it melt.

Oddly, children’s laughs burst in the yard, Marie had agreed to bring her only-just-walking critter, Gauthier had reassured her that there would be a safe nursery for the few offsprings of the tribe, away from the libertines, atop a wild prairie, with see-saws, swings, and a multicoloured merry-go-round —only an adult could make it run. A fourth walkway led to this Fantasy Land, all beribboned and flourished, but in the meantime, the brood was let free in the building, the stairs were benign, and anyway, all the exciting food and drinks were displayed on low tables in the smaller dining room downstairs. It appeared that Marie had not mingled with so many willing graces lately, she was eager to know what was fine to know about every newbie she wooed around. Eventually, she owned up to Gauthier that she felt relieved not to carry her artillery, as he had demanded.
As our own transports were driven to the shade of the old empty barn in the opposite corner of the yard, at the far end of the long commons where our minders were supposed to sleep, the fourth being the site of a sturdy dovecote, all the white dwellers distraught in wide circles around the towers.
Now the children were testing the echo from the château to the prairie and dared naughty and naughtier with fits of laughter. The lowering sun was mellowing, two more familiar long cars as stealthy as submarines glided in, the second one already to the right towards the parking space. I began to rejoice in my buddies’ ears that there might be a lot of ghosts in the shadows, no moon was forecast.
Thus, Annalouise had outbid her sister and she was spectacular when she climbed out of the silky carriage like Audrey Hepburn; she had slimmed, wore a zigzag silk jersey short dress and no more undies than most of us. She was followed by cheerful acquaintances of our transatlantic follies, Melchior’s pair of china Brits, Branwell and Bloom, in pure Savile row colonial see-thru rags, she singled out Cecile, she was smelling of one of these Olde English cerebral concoctions my Far had paid me once and had made of me a bomb in the laundry cellars; not telling, I was dreaming of pushing Bloom through the steamy hanging sheets towards the herds of stiff boys, she read that in my eyes and rushed to my mouth.
Then, something was happening, Melchior walked to us and asked for Seresine’s hand in a way that made me suss that he remembered her for a good reason, it was brief, but I called her a slut and she kissed me shut.
Liselotte was in a trance, she was watching Cecile with hunger, she came up to me, slid a hand into my unbuttoned dress and began to evoke the early times when she whored me to deranged teachers, bantering for Cecile, I retorted that I would go again but it had been a piece of work for her. She turned to Cecile and wondered if it were greed or vice, Cecile said low she might try it for vice, like me, and then she moved on to go test her English with Bloom who had been giving her the eye.
Natalia and Beryl were wired and bright-eyed, both had graduated with flying colours, Natalia bantered in aparté that it had been the matter of two or three loin thrusts —at what Cecile refuted and swore Natalia taught her aplenty in art history, in earnest. Hugo had bestowed Lena a raise in thanks for her daughter who had been humbled and had cried. Like most of Victor’s personnel, Beryl’s mom had been left distraught and destitute, but our perfumed barons had soon hired them in their houses, thus she took care of Michelle’s, now, which was not lacking in morbid salt, so to speak.
Therefore, the two straight arrows were first to lure a trio of black-suited idle drivers to a round pointed-roof, old-style glazed gazebo, aglow in a rose garden across the moat. They had been wearing sheeny silk jersey dresses, peacock blue and trout green —well-earned presents on their aforesaid loins. Natalia asserted her blazing age by wearing brand new teal sneakers and low socks to set off her ankles, Beryl had chosen monogram embroidered deep purple velvet slippers I craved to see her nude with.
Dagmar had been met by a courteous thirtyish seamstress who did that German sounded soft, and her hands mindful, thus she followed her somewhere cosy and she was kissed thoroughly on the first stairs landing.
The TRÆVIX gang, all white and gold, Michelle in brocade mini-shorts, adjusted jacket open on her flimsy-skinned allusive breasts, patent gold flats; Delf willowy nude in a short metal gold mesh tunic and Greek sandals —word had been passed not to offend our non-binary beauties. Apolline sported long legs out of an oversized dark gold poplin shirt printed with muddled black cabalistic signs, her sylphic feet holding the simplest of gilded K-Jac sandals, I could have followed them in the park, there was a mock-rustic temple amidst a box tree grove gone wild near a little pond and a weeping willow, I might want to mislead one of the sculptural black chauffeurs to there once night had settled.

The civilised gathering had set sail under the eerie ghost chandeliers entangled with strands of crystal beads and chiselled shreds of chiffon, sewn by a swarm of spiders on acid, haunting the faded-painted beams of their feeble glimmer. Gauthier had measured up along with his mother’s team in the summer following his father’s passing, then on, they had decided that the dust would remain up there, as a genuine accessory.
Malo stood before the main fireplace closed by a painting depicting some crowded round theatre seen from a height, another youth exploit of Gauthier’s that recalled the mystic carnivals of Leonora Carrington’s and thence had decided his application for the Beaux-Arts. She had stunned the whole staff when her burgundy faille robe had fallen and she had enlaced the cello, the priceless instrument Melchior had endowed her with.
Long strands of dark purple hair flowed down upon her willowy features, she had burnt all of her kiddy-fat, she must have been working out with diligence, she smile at me and ogled the new lasses I sat with.
The last amber shards of dusk slashed across the wind-swept salon through the open windows, setting Malo amidst a glittering draft. She was in a mood, she twiddled her cunning capriccio with pauses as to pretend to retune, then juggling with motives like the dreamy sails of the chandelier. Then she became enthralled with the small impish tyke who was seated on Hector’s lap and showed her a tiny conch. It was one of her modi, if I may, to clasp her soul to the expressions of a lovable face and try her talent to elate her moods. Hector showed nought bar the embers in his black eyes, but he was nicely wanking the young Eastender who, by all means, had caught up with Malo’s game and was enjoying her life.
Some shrill laughter from the nursery mingled with those of the busy swallows on the moat to festoon around our dainty minstrel’s effusions, and as per usual, Hector would revel on his master’s account, should he manage to let him watch the preludes.
In a mouse-grey loveseat, Camille, in a lichen green silk twill short shirt dress, bias cut and already spread open, was nosing through Gwen’s curls, while the redeemed angel of the low countries let her gaze dance to Malo’s prodigy, and grazing the breasts that never were. Crouched at her feet, the heather fairies hummed in the spells of Bruges, elated.
The glittery TRÆVIX gang, like a flight of tits at a friendly window sill, held still, homely naked, sharing graces with each other, making a sweet case of Apolline’s tiny panties. Not once did the Aviator glance at her telephone.
My two high-flyer courtesan wayfarers had nested undressed in Hugo’s wing, Annachiara had been bedazzled by Malo’s whole stance and displayed the tension of one who will never forget. Ayla, who still stealthily took me as a witness of her guile, deployed a wealth of affection to vaunt her Venetian cousin to her superlative patron Melchior, whom she had kept in some sort of telepathic fast-dial since Hugo had brought him to Zurich to rescue her bosom buddy Esther, maimed in her hospital bed — and Swiss hospitals know best— all the way out now to her grand terrasse in Lugano, next to the Paradiso, thirty minutes from the airport.
Lison indulged a most unkempt Mr Mulder, one of the happiest lawyers in New York City, whose priceless Cologne was frying her brains. She had kept on black silk stockings held up by voodoo spell, her dainty nails were lacquered black, her nightly-pale face untouched bar a line of Mascara but she inspired our debutantes with her evocative lilac shadows under her weary eyes, she gave off the whole persona of a Weimar poison, she had been a season of my soul, I still craved to help her be shagged by a hunky quarterback.
A carnal shudder let in those flagrant deserters who had been cavorting in the rose garden, Malo raised an eye on them and smiled with complicity, and I heard that her music had meandered down from her brains into her womb, only because Natalia was dancing still.
The perceptible landscape quieted, the children had gathered for dinner, the swallows had flown back to the cornices, and a forsaken dog cried afar in the nearby village. Hither and thither amongst us, Adeline and her team were enthused by the nude cellist’s magic, in front of a deliberate tableau of free-reeling debauchery with a smile. When Malo lifted her bow overhead to signal the end of the rampancy, the faraway dog changed its tune, barking idly, asking for more.

Adeline’s all-star crew remained befuddled before her son’s nonpareil conspiracy, thus dared not touch, as of yet, a windfall of dancing fairies in light-headed profligacy. While I could have read that Malo was threading musical analogies to what she was sensing only in Josephine’s eyes, she had entwined every soul listening, including that of the hovering dog.
These delicate mothers, with their crafty fingers and their hardy rumps, tried to reckon the coordinates of our exuberant galaxy as to the domification of all the artistic expressions they had had to fray with to now. They spoke many levels of pidgin English, a new manner of Yiddish pudding laced with urban spices.
Gauthier was prouder of this secret gathering he had engineered than he had shown at the worldly toast at the Belvedere, but he eventually avowed that Donovan should have been with us and hadn’t called, he would be driving a Tesla. It was not before Cecile and I yearningly conjured his chakras that his soulmate tiptoed in, he had waited for the music to end.
In the shadow of a towering silk bouquet styled with the little irons, Lauritz had taken cover with some sylphic blonde shape that intrigued me for a while, until I was seized by the unmatched grace of a shoulder roll, just like another creature who had been seating, midway of a chimerical staircase, at a doll’s Bugatti desk. I had known all along that Trine would reappear someway, I wasn’t crestfallen to see her at the hands of the 911 knight —She wouldn’t regret it, in earnest, I advised Cecile to fawn with her main shareholder and his new tinker belle wonder, for she came from a realm so otherworldly as she would damn herself for a trip in it.
Malo had gone put her instrument to rest, I jostled our way to push Cecile in her arms, and she was just in the mood to enlace an unknown low-gaze sulker in an open dark dress. I explained hastily this was a new inhabitant of Hugo’s hive, a blushing artist of many crafts, thus Malo pulled her softly to the adjacent room, where she had noted a convenient bed to engage in some mostly mute conversation. I sat with them, I still loved to watch Cecile be torched in desire.

 

Liselotte says:

That would be the best ever festival I would have attended, methinks, in the arms of a brown-skinned warrior who lured me to this attic where the drivers and else had found shelter. I heard nearby his fellow men laughing under running water, it wouldn’t be the call of indomitable lust rather than the need to wash my smelly self, but eventually, I found both. The two buddies had been mutually lathering up their considerable erections, and there I walked in, like a white rabbit; thus they helped me, heads and tails, with manners, and then it went as if Rita Tushingham had found her way into the WMCA, after all.
After they had all —I wouldn’t count— drained their balls, they lay me on the high table and gave me the most efficient massage and smile, the party was going on.
Coffee and food would be at the far corner of the square yard, all we had found were toothbrushes in personal wrappings.
The yard was utterly invaded by silent machines on wheels setting up inflatable and deployable colourful sculptures, hither and neither, under the command of a flamboyant Gauthier, whose silken larimar-blue pyjamas flapped in the breeze.
He bowed at the beauty of our crew and congratulated me for my visible nonchalance, all of them?
They were like pieces of some giant chess board gone afoul, a delegation of the “Garden Of Delights” with Makonde trolls, brought folded on flatbed lorries and pumped-up like butterflies out of the chrysalis.
Silver bells and chimes on the children’s walkway announced a troupe of haphazardly multicoloured imps, overjoyed with the becoming of the inoffensive giants. The hammering of ladles on iron pans called the gluttons of pancakes in their dedicated eatery. They brought their charged plates outside and sat at the foot of the castle wall to feast their eyes, too, with the parading contraptions.
The lifting equipment had returned to their lorries stationed outside of the domain, the bulky black blank carriages brought back the mighties who had slept elsewhere.
Gauthier had asked, rightfully, that while the children wandered among us, we covered lightly, thus we were lent lounge robes of washed tammy cloth, slit to the hip, that made us look like vestals —whenas the merry sprogs made no manner exposing whatever showed through their funny accoutrements, free to them, they would very soon return to their amusement farm.
Bonds achieved in the glow of night still showed around the steaming samovar, Sarah would appear even more available in a dishevelled white linen frilled costume shirt and white kidskin one strap flats she must have brought to woo all of us; she told me I should ask on the second floor to be done foppish like herself because there would be workmen around. Adeline seized the small of my back and ushered me up to the workshop where some air flowed through the blinds. She proposed an Empire white déshabillé with a ruched breast and funny bishop sleeves, then fondled me in it, just only for show. She tried me on carmine red velvet slippers, so as I felt like a true Palais – Royal Madam.
I had never seen enough of Cecile, it had been like her Hanseatic Lord had shied me aside, while he had not even raised a brow on me. Both were fresh out of the shower, Cecile held Mara like a pet gazelle, at once I fancied a purple deerskin collar with a leash to it, Mara gave me a drawling low-lid gaze such as I could never afford —unless I stole it.
A blonde Jana in a taupe ribbed-knit tank dress, with long arms and deft hands, helped them hesitate between Daddy’s pyjama top and Lady Hamilton’s négligé to eventually settle with a wide-lapels night-shirt à la Katherine Hepburn on Cecile and a Pucci-print silk lounge robe so much in the salon mood for Mara who accepted all my fawning to her.
Cecile was hungry, Ronald Searl-style garden furniture had appeared in the shade, she asked for coffee while the kind samovar boy prepared Russian tea for the rest of us. I had never attended the dipping of the cat-tongues biscuits that seemingly had been disposed there only for Cecile; Lauritz, in a slim ultramarine silk outfit, trousers and shirt with Berber blue sandals, exchanged winks with Sarah of what Cecile did not miss any —and she allowed Mara to try one dip and lose.
I pulled one of those wire chairs next to Sarah, she smelled like the lime tree in bloom in my old country, with mayweed —and the leather straps of a whip, she had been so long to abide. I pinched one of her twaddleberries, only to watch her legendary porcelain blue eyes unflinching in the pain, whatever the reward she would inflict on me later.

 

Adeline says:

Earnestly, I should be crashed of humility hosting such an influential Areopagus, Gauthier had mainly described all his lady friends, all of them of breathtakingly fine-tuned elegance, be them naked as the Water Babies, gosh. But moreover, I sensed hi-voltage surrounding the house when their sponsors affected not watching on their telephones. The most impressive was that slim blonde wearing thick glasses and golden locks, tenderly patient with her genderless pet friends while you can see sparkles at her fingertips and in her absent stare. Gauthier told me that she’s not disgusted with having plain binary sex, but she has an elfish intimacy mainly with Delf, and thus all the lost souls they have fallen for. I had a soothing time trying shirts on Delf and Apolline after they unleashed their pretty mouths wild over me, as a dare. Delf let me see that she owned a miniature of both worlds, a rarity that had made her life miserable until she followed Kate and Sarah in a heartbeat. Apolline had been fished out of a poisoned pond by Hector, a well-hung scout with a soul in Louis’ household.
Delf never saw a true reason not to show her body, but she admitted that she should respect the peace of Gauthier’s staff putting the final touches to the sculptures in the yard, where they longed to return, thus she wrapped a tad of her sylphic silhouette into a powder blue fairy-tale-ish festoon collared nightshirt that barely covered her bum anyway, and since they would remain together, I thought that Apolline did fine in an old man’s shirt with long tails we had tinted mild Naples yellow, without collar nor buttons; they liked the harmony, we found pairs of coral red dancing slippers that made them look like anything but wise, Gauthier had warned me it could be an experience, indeed.
The stately carriages of those who had rented more private residences elsewhere in the land for the night returned with informal company thinly clad and bejewelled for some. They paraded in disbanded troupes between the colourful figures that dwarfed them funnily.
Louis donned a cream linen suit and braided leather slippers and was preceded by Hector hand in hand with Dagmar and Gwen, thin lines of diamonds at their ankles and wrists, half-yawning in azure white linon blouses hardly skimming their petty modesties. They traded jokes in their broken Germanic sabir that made Mara snigger and join them, it was a playground of temptations, too late for the last two craftsmen at work who couldn’t believe their eyes. They jumped to Gauthier’s neck in all candour.
One would have said that the fierce-looking black coupe driven by the Hanseatic Prince was a two-seater, but now, unhooded, it cradled not only that little Meissen maid Trine, but also the two sisters compatriot of Lauritz, merely in tee-shirts of his own, as their only sartorial effort, thus the light of the sun glared at the apple-round buttcheeks, and the last craftsmen no longer work at all.
I knew of Kate’s affairs as much as those of Sarah’s, but it was weird to watch the sisters play unfazed together, taunted by this new acquaintance Lauritz was enthralled with. They all visibly had overspent their night, he cosied himself into a pile of clean sheets and watched how I fondled these perfect bodies, neglecting, for now, all ideas as to dress them; they smelled of expensive toiletries, and they must have played with Trine so easily, I was light-headed.
She was in her prime glory, moulded in a dream of Canova’s, the curves of her legs so essential, her ankles so finely tapered. The unassuming dawn-rose Princesse satin chemise caught even more of the eye and Lauritz was overjoyed. During his visits, Gauthier had spelt out the rites and bonds that had knitted together since they had patched their acquaintances in the magic Venetian breeze; I had none of the avoidance after-thoughts I happened to choke on when, working with theatre or film troupes, I witnessed rampant sexual coercion towards younglings. In the aparté of the fittings with often fragile little does, our motivated all-women team heard repulsive confidences and apply themselves, no strings attached, to demonstrating that a variable dose of flaunted lesbian tendencies in the victim affected the self-assurance of many male predators —at the risk of their reputation in the eye of producers and directors, all of them crazed for fresh meat.
In any case, Trine let out that she had been ferreted out on the web whoring for tokens to the benefit of her also participating high-school boyfriend. One of Louis’ duteous entourage had paid for some in-person encounter and spooked the debutant pimp out. She said she had nowhere she wanted to return to, only she preferred to whore at her own account, and it was what Louis afforded her, altogether, like for most of the other fillies she had been seeing in the club, and everybody knew that Hector fucked like an inextinguishable virtuoso, didn’t they? I did not, but the three of them concurred.

 

Sarah says:

Who knows where James had found this new leaf-green Tesla? I had not taken notice of his comely hobgoblins missing, either, but that is what they do, ain’t it? Now they let their fuzziness of MacDonald-MacKintosh muslin deliberately flutter over their bums, they offered the most candid of a smile, they smelled of Ylang-Ylang in Victoria street, peaty comfort stove in the oak-clad hearth, a wet chickadee that stirs up its wings in the rain under your nose. When she was in my arms, I never could help trace Fayelle’s eyes’ moves, watching for the axolotl fault, and she knew I was doing that and let me, as in amorous gameplay, graze the metal plate under her hair.
Marie had dressed little Gustav in the appropriate strawberry red bloomer and shirt, green sandalettes like pretty little sepals; she had slept in the midst of the young dreams’ conservatory, after the pell-mell kittens’ toilet, in the scent of green fruit. They stared up at the gleeful parade, dancing and prancing almost nude before they spotted a table beside ours, covered with fresh rolls and bites to their taste, and jugs of hot cocoa; apart from fries or macaroni gratin, it was godly food to them, we all smiled like an audience at Slava Polunin’s. It goes without saying that, whatever our attires and postures, we did not offer comparable interest to them, rightfully, and they needed not to witness what they guessed we would do next, so, after the remnants of their angelic lunch had been arranged in baskets to go, they followed the lead of their pretty nanny to head back, by the long way around the château, to the crystal greenhouse, singing the gobbledygook song they had invented. I searched for Ayla’s eyes somewhere, they were fiery bright.
Josephine had begged for a cup of cocoa, it had been deemed legit by the gang in cotton shorts, and then our gazes had clicked, she had offered a taste and I had retorted I would better pluck it from her lips, thus it had been a game to lure her towards the garden. No sooner had we crossed the footbridge the children had only just passed than she spilt her candid beans for me. She had been born in Gibraltar, to an underage prostitute from Liverpool who had boarded a ship carrying lorries for the military, not knowing she was pregnant, yet. She had been a success among sailors who found her bump pleasurable. Josephine had been entrusted to Shandie, a mellowed woman who was too old to pick up any sailor other than dead drunk and broke anymore, then eventually she had been auctioned on the day of her twelfth birthday, in a posh clandestine casino, for a mirabilious sum, to a well-heeled gentleman who had her transported in a coffin aboard his yacht and towards the realm of ever-blue waters.
Before that, her well-being had soon been the doing of a sleazy retired Navy chaplain she called Digby, for better or worse. She spoke bachelor-worth English in received pronunciation, also clunky Spanish and French, a pretty achievement considering that the old bastard had kept his finely manicured hands very privately about her most of the time. The old whore had no sooner reckoned that the cumbersome brat of whom the mother had forgotten her existence would bring her a windfall retirement benefit for so long as she condoned the unconsecrated manners of the defrocked priest; besides, she had known so much worse all her life, the old blighter never attempted at Josephine’s physical virginity, only did he groom her to offer her mouth once in a while.
She said that Digby smelled good, even inside the tweed of his fly when she obeyed to lick his inoffensive privates until he spurt the salty bitter filth Shandie had ordered her not to spit back, under the menace of spending the night naked in the narrow closet with the only company of a rusty bucket. She yielded to the dressage without major damages, Digby’s crafty perversity and Shandie’s disabused obedience led her to be able to read aloud Don Quixote, intelligibly, straddling her master’s knees without underwear, as much with the letters of Fanny Hill or the Marquis de Sade, whom Digby taught her to tame with any due pinch of salt over an angel’s wing.
Traces of an ancient physic garden, now then subverted with esoteric roses, and where subtly disrupted alignments of scrawny dwarf box trees had perverted some centennial design. Further on, mossy stumps attested to some elegant park alleys where an all and sundry thicket concealed the ghostly pavilion Gauthier had had restored into its powdery green patina amidst an overgrown bosque of vigorous box trees, where I led my candid confidant. Beyond an improbably plush carpet lawn, a jewel-box pond mirrored a treasure of multicoloured damsel flies teasing a few koi carps. Josephine decided we go swimming among them.

Between a reformed prostitute and an irreligious priest, she had been pampered as a pageant rose, a porcelain figure in the Grand Duke’s Green Chamber. For reasons that fogged her reflection, Digby moved aside now and then to allow visits by lavishly clad visitors of sundry ages, always under Shandie’s close supervision. They would not, in their affected tongues, ask for all she had been accustomed to grant her evil padre, but nevertheless, they touched her, in the altogether, with glints in their eyes. Her future owner was among them.
Putting aside the feverish comments of the men of sartorial excellence Shandie was selling her spectacle to, more or less like a rare stage phenomenon, she had long reckoned that she ought to be of higher beauty, and while she acted like such, the adulation seemed to worsen. One of her admirers once let out that he had flown half the world at the thought of her feet he was then supremely caressing.
Would it be of having known what was imminent, she was told Digby had been found properly dead on the way to his home, and her nails had been polished with dedication.
Still inwardly dejected by grief, she had, some late evening, been decked out in a short, waistless yellow cotton twill dress, printed with butterflies, white cotton socks in patent Maryjanes, wrapped in a navy schoolgirl trench, and led hastily to some nondescript venue with many private backrooms where she was, without palavers, simply stripped down and perched upon a game table.
A striking man, with prolific coppery whiskers, in a mustard yellow three-piece suit had shouted a hideous description of her, and at once begun to hurl numbers in the face of the gentlemen whom she recognised as her visitors and thus did not frighten her. Even through the eloquent schooling fondled onto her by Digby’s perfect hands, she remained dumb for any category in which to understand what was happening other than the Marquis de Sade; she did not even know when the sale was actually finished, only that eventually it was not the worst of the villains that told her to dress back and follow him.
Even eerily amongst the koï carps and the water lilies, she was reviving with vivid details the subdued violence she had been submitted to, let implied the further episodes had blunted the shards.
She drilled the stare of her gold-starry myosotis eyes into mine, asking unflinchingly if I would foster a little tramp like her, so as Melchior had devised that she would thrive next to us. Hence, I had been played, but that game remained worthwhile, earnestly.
As if Gauthier had read me forth, there were cushioned loveseats in the pool house and smoothly wrapped towels to cavort with. Having felt the ping in my eager stare, Josephine reclined defencelessly and mused if I would accept to know more of her miniature fate.
She had hated Shandie’s smirk once the sale was concluded, but the resentment was long bygone. Trevor had held her hand down the sleazy streets to a big white automobile driven by a Sikh giant with a night-blue turban, to the pier where a speedboat waited for them and nobody, anywhere, showed the slightest inquisitive gesture about the wrongdoers they probably were. She had enjoyed feeling the thrust of the massive engines while he had held her like a forlorn cygnet. They had reached alongside an overbearing white ship and climbed into a side stairway, helped by a pristine white-clad sailor.
From that minute, a world she had figured in the words of the dying old scoundrel who manhandled her of all memory, and all the chosen magical authors he had induced in her soul, from the secretive limewashed backroom she had been pampered in, blew up into a truthful reality she could readily palpate, like the soft skin of the banquette she had been seated upon.
His name was Bram, he smelled as good as the pomander Shandie kept with her keys, and the gin she sniffed in the black glass bottle but never drank; Josephine let him kiss whatever he had a whim for, as he had done before in the secrecy of her dungeon. He knew any tidbit about her and the diet that had made her what she was, and Shandie was some cook, too. He gave the ship’s cook a copy of Shandie’s notebook.
He did not allow himself more than Digby had upon Josephine’s gracile body, and she knew perfectly what to expect, eventually. Only did he ask her to reach her best of carnal exultation, be it with her own self or his many manners of kissing her. She had never been what imbeciles call a virgin, Digby had long enjoyed watching her insert Venetian glass dildos of sundry dimensions into her holy slits, inasmuch as she enjoyed. Unscathed altogether, she knew to play the epitome of a well-heeled courtesan, notwithstanding her lack of any identity whatsoever.
And Bram had ambitions with her. As she gambolled around the floating palace, in all immodesty, like a priceless pet animal, she took a taste at moving wide, as the dancers Bram had shown her on the novelty of a video screen.

She had a natural eye on herself, there were mirrors everywhere aboard she liked, and she discovered a full-fledged gym room with some sort of resident coach who fell smitten at the second he saw her in the altogether, making Bram warn him of limited approval to his coaching, he wasn’t to use her, she was to use him; he specified she should not grow thicker but tighter, as the dancers they had already talked about.
Haphazardly, a doctor saw her in detail, saw her privately and told her what Bram wished for her, thus she agreed to receive a hormonal implant in order to avoid puberty momentarily, with the side effect of letting her grow taller, eventually. She saw a dentist, too, in the middle of the blue realm she lived in, and he was satisfied, he said it must have been her frugal diet, the smile was perfect and he discovered no cavities; he foresaw no complicated growth, but he swiftly pulled what was going to fall anyway.
Telling me these, she kept staring at my eyes as if someone had disapproved of the implant or else, thus I made her feel mine and told her what it did. She had already seen our gynaecologist who had asked to see her again as soon as her blood tests be complete.
We could have remained till night if only there had been some tea fountain, we moved back. She had lived on in the blue realm, not knowing where, but it had been her life, and now she had a global connection, and subscriptions to any magazine she wished. The coach could make her spine twirl with ecstasy without needing what she granted Bram, other crew members smelled good enough to lick her in front of her owner. The Captains, one each trimester, did not mingle in the private quarters, they slept with stewardesses they had helped hire and kept aloof when she was present.
One day, Bram had told her that she was invited to the north, to attend representations of the Nederlands Dans Theater, the very best troupe in the world, said he. Now she owned a European passport and a name. She was Josephine Shandy, born anonymously at Saint Bernard Hospital in Gibraltar, entrusted to a Miranda Shandy. Her address was Bram’s in Monaco, but she would be French. Furthermore, she learned that Bram had endowed her with a trust fund.
From Malta, they flew to Den Haag, and certainly because Bram had been a notable contributor, an intern in the communication office let them sneak into the gallery overlooking the rehearsal venues. She had been overwhelmed by the devastating intensity of the work, all the more when later she lived through the transcendence of the stage, the music, and the lights. She was enthused and crushed altogether, all three nights she had drenched all the kerchiefs. She had met the fate that she would always live beyond the glass wall where Digby had given her a realm of words.
She was weeping in my neck, I felt the trickling all the way down my belly, and the roses around us kept mute. from the pavilion where they had cavorted, Natalia hailed us joyfully before reading her mistake, she could never resist a girl crying, even less a pretty one, she embraced us, and I told her Josephine would live with us and her angst told her she would be alone forever. Natalia knew better than argue with angst, thus she hugged and kissed the weepy kid away from me, telling her to let flow and the whole castle was a privileged refuge of wistful loners, a confederacy of beauties fallen from whatever nests she ought to know personally.
Since my sojourn with the holly wolf, I had been confirmed that soul-mending is a full-time occupation, the wise man in the tower had convinced me, all the while letting a chance to the fruitful shenanigans he was aware of in the tiny republic, down to the steamy laundry rooms.
I rested assured that Josephine would find some trustworthy bedfellows ready to let her tell her life, she was so uniquely lovely.
However, a hunch seized me that I needed to bring it up to Malo. What if, in all due camaraderie, they tried to entwine the “ultrarabesques” of the cello improvisations with those engrained in Josephine’s slender joints and wings at the loving hand of the blue realm’s dance master?
While Natalia gave her all the unfettered attention she needed, not hiding anything of her own lifestyle, I found Malo in one ravaged bed with one from Gauthier’s teams who, incidentally, did not look down on me. As he groped me in Spanish, I spilt my intuition for Malo whose hair almost covered the whole of her face, but she agreed to try, mainly for the beauty of Josephine’s, if Gauthier lent them a clean venue for a few hours, it wouldn’t imply much, anyhow, other than she, also, might cuddle the forlorn sparrow.
Gauthier, as always responding to my half-murmured request, floated the idea of the desacralised chapel on the far angle of the yard, near the parking barn, which offered a listed floor of varnished tiles, and possibly a choir loft over the entrance. Malo agreed to play, casually, and see what happened if I brought Josephine in a light-hearted mood.

Den Haag was where Josephine had met Melchior, an acquaintance of Bram’s, and there had been more to it than dance enthusiasm, like she had found herself the nexus of a new principality under more diverse skies, unto her début amidst our eager gazes. While she was lulled by a truly enthralled Natalia, Melchior sent for me in our most genteel terms, and I would not pretend I had not foreseen it.
Cuddling me like an old-time lover, he heard me in short about Josephine, and he was overjoyed with my attitude towards her; he asked that I keep him posted about the encounter with Malo whom he loved dearly, too.
By the time the three nymphs had sorted Josephine’s dormant desires and got drunk on her skin, the chapel had been cleared and washed, thus it smelled of eerie industrial heavens when we brought her to the fresh venue lit by a purple and gold stained-glass high bay. Malo chose to play from the raised balcony when she saw a chair on it with a cushion. The walls were bare mortar, the ceiling a plain wooden vault, no faith had dared ornate the venue, bar a remarkably intact cream and ochre varnished ceramic tiles floor which led to thinking no real crowds had trampled on it.
Our darling liked that instantly. She heard Malo tune herself into the modest echo and launch a few ribbons all the nearer into a closed space, then fly subdued tones in the mood of a crying soul. All nude again and firmly posed on the immemorial ground, she launched herself in a bustled counterpoint of the presage she went by inasmuch Malo’s skilful bow had found an incarnation.
We had crouched along the foot of the wall, in silence, as if the miracle could never end other than the collapse of a higher flight. Yes, it was two solitudes in rare harmonics, but Josephine had found a response to her angst and her coach was vindicated.
Then, in a few chords perceived by my own gold starry blue Undine I just only met, the playful cadenza collapsed gently till Josephine rested her tousled hair upon her crossed feet, crying her bliss. She smelled of honey and lust, she was as wet as an open fig.
Malo had run down the concealed stairway down to the main floor, she was trembling, she dared seize Josephine’s head and drink her tears, she said she had just married her. Natalia ran for some much-needed lemonade, Fanny was elated and could barely speak. Gauthier was ashamed to have missed the event we raved about, he called for a heap of cushions to be aligned along the walls, and he begged the two prodigies for more of their magic with all the crowds assembled.
I knew to keep a promise with Melchior, he could feel my heart frenzied by what I tried to report to him, he hoped they would improvise another poem of their manner later in the day, but he could not figure sitting on the floor.
Gauthier confided the mirific pair that there existed a ravishing small dwelling atop the stairs Malo had climbed to the balcony, if they would, and thus the two slinked out leaving us to our heated laudations.
The samovar was back and filled up, also a special footed cake plate for a round of langue-de-chat biscuits. Incidentally, once a first fright shrugged away, a family of cats now deigned to graze our suave legs, the brave youngest to jump onto our laps for kisses.
The ethereal duet was all the talk around the dressed-up tables, Michelle and the TRÆVIX brigade wriggled in eager questioning, had it happened in a heartbeat? Had youngish Josephine been a trained dancer? Had I lured her into the box trees bosque?
All smiles in their convenient shalwar kameez, Hugo and Louis praised Melchior’s last windfall in the flesh trove, explaining to Dagmar and Fanny that there was another nowhere born wonder amongst us, beyond our firewalls, mind you!
There was a muffed cry, Cecile had lost one langue-de-chat into her cup of coffee, and it was now a blob of sag she hardly could shovel off with a spoon —she laughed lightly when she noticed I observed the event.
Kate and bis had befriended a big hazel dog that she called Kaiser and he seemed to answer. It turned out to be more of a “Fichu” because that’s what he had looked like a few years back when the ladies had ended picking him up on a roadside. Since then, he had thrived like endlessly thanking providence. He was a good ladies’ dog, it smelled of straw and stables, I dared call him Cossack, he turned a funny gaze on me.
Melchior beckoned me to sit at his side —meaning he already had his manicured hand on my thigh— to up me about Josephine whom he admired, like all of us and more. He said that she did not know Bram was dead, at the time she had been enthralled by the Nederlands Dans Theater and Melchior had met her, Bram had decided to skip the last shredded length of his altogether mirific existence, asking his long-time peer to swear he look after Josephine in her total candour. Melchior had seen only some educated peacefulness for her to be entrusted with the due manners of our kindly confraternity.

Bram had been found in a different room than that he had boarded with Josephine in Den Haag, lying on the floor on a carpet of his, a purple kerchief upon his face, he had been cold already when the hotel management called the police, nothing contradicted the constatation of suicide, and nobody knew of any legal bond to Josephine; he was kept unbeknownst to her in the morgue until the judge decided of the required cremation and the ashes be released in the blue realm.
Melchior had been transfixed by the promise he had made. Under the spell of a walking miracle, he had to learn her peculiar idiosyncrasy to let her allow him to tell her the share of the truth she needed, or the whole if she asked. She was the sole heir of an arch-complex fortune and Melchior would be her tutor until she reached twenty-five, she began weeping when he told her the ship was hers, it was called Undine, registered in Gibraltar. Nought would she know she could probably afford a whole fleet to herself?
Melchior liked me, he had shagged me umpteen times and revelled in my lewd tales, he had not touched Josephine further than a fatherly caress of her feet or hands; he had noted our connivance in the box trees bosque. He wanted me to sway her desires toward mental structures such as playing some musical instrument, a substantial practice of piano, for instance, with the right teacher, would help her sort her priorities. Nonetheless —now he frankly fondled my thigh— he rested assured that Hugo and his unfettered manner of listening and the cosmopolitan connivance of that colony of ours would procure a propitious rooting, for mutual benefits.
I agreed so much so that he rested his face upon my heartbeats, and he murmured that I go wait in his car. I wouldn’t argue such a suggestion of his, thus I nonchalantly reached the sumptuous carriage in the corner after the chapel, already refreshed, which a well-known chauffeur drove then ever so slowly to go pick up Melchior. He ordered him to drive to that place they knew. I caught a gaze in the rear-view mirror I had already seen on Mustique. I made it all the simpler to wallow upon his boss as he wished, my legs wide parted and my mouth turned over playing licks.
In a short while, the gliding vessel entered another park, still adorned with its noble high-crown oak trees, under which the car shushed to a stop. It did not affright a herd of deer nearby, but it gave me a stunt of déjà-vu such as Melchior feared for me. In my first bustling childhood, I lived in Taarbæk, minutes from Copenhagen along the Øresund strait. Our little community spread between the shallow waters and the railway track, and then beyond was the seemingly limitless natural park of Jægersborg Dyrehave, where my Far drove us sometimes for picnics and ballgames. There was a free-roaming deer herd, too, that I had not been allowed to approach, whenas they looked at me in utter friendliness. I loved when my far explained things to me, whatever they were, but suddenly my whole childish mental construction of my proud Kingdom of Denmark collapsed in me when I understood that these gracious animals I wished I imitate were allowed there with the sole intention that our Queen would kill them from afar while horse-riding, and cook them in their blood and some wine to feast with strangers. It had been a bitter row of despair, my Far had to lay me in the car and knead my little feet under the smirk of my brother. I had wiped out that scene until that day but I did not tell Melchior. He asked me if I would let Jerzy use me for pleasure while he would watch us for his own?
The boy had already come over to sit at my side and he grabbed my neck in a mighty hand to fiercely kiss my mouth while Melchior slinked out to reach the passenger seat and leaned back on his elbow so as to look, cock in hand. Nought that I wouldn’t have expected amongst the old man’s whims, and his faire-valoir smelled of Burlington cologne at his expense. Not only that blend of Connolly leather and Posillipo Hesperides reminded me of a ballet of great white cockatoos over a sun-baked swimming pool, but also impromptu elopements among the many venues pertaining to the unfettered richness of our best friend. Subservient to his fantasies, and not the by-the-yard whipping cliché, I felt as much of a whore as the priceless Odalisque.
Oftentimes, this Jerzy boy had vaunted my tomboy bum and my smooth white skin, as he was stretching my throat by constant little thrusts, to keep more stamina to hump my other holes as long as his boss needed, he turned my bottom to him and made me part my thighs, so then I felt the delicate kneading of my blooming cunt and my risky arse, probably helped with lubricant.
It was a balmy afternoon, and the spotted fawns grew less and less wary of the boisterous beasts in the black shiny cloud. Melchior said I should proceed to an enema on the lawn and pulled out a black rubber pear ready to use swiftly near the rear wheel, and pee with a smile.

As I climbed back in, my crack fresh and wet, I saw that Melchior had tilted his seat back, so as to grab my arm and lead my mouth to his penis that had thrived some, thus I found myself in a convenient angle to gulp it to the hilt, while Jerzy rooted far into my loins with the utmost consideration, I lay effortless at their whim. A piece of windy music in the shades of Vaughn Williams twirled from the car’s system like a chiffon scarf in the mellow light, Melchior, hardening, would soon embitter my throat briefly while his Cossack would arch his rump in a few last shared thursts we would remember.
The window had stayed lowered, a few candid does were risking glances, reminding me of some cunning little brats in the garden of Eden. As my day had bloomed, I could serve many more, thus Melchior ordered us back to the Château, and applied himself at licking me as clean as a kitten, but I smelled of crushed hay and my arse dripped, I snuck to the commons’ shower room, as if I knew not it was lads’ territory.
The room was clad with purplish slate and the floor of teak slats offered a perfect wet orgy venue and had but one access. The rallying cry had been swift, no sooner had I offered my face to the flows than a panting hunker ensnared me upon his soapy dick, thus I could only ask him and his pals to do me whatever but softly. The next pushed me to the wall and hummed as he pissed inside my arse then let me gush before buggering me. I couldn’t tell how many used me, Hector found me breathless. He inquired if they had forced me thus, I retorted they wouldn’t, would they? As he kept looking for unfortunate bruises and massaged me back in shape with festoons of lather, he confided he had only just before been cornered by Gwen and Dagmar, otherwise, he would have relished in me thus devastated. I recalled my first night at Louis’ when he had poured some far too suave tea with glints in his eyes, I said I would love to bring along Gwen under the golden rotunda.
There would be some event amongst the battalion of sculptures now then towering in the dark while the round tables had been dressed in white and loaded with pyramids of finger food, pitchers of kombucha and mere water. The samovar boy wore a fresh new livery, ready to let himself hustled.
One of the young apprentice seamstresses had been sent to dandify my mere silhouette, I knew right away that I would grope her as much as she would. She fetched one ample twill blouse printed of multicoloured stripes with a high jabot collar around which I let all flow, refusing all manners of trousers or shorts, enticing her beyond the silks on me. She did not yet speak any known language but she kissed the most educated way.
Gauthier had been asking for me, he approved of my flimsy costume and gratified my knees, saying that I smelled of the boy’s showers. He had prideful news, my father would attend the evening, despite all the preventions Gauthier had suggested, only to hear that he had long known of my ways of life, and they would not overstay a welcome.
It was a “they”, thus he travelled with someone who had been my first proper girlfriend, Elsie and I watching Edison being torn down, my hand down her jeans, she smelled of a cinnamon roll, then.
Far was all white-haired, now, my undisputed hero. He had found a posh silver convertible and a resplendent trophy mistress in a fresh silver-blue United Nations tracksuit and sneakers. She had slimmed, I wished she wore nothing under the jersey. She was instantly grabbed away by her sweet neighbours who had not seen her in aeons, she could not avoid Lison’s hand in her pants, and as I had bet, she wore no undies.
Letting my bare feet on a dignified old man’s lap, for him to knead gently, I was instantly some kind of a curiosity success, but the rumour ran, so then there would be some envy for my father. He was amused to learn that Gauthier had bought this samovar from the Sacher, he had attended the official opening, one when mitzy young sluts did not elope in the Klimt rooms to get shagged. He had been touched by the invitation, he liked Gauthier.
He sat next to the seemingly old fogeys who happened to behave at that time, although next to Hugo, Trine had not much covered herself. Of all the sluts around, it behoved me to make decent conversation with my diplomat father, half an hour after having been ravaged by so many stooges in the waterfalls. Hugo beckoned my way and breathed in my ear that I smelled wonderful, then, still embracing Trine’s frail shoulders, he asked my Far about the Belvedere chains, teaching him that they had momentarily been transported to this park, and in morrow, another leg of the celebration should happen in their midst. Far said they had been lodged in a guest apartment in the more trivial corner, with a view of the pampered orchard, where pears were now then shielded into colourful crystal paper sachets. Hugo asserted he was a faithful client for these pears, at what I could not help seeing some innuendo.
The silver chimes and playful bells of the infants’ realm footbridge announced the disarming parade of the dainty souls who shouldn’t miss the imminent show. I explained to Far where these children came from and how they lived off limits of a sometimes dissolute lifestyle in the caravanserai, we weren’t the only ones to berth, year long. I promised we would pay them a visit. Adeline had had tense negotiations with the social services, there had been rumours and even drone photographs showing naked ceremonies in the yard and the adult prairie the children couldn’t have seen. Anyhow, nudity as such wouldn’t constitute abuse, as Far had seen in Saint Loup.

As he found the samovar blend exquisite, Far inquired in his mellifluous manner about the new faces among us —as if his gazes did not hover lower, too. Again twiddling my toes to ecstasy, he relished the mostly true tales Hugo adorned the finely debutantes with, leapfrogging over the sordid stuff Far was savvy enough to guess. When Elsie came back, I could tell she had been happily naughty, and she gave the eye to Trine who made her sit at her side. She had lost her tracksuit for a layered ancient nightgown through which I could read her darker nipples, she couldn’t help sniff in Trine’s neck and close her eyes, she gathered up her bare feet on the cushion and winked at my Far.
Except for the running garlands of tiny lamps, all lights had faded. Some clicks and screeches warned us of some mighty wattage in speakers I had not seen, probably concealed in the sculptures. But then a very thin mist of harmonies raised as far as some lonely jetliner, in the last gradient of dusk, Venus and Mars wooed the slightest of crescents, ghostly chords gradually emanated from the sculptures in synchrony with randomly pulsing lights, at the antipodes of the techno trance.
One grave undetermined character began to perambulate between the high figures, wearing an upper-tier mask prolonged by long, bent artificial feathers, white and gold. The body was entirely clad with scarab-like gleaming plaques making the waist and joints appear thin. Transparent wings floated in its steps in echoes, in the midst of the whirl of sounds, a cluster of pizzicati festooned each and any move. New creatures, most certainly feminine as we could see into the jiggling bouquet each of them presented, began a farandole around the Golden Phoenix, to the hearty amusement of children, and purplish blue glittery, ruby red, malachite green, droll damsels as the ones which danced over the moat.
It was the opposite of ballet when one realised that the symphonic texture was commanded by the moves, not the dance to a score. It lasted only just enough to an apotheosis of holograms and laser beams projected from the roofs, and a mist of rose hid the escape of the troupe. The coloured figures continued to flicker ad libitum, I knew a few of us that could have gotten high talking to them, Gwen was bewitched, Far mumbled that she was outworldly, I had not noticed that she wore nought.
The children were wired, they wanted strawberry lemonade, and they danced still with their belly butterflies. Gauthier spoke in the system, to give the names of the musician, Markus Wolke and Bruna Solstikke, the builder of the figures and the electronics in them Oskar Fleisch, the costumes and the dancing by the residents of Chevillon’s château. He invited us to restore ourselves, after what he would lead us elsewhere.
Gwen is a born seductress, nothing of my Far’s attention to her had escaped her cunning mind, she asked, with a wink, if she could sit on my lap, thus she enlaced me. When she learned whom I was entertaining, she gasped, so outworldly the reality of a father felt to her, hence I laboured at presenting her origins without lying, letting Far himself speak of Fanny, whom Gwen admired rightfully. I joshed that my father was not so often confronted by pretty nude girls so up close, but I kept her tight and waved at Delph to bring her a shirt that never came.
By the time we were invited to cross the yard to reach the chapel, Gwen had charmed Elsie, too, with her indefinite personality, and Fayelle joined, so as to protect her little tramp sister. Cushions had been displayed around the room at the base of the walls, bar a few armchairs for the elderly, a boy gave a last sweep-up once everyone was set and still. muted projectors lit the vault, one aimed at a spot on the balcony where Malo appeared in her total smile. Gauthier stood at the little door through which Josephine appeared, as nude as we had seen her before and smiling inwards. She walked to the centre of the nave and waited. Gwen was transfixed, people were packed under the balcony.
Malo dived on us with a long straight bow cry, and then, like she would have held her dancer by the hand, she gave her all the arguments to calligraph her poem in our defenceless brains. A night with Malo had only quieted her heart, secured her ankles, and freed her spine to attune with her intuition, Gwen, my Far and I cried.
An owl, who certainly knew the place better than anyone, flew in all silently like an ultimate omen, rested in an absent saint niche, and Josephine, untroubled, invented more tendrils to clutch on fading notes, astounding to the final note when she kept one leg easily as vertical as the obelisk, then collapsed into a ball of sobs. There was a stupor, Gauthier leapt with the robe he had readied and wrapped the two artists together on their way out. The owl fled, vexed.
No one tried to hide the tears, and again, I had to tell my Far that Josephine was another nobody, nowhere person with an irresistible pull.

In the morning, the whole troupe was literally shaken by a throbbing rumble that grew out of nowhere, only visible were yellow construction machinery on the wide prairie aside from the rose garden. And the roar descended from the sky in sharp rhythm, a huge helicopter was holding down a golden sphere of metal blades and rods to the three socles built there that we had not paid attention to. The kind of articulated arms on wheels seized the three feet, guided them to their bolts and a workman caught a rope that unclutched the main hook so that the helicopter winded up the cable and flew out of sight and ears before many were out of the fluff of sleep.
That was big, three or four storeys high, not that much cumbersome on the prairie now that the machines left. The band of pyjama children had just had one of their founding emotions, they invented words that did not exist for songs that did not rhyme, they were exhilarated. Soon, the whole scantily-clad colony stood along the moat, contemplating the big ball that would soon be invested by birds.
Gauthier was ecstatic, he hugged Philippe who had engineered the operation from the industrial site where it had been assembled, Gauthier wouldn’t have risked ruining durably the prairie whenas the tracks of the wide tires would have disappeared in a matter of weeks. It was the season for hay, they would flatten the grounds. The ball was already rising on its feet, a person should be walking free under it. The intricacy made it impracticable for monkeys. When the rainbow flag flapped along with the European stars, we all applauded while Melchior and the other nobilities arrived on the bridge. Far was all in white linen, Elsie periwinkle blue, bare legs. Both long regulars of the United Nations palaces felt compelled to allude to the Woodrow Wilson Sphere I had myself greatly admired in the Ariana park when Far drove me back to school in the official limousines. That one here was only windy, whirly, unceremonious. The flight of doves dared hover around it, they would soon constitute its main pollution, wouldn’t they?
That made for a hefty heap to discuss with coffee or tea. Cecile had visibly unleashed with a couple of hunkers for Lauritz’s best concluding outcome, as my reptilian fantasy smelled it as he subtly grazed my quim. He mused I might help him choose some flowers and stuff in the little town of Joigny, a twenty minutes ride, and just only the thought made him stiff in the black silk of his jeans. Cecile gave me a mute nudge but did not lose her cookie. To eventually appear in town, I thought I needed a longer dress, no knickers. The ladies fetched me a blue and blue Pucci print knee-long shirtdress perfect for a pretend bride and one-strap white suede sandals. In cruise mode, the 911 could growl quietly. No sooner had we been on the high road than he strived to release the five last buttons on my dress, and it was a childish kind of dare to show myself undone in an open cabriolet. Someone must have told him where to fork off to find some fresh undergrowth, the engine whispered out. It came to my mind that Cecile had so much overspent herself the night before that he had dozed out, anyhow he was hardwood and he smelled of citrus, sandalwood, and the healthy workman’s sweat, I peeled him off. Against the initial odds, he was a good idea of a genuine gentleman, and he loved our prodigious apprentice as we had settled for in the whirling lights of the bateaux-mouches when she was merely a virgin ready to play.
I wouldn’t be bragging on my talents but he gushed in my throat in minutes, thus I reckoned Cecile had been busy. I swallowed thoroughly, he was not the kind to be turned off by his own jizz, he gulped my mouth and told me to masturbate as he poked two wet fingers into my arse, I knew Cecile did that to anyone, too.
We had not soaked our clothes, he had Porsche towels that smelled of gin and tonic, then he localised the garden store we needed. We filled two caddies with cut flowers that had grown very far away. Once all that fulfilled, we did not fight to foot the bill, although my cards be at order in an inner pocket.
A young well-dressed stroller girl had smiled at our unusual goings-on, I had a hunch I could ask her which pastry shop we could spend our next shopping spree in, now then. She did not hesitate and named Ferdinand. We were already looking like a carnival float but she was happy to climb on to show us the way, and her knickers also. Leaning on my elbow, I ogled her in the wind, she was a natural beauty, with no makeup, and perfect teeth, she was wooing us, nothing wrong when I touched her knee. We bought everything that did not seem too corrosive, and boxes of chocolates to the rim of the trunk. There I could wield my card.
As one would think I would, I asked her name, she said Charlotte and blushed, then, having sussed we were from Chevillon, she asked if we could give her a lift to a horse-riding club nearby and that woke dragonflies in my womb.

We also bought fresh cans of elderberry lemonade they catered to afternoon parties. Charlotte, in a black ribbed tank dress and black sneakers, gave me stares like a mocking brat. When I offered her a can, she let me catch her hand with a glint in her toffee brown eyes; as she drank my hand slid up and she offered more to it. Lauritz was a tad dumbfounded that I might actually be recruiting a new tramp to our party, he sniggered when he heard me ask if Charlotte knew of somewhere neat we could go talk to ourselves. With the same kind of stares-from-under that Cecile had regaled me with at our first dates, and resurfaced when she sussed I knew she had been nasty.
Charlotte had smooth thighs, and hair to her quim, she immediately told me that shaving was incompatible with horse riding, I laughed and she helped me steal her knickers I smelled and lend to Lauritz.
We reached a silent clearing with a shallow brook bejewelled with colourful damsel flies. When she said she needed to pee, I refused and told her she would wet me like a gentle slut. She had a fluted laugh and pull her dress over, she showed rosy areolas on my kind of flat chest I complimented before she could foster the ghost of a doubt. Even barer than she, I lay on the small sand shore and spread my thighs open, telling her to piss on my coochie, which she did while Lauritz pulled his dick to her face if she would suck one.
She sucked like a touching debutante, mostly savouring the glans, I pulled Lauritz’s trousers so we could handle the whole affair; she was stunned to watch me swallow the stem deep in my throat, but I assured her she wasn’t forced to perform this before she fancied so, she was already so seductive by the way she looked. I begged for a kiss, thus I knew Lauritz would shag her like a pleasant beastie on her fours. Her kiss turned into moans such as I feared she had been a virgin,As assiduously prescribed by the intangible court manners prevailing in this unapparent principality, just like I should know fitted, Charlotte was currently cavorting legs up in the transcendent lights of Corfou, being dubbed by our munificent suzerain’s bon Plaisir. Only that one doe-eyed debutante had so shrewdly wooed me, out of the blue thickets, that I sensed the stitches of jealousy all over my heart as I imagined her revelling as smoothly in Greece as I had hovered in Venice with the utmost whim of a young prostitute in our bed.
Except for our soft-shoed waitstaff —one becomes fastly accustomed to the silent flight of the tidying bees— the crooked-layout palace where the god crow has seen me felt deserted. Sarah was en route to Lausanne along with Michelle and her angels; regardless of his relationship with her schoolmate Elsie, she needed that her dad knead her toes again, as a token of her privileges. I had not dared ask her why she constantly called him “far”, whereas it be the last word of her bygone Danish infancy —I cannot myself recall a small name for my father, nor any tender glares the kind Sarah unabashedly begs from her near-incestuous godlike dad.
My impermanent beau Lauritz had flown to Sylt, along with the bedevilled sisters and Gwen, to what I complicitly approved, knowing the richness of her dreams intimately, Kate and Bis would dance in the moonlight.
Lazing out of a maze orgy dream set in my old rubble landscapes, I could still smell a hint of the hasheesh and jasmine perfume of the hunk who had superbly ridden me thrice in Sami’s car, at the end of a chase through the subterranean corridors of, possibly, the Lithuanian residence. Back home, I had merely spattered mild water at my quim and rinsed my bowels like a spent prostitute.
I showered in orange blossom I donned one of my over-washed lichen-green tracksuits and slid into my already paint-splattered woven-straw slippers, there was some exciting novelty in the workshop, in the case of an unknown study for Girodet’s “Sleep Of Endymion”, that lascivious magnet of a painting for the fairies of Theo’s kind. It had been fodder for some impromptu together when the ravishing lesser panel had been delivered, he had invited me to his jewel-case-like apartment next to Gauthier’s —it had been a mellow interlude, and he was proud I spoke of sweet returns, at his whim.
My days-work then was only at the cleaning start. As usual, layers of weird varnishes had been laid upon the painting that had been transferred from some millboard onto rough linen later on, as Cyprien had determined.
But when I barged in, straight to my coffee machines, Cyprien, already busy on his drawing pad, nodded funnily at me, and I could hunch some skulduggery going on. I had not yet seen, behind a screen, some unknown nude model posing on the sofa covered with an Indienne shawl.
She was stunningly lovely, and obviously so young as to shy me on guard. I couldn’t begin to figure out how she had happened to sit there, and I was mesmerised by the neat pile of her folded jeans, shirt, and hoodie, on which rested faultless wide-belted knickers just as to taunt me. She had been wearing black platform Chuck Taylors and colourful pink and green socks sat twisted upon them. She showed slender ankles and feet, and the nails had been lacquered black, like those of her hands.
Matter-of-factly, I sat down with my pot of coffee and my cookies, letting them work, soon enough I would be granted a plausible explanation. I affected not to stare at her, but each time our eyes met I granted her my best candid smile, it was obvious she needed to talk to me.
And suddenly truth dawned on me with the name “Emeline”! Weren’t she Charlotte’s younger sister, by any chance? She jumped up, ooh my! She was everything as gracious as her sister, same obsidian brown stare I could not fend off in the queue, and she sat on my lap to steal my cookies.
She was flat as a boy, her belly tight and sleek, she smelled of cut hay and animal fear, she had been on the lam. Cyprien cleared his throat and said casually that he had found her waiting on the sidewalk at the door, and she knew quite a lot about me and everyone around, so he had let her in and rave at all she saw, so much so that it had not been harsh tactics to let her disrobe after she admired the drawings of her sister in other graces’ hands.
I grasped another cup for her, and made myself comfortable for her butt, she was wet as a brook. She threw an arm over my neck, so I kissed and licked her armpit, making her blush. Yes, Charlotte had known all along that she would be abandoning Emeline as the sole victim of their despicable father, thus she had schemed the whole escapade, head fast, come what might, if we did not shelter them, they would hustle around, and it wouldn’t be worse than where they came from.
Of course, she had not been supposed to spill the beans for me, but I kindled some charms I learned from Sarah. but she cried no and begged him to shag her on.
Now it felt awkward as if she had let us overplay her dare, not really the bold slut we might have thought. I created some diversion by splashing around with the brooklet’s icy waters that tasted pure. I asked boldly if we had gone too far, too quick? She sighed, said no, also that she had known we were like so, people of the château, the talk of the local youth, somehow. She had wooed us as soon as she had read our manners, the car, Lauritz’s high allure.
See, the daughter of a village butcher, dream-fed by TV and abused by her father whose hands were bloated by the constant manipulation of blood, she had first sought a new life as a horse-groom at this new club, only to reckon that she would carry perpetual wheelbarrows of manure, scarcely be allowed to ride dentists wives’ neglected Holsteiners, and whatsoever be abused at whim in the straw bales by the club owner because she was cute in her spandex. She cried.
There, there, we had another case on our laps, a heart-wrenching miscast we rightfully deserved to help resolve eventually. I offered a game. I would give her money, as in prostitution, not cheap. She would be my servant for the next three days, I meant sexually, nothing worse than what we just did, and I would have her talk with strays just like her, making sure her club owner would take her back if she decided.
Yes, indeed, she had always felt she was too beautiful for the shitty kind of existence she had been misplaced in, but that did not make her different from most of the narcissistic brats her age. Only, by my long-time vice in extorting confessions of my many flings, I could tell a born courtesan, unflinching to any class struggle. Charlotte avowed her abusers had found her remarkably wet, to her shame, and she would put that sluttiness to good use.
She had heard legends about the Château, not really Adeline’s crew who were hard-working people, but the troupes who came every now and then to fit their stage costumes. It had happened that they loaned horses and, being around, she would be jostled over by some actor or self-important property man, only to be frankly ignored the next day.
Back at the château in all fervours, I told Charlotte to follow me and act as my servant. We helped arrange the bouquets, she had a taste. We sheltered the sweets before the lovely critters see them. Everyone wondered about Charlotte, Hector was jealous of his statutory prerogatives but drooled of craving. I beckoned Annabelle and Fayelle our way and locked ourselves in the propitious top room of a tower. In a wink, all of us were in the raw and the new wonder let herself be commented standing on the bed. Holding her as my bitch, I retold in short her somewhat banal story, letting her know that except a few privileged kids like me, everyone around had a past of abuse, neglect, and prostitution. Once on tracks, I let them trade misery tales and tender manners, with those heather fairies, it wouldn’t be the grooming of another young courtesan, although they wouldn’t leave a nook of her skin unlicked.

I looked for Camille to get advice. She was with Trine in the roses gazebo, doing their toenails. She said she had heard the gossip, she asked if I was that smitten. I told her I had unwittingly found my hand trapped in the honeypot, but the savour was shattering, and I twiddled Trine’s nipples till she closed her eyes. Since I played paying her, I might lend her a little so that she would let her in a situation of selling her hide for real. But at this time, the mellow fairies should have convinced her to follow me whatever the risk and Cecile would no sooner trap her in her shack. Trine had agreed to nest at least for a season in Camille’s bed, be there as many hunky lawyers to bribe at her mistress’ whim. Her nails were sage green, Camille told her to go fetch a tanned security boy, she was on the list of their premiums.
I looked for Hugo, I was told he was in hiding with Malo and Josephine, I esteemed myself beyond discretion whatever they might be plotting.
Suddenly, I noticed Far’s car gone, Adeline told me they had taken the French leave, and he had left an envelope for me, it was a blue leather-clad box encasing a line of sapphires the size of my ankle, I clipped it on, thus showing my bum crack to Adeline who grazed a finger along it. She whistled and murmured I was some spoiled kid, she then spoke of Charlotte, she would have liked to know how I had found her, an adorable little slut who had been turning around the troupes there hopelessly like a bee. She thought she was a kind dreamer mistreated by the man’s world she was in with no other outcome than squander her youth in bars and on street corners; couldn’t we take her with us?
Fayelle had carried upstairs a tray with tea and cakes.
Hugo and Malo, longtime accomplices, were madly engrossed with Josephine but they let me lap at whatever I craved, thus I nibbled at her dainty long toes that smelled of a lotus unguent they had earned in their prowess. Again, Josephine asked me if I was fondly enamoured to the point of wishing her well —as Melchior did for her. I couldn’t give her a spiel her, of all our redeemed orphans, I told her I had found myself struck at the idea of sending back Charlotte shovel the manure with the vain image of having had it off for an hour with aristocrats in a priceless car, a sunny day by the brook. Josephine seized my face and kissed my tears, she said for all she knew I could afford Charlotte’s life what may come. If need be, the 911 knight and I would go fetch her things and say bye to the horses. Hugo would be impatient to travel with such a poetic new niece.
The tables had been carried to the lawn before the rose garden, Markus and Bruna would make the sphere sing. On the walkway, someone grabbed me from behind so tight that my shirt left me bare-arsed. Charlotte wanted a public wet kiss, most people had not yet seen her, my little country whore. She said the girls had sworn I never failed my word. Kate and Bis —as it was a fashion to call Annalouise— embraced us and sniffed Charlotte’s head, bantering she smelled like a baby squirrel, just what I needed. Hands were dared all over while my florist hookup stared in my eyes in fervour. Kate said she envied me, sliding a naughty hand and bringing it to our noses. Our table was heatedly disputed, Charlotte wanted the heather fairies —now she knew all it meant— and I wanted Malo and Josephine, hence I could not avoid Hugo, of course.
As Charlotte clung to my hand like the child she mostly still yet was, Delf jumped on my lap and forced her to smile, predicting she would never have seen anyone like him&she, then she obtained a languorous kiss she deemed promising. Now Charlotte measured by how far the local gossip missed The truth about the château. Everyone wanted a whiff of her, Camille, Michelle and all. I told Lauritz to sit in the second row, he was the only one to have shagged her for good, wasn’t he?
A circle of potent searchlights blazed upon the metal sphere, a nest of spinning laser beams in all colours had been installed inside and a number of randomly-shaped screens twirled, showing swift glimpses of eyes and faces. Ghostly holograms hovered in concentric layers of pinpoint glitter. Once more disturbed in their sleep, the flights of doves added a frantic turn of flapping flashes.
Bumbling along the pathway on the shore from their little province, the funny band of younglings floated mid-awe mid fright, they soon found loving arms to hug them, a bushy-fringe slim kitten made her way on Charlotte’s bosom, not caring she was as good as nude.
Then, clusters of chords seemed to fly in swarms, followed by the birds no one could have counted on, like whirling opalescent veins that threaded in one’s eager brains like auroras in a frosted forest. Gradually, like the heartbeats of a waking stallion, a motive of deep bass chords emanated from cobalt blue hologram clouds in wobbling rotation.

I couldn’t help painstakingly fondle my young neighbour’s feet as she rounded peridot green eyes to the never seen extravaganza, ready to surrender hands-up at the least of hiccups like one does with baby fawns. It was manifest these two knew each other well, I reckoned they had met at the horse-riding club, thus I eased my embrace so as to let her insinuate herself at will between us, she gave me a glance of intelligence, her feet were all animated. Charlotte called her Daina, her mother came from Lithuania.
I had no idea how such ample sounds could originate from a somewhat disembodied structure, one expects the wrapping bass tones out of fat resonators. But Gauthier’s overall design was so intricate that a properly attuned acoustic horn might meander through the pandemonium so as to deliver the volcanic growl. Gauthier said that the wizard was Oskar, heedful to every whim Bruna and Markus might twiddle up with.
The herd of deer, as socially tamed as those who had recently seen me doing the nasty, comprehended that this monster was not evil, if boisterous —there was no hunting on the five hundred acres of estate. Gradually, the edges of the prairie became haunted with floating golden stares.
The musicians had parked their command car backwards a hundred feet away opposite us, so we could see a heap of flickering black boxes behind them as they tapped on the keyboards before them, all behind fumed glass
With the echo of the château’s facade, they began to let twirl evolutive loops into the same scheme as the visual swashes, all was clean, swift, and crisp, There must have been a fierce wattage in the wires.
The sensation went crescendo, little Daina had jumped on her feet dancing, everybody was on edge, Josephine danced on the grass, and the owl, again, glided through the crystalline beams to go perch in one of the towering oak trees.
It lasted the perfect lapse of a princely capriccio, and it ended like a blaze of impalpable kindling, resting in the silent glow of a random wonder. Nanny Dora counted heads to corral back the beloved younglings after a last round-up near the machine.
Markus and Bruna, and Oskar, walked to us and Gauthier led them to His Munificence whose smile declined, for once, any carnivorous afterthought. It was clear the whole production was his, and thus after another free show of good manners towards the village population, the helicopter would haul the stonking contraption to some other worthy arena. Markus and Bruna fostered high hopes.
We were told that some crank boozer had done some fuss at the gates about Charlotte he claimed was his. He was eventually brought back to his stables and cuffed in a stall to sober up. Charlotte took place with me in the first car to head back to Paris. A few of our merry crew remained around sundry unmade beds, Cecile wanted to observe certain sophisticated techniques the highly skilled seamstresses used, thus she unexpectedly befriended Florenz who was impressed by her connections at the Pietre Dure institute, she could never have hoped for a better introduction to such an important collector.
Malo was frankly besotted with her new companion. If only by their own will, they would have dwelled indefinitely in the chapel, but Melchior, who revealed an unexpected savvy for ballet, or had sent a video of the duet to a dance master in Den Haag, forbade that they continued to damage Josephine’s ankles on a tiled floor. He promised they would have the disposal of a real dance floor in Paris in less than three months, in the meantime, he supposed that the hayloft over the parking barn could be arranged, if Adeline and Gauthier permitted, and hence it was done swiftly like an exciting challenge for Gauthier’s teams, supplementary beam work freed more than enough space for one soloist practice on floating boards in a matter of weeks. For Adeline, it was some new gem to her crown, important people begged for the privilege to see the new girls’ work —and their physique. In Paris, what might have been a garage next to one of the new acquisitions of SEVEN STREAMS on the rue de Verneuil, a vast covered yard without any pillars could even host private shows because it had sundry exits. Needless to say, Camille was all in, she had always sensed a cry of solitude in Malo’s performances, beyond art’s sake. Now, whatever would give, both women’s souls had thrived a notch, notwithstanding the Gibraltar angel might be flying higher than any of us was seeing.
Michelle had fled not long after the apotheosis, along with her own cohort of angels, and the pair Gwen and Finlan she had found a liking to frolic with. Liselotte enjoyed some quality time away from her ardent network, recommending those on the list to the high-standard venues for their money. One of her current gimmicks would be to sell the two sisters’ ensemble, and she sussed whom to; in the meantime, she had seen them unbound in the showers with the off-shift security team of seven hunky men.

 

Gauthier says:

The little Indians’ tribe deemed our productions successful and the audience funny to bear with, Dora told me. The wisest one bantered that she had cuddled with Sarah and touched her navel because they wore nothing, then the anthems had raised to the stars and she had felt like dancing.
The next performances with the inhabitants might seed more down-to-earth interrogations, the château did not yield many benefits to the community, nor jobs, only some taxes that did not sound as bright as our kinds of music. We had no prospect of growth further than my mother’s workshop which remained in high demand because she had hired skilled foreigners she wouldn’t have found on site and they had formed a talented company.
In intelligence with the municipality, I would serve them premium food and wine, after they would have had time to inspect the outer buildings and ask them not to divulge what they had seen of these privately commissioned productions they might recognise one day on TV. To expect more would be begging for trouble. And for instance, the rightful escape of young Charlotte, for the little that would be recounted at the watering holes, might foster a toxic grudge beyond the merit of the case, it might be worth asking Hector’s acquaintances to exert stealthily damage control, one way or another.
As for that day, in a cute manner of the ides of summer, we proposed some deliberately analogue chamber music in the far pavilion, a raised square wooden architecture amidst a carpet of ivy, glazed all around —we had had to afford stained glass with coloured cabochons after we noticed the many birds that coshed themselves dead on plain glass. I bore great pride in the copper pagoda roof that was gradually turning softly green. From the château, the way through the patch of woodland that separated the realm of the imps was paved clean with pebbles and led to a raised wooden pathway, step by step up to the pavilion porch.
None of our guests knew the musicians, and they would play behind lattice and silk screens, a piano, a cello, and a violin; they had accessed through a service portal, they wouldn’t even know there was a château and a private midsummer extravaganza. They had become known for their smooth rendition of long rêveries of Morton Feldman, thus they were given carte blanche for a day-long practice at their whim and a samovar of the best blend towering on a buffet table. Philippe had tipped them about the gloves-off kind of behaviours that would expend in the other corners of the salon in the wilderness, altogether the screens existed mainly for their own safeguard, though it wouldn’t be prohibited to risk a peek at some perfectly lawful human deportments.
For once, Malo wouldn’t play, other than Josephine’s ethereal harp of legs and feet who could mutely dance on the white-painted floorboards upon the rich silences of Feldman’s she had attuned to.
James had dawdled a tad with his daughters, he relished the smell of a countryside new to him, without the background hum of civilisation. The heather fairies had devised to lure two maintenance operators — young men we had vetted thus— to one of the guests’ rooms and play mummies and daddies till dawn, the boys still slept, but James couldn’t quench his thirst for smutty details, they knew the song.
Kate and Bis had been tipped off to uncover the pool, beyond the moat and the carefully trimmed hornbeam hedgerows at the far end of the orchards, towards the old XIXth century common road to Paris, skirted along with thick rows of evergreens —in itself this pool and surroundings cost three months of gardener’s care yearly. Thus, along with Lizon and two proud stalwarts, they tiptoed into the imaginary swashes that Josephine was arousing through the musical galaxies of Feldman. They understood a framed sign showing a struck-out eye at the edge of the screen hiding the musicians. All around Josephine’s playground —and she accepted Kate’s enlace en passant— were laid out primrose green flowery chintz adorned American armchairs with proper arms and heads rests for those nasty poses, the heavy padding muting off all squeaks from the seats’ structures. Annalouise smirked at the schmaltzy kitsch gilded samovar but the tea was cromulent and she soon dozed out while accepting a fervent licking by one of the suitors.
Ayla was putting on a terrific show in nought more than an ivory crepe dinner jacket with satin lapels, keeping Fæbian nude on a white suede leash and collar, affecting to lease her to anyone while Dagmar’s camisole, lily-white lace and veronicas’ winks over her bum, let herself wallow over the considerable dick of an angel-face athlete, gradually parting her long tapered legs at his whim.
I was painfully stiff in my sage green twill low-waist, but what had come to obsess me then was Josephine’s firm bum, and I knew she was no virgin anyhow. She had then knelt like a damselfly on Malo’s lap, they stared in each other’s souls. Daring upon our long friendship, I questioned Malo’s eyes as my hand slid down Josephine’s crack and she tilted her head so as to allow us to go burrow into the next armchair.

Once upon a windfall, I may have carried a pocket blister of lube, not then, and it is ill-bred to force in a ballerina’s pleated rosette, whenas her quim is in bloom. She had deftly peeled me off, then threw one leg aside on the rest so as I could sheathe in deliciously little by little, blessed with these drops of bliss, she wasn’t lying to her pleasure, and one go wasn’t the end of my want.
As she began to wonder if all we would have were napkins and wild verdure, I carried her down a narrow staircase down to a full-fledged service bunker I am proud of, all tiled in variegated deep green varnished earthenware, and also no one had to wonder where the musicians had vanished to during the more than longer pauses, there was another stairway in their corner.
In my caprice, it had always been a daytime bawdy house, and the musicians’ hideout came while visiting a few remaining casinos in Venice where musicians were nested behind latticework. Josephine was overjoyed to dance in the tepid flows, gathering water in her hands to rinse her merry cleft afresh.
Halfway in the vestibule between the two stairways, we were confronted by two of the musicians who, showing by the gaping flies of their jeans, had been making out, standing. Everybody sniggered gently, the girl, a short natural teen blonde with amber-glowing eyes, wooed Josephine so as she dared slide a hand in her pants, confident of her spell for these few minutes. They had known me as the hirer, the boy, whose perse eyes had before drawn me to a sofa in my offices, relished the sudden intrigue, both of us fanning on the girls’ whim until I whispered a rendez-vous at dusk.
While we returned to Malo, the piano breathed solo to three hands as I would figure the concealed shenanigans, but the grace of Feldman’s still hovered amongst the libertines, in the four corners of the drawing room —so to speak. Cecile came holding along some shy trainee wearing the merest of a petal-pink t-shirt dress and white double-strap flat sandals; herself allured nonchalantly in an imbalanced grey piqué mock dinner jacket with spiked lapels and a hammered gold spiral brooch in the Calder manner, plainly no knickers.
The baby was one of my mom’s brood, earnestly learning couture and manners; Cecile probably had had to scheme daintily to be let to stray a girl to this end of the park. That novice was not without recalling Cecile herself, ferreted out by Sarah of her thick overalls, fireproof gloves, and security mask and helmet, I hadn’t noticed her myself, did I? —Sarah once said it had been the swaying of loins in the dedication of her minute endeavour, but Sarah will go to the throat of any clean-smelling youth, as she just had done at a florist shop, ooh, Sarah— her name was Rachel Contilly, she looked at my reviving dick blushing.
Cecile made her sit aside, chasing strands of hair around her face. She quietly told the terrified dove to let be, nought would be done to her unasked for, and no meant no, utterly. The pale dress had already slid up a notch on Rachel’s tapered thighs, the uncovering had already been clearly assented, and Cecile meandered from under with her own hips to make Rachel offer a better sight of her animality, at what she was helped by Josephine, in all played innocence, then up and up till over the head and a perfect kiss, undoubtedly Rachel owned practice with girls. Malo had unbuckled the sandals and twiddled her toes with her tongue, a couple of aroused hunks came to show their sympathy and one earned a dedicated fellation by Malo while another shagged Cecile’s gleaming quim, so Rachel floated in the middle of new smells for her; Josephine did not let go of her, as she could feel the thumps on her labia. She sported valiant little pointed nipples that made her head spin, I asked her if she would let me thread her with manners and she mumbled yes, I repeated my question halfway in and the answer was a hum.
With all the sundry discharges beginning to stick on our bodies, there was a migration of every dirty culprit to the steam of the shower room, hence our two beginners began, in clouds of lather, to let abuse themselves. I was, at the least, spent, but I helped Kate withstand a harsh upright buggering, then bumped in the yellow-topaz glare of our musician so we danced, laughing that I had reached my content for the night, yet I fancied that, with the proper dedication, she still might have delighted a jolly troupe of suitors; we talked frankly, she was curious about our crew, all I crafted out to tell her was in order to lure her in the cobweb and make her life easier. They lived around Paris, They could give concerts in rich venues I knew well, at the price they had appreciated for that matinee on my estate, with the same highly appraised immorality, couldn’t they? She feared a slippery slope to mere whoredom and I did not disabuse her indeed; we danced more and kissed, she was groped by many passers-by in my arms, and she liked it. She had my numbers, and she ran. the name was Robin.

 

Cecile says:

Adeline’s team had been proud to let us descry the nitty-gritty of their trade, just like I would greet them into my lair. They maintained sundry weaving looms of yesteryears, and they could spin any odd idea of material into timeless textures, bearing the wordplays in the pits of angst, albeit, Adeline finely reckoned, theatre resonates all the starker through nude actors, just figure Vladimir and Estragon in the bare truth of their bodies? Just so, fifty years after the stir of Beck and Melina’s Living Theatre, inasmuch also ones had put on stage haunted mute puppets for a cosmic Bunraku, Adeline took on the dare of some transfigurative rags as a means for the proper mental distance between street level and the skies’ limits.
She was obviously heated, her son had overbid so much on the worldly chessboard that she hastened to border her own vocabulary, to me who took in all the valid endeavour of their impassioned kind — and understood mostly that she had a crush on me.
Into some fresh old linen on a bouncing mattress, she was skilled for hitching my rags and poking her tongue onto my lower belly, causing tremours in my womb. Seamstresses of her flock passed casually by, grazing my legs like they would a piece of precious cloth, giving me names that made me feel all the more a slut to the savoir-faire of their chief. She laughed that I wetted the bed.
Community baths seemed a fixture of this mill of souls, bar for children who remained among themselves with nannies until puberty, at least, and I was quieted about individual integrity, most of them boarded comprehensive middle schools but hurried back to the château for holidays, some bringing on buddies. I recalled Sarah’s description of her lakeshore paradise, also she had listened to my miserable laments in my magazine shack where nowadays I liked to shag Gauthier, too. Dawdling in the running waters, I told Adeline all the love we had for her son, what we did with him at his princely whims, she said that meeting with Kate and Sarah had offered him the stepping stone to the rainbow —afresh from the ashes of Valparaiso— and Hugo had furthered the best connections for his talent.
No sooner had I thrown on a pinstripe coal-grey vest upon that lopsided kind of formal shirt than some cute envoy in black silk begged me to follow him to meet Mr M., as I wished. We all did it, as we all climbed in the 911 express. He had not been sleeping at the château, it was no longer his age, but I sussed there had been limousine shuttles, all in the atmosphere of my magazine fantasies.
Not unexpectedly, the chauffeur, who smelled of Posilippo, asked me to sit next to him, and since the silent machine seemed to drive itself, his free hand soon grazed my thigh so I whored to him already, as he liked, but he did not park anywhere until we entered the property Melchior had rented.
The hunky boy showed me to a lattice arbour where his master was sprinkling sugar on a bowl of raspberries and beckoned me to sit by his side. Another stud who could hardly deny his arousal lay a silver tray holding a steaming moka coffee maker, a saucer with lemon peels, and a plate of langues de chat. He could tell I was undoubtedly titillated and furthermore aroused by his attention to my mannerisms, I spread aside my leg, I wore neither shoes nor undies, and he made his stare caressing while I felt the driver’s hand in my neck thus I kissed it.
Melchior was rumpled in a silk gold yellow kaftan open on a long linen kameez hiked up to his stiff penis as he would revel watching someone like me serviced by his bulls. As he stole my simple outfit, I had time to relish the outlandish coffee they had concocted for me —and dip some biscuits in it. Melchior even slid down on his knees to be able to suck on my toes, the second boy had disrobed, too, letting shimmer a cinnamon skin and a sturdy staff.
Melchior told me to pull my tongue and twirled it with his, while a cushion was shoved under my rump and my legs tilted up, so as my already greedy holes be licked by these famished beasts. He asked for me to be upturned so that I would suck him while the boys would thread alternately in my holes and I became their dripping pommel horse, seeing under my eyelids the same old hurling menagerie I had grown to enjoy since the terror times in the cellar, then they both discharged in my entrails and Melchior made sure I did not lose a drop of his own gush.
The two servants ran with their togs and their master turned me up, covered in semen and smelly but he liked that, he licked my face clean and kissed me, felicitating me for the trust I had given to Sarah and the long way I had come since. He asked me to watch for Josephine who soon would settle at a stone’s throw from my workshop. I told him she could set camp in my shop, and Cyprien would see it as an honour to draw her if she would stand a pose. We went for a bath together, it smelled of ylang-ylang and lotus, he told me to have an enema in the bowl nearby.

In the yard, the giant pawns kept showing erratic signs of life waiting for the rain; Oskar Fleisch, once having profited from his craftsmanship’s edge to get to manhandle my quim —and he is handsome enough to entice me to retort the manoeuvre— avowed nonchalantly that it is easier to fabricate an animated contraption that spins the soul of onlookers than a successfully emotional steady sculpture, in earnest. Thus, he had used me tactfully and taught me more than he thought.
The Grand Master was obnoxiously on the phone, I noticed pretty silhouettes moving in the first-floor salon, I hoped it could be Dagmar. She newly wore a low-choker necklace of misty opals that befitted her like dew on a lily, I pondered but she did not snitch who had offered her the lively stones. On a high-back vaned rose velvet sofa, a fluid chit-chat went in German between Ayla Naveen and Fæbian Elsterwert, Lizon hazy-eyed at their feet, Fæbian wore a line of aquamarines at her ankle. They looked like a Gerda Wegener painting I saw at Lauritz’s.
I pulled Dagmar to a mole grey loveseat, I craved her accent in French, she said I smelled of having fucked and stripped me, that seeing Lizon came over and sat on a pouffe, I asked her if she found I smelled semen, she nodded and gave me the eye. Dagmar had seized my neck and kissed me deeply, asking that I not wash; Lizon licked her way to my coochie, I felt slutty and I parted my thighs.
Later, a pair of chasing hunky minders heard sighs from the open window, they saw not us but the German courtesans’ heels over heads with themselves and figured they could help. Looking at their curled-up truncheons, I had a fleeting wondering of whom chose them, and my womb remembered the thumps it had relished moments before. The two Swiss damsels pranced legs-up towards the laughing matadores who accepted the bait of their toes, however not playing for time at brandishing their penis on the right spot, they needed some kind of KY, Lizon knew where it was, she was only too pleased to help and glide fingers in the sluts’ arses, she also gained some in hers. Dagmar and I joined the group, she threw one of her long legs onto the backrest so as to give her quim to drink at Ayla’s hungry mouth, and I crouched down to reach whatever hole between Lizon’s bum cheeks, she smelled of burned toffee.
The hardy musketeers made no prisoner in their assault, tooling in the supple hips to the hilt till the juices spilt free in the scent of utter animality and they all collapsed. I suddenly mulled over a scheme with Dagmar and Lauritz in some of the lewdest dungeons of Paris.
Then, it would be villagers’ night, Gauthier let us guess that it would request a whole different set of boules, so to speak.
Bar Marie, because Gustave was the little Prince of the nursery having the time of his promising life, we all hopped in our cars and I lured Dagmar into the 911 front seat, putting her ethereal pair of legs right under the nose of Lauritz’s. She wore an oversized navy blue blazer trimmed with a double white grosgrain line, and white ribbed jersey knickers.
I had my hand in her collar gap twiddling her opals, he tried to compliment her but didn’t find the fitting words and went on in his smooth kind of German he had capsized me with from the start, and Sarah agreed. He craved her, and she soon held free his honourable staff in hand. He suggested that in forty minutes we would reach the Fontainebleau forest, so then she did not suck too deep and took time to offer me her mouth now and again.
With instinct —and the help of Google maps— he reached a quiet spot on an offset byway smelling of pinewood and soon after the engine stopped we heard birds chirp and nothing else. Her knickers had disappeared, and she looked amused, I helped her out of her blazer as he nibbled at her titties, making her meander in her seat. That car had never been a true love nest, but, at the risk of crashing me behind his reclined seat, she managed to straddle him properly and let me kiss her as she panted of his thumps.
He was joyous, he said he was driving the two best lovemakers he knew he lead us to a grand terrace restaurant before the Palace’s entrance where we made some impression, not only Dagmar and her legs, but also me, in my low-cut purplish-black jersey tank dress flush to my quim, Lauritz in fit jeans and black silk shirt looked like a high-roller, all the more that he wore gator boots, he owned the two best sluts of the day, and it wasn’t over. Meanwhile, following our bucolic romp in the woods, he offered us the disposition of a bathroom in the hotel, with bath salts and thick towels, that was clout.
Those few days basking in the easy drive of unbridled pulsions had triggered in him the stum of throwing an open night in the von Speck mansion on Quai d’Anjou, no more permanent video that he knew of. We began calling over and letting Sarah order fine provisions. It made Gauthier half-hearted to hear about that, but he was bound on duty.

The river Seine was rose-gold under a lace-veiled sky, Dagmar had lost her knickers, but I knew where it was. Udo Wenzell, the maître d’hotel, was a long-time servant of the family, but also a sexual accomplice of Lauritz’s whose age he was, greeted us with a finely drawn approval on his narrow face.
In a sensuous way, I belonged to the place, Lauritz was my light-handed master forever, but he had never baulked at giving me rein on my own fate, he relished craving Dagmar suddenly before me, I had loved her at once.
If he had not transported his usual detail to Chevillon, here, they stood at attention, ogling our easy thighs on the mohair seats. Sarah and her new flame Charlotte were first to rush up, and they were holding hands like lost kids. The young tramp was still petrified by the audacity she had pulled, and she blushed in front of Lauritz who frankly hugged her, groping her bum like a chum. She wore a Tana Lawn, “sunset impressions” waistless gathered dress, prettily creased, powder blue knickers, and Egyptian sandals of the same. Visibly, Sarah had bewitched her and she was proud to push her against my belly, like taunting me. Symbol of her entry into the herd, her mons pubis was newly smooth. Sarah winked at me that I take her aside.
I knew of a boudoir where I could bustle her into a peach-cream Ruhlmann loveseat, the imprint of the venue was such that she asked me where we were. While conquering her buttons one by one, I took evil pleasure in explaining what a brothel had been, or still was, and absent-faced strangers were beginning to pass by, eying our uncovered legs. With many pinches of salt, I bantered that I had learned being a prostitute with Lauritz, a rich man who wouldn’t trade me for a living, like many of our friends had been subjected to. When I reached the waistband of her knickers to pull it away, I knew her coochie would be soaked, thus I made her blush explaining many sensitive personalities fostered a fantasy of enslavement, even an abused little urchin like me had wanked at harem tales I found in rubbish magazines. While wanking softly her wet slit in front of a waiter who had already passed twice, I asked her if she twigged that Sarah had given her away for me to use, just like you want your bosom buddy to listen to a piece of music that took over your mind.
She enjoyed her fright so visibly that I took her to the magnificent gold and bluish wavy mosaics bathroom before she peed on the carpet, and then enlaced her in the gold basin until it flowed upon my feet, like Sarah had taught me with girls, thus she almost passed out. She needed to recoup her wits, I made her laugh telling her that next time she would piss in my mouth.
The foliage’s shadows still roamed across the grand dim-lit room where I had manicured almost every glittery shard, against one of the tall windows, Lauritz’s eyes showed me that nothing had since waned of our first debaucheries along the Seine.
All our togs had been tucked away in some closet, and richly pulsing layered harmonies hovered out of the embedded speakers, I beguiled her to show herself nude like me at the buffet table, thus she couldn’t help laughing when her eyes met Sarah’s, who was also fondling Seresine who blushed as well when Charlotte eyed her, I foresaw our bliss at watching these two indulge each other.
I had a hunch that Hugo had come, on the one hand, to cease a row with Lauritz, and on the other, to relish on the new hesitant fillies he knew full well would soon visit his own salons all alone. Meanwhile, in an ecru flax kameez with gold buttons, he stood besotted between the two novices in their best suit. Just like an actual client of the house, he was already grazing Charlotte’s waist, as if he would enquire for some idea of a price, and I played the role of the procuress. I told Charlotte who he was, and that I lived and worked inside his prestigious venues, like most of the graces she could see arriving and gazing out on her. Sarah drew all of us away to a wavy sofa and sat the girls next to one another so that they had to embrace not to look dumb. For our relish, they began chatting about how Charlotte was feeling like a whore, thus Seresine wondered if she had ever been sold ever, and I jumped in claiming Charlotte was just an amateur being toyed with by me, and nonetheless, she sat pretty nudely receiving the baisemain of strangers in silk suits.
Lauritz ushered us to the warped mirror-clad elevator that merely showed the pallor of our skins, up to the convenience rooms, and let himself fall over the burgundy padded silk bed, staring at Charlotte’s little face while opening his fly. She had had a grasp of the game since the stop off in the woods, she bent over for new cajoling with her pouty mouth, but soon he grabbed her chin and stared at her kindly, asking if she would, right then, agree to pocket a hefty sum of real money —the figure gave her quivers— to let a fine vetted gentleman play with the whole of her body?

It went without saying that I would remain with her and participate in her first round of whoring, just like Sarah was probably at work along with Seresine. She moaned and asked me if I really was a prostitute? I laughed and retorted it had long been too late to ask, but I was a reputed skilled salvager of art wrecks at well-earned prices, but it was my pleasure to sell my own beauty as long as it was worth, hadn’t she felt bewitched by Ayla’s glances, her who had been a whore since high school?
Purportedly an Ambassador, the mid-sized, mid-aged mild-mannered man who entered the room without knocking after Lauritz had left smelled of a sophisticated blend of Hesperides and sacred woods, he must have been ginger before his hair fell, he wore a tactile malachite-green silk velvet jacket he rested on a chair backrest before he sat with us, only asking that Charlotte parted her thighs wide. I sensed a small pang at being somewhat demoted to mere sidekick so matter-of-factly, whistling in a queer question.
His Excellency wished to suckle on the already visible juices on our nymphet’s labia, I took a welcomed initiative denuding his butt and legs, leaving on his long-tails shirt, where had I learned that important gents do not want to frolic in complete nudity? It had not been in my magazines.
Her moan was utterly exquisite, I did not have heaps of effort to churn up on the straight slim penis in its shaw of tweedy tow, I sucked on it till it sprung up. Then he slid in, straight to the hilt, and I smiled watching a newly bloomed bona fide trollop at her song. The merry fancier was a fast shooter but had more shots in his balls, once he was soaked with goo, he attacked stubbornly the frowned terrified pleated rosette with barbaric enthusiasm. I knew I could find better lube in the bedside table’s drawer, I massaged duly the key and the lock and thus Charlotte attuned her moans sharper, wriggling her hips and sending her feet haywire. One favour I had learned somewhere between Philippe’s and the Panopticon, I risked a slippery finger in His Grace’s arsehole, tentatively, to the rapid effect of the stiffening of his loins and a second deep gush still not appeasing and the plea to continue buggering him.
When he finally bit the bedspread in bliss, Charlotte was shamefully dripping along her thighs and I licked her clean like a bitch before I made her sniff my lips. The three of us manhandled each other and then he deigned to hand-fuck me to some release. He said he wanted us again in two weeks, and he might bring an acquaintance of his, I said it might happen, he left a fat roll of money, as a tip, said he as I tied his bowtie and grazed his half-asleep johnny.
A boy-maid entered not long after, holding a fresh plum-coloured bedspread, he did not restrain from eying us all the way down to our feet, he said joyously he would groom them for free, he said we made him hard, and he fled. Lauritz entered a moment after to visit his dirty whores, we had been heatedly making out; he wanted to nuzzle in our bum cracks and smell fresh vice. He gave us a fat mauve envelope and I let Charlotte evaluate how much it contained, browsing the banknotes.
He sat Charlotte on his lap, her thighs did not try to close; he floated like a funny suggestion that there was another customer all heated at the idea of hiring two maidens who had already spent most of their day with their holes flush with semen, so to speak vulgarly. The reward would be the same.
I had known this already, at Lauritz’s hand, but watching our stable girl mulling over further steps of her own debauchery was making me wet, and her too. Then her silence had half-talked and now she had to say clearly that she was ready for another john, with me.
No great skill was required to guess that the next slender gentleman was some bigwig in an authority function, a high cop or a general. He wore tweed and a complicated gold watch, his shoes were artistically polished. He left us standing, groping randomly, fingering and sniffing. I had a little more success with that one but he wanted me to do all things to Charlotte, who revelled as such.
He asked her to kneel and “free the crow”, which rather looked like a vulture, while he twirled his tongue in my mouth, holding my nape firmly. Then he undressed methodically, telling Charlotte to untie his Oxfords, she lowered down to smell his feet so he said he relished that. No sooner were we all nude than he commanded me on all fours on the bed, he had seen the discreet bottle of lube on the bedside table. I was gently supple but he took pleasure at smearing my backside, and then Charlotte’s too.
He sported a stocky curled-up stake, for what I felt when he decided to hump me with it, I sensed being stretched like in my days as a virgin when that reviled bastard had used me, a mixed painful and enraging sensation that I might very well have wallowed in, and which now turned into radiating pleasure in my womb by dint of deadly regularity. There was a streak of warm hurls into my entrails that I howled at while I squirted on his balls in a gigantic release before I collapsed along Charlotte who begged for a kiss. I saw my victor’s stare, and I granted him a wholehearted smile, he winked back, but he was bound on a dare and seized Charlotte’s haunches with a horseman’s resolve, making her feel his dominance until she danced to his will, then be kissed by his glans her surrendered anus of an overspent day.
She would never have fantasised about what extent of depravity lay in the dark of my eyes when she had wooed me and then gullibly followed my lead, but I kept undoubted —because Lauritz and Sarah had also given me the runaround— that she would never regret the horses’ manure in her young life.
Nevertheless, she had some buoyant colonel stiff upon her popular bunghole and not ready to concede. I read in his eyes the playful pride of having buggered two fresh harlots to completion in a row and vaunt it to his circle of clubmen in the vapours of hard liquor, hadn’t I spied on such banters from my hidey-hole in our family’s smoky hole?
As he had done with me —minutes away, these pills weren’t placebos— he forced open the tiny ring and lodged a frightening length of determination, to-ing and fro-ing while I peckled her tits to distract her self-will into more lechery until the bramble on his balls came to tickle her, and I told her she lastly withheld the whole manhood of the galliard. He sniggered and retorted that she would bless him with her pleasure tears just like I had, and thus began to hump in deep and extend his move along her womb, bringing her to respond, release and squeeze, till she once again unleashed all waters and hells to his damned fortitude, said he.
He spread himself across the bed and recovered, eyes closed, while we kneaded our innards sluts innards mutually. I asked her if it had been painful, and she breathed in my ear it had been harsh and enjoyable altogether, with an explosion like she had never resented before, at the end, thus she was still all febrile.
The cavalier had heard that, and so he took Charlotte’s hands, kissed them and thanked us, saying we were so better than many whores he had used. Then he tilted his legs over his head and told us to lick him clean, Charlotte’s tongue into his furry arsehole that did not smell worse that mine. He began to moan and fucked my mouth as deep as it would, two or three fingers in each of our vaginas, deftly tormenting our clits, forcing us to squirt again.
We would die by him, but he reached his fill, so he led us to the bath and while it filled, he looked for something he swore would be here somewhere, an enema pear, indeed, with clean nozzles wrapped in plastic, thus he saluted the high standard of the house —I could have told where to look, but he was fun to look at. Charlotte had done it before, but still shied somewhat, thus I injected some perfumed bath water into her evanescent hole she let gush out with funny noises into the toilet bowl for the General’s relish, he wanted to do me, saying I owned an angelic stealthy little hole, nought did he know I had killed someone for it.
We dressed him, he required to have a last glance at Charlotte’s re-frowned rosette while she knotted his shoelaces. The tip was considerable, he demanded we be there again for him the week next, and he clicked his heels, funnily.
Lauritz had remained on the lookout, he contemplated the battlefield of the bed. He wouldn’t dare check on our quims and arses, but we showed him thoroughly that the storm had spared us, anyhow, whatever the fears he fostered for the French army, we laughed, the boy maid whistle at our damages, but he mumbled that everything washes, except the blood of treason —he was a student actor.
Another envelope was as fat as expected, I read that she was already hooked on money, thus when our goodwill procurer saw us bright-eyed anew, he proposed the eventuality of another round before calling it a night, Charlotte could remain home in my bed all morrow day, couldn’t she? Shame made her all the more tempting, and she was once more wetting her labia. She nosed into my lap and muttered ‘OK, I suppose it could go on forever, couldn’t it?”
The bed cover was dark yellow this time, and the client was an older man with a crown of white hair, a sparse full beard, and rimless spectacles. He smelled of a strange cloying waxy scent that recalled a privet bush on my way to school or an almond soap they did not use in the café’s toilets. He must have been some religious cheat, I would better not know, his hands were transparently clean and all over our pubis and arses, he took some time before asking in some sort of exotic accent to lend him our mouths to kiss, which he did vertiginously, showing us he wasn’t without resources.
He wore a thin black broadcloth three-piece suit and shining gum soles shoes, in no time we hung his togs with no creases, leaving him to decide with his shirt. He craved Charlotte and pinched her chin to make her look up.

All of a sudden, there was a long thick pintle showing out between the shirt tails, and what he growled must have meant that I suck it, so limited would be the choices between a nude nymph and a fierce phallus. It was not as blunt as the Marshall’s, but longer, with loose balls and fewer white hair; he made me grasp that I gulp the whole of the length while he fluttered kissing all over Charlotte’s face, and I did such brilliant fellatio that he so soon gushed in my rear throat, trembling on his knees as I gulped his soul.
Rambling on in his yakety-yak, he pushed Charlotte to the edge of the bed and beckoned me to straddle her mouth, pinching my tits with some skills, Charlotte was all too greedy to oblige on my clitoris and make me sway in bliss. He liked what we did, and also made me hold back up Charlotte’s ankles so as her glistening twinkle be at a height to play into.
He flaunted an expensive white smile as he wanked the blooming cunny with the tip of his glans, then he sheathed it in one go as a sword through a heart with the gaiety of a fairground jester, and now he must have been uttering a nasty sort of litany I had better not comprehend. I would not refrain from drooling all over Charlotte’s cunning little mouth, she did wriggle her slight pelvis at the stokes of his poker, he gave the cherubs an ardent spiel, and the prodigy of their synchronicity gushed out for the umpteenth time of her night, she was a born slapper indeed.
When he took off his shirt, a tighter body than his face might have let one expect appeared, he was some reverse scammer, I figured him shaven and he was all the more doable, naughty me. He pushed us to the bathroom and asked us to sit in the golden basin so as to pee on us at great recourse of babbly recitations, his piss smelled of rain on debris, he eventually took hold of the shower head and stepped in amidst us two, in the steam. There was a bottle of perfumed soap on a ledge, he used it profusely on us, with a partialness for Charlotte, and no sooner did his dick hardened anew than he assaulted her lesser rosette and rooted in her back ways, thus I embraced her, kissed an wanked her to help as she be impaled in incantations in whatever name’s behalf.
He left us squeaky-washed of any traces of his semen, as in a mad ritual, and demanded our help in dressing him up, then confounded in abstruse palavers grazing and kissing our faces, he had a different fluted tone towards me, that I took as the gratitude for my patience if there had been, whores have their pride, haven’t they? There was no tip this once.
We laughed tiredly and swore there would be none more that night, the last one had been cinematic and ebullient. I made her avow that if whoring was only that bad, she agreed to consider, all the more with me; I confided that a solo would be more perfidious on her soul and she could always find an eager mind to listen to her recount, anyhow, a house like Lauritz’s was sterling safe, wouldn’t she also figure he had spied on our games all along?
It happened that our tip was clipped onto our envelope, as if whatever proscription forbade our imprecator to exchange other than his fluids with us. It was ginormous for candid casual floozies like us. Lauritz tried kindly to keep us along, avowed that himself had used and abused of some novel beauty he would let us acquaint with soon, but nonetheless, I succeeded at reviving his Hanseatic pillar, bestowing the honour of the last mouthful to my beloved sidekick.
Our loot was too big for our stealthy pockets, and our tribe’s fashion diktats forbade the use of handbags, all the more when it was to go get shagged by rich men, thus Lauritz gave me some leftover silk kerchief to wrap our payday when we took a car home, that Charlotte did not yet know.
It wouldn’t be that it be late, but we had almost worked, in earnest. She had sleep-walked across the sumptuosity of Lauritz’s grandeur, I had to wake her to let her follow me to my perch and the sacrosanct apartment where I felt at home, including the apparition of an unclothed Sarah von Kettelær who grasped she would only garner the tales of our debauchery, so envious that it wouldn’t have been her, driving Charlotte through vice, and arousing the maddening mauve rings to her eyes. She brewed some woody oolong tea and listened, grasping any occasion to slide her hands upon us, stripping us bare. She was overjoyed that Lauritz had established his venue amongst the staples of Paris’ depravity, she craved chaperoning Charlotte on another merry night.
Yes, the stable girl —she bantered on her version of life in the straw bales that let her part charlotte’s thighs a tad wider— was most welcome in paradise, Sarah would introduce her to our superlative landlord, and yes, she would have to visit all the rooms in the hive at his whims, as we all had more than once.

 

Sarah says:

Beyond the golden bond she fostered towards Lauritz, Cecile was still my thing, but I could not deny her the precedence regarding a wildflower she had ferreted out herself in the proper shop, and thus the three of us cuddled up in her bed, before the amazed god crow. Despite the fact they did not smell of all the lechery they had sold on some luxury bedding, I resented that Charlotte was still in mental tremors, thus I recalled the many younglings that had drifted to my shores morally distraught in the midst of paradise. I took hold of her feet, tapered, slender feet, cold as the moon, and I played with all of my heart’s content, spending all the unspoken skills I had garnered my whole life long until I was certain she was fast asleep with a serene face.
Late in the morning, as I was preparing French brioche toasts, Kate barged in, a trifle divagating but smiling like a Khmer virgin. She and her sister had been at the Speck’s —after I had lured Seresine back into our bed where she still slept— and been in high demand together. Firstly, for a ridiculous amount that had me whistle, the President of a German länder had asked them to play out his fantasies and she had immediately indulged in the savours of her younger self in the flesh as slutty as her. The Head of State had drained his honourable balls into each of their fine receptacles, she said he tasted fruity and a superlative stamina pill, but there had been sundry other more sizable dicks to impress her in the course of their numbers.
At the breakfast table, she was arousing me like old times, all the more after the recounts of the night, I undressed her, she, at least, smelled of profound debauchery richly perfumed over, she retorted my quim still smelled like a little girl’s.
Then it was a day of merry harlots, Kate had ogled the pretty stables girl in the many parties at Chevillon, she soon pulled down the track pants that Cecile had given her and purred on Charlotte’s belly that cried for food —since Chevillon she had barely eaten raw sperm— so Kate easily stole the pants and inebriated her mad mind with the scent inside, I asked her to share; Cecile said to her crush who was eating my toasts bare arsed not to take fright, we were otherwise genteel persons.
Back from the bathroom, still holding the trousers, Kate returned to the table where I was overjoyed Charlotte wear trousers no more, and asked for the girl’s wrist where she clasped a bracelet of cornflower blue opals she had had in her casket since ever, and Charlotte wept wholeheartedly in Cecile’s arms, turning an overwhelmed little face to Kate; my feet searched hers on the rug and we played.
Natalia found the scene most lovable, she fetched a cup and filled the kettle for me, she wore a big man’s sweatshirt and nothing else, which ravished Kate who made her smell out Charlotte’s pants. Natalia too had been at Speck’s, later in the night, and was picked up instantly by some platinum geek who carried his coke in his belt buckle. That said, he had not failed at more carnal games and she had not fried her neurons, there had been pieces of advice that Beryl had taught her when they whored illegally at Victor’s. Further on, less and less clothed in Lauritz’s gorgeous salon, she had barely had time to catch a bite each time she was asked upstairs, to the loud sound of money, possibly.
Offering to take Charlotte on her lap —and instantly sliding her hands to her tit— she recounted the performances of Lauritz’s acquaintances with her, including the most elegant princely lout who had doubled the stake for the right to piss in her arse and watch her releasing over the bowl, then, that done, buggered her honourably and made her eventually climax with his tongue. Moreover, she too had the satisfaction to a taste of Lauritz’s spurt out.
The conversation was high-spirited, and I floated the idea that we propose dinner at Hugo’s, he would be overjoyed and besides, he did not know his new boarder. They all agreed, and Cecile asked for Charlotte’s pants and they ran downstairs, where she was impatient to show her delightful mayflower where she worked and on what.
Seresine showed up late in a distressed teamster tank top we had not worn for aeons and smelled of jasmine and roses perfectly. She had not overspent herself other than in dreams. Natalia also craved her, and she wanted to sell her to some of Liselotte’s patrons with deep wallets, or in a pair at Speck’s, now. Seresine had heard most of the exploits, and of course, she was as go as a Thunderbird; all it took was to do the boss if it had not happened already —he was a skilled lovemaker, I should tell— and I could chaperone her, too.

Certainly not a matter for Tatler’s, but a romp of high-negligé afar from social entrapments, a conspiracy of garden-variety damsels upon the rare carpets shy from any shoes, or else. Not that we would hurtle down the stairs au naturel, like a herd of mustangs fillies, the Prince had had an eye upon all of us, bar my wildflower, indeed, but we ought to perambulate like high-house boarders, near at hand, what better than the cat’s pyjamas, then? Some shun the trousers, though.
For my relish, Charlotte kept clutched at my wings —if I may— in the thin double-breasted black satin silk jacket trimmed with bright rainbow piping, and a blue fire opal pinned to a black velvet dog collar achieved the damn lethal look, not to mention her thighs as pale as dawn. Nonetheless, our rack of lewd silks was generous, and Seresine prefered to let flap a petal-pale chemise upon her lesser chest while the festooned hem barely hid the crease of her apricot; she won a thin gold chain withholding a rose sapphire encased in a gold lozenge.
Cecile chose a prune princess satin wide-legged pyjama with a boy’s open fly, she wore a so precious Hoffman jewel plate on a wide purple velvet band at her gracile neck, and we all knew what she kept hiding under the shadows; she had found the same colour for her nails, she kept gazing fondly at her little trainee.
Kate never missed an occasion to float a kimono —but only with an occidental-minded narrow belt readily undone at a whim— that one was patched like a Paul Klee landscape through what she would have walked as a fairy in a stained glass window, resplendent as a sun shard, wooing my maidens. She would give me hunches of sanctity —if only to instantly wallow into blasphemy.
Deep crimson dahlias in silver buckets, bushes of tiny crystal white lights, Malo in a fluid silver lamé gown holding close her pristine bare new partner sporting a choker, a bracelet, and an anklet of lustful little pearls, her nails of nacreous purple, Hugo stood proud in a spiritedly colourful Uzbek Kaftan and a long white crepe shirt, holding tight Natalia as she deserves, in a finely knit variegated silk short dress and the most oxymoronic thick padded red leather gold-hobnailed contention collar and bracelets, to an edgy and wantonly effect —she knew how to whip our blood, didn’t she?
And so, the laid-back father figure flanked by his beloved putative daughter in the utterly suggestive of apparels embraced Charlotte ready to pass out, so overwhelmed by such rampancy of touchable sensuality, so much so that she sensed then the inevitable stiffness of male ardour against her lower belly, while I kept our romance warm with a hand from behind slid in her jacket, at her tits.
Kate and I were hustled aside by the courtesan fairy who taunted us with her new toys, she joshed that we should never guess who cared to bind her so, Cecile retorted that there was a convenient workbench in her shop. We drew her upon the plump cushions to grant her sheer success, she smelled of honeysuckle and as I guessed, she concealed the matching red belt low on her nude narrow hips; she would have driven the Doge to the Gallows.
By a cunning manoeuvre of that irresistible strapped-up libertine, they also expected hunky entertainers the likes of her faithful minders Fulgence and Eric, Sergei my straw bales itch, and a bunch of ever-ready pawns in Sami’s games, all vetted and certified, the mere idea of that made me wet.
Hugo winked me away so he could cuddle Charlotte to some appeasement, while manly voices saluted Natalia’s attire at the door she had opened to her court of playground buddies led by her black and white faithful minders. She gave much of her person, but no one had survived trying to subjugate her. In the merry-go-round of that friendship, Fulgence had earned important kudos, and licence to shag her often enough for his self-esteem; it was a convenient boy’s arrangement he shared with Erik in all goodwill.
Hugo sussed that Charlotte was even more helpless than the previous little alley cats and nurtured the venom of deep angst, thus he took her to the cosy high-back loveseat and listened to her story, a kind hand through her fly.
Like one who owns a knack for making kittens purr, Fulgence had taken hold of Josephine and couldn’t believe his luck; I suspected Malo would relish seeing her little partner dance upon a hunk’s win pole; she could improvise on that, too. Now Erik could not help his hands away from her rumps so finely designed and she stirred their nerves with her low-toned gobbledygook. Fulgence unclothed without releasing her gracile features, she seized his jolting shaft as if it were hers. They fell upon the cushion next to Cecile who smiled opportunely at Erik and his considerable manhood —it is a wonder to watch her switch from a moody character to an amenable avatar when she sees an easy shag at hand.

Now, she was worthy of a Klimt, all the more at the hands of our sinewy black apostle who rummaged about the silk all over her tickled body and slid it away. Cecile is one to bear witness to the mercifulness of my schooling her, if need be. She let him drink his soul full at her trembling brooklet, her ankle bore another Viennese glory jewellery as I licked her foot.
Sergei squinted as he sniffed at my crotch; it had been long since I let him play me, and I liked to watch him release his frustration —he would easily rant that I should be his— but I took my time unbuttoning his shirt and trousers, he smelled beautifully of cut hay and poplar leaves, his sweat intriguing enough to produce all together a bond in my soul, I wanted mindlessly that he whip me, that he did not do but let me foresee a ransacking of my arse, in honour to my bygone Cossack, or would I borrow Hugo’s flogging toys?
In the kitchen, they tied me face down at the four legs of the work table; Natalia had told them where to find the vicious tools. They were all nude and fit, then; I first received a stiff long one into my throat, then I heard Sergei’s sharp accent as he lashed my rump and my crotch; Natalia was being buggered holding the backrest of a chair, and I must have screamed to my well-deserved fantasy. Then, they upturned me across the lesser side, Sergei steel-taut into my tight rosette, Nathan and Sven taking turns in my throat to murder while paddling my chest and pubis.
Natalia knew all of the nasty routines, and once they all had spurted their venom, she pointed at the sturdy hanging hook that had terrified her as a child and roamed in Hugo’s while her mother tidied the house; at twelve, one night, she had looked on a lewd scene right there that had made her unwittingly pee on the floor, and flee back to her bed to masturbate. No question had been raised, and she had seen the seeming victim other times be done other nasty things to, at ease; all these had occurred not long before she began sneaking into our bed to make out with us.
they tied our wrists together and ordered us to kiss and rub on one another while they pulled up the rope, then Sergei began with the lunge whip as we turned desperately. I had never smelled fear so pungent, I gave Natalia a spirited kiss. Once unbound, the Asar hunk sat upon the table and told me to hop on his dick, far enough on the edge to let Sergei bugger me in the goo I had been drooling. On the other end, Natalia was treated the same.
I felt inflamed and spent in the running waters of the shower room; fortunately, Natalia who had probably fantasised deeply on cruel eroticism long before someone gave her The Story Of O to read, also knew where to fetch the balsam for our hides, and yes, she eventually avowed she had learned all with the Master himself.
Back in the salon, Hugo had gone with Charlotte to see the giant moths’ room, Fulgence and Erik improvised with Malo and Josephine and, at our scent, asked where the bathroom was. Cecile rounded her eyes at the marks on our bodies; her caresses were vividly arousing, —again— she straddled me wide open in hopes one of the brutes would use her, and so it was a Djahbil that sheathed a terrific circumcised cock into her impatient bumhole, not without some painful labour but she did not demand lube and then he gradually trickled some of his own and discharged long twice like there would be no tomorrow; she collapsed over me.
Once it seemed everybody had satiated with carnal exultations and was smelling of Hugo’s flowery soap, we began paying attention to what hid under napkins in porcelain presenters on a side table, to compose joujou plates of golden crust bites to feed our stamina anew. Hugo returned with a dreamy Charlotte wearing a new bracelet of multicolour stones between lines of black onyx. She was horrified with the lash marks all over me, but Hugo, reading Natalia’s foxy gaze, sussed out the glints in the bandits’ eyes, thus fetched another medicine bottle for Charlotte to soothe us. Cecile was mocking and bantered that we were still wallowing in blissful pains; I saw in her slant stare that she knew full well our act, nonetheless, Charlotte’s hands were waking serpents in my underbelly. It was implied she would remain among us, and in such order, Melchior had been promised completion of the new extension at a near date. In the meantime, Cecile claimed Charlotte for herself and Josephine was invited to the attic of TRÆVIX by the elfish little school whose caresses had been otherworldly. Hugo took care of Natalia, I understood he was who had offered the rich harness to his house fairy, thus I laughed and winked at Charlotte.
Kate and Seresine shunned food, Kate envied my unabashed wantonness, thus she set her sight on her neighbours who still responded to the glances on their dicks. Seresine too could swagger off a rounded backside in an elicit overture. That was how they demonstrated their greedy lustfulness —and Kate in her three holes.

That morning after, Seresine smelled of girly sweats and potpourri and lay deeply slumbered, thus I budged at a snail’s pace, reviving nettle stings all over my body. After peeing, I looked over the damage, not knowing if I should curse the Cossack or call him for more. Natalia dawdled about already in the kitchen, in a nifty drab bluish nightshirt over her own whiplashes. We sniggered vaguely as there was some perverted thrill in fanning each other’s gratuitous pains; she devoured my mouth a wicked while then asked for some of my tea; sucking her fingers, she snitched that we were both wet, indeed.
The “Hey Bulldog” jingle of my telephone cried from the couch, and I felt a funny pang when I read it was Sergei calling —his name was in my repertory, but he had never called. He was asking matter-of-factly if we would open the back door to him, no pun.
He was as fresh as a Barragan thistle; he smelled of lavender liquorice; I cringed when he hugged me, but all the same, I had let him shag me twice in a row not long ago! I had thrown on a loose tee shirt but he had the nerve to pull it off to watch about his brash deeds and he said we would be better off in the raw. He had brought a bottle of Peru Balsam, so he told me to sit in reverse and let him.
But then His Cossack manner of massage was a whole different blessing than what he had inflicted afore, and Natalia was meowing of bliss, too. After he made sure neither of us would be allergic to the product, he manhandled us amicably —so to speak— to end at least the bad greying of our priceless skins. It earned him a morning glory fellatio by the savviest Natalia, and the smell of it was bearable. Sergei joshed that he had been troubled that a girl like me could indulge in sadic practices; he had known all along for Natalia who sold that extra, too —and he held her quim in quiet connivance.
The balsam had made me fluffily numb; Charlotte’s inauguration was altogether to be remembered as a sensuous feast; I recounted why Sergei had embodied these rough manners in the louche penchants of my mind, The Cossack legend, my flareups of accepted debasement in the school’s stables, the smell of straw and horse manure, the lunging whip in front of the exposed stooges, the sleazy gossip in my back earning me heated propositions, Natalia amused herself with my candour.
Sergei went on to his day with a proud badge of master whip, I told Natalia there should be feasible to set a proper dungeon in our undergrounds, and she laughed her head off at the idea, rubbing her tapered muscles and offering me her back for more.
Seresine came up and volunteered to apply more of the stuff, telling me that watching us in the pains had made her squirt; she bantered that if Sergei had such a balsam, she would beg for a thorough walloping, too.
They all had interesting meetings to run to; Natalia borrowed a mottled short, fitted, jersey dress with a wide scoop neckline and three-forth sleeves that I had worn —not long— to one of Sami’s invitations; navy blue ankle boots and crotchless cloudy tights achieved a high-class trull outfit, said I, she had dashed a chink of mascara, blush, and lip gloss. She would be richer before dawn.
Kate and Seresine would be on stage at Philippe’s. Kate in a thigh-long, spiked-lapels, double-breasted dinner jacket, one side clad in strass, black plain pull-ups and no knickers, black patent man’s court pumps, Seresine looked all thin in a black mohair oversized jumper dress, all nude in black ballet flats. They did not know whom they were awaited by.
Cecile had probably ensnared the newbie into her magazines’ cubbyhole, the heather fairies owed some fantasy time to James in his Montmartre garden. I felt somewhat disowned, a backlash to my overpouring night. I brewed more tea, pulled my legs up on the table and browsed a decoration magazine.
Then I had some hunch and I called Ayla, not knowing where she perched. She answered swiftly, in her taunting kind of tone. She was in Paris, at the Keppel; her patron had left her in his rented suite. I figured her naked wallowed in the finest percale, the white linon veils flying in the open window. She grilled me about what I had not told of my night, as tenacious as a vixen until I let it all out and she drooled of envy at the other end. It was not a choice, she ordered me to come to her room, saying a classy whore like me would not regret it.
Having witnessed some of the best hustlers I know pillaging my vestiary, I craved putting on a rich garb, but not one to cause a breach of the peace at a palace’s reception. Ayla would strip me anyhow, but at street level, I thought that a night-blue wild silk three-piece suit, no shirt, and black Jodhpur boots, would cut it to my Copenhagen blue eyes and my tousled black curls; I added four strands of seed pearls stitched to a narrow ultramarine blue velvet choker.
The taxi dropped me at the Keppel’s porch, the bellboy cast an interested glance. I pranced like any privileged youngling.

I suddenly twigged I had no room number, the concierge was already eying me up. I came to the desk, he was one of those steel-core executive types that incite me to incestuous apartés. Grey-eyed and silver-fox-haired, in a bespoke black and grey three-piece uniform, he beckoned me towards a door on the side labelled “office”. It was a small muffled hideout with a blond-veneered desk, a chair and a rounded sofa. On the desk were a laptop and a few peripherals plugged into it. From inside, he ushered me in, about reading my card, he said in a smooth cosmopolitan tone he had probably kept from a Swiss professional school, the black card, smiled he.
Ayla had entrapped me, thus it couldn’t go so wrong, I fetched my card and handed it to the naughty daddy who slid it in the reader and smiled, calling me Miss Kettelær. Then he told me to pull down my trousers like a good girl, grabbing the slim silver buckle of my belt. I remained casual, pulled the zip down and let the pants fall. He told me to unshoe, for he loved feet, and turn around to show my butt. He growled he wished he would have time someday, but he had already let his pants down and sported a classy rod; he smelled of manly English Cologne; holding me by one arm, he unbuttoned my vest and grazed my sensitive chest, complimenting me for the whip his connoisseur’s eye guessed, a greedy grin at his mouth.
Then, frowning slightly, he ordered me to sit on the sofa with my legs parted and suck him as professionally as I knew, while he tousled my hair and fiddled with my ears. He had likely been in some kind of penance, and the all-cunning Ayla had shunned the little door, thus he soon gushed in my throat, repressing a moan, and I cleaned all, like a worldly damsel.
I slid back my trousers and shut my vest, but he knelt, thanking me heatedly and asking that I let him cuddle my feet a few minutes; then he pulled up my socks himself and buckled my boots —he was surprised by the maker’s name— then he helped me up and kissed me lustily, musing aloud that I wasn’t a professional, was I? He gave me his card, telling me that I could, then on, from any hotel in the world, call for help using his name. He gave me a strong mint lozenge, and I sniggered; he checked me all over like a little soldier and I ran to the 127.
Ayla greeted me with glints in her eyes, and she sniffed me up and sussed that I had sucked the concierge, so she laughed and bantered that she owed me one? Yes, she had since long tipped Albert in kind, and yes, she had sent me into his trap, was it not what good buddies do? She stripped me bare and capsised me across the grand bed to lick me too, and gave me a stylish climax in the pillows.
It was afternoon but she ordered tea and pastries. I did not flinch when the waiter stood dumb watching me while pushing the cart, then it dawned I was nude and he was not —as of yet— some partner; I excused myself but I did not hide in the sheets, eventually, he smiled at my cheekiness, Ayla appeared in a terry robe and read the situation that made her snigger; she asked when the boy’s shift ended, he blushed and went.
She said she had invited some old acquaintances of the show business and I might make it giddier if I dressed back as dashingly as she had seen me come. She said Albert must have loved my boots. She called for a maid to fluff up the bed, and before she gave her a note, she casually slid her hand up her skirt as if to show me they had caroused before; the maid was a fine Latin slender youth with bright coffee-black eyes and a thickly black muff, she smelled of gingerbread and licked my lips like a puppy.
Four well-to-do gents in black suits and Mexican boots knocked soon after our menial laisser-aller. They behaved like family but treated us right away like rear-seat cousins in a Johnny Lee Hooker song. Ayla said they had all been in business with her father and thus had paid her for tricks before her mother had tried to send her to boarding school. They laughed. One who wore a ponytail grabbed me and sat me on his lap in a large armchair, I had seen his face. He smelled spicy and wild; his sinewy hand under my vest fanned quivers when he asked me my name and I invented naughty spiel for him, to the amusement of Ayla who was already being manhandled by two cowboys.
I suddenly remembered having seen the culprits in a random television show, three guitars and a drum, the “Shambolic Cluster Few” some kids worshipped in Saint Loup, I was at the hands of their leader and he was neither drunk nor high, only Ayla’s dad had shattered the sound barrier, in a flight to Los Angeles, and she had learned that in someone’s magazine. Now she was a rich escort, and she had hooked them four, one by one, with no hard feelings, only to make sure no one fostered any misgiving about her bastard dad.
Not only did she was shagging them at no rebate, but she funnelled spooky ideas for their new songs; it gave her relief from her banker patrons. That one was Merph, he was already gently fiddling with my zipper’s pull tab.

He told me I made him think of Katie Sketch, singer of “The Organ” band from Seattle, for whom he had been wanking desperately because she was a lesbian stray cat and no one could ever tell him where to approach her anyhow. He showered me with compliments and kissed every inch he peeled about me.
Yes, I had been likened to Katie Sketch before, mostly by girls and it had been sweet, although it had not been so unquestioned to live wayward sexuality in our schooldays. Anyhow, this rock star had pinpointed a button of my pride, thus I lifted all barriers to his wants,
and inevitably his bandmates’.
He called on a slender guy called Slice and told him the Katie Sketch thing to what he retorted that at least I did not shun dicks, apparently, but he bent to lick my arse with likeable ardour, asking if I would also take in their mighty rods. Merph did not let me speak; he kissed like a frantic schoolboy, I only stretched out my thighs more conveniently for his mate. I entrusted my life with Ayla as to the safety of our games, and I suppose that is how disasters may occur, but then, dicks to the wind and pampered like schoolgirls, I had not seen them booze, snort, or drop any pills, even blue ones. Notwithstanding, at the edge of letting Slice bugger me, I took a breath to ask Ayla in French about the condoms, if any? She laughed and excused herself; the group had long been card-carriers and clean; all I needed was lube and he would find some in the bedside table’s drawer.
Slice was the drummer, with a remarkable stick, at that; he began pushing his beat steadily against my frowned rosette till I responded to it and was shagged more and more, tightly squeezed in Melch’s arms and kissed in a drooling whirl; then he meandered to hold me on top and lodge me a barbaric organ on top of his buddy’s beat.
Ayla acclaimed my recklessness while she was samely being rummaged through by two rock-hard frenzies.
The bodies were gainly tanned and healthy; she had hand-picked the chosen ones, and although I wouldn’t change my mind about pop soup, I should admit it smelled savorier than it seemed. I dived into swashes of orgastic streams just like Ayla had always dared me to, long before she be of age. One of her sister-humpers showed a cinnamon-toffee brown butt and shoved her long slidings into her vibrato ring, all that he had sublimated onstage for dishevelled kids hurling at their lethal sound system.
After a finicky shower and a remarkably wise pastry snack with tea, coffee, and hot cocoa, they demanded we show them our lesbian talents, and they were served. Ayla had found to kindle their carnal greed some previous times with the tales of our school shenanigans, now they wanted to watch our live pornography, and I understood that, too. They snapped after she fucked me with her lubed foot, so we changed pairs onto the bed, and Merph begged for more of Katie Sketch’s mouth while I was skewered both ends again.
They left a fat bundle of notes as to which Ayla congratulated me, for they had already paid their fare; I avowed it would recall an arousing pass to have shared money with her, but I earnestly did not need it; I was amply supported otherwise. She sniggered, revealing that since my mighty friends had intervened at Esther’s bedside, she still whored only for Melchior’s fantasies, and he provided, as he does. We laughed like naughty brats and finished the plates, then she announced there would be another john, if I would.
I did not know better; we freshened up our muzzles and dressed up like candid gallivanters; this one would relish in every button released; she handed me bland cotton knickers to make it feel real, but I argued it would show through the silk if I teased him from behind. She donned a silly sage green Liberty shirt dress in which she knew how to flash her knickers. No one could have told of our shambolic interview; she called for service; it was the same maid; she made me lick her to completion on the sofa once the bed was made.
Six knocks were hit; I went to the door and opened it to some tweedy accountant type with greyish blond sideburns and moustache that blushed looking at my neck as if I had stolen his grandma’s pearls; as a well-bred whore, I gently tilted my head to invite him in, and Ayla fluted a “welcome M. Reemtsma” and told him not to bother about me for I was a premium.
He smelled jasmine, clove and bergamot, a tad more daring than he looked; he cast a second glance on me —down to my trousers— with faded-blue eyes, and I smiled as casually as a house girl when he stared at my vest’s faceted jet buttons; I did not pull aside, playing absent-mindedness, until he touched them. Then the nasty brat entered the candy store.
He was German, well-built and altogether shy; his shoes told he was rich; he sat on the sofa letting us guess his erection. Ayla asked if he wanted some collation, and he agreed on some smoked salmon with fennel salad, I also asked for bagels with clotted cream and Morello-cherry jam, it amused Ayla —there’s nothing high-end palaces won’t do for an expensive clientèle like us.

He liked my shoes, too. Ayla was overjoyed to see him smitten with my style, she must have tamed him long ago; she beckoned me to sit beside him and uncrossed her legs in the cabriolet chair. There was a bottle of Vinho Verde for him, and another of Kombucha.
Ayla had kept her finely contoured legs for she must seriously work out and run, her thighs slightly hollowed near her crotch; she bore no trace of fat —and neither do I. Her fresh white knickers aroused me too, albeit I had seen her being ravaged an hour before —lust is a language. The name was Elbert, she called him El, proved dexterity with the melted butter on the blinis, the salmon, and some fennel on top. He kept a napkin on his knee but nothing ever fell.
Then he watched me and Ayla smear the heavy cream on the bagels and pile the black cherries on; he profited that I was jammed up eating to risk a hand on my chest and I let him do, thus he began to skilfully unbutton the vest down, every time grazing my timid breasts and reaching for my pointed berries.
When I was done with my play meal, he pushed me backwards on the cushions and daintily unwrapped my body, telling Ayla that her friend was likeable indeed. He asked me to quit my jacket but stopped me when I seized my belt buckle. She had come to sit by his side and smooth-talk to him that I was a true Princess in secret debauchery, that I wholly belonged to his whim for the next few hours, and he could observe that I had been harshly chastised the night before. She kept her knickers in view; his eyes swayed sideways, like a fright.
He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves; he pernicketily unset Ayla’s dress buttons to stare at her most useless white bralette; she’s as flat as me. He crouched down at my feet, doing justice to my London Jodhpurs and their snazzy straps, then smelling my socks and feet, raving upon my night-blue lacquered toenails. He agreed I had princess’ ankles. He crept up to my fly, swiftly unbuckled and unzipped my trousers, nosed on the fresh new cotton of my panties then freed my legs entirely, smelling at my crotch like a puppy; I pulled up my legs to let him graze the whole province; he eventually grasped the waistband to slide off the panties and begin kissing some of my perinea, then poking a pointed tongue all along the rims of my holy holes.
Ayla moved sides to disrobe him, he sported a tense shaft in a thick bush of darker curls. She gulped in his glans and rolled her tongue on it while he burrowed his deep in me with fervour. Shaking himself off, he wallowed in the cushions and told me to straddle him in reverse, and to Ayla that she lubricate my bumhole, so as she would eat all her want of my quim. He was strong; he supported my loins properly as I arched back and met his mouth. He remained sunk deep and wriggled about in my innards while Ayla savoured timeless memories and I gushed to her face, my convulsions triggering a long crisis of my mount who coughed out his bliss.
He watched Ayla lapping at my holes, and then ordered me to serve her a reward; I knew all about her clit, thus it doubled down my dedication to her fully deployed orgasm for M. El’s awe.
He knew she would return to Zürich, but he inquired about having me again, thus I wrote down the address of Speck’s he couldn’t have yet known, a top-notch card-vetted venue, and I would say his personal visit card would suffice to let him in, he might call me for a visit, and more.
I told Ayla she could have un at Speck’s, so she promised she would put herself in sight there someday soon. El had read his priceless timepiece, we helped him clothe; he fetched a money clip in his jacket and deposited a handful on a plate; enlacing me, he said we had been enthralling, and we smelled classy; he loved my princely bumhole.
Ayla would be awaited early at Le Bourget, I walked out with that pocketful of banknotes, plus she had transferred my fee to my account. I joined her in the last shower and cleared my arse with the enema pear, then sprayed some out of an expensive perfume sample that seemed appropriate to woo a cab driver anyhow.
Downstairs, the lobby was deserted, except for the reception desk where my cosmopolitan minder jumped to open the side door with a wolfish smile. I could have reneged on what I had been all day, but I had already relished so much of myself whoring about that I did not baulk to yield another time.
He did not light up the little room, getting to my belt while he breathed up in my neck; he mumbled I smelled vice, his dick was hard of all the waiting; I mused how many concierges Ayla had ever done. He acted febrile, I had to demand lube for he raged upon my cleaned anus. He fumbled about in the desk’s drawer and brought up the appropriate Swiss Navy. He was a lesser bugger than my latter one, and he was fast; all I thought was that I would carry his semen home, then.

Late morning, Charlotte and Cecile ferreted me out in our bed, into a tangle of the comforter, my butt apparently in the air, so I sense a rose leaf gently offered for free. I didn’t dress, I dragged to the kitchen and brewed some tea. They had brought fresh cinnamon rolls. I was spent, but nevertheless hungry. They wore casual tracksuits and sneakers.
Charlotte grazed my back strangely —what had she known of my whipping galore? Apropos, Fulgence had left a litany of unread messages, I called him in case he would be idle, and he said he would come running.
My two fillies appreciated the seeming clodhopper who had taken a while to reveal himself likeable, as for myself until he shagged me carefully with his considerable prick and also when he kept Natalia safe in college, not abusing the privilege it earned him with her. Charlotte shied from telling about the swarms of fireflies the sight of his dong unleashed in her womb.
I had begun recounting my exploits as a high-flier whore —Charlotte was all wet figuring us manhandled by the Shambolic crew— when Fulgence arrived with a family-size kugelhopf from the Alsatian bakery on the boulevard. He savoured what he saw and moaned at finding me bare, merely a tad rosy. He also grasped he could kiss the girls on their cinnamon mouths, keeping Charlotte for last, somewhat longer.
He had known the Shambolic Cluster Few and remembered lousy wordplays, he grabbed my underbelly at the thought that I had fucked them all the day before; he was already hard. He saw my hand in Charlotte’s pants; Upon a glance, he followed her when she went to the loo, and the bed wasn’t far.
Cecile told me they had been to the Panopticon and had set the house on fire, as I had just seen Charlotte, she had contented at least a lucky dozen swashbucklers just like herself did; I called her near and pulled her pants down, her bumhole felt supple and willing but we pulled the thumbs up and we discussed which studio we would move to. In the bedroom, a bird was singing.
The eventuality of a later romp in the cubbyhole drew me to follow her downstairs, once I had slid on a supersized periwinkle grey tracksuit, socks and tennis shoes. Cyprien was seated in his work chair, his mind evaporated in the well-tempered clouds, reviewing a batch of his sensitive sketches. Cecile was setting the lights upon a new Flemish school earthly paradise with sundry fauna and a gracile goddess arms up, feeding doves at her fingertips; I could have bet the ravishing deity was most entirely Cecile’s hand, possibly helped by Cyprien who had taught almost all of her talent and still did not touch her, knowing full well what glorious slut she was.
After a while, the wildflower and her faun came hurtling and smelled of Cecile’s orange blossom shower gel. Charlotte was serene; I slid a hand upon Fulgence’s fly and knew he could reboot anytime. Cyprien went overjoyed seeing the youngling whom he craved to draw; he steered a conversation towards having her sit for him; I grasped I could help in proposing we sit in a couple and thus she agreed and hugged me. The room was warm enough, I began to unclothe her, she had not yet sussed we would sit nudes. Fulgence had seized an opportunity to palpate my hide closer, he did a little more around my arse, I gave him a mouthwatering kiss. Cyprien touched my breasts and asked me if I had been running through the woods, I laughed but he was making my nipples quiver. He asked me to lay aslant across the sofa, arranging cushions to ensure I wouldn’t have cramps; he also risked a hand to my quim for no reason and felt me wet, of course. Charlotte would lean against me a little lower, so as not to hide my face, my upper hand cupping her pubis. He asked us to stare straight at him. He was visibly transfixed by Charlotte’s grace. Standing still and making myself soft as a bag of clouds, I gleaned the sweet shudders of her youth —like Ayla in the laundry cellars. The music unfurled unshakably, I did the naughty girl and I chatted in her ears, unheard by the self-absorbed craftspeople. Fulgence had found refuge out of frame, wedged in cushions against a sofa foot, cuddling our feet until he dozed out.
When Cyprien broke the spell, the Flemish goddess looked like she was singing, and Cecile decided she could wait until morning. We kissed Fulgence awake and he thanked us for the dream he had done upon our feet. Cyprien gone to his asserted solitude, Cecile proposed we all sneak into Michelle’s realm through the subterranean pathway, to show Charlotte further flamboyance and make her come together again with TRÆVIX birds she had been charmed to acquaint with. Cecile texted according to protocol and we climbed down the rabbit hole. The gym room, the pool, and the tower pit, all in the dramatic spotlights, made Charlotte gawk in awe, and she needed not to see beyond the iron hatch in the tower wall.
Delf had been all too happy to come and meet us at the armoured gate. She was merely covered in dawn-gold satin shorts and camisole thus I couldn’t help my hands, so she giggled lightly. She trotted in precious white socks. She said there were plenty of lovely pixies around the cyber fairy, nowadays, and Dagmar slept in her bed; she knew we were there, but we also knew she couldn’t steal time on the web.
She had also called on Fanny, Mara, and also Natalia, who could bring on her hunky suitors, possibly.
In the landscape salon, under gilt-framed oval glass bubbles, three antique Chinese elaborate ornaments made out of kingfisher feathers against a purple-black velvet background, like eerie black holes through the serene painted skies, a poisonous menace warded off in beauty, highly forbidden.
Charlotte let herself at Delf’s whims and wandering hands under the fleece of her tracksuit. Apolline tiptoed in, an ash-grey oversized unspun wool jumper upon her tricky bloomer panties, and she kissed Fulgence open mouth.
I had sussed that Charlotte craved for Dagmar at the first minutes in Chevillon, but as she did not speak German, she had felt shunned; it had been a misgiving, and now the tall slinky blonde was laying her wide butterfly-blue eyes on her and stuttered nice thoughts to her, in French. However, Dagmar had been hunting for Fulgence on whom Natalia had thrown her at her great relish. Now it was Michelle’s fancy to watch them make love at her feet on her spread-out futon, and she might mingle after the ending to lick spunk; Charlotte would have liked to join.
Natalia, who had all access by some right of birth, arrived with a trio of the chosen crew she had already teased like embers. Charlotte, cuddling upon my bosom, asked me if there would be flogging so I swore no, albeit I let her graze my still aroused nether belly; I advised her to try a round with Delf’s cunning little spur, or even she paired merrily with Apolline —if asked— I had enjoyed all that before. Charlotte pulled a kindly tongue towards Delf, who jumped on her and dragged her away to some cosy hidey-hole.
As a romantic couple, Malo and Josephine snuck into the salon and sat down on a cushion, it had been arranged that they would await the finishing of Melchior’s proposed venue in Michelle’s home; besides, Michelle had an eye for Josephine and Malo wouldn’t take umbrage. The little mouse from Gibraltar might be in for a career along with our loner cellist. She wore a Greek-like layered chiffon tunic with a gold foliage belt, bare-legged. I did not resist crouching at her so slender feet and suckling her toes as if to inspire her dance genie.
Someone was helping my track pants to slide down; I played not to inquire who, I was available. I did not guess boy or girl or else until the tongue gave way to a slippery thingy I helped all the way into my vagina, throwing a leg up and finding out a perfect stranger in an open red and black lumberjack shirt, smiling of all his teeth, humping me gently, thus I angled a little better so as he could reach the bottom of my womb. The scene aroused my dancer who lifted her short skirt, exposed her labia and began masturbating as I licked her toes greedily and rolled my haunches to the assaulter; it was furious and short, so I spilt a gush on the rug, elated, making him spurt in deep. I had a hunch that his buddies had been on the lookout as I was too offered up, then a second brute, thinner and longer plunged into his pal’s drooling, to feel I could still squeeze him jolly tight and give him shivers. Josephine had slid forth to make me lick her bloom, which triggered my new climax and the boy’s jizz spurt.
I did not query for another one; for all I had sensed they were young and they would come again, once I could read their faces. I ran to the bathroom squeezing my vagina rim, it dripped all over the shower floor and I laughed, moreover when I felt hands on my ribs and a rod upon my bumhole. With the stream in my face, I bent and pushed upon the wall to give him some abutment to bugger me, which he did in style, two shots.
Natalia confessed to having sent them after me; when Delf had called they were together in bed and she knew they were on the verge of a spurt, and it only took a few more minutes. they were the cream of her suitors, she had tested them in the lesser levels at Philippe, thus we risked nought, bar a solid shag and again.
Charlotte begged me to take her to Michelle’s room, she was enthralled to watch Dagmar be done the nasty as I had just done, and she had two fingers in my clean arse. Apolline was teaching her being to one of my jolly assaulters, demanding he suck her lesser dicky hard and promising her back hatch; the boy seemed to appreciate her between worlds smell.
Holding Charlotte’s hand to avoid her tripping on the stairs as she rolled her eyes in all directions, incredulous she be that the house and all belonged to a girl younger than me. The upper venues were dim-lit; it would all become the playground for Natalia’s guys.

But Charlotte was overly stunned at the sight of Michelle’s command room, the six hi-res screens floating before the giant console, and she had devised a space-age crane-mounted armchair that swivelled and roamed so as to reach any spot on the augmented keyboard, itself articulated on command. A gamer’s ultimate orthopaedic extension, and yet, its user for most of the clock-run remained slim and gracile, same as the day I had dragged her away from her maddened boss Victor for whom she cracked fortune-churning codes until he tried to rape her for good in our presence. It had been from a hideout behind our red sofa in our studio that she had mentally broken her chrysalide and become the daredevil in the wires and fibre optics, monitoring lightspeed trading in New York from this mind-candy doll’s house, in synergy with Camille’s SEVEN STREAMS corporation and the devoted support from the pervasive network of Melchior. Michelle’s indispensable Aviator gold-rimmed spectacles and her slight feet I had pampered, out of her hideout, made her a living legend with incomparable whims, but to the outer world an under-the-radars ghost of unforeseeable might.
A gracious flesh-and-bones anime icon, albeit she had never watched an anime in her life, a preterhuman autist blonde whom I could nevertheless bring to orgasm, and revelled in watching two beautiful friends shagging upon her wayfarer bed under her supple mobile seat. Newbie Charlotte was only flabbergasted, and unpredictable Michelle read that and invited her on her lap, onto the ultimate geek throne.
Charlotte was candid enough to let Michelle feel she could fondle her easily while showing her innocent tricks on her über-machine
I knew full well, for she had been like my patient all the time she had dwelled in our studio like a pet, that she was more aware of others than it looked, only she carried inside that supplementary array of neurons that she plugged stealthily into the mighties’ shenanigans with her blond philosophy. Hence it would be totally benign to let them frolic on the Aviator’s articulated throne.
Then, on the floor, Fulgence collapsed in bliss, Dagmar extended her unending arms, and I chased quivers with my nose on her belly, Michelle’s flannel sheets were soaked, but I knew she often slept in her tilted chair, in a fleece tracksuit and cashmere socks. Now then, we all gathered in Michelle’s bathroom where she dared show her unspectacled face in the shower, and she was lovely, and I remembered discussing eye surgery with her, she thought her case was not appropriate enough, it would make me cry. Only her lovers would know the immature charm of her face, she could swim with glasses on.
She said kind words to Charlotte and Invited her to stay with them in her house, attended to as a princess or left unbothered at her liking, time for Hugo to fit a proper dwelling for her, but she answered that she would be living with Cecile, on our side, only that they might mouse their way through the tunnel to join them, like now.
We had marrons glacés with vanilla ice cream, and chocolate shakes on the round, buttoned, frozen-rose mohair velvet round settee supporting a marble sculpture of a disrobing nymph by Carrier-Belleuse at its centre, under a grand cloudlike chandelier of gilded bronze foliages and illuminated white trifles of linen, surrounded by sundry pedestal trays in fine metalwork and micromosaics figuring Arcadia. The walls were painted in cool grey faux marble slanted veins seven black japanned round armorial shields hung in stark contrast, and the tall window was dressed in silver grey moire. The fitted ash-grey carpet was orgiastically thick in a pattern of acanth leaves swirls.
Charlotte laid siege to Dagmar who gleamed with lust after the brazen romp she had shown. Her long legs were blessed with impalpable golden down, she had sat legs crossed, and Charlotte was of yet too shy to graze other than an arm, it was fine thus. Michelle sniffed up Fulgence as if he had not lathered up as we all, but when he turned to her, she licked his lips like a puppy as an explicit invite.
I sat on the other side of Dagmar and broke it that Charlotte was smitten by her and almost distraught about it because she was only the wildflower girl, nought worse, was there? We laughed, and Dagmar offered her lips, and I felt I should climb downstairs and lure a waiter astray.
He was from Sri Lanka, and his name was Ranji; his skin was coffee black and his traits thin. He must have been lesser than twenty, he wore the black silk wool collarless livery that let see a wisp of a violet shirt at the neckline and the wrists, Gauthier had swayed the choice. He wore patent leather loafers. I followed him back to the office and cornered him in the vestibule, offering him money to let himself be done, and he nodded, amused.
He was already stiff as a reed; he wore trunks, and that made it easy to free the black puppet of his trousers. He relished my pale hide, he was ready.
Then I knew of an ancillary daybed in a vestibule behind the vestiary where he would feel better at ease to get laid by one of the guests He smelled of tobacco leaf, vanilla, and rum in a classy blend he might not have bought himself, his skin was sleek as a sabre, he bent me back and rummaged about my navel in playful swashes. Keeping me at hand, he fetched a large blue towel that he spread out on the single bed as a reflex of preservation that made me agree that lust could be dirty. He laid me down and covered me under a fresh blue sheet, starting to give me the creeps, only to rejoin me in the twilight, rekindled and gushy, all in double Dutch about not being seen by the wraith of his mother, but he liked me so much that I fornicate with him. Indeed he made me return to the blessed days of sneaky hugs in storerooms, and he was so febrile that my womb was stirred before my mind knew, in an endless gush that raptured my soul.
So much so that when I recovered my breath, and he was grasping the sheet that had slid, I could see on his back a large tattoo of a dancing Ganesh on his dark skin. Something did that I grabbed his waist and cuddled the God Ganesh. When he monkeyed out of my clasp, he said I liked the god, thus he needed no more sheet, then plunged again into my blooming yoni.
I awoke in the dim light of the closet, the blue sheet covering me up, not any clue how long I had dozed out. I sleepwalked to the nearby bathroom, peed and else, then rejoiced in the never waning tepid streams and the scents of a luxurious house in generous flasks.
It was dawn, a sleazy colourless one, and everyone had fled. I slid into my long abandoned tracksuit and snuck to the underground path and mechanically tamed the security routines. I was overspent.
When I prepared to collapse into our bed, three people lay there entwined movingly, Kate, Gwen, and Finlan who exposed his languid prick that smelled of a girly rose. I went to Cecile’s bedroom and found her with Charlotte in deep silence, thus I unclothed fast and cuddled the other side of Charlotte, to oblivion.
It would be familiar queerness to find a dancing elephant on my terrace of the angels, yeah yeah yeahs style, and the fourth of July’s fireworks, damn you. Again, the crimson crows in Busby Berkley’s crowns around the fabulous mind of His Divine Lightness. A chorus line of silver mice rang ballabile around the pudgy feet of the most fluent abilitator on the frustrated planet waving his fiddling hands up when The Giant Rat Of Sumatra gripped my shoulders setting to bugger me, a smile on his sharp face, his black vaselined hair parted on the side in lovelocks. One of the mice snuck through a suture of my skull to reach my soul’s bell ropes and peal reason that I was, in earnest, being buggered.
Sergei had nosed around the house, fresh as a Ukrainian cavalier, all mimsy as the Borogoves. When I ended teasling my nerves, I kissed him on his pointed nose and ran to the bathroom. He had disappeared with his crop.
Hence there was no one left after my thorough grooming. I fetched red cashmere socks and put on my raw cotton tracksuit to climb upstairs to the studio. I resented having forsaken my research a tad too long going to the dogs and selling my body astray. Kate was seated in a vague tunic of variegated zigzag jersey and leggings, she scolded me about my laisser aller with the Zaporozhian Cossacks, I retorted we all have penchants. Fayelle had propitiously reacquainted herself with the hefty book of Cortazar’s short stories, and she bantered there had still been no more axolotls, but she shied off our mirrors. Annabelle had brought fat cushions to sit on the floor, with her lichen-green layered gown sprawled around her like the waters of a fountain; she was browsing a large album on Renaissance mannerists.
I brewed the largest pot of Formosa oolong, for everyone was thirsty, and then I chose some blank drawing board, Cortazar was sipping from the silver bombilla.

 

Cecile says:

Are we not pets to one another, at the end of the day? I am so proud of my find, just like Sarah is proud of me, and so on Kate and Gwen and all the gang with Michelle.
There would possibly happen some recess in our frenzy, no sooner had Charlotte hustled us in a cash line than she had become as debauched as most of us, staring at money trickling down her pretty apron pocket. Lauritz owned me to a knack for not spoiling a windfall, thus he had been game and complained of nought, at the end of the day; me neither, Sarah turned me into the profiteering onlooker I always was, unbeknownst, and fortunate still to lure chosen passers-by into my cubbyhole, as I indulged it with Gauthier, such a fine sword, all professional considerations put apart.
It is notable that none of the fairies onboard have siblings. Charlotte has a little sister Emeline, but she would not let me see her, she says she’s too young, but then, doesn’t she let her in the same mire she escaped from? At twelve, her father did to her what I suffered in the cellar, and so the matter is that the lout owns her, with all the might of the law. I keep mulling over a dire conspiracy to free Emeline, would we not dare? I fancy we could send that child to Sarah’s paradise school, I bet I could afford that, she once joshed that most of her schoolmates carried fake IDs for one reason or the other.
It was a comely idle day in the Workshop mood that Cyprien had relished to help; whatever happened under his eyes remained in connivance, be it lustful or not, as long as the music played over our chit-chats. The polished and heated floor made the damsels lose their shoes nicely. There was a silvery ring at the door nobody ever used, and it was Josephine in some puffy almond-green tracksuit and dance slippers, dishevelled as she would have fallen from the bus, sleepy. Charlotte ran to her and embraced her, then proposed all sorts of morning treats we might have. It made Gibraltar sunny.
Malo had been called to an inescapable performance and had sent her to me, knowing I was assiduous at my craft and Josephine had a bend for Charlotte. Richter hovered in an eerie light, and Cyprien unveiled his mellifluous voice to ask them to unclothe for him. Of course, Josephine had done so her whole life, she revealed her Thorwaldsean behind with grace so as Charlotte’s underbelly quivered, obviously, at the idea of a long, long hug with the young dancer. Cyprien installed them on the sofa, in a black padded velvet quilt: my seat swivelled, and I was enthralled watching the obsessive draughtsman set his models like live porcelain, thus I needed to go and sniff them together.
Something droll arose, some Bach prelude, in the vast genius of the Kantor, gave Josephine restlessness in her tapered legs, so I had to warn her she should not try to dance on our hard floor, but I promised she would practice with all the angels in Leipzig when her floorboards would have been laid. I switched to the ambient soundscapes of Jon Hassell, instead, and thus, poised cosily as they were, they could very well doze out, and Cyprien would be fine with that, too.
Gwen had weaved in, not ringing or anything audible, as you walk in on a started movie, barefoot. She crouched at Cyprien’s side, hugging her knees; she wore pale hues leggings and no panties, a loose, hazy blue jumper that left one shoulder entirely bare. I wondered if she had already been drawn, too. Swapping hands with the pencil, Cyprien caressed the short blond hair and slid down calmly to the tits in his absent-minded manner. Another stray nymph that knew nought of any family ever and carries an invented ID, I would kill for her.
When Cyprien offered a pause, They all ran to the bathroom, and Gwen lost her togs. Then I made coffee for everyone and sacrificed a box of langues de chats, Josephine never drowned any. Touching them like pups, Charlotte would ask them tales of their previous lives; all she had to offer as such were repeated sad rapes she wouldn’t even fight against, I myself only bragged about Lauritz’s steamy inventions, Gwen craved a boat ride on the Seine, thus, in a kiss —she’s a peach to kiss— I assured her I wouldn’t mind if she wooed Lauritz enough to let him embark her.
After my Flemish earthly paradise that would stir up a heated auction next year in London, I was onto an arms-span wide panel Hugo had bought depicting a feast outside an Italian Renaissance palazzo, full of minute details in the garlands and the trophies, and moreover, a crowd of courtesans in festive garbs, one of my specialities for I gave them expressions.
Unfailingly, Cyprien invited them three to pose gracefully entwined, with Gwen turned so as to show her rounded bum. They stood behind me, I heard them babble like the whorehouse’s mice. I devised an evening at Lauritz’s.

I assured them no one beat them as couch-baits in all of Paris’s select clubs. It had been Lauritz’s compliment when I announced our considered raid. He advised us not to show up before ten. Thence began the propitiatory sartorial spree, I craved to play doll.
The easy way would be to dress the mermaids with some rework of His Majesty’s New Clothes, but the grandeur of the venue, —to which I would forever belong since my metamorphosis from chrysalide to imago by the grace of Princess von K. in the shards of that sunburst sculpture — deserved the requisite expense of a sultry masquerade in warp and weft magic.
We all went now and then to the beauty salon at whomever’s account, and Charlotte had discovered what a well-tuned laser does to young skins, and I wouldn’t dare begin to compare one another. Inside the slipcovers in our mistresses’ vestiary, in the evening department, we ferreted out a big brand’s iridescent black sequined one-button dinner jacket that made Gwen look like a Las Vegas swindler, she also pulled hold-up veil stockings; she smelled of black datura. A purple silk faille shirt-dress shimmered onto Josephine’s thin features down to her upper thighs in whiffs of violet and iris; A shorter than short indigo silk jersey tee dress embroidered in full width of three vermillion passant leopards heralded Charlotte’s foolhardy brazenness in her narrow hips fired up by rose rose roses as in the song. I found myself a blurry pigeon-heart, zigzag-knit, supple cardigan that couldn’t stay shut over my bareness long; I gave off the fragrance of a powdery camelia, a gift of Lauritz’s. There were also plenty of pairs of pumps, all more or less shiny black, flat, and as sassy as we needed, it was some game to mary them back. We wrapped up in trenches not to cause the cabby a stroke.
I suspected the doorman to make us wait a tad longer, unable to tell which of the four he’d rather entrap. On the majestic flight of stairs, Charlotte and Gwen held hands, the butler waited at the landing and was particularly attentive to me. He said Mr von Speck would arrive later in the night.
As a good idea, the red glowing resistors had been lit in the fireplace, before which two nude sylphides warmed; they were Kate and her sister teasing an audience all in sundry savoir-faire by the Armani boys. Through the heady synthesis of all scents aggravated by towering bouquets of lilies in tall Bacchantes vases by Lalique, our gang stirred attention, and this wouldn’t be any worldly gathering, would it?
Two dozen people did not overcrowd that room, mostly men in near-black with gleaming shoes. I felt aroused that worldly ladies sat along with call girls, some shying, some rolling eyes to my pubis, most mere spouses of lecherous clients. In the taxi, we had conspired on the amount they should ask for the usual ninety minutes feature, and sodomy would be double extra. At any bedhead, they would find a panic button, and anytime, they might be looked upon, for Lauritz’s pleasure, even if he had sworn there wouldn’t be any recordings. Once in the house, they had better move around in the nude, the butler would take good care of their few belongings.
No sooner into the salon, a grizzling old man in a burgundy silk velvet dinner jacket caught Josephine’s hand at once and did not let her reach the buffet; a younger, slimmer cavalier took Gwen by the waist, so as her jacket opened on her nethers when he gave her a Martini kiss, and then he drew her to the elevator.
Arm in arm, Charlotte and I joined the lustful sisters who told us they rested a while after the rumbustious romp they had just had. They did not look wasted, Anna Louise grabbed Charlotte and pulled her dress up, bending her backwards in the red gleam. A ginger sportsman type cupped her head and asked for a kiss, then danced with her, away, in her turn.
Kate and I were exchanging rich mouthfuls of sisterly vice when a lean slick-haired brit in hound-tooth night-blue velvet asked to play with the real sisters, thus I turned away and met the eyes of a young black man in a purplish black silk suit with assorted shirt; he winked, I lifted a brow —I craved a black man— I mimicked a question, and he showed yes, thus, with my cardigan sliding from my shoulders, I rolled gaits to him. He coveted my body around, pulled the vest down and frankly fingered my arse crack, as an appetiser, said he in my neck as he held me backwards to sniff his fingers. My price seemed right, and he said I might deserve more.
He owned a sinewy body and silky smooth skin, bar a dire scar from the shoulder to the opposite hip, he said shily it had been a machete stroke when he was nine, he wasn’t too sure I would let him shag me now that I saw this, but I took hold of his sizeable shlong and let him read my eyes. His head was shaven, but his crotch was woolly soft, he smelled of an expensive tour de force of spices and sacred woods, I let him force my throat even beyond my secret victim ever did. He was fierce but assured, he gushed abundantly down to my stomach, and I did not belch.
That room was all clad in black lacquered panels adorned with round gold embossed geometrically patterned medallions the size of a hand span. The gold-leafed, rounded-edged ceiling was lit all around with a concealed lamps line, one of the famous metal and glass luminous sculptures I had laboured on burst its crystal clouds and shards of sundry crepuscular coloured pressed glass in the centre of the gold dazzle, all lights dimmed down to a faint gleam. The deep pile carpeting was designed with crossed lines of black running calligraphic swashes over a crimson background. The square bed was dominated by the half-circle relief of the golden rising sun. In each corner at the bedhead side stood gilt bronze sculptures of nubile chained slaves rested on ebony veneered plinths. Two gilded Paul Iribe armchairs were upholstered in black mohair velvet
The bathroom was of gold mosaic in full with repeated patterns from the bedroom’s panelling medallions, in black; the built-in tub was black enamel as the pedestal sink, the bidet and the toilet bowl, and all the fittings were golden; the floor was Portoro black and gold marble.
Whenas his brain cells had been a mite eased up in my mouth, he kind of smoothed me spread upon the black stitched satin of the bed, legs wide apart, and began feasting on my quim so skilfully as to enkindle the swarms in my womb, I did not retain splashing at his face, and he smiled proudly. As if my carnal runoff had inebriated his bewildered mind, he sprung up with his flesh bludgeon beating against his scar and buried it in one go in the depth of my soaked vagina, then humped hard upon the neck of my uterus. I had known dicks of all calibres, but that one made me beg that he rather bugger me, for free, before he tore anything essential, at what he gracefully obliged, stroking more on my womb from beyond the soft wall, reviving the squirting frenzy, my feet flapping high in the golden light. He grunted breathlessly as he nailed me down in the bed padding all the while he was gushing into my innards, between us, it was fluid rampancy of warm odorous discharge, we valiantly spoiled the rich satin with no restrain.
As I sat watering my holes clean while the bath filled up, he was kindly eager to know if he had contented me, I told him that by the breadth of my fluxes, he could certainly not doubt that he had spilt my jug —so to speak— That made him laugh as he walked into the lather.
When I went back down to the salon, only dressed in a dash of magnolia, the second wave of libertines had left the dinners or theatres of their busy social life, and as I saw Charlotte in a far corner, I snaked through the now bustling crowd, aware of all the palpations that would earn me. Charlotte hugged me like a buoy, she was a tad flummoxed. Her john had not been so rude, but he had forced her to walk around the room on all fours, pretending to be a bitch licking his arse as he sat in an armchair before buggering her a few times and making her clean his soiled dick. He had left her with a pretty bundle of cash and his card, with the hand-written mention “tuesdays”. That had not particularly amused her, although I viciously confirmed that she was still wet.
Holding her tight, for the obvious relish of some guests, I confessed to being aroused by her little tale, a typical rich man’s whim she could have refused, and she dared not yet avow some part of her had savoured. She remained silent and nosed for a kiss she found. Already an old bushy-brows clubman in formal attire had softly seized her arm, and I watched her go.
Deliberately flying hand to hand to the buffet table where the waiter eyed me with improbable hopes, I found myself cornered by a spectacular couple. As I tried to gulp a chocolate bouchée I had just picked up, they began fingering my both sides, with a telling savoir faire.
She was a splendid, faultless, thirtyish dark blue eyed german trophy wife of sorts —albeit one never knows, she might have been as much of a whore as I— wearing a crew neck, mid-thigh, three-fourth sleeves, buttoned down couture teal-and-jay silk tweed dress, and the cropped vest trimmed with a mint-and-sapphire braid that felt like millions when I slid my hand inside, having sussed she was nude under it.
He nodded so as to lead us out to the elevator, the butler gave him a key card and stared at me pointedly, then down on my pubis, so I knew I would have to tip him and which manner.
Her natural chestnut-rich hair was craftily tied in a loose bun, all her body was laser sleek, she smelled like the Jardin Des Plantes’ Robinea when it blooms in June, She let me unclothe her like a submissive maid. Then he took my wrist and showed me to do him the same.
We were in a large terracotta red room with waxed walls under a lacquered turquoise ceiling where hung a large stained glass shield I had once hand-scoured with a toothbrush, I let her push me down on the bed and poke her tongue anywhere she wished. As she stood over me, he took hold of her narrow hips and shagged her bluntly, seemingly showering her with insults, as for the few dirty German words Dagmar and Fæbian had taught me. I had repeated them to Lauritz who was aroused to hear them in my French accent.
She loved the game, her quim was dripping wet, I found her clit, he was hurling in her back hatch like a rodeo buff I had seen in a magazine, and she climaxed a few times, searching for my mouth to kiss. When she collapsed aside, he pulled me up and turned me to my knees so I would be on level to be served in my turn, he sure was some horseshow stud and loosened as I had just been I accepted his German sceptre like a genteel toy, but he couldn’t help insulting me as well. She repaid me in kind, she was a gifted wanker, a real player, they insisted that I cry out my orgasm, again.
He called for drinks, champagne and, oddly, bottles of mineral water, but he displayed self-control. As the wife and myself were kindly masturbating each other on the bed, a seemingly Levantine boy with combed black curls and almond-shaped eyes in white livery pushed a cart in with the dewy silver cooler and the clinking crystal glasses. He did not flinch seeing two indecent beauties splaying their quims at him. Moreover, the wife left me to go woo him and slide a hand under his jacket and assail his fly. Being what he was and where he was, he pocketed the money handed to him and let be stripped, he showed a proud circumcised cock.
But she made herself understood that he should come frolic with us on the bed and more specifically bugger me in her arms. Meanwhile, the diligent husband served drinks and insisted we were thirsty, I refused the champagne; it was a routine even a young amateur like me had been played with before, he was looking to make us piss.
My Lebanese partner was dedicated and the wife, between tumblers of icy Italian water, fooled around my busy body, sipping the tears from my eyes. My arse offered high, wallowed, arms spread, at the whim of a beautiful sleek dick, my only aim was to climax all the more and hear whatever gibberish she was lulling my ears with as a hymn to my accomplished whorishness. But the Levantine stallion was so young that his drippy staff still shuddered and so he spared me to go spear my elegant client who awaited no better and begged in her rocky accent to insult her like a smelling corpse, that I did, in the vocabulary of the most flowery comics —I sensed strange twirls in my dispossessed mind.
The husband was all the more enthralled. He called the party in the bathroom, a Sienna red marble-clad blind room with a gold leaf ceiling and assorted bidet, toilet bowl, and pedestal sink; at the door, a recess sheltered towels the colour of the room. I sussed it was a specially required set. Diverse polished teak benches and stools allowed devising some frantic watersports, indeed. He lay back on one bench and told me to pee in his authoritative mouth, while he did into his wife’s anus. I let go mu flow while he twiddled my nipples, and then he ordered me to take his place and receive her arse’s contents, and that was mostly disgusting thus I vomited while she also pissed over my face.
Foreseeing the rough weather, the wise Levantine had fled, I kept him in mind. Now the Husband was showering us all with warm water, filling our holes with an enema hose and watching us pour on each other, continuing his funny obscene vocabulary. I suspected he was some tough nut executive in need of decompensation, and I would need a good bowl of sweet rice cream to cure my washed-out bowels. Downstairs, I had this weird taste in my mouth and I kind of grossly washed it off with peach kombucha, then a good many fruit petits fours. I had to run a few more times to expel remnants of clear water. Late birds had gathered, and more of the ladies had their skirts indecently pulled up, some in arrogant allure, others in adorable shame; those who dared had slender legs to show. I had seen scenes like that in those magazines my mother sold under the counter.
Josephine was dancing on the spot a fluid improvisation upon a sourdine of “Kind Of Blue” by Miles and friends, that gem Lauritz liked to play in the 911 when he craved for me. Two or three connoisseurs had thrown money in a silver bowl next to her feet. Eyes rolled up, she was trying to follow not what notes were played, but those, crucial ones, that weren’t. When at last she singled me out, she ran to my arms.
A middle-aged gent in slightly chiselled blue-black silk velvet elegantly bent to pick the silver bowl and handed it to Josephine who wouldn’t dare touch the bills, so I rolled them together for her to stash them in her locker. The obsidian-brown-eyed Cavalier then ushered us to the lift foyer, with a swift halt at the vestiary. He held a key card, he kissed her most greedily; I admitted I would play secondarily, and it fitted me, my bumhole felt like an open hatch.
That room was all wood, in dark rich walnut in pervasive coffered woodwork, floor to ceiling, and a mere three small stained glass windows. The fitted carpeting was deep, textured, indigo wool, the grand bed thrown over with rich duck blue velvet so as many large cushions.
It was the ultimate seafarer magic lantern, lit up by an array of small brass-mounted streaked glass dome lamps in each of the ceiling’s coffers. Two big yew green Chesterfield armchairs could each accommodate the three of us. Here and there, precious tortoiseshell frames contained early daguerreotypes of whorehouse scenes in devilish precision, one of the filles bore not much hair on her pubis; as we bent to see what exactly she was being done to, the client seized Josephine’s lesser breasts and turned a kind compliment on her dancing; as the tone was truthful, she candidly bantered that she would be a professional dancer and she would soon have her own practice floor. and I concurred with that.
He thought he had hired a pair of mythos, and it was for the best. Otherwise, he found us arousing, gracile, immature, and easy-going sexually. He said he did not meet girls of our kind in the houses he honoured of his patronage. That earned him to experience yet another gift of a Gibraltar monkey about the sneaky art of splitting a fly open, and wank it rock solid in no time. Meanwhile, I straddled his mouth to make him suck on my clit, and he finished untying his neck to provide a proper job as I knelt upon the backrest. Soon, Josephine, albeit raised as a sucker, yearned for the real shag and climbed on behind me for a pole dance of her manner. Her late owner the waterman, as well as discerning her singular ability to express her soul in bodily moves, had taught her the many ways of containing a male’s penis into her vagina for mutual pleasure; aboard the grand white ship, she had trained in both graces like a temple priestess, obviously not as a slave, although she could play that, too.
He cast a strong aura, a palpable vibration of carnal nature, and thus we all climaxed simultaneously at the top of our breaths. tumbling down to the sides of his furry ribcage, putting him in good humour. However, he then stood up, jib mast in the wind, and with a grin, pressed on some detail in the woodwork, to the effect of the nearby panel sliding aside, revealing a gleaming panoply of corporal torture tools, all polished and oiled to serve. Firstly, he rolled out an elaborate pillory on four extending feet and showed me to lay my wrists and neck in the leather padded split apertures, only to batten the heavy jaw down, entrapping me and ordering Josephine to buckle tight my ankles to part my legs open. I felt his dick in my butt cleft as he manoeuvred cranks and pulleys to bring my arse to the precise position. It was a game, he told Josephine to anoint my holes and try them with her genteel fists. He kept massaging my loins and legs, I felt licentious. He buggered me kindly, Josephine playing with his balls. He went all his length and ejaculated with little jumps.
I heard voices, and in the corner of my eye I discerned Josephine unclothing one boy in a white livery and sucking him hard, next he shagged me stiffly, a basin had been pulled between my feet, and weird goo dripped down making bubbles. It was no big surprise, these pretty bellboys probably saw fascinating animals being willingly shagged all day long while they sheltered a fierce erection in their trunks. Sure enough, as I meowed to the generous jolts of one stag, a new one niggled my mouth with his trousers’ puppet, so I gulped it, like a good functioning machine, resting thus in my unfettered release as long as my legs would withstand.
I had a glimpse of Josephine wallowing upon the captain’s whiffletree at another stag’s whim probably tidying his wears away from damage before he politely humped in her blooming efflorescence.
Most men are shortlived, soon the bed was bestrewed with spent lurchers, and Josephine came running to my rescue, whenas I could have enjoyed a few more, once kindled, who knows? We snuck into the bathroom, a warm polished teakwood parlor with brass hydrotherapy contraptions we played with, and I had to tell her away from me when I sensed I was about to smell lesser than funny, for a while, on the toilet bowl. She laughed her head off in the far corner.
In the trickling of water, the captain’s dick cuddled off in the black fur of his lower belly. He was candidly caring about the wellness of our intimacies, so much so that he dipped an extra one into Josephine’s blind eye, in my arms, under the streams.
All that money was honey on our pride, and we remained mint as the virgins we had never been, but that was enough, and we did not return to the bustling salon, dressing up and stashing our gains in discreet pockets. The butler, who was more than helping us look happy, to the point he obtained a quick fellatio —part of his function had been to watch us go do it to others with smiles— said that Charlotte had purportedly been sleeping in the little room after the vestiary —although the staff would have access— and our short-haired blond tomboy friend followed Herr Lauritz to his private apartments. We went to collect Charlotte and fled.
At home, Sarah had only just been back from some excesses of her own, she smelled of yellow broom flowers, and the lassitude of her gaze aroused me. She begged us to let her sleep with us. I lulled her with details of my whorishness.

 

Sarah says:

My Far had always sprinkled cinnamon on French toasts; Mom, who was thin as a movie debutante, shunned the treat Far would only be here to cook once or twice a year, why I craved them for, however thin my appetite.
My night had been one of those snug and slow embraces girls let go, in Camille’s familiar bed, with Trine and her tiny hips. I had sussed that I could not stay over, Camille was never again the easygoing bohemian courtesan cum art dealer who had taught me the Parisian arcanes, and profited from my innocent catches. Anyhow, on my way out, I had met her head lawyer Mathew who had a convertible sofa in his resident office and thus he had offered me what girls can’t.
Now Cecile had snuck out downstairs to dip cookies in black coffee, read art magazines and listen to Bach, long before anyone would dare trouble the mirror of her soul.
Charlotte had donned the same crumpled tracksuit I could not help rummage in. Her toothpaste tasted of liquorice, she had barely combed her hair. I seated her on my lap and let her arouse me with what they had let themselves be done. I asked her if she would rather do a whore; she answered that she had not tried to flee when all the hirelings had succeeded one another at fucking her and making her shamefully climax. I bantered that shame would be a mere operative in her ego’s algebra, as long as she remained her own and not a cut of meat on a butcher’s stall. She ate most of my breakfast.
I sensed I needed to work, that day, reader or not; she said she would go downstairs and tell Cecile, then come and do whatever with me. When Hugo wandered by, musing, I had a hunch he would invite Charlotte on some romantic journey, thus she followed him right away, there was no schedule to Corfu, and she carried no luggage