Cecile says:

As assiduously prescribed by the intangible courtly 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 her dad to 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 infancies —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, and 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 that 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 had kindled some charms I learned from Sarah.
She cried to herself, now. Helpless to foresee what confusion she might have caused. Clenching my wings upon her, I made her feel safe. Thus rills of tears meandered into my collar. Across the room, Cyprien’s grey stare awaited an outcome, slightly distraught probably because he had apparently taken advantage of a stray kid.
From the high-hung speakers, Richter hammered on the Kantor’s transcendent rhetoric that bore most of our karmic days, I followed suit, drank out Emeline’s tears and lucubrated that, as of now, she was working legitimately as a model for Cyprien’s studies, and I named a first-rate fee that would give her enough pocket money and an idea of self-worth. Cyprien breathed and came over to set her up daintily for another session, she visibly agreed to be handled. When he returned to his chair, she kept staring at me, not fully convinced her ordeal was over, her eyes bright for having wept. However, as it became sure that she would tell her bruised little life, I lowered the music to the level of a friendly whisper, in a wish to avoid the sharp-edged silence of my sound-proofed rooms, and that worked.
Their mother was a nature girl raised by her grandparents who had confessed to being pregnant well beyond the limit when it would have been available to avoid an inconvenient birthing and thus found herself married at sixteen with soon two baby girls before she become twenty. The father was the hard-working village butcher and had been reputed to fornicate like a mad dog all over the place —other schoolgirls had luckily found themselves the proper pill in due time. He was a testosterone-filled hunk, and many a bored slut relished wallowing upon the blood-stained stalls legs up.
Both girls had been the reedy, tall, fast-running type, warned off by their mother about their father’s randy pulsions. Then, one early winter morning, she had been found dead at a roadside minutes from the village, her head crushed; the suitcase with her belongings ripped open in the nearby ditch; the gendarmes concluded to an accident while she apparently had fled home. No one talked to the girls, the great-grandparents had been long gone.
The father made no comments either, he hired an elderly widow, Mrs Gideon, to manage his household and return to her place once dinner was served. By villager’s standards, he was a well-to-do citizen, he owned a furnished sitting room and used it, with a wide-screen television in front of a deep sofa, and that was where he wanted his girls in their flimsy stretch velvet pyjamas.
Emeline is three years younger than Charlotte, who taught her to sleep away as soon as he forced them to sit beside him in the smell of his cheap cologne and pastis, his sweatpants already below the gauge line. And while the crappiest programs unfurled with boxed laughs, she had seen all of the obscene fantasies her elder went through, slowly pulling down her pants on the coffee table for him to masturbate watching her butt, then kneeling between his parted legs to suck him till he spurted on her face, she had watched all of this between her lashes before his hands had begun creeping up her own legs, whatever Charlotte attempted with her own tricks to save her, he was a free-reined swine in the pigsty of glittery primetime television.
He sneakily began to make Charlotte drink pastis so that she could no longer defend her brooklet and the bottom hole he obsessed with. She saw the game change when he started using Charlotte and showing her how slutty she was, wet as a split fig.
One day, Charlotte, who had dropped school to attend horse at a club, had been picked up on the road by one of the Chevillon château ladies who had understood she was hitting on her and drove to a dark alley. Charlotte had let go of her knickers, the woman was infinitely cautious and made her talk while caressing her like silk. They met again secretly, the father anyhow too busy from dawn to dusk to inquire of her whereabouts. They exulted for a few months in the far pavilion of the park, where the car could be hidden. The lady knew that Gauthier’s grand party could be Charlotte’s decisive runaway, and nothing harmful could happen to her, in that realm. She had kept hidden in a coachman’s shack above the garages, ready to dash in Chloe’s car as soon as they learned where Lauritz and I went to buy flowers.
Remained the snag that Emeline was a minor and her father relished keeping her ready on his sleazy sofa, and all the gendarmes were longtime pals of his. Awaiting for some aperture beyond the château’s moat, but Chloe shied from scheming a risky elopement that could harm the whole community, Charlotte hatched a plan to ask Sami or Hector to drive her and abduct her, any of them would crave that. Alternately, she had caught the eye before of a young delivery boy who drove weekly to Paris with crates of wine and her father’s meats, she bet he would agree to be rewarded in kind. One morning, she hopped in the van with her backpack, he was already stiff as wood.
Antoine was no more than twenty, black short-haired and pale brown-eyed. He smiled all the time. He did not head to the highway but deliberately took the old route so that he could stop whenever he felt, like three times in the sundry old forests to shag her with enough manners not to make her regret.
From the top of her head, she had told him she would meet someone at the Deux Magots —she had never visited Paris— then asked for his mobile number, saying she had deactivated hers out of fear of being tracked. Before she had run, Charlotte had texted all she knew of names and numbers, but the fortress seemed secured behind keypads and cameras, so she crouched down against my street portal and waited, helpless.
Night would come, and the police would ask questions, her ID showed her faraway address, they knew about runaway girls. Then happened the most foreseeable event in that place, that of two alluring bohemians came to speak to her, one black and one sunbleached, both utterly engaging. Fulgence had sat down close to her and sussed who she might be, none of the vagrant kids Liselotte helped out in her own way.
Because all the names they named had been said by Charlotte, and mostly mine, she trusted them up to their apartments, apologising firstly for the scent Fulgence found in her neck and did not fear to identify. He showed her the bathroom and watched her undress, casually seated on the toilet. He had a forthright voice when he told her he would never rape anyone, in earnest. And then he lavished her with compliments, explaining how, being an artist, he had looked at gazillions of butts and legs thus he could tell she was a success already and he would compare when she returned from Corfou.
Erik had been cooking pasta, and Fulgence had gently rubbed her dry, acknowledging how young she should be, albeit she looked soul-stirring in one of his clean tee-shirts, said he, and Erik, who shunned to watch, concurred.
They listened to the horrifying tale of the butcher’s daughters and swore that he would never touch them again. They explained how most of the boarders were momentarily absent, bar Cecile whom she would meet in the morning. They drank coffee with Italian biscotti while Fulgence caressed her legs on his lap from across the table; missing proper words, Erik chose to brush her tousled hair with loving hands.
There she stood, morally spent, thrice vigorously shagged along the way, at the mercy of two athletic hunks the dicks of whom she could tell in their sweatpants, and nothing more than friendly rubs happened, only just the promise something might happen someday. She had slept without dreams on the convertible in the living room and had been woken by a seducing tomboy who said her two minders had left her to care for Emeline, what she did, pulling off her pants and hugging her under the quilt while she drank the ready brewed coffee. That was Natalia, the house fairy who craved Emeline’s flat chest, promising she would bring her to Cecile, only after she would have come in her mouth.
Besides I was instantly smitten by an even more gracile nymphet so resembling my Charlotte, I had to agree with Cyprien’s stares, we were flabbergasted, there was presently no one we could turn to, except trouble the amorists in Corfou. After many kiss-and-tickles, oh my, what had happened! I settled us two, nude, on the teal satin of my bed and called Hugo on Skype. He was in a silk grey robe with padded lapels I knew well, and it took him minutes to understand what he saw, then Charlotte appeared, and she burst into cries and sobs.
Emeline clenched at my wing, I gave a resume of events that confirmed all that Hugo already knew. He blessed the prudence we had all demonstrated, and yes, Emeline could legally pose for me, at a fee. Her telephone should remain gutted, and Fulgence should burn it, with hopes Emeline had deactivated everything before leaving her father’s home.
Supreme weapon, Charlotte had stolen some flashcards containing porn videos their father had made them do with him, it was obvious the bastard had overstepped all self-awareness, not to mention the death of the girls’ mother. Hugo decreed that a proper emissary should go and stick his muzzle in the heaps of evidence, making him understand that he would never see his daughters again.
Only to alleviate the mood after these harsh sentences, Emeline retold the twists and turns of her arrival at the citadel. We all laughed frankly, and Hugo offered her a warm welcome —she looked so desirable upon the satin— and claimed he was so proud of everybody for our attitudes. He promised Emeline a new life with fabulous escales; he was hugging Charlotte whose pyjama had flown away, and they reassured one another that the ordeal was over.
Weeks later, after an abnormally long absence of the village butcher, he was eventually found hung in the cold room, amongst the carcasses. In the backyard, a bonfire had destroyed a heap of digital memory supports. His daughters did not attend the cremation, they bear a new name, and they renounced their heritage.

 

Sarah says:

As I enjoyed the first lengthy leak of that auspicious solitary day on our toilet, as per usual, I checked what meant a few of those inane ringtones that might have snuck through my dreams. A sequence of messages kept me seated until my own smell felt incongruous.
charbool@****.com: ” My sweet young sister Emeline has fled from our dad’s trap. She destroyed her phone before leaving. She has your names, numbers, and address but knows zilch about Paris. Would you please stand on the lookout for her? Love.
hugo@****.hugo: Emeline is young and helpless, keep a keen eye on our street doors, she looks very much like her sister. I warn Hector and Gauthier’s team.
rotor@****.boum: We found a stray kitten shivering at Cecile’s door, and it was Charlotte’s baby sister Emeline. Erik and I were stunned, but we kept our wits, she ate our spaghetti and showed us her legs all above board. She’s one to die for. This morning, Natalia showed her to Cecile’s. Undisputed love to all.
cecicile@****.eu: Cyprien found Emeline waiting at the workshop and tamed her so as to eventually ask her to pose for him. He is so convincingly inoffensive, and she is as foolhardy as Charlotte, one should say. For the rest of the day, she told me all they endured with their bastardly father. We need to shield them from his claws. I keep her on my shoulder. Love all of you.
gauthierrenart@****.renart: The two bedrooms flat under the new bedrooms will be finished next week. Cecile, will you keep the younglings with you until then? Stay wise, we love you.
charbool@****.com: Help me not dissolve into tears while babbling with a wounded angel, can we come upstairs to see you?
My answer was swift and short, they caught me bare-arsed in my crumpled dawn-blue night shirt, Emeline said in my neck that I smelled love before I could take a look at her. Understandably, after having lulled the baby in her bed all night, Cecile was kind of transfixed.
The fugitive knew for sure that she had reached the right address, she stared at me like I had seen squads of wide-eyed newbies do in a lakeshore canteen —long ago. She did not shy away from my impertinent grazings, I couldn’t help reaching for her sleek chest. Since her admirably brave escape, she obviously had had to retell her and her sister’s ordeal that Charlotte had shunned to reveal out of fear. Now she needed a binge of what looked like our fairy tale. That behoved me rightfully.
Once tea and coffee were brewed, and a pile of golden French toasts crumbled on a plate —Emeline was frankly famished, but soon enough replete, smilingly. No doubt she asked who I was, casually groping my thigh when I came near to pour some coffee
My own story is all glorious and my birth aristocratic, if I avoid all that led my Far —she needed a tip-off, there— to send me to the green pastures of the Helvetic Confederation, in Saint Loup, a free-minded privileged institution peopled with cosmopolitan offsprings unfit for intensive farming, most from diplomatic families at nearby Geneva’s UN pole, and under secret services watch. Emeline was frozen scared, it was like listening to TV guests from outer space until I broke the spell telling her I had never shagged so many beautifully happy people in my life, all in goodwill.
My number on my coming to Paris and the beaux-Arts school was fine-tuned, and funny, and she already had her hand between my thighs, and so had I. That brought us to our bed which smelled like a may field after the rain. She eventually confessed to having fostered a taste for pussy after she was forced into it by their father; I bantered that we all would expel him from her cravings.
When she turned to Cecile, there was some veil of unease, I felt compelled to josh out in provocative innuendos, not knowing what she would dare say. She took Emeline off my grasp and hugged her tight, crying she was a survivor, too. It was a story in shreds, but three times she leashed out that she was a murderer, unrepentant for sure. Scenes of the beer-stench cellar floated like maddened bats.
I was cuddling as many toes as I could catch, I felt I should defuse the hatred she lashed at herself by telling how I had randomly come to woo her, visiting the work site at a friend’s house, ogling her emerging from the goggles, the yellow helmet, the yellow overalls and the thick safety boots, and I had not been in the least disabused of the vision I had seen of her, down to her dainty feet that had smelled of wet wool.
I sensed somewhat that the shards she had stumbled upon ever and again since the time of her gloomy secret would erode like the sea-glass pebbles at each tide, thus we cried on each other.
When we woke up entwined, dusk had won outside of the window blinds, and we smelled of tears, saliva, and else like in a Baudelaire song. I did not want to move, but Cecile needed the loo, so we ended up under the shower, Emeline all titillated that we could stand three in the flow; I asked her to pee on my feet, and so she did.

The heather fairies had been expecting me all day in the studio upstairs, thus they mused in and crept on the rug at our bedside to hear the tales of the newfound nymphet with tears in their eyes, such depth did they know the truth of them. How could I help them share at length and elaborate on their martyrdom, that was windfall therapy, the elders had a feel for that, and our bed is large.
The two wise hunks came to the news, and so did Natalia before running to one of her edifying appointments in town. Neither one of the boys could hide their thrust, Fayelle bravely unleashed the dragon in Fulgence’s pants and began to offer lip service while Emeline snapped back her legs at the sight of his erection. She took refuge in Cecile’s arms, whispering that the butcher’s dick was a fraction of that, not to speak of the black rod Annabelle put her gentle self to play with, in solidarity.
I was dripping, I would have felt like sharing a few humps of Erik’s, but I woke to the necessity of ordering dinner before they closed. Cecile and I shared glances about Emeline being stuck in self-conscience, no longer watching the romps at her feet. I beckoned them onto the kitchen, cajoling both casually; Sanne grasped exactly what she should send and proposed she had a whole beautiful black cherries clafouti if we wished. All that while, Emeline waved under the strokings, still in fear of waking up sorry.
Although I would certainly have relished to force them to remain naked, I pushed them towards our cloakroom, I had the whim to watch Emeline quiver into cashmere, as I had seen all girls do. I fetched the priceless knit jumper dress with the sloping cowl neckline, the colour of coffee custard, that Kate had had a whim for while being wooed by one of those Liselotte’s patrons Emeline didn’t need to know of, yet.
It was entertaining to let her dance in that wearable sensation of being, and I clasped a thin band of lapis lazuli and gold plaques at her gracile neck, with the little sister at her wrist, affirming playfully she could keep all of that for my pleasure. Cecile held her through the thick knit, nosing in the wavy collar, bantering she might as well love her sulking in her flannel pyjamas as she had seen in the butcher’s videos, it had been her at the hands of a sick fool, and there was no curse to let guilt rot her soul. She was beholding her wrist, she cried not.
Even for trained partiers like us, the food was succulent, Emeline, newly dressed-up, had cast a perceptible spell on the delivery boy. I revelled in noting that she had known in a breath how to move in that bulky vesture, and for my own craving, she wore no shoes.
The boys, swiftly contented, did not overstay after the clafouti when the conversation with the thistle sisters bent towards explicit intimacy, Fulgence avowing he might become inappropriately aroused, garnering a round of sniggers, save for Emeline who candidly liked them for the gentleness they had shown to her since the door.
There would be bottles of kombucha and tea for when the girls’ mouths would dry up telling harsh tales, but we all needed that well of truth, and to keep Emeline at hand to help her from falling any manner. The cashmere smelt of Kate’s, she nosed in when she bent her gazes away in shame. She heard all she could bear of our faerie maidens’ bygone misery, and she told in tatters of their own unthinkable abuses.
Natalia joined the round, I could smell she had been naughty, thus I stripped her of the purplish-variegated jersey tank dress she wore with nothing under. Like all of us, she had a crush on Emeline’s feet that snuck out of the dress she had all gathered into. Natalia was aroused, and bar Emeline we all yearned for the retelling of her extravagant adventures. She asked me if she should, thus we tested shily what that very young country girl might know of worldly prostitution, and we were in for a big surprise because the butcher had also made her pretend in roles of that kind, after some videos or not, slyly grooming her for the future, after, said he, that she would have given him a baby girl to play with.
Natalia had been picked up on the boulevard in one of those new silent whale carriages, towards somewhere west in the highs of old money. As per usual, she had let the chauffeur ogle most of her, having left her skirt hitch somewhat up, she felt a whore, lightly. They had reached some subterranean garage all tiled of turquoise green ceramics with funny gilded sprinklers every meter of the ceiling. An array of ageless pristine carriages lined up the wall opposite the mirror maze of an elevator where she had been ushered in by the chauffeur who had asked her for her shoes, mere silk needlepoint slippers; those in hand, he had unabashedly fiddled her for undies she did not wear, so she grasped it would be one proxy-lewd recital for some freak at his console, thus she had adapted, the reward was considerable.
Randomly groped by Natalia who remembered when she, too, had been a spy in our bed, Emeline was already wet expecting the turpitudes our raconteur had blindly abandoned herself to.
A sturdy black man in a sleek black suit awaited on the landing and took possession of her shoes he showed her where he stowed them in a rack. He offered his arm towards a small nook where they sat on horsehair stools while her black card was read in good order; she had encountered that client before.
The premises, all greenish gold with rounded-angled wainscottings, seemed to extend indefinitely upon silk carpeting as the lackey’s hand already held her bum under her hitched dress, but that was what she was there for, wasn’t it? He drew her inside a salon in the middle of which the sole furniture was a man-sized round, buttoned green leather daybed. On each wall were dark mirrors, of which the overly ornate herds of sculpted nudities escaped their large frames. It smelled of old tobacco and hashish, like some closets at Hugo’s, he slipped down her dress and whistled of lust, then joshed as she do what she knew best. While she licked his jolting ramrod, he took care to expose her at the mirrors behind which hid the cameras, and thus she complied until he plunged his flesh tool gradually to the hilt and spurted a scented load and made her lick it clean, then took her by the hand to a round bathroom under a dome of carved gilded laurel leaves where she used a green marble bidet.
Her first servant had swanned off and, as expected, a new, Slavic-type black silk-clad one with grosgrain dance slippers, helped her wash and inject flowery waters in her bumhole, with a distant smile. He wiped her in emerald green deep terry towels and led her by the hand to another round room entirely curtained with razed purple velvet under a painted ceiling depicting a whirl of an orgy although the eye lose focus trying to elicit the action —on her back upon the square silver satin divan, she wondered if it was not her slutty want that was projecting into a tricky maelstrom. From the cornices hung down articulated cameras, some on travelling rails just like in a TV studio, she would be a pornstar, only the client had no right to diffuse her performance. As the blond hunk pranced around her, she couldn’t fathom where the room lighting came from. Nude and glabrous, bar his hair and beard like a bronze warrior, he was most fittingly equipped and ready for what awaited Natalia anon, with almost feminine traits and squinted grey eyes like Kate’s.
Gauthier showed up with Mara, the talented Sacher’s room maid we had helped escape, too. He had been tipped by the château about Emeline’s runaway and that the butcher shop would remain closed and silent. She waved a hand vaguely and gave Gauthier a sorry smile, then Mara sat next to her and grazed her silky chest. Grasping an airwave, Gauthier crouched behind Natalia, sniffed in her nape and wondered where she had been.
Since the early times when she snuck in our bed to grope Kate, Natalia had always been a lively storyteller, moreover when it came down to debauchery, why Liselotte, amongst all, had considered her a princess? At Mara’s fond arousal —she came back to the violet room and the Slavic hero. Of course, Gauthier would have some reservations as to our newbie’s age, until he would hear what she had to tell.
Recovering her breath from the Moorish ravage, Natalia had lain in wait, amused with the rounds of the piloted cameras and the bold Narcissus who began delicately rekindle her wits in the manner a girl would have, kneading her feet kindly and all the way up to her rumps, at a steady loving pace, he was tuning her nerves like guitar strings, and she heard the false-wobbly genius of Jaco Pastorius. He seized her well-obeying head and slid his dick slowly between her blooming lips until tears shine as she choked and puffed up to let him jiggle his glans deepest while the cameras gleaned up close like eager bees.
She felt the tingle of semen hurled through her while he almost sang his release, she spilt nought, proudly. He mollycoddled her face with licky kisses, hugging her squatting, his tireless spur rummaging to find her bumhole. She could spread her thighs so wide as he burrowed in at her whim as he savoured the taste of raw vice in her mouth. She felt like the pagan metaphor of Shiva, although she knew not much better about the pervasive goddess than the figurations at Khajuraho temples, she had shunned most of the mythological studies out of her cursus, teachers in that realm smelled funny, and she was overly sought after by more modern academics.
Sweats had pearled at the hero’s sleek forehead, and his lichen-green irises swayed up while he stiffed his embrace as he discharged through into her loins and she quivered like an animal. Unlike others, he did not let go of her, either licking her face or vaunting aloud her young beauty. He carried her to another round vaulted bathroom, all clad of sundry amethyst cabochons where he roared with laughter when she couldn’t help releasing the stench that he had unwittingly stirred in her bowels, and thence he had run.
For as much as she does literature out of her womb, Natalia’s voice was that of an amused viola, thus Emeline dreamt unfazed of the Princess life, having long tamed all carnal tremors at the paws of a sad carrion boor.
Natalia smelled like a field of centifolia rose on fire and bestowed on her a symbolic clearing of her wits in a kiss on her navel, then she pulled her up, bantering she was rich but starving.
Shied Emeline warmed a plate of crusty bites for her new devotion and sat on her lap, stuttling her questions on the good there pertained to being a slut, she wasn’t such a simpleton after all. Mara woke hungry too, and she sensed camaraderie towards another younger one born abused. With Natalia’s blessing, and Emeline rejoiced to warm more nibbles from the box, Mara retold the less offensive of her childhood, warning that she had heard worse miseries from many of us around here, and thus a long vigil was foreseeable, so I went to brew some tea and coffee, Cecile clenched at my wings, groping my bum.
After the storm waned once, Gauthier embraced Mara fondly, claiming he could have taught her the relishes of treachery sluttiness as he had professed at the hands of religious hypocrites, causing damage to many tainted souls.
I knew Fayelle could not evoke the terrors of her bleak years of solitude and the dreadful outcome after Hector had exfiltrated her shabby figure, without swaying to melancholy and crying; but thus, Annabelle, the Glaswegian fairy, took her aside in her wing and then the gracile Emeline —so finely assorted with the tramp who cuddled her again— heard, with rounded eyes, all the mossy rains of Scotland that the years of patience in James’ bosom had redeemed.
Our groomsmen Fulgence and Erik had slunk off, probably at Liselotte’s beck and call —or else they knew where Severine was.
In the morning, I was alone facing the homunculus inside the God crow’s beak. It was fine, Cecile seldom slept and liked to dip her biscuits listening to Bach, who had meant a beacon in her life, alone in her workshop. Furthermore, her patrons had appraised her talents and kept her overbooked —be it in their beds also— hence the shunning of our lengthy cuddly morning conferences so as to saddle up seamlessly to work proper, once the last langue de chat savoured.
Emeline and Natalia had long pursued their confidences in the dark, now Emeline pranced in the soft tracksuit, and Natalia sleepwalked in a roomy jumper flush to her quim. I had found one of my tracksuits in Cecile’s closet, and it smelled of her like a hunch of poetry. Under the kitchen table, I asked for Emeline’s feet, she wore cashmere socks, Natalia kissed my neck and slid her hand into my pants.
Charlotte was due back mid-day, and the little sister was thrilled to show her she was safe and sound, with her. She used the elevator because she carried two heavy bags. She wore a black fedora hat, a jumble of blue slivers sprinkled dead-leaves tweed fitted jacket, ash grey flannel trousers, and dark Jodhpur boots —they had stopped over in Milan for shopping, contrary to what one might have thought. She was elated to hug her unscathed baby sister. I told her to lay her bags in the more or less vacant bedroom, anyone in the idea of sleeping there would crave sharing a few nights with Emeline. Their own apartment would be ready in some two weeks, thus substantiating the wardship of Emeline by her elder. Their father’s fate wasn’t known, yet.
Hugo was utterly keen to meet the castaway wonder in person, I advised him to bring an A&S creamy meringue lemon pie, that goes along so well with coffee, in an hour or two at Cecile’s workshop, where I sensed the sisters would already be sitting for Cyprien.

 

Gauthier says:

And it behoved gracious Philippe, on top of overseeing Josephine’s lavish dance studio, to see to the Heurteron sisters’ purported separate installation, in case of an inquiry as to the custodianship of Emeline. Remained to announce the death of their father, not so untimely once he had been shown the proofs the girls had purloined from his laptop and his camera, and this, in my intuitive quality of chatelain to whom Charlotte had, unbeknownst to me, brought her miseries, would be my duty to tell them.
It appeared direst to fulfil when I discovered them sitting for Cyprien, side by side nude in Cecile’s workshop’s sofa, as it would have seemed so natural, their likeness a subject matter per se. Sarah brewed tea and coffee, her worn track pants resting at the tip of her narrow hips; thus, I slid my hands in, down south, while I breathed in her ear my need to speak to the girls alone. She continued to graze my erection with her bum while she mused a plan.
She then snuck behind Cyprien and scribbled a note she let him read while she stroked his back. Next, as I traded my best compliments with the sisters, Sarah wooed Cecile so as to lure her to the delicious back rooms. Cyprien, stretching his back, said he would be out for a quarter of an hour.
Like too glad to let me view their worthy natural, the girls eased into the cushions, Emeline forth in Charlotte’s arms, one foot on the carpet, well aware I could tell she was wet. At the second that I avowed I had asked the others to leave for a moment, they knew what this would be about. Their father had bantered off doing so in the past when Charlotte baulked at his crazy demands, and they knew where he would be. Charlotte said they would not cry, except for themselves. They promised to slave in any manner for me, if I accepted to go to the notary in their names and refuse the inheritance, I could not refuse, but I would ask an attorney to sort things regarding Emeline’s statute.
Cyprien brought back a box of pretty Mont-Blancs from Milica’s, on Saint Louis island, pastry purveyor for the Speck club, a favourite of Cecile’s since the time when Sarah had discovered her, working at restoring the grand salon’s precious decor, Quai d’Anjou, before she dated the owner and later, now and then fulfilled the rich patrons’ whims.
Charlotte fetched her telephone to show me some of the exhibitions their father had trained them to, it was flabbergasting, the man was repulsive. She said she had dozens somewhere in a free cloud. Emeline, who fed me bites of sugar-frosted chestnut vermicelli, said half-sadly that she had barbecued her telephone before escaping; I was happy, gripping her tight little belly, to teach her that she would have a new one with the same number and possibly the same data. She was elated, she smelled like a baby fawn in the May flowers. My concealed erection under her freely wriggling bum was all encumbered in self-conscience, Dr Kinsey.
There were a dozen worldly gatherings in town where I could safely show my face and glean the seeds of future cultural shenanigans, thus I called Philippe to see if he would be in it with me, and no, I did not want him to come down in the workshop, he might have felt sorry in love to see young Emeline.

 

Cecile says:

Charlotte was wired knowing the slate was wiped clear as to them, and the whole village wished nought less than auction the butcher’s shop to a new owner, might he feed them his daughters, too. Our own metaphorical orchard earned a new branch bearing fruit.
In his peculiar spirit, Cyprien did not wish to engram anymore of his models’ misery, he mumbled some abstruse excuse, and fled, as he most often did. The four of us chose to move upstairs; I carried the half-empty boxes, Sarah took Charlotte’s togs and shoes, and Emeline slid into the crumpled tracksuit.
Before Sarah ordered dinner, she had a message, and she asked around if we agreed to let tough Cossacks ogle our little sister? Emeline wanted to know better, Sarah explained about Sergei, whom she said smelled of straw, and Emeline knew about Fulgence, didn’t she?
I bantered that I would even shag their horses, the news of the day had aroused me, and with one knee on my chair’s edge, Emeline had lost her pants.
Dinner arrived, in the black boy’s warmer bag, a mushroom puff pastry pie, then, in the cooler bag, a mesclun salad and its pouch of balsamic dressing. Sarah would have sure as hell tipped him in kind, but it wasn’t so timely, was it? He smiled at her note, all the while captivated by the unfitted belt of Emeline’s pants.
From the inner door that he knew how to open, Fulgence showed up with the brightest of smiles, his fresh white shirt sleeves rolled up, chest to the wind, and bare feet; Sarah openly grabbed hold of his crotch telling him to hold off with the minor kitten, and he retorted she had already seen all of him. Sergei squinted his green eyes, he wore a dull brown silk snakeskin printed jacket and lightweight black jeans, with no shoes either.
Both had wet hair and smooth chins like eager fiancés fresh out of the bathroom, they smelled classy German Cologne and British lavender. As if fronting for the alpha males, Charlotte had pulled Emeline onto her lap, but the pants had not much come up, she was showing her lower belly as if wittingly. I told the guys the mean truth, but they read on the babes’ faces how nought of a big deal it was. Fulgence crouched down to them and kissed Emeline’s fidgety feet, asking her if she was happy, she sniffed a yes. Serguei squatted in front of Sarah, both hands in her sweatshirt.
Sensing a bubble of intimacy, the girls craved retelling their weird life, more or less like veterans unaware of mental scars. Now Fulgence was cuddling my feet, Emeline went to the loo, and came back merely wearing a pair of black hold-ups, embracing me so as to put her coochie under his nose, shutting my mouth with a minty kiss. Not one to be outdone, Charlotte pulled her simple clothes, saying it wouldn’t be because they had wrongly been made sluts that thus they should bear the guilt, however.
Spoilt by so many choices spread upon the couch, Fulgence did not shun Emeline’s brooklet, lapping clear drops of innocence at the source, causing a lustful torsion of her slender loins. My own tormentor had never enkindled such graceful embers, only Sarah and then Lauritz had fanned the shy embers of my magazine soul, so to speak. It was such a delight to feel the boy’s humpings through her convulsed body, her armpit smell of elderberry.
Everyone caught in the buoyancy of an orgy, we chained in frantic mouth- to-quim till the relentless rod of a Cossack in Sarah’s butthole while she served Charlotte’s blooming geranium. Later in the bathroom, Emeline begged Sergei to piss in her mouth, she was unbridled as a little wolf cub, I thought to myself she would be a stir in the neighbourhood.
In the morning, Natalia stood knelt in a corner of the bed overjoyed with the scene of four graces entangled. When a hint of conscience came to hover upon our thicket of caresses, she announced that we were expected to visit Josephine’s new playground for the varnish was set. Not yet, claimed the younger of us, unbuttoning the house fairy.
Sarah had kept hidden a pack of biscuits for tea that the two country maidens heartily disputed with me, before sprinkling lots of sugar on Sarah’s loving toasts. Natalia was smitten with Emeline, and Sarah was reliving her bygone schooldays.
The only pixie to have been born on the site, Natalia was, then, the best guide to navigate the passageways and subterranean corridors networking the realms of our geography. Holding close to the new boarders, she twirled along in Emeline’s rounded eyes, tapping the security codes on the armoured doors. The gym room did a big impression with all the machines we kept in shape on, they tried most of them, and we helped manually, all in laughter.
There was a new quarter I had not seen yet, through the latest extension of TRÆVIX, humming and air-conditioned, through which we attained a flight of stairs up to a landing next to a spacious light-bathed venue we could see through a glazed door.
It smelled of paint and all chemicals of newness, but Gauthier told us it all was harmless and water-based. The four sphere speakers hung at the corners of the ceiling an electronic syncopated capriccio for the bodily calligraphy of one, a skinny marvel in an invisible leotard, briefly commented by a coach in purple body tights.
She stopped in front of us, quit her dancing hieratic smile and made funny faces, singling Emeline first who did not find her voice, thus telling her to kick her sneakers and go dancing with her, and somehow it worked, soon enough Emeline gave us a thoughtful pantomime stark naked, her clothes beautifully thrown across the floor. The coach encouraged her, complimenting her steady feet. It was moving to see her respond to Josephine’s moves, the butcher had not crashed her soul.

The floorboards were off-white like the whole room, and the wall of mirrors doubled the view depth beyond the double work barre. One side wall was clad with pleated matched shaved velvet, the opposite with tough padded cloth, and the last in bleached poplar boards, under which ran a wool velvet banquette. The ceiling was a Romantic adjunction of glazed metalwork under which a new sleek layer of glass panes had recently been extended to isolate the room. When the music had died, the silence had been impressive, then our own voices had been pleasantly distinct.
It seemed Emeline had easily hitched a new heart at her invisible sleeve, be it that of a whore like her, they hugged and began a languorous pas de deux that stunned all of us. I grabbed Charlotte to follow them, but the best we knew was a long wet kiss, just like I saw Sarah and Natalia. Gauthier told the coach that he would undoubtedly see a lot of our kind time and again, he joshed it was a factory of angels.
The pair of wildflowers paused, keeping hands, telling mutually who they were point blank, Josephine using words she did not fully weigh, like the star she was. She told Emeline of her bond to Malo, she was certain she, too, would clock to the free cello, and thus they would do miracle shows. I thought they would, indeed. The coach saw no inconvenience, and neither would Melchior.
Gauthier had told the TRÆVIX imps of our novelties, and the fluttery genderfluid flock had been eager to meet the newcomers; they appeared behind the glazed door in the same laisser-aller kind of outfits as we wore, cotton fleece and jersey tights, smelling of bluebells and hawthorn, bare feet. None of the holy tribe risked crossing any hot shots from upstairs —to that end, we should go to Philippe’s or lately to Speck’s— and the waitstaff remained on our side.
Delf and her protégés, Apolline, and Gwen, back from a whiff of Sylt —Michelle had taken her new crush Trine to Lausanne— crept silently near us while the coach called for a reprise to the sound of a live recording of Bill Evans’ trio he bet the pixies had never heard, though he knew that Josephine had trained on cool jazz aboard her late owner’s boat. The all-cerebral attitude of the great musician inclined the two dancers into the most spontaneous en-dehors walkings and mirrored whirls to each other before they amused one another with all the figures their young joints allowed, far in the unplayed notes of the score. Josephine was leading, and Emeline guessed her every next move, out of love.
Delf couldn’t stand quiet very long, she jumped in like a firefly, offering frills to the duet, aerial on her dainty feet. The coach had stepped back and was doing the motion of silent applause with a keen smile; then, the music stopped, and Josephine playfully slowed their moves down to an embrace which sight made me, by reflex, breathe into Charlotte’s neck for a scent of her agitation.
We all clapped, and Sarah jumped for a chance to stroke one or the other in the heat of inspiration, Delf had soon taken hold of Emeline who let her do it, stretching her spine back in her embrace. The coach pointed out compliments on the steadiness of the feet, the freedom of the hips, and the invention of the arms and the hands, the port de tête. There was no remark to his enthusiasm, he said he hoped Emeline would join the further sessions, and that was what Josephine wanted to hear; she drew her partners to the adjoining spacious changing room and shower, where they later told me they had the surprise to see Delf’s pretty stiff spur and revelation, but the little devil owned a gracious savoir-faire not to scare two gentle accomplished harlots on such a petty matter, they went rather jiggy under the flows, for what we could hear. When they reappeared, all cheerful, they sported brand-new marshmallow-coloured tracksuits.
Gauthier, overjoyed, had awaited to announce another massive surprise. In a matter of weeks, right under that dance floor, would be a swimming pool, for all of us to splash around, courtesy of Michelle who had modelled out the buildings, just like she did the rest of the world. Had we ever only noticed the comings and goings of trucks in the street? The copper-gleaming mane of our preferred knight shook out a sprinkle of stars above us, and unaware of the coach’s startled stare, Sarah seized his dick through his trousers.
Delf invited everybody to their grand apartments for lunch. Behind the armoured glass, the exascale supercomputers unflinchingly flickered in the silent shade, I played footsie with Charlotte in every corner of the pathway, she was speechless, she had flown through such wonderments that she cuddled in my neck praying not to wake up. Her little sister was in the hands of Delf and Josephine, it was so obvious she had let Delf have whatever whim they had with her in the perfumed lather. Gauthier had scooted off, and Sarah kept her hands in Gwen’s pants, along with Apolline and her magic trinket.

 

Sarah says:

The pearly silver banquet room, where the Jinju Lee stripped women felt like they just moved before you looked at them, seemed wider to our more private company. The coach had followed us, as we deduced he held accreditation, and he cajoled Emeline’s legs and ankles while she frolicked with Josephine, exchanging horror tales of their respective upbringing. I kept close to them on the loveseat, fondling Josephine’s butt.
The coach wondered about Emeline’s assurance and steadfastness upon her feet, whatever the virevolte she invented into her corporeal sequence, whereas Josephine had trained, for her owner’s relish, with a dance master aboard the ship, before she was bequeathed to whom we knew.
Thus Emeline straightened a tad, not leaving Josephine’s embrace, and retold their direst story, in their reviled father’s den, they would be put up the table amidst his buddies, that is, most of the ruling males of the village, and strip-dance naked for them. Charlotte was appaled that her baby sister would tell, she feared it would burst into such a scandal that there would be blood in the streets of the village, moreover that they be exposed as monstrous victims to rampant voyeurism, now that they had landed in Faerie land.
Oops! Emeline’s face was beyond blushing, she cried everybody here was their friend, and no one had taken advantage of her as she had feared, even Fulgence who had been so beautifully aroused. I felt compelled to reassure them none of us bore any intention of spilling these intimate beans —the coach himself spit on the carpet, the French manner of one crossing one’s heart— no more than anyone’s in our flock, and in the corner of my eye, I saw Cecile cuddling Charlotte dearly. We had better leave it to our archangel minders to clear the hornet nest definitely, hadn’t we?
We breathed an angel while the black silk waiter brought the sparkling silver samovar and coffee pot, asking who drank which around the table, totally unfazed as to signs of immodesty he might later follow suit on; he was altogether overjoyed with his situation. He brought three-tiers porcelain presenter plates, and Delf jumped at Cecile’s side to dip some lady fingers in her cup of coffee, to what Cecile retorted in gently wanking the pretty one they merely kept in their pants, pecking their dainty nose.
Then Gwen heightened her velvety timbre, looking at Emeline, wishing to soothe her and Charlotte telling her own breeding as a free-for-all toy since the age of five, and she added she had not been the only one. She kept her cool saying she did not fathom how she had survived, probably because she did not indulge in drinking or whatever her abusers consumed to become zombified as she saw them. She boasted she had killed a few of the worse by meddling with their doses while they thought they abused her as per usual; the bunch of vagrants her mother had dragged her within had buried quite a few carcasses in many secluded purlieus, with none other elegies than to piss on the ploughed rubbles, as to deter the fucking dogs to sniffing and let the nettles grow. It had happened that foxes had dug out a smelly corpse, but it had been a long-known junky, thus there were no investigations. No one had ever inquired about a little Dutch girl dragged along the roads by her sociopathic mother. She had eloped with some country kid who kept her locked in a dilapidated old water mill, so jealous he was to keep her to himself; he died when she escaped with the help of an owl. She was looking like a savage, in the boy’s jeans and tee shirt, but she had washed her hair in the river with a stone-hard dried soap she had found in the mill. She had tried to hitch-hike and had been picked up by a truck, soon again raped on the back bunk, but so attentively that she had let him do, whatever would take her far enough. She had nought like any form of ID, was as tall as her captor, but showed neither boobs nor hair nor any droplet of periods, she was already a smooth-skinned tomboy, and desirable at that.
In the happenstance of his schedule, the truck drove to Malaga, Spain. She had been liking the lovemaking the driver gave her, he installed her in a perch above his garage, with a ventilator and a coldish shower. Then he tried to prostitute her through a brothel the drivers knew —they all delivered produce across Europe— but she was abducted to serve a more lucrative clientèle. It had not been unbearable, even agreeable if she remembered where she came from, but she had begun to feel like a chained bird, whenas she reckoned she could operate on her own. Thus, one evening, she escaped her cage and went hustling near the bright-looking hotels and singled a pigeon by the shoes he wore, as rich and smitten as she might have wished for, she ended up onboard his yacht, treated as a princess. It had been altogether effortless, until the coastguards asked who she was, and the answer and my skinny blond allure left them wanting, hence my return to dry land, all the way up to my flattest place of birth, namely the Netherlands, by the conjugated magics of DNA analysis and light-fast cybercommunications.

Emeline looked her up as a fantasy hero, Gwen had once again captivated all as the little whore that could, and now Delf sat between her tapered feet she caressed as she do. For our new blessed ones, she went on, telling she was also an atypical creature, gifted with a complex hormonal dysfunction that barred her from becoming a woman, albeit she enjoyed a pretty vagina Emeline could taste anytime. After puzzling the authorities in her purported homeland, she had worked as a restaurant waitress and hustled for clients there, that was how Kate, Annabelle, and Fayelle had had a crush on her and thus brought her back as a souvenir from Bruges, which is not in the Netherlands, by the way.
Naturally, I beckoned to Gwen to take my place near Emeline, so they hugged, and Emeline cried in Gwen’s sympathetic words, there would exist no going back to misery. Apolline knew Gwen’s saga through and through. She came over to shift matters and assure the pixies that their dancing had been utterly dreamlike. She asked about Malo, who was working on a soundtrack for a film about a Swiss autistic artist with a high-tension universe, It had been an idea of my old-time teacher Tudor Weiss, I could not rule out that she had seen him on her own. She was near Neuchatel, by the lake, for a week or so, Josephine slept in the renowned attic rooms of TRÆVIX palace, pending the nth stars worth finalisation of the top floor dovecote for the duet, although I had my doubts about Malo dwelling amongst us.
And the samovar poured a strawberry-brown beverage thus Gwen agreed we needed the loo, a wild instant of hugging tight on our warm flows, the smell of box trees with that of straw bales, we felt an urge for a stables lad or two. Back to the banquet room, we made no mystery we were hunting for dick. Sergei was definitely too busy but might call us for a second wind later, Fulgence was too far, remained Philippe if Sami saw the opportunity, Speck wasn’t yet open at tea time. Emeline would stay listening to Josephine’s becoming and learning the life of middle-gender beauties between Apolline and Delf; Cecile and Charlotte came with us to an afternoon whoring with clubmen.
We donned dresses and stockings, jersey flared tank dresses, cropped jackets, and laced ankle boots, Gwen’s rounded butt winking at each step while we crossed the Tuileries, Charlotte and Cecile in longer Emo dark charm because they had already black-lacquered nails. Sami had told me a number to punch at a discreet door under the arcades, with a novelty faster check of the fingerprints inside the entrance sas.
The spiral stairs climbed up to a sombre, low-ceiling narrow corridor and Gwen had already lost her underpants; she smelled of vanilla. One of the small doors was ajar and dimly lit, in there stood two Aegyptian-type hunks in spandex shorts ready to cooly help us unclothe and tidy our things in lockers, not skimp of their keen hands, lips, tongues, their dicks still detained in the shade, they were guests handlers.
We were led through a warm, vaulted, sleek limestone ashlar warren of no fathomable layout to a sort of perfumed steam room where they injected our arses with tepid jasmine water, laughing to watch us empty ourselves out into a mosaic basin, fingering our ways with some creamy slime.
Our handlers now exhibited fierce circumcised dicks as obvious playthings for us, and Cecile wasn’t shy tasting, showing Charlotte how to behave. Gwen, because of her blonde immaturity, was spoiled and fiddled with, while I was tried through and through by proud morsels of want.
Wiped, anointed, powdered, and coiffed, we were led to a high-ceiling salon entirely clad with uneven surface mirror tiles, pressed mouldings and cornices in which we looked like pale ectoplasms. It was plain to see why the fat rolly-polly amidst the emerald-green silk velvet pile of cushions on the ornate silver parade bed would prefer not to see himself in detail.
We were all four locked in bejewelled collars chained to the client’s seat so that he could pull any of us near and lick any part of us, beginning with Gwen who played slave like a diva. Now a bustling dozen of stiffened cavaliers made me josh that in lack of Cossacks, Tatars looked as good, Gwen was stolen away swiftly and upturned upon a cushion, arse up between two feverish athletes, a third squatted so as to fill her mouth, her little hands fluttering for more. The chain at my collar was pulled so that I confronted some sullen rosy appendix and was ordered to suck, at a surprising effect, while my anus was many times visited —like they wanted all tastes from each of us.
Some of them, depleted, sat in a corner with Arabian flutes and darbukas, stirring the blood of more hungry mamelukes into the willing holes of the Royal booty, and it soon seemed all live dicks in the house had been offered free arse, circumcised or not. It turned roundly until Sami fished us out of the marigot and brought us back to the hammam, overflowing with semen, coughing, and laughing. The reward was indeed royal, only Charlotte had not foreseen that.

The long coal-grey car awaited in the rue de Montpensier, Sami climbed to the front seat and leaned back toward us, the evening was not entirely done with, Cecile knew and wasn’t anxious, she hitched her dress and parted her thighs to Sami who kissed his fingertips and winked. I told the damsels it was a game of worldly libertines showing off each others’ best catches, which we ought to belong, obviously, and I unzipped Charlotte’s last togs, as she murmured she would accept anything, should I be there; Gwen was already in the raw.
Sami’s smoke signals had been sight-read in his permanent tam-tam forum., and now, from the Place des Victoires where he rotated a few times slowly, we were followed by three or four imposing dark luxury salon cars, en route to the rich outskirts of the night. Rivoli, Concorde, Etoile, avenue Foch and the more or less deserted alleys beyond the outlandish Russian Embassy. Sami came over, and Cecile went to the front seat, she had singled out the driver from a former expedition, and she spared him some time for dropping his trousers.
Back there, Sami was panting after Gwen’s white bum and was exhilarated by her easiness, I embraced Charlotte who had noticed the crowd of wankers behind the glazings, I told her to frankly expose her buttcrack, making up that the car was armoured anyhow; the worst she risked was to fall on one of them at Philippe’s, so what?
Men in suits with their diverse manhoods out of their flies were teasing out with money, thus my unabashed little whore opened the door and grappled the notes, crouching to suck dick in an unforeseen melée. For a fistful of yellow euros, she agreed to piss for them, already blessed with smelly spurts. Finally, some lumberjack in black silk took her standing against the car before approaching flash red and blue lights put a stop to the haywire gathering, she held a fat roll of money and smelled beastly, as the car dashed off, Sami had another go in her arse as I kissed her.
I wasn’t too proud of Charlotte’s whim, one of the johns might very well have found himself there unchecked. We would have to take preventive pills. She explained she had a fetish for being used in public spaces, her father had a game with his buddies gendarmes, so he took her out in his truck, and made her do things in a dark place, be caught by the dirty patrol and be used under the flashlights; she had had a terror of uniforms, albeit a connivance for dicks. After she commonly served as live meat at the butcher’s feasts, she sussed how they had let him kill their mother, unabashed. She was proud they caused him to go hang himself amongst the carcasses.
Having listened to that, Sami passed over a box of cologne wipes so we could make one another’s kitten toilet, except for sensitive areas that needed spit on raw tissues. He asked if we would be ready for another round of follies with young dicks; not knowing, Gwen and Charlotte trusted him, Cecile and I followed, thus he tapped through his telephone files and then spoke to some “general”, for what it meant, telling he carried a troop of pretty harlots if his troops needed, answered yes to a few questions, then gave the driver an address in Neuilly, on the other side of the woods.
It was some classic French mansion behind high grates; we drove through the opening gates to reach some rounded stone steps. A straight-back butler awaited at the door of a glazed metalwork front pergola. With a fine smile, Sami said there was no need for our clothes, handing our things to the man; he also said he could not stay waiting, thus another carriage would take us back home, eventually.
General there was, indeed, horsewhip in hand behind his back, leather horseriding boots and buckskin breeches, thoughtful touches like white gloves and a moustache across a rosacea face, I felt my vagina dry up. As he strolled around to appraise our bums, we could smell the scent of olde English lavender mixed with Turkish bath Rahat Lokum made me sense he was not whom he dressed like, and moreover, he would play good tongue-in-cheek vaudeville, thus I grazed the arm of my assumed little sister, if he asked.
Sniffing up near, he could merely grasp a whiff of our turpitudes, hence he ranted that he reckoned we be rather fresh for going whoring, he admired Gwen’s flat belly and timid nipples; he slid a finger to lift Cecile’s fringe and moaned of content, telling her she looked like a Salome. He came back to me, softly teasing my butthole, he wondered where I came from, so I implored him to tell me because I was a foundling, at the doors of the Palais Des Nations in Geneva, on a day when all the CCTV went down; he retorted nought, but he tried the blinking game —and lost.
He acted altogether jolly, he pranced towards a silky red bell rope, the only coloured element in the vaulted bare stone entrance hall we had been standing on a checkered marble floor as in a cliché phantasmagoria, however warm as in a classy nunnery. We heard ringing afar, and soon a quartet of wrestlers in spandex breeches ran in barefoot, smelling fresh off the shower, all eyes on us. The general then bantered that when Sami had called proposing four young heedless alley-cats, he had grumbled to the price asked, but now he did not regret.
He ushered us to a reception hall —tapestry walls and savonnerie rugs— and made us sit on some ridiculously uncongenial conversation chairs, using his crop to make us uncross our legs. Bending on a side table, he asked each of our names and wrote them on papers he folded and dropped in a silver bowl, shuffling them at the tip of his fingers, then told his apparent sons to pick one each. Their eyes shone like Xmas morning.
Though they were all built like Greek idols, square and sinewy with tight arses, their faces went from comely for Charlotte’s, to plain awkward in the case of Emeline’s lot. Cecile inherited the curly blond with a lisp, I was granted the sad, tall, umbrageous, black-haired, cross-eyed, prominent-browed Rodin-like hulk, and my spine quivered.
The general ordered it was time to unwrap the gifts, which we bravely did in manly smells of saffron, tar and vanilla, taking hold of the proud French staffs. My given toy dripped of desire, and if that was not the Cossack acme, it deserved a go into my mouth, thus, for the nth time of the day, I played the whole brass band from bugle to Souzaphone, my jaws almost unhinged and my throat distended as to engulf an early load entirely.
With a tap of his whip, he made Charlotte turn around and hold the backrest as she showed her behind while sucking, blessing her butt with a few red lines, then wanking her arse mumbling how easy she was, then briskly lowering his pants to bugger the unflinching sinner, who was fed the bitter broth at both ends under virile moans. As she stood back up, the General forbade her to sit her drippy arse on the petit point upholstery, thus showing her the way to the restroom, joshing it wouldn’t be so bad for the rug.
At no apparent unease, Emeline was impaled on her bizarre cavalier, the General seeing what insisted she lent her butthole and rest her heels on the seat’s corners so that he could eat her blooming quim while she wriggled like under torture, telling his son to spare the seat covering.
Meanwhile, Cecile’s gallant had cheated, he lay on the carpet and made her contort, crouched around her gently threaded arse, holding her hands, biding his time, it looked as if she was in command, massaging his rod with her arse muscles, then pumping out his load and leaving him breathless, grasping her in his arms as a drowning sailor.
Even out of his boots he had asked one of his goons to help him unshoe, the elder remained fiercely styled, and furthermore, erect. In the large white and green bezel-tiled bathroom fit for a regiment, he soaked us up with a large natural sponge that smelled of coumarin like my Far’s pipe tobacco at the Østersund, we injected fresh water in each other’s holes and ran to drain in the toilet bowl. The chief was briskly tender with each of us, but he had a crush on Charlotte, and he pulled her away with him.
The little soldiers asked us to follow them down to a spacious vaulted swimming pool all tiled like the Paris Metro, in a sage green tone. No hint of chlorine, and the water tasted like pure. I dived in deep, as an otter, my foot soon grabbed by a mighty hand, fighting for my breath, then a tongue entangled with mine while a stubborn ramrod waltzed into my back hatch as they pleased. That we, ourselves, would enjoy such luxury at home rewilded me, late nights in the chlorine public pool with mandatory swimsuits, however minimal they may be, had let our enthusiasm wane. Gauthier had talked of a play pool as big as this one.
Overthere, Cecile enlaced Emeline, both on the tips of maddened dicks, restless. Ephemeral filaments of carnal expenditures drifted in churns and eddies the tritons battered with huge laughs. I washed ashore upon the rounded mosaic stairs, finally spent.
When we woke up swathed in endlessly smooth woolly plaids, the car was unmistakably parked at our door, shades down. We slowly meandered like a serpent’s nest and greeted heartily the bottles of water our minders handed to us. Most of our clothes were on hangers, Charlotte was secretly overwhelmed to feel her duly earned cash still in the stealthy pocket of her dress, and no, Sami’s goons weren’t to be tipped in that manner. We entered the lesser door and filled the elevator, we smelled like babies.
It was daytime indeed, luxury was to ignore that. I wouldn’t have found the courage to brew tea, I went to pee and invited Emeline to straddle me backwards and mix with mine. Charlotte and Cecile had regained the shelter of the Crow God.
At one time, Natalia found it strange to see us fast asleep with baby smiles and couldn’t help stripping and sliding in along Emeline, too.

Cecile felt emotionally committed to the sisters, as confusing as it might seem, and a proper kind of justice had been served; she, herself, had been daringly mentored by otherworldly amoralists —no religious quackery intended— in a rightful endeavour she owned a tad more each minute of her life. It had been a windfall for her, just like the pretty girl in the line at the garden store. And now she coddled nude sisters on her couch for Cyprien’s eyes, and the younger one waited to be called to training with the coach who would, by the way, probably finger her pretty arsehole along with Josephine, wouldn’t he? She was a slut as much as we all, not a burden mule; if she let be done, it should be a fair deal and the stakes were high, beauty isn’t cheap. Otherwise, Natalia and Fanny would coalesce in her education to make her a skilled warrior, if need be.
In my life, I never had cats —they kill squirrels— but it had become a tender routine to find the heather fairies in the studio. It had induced a blooming of sundry harmonious cushions and mats upon which to stretch their enviable loins not as shy as a computing aviatrix whose little feet waving from behind the sofa I missed, however.
Annabelle cuddled my feet as gently as my Far, but Fayelle wasn’t yet into reading anything, she asked to hear what we had done the previous night and they loved it, they sang halleluiah when I told them there would soon be a private pool under Faerie land. I promised them I would intervene with Sami So he would sell them to the General’s descent along with another pair; all the doctors had said that Fayelle’s episode was totally terminated, and anyhow they both knew better than I how to tame a bull, be it in the water. That wasn’t enough, I had to climb down from my chair and let them pull away my brand-new periwinkle tracksuit stitched lettered “Danmark” on the chest.
Kate found us, wearing no more than a long lose-knit misty green jumper, she beamed the seashore colours, but her smile remained cranky, she wallowed in her chair —which, for us, rug trolls, allowed an untiring view of her unclenched thighs— and sighed it had not been the best of trips. Anna Louise had freaked about her Paris maladjustment altogether, then properly fled to join their father to the Bahamas where he owned a Roman villa over a white sand beach in the mellowness of the trade winds. Moreover, Lauritz had been enthralled with Gwen, who had not been so impressed, thus the whole fiasco. Her mood was fully released at the news of a private swimming pool, all the more if it was to be decorated by Gauthier, and she rekindled totally at my recounting of the four sons of the General, she agreed to coalesce with the thistle sisters and whomever else so as to beg Sami to introduce them.
She asked about the Emeline prodigy, and she grunted with relish at what she heard. Fayelle meandered all the way up inside her dress, she shunned her sister’s bitter rants, they reminded each other of the golden flights they had known with Fanny, and they decided to see her. However, Lauritz was not a sore joker, said Kate.
Fanny told them she had an appointment with Dr Meant, but they were welcome to camp in his muted green velvet waiting salon during her twenty minutes or so of soulsearching, the doctor condoned what he pleasantly called a manner of the affective hinterland to their long-haul work together. He knew all of Fanny’s demeanours, and never tried a sideways opening to her; she had built a seamless stronghold in him, also offering a unique case study to his earnest research.
She would then follow them to any jazzy spot in the known galaxy. Kate was humbled by the recall of that special bond going back to a cuddly fitting room in Venice right after we had fished her out of the mad tank; she opted for a group orgy at Speck’s, if there were enough doable hunks to dance with, she craved to watch Fanny shagged elegantly, such a high-roller slut.

 

Kate says:

That was a relief, Fayelle and I would go dress up like Russian torpedoes and bring Fanny as some hot property, no underwear, in the richest privacy on the Seine’s shoreline, for mere fun. I missed my betrothal times at Victor’s, the returning dizzy spells in his otherworldly inventions, and perhaps too, the blue powder in the jewelled boxes.
I knew what thrill I cast nude in my loose black double-breasted blazer and tube knee-long skirt, strict black hold-ups and court patent leather pumps with a grosgrain nose, at my arm Fayelle in a burgundy silk faille waistless flared dress open down to the butt, prune hold-ups and ballet flats. Fanny would don a silk jersey, mish-mash blue, low-back, half-thigh, sleeveless dress, and Sahara-blue hold-ups in adorable ankle-strapped, night-blue, round-tipped, suede flats.
Obviously, we looked like gentle trulls, but we were with the band, weren’t we? I wouldn’t say if Fanny told her therapist she was going out whoring next; she had been all lascivious in the dressing room and in the taxi. I tapped the last five digits of my code on the pad at the polished lacquered portal, and the concierge greeted us on the inner steps, scanning our black cards one by one, ogling my lesser chest as he sniffed the priceless tuberose in my neck as I was bending on his desk, he did so too with my bedfellows, more so with Fanny who beamed like a princely rose.
Upstairs, the Maitre D kissed our hands and slid a hand on Fanny’s back. In a sweet huddle, we offered ourselves for a cavalcade with any number of dicks if they took us together. He sniggered finely and retorted that he reckoned that we owed him one, then ushered us to the buffet while he approached some of the clients. One silvery temples vanguard dawdled near us and murmured, in German, while grazing my elbow, that a group of his Freunde and himself were interested in knowing us better, in room two-o-one.
That must have probably been the princely suite of the Speck Parisian townhouse remodelled in the Art Deco taste of Lauritz’s ancestor Otto. Here too, Cecile had supervised and worked on refreshing the lustre of the straw marquetry walls now evenly lit from a recess in the cornice of the peacock blue ceiling on which a flock of fantasy birds scattered. It was a mixed feeling déjà-vu, this room had been an opium den, I saw Dr Schubert’s gold watch —he had been my once tour-de-force Berlin therapist— oscillating, quietly, like a Fritz Lang insert. A wall-to-wall petit point carpet of low-keyed rose and mauve aquatic chimaeras swarmed under low bronze gleam silk rest beds, disposed around a centre square one, in a perfect setting for an orgy, drug or not. Mental tremors and dark visions resurfaced from the clamours of a memory mire, I pulled Fayelle’s dress down to feel her mellow skin outside of my lucid dream recall, and then two firm manly hands gripped my ghost.
They could afford the whole evening of whatever play, even one was vaping some heady mix while wallowing across a bed, nodding at my butt. Three amateurs in black silk evening suits circled Fanny in her best chatterie attitude so as to show me she regained all of her skills as long as I, of all the sluts, assumed her such.
That German gentleman with diamond dickey buttons conceded he had had me at Victor’s in his glory days, he had no idea what slippage might have caused the fall of such a highly regarded financial stronghold, it had all probably happened online, but every bit had vaporized. Au contraire, as he grazed my nipple with the back of his soigné hand, he relished ascertaining every ion of me still thrived in the hovering light beams of the passing boats. It felt like being wooed at the school ball, and with nought of the toxics I might have indulged then, if all the windows they might have slung open once still looked up to the galaxies. I wouldn’t know if the music was real, but we danced ever more slowly, and another’s hand fondled my brooklet.
At the far corner of the satin patch, Fanny was already being enjoyed in any possible way. My main man saw Fayelle upturned onto me by a restless buggerer and marshalled us to make what we would casually do on every chance anyhow, and he knew, while he unclothed, methodically. He took my mouth while murmuring that his friend Lauritz had had the best of ideas, and he called me Kate as he buggered me smoothly.
I wouldn’t say if he were overly-gifted or if the hints of the past indulgences, whatever traces in the puffs of the pinpoint-pupils vape-sucker who licked Fayelle’s butthole ostinato without any sign of an erection, but a sizeable orgasm took hold of me like beyond my control, that emotion I had fallen for at Victor’s.
This wolfpack behaved differently from the random clubmen we sold our hide to anonymously and who fled after the shower, no scent; these kept us embraced and gave petty lustful comments while they led us to the grand-scale Byzantine-ish bathroom with golden mosaic cupolas scattered with protruding dove-sized nude blue-winged angels.
The rich lather smelled of Morrocan almonds and marshmallow, we helped each other with the enema hose, and laughed when our male teammates taunted us with their flesh tools reloaded. Back in the cuddly bedroom arena, they circled us in our most beastly poses and eventually reckoned that we three together were some entrancing sight, offering all trouble of a Hans Bellmer composition, raved my fellow countryman who wouldn’t spare my bumhole.
Fanny had repossessed me like a natural belonging, to the greater yearning of our holders, who craved mingling in our kisses and beguiled Fayelle to offer me her arse to lick, hurling their way in us any time they saw fit. I wouldn’t swear I heard music, a lentando pasticcio on a celesta in the whirlpool of my skull, like purple fumes in the glass bowl of an opium lamp. As distraught as I pirouetted in my embrace with Fanny and a frenzied schwantz deep up my entrails, I rekindled the morbid fantasies which had ended in the blow of a merciless airbag. Blurred shreds of a cardboard cavalry in the reclaimed bunkers of Berlin followed the golden swing of my father’s watch hanging at a gold chain, then a blond damsel teasing my nipples in a cuddly booth said in barbaric Italian that mio fratello was swimming in the Alster, and showed me in a mirror his face in pain.
Contrary to the first round, the clubmen rivalled in the crudest lyricism, only with even more kindness in handling our assenting carcasses, eventually gushing as a mere happenstance, my hunch of some toxic influence echoed in insinuations they let fly in Prussian. In truth, I was a happy trull and whatever the stuff it fed my exaltations.
We woke up entwined and dirty, sticky. The other twos were lighthearted, they smelled of stables, and we laughed. On a bedside ledge, a black and gold lacquer bowl contained a fat bunch of real money under an engraved card bearing the letters E. W. and the line scribbled “Für mehr”. We pampered each other at length, like at home. Before we began dressing up, the Butler showed up with tea on a cart, and he asked that we redeem our promise to him; we did not exactly remember, but it must have been easy to suss, given the state of his trousers, then. thus we stripped him bare and granted him a trio of tongues in sundry holes and spur, so since he had been in waiting, he gushed in Fanny’s unfailing throat, and she smiled: he wouldn’t say who EW was, but he might appoint any of us if we felt like his genteel manners.
We drove along with Fanny to her door and received a text she was safe, happy, and drowsy. Back home, Fayelle was in a hurry to give her best Glaswegian fairy the loot she had so gracefully earned. I found Sarah sound asleep and I cuddled my head in her bosom.

 

Sarah says:

My current straw-bales scoundrel Sergei began texting about some commitment at an equestrian club he belonged to, if I would savour a hefty reward and a heap of shagging, in restraints. The members were all trustworthy, said he, and he knew them by their names, if I feared wearing cuffs and blindfolds, being treated like the least of livestock whores, however, no durable marks. I should try and convince Natalia, whom he craved, to join.
It wasn’t a headache to enkindle the vice in our all-time night fairy, all the more with me, besides, there was enough dosh to rack. She made me feel whorish as a reformation angel in a Jesuit church, in a floating golden robe —I had horrified my Far, a free thinker, with such a comment I had made in Rome, at twelve-ish.
Anyhow, Sergei had demanded we dress as some posh executives, likely unaware of what we would be about to endure, they would not barter on the price of our togs if they were to slash them. For Natalia, we invented a rusty tweed suit with a fitted jacket, a boy’s misty-blue striped poplin shirt and Swiss navy tie, walnut-brown chelseas, periwinkle cashmere socks, and no underwear. I would go myself in a black double-breasted three-piece whipcord suit with the refinement of a Royal blue silk twill lining, a long-tails paisley printed porcelain blue shirt matching my eyes, same blue socks and black Jodhpur boots, and no underwear.
Sergei awaited at his rented limousine’s door, spry and horny, riding boots, kidskin bridge breeches, grey tweed fitted jacket and vest, and off-white side-buttoned collarless shirt. He fiddled with a crop, he was perfect. He pointed at once that Natalia’s fly was open, she’s so savvier than me. This time the driver seemed to be out of the loop as to what went on in the passenger’s seat, which did not prevent Sergei from keeping his hand in Natalia’s fly, casually.
We travelled the usual bleak northern road, towards the airports, but further to Chantilly’s forest, vaguely evocative in the headlights. Albeit acutely enthralled in Natalia’s nonchalance, Sergei would shun me neither, he relished the kind of play I had started between us, in remembrance of bygone seasons at my lakeshore paradise, including the rough shenanigans among the strawbales, merely because he bore an Eastern-European name, was slightly bandy, and squinted his eyes when aroused. Since he had been more or less one of Fulgence’s stooges, on par with his pals’ wrestling capacities, I had deemed him worthy of the legendary Zaporogue heroes —our art teacher Tudor Weiss had tried to make his discipleship in the school play the outlandish poem by Apollinaire “L’Enchanteur Pourrissant” (“The Rotting Enchanter”) at no avail, bar a heap of classroom innuendo. Both our flies had been open, and it had been easier to sneak into his otherworldly breeches feature, unseen.
Sergei called for the gates which soon opened onward to a cobbled alley skirted by sundry shrubs randomly allowed on a mowed lawn edging the woodland, here and there lamposts dispensed some timid glow in the coming dusk. This was definitely not your conventional park scape, it told for an aristocratic mindset, Sergei showed all the more pride.
It was an opulent estate of brick and white cut stone in the Anglo-Normand design, comprising different functional buildings for breeding horses, obviously. The residence displayed a will to privacy, all the ground-floor windows were dressed with sheer white rod-fixed drapery, but Sergei ushered us to the stables.
All bricks and dark wood panelling, the venue extended along a centre alley with drain furrows, some ten curious horses held out their head at our noise, and a stablewoman with a blond plait spoke to Sergei in a language he spoke, obviously about us two whom she openly leered at, then laughed. She was the sporty kind, with square shoulders in a plaid shirt, no bras, and a tight arse in classic jeans she saw me look at, nodding. She reminded me of my Julia Grant —although I had never caught her in Saint Loup’s stables. Another girl came out, holding straps and stuff, leaner, dark hair in a bun, black drilling eyes when she, too, detailed both of us, letting me hunch of some further eventualities, neither behaved like subordinates.
The saddlery smelled of leather soap, beeswax, and luxury. Serguei told us to disrobe entirely, while he seized Natalia from the back and unbuckled her belt, pulling her trousers down and preparing her butthole with a ready  arse lotion, pushing her in my arms as he buggered her under the hitched up tails of her shirt. She murmured in my ear that the Cossack girls were watching, and she wriggled more to their attention.
Once his blood pressure tamed down, Sergei called on his goon girls — a third had materialised, a soft triangle-faced lascivious cheeky teenager in jean overalls, the side of which let wiggle a murderous tiny breast. He cheered them to finish unclothe us of our human rags and girth us up fittingly for a lap of lustful favours.
It wasn’t forbidden to unclasp those fancy work attire from the brazen trio —and I had been decked out as an animal before, with high-ranking academics, mind you. They rejoiced at our willing proneness. Thus they unleashed the bagatelles, the likes of which you might witness at the ceilings of Palazzo Albrizzi in Venice, on moonless nights.
They also measured us all over, then sat me in an antique armchair with two unfolding sidely footrests, to fit me with a pair of finely waxed dragoon boots size seven. They seized the dressage whips and made me prance to see if my feet stood right, I joshed they had the taste not to fancy high heels, and I received a stinging lash for that; also, the high shaft covered the knees, in case I was told, as men do, to kneel down.
Natalia had received the inaugural service while grasped to the heavy middle table, the blond braided-haired sportsgirl laid her on the table, unbuckled her boots, kissed her socks fondly, then pulled her legs up and licked her crack clean as she moaned.; She, too, had to put on high black boots and come embrace me under pizzicati of the whips.
Our maids in waiting fetched long horsetails mounted on sturdy ebony dildos attached to red trimmed straps around the thighs, themselves clasped to a heavy belt, so as our vulva be still accessible. An array of the same straps between the belt and a padded collar should have supported our breasts, had we had any, but the graphic effect was arousing anyhow, and it earned me well-adjusted lashes by the pipsqueak blonde who liked my tiny foolberries, as to where she boasted proud tangerines that I sucked on with fervour. We also had to wear locked bracelets, with rings to them. Overall, the aesthetics of our attires remained cavalier, not vaudevillesque, bar the contortions the plugs in our arses made us show.
Our guest was utterly proud of our lustful capriccio, he had changed his sartorial attitude, in a full black silk bodystocking that let out his penis and balls, momentarily half-erect. Without a word, he clasped our wrists in our backs to our belts, made us swallow a tight gag bit, and hooked a leash to both of us while he played with his crop on our loins and butts.
His goonsels remained stark naked in boots as they stroked all they could grab of us while we were led under the amused eyes of the champion horses in the boxes next to the ones we were left in, hands tied, the bit released. We could easily press on the tap to let freshwater flow, and there was a toilet bowl in the far corner. The straw on the floor was new and smelled homely, on one side stood a tough square, heavy glazed raw linen bed and sheepskin cover and pillow. Affixed to the wooden partition, a cast-iron trough contained sundry sorts of chocolate-coated bites.
A single light bulb in the hanging lampshade shed the propitiously dim light for exactly what I foresaw of the Cossack legends. They all disappeared without a word, leaving us dumb amidst the heavy grunts of mighty animals. Natalia reckoned that was beyond any depravity she had submitted herself to, as of yet. She was still stirring her anus with the tail plug against the wall.
The all-sweet food was sumptuous, and the contortions I had to execute to gulp the pieces made me feel beastly, the same when I had to pee under my neighbour’s eyes, a grey Holsteiner male that might have also grown a taste for us, despite I would not easily allow myself to that.
After I managed to cuddle into the sheepskin and nap with the weirdest dreams, owning to Sergei some kudos, we were alerted by the noises of car doors and male voices, at the end of the alley, then some horses neighs, but nothing ensued apparently. Only a good count of minutes later did I perceive footsteps on the brick flooring that made me stare through the railings like all the other animals, a black silhouette with only a mouth, hands, and a considerable pride shaft out of his crotch.
He went to Natalia and kissed the face she would offer him, then he turned towards me, and I backed away, his mask had black goggles where I had expected to read a stare. Like one does to a horse, he spoke slightly, telling me he could not hurt me then, only a kiss. He was a good kisser. He held out a hand to stroke my neck, and down on my chest, he liked my skin.
He smelled of cannabis and sweet balsams like benzoin and incense, I shuddered when I heard him fiddle with the lock of my box; behind him, Natalia nodded her head. He unclasped my hands and kissed them, then made me spin under the lamp, whistling low. He pushed me gently upon the fur, parting my thighs wide, then pulled my tail ever so slowly to lick me furiously. Moved by my moaning, my grey neighbour began trampling along the side railings: my warm phantom craved for my well-relaxed bumhole, he kept a blister of lube that he used in my rectum and his glans, he was a savvy fucker ghost. He boasted a long, sleek beastly spear, and he mastered the drill of it.
A banal black hose dangled beside the loo hole, he dragged me there when he had finished using me, and planted the smooth end of it where he had gushed off all his might, with tepid water, bantering they do that to horses, too, but not the same hose, would they? He whispered in my ear that he was a doctor, not a butcher, and then he tickled me to make me empty my bowels in the drain.
It had been trash and sweet, and I found myself plugged and locked back in the fur, hearing hoots from Natalia’s side, I farted like a filly.
I went into a dream where I stood in a blue metalwork cage in the hermitage castle in the middle of my native Taarbæk’s grand park, and the guards, in boy scouts uniforms, relayed to shag me like rabbits whenas I only needed some water to drink. I wondered if the pralines had not been laced with something, and clumsily executed the headbutt on the faucet to make it run for a minute, and thus, I did not feel the next guest to my availed body.
He held me from behind and pushed on the button as long as I drank, pinching my troubleberries and fighting against my backside ornament with his own horn. When he faced me with imposing a full-force kiss, I reckoned he could have been the returning devil, same mask and same outfit, erect as a stag. He smelled fruitier, a British blend of quince and Virginia tobacco, nothing I had ever smelled around Sergei, a slight hint of a lusty ginger lad on a flight in Melchior’s wings? This one was indeed ginger all around his pretty balls, and breathless. I told him he could free my hands and open my arse, but if he appreciated my embrace, he would rather shag me into my blooming vagina, and that, I would relish all the more. Filled up both ways, I sensed his humping as in my devilishly precocious days, then I rekindled him in my mouth to let him win another round of bliss. He was instantly smitten with me, and he wanted to see me again, I told him to see with Sergei, but he wouldn’t know who that was; I gave him an old hotmail address, too drowsy to think better, almost certain I would never check it.
Next, a pair of terrible twins trampled at the gate, and the whole herd of horses was becoming edgy, so he left his card and went. The brothers were smaller and stocky, their dicks tense like gargoyles. They laughed all the time with shrill festoons, of banters in a very foreign language. They detailed me like puppies, making me scent dried saliva. They smelled of fiery pepper, rich patchouli, and balmy laurel, something any other man would have shunned, and probably quite rightly, but kept me even more whorish, offering my goods unabashedly to eyes I did not see, so as they plotted to take me simultaneously, for the best or the worse but I played game. They reminded me of that other pair my friend Julia had kept for Kate and me in her Central Park West Majestic apartment —amidst the family collection of American Indian poignant art collection she wanted the Metropolitan Museum to host.
They had duly pulled my tail so as to rub on one another with a smidgen of me in between, and they raved abundantly as they soiled me all over, in their Cossack vernacular. Then they considered me spent, and so did I, but they still loved me, thus they needed more, they pulled off the boots and all the harnessing away, then played with the perspired socks, and the toes to see me wriggle.
Before they, too, rinsed me with the hose, I gave them the treat of peeing for them; their waning dongs were drippy. The hanging towel had become more of a mop, but they kept me warm between them in the heavy fur, babbling like toddlers. I felt numb.
Then there was the trampling of boots and interjections of the female squadron who couldn’t, nonetheless, fend off the brothers’ feverish fingers. Natalia had been with a younger black cavalier and no longer bore her tail either; she gave me an eye-rolling glance before my twins hurled about her to rip off the accessories and bring her to me, showing us how to love each other, at what we succeded, and she whispered she had never been shagged that much before.
Further in the alley, there was some sort of horse-toilet station where we were thoroughly cleaned with the kind of spring-flower-scented soap one would barely think of with even the cutest Arabian filly. The three stable maids had unshoed and become most tender, my skinny blonde craved wanking my arsehole with the lather; it wasn’t long before we responded. Our ghostly cavaliers had vanished.
We were brought to massage tables where the favours continued with every bone and muscle till I passed out. I woke back seemingly dislocated when two of them were upturning me to do my nails in dark crimson, which made me feel loose. My wish was they try not make-up my face, but they did no more than a mite of blush, a dash of colourless lip-gloss, and not more mascara than I would have used myself; I thought they had liked our looks when we had arrived. Natalia looked like an exhausted whore with whom to further spend a trove of vices.
I had the unmistakable taste of semen in my mouth, it had not repelled the maids who had just sucked on much worse, possibly, but I was grateful to share a mug of cherry-grapefruit rinse. I noticed we all had our labia shamelessly done with dark ruby lipstick, and it forebode the rest of the night. Their unequivocal, yet smooth, mateship revealed the slutty brat I dared be; they hand-talked us towards a warm-panelled corridor thickly carpeted like a Swiss hotel; I enlaced my buddy Natalia.
That sensation of being nude and groomed amidst the snazzily dressed society of some low-ceiling bar in the murmur of a piano and the shuffling of foreign words wouldn’t fail to make us wet. We were led to sit on a fuzzy pattern rose and sage loveseat at the edge of the few steps lower centre of the rich venue. Men wore black silk lapels or boheme-chic creased flax, women showed most of their breasts under couture gowns or lace see-throughs.
Sergei showed up and raved about our stables course, he said we had earned a pretty hoard already. The maids brought a tray with tumblers of fruity kombucha and went on letting be handled at random by the clientèle. He seized my foot and cuddled it just like my Far would, but from him, it looked lustful; I opened my thighs a bit. A tall bespoke black silk diplomat type came and smooth-talked to our purported procurer, in his beard, Sergei asked if we both wanted to follow the Cossack prince to a room, lifting an incentive eyebrow.
There was a heavy vaulted door to a private apartment, parchment clad in the Jean-Michel Frank manner; it felt lush when he pressed me to the wall to kiss me avidly, then told us to love each other for him against the supple skin. He then told me to buckle restraint bracelets to Natalia’s wrists and ankles, then clasp her to chains he had made appear from the ceiling, and foldaway bolts in the floor. She was all spread out, and he showed me a thick padded collar to hang her straight. I shied, but she said to do it.
He had removed the jacket and rolled up his sleeves, he opened a concealed closet where hung the whips, and he chose a cat o’ nine tails, though not as cruel as those in the Royal Navy, the leather strands were sleek. He handed it to me, showing that I would have to flog her myself, otherly he gave me a taste of the longer lash whip. Anyhow, my will had been erred out by our bout of willing slavery, the sting he had caused me was turning to pleasure in my arse, and we were mere sluts, thus I struck Natalia’s butt, and again, to draw a web of vermillion lines, and her loins too, until she let herself hang and I ran to enlace her, receiving myself the longer lash strokes to no end. Then he circled us and took a bullwhip to mark her upfront until his arm failed.
He muttered his gibberish as he unclasped my lover and showed up a large leather bed to lay her. Still a riding crop in hand, he guided me to lick the reddened lines on her skin, then her quim he had known to reach, too. She climaxed so soon that I was taken aback, my mouth full of her liquid. Meanwhile, I felt being penetrated in my burning anus, a long, solid, unflinching spur that soothed the pain into bliss as Natalia came again.
In the nude, he was a sinewy slender hunk with a powerful sword, he smiled finely when he told us in Pidgin that we were amateurs, adding he had liked justly this. He fetched a jar of unguent and told us to work it in our skins, we should be surprised by how fast the marks would wane, and he took care of our buttholes himself.
He watched us twirl our tongues together so greedily that he forced his way again into Natalia’s bum, making it last, then asking me to straddle her so that he could poke his tongue into my holes, and I played to let him inside and squeeze until eventually, I squirted in his mouth before we heard some news from Natalia.
Yet another one who insisted that we take his monogrammed card with a handwritten number on it, along with a fat nondescript envelope. He went his way after the last finger in my butt, we climbed down, most of the guests had retired, and Sergei was offhandedly being pumped by one of the maids across a settee. He admired our whip marks, I did not brag about having done that to Natalia’s back, but I read he guessed it wasn’t all the Prince’s feat.
We sat, and I began fingering the girl as in a sweet habit. When he saw my loot, he said we would need a rucksack on our way back because he already kept for us a few of those. He added we should go buy some of the Russian girls who cruised in some Parisian venues, if we agreed to bribe some concierges or barmen, in cash or in kind, and bring them in the roundabout. All the pretty runaways in Saint Petersburg dreamt of whoring in Europe, we should do our market, what did we need money for?
The frost crackled under the limousine tires on the road back, I told the chauffeur we were in no hurry. Natalia asked me if we would go hunting. She was overjoyed with her fat share of the stash.

 

Cecile says:

Curious to hear about Cossack tales from the horse’s mouth, I looked for my fornicatrix friends in the princely bed. I was horrified by the streaks all over them, and so they yawned, but sneakily succeeded at stealing my jeans and the rest, so foolhardy had they been. I could not believe their romps in the stables, despite Natalia’s bet I would eventually call Sergei and go along with us —or a dear crush. Hadn’t I, once, been debauched enough to buy a Venetian putana to play with in Hugo’s room?
I told them the traces looked hurtful, so they dared me to rub them with cream and make them moan, Sergei had obliged with a jar of the remedy, and it smelled good. I saw them so impudently meow like kittens that I demanded they lick me in return, and they did.
As I had a grasp of it, no sooner had Natalia been dragged into a stall, in restraints, gagged and blindfolded, than a number of hands fluffed about her body, carried her apart only to be pissed onto, rinsed with warm water down to her bumhole, tilted such as to be made to gulp a dick in lieu of the gag while others took turns in her bum.
That heard in the warm-hearted cradle of the balmy privacy of my providential saviours, I could fantasise her tale as some wet dream —even in the most dejected times of my bygone doomed life had I unwillingly projected some kinds of lewd playlets involving one or another schoolmate, according to my random readings in leftover magazines or in radio evocations, whenas I was being abused daily. Sarah wanted to know what effect Natalia’s hardcore recount had on me, in case I wouldn’t need that sort of excess, but she found me properly wet, and my gaze did not shun hers.
Natalia, the splendid privileged slut fairy, was proud of her whoring exploits but not up to the plague of vanity, she let me fawn her at the tip of her toes, I knew how she had been bred up.
Left dilapidated but clean as a new-minted penny, she had been left spent on the tough bench, panting in her harness under her neighbour’s big eyes. She had been hearing Sarah’s moans beat time, it had been her damned turn. A formidable hulk, clad in a silky black body-tight, and black goggles, happened to stand looking down at her, considering the smooth waves of her restored breath. His exuberant manhood burst forth from the black silk, a rillet of clear slabber hanging at the tiny little slot.
She did not fear so much, her latter manhandlers had at the more bustled her mind than hurt her body, she was more of a slut to that, and had they not defied a real Cossack at his game? The sturdy six-footer sat down on one buttock to unclasp her restraints and fiddle with her slight breasts, speaking double Dutch but showing her to part her legs. Up close, he wasn’t so athletic, his tummy had probably grown against a directorial desk, but his main organ was impressive, however, and she perversely wanted to taste that trickle of drool.
He liked what she could do to a feverish piece of want before it became enraged, he lay down and wedged his head such as she could let him devour her crack, she relished like of having tamed the bear, and he was talented. He did not warn when he gushed half a dozen loads in her throat, but it had been part of her Sorbonne cursus to know how to gulp with grace —wasn’t it bizarre that Sarah had no such credits to retell of as to her Beaux-Arts years? She retorted she had earned her doctorate in these matters on a Swiss lakeshore, long before she rubbed elbows with the Malaquais wankers.
While she tried to clear the scent in her mouth by sucking and spewing flows of saliva, Taras Bulba allowed no truce, as demonstrated by the springiness of his spurting bat, but for altogether terrifying his attire might have been, he wasn’t fueled by the rage of rape —that I would know volumes about— but some kind of lustful sportsmanship, Sergei having extolled the unmatched profligacy of his friend courtesans. Thus he rekindled the dialogue with passionate kisses on Natalia’s nipples and lips, stubbornly enough to make her wish for the deeper giddiness her soulmates had taught her —just like Sarah had tamed me too, at Lauritz’s better profit, amidst the mish-mash of my own trash mass-market mythologies, and I felt a pang of nostalgia that spawned the urge to elope with Emeline to Italy.
Those two tramps I knew by heart, wallowed in their gossamer-threaded percale sheets, smelling like the whole enthuse of a June meadow, boasted their whip marks like trophies, and they still found bliss in their fire. I guessed they would teach me that, too.
And Natalia, sylphic as the gazelles of the Charlottenhof at Sanssouci, had danced and again on as many encores as the Tatar dared fire, until it had been time to stun him with one of the old country lullabies she wouldn’t understand, but that had suffused within her mother’s milk. we insisted, but she botched one or two lines to convince us the time had passed.
Sergei had come to see matters when the hulk stumbled out on the straw. He asked if she wanted more of the turmoil, applying dulcet salve to her tormented nether love sheaths. Sarah could be overheard again across the alley bawling insanities to excite some office wolf, thus, she had dared Sergei to bring them on.
Meanwhile, Sarah had brought a large tray with tea and coffee, a packet of biscuits — a token of sisterly love, whatever the carnal expenses she was confessing together with the house fairy.
Something like three arched-legged jockeys had circled the stained mattress where she lay mostly lethargic, but she still had the nerve to tease them into the compass of her legs. Their dark-skinned dicks only half brandished, they prattled a bit, then pulled off her boots, and carried her in the corner to piss on her together with childish sniggers —they had drunk beer— then they made her bend to the wall and present her bum to the hose and expel to the last drop before lubricating her holes again.
Now they were stiff as roots, but altogether more solicitous than she might have feared —she reckoned that what she had read about the real battleground Cossacks was less enticing than this gang’s manners— taking turns using her, eventually using her together at once. She had a longer practice than me in these expensive follies, notwithstanding whatever whims Lauritz might relish watching me participate in.
Natalia said she would turn her phone off till night and sleep before she went for a manner of a lecture at her old master’s lair, and she offered me to come along, the crackpot Don Prof. F. paid well, and besides, his daughter Elvire, who lived as a fascinating recluse, paling under black gowns that Natalia loved to hitch-up in furtive moments, was a nonpareil beauty. I retorted I might follow her, she needed not forewarn the old fool.
As Hugo’s all-time assumed daughter, Natalia swam all the easier amidst the big fish, unlike a store-shack rat like me, even if Lauritz and the gang had made me pull up my shoulders a tad. Sarah, reminding me she was my elder, groped my underbelly and encouraged me to go explore Natalia’s weird clientèle she owed to Liselotte, I might remember the utter distinction of the Pietre Dure Dottore we had served in Florence, might I not?
Natalia said she would be standing at the ready at eight, no sartorial fuss, the Prof. liked it raw anyway, except for his daughter. She ran to her perch, her clothes under her arm. Sarah put on the tracksuit that smelled of her right through my soul, I took the elevator down to my beloved workshop.
Cyprien said that I looked like I had been chased by a wolf-pack, thus I realised I was wired like a nipper, and it would remain so till I go gambol with Natalia. After another coffee pot, and a plate of these biscuits called lady-fingers, so prone to dissolve that it forced me to gather my nerves, for my honour, under Cyprien’s impish gaze. Fortunately, there was a chore of dirt-scrapping work on a painting Hugo had bought on a hunch it could depict a princely bride to be, thus I mounted a new blade on the knife, and I listened to Bach.
At seven, I asked Sarah to dress me like an intellectual whore, she retorted that I had never been more desirable than on the once she had unsnapped my yellow overalls at Lauritz’s work site. Only she could see reason in their wardrobe, bar the furtive maid who had hung back the mishandlings in their right place. I had taken a thorough shower, painted my nails the colour of the burgundy spinels on my choker, and I stood in a terry robe that she pulled aside, calling me names on the tip of my nose. She chose subtle black crotchless veil tights, grazing my thighs and complimenting my laser-sleek skin, also noting I was wet already, and we kissed like lovers. Then she fetched a scandalous pair of black silk velvet shorts scattered with silver embroidered stars she had once seen on Kristen Stewart —whom she craved as much as me amongst the magazines’ fauna— and a mirabulous double-breasted moonlight peonies printed silk velvet blazer with nightly satin lapels; she decided I wear nothing else, and I slipped in real snazzy patent leather pumps with a grosgrain bow. She said that to go out, I would wrap myself in her silk trench, one ever-needed thing I thought I should buy myself.
Natalia growled with want when she saw me so. She wore one of these priceless, tight-fitted, variegated zig-zag silk jersey dresses, flush to her bum, Futurist-patterned almond and mauve tights, under an oversized dark gold wool velvet double-breasted coat, and scarab-brown ankle boots. She told me to tie a jumble-printed silk square at my neck in case the wind raises.
So much for sartorial modesty. She retorted that she had meant a lovely newcomer like me could have sported a tee shirt and my Perfecto, in the old Don’s eyes. Sarah, whom I couldn’t help fondle below the waistband, bantered she had already devolved herself for the night at Hector’s whim, hence she only cared for rich Swiss Navy blue satin pyjamas and matched velvet slippers. She showed that I must have been as miraculous about their beaten hides as I was on age-old dirt on paintings.
In the taxi, we kept misbehaving under our coats, she smelled of a light cologne we had brought back from our trip to Florence with Sarah, frangipane, iris and ambergris from the cool vaults of Aquaflor in Florence, so as in my mind, it became the scent of what they had recounted of their sleazy Cossack theatricals, eyes wide open. She grazed my nude breasts and called my name, while the driver seemed to kvetch against lesbians.
The cobbled by-street feebly lit did not forebode the grandeur of a stately dwelling as big as the Hotel von Speck, and I was bewitched by the high bare ashlar vault hemmed in the web of shadows cast by a single bulb in a metalwork lantern. It would make me feel like a street urchin, whenas I wore a year’s salary-worth outfit. The low-angled stairs smelled of beeswax, I could have slept on the thick run rug; Paris had held back its breath.
After the staircase returned dark over our kiss on the landing, Natalia forwarned me that the doorbell, contrary to the digital pad on the street, was still not electric, thus when she pulled the knob, we heard a silvery tinkle somewhere far, would I dare say it made me wet?
Professor F., in a beige moleskin vest and kidskin slippers, opened one leaf of the tall walnut door after complicated clinkings, and his authoritative glare descended upon me while he enlaced his howbeit brilliant student. On a wink from my introducer, I began untying the belt of my trench, reading in her eyes that I should woo the bastard otherly than my plain clients, hence I properly wondered what Kristen Stewart would intuit on camera, so then I had an utterly intimate moment with the actress, swaying my shorts in pure vice.
Having hung our coats to a parrot coat rack like I wished we had one in the workshop, F. asked us to enlace along the corridor to the study room where he wanted to play. He fondled our bottoms and half-pulled my shorts down, with compliments; Natalia was unskirted, rolling down her tights as he fingered in her bumhole as he did in mine. As expected, a weird-looking girl our age was seated, unfazed, in a full-length gown sewn in that deep purple glazed fabric of southern Sahara, leaning on her elbow, barefoot on a silk rug. She bore long flat strands of dark hair and stared quietly with deep black rounded eyes. I felt the soft pang that she wanted me.
Once in the raw, Natalia knew her part, she sat still in a maroon wool velvet antique bergère, a typescript with coloured bookmarks rested on a side table near her, a crowd of primary art sculptures overlooked by four spectacular Papua masks, the whole in dramatic lighting. Himself sat in a manner of a gilded baroque pontifical chair —as the one Annachiara had wanted me to sit on in the Ca’ Rezzonico, during one of our tours with Hugo, and I did not overstep the label hanging between the armrests. I could tell a masterful erection in his trousers, and he ordered me firmly to free it and kneel upon the ravishing papal footrest, after he untied my shorts loose, and relished the sight of my quim and arse artfully set off.
He kindly asked his daughter to make tea, and coffee, for that matter. She dawdled on, still watching me ostentatiously, leaning her head. While she was bustling stuff in the depth of the apartment, I calmly obeyed and seized the valiant club amidst the fresh garments and licked of my own will the little clear drop at its tip. He grazed my cheek and begged me to suck further.
Natalia began to recite monotonously the eerie text in the typescript. F. held a tablet on which he seemed to control a video recording of Natalia’s performance with concealed cameras. Elvire brought back a loaded tray, and, surprise, I soon afterwards began to feel in my bum crack that kind of lip lap Emeline would submit me to when I didn’t forbid; my hunch was worth it, Elvire was mine.
As I did my utmost on her father’s staff, the moody daughter insensibly pulled down my tights, and I eased them off at my knees; my bum revelled in her breath. The Don smelled of a manly Cologne I had met before with Lauritz’s buddies, he muffled his pleasure moanings, probably not to record them, and I heard some stealthy rustlings from behind.
Retrieving both hands, F. tousled my hair and began fucking my throat for good, while I no longer sussed what went on in my rosette, for it might not be a tongue, playing. Natalia hiccoughed, and, as I suddenly had to gulp a nasty spoonful of donnish glue, I greeted the assumption that I was being fucked by whom almost clearly was a transwoman with a plus.
Natalia had coveted Elvire long-handedly, genderlessly, but F. weird mind-fucking had not brought wind to her sail, and most times, she had run away with her booty and joined her two minders for a rightful shag. So then, It made no real fuss if Elvire was part of the deal, with a teasing up dicklet, to boot. Socially, according to my magazine closet upbringing, it would have been deemed sick and dirty —for that matter, is JK Rawlins anything other than a successful magazine serial writer?

But, hic et nunc, in the comfy Parisian apartments where, for one, a reputed academic corrupted his prettiest student offhandedly, the fluidity of genes was a long-decided case, and Elvire had transitioned gracefully.
F. was dumbstruck when he reckoned we traded unabashedly with his atypical offspring, as for her, she beamed in pride, fondling my face as her father made me straddle his dick in reverse with the fantasy of sharing me thus with her, who came to kneel on the footstool in all papal compunction, in the distanced recitation by Natalia of the abstruse litany. It came to mind that our Fairy’s diplomas, with honours, mind you, had been dearly acquired —and hadn’t she learned the highest rhetorics in the domain of humanities?
Once the droll Pope had urbi et orbi us with a thick batch of material goods, the sylphic Elvire came with us to the all-tiled white bathroom and filled the antique tub on lion’s paws. With her hair tied up in a bun, she was all the more seraphic, Natalia and I twiddled her Sienna-coloured nipples and her dinky sparrow, smoothly girlsplaining we sheltered a few other angels like her at home, no strings attached if she dared meet them, at a mere wingbeat, with only love. We shared numbers, I was becoming a collector.
F. had overheard all of our chirrupings, on the way out, he grasped me by my elbow to an open bedroom and tilted me upon a velvety bed, watching me up close with febrile compliments, cupping my chin and licking my lips, then he begged me to spare Elvire, I was the first girl she ever fucked, she was ignited as he had never witnessed her, he entrusted us to help her thrive, and come back to his foolish ceremonies. He was wanking me again, I swore I would never wish ill on Elvire, but he was the one who had set her pretty feet in the realm of debauchery, that a libertine like me would certainly not blame or shame, but he should foresee the bustling life she would enjoy, away from him. Nonetheless, he could afford to use us any old way he could think of, it had been a pleasure to serve him.
Natalia was making out elegantly with Elvire on an old-gold settee, in the corridor, I turned to F., who couldn’t let go of me, and I whispered that we had already made Elvire a beautiful slut, hadn’t we?
It had been drizzling on the cobbled lane, it was nostalgic as a Brassaï photograph, Natalia grasped me by the waist and held her telephone ready in the other hand; she asked me bruskly if I wanted some dick, and indeed that was what F. had left me frustrated about, not that the whole shenanigan missed carnal flair, but I knew Natalia could summon snazzy hunklings to my taste, too. While waiting for the taxi, it wasn’t so chilly that she wouldn’t push me under a porch and poke her tongue inside my lips.
We rode long enough playing hot hands while watching the rain in the city lights, I had seen not long ago Cyprien restore a painting by Galien Laloue, the uncontested master of a wet Paris, and I had fantasised about all the Lorettes running for an adventure. We reached some nondescript high quarters with far views, and mostly low buildings like the rich bohemians crave.
I did not locate the Eiffel Tower, thus I could think anywhere, but Natalia led; There was a shabby grey plain door with a digit pad at the upper right corner, and she tapped a number so that we could access a narrow alleyway between ivy curtains. She held my hand, we reached a tiny garden under the yellowish halo of a lampost; Fulgence came out of the quaint pavilion with a patched-up plaster facade, cornices and strips of ceramic tiles decorated with blue motives, it was the typical mood of a Balzacian hideaway.
He was warm, in a mere tee shirt and jeans hasty outfit, he rummaged outright inside my trench as I had not yet passed the doorstep. He smelled the heady mixture of a green Cologne with the roses of the lady he had just been entwined with, his mouth was sweetish like a Rahat Loukhoum.
It was a head party, with a crowd of nude people in a fog of cannabis vape, thus we didn’t dawdle joining them after Fulgence helped us hand our togs in a room where a long-legged filly was being played by two mates. Natalia sussed that Fulgence was set on my arse, she bantered that she lent me for the while, and went cruising. They knew everyone, and I did not; it became obvious that Fulgence wanted all to see him shagging my little arse, thus I went for it, after Fulgence had warned me it was unchartered territory and I needed latex beyond oral amusements; also, there lay heaps of bottles I did not want to taste from These were scenes I had seen and masturbated to in the magazines my mother sold wrapped; I was aroused, and probably already a chink high, Natalia had once explained that the new extracts in the vapes were far more potent than they used to be and faster to groove in. I remembered sliding down to suck Fulgence’s rod and make him fuck my mouth for the second time that night, swallowing his cum like a banana shake, and being then tasted by some undifferentiated youngling.
A few prowlers, who had enquired about my name, guessed that my cavalier would need some reload to keep shagging, and thus emerged with funny-coloured dicks at the ready and candid faces I was no longer in a mind to shun; their comrades had probably not shared much of the honey in their pots, they took head-spinning turns front and behind in me like no tomorrow, it seemed, helped by the condom’s lubricant, I felt dispossessed of my entrails and frustrated of their gush until Fulgence caught me back and explained he did it bareback because he was my brother. He found me lightheaded and supplely softened, said he as he made his way in gradually to the wall of my womb, remaining still when he turned compliments, before eventually flooding my beloved wishing well.
Natalia sounded curfew, and Fulgence joined us in the taxi, we smelled of a cinnamon soap we had found in the bathroom; he was happy to be neighbours, and we kept wanking each other. When he ran to his pad, Natalia didn’t want to sleep alone —and she loved the homunculus in the throat of the God Crow. Sarah had not been back, we drank the last coffee, recapping a brave whorish night on town.

 

Sarah says:

It wasn’t much of a surprise, sleeping in the back seat of a luxury car in Louis’ garage, I knew that place, Hector had probably shunned waking me after a straining night. In need of the loo, wrapped in the baby blue, fluffy, weightless travel blanket, I found my way to the ground floor lavish vaulted refuge that smelled of otherworldly potpourri and mulled aimlessly on the toilet bowl.
Recollections of a collapsed Lizon, poor white convolvulus in the thorny undergrowth that I had been offered to chaperone in her desperate caprices, crashing back at dawn amidst the solicitous care of Louis’ angels. Then and there, I did not even feel like piecing the bygone night, I bore no more traces bar the slightly swollen rims of my play brooklet.
I smelled of a powdery iris and a fresh pond of water lilies; the grand bed was properly made, and I hid under the comforter to fly back over Slumberland. The Renaissance pinnacles of my cousin Christian the fourth had perched on the Newyorchese needles, still circled by flocks of crimson crows under the watch of the Chrysler silver eagles. In Central Park, from high, I could see long night-gown girls chasing a herd of zebras into the box trees, the red kangaroo applauding. On the Sheep Meadow, nude boys in yellow clogs pulled rainbow kites to chase quacking pelicans, beaks full of dismembered aeroplane propellers to Strawberry Fields.
I could tell Hector’s bed manners amongst any others, ever since he first served me in Louis’ outlandish realm where Camille had finely sent me. Well aware that wisdom had it that I should restore my wits in this world, he had brought some of that tea he was famous for, and frangipane croissants. It was late, even on my terms, and he was looking at me with love. He said I should go check my vitals and start a round of truvada pills because I had been at risk.
Back home, in my beloved pyjamas, the usual crime scene was deserted, I snuck a peek into the God Crow ward, the crumpled bed smelled of heavenly wilderness. I went down to the workshop and found Cecile, pünktlich at Richter’s angelic orders, scrapping dirt from an ancient panel, with the tedious pendulum of the turpentine pad to keep a vision of her precious workmanship.
I kissed Cyprien’s forehead, as usual, and he begged me to sit for him in that glorious satin suit, barefoot. Cecile paused and made coffee and tea; it would be told I would drink anyone’s tea but my own, that —morning? She had heartfully relished their paid performance night, with a twist. She warned me we might receive a visit from someone in need of that kind of attention they found in Michelle’s attics, a bona fide transwoman whose comprehensive father had, so to speak, paid me to shag, in my abilities. Natalia had recounted that nifty traffic Liselotte had concocted for her with the brainiac professor, and the many profits she had garnered by letting him use her in all manners. She might have mentioned a beautiful, albeit foggy, daughter, present in all aloofness at Prof F.’s private theatricals.
Cecile was smitten with all traits of that Elvire person who had nevertheless been man enough to bugger her unannounced with her cute little spur. I knew that gentle sort of commerce since my Swiss schooldays, I even had been bullied for a while as not a real girl myself, that until my stables’ Cossack claimed once that I was the best fuck around and he did not care for bouncy boobs. With a nod from Dr Achenbach —the resident psychologist—  I became notorious, if nowhere official, recourse for stealthy cases of sexual dysmorphia in school, not all of them in my bed.
After an hour or so into the well-tempered forest, grinding my brains to suss out what I had been doing all night, I promised I would come back in the very same outfit: I sensed a call to go visit the new territories of the Faerie, Cecile having alluded to a passion between Josephine and Emeline since the opening of the dance floor. I was proudly flattered when I saw what Cyprien had captured of my allure, it was timeless. He had a crush on my rich pyjamas; when I kissed him goodbye, he fondled me without restraints, although I knew it would never lead further.
As I meandered through the homey subterranean burrows, seemingly greeted by the host of blinking coloured points, I was in for a big surprise; not only were the two nymphets twirling in mutual smiles, but in the far corner sat our Bonnie Prince Finlan improvising on a genuine black Rhodes electric piano plugged into the sound system, an eerie rhapsody leading the light elfins like wisps of colour in a whirl of air.
They had been shopping for thin spandex leotards, of opal tints of green and mauve, their precious feet making no sound. I circled the room to come graze Finlan’s back ever so slightly; he sighed but kept the music furl and unroll. I was dumbfounded he could have kept schtum on talent this breadth, I grew worried about Malo’s return; I had always known her as open-minded as in her free-flowing musical fantasies, but now then it could rile up into some facetted drama, for better or worse.
They stopped, shoulder to shoulder, high on each other’s scent, wired and fragile. Finlan let his fingers adrift for a few seconds before looking up at me and feeling my satin. I tousled his ruddy curls and tossed my hips forth, which he grasped and then he nosed playfully into my crotch. I complimented him about the instrument, a refurbished vintage black travel box; he implied it had been a smooth comedic story between Josephine, him and Malo, who understood he had taken piano lessons, long ago —sometimes he spoke like an Irish bard— and owned that baby; a new model, a Mark Eight, was awaited. They had not yet even played their instruments together, but most of all, the fireflies loved his musical manners, and else.
We ended all in the shower, Josephine, being a trained dancer —even if that be altogether private— kept her eye on Emeline to reassure her as to which foot to dance on, so to speak, and the village butcher’s sex puppy was catching on spectacularly, all the more so that, as for vamping anyone, Emeline was up to her level, and it was her who was eventually buggered standing as we frolicked about.
Before climbing up to our home, we wanted to throw a glance at the pool under the dance room. They had been laying ultramarine and gold mosaics in the basin and the rounded edges, the design of large waves had been outlined up to the blazing golden dawn spread down from the ceiling. One Italian craftsman still at work gulped at seeing our immodestly clad nymphets, but he took an expression such as, in a workplace such as this, anything could come about, so we all greeted him, and he returned to his wet grout, undisturbed.
The black delivery boy who deserved the most tips brought a stack of food boxes held together with a red ribbon. It is matter-of-fact knowledge that most delivery boys in Paris are black. He was overawed by our small brigade, but I remembered how we had rewarded him before, thus I offhandedly reached for his fly and suggested Emeline might garner a quick taste. Finlan, whatsoever life he had led with a lighthearted prostitute —in the smile of Gwen— rounded his eyes at the scene he was seeing, furthermore when Josephine knelt to Emeline’s rescue. It was a quick and clean intermezzo; once the boy had run off, however not deprived of his real money, either, Emeline drank a highball of kombucha, just like you rinse your teeth. Finlan wanted to taste Josephine’s mouth, he had apparently not yet viewed them as proper whores.
I had a time slot to go give blood and samples at the usual clinic nearby, Emeline offered to come along; it would certainly not bother the two others to stay together during the while. Emeline was too young to carry a black card, but not to keep checking on all her health constants, it had been done in her father’s suicide’s aftermaths. She would carry a pearly card as the key to her thorough preventive health file, and the regular check-ups of contraception and STDs. That day, I was a tad anxious; thus, on the way to the clinic, I chatted about all the monitoring systems we lived with, the full extent of which she would access at eighteen. If she asked, I had been carrying a hormonal contraceptive since school, and I was delighted with the freedom it brought, but she would have a confidential interview on those matters.
Back home, Cecile and Natalia introduced all-shy Elvire, who only just then came out as a transwoman, beautifully: they hoped we would help her thrive just like we had for the carefree gang in the TRÆVIX’s paradis. Amidst our easygoing assembly, with only one dainty Brit around, she kept wrapped in a long purplish-black gown and a dried-blood colour paisley shawl, but Cecile took her off her docs and wool socks to fondle her feet.
Natalia said Elvire had lived alone with her famous teacher father, her school tutor, as it happened, and now she needed to emancipate out of her chrysalid; we had her role models, for that.
At once, she wouldn’t know where to lay her eyes amidst our tender bedlam, Cecile cajoled her and made fun of our curiosity, granting we all wanted to take her to bed. When she crouched up her legs in the settee’s corner, I could briefly see her long slender legs, nothing too sinewy such as to tell of a manly nature; she was tall indeed, but sleek and smooth, she had grown on the right side of hormones; her father, a droll grand satrap, for what I had been told, had not barred her inclination at the right moment; and she would be ripe to let us crave for her bum when the pool would be filled up.
They texted me the first conclusions of my blood tests, and there were no flags whatsoever, but because of my doubts, they wished for another draw in two days. On her side, Emeline was serene and envious of Finlan’s trousers, so much so that he let her do him, making Elvire blush. When the pies were warmed-up, as we sat around, her shawl had gone, and Cecile had popped out the front buttons one by one. She had delightful-looking skin.

Natalia had sent word to the other shore of the gardens that a birthing soul had run aground amidst our libertine family. Unavoidably, Delf and her suite came running at dessert; Apolline was overjoyed to steal from Elvire’s Monte Bianco pastry until they wiped each other’s icing sugar moustaches. Delf was beaming in parade silk gold brocade pyjamas which let guess an unabashed miniature erection; she held hands with Elvire and spilt in one go her own pearls as if to assert they hovered far above any judgmental leaning whatsoever; frankly, they were of both natures, with a preference for their feminine part, furthermore not keen on masculine hormones. They —most of the time, Delf used this pronoun for themself, not always; they assumed their whims— chose to flaunt immaturity, their pact with the Aviatrix, who was unfettered cisgender, was cosa mentale; everything at TRÆVIX was in its right place. Elvire, who felt better with the pronoun she, because it was what she affirmed, came to foster any existential angst, a team of specialised doctors and searchers, in convenient offices just beyond these walls, could listen to them in inviolable secrecy. Casting a black shard of her most irresistible stare, she mumbled that she had an analysis going on with her psychiatrist since before she obtained transitioning.
Her gown rim became available at all winds, but remained closed, at Apolline’s discretion; Cecile, who had been bestowed upon all honours in the confidence, kept her hands where she pleased. Emeline had been robbed of the headline, but she was fascinated by this play of queer personalities. For the while, she held Natalia in her dainty grip, begging her to take her along to a next shady appointment —to what Natalia retorted she would be far too costly for that.
Finlan wasn’t bulkier than me, he had sat on my lap like an Irish robin, and he smelled of gingerbread. When he jolted up to go pee, he did not bar me from following him unabashedly. All at once, I was naked in the bathroom asking him to piss on me, which wasn’t immediate because his wand was stiff up but flowed jerkily into our embrace and warmly down on our feet. He joshed he had never done that, I said I had learned at school, and he shagged me upright in the shower beam, long enough for me to join him exult. My sensation of him had coloured with the harmonies he had offered the fluttering damsels, deeming him better than a pretty tramp in Gwen’s luggage, I kept him tight in a corner of a sofa, mingling our feet.
Elvire had begun to piece up, at her newfound kindred’s request, the tatters of her becoming the shy maiden whose nightingale Apolline kept nested. Her parents had both been wunderkinder and found each other attending the Parisian secondary unsaid élite schools, then up through the peaks of utmost studies, however having befuddled those in academia who had a keen eye on them. They had married young, so as to greet a baby they would have, a little boy called Cosmo.
The couple already lived in the hotel particulier where she dwelled until then, with all the necessary help they wouldn’t even think to ask for. The young Cosmo was raised by a black wet nurse from his mother’s family properties in Martinique —Elvire still worshipped the woman and still provided for her. Then he was spoiled by very young successive Czech nurses, immune from his parents’ literary hobby horses and sundry thralls of abuse his mother sunk in, sensing that she had been spiritually mangled confronting her husband’s whims and moreover dissolved in the consumption of innumerable drugs. According to a long-lived tradition, she had been fished out of the river Seine at the Suresnes’ locks, in her white satin bride’s gown, and later, there, her ashes had been scattered beyond in the bleak waters, and his father had never spoken of his mother to Cosmo.
There had been young maidens and students to teach him languages and French, all of whom to his father’s taste and none complaining. The cook lady had a daughter his age —he later suspected she was his half-sister— thus, it was agreed that she would be schooled along with him, and they went along together most harmoniously.
Psychiatrists and paediatricians routinely overlook pre-puberty sexuality because it is easy to crash young patients’ souls for the greater quietness of parents, paving the way for any Humbert Humbert at the ready. Damiana —her mother came from the Azores— resembled Cosmo, and he wanted to be like her, bar the tiniest of details they had soon compared thoroughly. The bookcases lined the walls of most rooms and stepladders hid behind most doors for them to reach full-knowledge natural sciences volumes in which, at the same time the one on the lower scale could grope the one on top, they eventually learned what would become of them physically, and Cosmo did not like it. Simultaneously, they had ferreted out F.’s inferno library, full of sexually explicit graphic depictions on which he never identified with the male actors.
While Cosmo’s mother rarely left her bedroom in the daytime, his father did not inquire about the children, who did not venture near his private quarters, and the nannies were easy to quieten. Cosmo had begun to wear Damiana’s clothes and refused to let her hair cut.
At about seven years, Cosmo realised once that he no longer knew where Damiana stood, with a hunch. His father’s study, with all the statues in it, wasn’t even locked, and thus he saw the first of a long series of his dad’s maniacal ceremonies; Damiana was reading out loud his abstruse poetry, her jeans and knickers rolled down on her shoes, her voice totally unaffected while the old harebrained fingered her privates.
It had not lasted longer than a turn in the toilet reading the nanny’s magazine, but Cosmo blocked her behind a door to tell her he had seen it all. With the finest of smirks, she led his hand to her fly and told him to feel her, as she was drenched. She recounted that she went in the study, every once in a while, to do things and earn some money, and then she sucked him for the first time in his life.
All they knew about sexual licence came from XIXth-century treaties like Parent-Duchatelet, or worse; they were aroused, but it happened that only Damiana could whore herself, in earnest. And moreover, she began to worry her mother about the money she kept absent-mindedly in her pockets. We said first it was I who had lost a bet, but she did not quiet. She conspired stealthily with the maids and inevitably found her daughter butt-naked and bent over the desk where she read her boss’ gobbledygook. She had fumed and refused any transaction; Damiana cried, the main door slammed, and Cosmo never saw them again.
Cosmo cried for weeks, drowned in depression, and stopped eating until a nanny found some manners to console him and made him talk. Garoune was from an Armenian family, late teenage, slender with long black curly hair; she groped him, and most of all listened. She provided a heap of modern gender studies literature which fell, spot on what Damiana and he had raved on, without much knowledge. Garoune then taught him how to blackmail his father so as to make him undertake the processes, firstly blocking the coming puberty. By mere chance, his father dredged out the right psychiatrist who became his true confidant and convinced the medical referees, inasmuch as he did not foster any project of surgery, to proceed with the transition.
Altogether, F. agreed with Cosmo’s endeavour, he went as far as to grope him, bantering that he was smooth as a girl and would remain so. On the next sad day, his mother appeared against the grates of the Suresnes lock.
Garoune brought him cool togs, he began going out in girl’s attire, tilting my brows when he was heckled. he bought girls’ magazines and collected queer shoes. When he had no whore available, F. played with his willie, joshing that he could make it stiff. He mumbled that it was a girl’s willie. He asked him not to wear undies. He chose the name Elvire because of some model’s photograph in her scrap journal, and as such, he became a transwoman.
Liselotte had always been an accomplice of F. before she had sent on Natalia and her obedient little butt. She helped in the silent compromise that had been built between the father and his chrysalid offspring, who showed less of her depressed bouts after she had despised her mother’s botched departure, of which she had suffered the aftermaths, and on the other hand the unrestricted leeway she saw set in her personal becoming.
Unbeknownst to Natalia, the utmost depravity of letting Elvire attend, in apparent aloofness, the episodes with her father served as a model for her idea of a lascivious servitude, until she had allowed herself the liberating assault on Cecile and so forth till our blessed sofa where she lay, letting seen the shapely innocence of a Thorvaldsen-like ingenue, kindly mutually wanking their weenies with an akin companion such as Apolline. Nevertheless, I could also tell the pretty resonance she struck in a Bonnie Prince Finlan, for starters with real dicks, if affinity.
Natalia and Cecile felt proud of their prom debutante, the TRÆVIX fireflies were elated; they would greet the return of Queen bee with a blushing newbie. In an adjacent wing, Cynthia would revel hearing the contorted upbringing of yet another Parisian elite’s unconventional prodigy.

 

Kate says:

She had taken my bouts of Noordzee yearnings for a treasure of family bonds, I had not undeceived her, and neither had the other person she knew such as to confide her soul weekly, Cynthia —who all-professionally currently comforted her about her inborn seraphic condition. Gwen, thus cared little about a new road trip through her old battlefields, promised all her most lustrous pearls against the use of the Melchior Eagle, fully aware that the Grand Manitou would accede any such whim from her, and with good reason.
It was a grace to feel her revelling in the snug cabin that smelled of all things Guerlain. She wore a fluid three-piece blackberry silk faille velvet suit, assorted knee socks and trunks, and black platform oxfords; girl had been shopping. I was ensconced in grew unspun alpaca knit cowl neck jumper dress and leggings, white cashmere socks in Jodhpur lash boots. As she sussed that the attendant would stay with us, she sat across and unshoed me, joshing that she liked feet in moist cashmere. It was merely dusk, but we ate our collation from Désiré’s, comprising stuffed mushrooms and pine kernel risotto, marron glacés and vanilla mousse.
On Sylt, I rented a silver-ash Mercedes EQS she wanted, it was cold and windy; she said she loved being naughty in cars and opened her vest on her magnolia-white chest and sketchy baby tits I grazed with the back of one hand. I had forwarned home that we had already dined. She began to perceive that we wouldn’t be alone as much as in a hotel room, I parked the car midway, and it went deliciously silent. Unwrapping her in the feeble glow of the dashboard, I retold her how I had always known Pitter and Emma Päske in this house, and they had kept schtum like the Queen about all we had cared little to hide from their eyes, even perhaps till our incestuous relationship; only she would relish a little bit of comedy so as not to put simply kind people in an awkward position, wouldn’t she? This was not the season for FKK culture, and I wouldn’t rest assured she like the summer crowds here, other than cruising the night scene with Lauritz? We had a smooth little romp on the back seat.
Pitter had not heard us docking, but he knew a lot about electric cars because Simon did precisely that in his life now, turning all things electric, and he had lectured our long-time caretakers who had heard said there were hundreds of turbines at work in high-sea in front of Sylt. I did not shun tender moves with Gwen as I improvised on our life in Paris nowadays, as deep as our imminent swimming pool that Pitter hardly figured how they could have dug it under age-old houses, I laughed that neither did I. Gwen had sensed some gumption and no bias, and thus without telling she had been raised a disposable slut, she let show she had gotten around much more than what she looked like, at times drifting to a funny German tongue not so far from the Friesian vernacular. It must have shown that I was proud of her; her voice was clear-cut, and she wasn’t trying to flannel anyone. Emma owned a science for herbal teas, and the old Polish earthenware set was still there, reassuring, after all it had been witnessing. Well before the faintest angel could fly across the room, the old couple asked to retire to their quarters eventually, I swore our bags were only small ones, and we could bear them.
She loved my holiday room, the collection of CDs like we don’t do anymore, even boxes of old rainy days games and withered magazines; pinned to the wall, a holographic poster of Ghost In The Shell’s half-skinned Major Mokoto made her laugh, while she nodded to Radiohead’s Kid A’s icy shards.
She pulled her trousers to pee, thus indicating she wasn’t inclined to frolic as yet, the trip had been all but tiresome, this winter night was young. She asked if there would exist party clubs nearby; on the off-chance, I texted Lauritz for advice, and he retorted fast that Trine had grooved at Anatoll’s, near Braderup’s golf course; “massive sound system and lots of young Eastern European escorts available, gesundheit!”
After we took a nesh kissy cat shower, Gwen unfolded a large silk twill scarf she had, printed of hand-sized ants, to enwrap her neck, where she sprayed a dash of that Berlin Fille who dwells in Paris’ Palais Royal. She would be evening-worthy, whatever events, but I had to change for that glimmery purplish-gold jersey mini dress with sleeves and crew neck, a pair of black silk tights, and patent leather flats; Gwen reckoned that one could gleefully slide up a hand to my coochie and feel its warmth.
It was a weekday, no overflow of Hamburg mitarbeiter cars, only dilettantes’ like us —not to speak any more frankly. The doorman did not hesitate to our faces. Once passed the double doors, there was a bass thump on the chest, the amplification was fierce and faultless Gwen unleashed her scarf and wiggled her hips in one of the scarce light spots, her vest’s buttons all swiftly surrendering, but one.

Emma had heated Stollen slices and displayed Sylt honey, lingonberry and pear jam, and butter. She kept the Chinese tea my mother brought from Hamburg; our unhinged evening had made us famish; here was all we wished for; we sent a thought to Cecile as we dipped our slices of the homemade wonder.
Gwen had soon ferreted out the working girls on the dance floor, Poles and Baltic teens on the lam, Russians with wild eyes hiding from the golovorez, who did not dare business on the islands. I saw her fish out johns and follow them to whatever backroom, winking on her way. I must have been gotten at the game, thus when a Cologne-smelling silver-templed gawker inquired how much I wanted, I answered a yellow one, as Gwen had once said was her price for a blowjob, but he needed more and could afford accordingly.
Beyond the heavy curtain was a long row of open alcoves padded with burgundy velvet with leather benches in each and people in various manners of undress doing the nasty, a villeggiatura style of Philippe’s, in short, that had not existed in my teen days, with the devilish pulse of hi-energy techno.
The girls were young and willing, they smiled, for most. My trick liked every nook of my body and kissed passionately. He fired a loaded revolver of a dick and paid for each of my holes; condoms and lubricant were at our disposal in pretty gilded baskets. Gwen found me out while he was stuffing my arse, so she laughed and lay down wide open, so I could taste her tiny little cunt dripping, and that made my client explode.
She pranced as we walked to the narrow black-tiled bathroom where I gratified my customer with a complimentary thorough washing, thus he insisted on knowing our names and that we reload the next day. Gwen called me her whore; when he was gone, we decided we could score again, together this time, for the high-rollers if any. She gave me a pill she had bought from one of the tramps, who had swallowed one before her eyes; it was just garden-variety molly, and I felt it right away.
My tights were already torn —but my money was secured under my armpit— most of the girls barely hid their arses anyhow. Gwen’s fly was open, too; we danced enlaced, far behind the tempo, until a big fish bit wondering if we could deliver. He was already exhibiting a sturdy morsel that smelled of frankincense and vin brulé; little would he know I would have made him for free, at the right address. However, we had decided that if a john paid for us two, we would choose one of the damsels and make her rich.
That one had been some number of a stag, he shagged my little sister twice as I held her in my arms, then asked me to clean his pipe before he hurled it at her once more on top of me. He kept rekindling himself in our mouths; what he craved most was Gwen’s bumhole, with all necessary relief of the Swiss Navy.
And now we had won a party favour, a real flaxen blond, speedwell-blue-eyed slender tramp we had not had the guts to leave astray, just like those clickbait puppies on Instagram. She was Belarussian, but she bore nothing the likes of a real ID, and she cried all over our night tees, even Emma was moved when she grasped some shreds of sense of what she said. The name was Ksyusha, she had fled from Pinsk in truck cabins, being sold to one another until she reached Hamburg and met a fellow whore who put her into her bed and showed her prostitution 101, but not as to pimp her out, though. then she told her to do exactly what she was doing with us then.
Gwen’s heart had melted down like Chornobyl, my brain still fluttered with the party pill, I seized my phone and called Sarah in bed with yet another graceful, showing her who was across the table, asking for any advice. Both were stunned by the beauty, moreover when Gwen saw no evil in pulling off the nightshirt. I was trampling both feet in human trafficking, only for lust, wasn’t it? Sarah fetched our laptop, started a zoom and called Camille by any chance. We regrouped, and Gwen pulled off her shirt to enlace her catch under the lamp. Camille appeared in a vignette, and I let everybody sort out things I had caused while I booted my laptop and set it up. In a wink, our all-time mentor had made up her mind, admitting that we were all thinking with our wombs. She stared mutely, the two alley cats head to head, Gwen cupping Ksyusha’s tangerine breasts. Camille wore a lichen green paisley man’s shirt she had not cared to close; when she reclined against pillows she showed her teasing flat belly and her foxy cunty; she only said not to fly back in Melchior Eagle but drive through the Schengen territory. Gwen was weeping on the bare shoulder.
So, talk about some libertine trip, we had made the grade in the manner of windfall foolery, and all I was thinking was to go back to bed with Ksyusha who began to dream she had earned her freedom.

I could hardly decide my religion as to Ksyusha’s age, we were enthralled with her naturally seraphic allures, her long hands and feet, I foresaw Sarah’s giddiness, whoever she seemed to be keeping under the comforter. Admittedly, she was heavenly slender at the apex of her burgeoning, and it would be time to learn how to work out —along with Sarah, no doubt.
I did not wish to take any chance, one could have seen us with Ksyusha if she purportedly belonged to anyone. This would sound like an abduction, whatsoever. Amidst flows of attempted explanations, we all three exulted like beasts. She was dedicated, by all means; she pulled a daring tongue with liveliness and couldn’t deny she had grown up in girls’ beds, but she did not shun some pretty hard porn I showed her for a lousy test, whenas she had sold herself the same as us, to some frenzied cavaliers, at random.
I could very well restitute the car in Paris, but we had to recharge somewhere, so I proposed a stage in Antwerp where I knew a precious little hotel held by two adorable women. Besides, the Royal Beaux Arts Museum had just reopened after a long hiatus. They wouldn’t give a thought to anything I mulled, they only were elated.
I decided to costume Ksyusha as a plausible sister to Gwen, as long as she kept silent. Thus I fetched a tape measure downstairs in the laundry and noted all her sizes. She agreed to dress as Sylt’s teenager, not a club worker, with what I would find at Ralph Lauren’s in Keitum. She had enough money to buy other togs in Antwerp in the next few days.
Two hours later, my stray kittens had been served roasted apples with honey and cinnamon rolls and were listening to my best years’ playlist, cuddled up in a quilt. Ksyusha donned her whole new outfit, red and green plaid socks, knickers and beanie, black slim-fit jeans, a black wool shirt trimmed with bright red piping, black patent leather oxfords, and a knee-long black cashmere trapeze-cut coat, letting float a red cashmere scarf.
She swayed in front of the foot mirror, the wide collar made her a perfectly small head with a tall forehead under the beanie. She had this snazzy boyish cowlick on the side, she was terrific, ready to roam our shops. There was also a thick powder blue, sage green, and burgundy lines wool plaid shirt for green-eyed Gwen who wore it bare-arsed; it kept us busy till dinner.
My brother Simon had learned we stayed in Kampen, so he dropped by in the middle of the dinner and fell for my nymphets, but considered them mine, to put it simply, a previous mishap with Fayelle had served him a lesson. I did not recount our recent twists and turns, but he could plainly see a slim garçonne nude in a shirt and a kitty in a nightshirt who spoke Baltic; he drank a few highballs of fresh tap water, sat next to me and asked me to take his head in my womb.
Later, after he had finished the Stollen in a pot of hot cocoa, he heard our necessity to drive back to Paris; he explained that was a blasted trip and we couldn’t do other than drive through Hamburg, so why not visit Mutti and the swans? He won the girl’s votes, we would decide then which way to Antwerpen. Holding kindly Ksyusha’s hand, he said low that it looked like I was helping an illegal mùigrant, but he looked her in the eye and said he trusted most of what I did, so I grazed a hand upon his scars and listened to his heart.
We set sail early for Hamburg, Simon with us; he had come by train; never again would he sit in the front passenger seat. Gwen seemed a tad jealous to see him side with the splendid all-black-clad Ksyusha who knew how to pout to a man, too. Emma had been overjoyed to see us on a winter day, she gave me a bag of her tea and a pot of Sylt honey. She read all of our faces and did not ask any questions. Pitter talked of automobiles with Simon around our Mercedes.
Ksyusha had gathered her corn-blond strands in a bun and pulled the beanie to her eyes, while Simon hid her in his wing, on the Hindenburgdamm train. I plugged my phone into the neat car stereo and played Sia’s best of, I knew the lines of “Breathe” by heart and I sang my head off. Gwen remembered that back seat. There was a rosy spell over Hamburg when we reached the Alster shore and parked by our birth house. Our pretty tramps were awestruck; they stretched their muscles like dancers, that Ksyusha might very well be, as it looked; as for Gwen, she had always been so lissome.
Mutti greeted us bantering she had been well advised to send Simon to get us; she was intrigued by Ksuynia, but once she put her spectacles on she stopped asking questions; she had long seen me with pretty damsels. The garden as we saw it from the gallery, where Mutti painted in the aspic scent, still belonged to the immemorial swan family who kept the same nest by the water, inconspicuously sheltered behind ageless wood lattice panels; I always fancied that the father swan acknowledged me. Mutti fed them chopped fruit and vegetables at the edge of their domain.

We carried our bags to the upstairs rooms of our boundless infancies, Simon was in awe to see the elves run with no more bulky coats. Mutti, who was aware of our peculiar food requisitions, offered simply tea, her blend, family frantzbröchen, and stollen slices. Right away, Simon proposed a tour of the Elb river in a chic restaurant boat, so we could see the lights come up around the Elbphilharmonie and dine in the faerie of the new shoreline; the maidens were enthused —I pondered lustily about one who did a voyage in a bed on the river Seine, and I wished nought worse for our shapely nymphs, Lauritz was a Hamburg prince, mind you.
We packed a taxi down to the shore and boarded the Anita Berber under uncertain skies at Altona; I cringed that I had never thought of taking Sarah on such a nifty little cruise. In all, the glazed cabin held a dozen tables, all of them taken by pampered-up schickeria leering upon us for what we indeed were, unbeknownst to them that our father owned a hefty chunk of what they saw around. And Simon acted as if he owned the boat, mezzo-voce, eating our blondes, no beanie, alive.
Ksyusha played in my eyes, unable to speak other than sparse words, like the total foreigner she was, but Hamburg is a huge seaport, full of strangers, and she wasn’t dumb; she made a fine impression, and a moment would come when she, too, would tell her story. I would ask Fanny to find a Slavic translator at her old school.
The fine riverboat of such an evocative name sailed downstream first, along the beaches and upper-class villas, in the seldom glances of the honey sun; they offered us peach lemonade, and Simon drank Moselwein. He explained that sitting on the port side, lesser elegant for now unless we saw a Beluga take off from Airbus city, gave us first rank for the lighting up of the shoreline and the Elbphilharmonie later. We did not see a Beluga, but as I clenched Ksyusha against the glass pane, I snuck a hand into her shirt to cup her childish breast; I did not grasp what she murmured. Simon rested his hand on Gwen’s thigh.
With a sway of the neck, Ksyusha showed that she needed to stand up and go to the loo. We babbled about her, she reminded Gwen of her stray years, she insisted we take her home, she would stun us on the dance floor, Gwen said that she must have been a junior dancer. After some time, the boat had turned its course back, Ksyusha returned, smelling of Cologne soap, sat against my thigh, and looked me funny in the eye, then kissed me for good so I suss what she had done. She tasted of semen like a party whore, and I savoured it, I could also tell that Gwen had guessed it all, Simon looked away at Altona. My speedy slut also exhaled a hint of sweat in her boyish shirt when she slid her hand to her armpit and secretly showed me folded euros, with a wink of pride. She budged nil when the serious-looking professional sat back three rows from us, facing a short-haired fake blonde with bare shoulders.
Gwen had pulled out her shoe and played footsie with us, Simon looked up at me, sensing one of my shenanigans, and I concurred mutely, so as he would know later. As I could have guessed, it became Gwen’s turn, and I saw nothing, but when she returned, her front buttons were Monday-to-Tuesday, in any doubt. She winked imperceptively at Ksyusha and me, we admired the majestuous crystal ship where Fanny, Fayelle and I had shivered in the cold drafts, once, wearing nothing under our spring cotton clothes.
A sweet and sour salad with poached eggs, a plate of cheeses, and fresh poppy bread, even Simon couldn’t complain, then a Poire Belle Hélène soaked in its spiced syrup to which he asked that be added a shot of old rum, how could I be surprised, when I innocently went to the toilet, to be followed by a well-dressed swashbuckler who wondered in my ear what my fare would be for gobbling his fish rapidly, it wasn’t cheap, he wanted to finger my butthole to tickle his fancy, he seized my head when he gushed in a long spittle, and when he had re-buttoned up, I smiled thinking the kids had been smarter to do it before the meal.
There were tremours of laughter when Ksyusha gave me a long proof kiss while sneaking her hand to my quim, and Simon had finally got it, waking back to old times with his slutty sister he could never stop shagging, and watch revel in debauchery; he asked for another rum shot with his coffee.
So then it was the perfect time to climb up to my room and rip off all our clothes. Mutti was far away watching TV, and Simon only signalled we were back. He no longer knew which one to shag, our last night had been full of reminiscences and utterly private games we had always played. Now he faced three unleashed vixens who smelled of vice on his sister’s bed and licked each other every nook.
Gwen had heard of Simon’s ordeal, but Ksyusha was shied by what still remained of the scars; he sat closer with his spear tensed up, and guided her hand over his once gashed body, and then down.

In all due respect, he had a go with each of us, heads and tails, like a Napoleon; alcohol had not waned his merits; I was so proud of him. At one time, I had feared that our half-sister Anna Louise, who now lived somewhere in the Caribbean, could have tainted his soul, somewhat, but the proof was that he was still my valiant little brother of the dunes and the sea, with his untiring shaft spared from the wreck, and Ksyusha rounded her jewel eyes while he humped in her entrails.
In the morning, he had gone. We pampered each other in a lavender bath, they were as fresh as daffodils in a prairie of innocence. It was drizzling, but Gwen and I couldn’t wait to introduce our fugitive to the buzzing hive. Reasonably, Antwerp was far, even for a full-fledged Mercedes, thus we would advise, according to the battery meters. Mutti did not deceive herself about what games had been going on under our roof, most of all, she loved to know Simon and I went fine together, despite all she had lived through after the accident. She wouldn’t dare to question my driving skills, moreover an electric car; we would stop midway to recharge batteries, possibly in Munster, a big university town.
As we drove out of Hamburg towards Bremen, the drizzle started to freeze and became snow. I slowed down and pumped up the volume of the hotchpotch playlist I had copied on my phone, in Sylt. Ksyusha could perfectly scat on the imperishable “What A Feeling”, and then she was crying in Belarussian; I told her to climb over to Gwen in the back seat. Jennifer Beals is such a living icon.
The thin white wash over the Saxon landscape gave me flashes of a black-and-white Wim Wenders movie, the silent presence of two perfumed angels in my back. I knew the next track would be the murderous “Kalimankou Denkou” by a Bulgarian choir: I pulled onto the roadside.
In Munster, the car itself had located a charge station; there was one hour to kill. Ksyusha knew to say chocolate, thus some red beanie showed us the way to the Celona cafè, but she refused our kind invitation. The venue was a blond beech wood modern multi-level eatery peopled with all manners of pretty younglings; after ordering hot cocoa and cookies, they went possibly freshen up their reddened eyes. The devil clutched its claw in my womb when I noticed a slanky loner with dark curly bangs and long lashes unaffectedly gazing at me, and I let him. When my buddies came back radiant, he insisted on me; I gave him the radioactive wink and went to the toilets, which were conveniently unisex, and washed my hands. He gazed at me in the mirror, and I let him rub his jeans on my butt, then, as I wiped my hands, I turned to him for a kiss and pushed him towards the toilets doors and locked us. He sported a handy schmuck hard as wood, he smelled of spicy lavender and cannabis, I crouched and gulped his weapon to the hilt, pushing his legs apart, and soon I swallowed all of his load, clean. People were babbling close by, like they, too, would do the nasty in the next cabin, he had his hand to my quim, but I made him taste his own upon my tongue, and ran back to my chocolate. By the time I had recounted my unpaid service, it was time to hit the road. We all kissed him on the cheeks goodbye, like an old acquaintance; he took my hand and licked it, mumbling something like that he could do it, too.
Gleefully infuriated, Gwen literally undressed Ksyudha on the seat, and I was soon carrying a peep show on the slidy highway, I relished their moanings in the hushed cabin of the car, my knickers were soaked. I played heartfelt ballads by Sia. Then, after the industrious Westphalia like a book of expressionist etchings, we crossed the Rhine for the Netherlands as flat as they be. I shunned mocking our little dutch tramp, who was lulling the little imp from nowhere. It was night and big flakes when we approached Antwerp.
I had forewarned the ladies at the dainty guesthouse, they were overwhelmed seeing my new companions, they drank tea while I was driving the car to a nearby charging station. It was a matter of minutes, and Gwen had already wooed the ladies like an educated cat —that which never existed, but she smelled cuddly— holding hands with Ksyusha, whose shirt yawned candidly. The two bedrooms suite was more than enough, obviously, with opulent turn-of-the-century complete hydrotherapy and deep tubs. We helped each other splash our noonies on the bidet, Gwen had an idea to buy warm cashmere tights, so we should hurry.
Our hosts sent us to their favourite haberdashery, it was five minutes away with a cab. Henneken’s was three stories, all wood, copper and bevelled crystal, it seemed. An ageless saleswoman understood that our nethers were frozen, thus she fetched chic burgundy boxes of fine knit, doubtlessly hoping there would be some trying on —she had her eyes on Ksyusha— and she understood that price was not an issue. They carried impeccably chic knitwear we would enjoy debasing with our lustful lifestyle, weren’t we sluts?

It was damn snow outside, the cunning attendant let us see socks, panties, and undershirts in the most extravagant wools and blends. She knew she would eventually fondle Ksyusha’s dream breasts into a tight-knit vicuna and silk blend, didn’t she? I did my best to content her, soulfully, and Gwen grasped my vice, the fitting rooms became some rich brothel’s anteroom, the lady wore some of the marvels herself, and Ksyusha properly orgasmed on the stool.
The whole shebang went smoothly, we walked out inconspicuously clad in a fortune of luxury craftsmanship, and the saleswoman almost cried with gratitude, our elfin passenger purred in the warm comfort, I had no idea what I had spent. I would post the address for the whole hive, in case.
It was late, the bag was light, and my internet guide gave a trendy vegan restaurant a few blocks further, it was called Zanzi and was yet another lesbian place, as if Antwerp had suddenly come out. The waitresses wore white shirts and long black aprons; the hostess, in a black dinner suit with a rainbow dickey gave us a keen gaze and told a server that we would be seated at a round table close by, which was obviously a favour, only to keep us in better sight. We had grand salads with croutons and everything in them and a choice of elaborate dressings.
After a chestnut mousse, the hostess watched us go longingly, there was a wealth of snow, and the taxi drove at a walking pace. The grandmother did the night watch while looking at a pad with earplugs. I ran a warm bath and pulled all the rich stuff they had been prancing in and now smelled of their sweats, and Ksyusha’s crotch intoxicated us. The lather smelled of Emma Hamilton’s rose, and my two tramps weren’t sleepy in the least.
Ksyusha wondered why Gwen grew so little pubic hair and me none at all; she knew the word laser, and with my hand, I mimicked the contraption they used to destroy the hair bulbs, as for Gwen, I showed some angelic face and a smile to mean she was not concerned. But then, kissing my clenched fingers, I made her accept we love her as such, with a tiny bush and velvety legs.
I cuddled her feet, just like I imagined Sarah would do, fine long lazy feet, and I told myself she was not a dancer in the trying, lame eastern-European tradition. I cannot suffer the battalions of military-like flat-feet slaves in the Petipa ballet cult, an evil politician’s fantasy. That one had escaped the cage, anyhow, and misbehaved furiously on her savage pretty feet.
No can do, obviously, with museums and the wonder fillies, thus, after the fresh pastries and Xmas jam, we hit the high road with “OK Computer” high in the speakers, singing like creeps, crying. And, of course, it became so warm they ended up in their new sporty underwear, no shoes: three times Eminem’s “Lose Yourself”, a pee-break (no fooleries), and a hoard of Billie Eilish’s, we reached the outskirts of Charles Degaulle airport dry and clear. We returned the clean and scented car near the Arc De Triomphe and took a taxi, the driver of which they succeeded in entertaining, nonetheless.
It was a perfect schedule to land; Sarah teased out in one heck of a lounging tee shirt, Emeline libertine ingenue in white flannel pyjamas trimmed with blue piping, boy’s open fly, and Fanny in jeans and many shirts, white socks, eager to meet our catch, another fine animal out of boors’ land, one of the two white marmosets.

 

Sarah says:

It had definitely been a cross-purpose between Fulgence and the gang in the times of freewheeling wanderlust at Malaquais city, yet he definitely makes a worthy lovemaker, even on an unforeseen afternoon, frisking as we had, and I told him candid niceties under the following shower. I knew he would run to the subterranean worksites no sooner than he would be dried, and it suited my mercenary depravity.
Before he could flee, Charlotte supervened, in bloom, white pleated linen down to the calves, long bell sleeves, a fortune worth in ironing. In Hugo’s crush on her, she had heard the same lesson he had granted all of us, and there wouldn’t exist any qualms against thriving as a rose self-assured of her scent. She casually sat on Fulgence’s lap and sussed what we had just been doing, so she smooched him more sisterly and came to tickle my belly as I brewed some tea, and it was easy to rummage through my easy tracksuit, resting her head on my shoulder.
A hoard of unleashed blondes in snazzy winter sports underwear barged in, one of them totally unknown, visibly ready to jump on Fulgence, who, decidedly, was late for good, though he would not refrain from letting the stranger hug him. Gwen was wired-up and expected my reaction to their windfall living trove. It was one of those Slavic-Baltic bedazzling beings that spawn here and there in our regions at the whim of wandering genes and war crime outcomes. Although she spoke in sounds I had heard before, I grasped nought, bar the immensity of her gaze and the intensity of her wooing, moreover when Kate explained she had found her whoring at a new nightclub on Sylt; she had already alerted Hugo and Camille that this stunning young Ksyusha was somehow stateless, possibly a minor, for all we saw, and unleashed. For the while, she seemed appreciative of my Danishness, she was keenly hitting on me, and I wouldn’t shun, would I?
Fanny tiptoed in, wearing a bulky overcoat, slate-blue deep-textured geometric pattern, double-breasted with big polished wood buttons, in tight wool velvet, over a blueberry large-knit jumper with a cowl neck, Art Deco patterned cashmere leggings, ash blue ankle strap boots, thus I could tell Camille had been going shopping with her. So as to attune herself to the warming assembly, she merely kept on the leggings and a sexy white tank undershirt.
Ksyusha had been snubbed by her coat, she tried it on like a genuine model, and they seemed to understand each other better than the rest of us who leered upon their manner of idyll. Dancing with her and mingling their feet on the rug, Fanny concurred she sounded like Belarussian or whatever colony of the Slavic current through Europe, and spoke just as much of English and German, enough to work on the truck parks or bar backrooms. She couldn’t lead her to tell what sort of background she fled from, she sensed some horrible fate had struck and made her run blindly.
Fanny joshed it was just another case to sort out for Europol, provided Camille and Hugo act as guarantors with her long-time friends in the secret services; all considerations somewhat mundane, matched with the number the little runaway sister was granting her, so thus she could hardly resist kissing her.
Despite it all, I was envious of the lavishly finished undergarments they wore, reminding me of some ancient ones I had found in trunks, in our Copenhaguen attics, all far too vast for my little butt, unlike these that I couldn’t help fondling upon Ksyusha’s, as she strolled about in our gang, before our bedazzled eyes.
She gambolled with each one of us, capsised Charlotte upon Cecile’s grand bed and took fright of the Crow God. She understood vaguely there were sundry other venues in the magic castle. Kate proposed that we show her the dance studio, all the more if Josephine and Emeline were practising.
Of course, I had ogled her dainty feet, and indeed, Kate was right that she moved with a peculiar grace, up straight and supple altogether, bearing around her gazes on a magic stage. Our other ballerines weren’t there, probably at Josephine’s in another wing, but no sooner had we led her to the training floor than Kate gently jostled my elbow as Ksyusha threw herself in a motive of silent curvets that left no place for doubts; she invited Fanny, another natural, and they laughed out their hearts. Would be a time when we would watch her perform in the raw to Malo’s notes, wouldn’t there?
They didn’t sweat themselves over, everyone was hungry, and dinner had been delivered to the entry vestibule, we went to pick up the boxes and bottles.
Creamy spinach ricotta pie, sweet onions and bell pepper macaroni gratin, fancy moulded vegetable and tofu chartreuses, these with knowledgeably soft-boiled eggs, avocado mayonnaise, and sour-dough bread, not to mention wine-baked clove pears in chocolate cover, and a big jar of Old Boy Jam full of cherries, grapes and the whole shebang of fruit, all these along with fruit kombucha and tea, Ksyusha mocked, in hand-signs, our culinary penchant, she had survived on one hotdog a day!

Unsurprisingly all the smurfs in the next village gathered at our table with bewondered eyes, trying not to be caught fawning over the newcomer in her undies. And Cecile clenched Elvire in dark yellow satin pyjamas against a scantily-clad Charlotte, one who wouldn’t shy off girldicks —as it may occur, naturally or not, we all know.
We had all lit the Google translator on our phones, to try and learn a little more of Ksyusha’s story. She was the only daughter of a police officer and a schoolmistress, she had been enrolled at six in the gymnastics team, because of her filiform silhouette and elastic joints, and also the coach’s crush, a politically well-acquainted bastard who impressed her father, and abused her at the first occasion, like they always did, beyond the iron curtain. She grew up under the total ascendency of this local tyrant and earned him medals in the sports realm. She was given shady treatments and puberty blockers, and no one would even start listening to her questioning, she was too good an asset for the team. Nevertheless, her coach, who, by the way, did not frankly hurt her physically, had made enemies, political and else, hence one day, this guy cornered her heatedly for sexual favours, thus she traded a deal with him, who happened to be less disgusting physically than her usual tormentor, that she would let him do what he liked if he drove her to Warsaw.
In her life, she had habitually been shagged as a rule of sports discipline, thus one more was no big deal, nor were all those who brought her til Hamburg and Sylt where she cast her spell on Gwen and Kate because they breathed of freedom and drove a snazzy car on their own. She trusted Kate, they had made a dreamlike journey.
Natalia and her minders came later, she was as spellbound as all of us and knew more of the language, from her mother; she used that to woo our girl, all the easier that she casually slept with Fanny since long; she unbuckled her jeans and pulled off her boots, she wore boyish white cotton panties and a white merinos wool tank top, ready to team up with the Slavics.
As they do, Delf wanted to test a little tramp to die for. They wore a honey-gold silk twill asymmetrical shirt and periwinkle blue gradient leggings, no need for shoes for those who run the subterranean corridors. They embraced the stray kitten and stared at her bewildered eyes, making her feel their slight difference on the back of her hand, explaining in plain short words what they were, gleaning a kiss because they smelled good, rummaging into her pants because she cast a funny grin.
So, Ksyusha must have begun to wonder what kind of freakish society she had thrown herself into, but Natalia told her whatever quieted her and brought her to Erik’s fly to show her plain black masculinity in full strain, and she had already seen all colours of dicks; she only needed a serious slutty shagging.
I could have myself used my Cossack with dedication, but I happened to cross Apolline’s gaze, which smoothly clicked with me, and I felt I needed the loo, if she was game. she wore a plum slight chiffon waistless Woodstock gown that held with three buttons in the back, and fell down on the way; she pulled off my fleece tracksuit, and we dance enlaced in the shower space, feeling the warm trickle down our thighs. Then she flipped me around and stuck her girldick between my butt cheeks and pissed into my rosette like a mischievous street urchin, and I bent forward to ease her in deeper. After I emptied my arse, we played on in the tepid flows, and she buggered me on bravely.
Meanwhile, Erik had set camp on our bed and churned Ksyusha’s womb on top of him while Natalia wanked the princess for free. We returned to the family room with the congratulations of pixie Delf, who was helping Charlotte exult with Fulgence’s spear profoundly sunk into her, with a few fingers in her bumhole.
Cecile was only kindly making out with Elvire, still in her old gold pyjamas. From what she had recounted, the shy creature knew how to fuck a willing arse, so I sussed she had not yet participated in such a public event; I went to sit at her feet and began to slide the silk down her legs; she had utterly sleek thighs; her dicklet was a tad thicker than Apolline’s, whom, by the way, had grasped Elvire’s head over the headrest to kindly fuck her mouth, reloaded by means of the novelty. Elvire moaned in a sweet high pitch before feeding me a bitter spoonful of her cream.
I am a trustworthy comrade, I saw Cecile was unhappy, so I gathered the silk jersey of her mixed purplish long tee dress and pulled up one of her legs to reach her glistening quim I knew how to treat with both hands and tongue, while Elvire gulped another shot of Apolline’s lovely thingummy.
Ksyusha was proud and spent, she tiptoed to us to pay homage to our genderless neighbours, I dared her to suck Elvire, who cast her a doe eye while she rekindled her little straight spur. Ksyusha’s bumhole was all slidy-ho.

After such a heart-warming night, it would be Kate’s to introduce the newbie to our all-hailed landlord —means he owns us too, within these sacred walls, doesn’t he? I lent her a freshly tumbled-dried Copenhagen-blue track-suit since it seems this easy-on, easy-off outfit is the must of the season— furthermore, Hugo shouldn’t be blinded all at once by the shapely new tramp, who will seize any pretext to show her midriff, anyhow.
Kate wore a new marsh-green oversize broadly knit jumper, over light-teal swarming twirls patterned cashmere tights, and one blue, one green Chuck Taylor’s sneakers. Ksyusha went cunningly barefoot. Kate was back twenty minutes later, she said she had seen Hugo white hot and almost defenceless, a real triumph, only he might have to fetch her a passport before they fly to a glamorous spot. I retorted that Camille could do that in a heartbeat, once she saw the escapee in question.
Gwen had called Liselotte, in hopes of a juicy trick to buy rags; she was high up in the listings, and she did not wait long. Gianni had texted asking for a fitting, it would redeem us from weeks of casual. He brought a heap of handmade couture he had fancied for us from some rich house clearances he hunted tirelessly. This time he offered dresses and coats of the roaring twenties and thirties, just what we should wear at Speck’s.
I called Cecile, who deserved some sartorial finesse besides her talent. She arrived wearing her work overall, I saw Gianni’s eyes roll, so I clicked my tongue for a bit of patience before my protégée was crossed, and I unzipped her fatigues and the rest until the maestro could detail her conspicuously and thus moaned his appreciation, he bent towards me in protest that he should have trusted my taste. Cecile didn’t budge when he began fondling her, her armour was neatly folded, and she might let herself whore as she saw me do. The young apprentice he had brought, a pretty Lionetto from Naples, showed a hump in his bespoke trousers, and he blushed when Cecile looked and smiled.
There were shoes this time, wonders of bottier handiwork that fitted mostly Cecile’s longer feet, in grege silk stockings. Now she looked exactly like the girls in ancient sepia pornographic photographs in Hugo’s albums. Gianni, gay as he be, relished the bout of debauchery we played in fine stockings, and he let himself finger Kate’s bum crack, as she affected a noble pose. I was properly devilish, and I proposed that our young Cecile procure a favour to the pretty ragazzo of his, and I could see for himself, too, in a very couture capriccio. I had known Gianni’s sabre before, it was a peculiar pleasure to unbutton his old-style fly and find a seriously stiff spearhead, while Cecile, obedient little trull, gulped the boy’s stem to the roots. She was diligent and brave, he was in the full strain of his age, and he sang out his copious release she swallowed like a fat oyster, triggering Gianni’s bitter spoonful down my throat. And that was it for a gratuity.
He hugged Cecile so as to taste Lionello in her mouth, I couldn’t touch the pretty apprentice he kept behind his arm for safety. We tried on the risqué souvenirs of a foolhardy era, with the beaded tzittzits at the hems, soon spiked out like porcupines as the master picked up on the previous design with heaps of pins.
We had an enthralled audience when the heather fairies gently materialised in a whiff of Scottish scents, Gianni granted them an amicable glance and wondered if Fayelle would disrobe for him, which was all she wished for, Annabelle shying off too obviously in her fuzzy petticoats that did not trump Gianni’s eye, or ours. So Ms Fayelle, whose depressive moods had been once extricated from her graceful skull, sat as another unabashed fornicatrix in our eventual brothel squadron. And when Annabelle felt a crush on that pair of green and mauve thin chevreau escarpins, Gianni barred them unless she bared her rosy pale Scot body and slip on white stitched stockings, and thus she earned a priceless pair of harlot shoes, not so crossed to participate in our lustful little playlet; she gave hand to Gianni who made her spin upon her magic shoes, and he did not hesitate to grope her Scottish bum before suggesting some short tunic in the same hues as the escarpins. I suggested that James would relish seeing them misbehave in such outfits.
Once the maestro had folded back the precious frippery in their hanger bags, promising a fast finishing, hugging everyone but holding back on his minion boy, we remained like whores in a display salon and trifled with each other for a while, then Cecile rolled down the stockings, pulled up her socks and disappeared in the armour I had found her in to run back to her work
The highlands ladies weren’t as hurried, they had come to see if we would resume our Cortazar routine, happily, the volume was endless; Kate begged for more of the slight respite into that Scottish brooklet and the golden down.

Hugo’s whereabouts had been on file with the secret services even before Fanny’s memorable case, and outcomes. Amaury Destouches, a junior attorney in the SEVEN STREAMS galaxy escorted Ksyusha into the bland venues of state secrecy. There she met with a compatriot who translated her story to a bedazzled officer, under the enchanted eyes of Amaury. She was treated with the deference bestowed onto protected subjects, albeit she had to use a stealthily watched toilet. She complied with all anthropometrical requisitions, she was wearing the most innocent Volubilis-blue shirt, slim white jeans and new white sneakers when a bon vivant operator did high-res photographs of her, and joshed he was not allowed to ask her for more. It took two hours altogether to fabricate the same kind of passport Fanny carried, under the assumed name she agreed to of Ksyusha Mikalay, allegedly born in Birky, Ukraine, eighteen years prior. She laughed. No international appeal for a missing person had ever been posted about her whatsoever, not even on the sports networks. She also was granted an identity card. She promised she would learn French, now that a pass of diplomatic legerdemain had endowed her with a highly desirable nationality, and majority..
Once she was French, Amaury led her to Camille’s, to see her long-armed protector. It would be a celebration, her lawyers would be on their own time, for us to choose from. Meanwhile, when Fanny let us into Camille’s apartment, the new acquaintances stood en aparté in Camille’s bedroom, from where emanated unmistakable sounds. In the salon’s lighthearted cheerfulness, Mathew came up to me, took my black trench away and relished my bawdyhouse outfit. I wore, in all, a black silk double-breasted dinner jacket with one silver satin lapel, and a pair of black hold-up veil stockings in boy’s black patent-leather slippers. I knew he would ignite at once. He had smoothed down since he had shagged me after work hours in the New York grand epiphany, he was no longer the rough quarterback in a brush-cut style, and his hand went kindly between my bare thighs. In two or three questions, he knew who and what was the attraction of the day, I concurred with his eagerness.
Under a half-long purple-brown wool velvet wrap coat, Charlotte wore simplistic black silk shorts with a vague, black-on-white polka dots open shirt. Mathew’s hand told me he had felt the sweet pang, and yet he had not yet leered upon Josephine and Emeline. Our Gibraltar stray had chosen a man’s forest-green satin pyjama top trimmed with silver piping and matching trunks and velvet slippers; the very young back-shop dancer showed all of her legs in a Twiggy-style banded powder-blue jersey mini dress and blue one-strap flat sandals.
It was the moment to help our American hunk who couldn’t hide some bodily emotion at the sight of our latest recruits. I was already immodestly exposed, they came to me like little lambs, Charlotte enlaced her sister like she was selling her, they all knew that music by heart. Probably because she was more fluent in English, and she had lowered the waistband of her shorts so as to show her flat midriff, Josephine won the pride of being fondled by the all-American square-jawed bloke who knew where the guest rooms were.
Left idle morally, Amaury nonetheless had moved Kate, who could do for an educated junior lawyer and thus soon had had her hand in his fly. The oversized flat arms-rests of the mohair club chairs offered propitious practicability for lewd games; hitched up to her breast, her marsh-green veils ran down to the rug as she offered her blooming quim to the young servant.
Gwen in cornflower blue and Dagmar in one of her signature unspun large knit jumper dresses that set off her endless legs had a tender bout together before they would trade dicks later. Cecile had dared bring Elvire in maroon satin pyjamas; I grabbed the young girl’s feet like the promise we would sometime exult together, Cecile was finely wanking me, too.
Liselotte arrived, in a deconstructed black and white spiked multi-collar textured satin blouse and tight black twill skirt half-concealing white boxers; she would always look like the demonic procuress we still loved; she had her hands on Trine, dressed in a short white draped crepe tunic with half-sleeves, hemmed with gold bands. She sported a Greek gold wedding crown, she smiled like a Fellini extra, Liselotte had probably sold her to an army last night.
Camille returned, visibly nude in a mauve and green floating feathers motive printed silk-georgette robe attached by a single knot, holding the movingly naked little aurora princess. There was a slight pause, and waiters brought drinks and pyramids of finger food, also, it was the season fashion, a towering gilded samovar. The young waiters tried to arch their backs not to let the desire protrude under their vests; as he served me a glass, I winked at the one who had shagged me before.

Framed by four of the well-known black suits I had acquainted with a few times, His Major Elusiveness appeared in a malachite green silk moiré costume, matched grosgrain court pumps, and a seven-carat bezel-mount green diamond ring, mind you. Passing me by, he held my lapel and grazed my skin with the diamond, saying he had almost missed me, he smelled of cypress and wisteria, thus he confided he would take some of us to his Como Lake villa and licked my lips.
Melchior sat on a loveseat with the choir of redeemed souls singing grace at his side, and he earned larks and lazzi speaking what Ksyusha called trazianka language, wallowing upon him when answering his questions. He called on one of his detail, who was some educated hunk from the Vilnius region, and leered at this nymphet he might well have known on the gymnastics mats; they bantered, and he grasped her foot; they sang some obviously smutty rhyme. She was at the top of her game, between the King and his own obedient roughneck whom he incited offhandedly to couple with her while she drilled in Melchior’s tiny pupils. She was as finely trained as her sister whores, Trine was enthralled, so thus she let herself be gently ravaged by another one of the black-clad coryphées, brazenly gleaning her own bouquet of obscene compliments in plain sight.
As per usual, Hugo had snuck in at the cathartic moment of rewilding prowesses, he stood in a midnight blue silver-dots stitched silk crepe knee-long Sherwani, into which Kate was lending a hand, slowly, after he had unrobed her; eyes wide, they raved about the new tramps.
Unobtrusively, Finlan fondled the keys and knobs of a glaring-new Prophet 10 synthesizer plugged into Camille’s state-of-the-art sound system through an array of glittering toys; his muse Gwen was already bent upon his joystick, thus showing her free bum crack at the edge of the bench, too lasciviously for Kate not to crouch down and lick, leaving Hugo with a protruding boom pole.
I wooed Charlotte to come up with me for another glass of tea while the waiter still kept on watch. She knew my want was to make her water my feet in the nearby bathroom, whoever liked to join our childish little romp. That did not misfire, while we relished the tiny abandon of peeing ourselves like some first graders unleashed, I could feel the jolting spurts all over my back, as of the rutting deer in the clearing. The shower head was wide and generous, we soon found ourselves dancing in tropical rain with balky stakes in our soapy bumholes, I even was granted a second serving by one I had hardly tamed on Mustique Island., where his boss had once enchanted a party of us. Their hot pestles remained tautened as they helped with the plushiest towels, they planned a threesome with Cecile, whose distanced gaze was an aphrodisiac to them; they felt like loaded brutes, I did not let go of my curly whizkid, they would have to mind with me along in their romp.
Since the old days when I had dwelled in that house’s attic, I had caroused in every bedroom, for Camille’s relish, and she ever had the last drop of mine. The layout was as contorted as a Venetian brothel; still holding Cecile’s hand, I lured them to a small staircase that led to a purplish nest, nothing much more than a bed and a toilet, like a Pullman pleasure cabin, and I knew where to fetch the Swiss Navy. On the baby-cheek-soft cushions, I embraced her tight as a bag of gold, to the liking of my old mate, who splurged on lube in both of us, as a frenzied start, while the other forced his dick into our gathered mouths, then they locked upon our ideal enlace, each one side deep into a complying hole the monkey’s burette.
Not bragging, our cavaliers became slightly overspent, although genial they remained to us in the following ablutions, inasmuch as letting us know their names, Francelin and Armand, of best manners. We returned to the gathering, Her Grace the Aviatrix had flown back, with her court, already cuddling Elvire, half bedraggled at her side, and told us we smelled of honey candies. Cecile showed pride in her protégée and couldn’t help taking her nightingale in her mouth, en passant.
Of what he let be seen of his person, our multiversal tycoon had tanned in the Bahamas and revelled amongst his new private ballet. Although the dance master had not yet auditioned Emeline’s pretty bum, she was then obviously earning some imperishable attention in the court, abounded with unfettered tenderness from her comrades. In my experience, prettiness and looseness wouldn’t in every instance make the bed for the bliss, all the more that most of these little tramps had thrived in the direst of mucks before one of the Hellfire club fell seasonally in love with them, hence bonding their budding fate, whichever way the weathercock turn to.

Michelle and her impish detail had heard aboard the TRÆVIX wings, back from New York, about a spirited round-up in Camille’s velvety lair; they craved Ksyusha, and no one would forbid them to go cavort with her, be it upon the Emperor’s lap, and they did. They had gone pillaging vintage stores in the Lower East Side, Delf wore a two-size bigger basketball jersey, number thirteen purple with orange trimmings, over tight-fit maroon shorts; she had been wearing a big patched navy blue and maroon Letterman jacket; she had also lost her black platform ankle boots. They had passed a gang of snazzy high schoolers, so thus Delf had had a whim to shave her head, which a Tribeca barber obliged, selling her a beanie for the first day. Dagmar had better keep her slanky charm in a boyfriend’s jeans, a shorter black leather biker jacket over a white cropped tee shirt, and black leather basketball shoes. Trine had found herself an honest imitation Mary Quant’s dull-yellow and black wide-striped mini dress, and much-needed opaque black wool tights in black suede flat Maryjanes.
Michelle kept her taste for narcissus-white with gold accents, she did not shop vintage either, and she had trusted me with Gianni, who adored her dainty stature and the total offhandedness with which she let him handle her. He made her shantung cigarette trousers worthy of Audrey Hepburn, and fitted jackets lined with princess satin; her bootmaker was in London and kept a model of her feet in hardwood; she also ordered whimsically from Stubbs and Wooton. However, she spent most of her time in a mere track-suit she let some of us pull off.
Nonchalantly, the legal staff had stepped back some. Unlike most of the pretty animals that were frolicking in apparent absent-mindedness, they felt the weight of the present powers, who owned them throughout their souls. Nude as the dawn, I meandered unnoticed to bring Trine with Mathew towards a convenient backstage nook lit with polished copper sconces, enough to let a hunky American quarterback admire a true Parisian Lorette in the raw, for free. I helped peel off the silky bespoke suit, Trine played already with the tautened flesh that I told her had used me not so long ago. As he got rid of his shirt and trunks, we rolled on the black velvet bed, her bottom arched on top of me at an edge for him to plough her at once as I snaked up to give her my quim to lick. She had a crush on Mathew, and I had made it so easy that they climaxed together effortlessly. I knew where the lube was in a little gold-veneered drawer. I crawled so as to sip up all that gushed through her lips, and helped the ever-sturdy pole thrush into that creaseless hole I had seen stretched a few times before, miss receptionist. This time he alternated between her butthole and my mouth until I crept under so as to offer my own arse, too, while I hugged the breathless little slut.
In the collapse of our frantic scrum, Trine cuddled at Mathew’s well-strung neck as I rinsed swiftly and sprayed some boyish Cologne before returning to the samovar. Cecile had not shunned the assaults of courtesy by one of the twins in Michelle’s detail —although no one would know how many billions she weighed in earnest, it had been a while since she wouldn’t move around without a flock of well-paid hunks in sight. Thus Elvire remained somewhat forsaken amidst the scramble, merely dishevelled in her silks. She wooed me so that I recounted what I had been doing of my charms and thus let me wank her pretty cock robin, under the cover of her satin trousers. Liselotte, who had not only overheard my telling but grasped the interesting particularity of this new shrinking violet amidst the most unabashed debauchery, thus engaged Elvire to let herself live up to that chosen fate of hers, button by button in our arms. I had known from Cecile that she could be a dedicated lovemaker with a girl, but what about a grown man, cissy beauty? Only her own longing would bring her to let be used the way I did most of the time, and she showed her to insert a pair of wetted fingers in my offered rosette, so as to observe that no damage had been caused by my already debauched evening. Liselotte, too, had a crush, in her supremely vicious manner, she revelled at the fantasy of selling this seraphic beauty to the very peers of her father, unbeknownst to all but herself, what a sublime literature!
It should be admitted that, as in Apolline’s case, and others, there was delectation in watching nature be duped on its course to scramble what it had brought to perfection —as if ageing was not tragic enough in itself. Liselotte had a degree in Greek poetry before she joined us at the Malaquais follies.
I wished I had had a leash to clutch to Elvire’s slender neck at my whim, then, when I made her parade, nude at last, towards the Samovar behind which the boy became restless. He dared not look at my swan companion, although there was so little visible difference with me, altogether.

His name was Enis, and he had come over in his mother’s womb, from dire times in Bosnia, but had always been French. We couldn’t care less as I pulled down his trousers to free a straight, circumcised dick already drooling little sticky pearls, which amused Elvire kneeling like me, and she made no manners licking the staff, thus I dared finger her back hatch I found more willing, in the shadowy boudoir next to Camille’s downstairs office where I had led them after finding all the upstairs beds inhabited. Camille would earn a night-vision video of our exploits, in any case.
In the dark, Enis was much less hetero-minded than he would claim publicly, and Elvire confessed her liking to be buggered, if ever so softly as daddy had done. As she was gulping a first serving of the boy’s sap, I had poked my tongue as deep in her as I would have any bona fide slut in the house. The Bosniak was young, and certainly not blasé of tight little bottoms as ours, thus seeing Elvire ready on all fours and rump arched, he rushed to her rear and amused his glans onto daddy’s plaything, entering with grace —as if he had trained so forever. I crept down so that my mouth reached Elvire’s toy, which brought her to the bed’s edge, stretching out her arse against the boy’s full thumps, titillating the gates of my throat as she suckled on my clit with fervour.
After our windfall stallion —Camille was overall supremely acquainted with the likes of Sami and others— decided he took a fantasy in my own wishing wells, honouring my coochie of a burning salvo, he returned to the angel’s entrails, from under, so as I could lick everybody’s frantic appendages and eat the whole custard from the jar.
In the foamy shower that we took together, once Enis left us like a thief, she buggered me gently as Cecile had retold, she definitely was one of us.
Afterwards, the limousine had been on the wait to bring us all to our side of the hive, a TRÆVIX transport had carried away Michelle and her pixies, Trine she had a fancy for, and the dancers. We waited for Kate, and everyone in the car wanted a kiss with Elvire. Mara, our first-ever samovar maid, sat on my lap, and she didn’t wear much; she wanted to know how it had gone with the boy and the angel Natalia had told her about. She, herself, had been party-shared by more than two hunks together, with manners; we joshed in private about the enemas we had done, and why Camille’s palace was more than a deluxe bordello. Our chauffeur had to make way for an impressive unmarked Sedan in which all the black detail rushed in swift order, not letting be seen if Melchior raptured anyone. Kate eventually unearthed her left shoe and jumped aboard; she smelled of bitter almonds and fresh linen, she was overspent and proud of it. In the lift, I had time to burrow my hand between Charlotte’s thighs, she smelled of juniper berries like a London Eastender, she pulled me to Cecile’s bed, and we dozed all three like puppies.
Unsurprisingly, I woke up to the dull dawn light in Charlotte’s arms, and I could feel her sleep in abandon; Cecile had fled to work, but party girls like us had a licence to dawdle in bed, hadn’t we? She began kissing my neck and babbled while searching under my shirt, I opened my thighs for her and then I sensed a hunch that the light was not right. It was snowing. I escaped her hug and ran to the window to pull up the blinds. There it was, one hand thickness of white oblivion upon every detail of the real world, and light fluffs flew softly, indolently.
We stood shivering, dumbfounded until I jolted and dragged her to the vestiary to dress us warmly, oversize knit jumper, leggings and wool socks, it felt so rich to tickle each other in thick cashmere. She begged for French toast and jam. In the garden, the trees kept the fragile lacework that despaired the birds, I sensed Charlotte recalled shreds of her wasted infancy, I sat next to her and let her weep all over me.
Kate slouched by, still in her night tee, and saw the windows uncovered, so he went fetch a used long padded cotton robe printed of Merry Melodies characters, and floppy variegated stripes leg-warmers, bare-arsed. She smelled of bygone foolishness, I slid a hand into the robe, and she into Charlotte’s collar.
Upstairs, the Heather Fairies had again unrolled Michelle’s futon, with the glorious smell of Geranium-Orange floating in the studio. They both sneezed like little toddlers with runny noses, muffled up together against a big cushion, drinking hot cinnamon lemonade, thankful we did not turn on the big lights. for the while, I could work with my luminous magnifiers and Charlotte at my feet. The Thistle sisters had felt unfit the previous night, now they regretted not seeing Mathew and all the gang. We had exciting twists and turns to tell, and soon they enticed Charlotte to join them on the bed. There was no reading that one time, only lustful talk and moaning, and Cortazar loved that, too.

 

Kate says:

Long away, it had been snowy winter on Sylt when Simon and I were told that Uncle Achim would not come and sing with us, and Mutti remained days on end locked in our parents’ room. Eltje, the old caretaker in those days, had made us pile on our warm underwear and sent us to the eerie land of the frozen sun. There would be no more sing-along with Achim, he had cast his car to a tree. Snow remained ominous in my soul, although it caused Simon’s beautiful elation.
Sarah worships snow, she hears the angel’s choirs through the white curtain, she had almost flown from their Tudor city terrace on a blizzard night, her father had kneaded her frozen feet for hours on end, and made her rekindle her wits with Charlie Chaplin and warm honey lemonade, under his fatherly wing and the woolly robe she says smelled of Denmark.
Charlotte revelled in the bosom of the two Scot roses, she was inebriated by some skilled lesbian distillations and the otherworldly playlist of our usual web radio station. But dusk was already gilding the peaks of the Gare d’Orsay, I longed to walk in the crisp new powder at Sarah’s arm, she would be inspired and people my empty mind.
There were bags of wintersports attires on the top shelves, and I relished the buttoned fly on Charlotte’s long johns, but there was to hurry down to the footbridge and see the projectors of the tourists’ boats roam upon the sprinkled coat. Cecile, who had belatedly seen the feast, joined us out and scolded Sarah for not telling her sooner.
It was actually such a festive event, for a poetic crew like us, that we saw the TRÆVIX angels in a guarded delegation reaching the museum esplanade, and then Cecile ran to a well-known black cabriolet stationed on the quay, and leave with it. I thought of times when sundry power rides had come pick me, and sometimes Sarah, too, towards the fantasies of a limitless lover who made the snow turn blue.
Sarah had given us three pairs of Swiss rubber shoe covers which were useful on the footbridge. The spectacle of the trees on the shores was still intact and became wondrous when the first sightseeing boat sailed by under our standpoint, the pixies were wired like babies at the Xmas windows.
Charlotte asked for kisses between Sarah and me, I floated the idea she might like to go to the Palais Royal —that she did not know yet—with us, as the sniffing fairies went back with the TRÆVIX band, not that two seasoned dollies wouldn’t live up to their past, but they still somehow feared they might meet wandering axolotls.
We had time to warn our debutante what kind of wanton manners she might find at Philippe’s, with us; she retorted she would do anything to our tastes, and we promised to keep her in sight all along. Sami awaited us since my warning, and he ushered us stealthily to a pearly Pompadour boudoir where he suggested that we wouldn’t fit in properly with our sports outfits, thus he jumped at Charlotte’s zippers and disrobed her in no time, raving about how thin she was, actually, and groping her as if he owned her as much as he owned us.
It was a low vaulted entresol, muffled and warm, decorated with sage green and flesh pink swags in nascent dawn, thickly carpeted as for corps à corps. Under a murmuration of fireflies, a rococo dining set was ready for us four, and a young lackey I had contented a few times before brought an ornate silver tureen which smelled of exotic herbs; as he stood at order, Charlotte kept looking at his off-white satin breeches where some impatience let be seen.
He served the clear esoteric potage in which floated opalescent fish and frogs, that kind of soup one makes for a reticent child. I trusted full well the aphrodisiac virtues of Philippe’s cuisine, and Sami knew our tribe’s food choices. Another dark curly-haired, smooth-faced servant who looked like an ambiguous Cecile, with the same dainty hands, nails lacquered black, brought footed silver plates bearing marzipan knickknacks and crystalised fruit; altogether a true libertine supper.
We helped Charlotte retell the best of her education, while she relished sipping her soup from a vermeil spoon, so as everyone there know she was of null manner a virgin. As Sami daintily grazed her inner thigh, she candidly let them part open, as slowly as he solicited, while Sarah undid the three buttons on the shiest boy’s breeches and let us ogle the prettiest immature-ish, although arrogant, dick, under a timid lock of dark hair.
It was fitting in the unwritten house rules to let Sami play with Charlotte, besides, I liked the elder footsoldier whose toy weapon bulged out in his own breeches, in need of at least my charitable hand. I grasped what must have been the games of these two younglings by the glance the younger lay on the stiff nozzle I was licking, and I thought of hiring the kid to play with Elvire if Michelle let her out of her bed.
Obviously, behind her naive gaze, Charlotte had been knowing battalions of hard cocks ever, and thus she fetched Sami’s dong unflinchingly, rubbing its circumcised glans skilfully with the clear drops that poured. He was pretty soon out of his spandexes, a starker presence in vanilla-toned skin and dry-shaped muscles, hair combed back in a flurry of raven curls. He wanted her to eat her soup, so he made her sit on his lap, her thighs parted, so he humped her clit as she gulped the last creatures in the magic pond. And she gloated as she let in the pulsing crank up her womb, insensibly, undauntedly. After all, it seemed the supreme betrayal by the two sisters redeemed the skanky bestiality of a whole village, so they might let a bank be built on the site of the bygone meat shop; there wasn’t even a tumb, up there in the cemetery, to shame them, not even a family name for lively Charlotte who had bought flowers in Joigny.
Sarah was wallowing in Fragonardesques romance postures with her ambiguous sweetheart, she looked more of a tomboy than ever, her Canova legs entwined with his, enthralled in some emanation I couldn’t sense from my side, where I knelt before the jolting stem of my brave galliard who ended thumping down my throat to send some company to the magic frogs.
The rapscallion and I rolled out on the high-pile carpet, so that he could repay me for my courtesy, shoving his tongue into my petals nearly as brilliantly as Natalia would. Then he slid along my back and buggered me easily, so much he had slabbered on me, and asked that I arch upon his root-stock.
Two gentlemen in silky black evening suits had supervened and considered our figures, palpating whatever they took a whim on like connoisseurs in a cabinet, and especially Charlotte mounted upon Sami’s —they hailed him namely— well-known pole. One helped my head up as I wiggled my hips furiously at the jolts of the carnal bilboquet, I had an idea he had made me before.
One would linger by the nevertheless candid scene of Sarah with her boy, he wondered whose marotte this was, wanking the proud johnny, calling her name before stealing a long kiss from her. He offered to follow them, but Charlotte begged for the loo, and her thighs dripped. There was a fully black mosaic tiled round water-room wild gilded basin and bowl, altogether dedicated to liquid entertainments, for that matter, no sooner had Charlotte seated on the toilet bowl than our two amateurs unzipped their flies and pissed all over her with cheers, and Sami hugged me to let a warm flow down my legs, and so Sarah with her lover.
The merry goers hung their luxury threads to the hangers by the entry and joined in a generous lukewarm shower; Charlotte was asked to frolic with my previous hunk, Sarah and her catamite still enthralled the now notably endowed admirer who fiddled with both of them, Sami had no better than humping my arse standing as I took hold of a safety handrail.
After so many expeditions into Philippe’s realm, I still couldn’t tell where we headed, once clean, dry, and perfumed — sweet bergamot and benzoin, for all I could tell— vaulted ashlar stone, with a shoulder-high polished wood skirting panel, and smooth maroon carpeting. No more than warm nightlights, as fit for all discreet backstage shenanigans. I did not know, nor need I to know, whose hands were groping me at every turn, whose mouth invaded mine.
We reached an even stranger gallery, with staggered rows of dark wood partitions randomly engraved with clumsy souvenir initials, parting the dark alcoves of sundry secrets. A stucco-sculpted cornice along one side of the ceiling led to think there might have existed a bigger aborted project, such as a ballroom.
As we progressed in the labyrinthine suite of most intimate scenes, any of which we might readily join; here, long strands of ginger running gleam, there, easy garcon allure, an inspired shaven topiary or a brazen buzz cut; and lasers had thrived upon leisurely hides, candid slits at whim, and winking rosebuds. Many drank bubble crystal from dewy flasks in silver buckets, or chased dragon tails on coloured mirror trays, all quivering in the scent of debauchery. —as for me, I let the white horses of Berlin cavort beyond the looking glass, and Hector had fled.
Some pretty face resting on the hand of some odalisk being lazily buggered sideways caught my attention; wouldn’t it be, of all the regulars we had encountered amongst the well-patronized clubs, namely the blue-blooded Seresine de Chalendin —who had hitched up her skirts for petty change behind the nightly confessionals,  sexually submitted by her dubious brother, thus become the most lovable of courtesans—  swaying her hips with that nonchalant gaze, she invited us to her company, which appeared not to bother the old bull using her collectedly, already ogling my lower belly.
Still welded to her love puppy’s indefatigable mouth, she tilted back on the theatrical velvet at Seresine’s feet, to open wide the way to her bumhole for the arrogant youth of her playboy; the old fucker lent a hand to help her to hold her legs high up. I knelt on one leg, so as to bend down and kiss our accomplice while my cavalier reprised into my arse. Charlotte had not waited to go and lick all she could between Seresine’s legs she parted wider, and low groans announced the crisis as the seemingly old fogey thumped into her to the hilt. Charlotte herself had received a masterful spur in her tiny rosette, and she panted upon the quim in bloom, which suddenly squirted holy water to her face while the patriarch gushed his master load. For a second round, Sarah had rolled upon the boy and whirled her haunches around his elegant staff, now inside her bijou slit.
Seresine asked for a taste of Charlotte’s mouth that swilled with her own pleasure, but her quiet tormentor seized the frail neck and savoured the juices all over the pretty face before asking her to pull her tongue he suckled greedily, asking Seresine to participate.
In lieu of lunch, my tamer, who had been overflowing in my entrails, arranged to offer my dripping anus for Seresine while he ordered me to clean his dripping penis. Our right-out filth inspired Sarah to devote herself to Charlotte’s running bottom hole and show her to the boy, who found himself engulped hungrily by whom had generously filled her. Seeing him simply roll his eyes, I had a hunch Sarah would bring him back home, for Hugo’s relish as well. When Sami sussed that Sarah was eloping with the dandy young squire, he only suggested he was worthy of a tip; Mathurin had been hustling on the street when he had found him.
Our catch told us he would meet us outside when he had put on his street outfit, and Sarah was thrilled, oversized sheepskin bomber jacket, black cigarette jeans, snazzy black Chelseas, and a fun vintage white and Windows 95 logo tee shirt.
It had been snowing again, our steps were squeaking, and Paris was muffed Sami had called for a big cab, and Mathurin let Sarah devour his bloomy lips; Charlotte had her hand in his pants, too. He was a wayfarer, thus he did not fear finding himself in our bohemian lair; I sussed that Sami had enticed him to try us, as he had easily earned money letting us use him kindly, he wouldn’t be the first, and Sami trusted us on his life.
Mathurin Marleaux boasted black lacquered toenails, too, he stood quaintly laid back, hips swayed upon the peacock Windsor chair, an elbow upon the armrest, naked like all of us again, while Sarah cut the rhubarb and custard tart he wondered about. He avoided retelling his young life by asking about us, and Charlotte revelled in spinning her ordeal, to his visible disbelief —bar a fierce erection— although Sarah asserted she said only the tip of the truth.
Toying with his restless dick, Sarah raved about her most privileged upbringing, her connivance with the Tudor Angels and her taste for polyamorous shenanigans in the boxwood shadows; then she threaded a romance about me, so sweet I couldn’t deny it made me wet.
He was the youngest son of some military big cheese and his pill-popping trophy wife, thus he had grown up in sundry European capitals; he had been usually personally referred to, by his parents, as a cumbersome case, although they wouldn’t think of sending him to a Swiss college where Sarah could have taught him manners.
His mother loved him beyond reason, terrorising everyone about his person, although he felt himself a somewhat bland personality. It happened they would live in Rome for a year or so, at the time of his puberty.
They dwelled in a statutory ochre villa in the Aventino; he attended the distinctive Lycee Chateaubriand, where he would be driven to and from every weekday, dressed as a poster boy, lean, aloof and glib like an Oscar Wilde creature. He read Balzac and Julien Gracq, on and off.
The Villa comprised a caretaker, Signora Alvise, who had a son, Sebastiano, a few years older than Mathurin, a seductive scoundrel who spoke Roman French and did shady business in luxury cars, as it seemed. Although he wouldn’t have anything to do in the masters’ apartments, he took a fancy to the new mother’s boy with the most elusive parents whatsoever. He wooed the young master, who eventually let him into his bedroom, and, like inevitably, into his pants.
They had a balmy season of febrile hot-handed games, Sebastian was a lot savvier as to pleasures and taught him all bitchy manners of the timeless Roman debauchery; he showed him around the outworldly graces of the Catholic swindle all the way to the Villa d’Este or the gardens of Ninfa at the wisterias bloom; he would drive different cars with fancy plates, and find romantic hideouts to undress and make smooth love.
One day, unexpectedly, he had greeted a passenger in the back seat, near the Villa Borghese, a manicured middle-aged man who smelled of liturgic ointments —the Marleaux family had been functionally catholic, although Mathurin knew zilch of the catechism. Fondling him as usual, Sebastian had told him to go and sit next to the passenger, with a fishy grin, and Mathurin had slid seamlessly into prostitution, let availing the suave-smelling stranger of his girly skin and spurting a spoonful of sin down his throat. He had sensed the grip of an exquisite perversion when Sebastian, who had been out dawdling nearby, had asked afterwards for the money the monsignor had coughed up, and then he shagged him while calling him a rich slut. From then on, all rides with Sebastian led to such customers, some of them regulars.
Mathurin sniggered, remembering these days, and the uncanny sort of clout his shameful secret gave him towards his classmates, particularly those who shunned sports activities. He happened to be invited to some well-off homes, where boys or girls casually offered a way into their designer jeans, they all smelled sinfully expensive.
The charivari of carnal drift had ended abruptly when the secret services that vetted his father’s security brought up photographs of Mathurin scoring a few tricks inside stolen vehicles driven by Sebastian, who had been arrested, then turned undercover agent.
Mathurin was escorted by two officers —that he couldn’t charm— to a French military facility on some rocky island where embarrassing deviant cases like his were kept. There he soon became the disposable bitch of the most dangerous of the boarders.
Soon enough, one of the servicemen who guarded the facility fell in love with him, despite the radical crew cut they had inflicted on his cute little mug. They fled together with the help of an abettor on a small boat, with whom he was shared soon after. They drove to Paris, where they began earning their money prostituting. Sami found him at some party after his deliverer had been caught, and Mathurin was in a mood to confide. In the wee hours, Sami had been kind all along, thus he followed him to his perch under Philippe’s roofs, where life was easy, and Sami did not pressure him in any manner, only to doll him up and paint his nails. All research had shown Mathurin was not sought after by his family; his health reckoning turned up pristine, and he was knowingly granted a black card, so he began exploring the corridors of the Palais Royal, and he liked it so as it gave Sami the hunch we might adopt a boy, for once.

Cecile says:

Lauritz ad wished to take me to one of his cousin’s housewarming in the Paris region, in a restored watermill. It had been snowing since dusk, no sooner had we driven past the main ring road than I was sitting again naked half-turned to him. Only then did I collect all the weird novelties I had overlooked; the car wasn’t the spry one I had known him in, and that common Porsche sound was gone, I felt dumb to realise this one must be electrical, with all the design refinement of the brand, the alertness of the driving response, but no gear stick, neat and silent in the white landscape of still unspoilt snow.

He mocked me, asked me to part my thighs wide, and wanked me, in lieu of twiddling his toy ride. Once arrived, he told me to remain naked in my long black wool velvet duffle coat and black Derby high boots he had ordered bespoke for me in London after they had scanned my legs in Paris. After the doorman ushered us in and I handed him my coat, he was proud to hold me by the waist and hear the acclaim as for my perfect bum cheeks.
A small crowd had gathered already in the vast pillared reception room divided into sundry sitting areas with the same buttoned deep maroon leather sofas, armchairs, and ottomans, upon an impressive collection of Persian rugs. The far end opened a space for dancing between a pair of massive Klipschorns where a few younglings in different manners of unclothing danced to the syncopes of the genuine disco beat; in this state Lauritz had put me, I could have enjoyed running near the mighty bass speakers, but my boots would have cramped my moves, thus I quietly remained at his arm, being frankly offered to the appraising of his surprisingly many kindred, unabashedly incestuous.
The walls showed enormous blocks of sandstone in their base, diminishing upwardly. The inner structures were a green-wood framework with many reminders of the flour milling contraptions elegantly underlined in the carpentry. As they fondled me one after the other, as they would have in any of the clubs Lauritz took me to, I affected to consider an impressive collection of German Expressionist paintings depicting the provocative allure of The Weimar era shady society. The owner of the venue, Eitel von Rosch, took me for a tour of the pictures, gradually taking hold of my sensitive patches with delicate hands.
He was ash-blond mid-long-haired, with marsh-grey eyes, taller than me; he walked en-dehors like a dancer and spoke scholarly French with the same hint of Prussian as Lauritz’; he smelled of Italian Cologne, as no surprise. He had been made aware of my specialism and appraised it, along with his fingertips in my butt crack. He proudly retold how his grandfather had rescued his collection of so-called degenerate art by glueing posters with wallpaper paste upon them, then stashing them in the attics of a family manor the mad wolves would shy from. Decades later, as his own father lived in Capri, he had found the treasure and washed away the protection with lukewarm water, then brought them to his French properties. He wanted to show me in expertise a few damaged pieces from the collection that had been in a bombed part of the mansion, I had a hunch it wouldn’t be the only thing he wanted me to assess on, given the outfit I sported.
Giddying me with genuine knowledge of that now much sought-after era, besides, the intensive fondling he had been granted leeway for by his cousin, so to speak. He led me to a side redoubled door that isolated a private study, in which were displayed three man-height paintings on easels, showing some ugly blemishes. Tilting me over into a soft suede maroon sofa, he asked me if I would agree to try my skills to revive these historical pieces. For as much as I could answer through his kisses, I told him I needed advice from my associate, first.
He had been warned of my high-fledged tariff, but he only thought of my body by then. He pulled me up with attention and led me to some small door, where he pushed me into a pitch-dark closet, shutting us in. It sure wouldn’t be the first time Lauritz would lend me to some of his cohorts, I let this one relish on me blindly, passive like a wreck, just what he asked.
As he left me dwindling after a master bugger assault, I detected a narrow velvety sort of bed to stretch my spent loins and pull off my boots. What I had expected happened, I felt the door open, and some man jumped in after me, tenderly, babbling in German. I did not defend myself, and he took his pleasure in all of my alleys, unfailingly, as I was softening like a soaked blanket, a forlorn medusa.
The third one was naked, with a considerable spear, he must have been French by all the names he gave me, and he woke my womb so as it gushed out like a beast; I told him how good it had been, but he had already left, and a Floris kind of aesthete was already palpating to find my mouth and make me taste of his long dick. This febrile bastard was amply endowed and young, he honoured each of my pleasurable brooklets, avidly, then ran like the contented fox. I felt all the dirtier, gungy. When that door opened again, I wasn’t game anymore. Fortunately, it happened to be Lauritz who carried me to a suave bath in a camp Berliner modernist ceramic decor of black and white geometry with warm yellow accents. There was amply room for two in the built-in tub, he was harder than ever.
The cousin saw us again, he had changed his outfit to black silk velvet on a yellow shirt and vest, and he wore fine patent leather Chelseas. Mostly all of his guests had undressed, and they smiled at me; Lauritz told me casually that all the ladies had known once the dark closet, some asked for more, as their smiles confirmed.
A curly blond girl in her heydays came by and sat close at my side opposite Lauritz’ who introduced her as his cousin, wife of Eitel, Cornelia, née von Rundstrom. She offered the smile of dazzling blue eyes, she slid a gentle hand between my thighs and left it there, saying we should be friends, in her abrasive manner of French.
She groped my distressed womb before we went dancing among the herd of graceful animals, none of whom seemed a week older than I, and though I wouldn’t be trained at the moves they did, the rhythm caught me and reset the pulse of my entrails. Clumsily as a chimp, I imitated the sways and swirls of the hips, Cornelia showed me to cast my feet high and invent mad signals with my arms so I wouldn’t look like a wiggling stump, she was so enthralling that under the icy blue of her eyes —not the sapphire sparks of Sarah’s, infixed in a wealth of black lashes— I sensed my soul whirling down from the worshipped pinnacles of baroque heights, in infinite transgression attuned with all that I just had let myself be inflicted. Cornelia flaunted her candidly honed smile, the kind I had wondered about in gossip magazines.
She was then deftly lassoed by a sturdy six-footer who bent her rump backwards under a vigorous embrace and launched her across the convenient padded ottoman, parting her golden thighs so as to devour her jewel slits, and she reached out for a kiss.
A world later, I had been sleeping in Lauritz’s cloud, except for a brief childish enjoyment of pissing in the roadside snow. His Lordship had been so fulfilled of me, and I had earned beyond trust with his cousin’s renowned collection that I would end up associated with German art history, more than any scholar could ever hint, the dark closet was soundproof.
Once home, the snow was hardening with frost, I ran up to the apartment in need of warm coffee. All doors closed, the Bialetti wouldn’t wake anyone, and I knew where Sarah kept a tin of biscuits for me. I went to sheathe the shoe trees in my soaked boots thus I noticed there were two people entwined in my bed, that was the best of omens, meanwhile, I could sense my labia kissing the seat pad, and I did not sink any of my langues de chat.
They were fast asleep, Charlotte clenched to a lover I did not know, a cousin of Sarah’s, by the speckled face and shoulder, little did I know more when I went under along the smooth back, and my hand found very much of a boy, indeed, with a true-to-life dick that responded to my soft handling. I just simply approved and lay as close as I knew to the nightly visitor. he smelled of English tobacco, those made ugly cartons in the secure closet where my mother kept them, and cherry bitter.

 

Sarah says:

Be it the deep winter depression, I woke up feeling suffused with inner poisons, I tip-toed to go piss, and I slipped on cotton leggings and a shirt to go down and sweat my budding angst in the gym room. Apolline was already on the bike to the sound of K-pop, said she gleefully; I tuned the big upright cardio and joined the bleached blond boys in their cavalcades on the screen. Thankfully, I was soon enough drenched and rinsed out of my nightly evils, and thus I pulled my threads off and pursued the course in the raw, to Apolline’s cheers. At length, the room smelled of beastly sweats, and we ran to play in the shower. She was jollily aroused, with her diddle toy up and willing enough to bugger my amused bumhole under the falling streams, as she thanked me, I joshed about what I had let be done a few hours ago, she called me the most camouflaged slut of them all.
After she thanked me at the tip of her tongue, I mused aloud about the new cissy boy we had garnered, and she might relish, on her girly side. The TRÆVIX gang had already played fine with Finlan, Gwen’s mate, but now he lived most time with the dancers. I told her they would soon mingle together in the new pool, she retorted she loved to fornicate in the water.
Under the promise of fresh pastries and juices from A&S that I ordered with her, she followed me upstairs. Cecile had not yet fled to her workshop, she showed mauve rings under her eyes, but I could tell she was entranced by Mathurin, who held Charlotte on his lap. There was a box of French biscuits I did not remember having kept. I understood she was negotiating for the pair to come and sit for Cyprien.
As I introduced Apolline as a transwoman, Mathurin asked what it meant, thus she came and rubbed like a kitten upon his arm, and Charlotte soon had a proud willie in hand to kiss and share. He understood Apolline was no transvestite like many he had known in the wild.
By the time we had brewed tea and coffee, they delivered warm cinnamon rolls and marzipan croissants. It was fun to watch Apolline woo a boy. Cecile sat upon me, she smelled of no perfume but a hint of carnal fever; as the others shared kinky details that would probably end in a sofa, Kate dawdled by in one of those loose-knit jumpers, almond-green, hardly covering her bum —she must have reluctantly emerged from a peaceful dream upon Gwen’s shoulder.
We had a visit by Ksiusha and Emeline, soon chasing crumbs on a wet fingertip in the empty plates, all excited that the swimming pool was to be filled up that day. Cecile shrugged off the mellow laze tone of the comfort gathering, she wanted to elope with Mathurin in hopes the Berliner canvases be delivered as promised; she almost induced me into a guilt trip for my lagging to climb up to the studio.
Kate and I went up, the snow on the roofs under the yellowish muck of dark clouds belittled us, so we took refuge in the table lamps orbs, to the sound of some Prophet 6 genius from the Tidal cloud. Kate had been on a creative pause, she wouldn’t know which kind of support to vow herself, not a thin concern if that meant weeks.
For whatever reason, the Heather Fairies had felt the cold in their perch, thus they begged us for asylum and cuddles in the name of Cortazar’s tutelary soul. Fayelle wore the full-body cashmere armour, I jumped up to rip off her grey, yellow, and pink socks and cuddle her pink-painted nails feet, crouched on the rug beside Annabelle whose hands and muzzle were burrowed into the fluffy wools.
At the end of the day, Gauthier told the dancers that the swimming pool was all set. Those of the technicians who attended the first dive hardly believed their eyes. Yes, the venue had seemed outlandishly spectacular ultramarine iridescent glass mosaic basin under the shimmering golden vault, and the state-of-the-art odourless purification installation they had considered a bit farfetched justified itself when the holy flock began to corral in, under their popping eyes; they did much more checks than foreseen, Gauthier did not shoo them out.
In less than an hour, most of our nymphs in Paris came running in urgency, and the TRÆVIX squad brought delicacies on butler trays and set up the samovar.
At one end of the room, a corridor led to gold-spreckled blue cloakrooms, showers, and toilets. All along, on a wider ledge of polished teak wood, rest beds had doubtlessly been intended otherly than sunbathing. Ksyusha was fluid as a silver trout, I chased her after with all kinds of nordic names, and she laughed her head off.
Michelle showed her tight little bottom, for once, and lost her spectacles that Delff took pride diving for, before Trine realised. I thought of goggles for my Aviatrix, who had such a hazy gaze in her true bare eyes. She asked me how I liked the new TRÆVIX folly, I told her it was such a sensuous privilege. She said it was one of Gautier’s architectural tour de force, then, with her spectacles back in place, she invited me upstairs, along with Trine.

 

Cecile says:

I couldn’t have told if that redolent gigolo Mathurin was high on Percocet or merely good-natured; I helped him undress before Apolline, and he found the perfect pose on their own and let be lulled in Richter’s crystal well-tempered soul. I had not warned him about our musical colours, he must have been kind of befogged, but he wouldn’t say, Apolline’s spell and silky breast were enough of a reality.
Keeping nix on his low teak director’s chair, Cyprien had not yet seized the drawing pad nor the pencils. Glancing over his attitude, it dawned on me that he was enthralled with the boy in the mid-gender fairy’s arms. I wished that would somehow wake him —or else he was just expecting the models to doze out.
I had been retouching a small panel in the Flemish manner that Camille had asked me to rekindle; it depicted some flight to Egypt, I supposed, in the usual luxuriant greenery, but here and there stood marble feminine divinities; these weren’t by the same hand, we decided to sex-up the goddesses, thus I had begun to slenderise them and erase most of the useless veils that had been overpainted. Furthermore, in damnation, I arranged the group of pilgrims so they would no more lead a baby boy but a common strapped burden on the mule’s back. Cyprien bestowed on me the skilful forger diploma.
There was sudden hustle at the street porch, one could not simply use a door phone intercom; I saw on my telephone what the buzz was, they were delivering a wardrobe-size crate, already the Berliner canvases, it gave me quivers in my loins. I opened the big double door so a flippant hunk in red overalls could pull his trolley in the entry and debark the crate along the wall, mansplaining there was nothing more he would do because his truck was blocking the street. He leered at me as I was some house girl, he smelled of sawdust, like the one the maid sprinkled on the tiles in my father’s joint. Unfazed, I knew I could count on sweet muscles with Natalia’s resident minders; I signed the voucher and showed the oaf the door, little did he know he could have been profiting of the magazine room.
I would have guessed Fulgence would run for my help, and it flattered me. He had all the tools we needed, including this I sensed when we kissed in the store room; I couldn’t believe my big sisters had shunned the boy at one time, and the brave lewdness of the Weimar paintings inspired him to treat me like his willing whore.
So, when we returned from the shower and sat for either coffee, tea, with cookies, Fulgence sniffed up the new boy like a pretty asset, and since he had pleasantly shagged Apolline before, he made no fuss groping her new date, as it seemed; I read out Cyprien’s proxy relish in watching our polyamorous hero hustling the ambiguous pair, I couldn’t tell if he was erect.
Fulgence then told us that the whole village was in the new pool, and thus we all packed up for the day, our unbinary marvels promising more days of sitting for Cyprien’s keen eyes. I teased Fulgence as to come back and draw, whatever it mean.
As always, Gauthier’s teams of priceless Italian magicians had trussed together this old subterranean venue into a well of shimmering lights and lukewarm abandon. The virtual gazette of Eden had trumpeted the event, Camille and her court had just disrobed, thus while Fulgence, who had merely excited my want, pursued other flavours, I was drawn to Dagmar’s long Mannerist legs, and she did not deter me the faintest. Her hair was longer, with a strand combed across her forehead, giving her a smaller boyish face until the water swashes twirled it all in a seraphic corona. She was raving in mid-French, now that Fanny had tutored her, and if she still mingled her words, she had found the right pitch. As we embraced out of our depth, Apolline came clutch to her from behind, trying to force her bum with her insolent jack, to what Dagmar spread herself more open at the risk of sinking us all, and only laughs must have kept us afloat as they shagged. Then someone turned on the flow pump, and we drifted away; they kept entwined on the other end, while I found it a good idea to swim —yes, there had been seasons when our class went to the pool, and I had been stealthily fondled in the scent of chlorine. My leisurely side crawl was all it took to keep me still, while Sarah made a point to go slam the ledge, and again.
Hugo had moseyed down, at the news of a paradisiacal underground, and was smitten with our new boy wonder he began wooing at once, and we all cheered on the sly. Mathurin let be handled and followed his complacent leaning, up to His Lordship’s upstairs rooms, as it seemed. Charlotte swam to me with bright eyes, pinching my nipple and mumbling that the pretty squire would stay with us, natch; I retorted that Sami knew an army of vetted jacks of any trade if she would, but she should come along to Speck’s with me, first, to appraise her naughty skills.

I knew I had not been first trying to lure the primrose customer to the rich men’s cathouse. Sarah had let allude about sundry manners of gleaning heaps of fluent money with a girl’s arse, and the sooner, the better, all due legal. And pillow talk had bonded her unabashed soul. Thus she asked me to show her at Speck’s.
She was my size in all, and, inconspicuously, my closets had crowded with evergreen fashions. While threading shivers upon her skin in the flipside mirrors, I let her try on a low cleavage dark tricksy-patterned silk jersey most provocative gown, which I knew would slide down in a breeze, and slippers in the same stuff, voilà. I added a four-strand black pearls choker and bracelet to make her look like the candid harlot she was —these were a loving gift from Sarah.
I donned this iridescent black sequined mini dress to play hide and seek with my hold-up stockings, and black patent leather flats with white gold square buckles. A striking black leather dog collar with white gold buckle and ring conferred me superior courtesan status —it came from the highest-end maroquinerie in Paris, a tribute from Lauritz”s, who owned the leash.
Our depilation was up-to-date. We chose a long black silk duster for her and a black grosgrain trench for me; it was out of the matter to walk in the snow; the service car brought us to the clean-swept access to the impressive Mars-purple lacquered door. The concierge knew me, and he looked up to Charlotte with much yen, all the more when she showed him her back, down to her bum crack. I took her hand, and I could hear a mute breath in the conversations as we strolled upon the spectacular carpet. No sooner had we reached the bubbles’ corner than one of my keen previous clients jumped at our help and asked me if my friend and I would share a moment, along with an associate of his. Charlotte did not have time to sip champagne; I led her insensibly towards the elevator doors, and there were envious glances on the way.
My little country maiden had already been living the dissolute walk of life she had expected with me. Still, I relished the visible shiver she had when the silver-haired gentleman in a black velvet dinner jacket pressed her against the copper wall and licked he neck as she could feel all of his vigour upon her underbelly; as I enjoyed the same zeal on my side, I winked at her before the tiny bell rang.
The room was lacquered in oxblood red; I once had helped rekindle that suggestive colour and the ebony accents; the gilded copper lightings showed sundry stylised dancers in the Rudolf Belling manner, framed in openwork shattered windows I had all dismounted to bring them to the gilding workshop. I be damned if I had known I would whore myself in these walls one fine day!
They were Americans, Brian and Larry —most probably assumed names— they felt like big-time officers: their shoes were a tad too thick for high-rollers in a top-notch clandestine brothel.
Nevertheless, it went smoothly. One took out his telephone to plug it into the available sound system, and his playlist had attended college: for want of JSB, they liked cool jazz and cool rock, so thus our dresses fell down with no fear. They smelled impeccably clean, just like the TRÆVIX legal squad, sharp as Tom Ford; they swapped our kisses with each other immediately.
The room offered a large black plush bed —thick as animal fur and easier to clean— to wallow in all venality. They had ordered drinks, bottles of Champagne, peach Kombucha, and wild cherry juice; the waiter couldn’t hold his eyes, thus they invited him to stay, and that made a difference, in that although that young footman dwelled amidst a whirl of turpitudes, he wasn’t in want of stamina when they unclothed him in a craftily plotted plan.
Our clients kept on their Egyptian cotton shirts, but stripped the unfazed player down to his socks, and all of his attire showed an expense above average, I sussed he wasn’t a hard-working jack; his arrogant beakhead smelled of mulled wine when he shoved it to my throat, letting me breathe through his bramble of hairs. When I finished gulping his first load, I saw the whole set watching my face, and Charlotte licked the spillovers; Larry —whoever of the two— drifted down to my bum crease to poke his tongue into my customary rosebud, it wouldn’t take long before we sensed the humps and drills as the pair bantered in a shag contest; only the Brian bloke, spearing Charlotte’s angelic arse to the hilt, ordered the recovering cadet to grant him of the same, with help from the Swiss Navy phial he showed him. I would never have thought this possible, in my rather short courtesan career, but after all, why set boundaries to somewhat harmless shenanigans?

Tito, the delicate waiter, wheezed out as he arched his loins, easing out a second serving of merciless youth, not too long before Charlotte and I were filled up with seasoned wisdom. I groaned, but my pleasure had waned; still, my mind quivered of the salacious game, and she was, at that, savvier than me; the wad of Euro notes had been thick enough.
They tipped the boy and asked him to bring back raspberry sherbets. The way they helped us wash in the Rojo Alicante marble water room suggested the play wasn’t over, and justly, Brian was suckling my ear lobe, telling me that he damnedly wanted to see me climax, and flattering me with a chaplet of dirty names. He said he would double our loot if I let go for him, and he added finely that Lauritz was some jammy bugger. That he would taunt me with harlotry arguments woke snakes in my lower belly, and sweet Charlotte had all overheard. I kept mum, graciously.
Back to the bedroom, the bedspread had been changed, and on a side tray awaited blushing raspberries upon pink snow, in footed crystal cups. As we sipped the tiny blessings from Bertillon, they rootled again about our crotches, wriggled in our vaginas with dogged hooked fingers on our deep triggers to force our inescapable climax and trickling squirts. He mocked me that he forced my surrender, I laughed back that he was welcome indeed, and thus he grouched I should be served well, grabbing hold of my haunches to let me impale myself on top of him and inviting his cohort to join in the back. Charlotte saw no better than to sit upon my servant’s mouth and let me poke her rosette with my tongue.
Altogether, these L&B characters behaved forthrightly, once we had granted signs of utmost abandon, they ultimately spruced themselves back up, handed us the loot to share, and set forth with elegance; I couldn’t tell which body of the American State they belonged to. Thus we allowed ourselves a thorough Garofano Limoncello bath, and my flower sister was blooming for another round, possibly. We redressed, I told her to keep the whole stash of unused notes, and we dawdled back to the perdition salon.
Lauritz caught us on the landing and felicitated our escapee warmly, asking if we would entertain one of his influential friends, noting that we did not wear undies. Herr Hubscher had been sipping Armagnac from a crystal balloon in a mole-brown armchair with wide armrests. Lauritz introduced us as a famous pair of unaffiliated spooks, thus he beckoned both to sit at hand, enkindled by Charlotte’s smooth thighs he grazed as soon as he gave her the bubble of scents to hold. She was savvy enough not to drink any, but she inhaled the spirit before passing it on to me.
Having inquired about our goodwill in thorny French, he arose calmly and seized Charlotte’s elbow as we returned to the elevator. No sooner had the doors closed than he hitched up her dress and admired the flat belly.
He was a greying sportsman in a smooth windowpane-patterned Donegal tweed three-piece double-breasted suit lined with pure purple satin, he smelled of antique paper and talc, sandalwood ashes and sunburnt hay; I mused he would topple Sarah for free. He found the zipper, and there she was again, all available in the softened light. The room was clad with brushed-silver ferns —I had spent weeks rekindling the palladium-gilded copper leaves, fantasising like a schoolgirl, before Sarah had pushed me into the owner’s bed— and lit with silver-mounted frost glass birds in flight; the grand bed was tucked with sheen grey plush, the window was concealed behind a sliding panel.
While he devoured charlotte’s neck, I unbuttoned his fly to let a vigorous Uboot breathe. He kept revelling over the fresh muzzle of my girl, frenzied that he had found such a venue in a civilised country; with his other hand, he seized me and grasped he could simply pull down the shoulder straps to denude me. He grabbed my nape gently, pulled me to my knees and lead my face to his swaggering staff I dutifully gulped whatever his whim, and then he sighed roughly and tilted us all upon the bed. He hurried me to prepare Charlotte’s lesser hole, which I did, fetching the Swiss Navy in a silver-lined headrest drawer, and I might as well do myself the favour, in case. As he buggered the primrose damsel face down on the bed, he ordered me to offer myself at her mouth, since we paired so obviously; it wasn’t long before he gushed in deep the tight little entrails, hence now he told me to suck out the dripping semen from her loosened arse, we had done this before, and he relished our smuttiness.
He, too, was in the loop, thus he called for tea and niceties while we refreshed in the opus incertum mirror tiles-clad bathroom, and Charlotte asserted to me she was still having fun. Unabashedly, Herr H. had been wanking the young crew-cut blond sailor who had brought the tray knowingly, and he told us to unclothe him daintily. His clothes were as fresh and clean as a bridegroom’s, and Mr Jonson jolted in furor. He was one and a half sizes bigger than the master, as I sucked him welcome, and he reached for my hard nipples to pinch. Then Herr H. told him to lay on his back and me to empale upon the young pole, which I obliged, not without some doggedness, but wholeheartedly. He told Charlotte to make me lick her clit while he bonked me in tune with the boy. It ran like a well-oiled machine, and I had time to feel him shoot twice in my loins, her spurt a few loads in my face before His Lordschaft moaned a long cry as he instilled me a seed of his kind.
It smelled bestial, I lay spent like a straw doll, the proud client served tea, and the boy licked Charlotte anywhere he could, before grabbing the money he had earned; I winked at him while he fixed his bow tie.

 

Sarah says:

When Hector called, I was justly mulling over such an idea as to let some hazardous waters bear my metaphors adrift in one of his zephyr carriages, possibly in some licentious company, and for that, the evening had been fertile; Dagmar had captured shaded-eyed Mara, so they retold in German their twists and turns, entwined on a rest bed. Hector reckoned three was perfect, whatever game we would play. We ran upstairs to dress up.
Although she still wouldn’t own a closet to call her own, Dagmar loved to rummage through possible rags to wear —while I couldn’t tire kneading her bare bum cheeks as she tried on threads. On one hand, it would be some lecherous stampede Hector’s style, on the other hand, it had kept snowing like an Andersen tale, thus we should go for wools, shouldn’t we? I never had enough of Dagmar’s body swathed in Kate’s opulent cashmere jumper dresses, all in hazy shades of grey, this once over matching legs warmers and cumbersome sheepskin boots —a promise for some moist feverish little toes. I sprayed her with the breath of an immemorial lily, she had never lost the glint in her gaze.
As for Mara, she lusted on my overly mended indigo multi-layered Japanese style “Boro Noragi” one of our Beaux-Arts alumni had fostered a passion for —and she had spent days trying upon my skin when her innumerable magic had transcended the fabric, all the way to trample it in the mud on rainy days— I had a collection of subdued-toned distressed shirts and vests to superimpose eerily and keep her as warm as the richest clothes, in the Japanese manner. I made her pull on ink-ish blue merinos stockings, thus her snazzy lower belly appealed like smooth porcelain, and then she buttoned up. I thought she should put on dark chestnut cavalier boots. She thanked me for letting her share an indigo fantasy; as I burrowed between her legs, Dagmar seized her nape and kissed her silly, in there she smelled of wisterias at dawn in the box trees.
And there was this extravagant black silk anorak, mock-fur lined, that I had bought thinking of joining Ayla in her mountains; with opaque black silk stockings and sturdy double sole black Chelseas, I could reveal my arrogantly pale hide as fast as the zipper buzzed down, and puffs of blue jasmine whirled up to one’s soul.
Only Mara did not know Hector’s fantasies, but she had lived amongst us well enough to hunch. Hector’s new rides stood inert like a dead thing, not even the faintest plume; fortunately, there shone sidelights and tiny blue pinpoints on the doors commands; wary not to slide, we tiptoed and jumped into the subdued lighting of the back seat.
As usual, Hector sat next to the driver, the black man who grins. He turned to us and whistled at what we showed. Dagmar let her hemline crawl up, Mara spread open, and I unzipped. He was proud and soon eased the bull in his pants. We glid west past the Arch of Triumph straight to the unseeming mercantile eructation of La Défense where I had seldom set foot. We tattled, I told him he should have seen the nymphs’ assembly in the new pool, and we promised we would invite him there.
Beyond the river, we had engaged on bleak subterranean roads the driver seemed to have enough knowledge of, to an empty parking lot bathed with white light and a blank steel portal. We all walked out, spooked by the vast emptiness, arm in arm. He took out his telephone, opened an application, and tapped a series of commands, for all I could see. The two centre panels of the steel wall swivelled out, letting show the bumpy surface of an off-white endless carpet on which Dagmar quit her shoes, at once picked by the chauffeur whom I saw steal a whiff in them.
Hector commanded other steel doors, and we walked into a huge elevator we hardly felt move; he then grabbed Mara and told her not to worry and see how we rather expected elation in his long-time company; he embraced her and snuck his hand amidst her artistic rags.
Through dark spaces now, lit only by the eerie glow of snow and rare office lights across the void, we began to hear subdued harmonies and reached a rounded end of that floor, where a musician, a tall thin young man, sat in a light spot, surrounded with blinking cabinets and multicoloured cables, before a Stonehenge of mesh-covered speaker baffles and, further, the boxes that had carried all that. I had a shot of deja-vu, I had never been more than a groupie with the electric music club in Saint Loup, and I had scored with all of them in sundry toxic states, but they did not let me learn to play, it was a boy’s affair.
A restrained public of well-dressed patrons turned towards us from the depth of low dark burgundy and cypress green modular sofas and ottomans; some subdued spotlights let see languorous poses and nudity, it felt of a psychedelic trip going on, I asked Hector if he expected us to turn on whatever they were on. He took my hand and led us to a vacant lot of seats, saying that music and debauchery might very well suffice, as he knew us.

Of course, I had tickled diverse dragons’ tails in my wayfarer career, often granted me inasmuch to play in my knickers; I had then seen my bester of all spin down the drain and sucked off into sad neverland. And then the blue powder stash had exploded, Hector had known all that as he gently pulled the zipper down, I had always been a tramp, had I not?
Thus delivered, I had no other choice than further what I had blindly devised, in trust of him who had altogether saved more than one lost soul. I kicked my shoes and slid out of my burr, to the attention of a few attendees, among whom I singled out Louis, long-time protector —so to speak. He beckoned me from afar, meaning he wanted the other two as well. I told my buddies to leave their togs there and come with me, nude as truth.
We meandered to where Louis cuddled a young true-blond Bambi with utmost daintiness. he asked me next to him, and In a low tone, he said she was Lily —recently christened so— a delicious runaway girl from beyond the iron curtain, possibly, and he knew for sure that she had carried no papers when he had searched her. She spoke no familiar language other than that of carnal poetry, but Mara untangled a strand of Slavic words she had let out, and thus they could chat some sketchy whereabouts of hers. What Louis knew for sure was that she had been a whore, from the manner he had scavenged her, and he looked up to me.
Reassured as to the gracious reason he had sent Hector to call me, Louis turned to Dagmar and wooed her in German, not that it would wake any nostalgia in her eyes as she purred like a girl. On my side, there were hands on my butt that I knew well, Hector begged for a favour I did not bargain, thus I fetched his proud Peter with my best smile.
As I pumped my friend on the side, room was left behind me that would not remain wasted for long, and the freeloader began to give me a sweet rose leaf I did not shun the least. Hector honoured me soon, and I did not spill a drop, which must have sparked the want of many onlookers around, thus I began to feel greedy hands all over. When I turned over, a handful of guests were losing their trousers, and then my vision was eclipsed by a succession of nose-tickling pubes as long as I cared for letting my throat being stretched by brazen phalluses, there, wasn’t it the whole promise of Hector’s?
The ethereal un-melody that an inhabited soul suffused to the keyboards kept a low key to the welcome abuses which unfurled upon us. Louis had skipped away with Dagmar’s sassy legs, and Mara kept enlaced with her so-blonde almost compatriot while a newly uninhibited platoon harrowed their hides with tongues and dicks, garnering a burletta of moans from the wily innamorati pair.
As from seasoned sea wolves, I heard with a good heart the connoisseurs’ comments on all our physical features, only just shy of being gross, plainly lewd, attuned with some frank handling in an attentive oversight and the exchange of the glances. Some praised my slender legs, many relished my boyish behind, my sinewy loins, and others I had met before in Louis’ prodigious roundabout thus knew to madden me twiddling my sillyberries or my toes. All the while, unrelentingly bestridden as a bale of hay, coughing on full mouthfuls of beastly fluids, I felt vindicated for wasting the species’ immemorial plot, along with the scavenged alley cats.
With Hector’s help, we called for breathers —and rinsers, for that matter— so I could feel my girls’ pulse, in any case, but there was no weariness, hardly routine; only did we perk up with fishbowl-size cups of scandalously unseasonable fruit pudding, Louis might as well have sent to shopping, that morning, on a Buenos Aires farmers’ market.
Dagmar had been back, superbly aloof in the raw, quietly smiling at whatever Hugo had sung for her; she snuggled along the new one and called her a keeper, demonstratively enough to bring on a new wave of avid tramplers who fulfilled her along with her new unintelligible mate.
The music had not ended when Hector heard our plea for mercy and rendered our possessions after a last rinse. Lily hid her tight bum in baggy jeans and the rest in a striped marinière and an ample airforce sheepskin jacket, and her goldilocks in a bomber hat, she would have hustled near a NATO airfield. On the way back, the snow had covered all tracks and ceased; there would not be a stop behind the Russian embassy, but the driver requested his gratuity, thus he parked on the deserted avenue to the Etoile roundabout and climbed amidst us for service; he had hands under every skirt for a bustling while, then surrendered his load in Lily’s mouth, although he had already lowered her jeans half-thigh. No voyeurs, the heavy carriage glided home with a shedload of Eastern Europe chirpings.
I offered a nightcap, Kate was in bed, asleep with someone’s shapely legs, so we went all four to the vacant room next to Cecile’s. I dozed off pretty soon, but the others needed more of Lily’s tales.

Lily Zavratin, as no papers would assert, would have been born near a secret air base around the Okhotsk Sea, and stolen from her destitute mother, who fled with some oil company personnel, never to return. She was raised by some retired officer who did shady trades in Novosibirsk, mainly mafia-related, of clandestine gambling joints, until, at thirteen, her purported father lost her as the last stake in a setup card game with a Bratva kingpin. Thus she became a girl for rent overnight and was sold many times in back alley deals. Then she was spotted by a Slovakian procurer who ran juicy clandestine prostitution rings across Europe, eventually at Hector’s arm’s length. Her unlawful owner died over a sour deal with some Estonians. She knew nought of what she had reached into, but Louis and anyone he had introduced her to had been kind to her, in her sole capacity and talent.
Just like Ksyusha, she already knew volumes about the unfathomable human nature —so to speak— and set aside the risks of blind fornication, she had steered clear of permanent addictions and alcohol. However, in the magic of her prime age, before her so-claimed father trampled her soul, she had trained in formal dancing at school, on boards and on ice, with glee, thus when Ksyusha learned that another Russian kitten had refuged in our home, she came running, all fumbling tattle and clunky chatter; Natalia, who had spoken Ukrainian with her mother, and further learned Russian from high-school, might make a useful and willful chaperone in the invention of a new French citizen, all the more than she was not carnally insensible to both recipients, to say the least.
Hence, we all met at the pool, in mismatched tracksuits and a smell of wildflowers. I was the only one who grabbed zilch of their splashing gab, but anyhow I could swear they had clung to the right tree. Once dried, Ksyusha dragged them along towards the TRÆVIX quarters, convincing them it was the fastest way to meet the best lawyers she had ever met, which made Natalia burst into laughter —although she wouldn’t deny it— and she retorted that the safest track towards the French authorities rested with Hugo, whom they would probably meet that evening.
They left me somewhat buzzed in Slavic mish-mash; there was music upstairs in the dance room, I found Josephine, Emeline and Malo practising their magic, and thus I went silently to crouch in a corner, and watched like a dream.
In Saint Loup, I had once kept on the lookout for weeks to peek upon a junior classes newbie, the kind of undetermined princess who walked out of a tinted windows car at Harmony’s door and mingled in the queue at the counters at dinner time, answering meanly in too perfect French to questions by devils of her age class. She would unluckily dwell with the sexually underage. She had wide hazy cerulean eyes and dithering gazes, she came from Estonia, and her name was Hedda. She wore snazzy American sportswear, and sundry sneakers, all new; her father was a diplomat, like so many of our own. My sly girlfriend Ayla promised to help my crush whose slinky allures woke bees in her lower waist, too, and she dwelt with the minors, officially. It took her a week to sneak into the princess’ linens; she recounted the manoeuvers she spun until her prey guessed her game, and thus played her underhandedly for the while. She had sussed Ayla’s keenness for her slender feet —I was sizzling in hell, at all these mornings reports— so, she begged her to help with her laces, worse, clip her toenails while she wiggled, nude in a white terry robe. Ayla was a crafty witch, she grovelled all it took to make sure there would be no yelling when she pulled open the robe and devour the conniving little jewel, and further. The princess was also a baby slut, as all the dorm later enjoyed: Ayla brought her to me into the shadows of the box trees and played procuress for me, unbuttoning Hedda’s fly, button by button, as she pretended shame, she tasted like the almonds in the apricot marmalade.
Meanwhile, Malo and the telepaths had noticed I had ruffled up their perfumed togs into some manner of a pillow and was sleeping on it. Then I woke with the sight of their gentle quims staring at my bewildered face as they sat on their heels, and I asked about Hedda.
They wanted to soothe their nerves against the wave pump, and they tickled me up to follow them: Malo still possessed her legerdemain tricks on a girl’s clit.

She made me spill my joy, and then she licked my thighs like I was cand; a thrill lashed the dark waters of her gaze, and she taunted me to follow her to some eerie place, would I trust her?
By the thoroughness of the grooming we had been doing, I sussed that some carnal expense were to happen in some as-of-yet unchartered venue. She kept as mum as the Queen about it, only she shamed me with the heap of compliments she strafed my body with. She would wear some garnet colour Duchess satin pantsuit with matched court slippers and nought else, as she prepared for a serenade. As for me, since she was daring me to a high-stakes debauchery, I fetched a sapphire-night silk crushed velvet double-breasted peak-lapeled Judy Garland long jacket, tight-fit black shantung trousers, and simple night-blue socks and flats; I felt like walking into the light of a follow-spot. With an amused grin, she approved of me and unveiled a glimmering black Maroquin leather and white gold dog collar she lost no time to clutching at my neck; she kept the key, and I found myself snazzy in the mirror.
I supposed she had found time to scheme the escapade on her telephone, we were awaited in the street, a silent dark-glazed mammoth in where she shoved the sleek black cello case and pulled me into the vast backseat.
The snow had thawed on the cobblestones, but when we crossed the river there remained wide patches of frozen white and nothing much had turned in the weather. It was a short ride to one of these surviving domains still sheltered out in thick evergreen bushes high enough to hide any neighbours. From the street, a portal signalled with two luminous forbidding signs opened in a two-storeyed long lodge, towards an unsurprising neo-classical ashlar limestone mansion. All windows of the two storeys and Mansard attic were curtained with up-and-bottom-gathered white linen panels letting through a faint golden light that grazed the snow. A greying formal usher awaited atop three marble dry and clean steps up, under the side verandah, with an impeccable smile; the mammoth disappeared, in the fresh noise of its tires on the snow; if the driver had watched us, we had not seen him.
Malo was greeted with her name, and a pose intended for mine, with a watchful eye as I gave it, like a good girl; I felt the maître d’hotel appreciated my collar, didn’t he?
Malo laid her black oblong coffer upon the mellow Persian rug, to the attention of some houseboy for later. Not minding the butler dawdling in our private space, Malo slid a hand into my jacket and told me I should as well drop my trousers, now. As I untied the ribbon and let the silk flow to the carpet, she had fetched a glittery chain in some pocket and clipped it to my neck so that I felt like a party pet.
A muted piano afar played sneaky ariete in the mood of a somnambulic Satie, little lamps aplenty glowed each under a rosy silk bud, casting no shadows. A young scalawag dressed as a pretty, ambiguous, deep purple altar boy, came to seize painstakingly the shiny black case while considering my person lustfully, I couldn’t say any gender, but I swore I would somehow.
I saw myself in a hazy mirror, and I liked the invite to depravity my nude pale thighs between the black silk knee socks and the shimmering velvet of the jacket. Now that I was on a leash, and available to anyone Malo would entrust me to, I better saw fit to let my lapels flutter open.
She pulled me thus after the young porter —whose sort of layered lace alb came down to the ankles, slender feet in patent leather slippers bejewelled of marcasite buckles; I had a hunch there was not any other vesture under the baroque gown— to a glowing patch around a stately chair upholstered in parme velvet and carved of silver bindweeds. She went to hand my leash to a laid-back character at the first row of what I discerned as an attentive audience; I stood in an altogether playful attitude, he tested my obedience to the chain, in little jolts, and he sussed I was no white goose, whatsoever.
Malo was stealing time tuning her instrument, all her silks removed. A few appreciative hummings were raised from the shadow-couched guests who had not yet known of her performances. My handler pawed my inner thighs as he would have to an animal, pulling on the chain to make me bend to his face and hear him breathe compliments on my garcon allure; then he lazily passed the leash handle to the next guest.
As Malo’s renowned melodic swashes unfurled into the shadowy cloud above the assembly, I was kindly jaunted from hand to hand, these all manicured and cautious, lightheartedly exploring my dripping vagina, easing their course into my arse with some lotus unguent. Some asked about choking me urgently, leaving me with that bitter aftertaste that amused the next users, but I wasn’t sabered for good before I reached the large black velvet couch at the far end and I was locked nude upon it. I had renounced counting.
Over the large parade bed, a suspended bluish-green aquarium cast a moving pool of lights around me. As the returned altar angel tucked a pillow at my back, I did not let go of a chance to burrow a hand under the ruched laces of the alb, to find a stiff lesser thing I did not ask permission to gulp whole at the sounds of joshing comments around us, and although that Sissi spoke in a thin tone of voice and affected dainty manners, she was first to bugger me there, at the whim of her patrons; only she thus had to offer a smooth apple-bum amidst a nest of creased petticoats, and so found herself with a much direr affair into her tiny hole. Obviously, she was as much of a whore as myself, and she did not flail at serving both sides —yet, bar what I felt in my bottom, my hunch was to think of her as a girl, it had been her choice. In the dark skirmish that followed, she clung on to me of all manners, and then her sister Bowie appeared, readily nude and as equivocal as her.

Malo’s enthralling chants fanned the embers in the half-unclothed gentlemen’s loins revelling in their undisputed wants, a few savvier of them took advantage of both my sides together with some pal, vaunting my hip sways, my repeating gushes, my easy throat, and my tearful eyes. Most of them wore priceless watches, thus they knew when their time was up, and soon Malo played solely for the three of us, and Bowie played with the leash on the way to the wetroom.
It was a warm shower room all clad in tiny glass mosaics of intertwined rain circles and silver-glazed porcelain commodity basins. Our courteous tormentors had not used the place. Malo joined us, she was pretty much drawn to the queer damsels she had seen play along with me. She rolled up her hair in a bun and danced a long kiss with Bowie in the tepid rain.
The lean sisters still had the stamina to nail us standing against the wall, I was long overspent, but she was a mere trifle to fulfil, only she wanted my true rill this time, thus sitting wide open at the sink ledge, I let her in and masturbated my aflame clit so as to gush along with her, and she was proud.
Sissi and Bowie had been born Colin and Axel fourteen months apart to an investment banker and a far too young homemaker wife. No sooner had Colin first met average kinder at the garten than he had sensed being mistreated as to his social kinships. Their mother and all the household, bar a careless father who comprised nought of his offspring’s becoming during the scarce and scarcer family gatherings, gave altogether free rein to a smoothly feminine entente in the nursery quarters of the house. Understanding nevertheless that she played on some social borders, their mother avoided fashioning the children’s vital expression genderwise, she let her subconscious do the guiding, softly.
They had moved to New York City, a luminous townhouse in the Upper East Side, where their mother found them a debonair up-to-date school — much like my own Swiss paradise— where no questions ever raised as for the discrepancies between what a few legal papers, for insurances and such boredom, bore in fatidic writing, and the gracious sisters who participated gleefully in the school’s community.
As always in America, the tragedy was spawned in the instance of a law firm that wrote to the high-rolling father to complain about the false identities of his two children, who had waved their nascent boydom to the face of their client’s (earnestly feminine) daughter —it had frankly not been even an incident, the children had only briefly compared their mutual nether parts. The father wouldn’t face a disgrace of this sort at his club, thus he repatriated his family to Paris, without considering the matter, and filed for an amicable divorce. They attended a lightly-structured independent school under their new names and set their transition in motion, preventively blocking their coming puberty.
After the brief but dire harshness of the unavoidable confrontation in the judge for family affairs chambers, where she had nonetheless been granted a fat allowance and the sole guardianship of the children —provided they chose their mother’s family name— the mother became an activist for the transidentity cause and blessed the providence that had granted her with two living specimens of rightfully denied course of nature —her own father had collected world-famous orchids, through elaborate hybridisation processes, go figure!
One had not forgone the news about his sister’s peculiar offspring and became a regular at the charming home of his nieces at the Muette quarter’s outskirts, bringing such rare confectionery as Dutriez’s deseeded redcurrants delight from Bar-Le-Duc, calissons from Brémond in Aix-En-Provence, or candied violettes from Candiflor in Toulouse. As for himself, he tasted nought more avidly than his nieces’ suave appendages, at the awareness of his sister, whom he had carnally known since ever.
The mansion we had been frolicking in was Sissi and Bowie’s home since their mother and uncle had inherited it.

The sensuously deviate uncle, Maximilian as he went by, was a noted scholar whose published doctorate memoir pertained to the strategies of double-entendre in Elizabethan theatre and correspondence, a boundless field of research that led him to encounter the circle of self-vetted libertines, that our cunning go-between Liselotte catered to, as for bonny disciples like our Natalia, originally born to a penniless Ukrainian wayfarer who had nested in Hugo’s household at a providential moment, also entrusting her beloved daughter’s fate to a bustling hive of bourgeois-bohemians like me, thankfully.
I sussed Maximillian was whom the leash had been awarded to firstly; the stare had been well-mannered, that of a connoisseur, not a hunter, one I sensed I had wooed before, in Philippe’s maze or peripherals, a libertine prince.
Sissi sported starkly drawn lashes and brows, in shades of raw umber, Botticelli style, with amber gleaming eyes. Unruly curved tea-coloured hair overcast her forehead —she shunned hairdressers— and thus it made her a smaller head —in the Dürer canon; her mouth was misbehaviour as such, she pulled a rosy tongue like a naughty kid.
Bowie’s thick hair was cut in a high-nape bob, but other than that, she resembled her sister in all traits, slightly taller, though. She had long, slender hands and feet just like my Far said I had; her supplemental advantage, currently of average Canova measurement, could raise to a good five inches of tireless mischief.
They begged me to bring them back to our playground, Malo had vaunted our luxury, plus they craved to meet our nonbinary neighbours. That would raise no questions other than whom they would wake with and how. Sissi slipped on floating tone-on-tone garnet brocade lounge pyjamas trimmed in old gold piping, with astounding matched ankle boots. Bowie had fetched a fluid, variegated opalescent jumpsuit together with a high-waisted jacket that would not conceal her emotions, and mid-calf gaucho black boots. Both wore black silk trenches, Bowie’s was high-collared and lined with orange satin, Sissi’s of violet twill.
The formal butler might have skipped the fiercest episode, but he looked relieved to see us go. The snow had laid another miracle upon the sleepy world, we misbehaved again in the slow, silent lulling of the cautious carriage.
The sidewalk had not yet been swept again, but no one fell. In the lift, it smelled like a costly Bond street potpourri, like in Ms Keppel’s wardrobe. Bowie took me a frenzied kiss under her sister’s nose. Upstairs, everyone was in bed, Kate not sleeping in Emeline’s arms, who had sought after Malo and thus found what she needed; they had also watched a performance of the Nederlands Dans Theater on video.
They were pleasantly thrilled to be caught upon, not only in the nude, but also obviously making out. Malo was proud of her double find, and as she unwrapped them out of their coats, she introduced the Laforest sisters. I crouched to pull their boots, so they climbed onto the grand bed, in hands-reach of Emeline’s curiosity. Malo let be known the likeness of the pair with Apolline’s nature, thus the supple dancer —to whom weeks of practice had prettily honed joints and postures— inched fore, staring at Sissi’s candid lips as she recounted our debauchery of the night. On her part, Kate was fired up with the idea of a new venue on Paris’ ribald map, and Bowie’s belt clip was easy to pry open, so as to free the proud little dick, as a morning robin.
Malo would perform another gig later, somewhere, hence she excused herself with a clear conscience of having threaded together some deserving personalities together for the greater good of the suave-scented Faerie.
I fell asleep like a rose in the well, my chest ablaze with the idea of letting involved one another into the realm of two preterhuman princesses, just as much as letting them at the whim of our own luminaries. In the morning, Cecile had scented out a roomful of novelties while she dawdled in our kitchen, for once. She went to grab Charlotte and show her the scene of our sweet battlefield, thus predictably tempting her to take hold of me, who wasn’t entwined with one of these new birds, who soon offered their candid morning glories for both our mouths, giving Cecile a dash of regret.
We had breakfast in the nude, Emeline begged for my toast and I couldn’t deny that all the ingredients were in the cupboard, fresh eggs and stale brioche, but she wouldn’t avow it had been a set-up.
Of course, someone had sent smoke signals to the tribe at the other side of the garden, and thus three pixies in intermixed track-suits soon snuck through the back door, sporting unaffected grins. Delffan, at the sight of our early morning grace, was first to drop her togs and strut like a sparrow. Apolline stole my chair and began to fondle Sissi’s daffodil. Bowie had a crush on Trine when she uncovered her shy breasts. Amidst the crumbs of the vanished toasts, it was agreed that there would be reciprocal invitations, in all due splendour.

 

Cecile says:

Before I became neighbour to a colony of such angels, I had read in magazines a heap of abominations about —so to speak— engineering gender, negating the fate decree upon the becoming of an innocent being. Today’s science, definitely rid of the outdated metaphysical rhetorics that caused, say, Giordano Bruno’s martyrdom, finally owns the perpetually vetted tools to contradict nature one way or another, whatever the charlatans may claim in holy carnivals. On the other hand, the unremittable analysis of the constant mental behaviour of our species, put to the test with the infinite historical archives of human civilisation’s progress, and the universally observable animal reason, have taught the global republic of the honest scientists that fundamental libido is the essential energy of our mind in action —otherwise called the soul, beyond whatever revealed beliefs.
Thus, nowadays, as well as it has become readily available to stop any undesirable procreation in a woman’s womb, it is possible, without scary sorcery, to stop or mend the onset of genre differentiation in one unfurling personhood, as it went diversely for our preternatural companions.
Firstly —in the course of the reasoning that eventually dawned upon the reigning Faculty— the statistics revealed that a number of newborns carried a particular balance in their genes as to the receptivity to average human hormones economy. In the post-eugenic ugly ideology, before such cases, doctors unfailingly led the distraught parents to let inflict horrendously repeated manipulations of their bodies, to the sole outcome of hiding an unconformity and charging heftily for the procedures, while no living example could ever show a proper would-be cure in their patients. Modern-day Diafoiruses kept trampling in dubious psychosocial certitudes pertaining mostly to their own faulty upbringing and ethics.
Be it the blooming of unstoppable freedom of communication, the overcoming of freeform sexual liberty, the withering of the precepts of revealed religions, or the sad ageing of Harry Potter, after the stellar accomplishments of Prof. Etienne-Emile Beaulieu, not only did a lot of diseases find some relief, unwanted pregnancies could be wiped off the slate, but also middlesex individuals could compensate (or not, BTW) their hormonal balance at their choice.
Hence, it became suggested, on the web at large and in open forums, that truly sexually unfit nubile younglings could be cured according to their desire instead of the prevailing psychosocial pressure. Puberty could be easily monitored and managed, hormones compensated —like it already was in sundry pathologies— and patients live a worthy life. Bar one fatidic detail, it remained as of yet impossible to re-fabricate a functioning artificial sex organ, whenas desire still expressed itself through the shunned existing configuration.
In many cases of actual life, it might not go easy to reveal an unforeseen nature to an already heated partner, hence the wiser forward attitude of seasoned queerish party birds. My beloved elders’ attitude, going back to Kate’s unfettered incestuous sex life grafted onto Cynthia’s untypical conformation, and Sarah’s expansive permissive schooling in an out-of-the-beaten-tracks preserved institution, had thrived in the secretive realm of a rich author, then spawned seamlessly a power conspiracy that beat in nanoseconds across the galaxies.
Same as I had been handpicked unaware of Sarah’s hunting whim
and thence my wretched destiny of an abused child mining for nuggets in the derisory literature of outdated magazines had found itself redeemed in Bach’s overreaching transcendence, as naturally as she had lured me into a Hanseatic prince’s bed to watch me fucked in the boats’ beam lights. In magic synchronicity, my childhood grounds had been scorched clean by giant contraptions under the scary eyes of the incinerator’s chimneys, of which I had read in a magazine that they had been spreading forever toxics since they were built.
Sensibly different from all the massive ramrods I had to meet in my young, eventful life, these two rosy asparagus tips gently offered to anyone’s greed brought to mind Caravaggio’s victor Cupid’s or an Endymion woken in sweet Theo’s collection; all theogonies meet a hard time when it comes down to penises.
Charlotte, my primavera surprise, and her blonde echo sister Emeline had swiftly rinsed out to the drain the filthy education inflicted by their ignominious father, they were learning the heavenly snuggles with the suspended-flight creatures, in the stars-scattered scent of timeless dawn.
In a down-to-earth manner, Those angels looked closely similar, however not as eerily as proper twins. Same naturally curly autumn-blond hair, one with a mad fringe, the other parted aside, they were obviously family, with thin joints, long hands and feet that had been the first glimpse Sarah had caught of the mysterious altar angel —before the violet alb had fallen away.

Sarah stood back to me, and I found her labia funnily swollen; she sniggered and recounted how she had been gently raped by the sisters’ brigade part of the night, in a palace I would not imagine existed in nowadays’ Paris; I retorted that no palace in the city would startle a magazine bred suburbanite like me —I had even visited the sanctum sanctorum of the Rothschild family, mind you! Nonetheless, I could figure out how a whole brigade might have left her flat, she could do that! She saw me coming and joshed she would never leave me down, no need to go howl it on the roof like a band of Liverpudlians. I sat her down on my lap and kissed her, she was all ground down. Since it seemed the TRÆVIX pixies wanted to show them their realm and introduce them to the Aviatrix, I suggested Sarah and I went massage ourselves in the sauna, then swim our nerves loose.
There would probably be an orgy soon if Michelle had a taste for the sisters, and a party in return in their intriguing venue; meanwhile, Sarah wanted to cook Liselotte about not having let her in the know, she thought she had singled out many of the patrons as academics she had served before, Natalia’s clientèle, thus regulars in Liselotte’s books.
I wasn’t used to sauna practice, when Lauritz had taken me in, it had merely been to vaunt my skin to one of his buddies who couldn’t wait to fuck me, out of the oven heat. Sarah knew the massages, but also the practice of steam and the flogging with the soaked whisks, rubbing with the loofah, and eventually licking my clit in a frenzy.
She called Liselotte, who shunned the questioning about the Laforests but lauded interminably her performance to a congress of bigwig semioticians —and yes, she had let allowed herself with quite a few of the French patrons before, and she could check the height of the reward in her bank balance.
Probably because of my relationship with Lauritz and the array of debauchery it suggested, and her long camaraderie with Sarah, Liselotte happened to like me, thus she proposed to us two some other shenanigan that night, probably not as wild as a whole delegation of eggheads in a rut, but some well-heeled worldly club of sorts. I could feel the kink of desire at Sarah’s lower loins when she asked me if I was go.
Liselotte had a deep laugh and advised us to dress almost casually, although we would eventually be treated like expensive whores, we knew that drill. It was cold outside, the snow had piled, thus it was the season of Italian exotic vicuna, alpaca, cashmere wools, and mulberry silks.
Sarah groped me in anticipation in the lift; the fume-free, titanium grey berline waited on the new snow. Two amicable bruisers stood stolidly upfront, they exchanged briefly in some sort of Volapuk language. From the Pont Royal bridge, the long, frozen cliff of the Louvre withstood the flurry of white noise crystals; I seized Sarah’s hand.
Halfway into the yellow-blared tunnel that shuns traffic under the vast esplanade, I would never have noticed the deviation towards the undergrounds of the gigantic palace, that was the direction we followed, towards a white-it, cleared landing where a dark-suited usher awaited us with some kind of smirk, a telephone in hand.
It would be long after the museum’s closing time, and Sarah was wired like a kid left alone in the toy store. Behind the glass doors, in a steel-walled reception room, a vast lift cabin opened for the three of us; I sensed the now well-known pang that I had crossed the mirror of some glossy magazine, without the tedious crowds. After a smooth ride up, we followed a dim corridor of crimson wool, ashlar stone, and prettily decored ceiling beams, til a wide open double door to an overly stuffed Napoleon III salon that some close mellow voice, answering my amused curiosity, indicated it had been the boudoir where the shared mistresses of the Emperor and his unavowed half-brother Duke of Morny were greeted, then, just as now. The dimmed myriad of tiny lamps in place of the candle flames spawned a blurry haze in which I distinguished a handful of sleek black-dressed men ogling us, while a few young lackeys, dressed in period French white liveries, silk stockings, drop-front breeches, and patent leather slippers, began fluttering about, to nick off our clothes with savoir-faire, until we pranced around nude, holding hands, like daisies in the wind.
A muted piano played dreamily Erik Satie almost-waltzes as a warm hand seized my waist to lead me towards a supper arrangement of padded seats and white lace tables burdened with sweet delicacies, and a kindly stroke of a riding crop showed me to sit with my thighs open.
I could not read much of the clubman with the switch as he sat across from me holding a drink, smooth-tanned skin, curly black hair and fiery green eyes; the occurrence of the whip had swept any appetite in me, and only remained a gossamer thread of curiosity about rough domination, be it in such gaudy imperial splendour.

On her side, Sarah had lost no time, unabashedly gulping the nearest lackey’s rod out of his breeches and pumping hardily, staining the crimson silk of her seat with joy fluid from her widely exposed twat. I had read that more than a few women enjoyed flogging as a preliminary, I had memories of my scum uncle using his belt on me, bent over a barrel, on the days the drunks upstairs bellowed at a football match on TV, and I wouldn’t avow that my quim was drenched when he did that before he buggered me.
In a breath, I asked Sarah if she had seen the whip, she emptied her mouth to ask if I feared it, and then a few pumps later she said that if I didn’t like it, my pussy would. Having heard us, my hidalgo-type whisker stood up and sheathed a merciless horn into my mouth, holding my dumbed head in two hands; my coy attitude must have aroused him, for it wasn’t long before he gorged me with a long swig of his churn I did not cough upon.
As we moved on in the mostly deserted museum, the lackey followed us carrying portable lamps that expanded upwards in vertical luminous lines, enough to illuminate a picture on the wall, shaded on the backside.
Our eerie elegant troupe met some actual security agents, so then after a few words and a money handshake, we had to comply with their whims and suck their lonely dicks while my trainer played more and more of his switch on my bum and Sarah’s.
They led us to the picture “Parnassus” by Andrea Mantegna, a magnificently miscreant allegory painted for the Studiolo of Isabelle d’Este. The Lackey had fetched two antique prie-dieus in dark wood and maroon velvet, on which we were asked to kneel while one of our suitors digressed in sundry languages about the mythological signification of the picture. Each time he would turn to one of us to ask a question about some abstruse concept he had just said, and we kept hushed, he granted one of his cohorts to whisk us a dozen times, and Sarah breathed to me that it was not so awful, was it?
Now it was high time for them to plunge their spears into our maddened little cauldrons most of these brutes had hurled their bare hands upon, and none had been holding back his strokes. I was confused and also ashamed; even if I had long known, from horrid moments in the piss-scented cellar, how to mutely distance myself from the pain inflicted, my devotion to Sarah was now instilling a dizzying doubt about what was being done of me, and my entrails that oozed so easily while rich-scented geezers took turns into my sizzling slits. I could also raise up my rump so that they would rather thread in my vagina, while I readily rested my elbows on the padded velvet. That tingle in my flesh had melted into beastly ardour, I began to fancy those restraining contraptions which until then would have made me snigger, and Isabella sported a candid grin all along. I promised myself to pin a reproduction of Parnassus to my wall.
Some pestering buzzer was the signal that the party was over, thus they asked us to lick their sticky cocks clean before readjusting their trousers, and then walk us, drenched, to a service toilet where we made funny noises.
The snow had ceased, and the world was smooth; Sarah fondled my lower waist, she said she felt peckish, now, and we were at a stone’s throw from Philippe’s, she gave me that defiant porcelain blue gaze. Our two minders were still plotting in Walachian slang when they dropped us gently at rue de Montpensier, Sarah gave the driver a rich handshake, like a worldly girl.
Sami was busy in the thick of the maze, we ordered some onion soup and welsh rabbit, shockingly with tea and coffee, but we acted as seasoned regulars. Sarah mocked me and asked how my back felt, already, sliding her hand along my thigh. I had to retell her more of my in limbo souvenirs, and besides own up to having a confused mind about the kind of vicious possession I had eventually abided by, unwittingly.
The food was harshly pepperish and hot, just so as to rekindle the embers in my womb, then raspberry mousse woke inspiration, and I ventured to ask her if my hunch was correct about having dinner in this very place, under the decor of fantasy tents not far from the narrow door? When the Lebanese Maître d’hôtel brought back our cards, he simply said that considerate guests would see us for coffee upstairs, if we wished.
She relished sensing the thin wrapper of modesty I still kept, especially when I would indulge strangers along with her, whenas I had done possibly worse under Lauritz’s attention, she entertained this, for vice. The dining room had been peopled with random diners, possibly one or two couples who dithered on crossing the line before their direst fantasy, one young wise-looking maiden, bob-styled auburn, had stared my way two or three times with anxious eyes, so I had dared a wink, whatever it meant, and she had looked down with a smirk.
I craved the warm narrow vaulted corridor and the spiral staircase in which we sniffed each others’ nethers, like naughty brats.

A scent of fresh paint hovered, laced within the benzoin and haschisch of some ongoing orgy, I was subjugated before we reached the landing. Sarah said things had changed, new doors and corridors, fresh crimson carpeting, calling on nude feet already; I had not known of any more suggestive house —but Lauritz had evoked some Imperial Viennese lupanars he promised to lure me in someday.
The only lightings were escape lanterns, whatever had been spiked in the raspberry mousse dizzied us both embraced against the walls in wait to be surprised, the burn of the whip had mellowed against the silk lining of my flaring bell-bottom trousers. We reached an oak door with a porthole in the middle, opening in a heavily draped anteroom to a low-ceiling lounge simmering into the slow ambient harmonies of a well-tuned electronic array.
All around the deep-carmine lampas walls were rounded alcoves of padded velvet and black lacquered wood, under heavily framed mirrors —that probably concealed voyeurs— interspersed with big luminous crystal globes filled with coloured water, as they used to display in old apothecaries windows, perched upon sculpted columns, depicting nude nymphs. The ceiling was totally clad in stamped red copper plates, gleaming like a stolen dusk. There was another level of round banquettes, a few steps down, less private, where couples sat in diverse attitudes of lust, one young man had hitched up his date’s skirts over the waist and slid his hand in her panties as she glanced at us, others kept their hands under the table, some were as naked as we were, petting like innocents.
Two women, one black-haired tanned beauty with an elaborate hairdo, in her prime, wearing a provocative lounge robe slit up to the hips and down to the firm navel —the picture-perfect Madam— followed by a timid straight-haired blonde, nude under a perfect apron, to whom she passed the clothes she freed me from, not asking, affecting all the while to consider me Sarah’s own, at what game I swayed my hip like a whore on offer, and the lady allowed herself to palpate my arse and asked if I had been rightfully flogged. Keeping me at hand, she began unclothing Sarah, whose half-shut eyes granted free use of her, too. The young maid took away our clothes, and our shoes, turning away she showed a pretty witty bum; her mistress said I could have it if I wished.
We all sat in the round that the mistress designated, she kept me near while the maid came back and was at once keenly kissed by Sarah; Ms Albertine, the hostess, had visibly a sweet tooth for me and my recovering quim.
The couple with the candid bride I had given the eye to, in the dining room, entered not unexpectedly, hesitantly, with her partner hunk, thus the madam ran to their help, sussing she could gently bustle the bride as she did with anyone she craved after, letting open the white shirt upon timid white breasts. She read our glances, sniggered, and beckoned me at her place, groping me unabashedly as I passed her.
Vivian, her name was, almost blushed to see a nude girl come sit by her side casually; Landy, a boy with surgeon’s hands asked for my name and said he was daft about my person and gazes, if I would teach some manners to his fiancée; and he was hitching up her skirt frankly, hustling her feelings so as to make her part her thighs and show her sophisticated lace shorts. They both were appetizing, I jumped into their flirtation and let a hand play with the hem of the expensive finery; lowering her eyes, she turned to my chest, in need of a kiss I would certainly not haggle over. Meanwhile, he was quietly unfastening her waistband, so I could help denude her entirely, at his crude comments that she was a complete slut, a sleazy whore and such.
Soon, I could tell that she was gently aroused by the pantomime, and dawdlers turned to us. Her cheeks were on fire but she did not shy, even when her boyfriend robbed her of her knickers. She kept her black holdup stockings, like a working girl she had never seen, she looked so younger in the nude.
Sarah had busied herself with the maid, but she brought her lovely pet to our round and relished my debutante, telling her a garland of niceties, scrutinising the fiancé’s eyes for a hint of what he was up to, reading that he was not impervious to her own garçonne allure. She waved at the madame and asked for a proper room for our merry gathering. The lady smirked as if she had, herself, plotted the encounter; on the way out, Sarah lagged for a second, to let her know that if she knew of one or two idle fighters, she might send them to our front, weren’t we worth it?
The young maid Lucie guided us, through other corridors, to a low-ceiling salon with convenient daybeds in buttoned mohair velvet, deep arsenic green and rosewood, inscrutable bevelled mirrors in thick ebonised frames, box-tree-shade walls and ivy patterned carpeting; feeble light poured from tiny holes in the ceiling, it smelled like grave roses.

The gentle herd of females cornered the buck and stripped him thoroughly, he was splendidly built and remarkably well-hung, but for now, we rather showed him the manners of girls with the one he had there submitted. I kept in mind we most probably had an audience, and shy Vivian revealed a taste for exhibition. The three beds were disposed of in a U pattern, each close to a mirror, and a fourth bigger one in the centre, she let herself capsize over my arm, her head snug onto Landy’s lower waist, who chased wild curls from her forehead, telling her there, there, she had what she wanted.
She stared intensely as I nibbled her feet and tapered ankles to let her part her legs wider and offer a jewel-dewy slit I had been coveting. At the corner of a side bed, Sarah agonized furiously the maid who moaned beastly like a happy thrush. Then, slyly as moths, young eager flunkies began pecking kisses hither and nither, unannounced, and they smelled like the sunny shores of Naples. Landy cupped my chin as one of the lovely shadows whose febrile spur attempted to sidle its way to the holy well, so as to guide my mouth to his dick under Vivian’s squinted gaze; she unleashed her loins back at the humping she had eventually come for.
Somebody reckoned there wouldn’t be fun enough without some fresh backing in terms of a pair of swarthy hunks straight out of the hammam, overjoyed at our little playlet. A nasty pair of those circumcised swashbucklers who couldn’t hide their kinship and judged I was squandered, to their taste, nibbling a pretty mouth whenas a proper dick drooled upon my cheek.
Apparently, they decided, in their Turco-Mongol parlance, to gut open my pretty skin, ensemble, at the tip of their honed spears, thus I soon felt like Goya’s El Pelele, with a fiery duel inside my womb. The available lube smelled of cannabis and violet, a tad heady but madly expedient; I squeezed them like live fish, they shivered up my chakras to my tinkler bell.
I remembered the cab driver trying heavy innuendos: Sarah had redressed me and cuddled me like an exhausted child, straight to the grin of Lord Homunculus from the throat of my home crow, we still reeked happily of our concupiscence.

 

Sarah says:

I had been sleeping flat beside the pillow, and I was totally in need to pee. The room smelled of Cecile’s expensive fragrance; she must have gone to work long ago. Under the shower, I sniggered about the abuse we had inflicted on our thoughtless youth lately, and I realised there would inevitably be some manner of grand orgy in honour of the newly acquainted sisters. I regretted nought, but I wondered when I would slip back into seamless workdays, under just only the watch of the smiling axolotls?
As a good omen, Kate had been woken by Natalia, like in old times; she wanted to mark her first assignment at Censier, a Sorbonne peripheral. She wanted to take her for some mercenary dance at her Villa Bergeyre’s patron, later that night. As for myself, I wished no venture anywhere until Michelle’s gender-fluid fest.
We climbed to the studio vaguely in hopes the Thistle Sisters might come down, but they didn’t, thus it was space from the web and sparse mutual accounts of our recent follies while spawning random scribble stubs upon which to graft endless visions; that was the sap of our souls.
Cynthia was back, they had spent the night reckoning the state of affairs while she had been in Sydney and Miami —a moral swamp she would not recommend— and other nooks in the clock. She was overjoyed with the latest happening of the Laforest sisters, who bid fair not to cry for help anytime soon; only they might, anonymously, report to Cynthia how, with their mother’s guidance, they had concocted their medical journey. Kate had hinted that the new swimming pool was usually peopled with all our angels and fairies at the end of the day.
I wasn’t displeased with our mute roaming on the drawing board, I felt sundry trails to furrow through, sooner or later. During a pause, Kate mused that we might need two spaces if she came to indulge in somewhat dirtier techniques, on larger formats? I jested that Gautier could certainly think of an extra floor, so limitless had always seemed the layout of the space for our whims.
When dusk faded to purplish over the still-white zinc roofs, Kate stacked her utensils in her tray, looked up for an inner mantra to bloom, and crouched down to cuddle my feet, as she would; the vision of the water pixies had surged in her mind. Time to climb down through our tidied-up apartment, and take a lift down to the subterranean provinces. Just as in the hunch, the pool resembled a Palais-Royal puddle after the storm, all the sparrows jolting their wings in the new water.
We slid out of our tracksuits and dived into the fray tickling some toes. The whole flight of Trævix tits had swirled down to the pond from the TRÆVIX tree that felt more like the pervasive holy Banyan. Sissi and Bowie recognised me among the bubbly saraband, so different from their shadow realm of lust. Sissi sat on the ledge, thus it was obvious that I suck her dickie, floating freely until I sensed a lesser jester play into my bung-hole, at no expense.
Kate swam by, with a trifle of envy, but she was chased by plain boys Mathurin and Finlan, who did not shy from my pansy minions, whatsoever; and she could also spread her thighs wide enough for two. Gauthier had promised that the built-in hi-tech purification engine would digest all our biological effluents, thus the water remained enticingly virginal.
We could have frolicked as such the whole evening, not caring at all for vestures, like the court of Caligula aboard the Nemi ships, but it would be fun to play court with the whole school, teachers included, before invading the preternatural sisters’ palace. The two boys wouldn’t yet own a worldly wardrobe, but, bar their beloved diddle, did not outsize us much, thus we headed to our vestiary to attire our sacrilegious bodies.
It was easy to wake up a roses-and-thistles embroidered frock coat that made Mathurin look like a Grand Duke —he had the shoulders and the neck for that— only I preferred he goes shirtless as I would. I fetched hi-waisted fitted black silk twill trousers that wouldn’t conceal the slightest of erections, and lent him black suede Chelseas, voilà. Kate thought I had made him a lethal gay bait for Hugo, but wouldn’t shun to slide a hand upon his hairless chest. The next one, Finlan, I couldn’t find shoes for, he was some two sizes longer, and it was too late to run to the shops, so I decided he would go barefoot like a vaudeville slave. From the old days, I had wide-flared, ankle-gathered, silk dark gold panne velvet trousers, with royal blue trimming, and the matched bolero vest to go with a variegated demi-long sleeves jersey fitted T-shirt; he accepted that I paint his nails sapphire blue —if Mathurin had his in black lacker. I promised they would both look snazzy in the decor of the TRÆVIX palace, so much so that they would shag anyone they wished, til they dropped. They both avowed a mild crush for the new creatures they had just seen me behave lustfully with.

There would be no public perambulation, nor biting exposure to the frost, thus once Kate put on her purple silk velvet jacket with a black sequins shawl collar, lined in orange satin, only black patent court pumps bejewelled of black crystals befitted her, I braided her hair loosely and attached the tail with a black-rhinestones-clad bow barrette; a dash of eye-shadow and mascara weighed her grey gaze, lip gloss achieved for her courtesan swaggyness. When Finlan dared a hand to her quim, she found his trousers had no fly, and the bird was free to wag out. She wore a seven oval opal encrusted gold dog collar along with the matched anklet and bracelet, gifts of Hugo’s, Lalique originals. Finlan had learned to paint nails with Gwen when she whored for him in Bruges, so he glazed Kate’s with pearlescent varnish.
I fished up some kind of a structured, double-breasted night-blue sequined blazer lined in black striped quicksilver twill; I clipped on a choker of fine sapphires and diamonds, and, like her, the matching anklet, given by Hugo on a trip to Pompei and Herculaneum. I would wear black suede round-toed slippers with grosgrain bows, and no underwear either. Finlan took a caprice to graze my laser-smooth legs up to my lower belly, he said we too, looked like devilish sisters.
Melchior was there already, with four of his hunky minders who smirked at our attires, unabashedly, and that was reciprocated. It promised to be a dignified orgy, Delffan had pealed secret bells all over town and was revelling, as the Mistress of Ceremony, in the entry hall, simply clad in a simple oversized white shirt all-over embroidered with gold thread scrollwork; she had shortened her hair as a ball of blond curls, she smelled of a lime tree in bloom in Orlando’s white garden, she wore rich gold Indian anklets that peeped as she walked.
The SEVEN STREAMS gang had also landed, thus Camille took me apart in the private powder room in fond memories, she needed to take me again to New York where she had purchased a new townhouse near the Metropolitan. Dagmar had eavesdropped on us and thus snuck in like a whiff of candour, wide holy-blue eyes, so we seized her, and I pulled her baby-cashmere leggings off to sniff her very badly defended sanctity, she had put on the same Brittany broom shrub ecstasy breeze as Fanny did, and she was nude in her fluid chalk-grey, wide cowl-neck, woolly jumper dress. Camille relished watching me, who had once shared her bed for two years, and all of her secrets, uncloak the one who lived mostly with her and a few other light-hearted blondes; she herself wore a variegated willow green wavy-knit silk jersey, fit and flare, over-the-knee dress with mid-long sleeves; she was still as slender as the gentle whore I had known and brought me at Hugo’s, and yet she now held considerable powers in her pretty lustful hand.
We returned to the bustling party just in time to greet the Laforest sisters’ dehiscence out of snowproof iridescent wrap coats and sleek boot covers unscathed by the mere hopscotch from her carriage to the door; they appeared stratospherically rich. Sissi wore not much under a changing Parme taffeta silk tunic dress, asymmetrically embroidered with a vorticist aplenty up from the hem to the right sleeve and shoulder, and white Jodhpur strap boots. Bowie sported a biker jacket of zebra fur pattern all-over satin-stitch broderie on black sequined shorts, and black-strass Chelseas. Sissi was letting burst her curls over her mischievous gazes, Bowie had gathered all of hers inside a white suede aviator helmet.
Cecile, a white tee shirt in a black matte silk suit and black suede Chelseas, ran to Sissi’s neck to take a long whiff of inebriating souvenir before Delffan took the guests on a visit, the mighty pair already astounded by the sculptures in the courtyard, Victor’s last extravaganza always causing Nicki de Saint Phalle’s dancin’ Nana to swirl in the lights.
We had entered through the basement door under the grand staircase, at our left, from the grisaille salon, music unfurled that I pinned on someone I had loved long ago, the elegant strings fantasies by Henry Purcell, live and fresh. Malo boasted a witty smile, all the more proud that I could see, next to her, another nude musician seated I had leered at, still dressed up, in a Chevillon’s folly where an orgy had unfurled. Rachel de Contilly blushed intensely at the furtive smile I offered while letting my smitten glance flow down on her, she gripped her blond violin like some magic buoy, and returned to reading the score so as to regain her cool; I sussed she would be gently wet when I would hug her. The two other players were serious-looking boys in professional black suits and white band-collared shirts, I couldn’t help fantasising they shagged Rachel in harmony. Malo, whom I had never heard play classical, winked.
As we moved on to the colourful landscape salon, as Delffan flirted unabashedly with Sissi, and Bowie had a crush on Dagmar on a grand red sofa.

The skies of the all-over wallpaper panorama had been peopled with a few more troves, like a pair of pornographic miniatures on ivory under blown glasses in elaborately sculpted giltwood, pale little girls with carmine lips frolicking with dark-skinned fauns in the finest manner of Achille Deveria’s; higher in the dreamy azure hovered a grand sculpted golden eagle holding a flaming red scarf inscribed with the word VOLUPTAS, like some brothel entry sign.
Not all of our Cossacks knew yet the intimate nature of these new fairies, but Cecile had been so enthralled with their ascendancy, and what she had described of a feast in their realm, that the hunky crew found most becoming if they would beam in so much grace and candour; these were not common party girls.
When they walked to the dining room to get a sip from the towering samovar, there were cries of awe, Gauthier’s indefatigable search for genuine art pieces had brought, among the Jin Ju Lin panels, four apocalyptic angels, higher than human, invisibly floating above clear perspex plinths, in the corners of the room; they were the work of American artist extraordinaire Sha Sha Higby, influenced by No theatre costumes and other Asian grotesque theatrical traditions. So hence, the gist of the banquet room was transformed into a contrasted mood stage, alternating the retentive clouds of Jin Ju Lee micro-ceremonies with the broadly demonstrative ghosts of Sha Sha Higsby.
Standing at the glistening tea fountain, I felt allowed to draw down Sissi’s dress front zipper, all the while reading her pert gaze while my fingertips wandered towards her tender secret. She was smaller than Apolline on the matter, and vivid as Delff when she was wired. It was time to frankly pull down her shorts and sit on my heels to suckle that toy like a candy cane, was it not?
Hugo revelled in a neighbourly visit to the novelties, no doubt his eyes had already been caught by Rachel, and that had been enough to hump his long shirt between the tails of a princely kaftan; then he had relished the sight of Bowie letting herself swallowed while she studiously serviced Gauthier, her pretty head tipped over the headrest. I recognised his paw upon my nape as he disrobed my prey and grazed her smooth, sinewy body like I knew so well he would, stroking her nether belly as she was easily gushing into my throat. I sussed she would also sense my mentor’s hard rod in deep soon enough, when he began grazing her tight little bud —and mine.
Gwen was already as well au naturel when she found us; she wore a belt of gold plates encrusted with honed shapeless gems and baroque pearls, like ones on a reliquary, her body fluid as that of a Fontainebleau Nymph. She wooed Sissi in the shameless baby tart manner she would remain in spite of her new riches, offering herself in a sway of her hips, so well that she was ordered to revive the exhausted bird she would crave to cage, thus unfailingly offering her bumhole to Hugo’s swiftly unveiled nob.
The music had fainted, resting the air to Michelle’s proto-generated harmonic ambient; it meant I could take hold of Rachel for a tour and more. Malo was already cuddling her in the midst of the grand salon, for the keen eyes of the whole convent, not yet succeeding at making her part her legs indecently; however, something hinted that she was one of us and she would soon play her violin for transfixed audiences in Speck’s boudoirs.
As an admission that she had already taken sweet advantage of the young tinker belle, Malo enticed her to follow me and I relished she smiled doing so. The orgy was churning lovely, Rachel a tad shy about our trans cousins, but she obeyed as to bend and suck Apolline’s spell for a while as I fingered her natural holes; she was taken aback when she grasped what her mouth was filled with, but I helped her with half the load, she was nonetheless wet as a brook.
I did not yet know of her upbringing, but she was a fast learner, and besides, she had stayed a few days with the dancers’ brood — bar I doubted she had heard the little courtesans’ stories in full. Those who know me just a shade would tell how aroused I was, firstly our longtime cohort Malo daring her to live up to her act, why had she called Gauthier back, or had she? Anyhow she could not ignore what walk of life we led, whatever music she would play.
First things first in this house, she ought to know what extraordinary brain ran it, thus I led her upstairs, Delf envious that I held her by the waist and stopped every other step to peck her rosy lips. The centre gallery had been enlivened by patinated bronze trees with faint dashes of gold in the foliage, and an arm-span wide wreath of braided flowery branches was hanging at the ceiling with a tiny lamp in each flower; on each side, pearly rounds of love seats invited the guests for confidential little lies and ties —Delff did that whimsically, any time, although she hid nought of her pretty person.

Fanny and Trine were making jolly out on the roundabout sofa in the middle of Michelle’s sanctum anteroom. There had occurred a last-second opportunity to wipe out another scammer from the schoolyard, thus she couldn’t have helped, but she flaunted a special attire she had asked from Gianni, in all likelihood —with Michelle’s household’s patronage, Hugo’s legendary seamster had anted his practice a notch. Her perfect-fitted hi-waisted jacket of dawn-gold shantung embroidered in whole with circuit-board patterns in gold threads, and multicolour jewels figuring transistors, over simply modest shorts upon her minute arse. A pair of gilded Egyptian sandals had fallen under the hi-tech seat. Her polyphonic brain had sensed our coming, despite our silent move so as to introduce Rachel to some new playmates and let be handled smoothly —Fanny sported a radical buzz cut, a crisp poplin white shirt and black sequined short shorts because Delff had spread the word that there should be bare legs; Trine went bare-arsed under a gathered mid-thigh blouse of off-white silk bourette. They made Rachel’s eyes beam with lust as she instinctively stood up to hold Michelle’s hand, then let her enlace her slender waist to lead her back to the command room she had seen her gaze at. As she made her sit in the still-warm high crane chair, she bedazzled her with the real-time glittering of world exchange operations, letting her rest her feet apart on the console.
Whatever her misdeed accomplished, half a world away, her drilling gazes through her aviatrix lenses, stealing Rachel’s rounded bum away, they walked enlaced towards the party in her own palace, she had been warned of the sisters’ incoming, she also relished preterhuman prodigies.
I was left to barely feel awkward with these two endearing doves upon the roundabout, I eluded off on tiptoes, merry chirping echoed from the opposite end of this quiet floor, I snuck to cast an eye. Across a méridienne bed, Josephine had bestridden our always obliging lawyer Matthew, who winked when he saw me, and some hunky security had felt invited to join; she was anything but a debutante, despite her youth, and it was a graceful scene, anyone around cared for the wellbeing of the dainty resident maidens. She saw me, and she noded that I come to her mouth and give her a taste of my longing quim, thus offering my pleated bud to the sight of whom was kindly buggering her, and no sooner I sensed two greedy tongues in my crack than I gushed all over Josephine’s face.
On that, supervened Emeline, who had been wondering about her soulmate’s becoming, little did she pay attention to the pair of black-clad studs who followed her upstairs. She giggled at the figure the Gibraltar dancer had entangled herself into —she entertained no other intentions while she unclothed her horse team offhandedly. She wore an anklet with sundry gold charms that tinted to enthral one of the servants who knelt down to lick her limber feet while his cohort invaded her mouth with his taut circumcised winky, keeping hold of her obedient nape.
Temporarily satiated on our velvet nave, we nonetheless relished how she drove the splendid beasts at her whim, to end as well as we had ridden ourselves, but Matthew couldn’t resist running to her mouth. I laid entwined with Josephine in the scents of our effusions when I sensed the fingers of a sneaky bugger prepare my anus for a round; I parted my thighs to my best, so as he could sheathe to the hilt, and he did, unabashedly, like a proficient swordsman indeed; I squeezed all my shameless entrails to fire a mean climax as I saw Emeline squirt like a firehose.
Before going back and cruise among the chosen ones, I found a snazzy pink water room with relief silver glazed chimaeras crawling over the ceiling and walls. On the console was a Lalique phial of Wisteria Soul I had no remorse to wear; in the mirror, my quim was exuberant.
On the left side red leather sofa of the lower main salon, Melchior manspread himself in a same sunflower yellow silk brocade dressing gown as worn by Allori’s Judith in Buckingham Palace —and notably offered more semblance with undead Holophernes than a Jewish princess. The robe was open, and a white satin long shirt as well, thus leaving his half-baked penis in the raw. He obviously revelled at his neighbours’ and associates’ playgrounds as keenly as his own —I have lived up to some.
As I dawdled back in, as innocently as I would, I read out what manner of playlet our Fairy Feller was engaged in, along with the night’s honour guests. On the one hand —justly said— he was diddling with Sissi’s tender trinket, while on the other, he cupped Bowie’s chin as one dedicated goon threaded her offered anus, like do the angels beyond Baroque ceilings; being there, I couldn’t but oblige and contort myself down to suckling Bowie’s pistil of sorts, as to their genteel botany.
I had time to gulp down some bitter drops of sap before a Cossack grabbed my haunches and sink his fiddlestick into my entrails, so I hoot and moan like a monkey, to the amusement of the sisters and the lordship they currently serve.
Michelle and her gang appear and enjoy the battlefield and the trans princesses in action, she shows a taste for Sissi’s legs and feet, conceding warmly that her minions had been right about the altesses’ charm; as she naturally crouched down to seize Sissi’s foot, the meeting with her main associate was taking a tad queerer turn than previous, but she did not touch his tauten manhood in the flows of opulent satins, she invited Trine to suck good of the almighty tycoon’s lightning rod, as a reminder she might also fly to places of high debauchery she had been talked about, that he owned; he kept her on his chest as the sisters strolled with the hostess, who lost a first battle at the princely shorts being pulled down and off while being necked by like maddened kittens. By the time they reached the Samovar, she had gracefully surrendered the rest our her attire, bar the boots. Chatting away like in the schoolyard, they ended up on a sofa, and she let be done both ways; Sergei, who had drawn me to follow them, ploughed me deep as I bent to insinuate my tongue into Bowie’s bum left unattended.
Lauritz came to the party at Charlotte’s initiative: among the pretty, diverting fray, he pulled a crush on Rachel, who was overwhelmed with her success and soaked in semen, which did not help him from cuddling the young beauty while hastily peeling off his black threads —along the walls were side chairs that fructified of piled rags. Lauritz drew her towards the rooms upstairs, sabre to the wind.
At the far end of the more mystic pearly room, under the keen eyes of the samovar officiant —who had not yet granted himself licence to shag the guests— Serguei kept me snug, and my will diluted itself like sugar, attracting Fulgence by. Half-tauten for a while, they pretended I be their slave, the Cossack giving his fingers to smell after he wank me, trading metaphors with his pal who daintily kneaded my toes. I played childishly proud, offering my warm jewellery between them, so as Kate came to give a lick en passant. Sergei asked how long I had befriended Fulgence, so he said we had been classmates in our not-so-heydays, heckling at the likes of Elisabeth Lebovici and Marcelin Pleynet, goons on the so-called “scene” of indefinite bribery and tax evasion, in the eyes of whom we felt like mere savages. In real life, it was our expansive lust that brought us to the same waterholes, and the cunning of debauchers like Liselotte —whom I had shunned as a classmate— and Victor, who had capped the whole artsy boondoggle with his indefatigable dick and an unlimited stash of a certain blue powder, before exploding in flight, after having botched his encounter with the genius of Michelle.
All these most abusive ellipses enkindled my two tamers, I could hardly tell whom of them I would face during the next voluptuous figure, and, together, they took their time.
Later, when we emerged from a round of watersports, the crowds had vanished, Rachel’s violin was gone and her two partners had disrobed to the benefit of Charlotte and Seresine, Samovar was still humping Kate, but the Laforest sisters had eluded and Michelle had retired. Sergei still loved me, I took him to bed upstairs.

 

Natalia says:

That was a first for me, double penetrated by trans winkies, toy-like penises. They fancied me, enough to wish I come to their intriguing mansion, I had heard the tale, and it sounded like something I’d do; Also, they had been in Sami’s books. They sent a Silver Eclipse carriage roomier than a hearse, driven by a pair of hefty lackeys in bespoke liveries.
I had lured Dagmar to come with me, it had not been a hard sell, she had heard the tale. From the start, she was dammnedly more cunning than I to draw eyes; she wore that signature lose-knit, drop shoulder jumper dress of powder-blue rich cashmere, over white cashmere leggings and white slippers. Like foolhardy schoolgirls, we cuddled each other across the velvet; I wore a couture, varsity-style, royal blue padded silk jacket over-embroidered in Korean, matching shorts, and silver Docs.
By the smile the minders sported, I read that we might have been here for quite a while, making out, Dagmar with no more pants on.
The car stood under a Visconti porch lit with restraint by ormolu lanterns and greeted by the mentioned butler, who stared at us with a longing, but let us at ease. I have seen places, slept in royal beds, shagged at the wee hours in the deserted Frick Collection, but it remained to see such an uncompromising display of demented luxury —in comparison, the Hotel von Speck would stand for the elegant constraint of a self-aware connoisseur.
The umbrageous corridor seemed peopled only by a swarm of golden twinkles, like the fireflies of the Italian twilight; it smelled of burnt haschisch, with a fine smirk, the majordome suggested we needed no shoes, thence the depth of the pile tickled our toes, and Dagmar came purr in my neck, enticing me pulling her dress down, at the respectful approval of the black-clad usher; and so went on the deliberate thinning of us, the indeed desirable man picking thankfully our abandoned rags over his arm, then calling some lesser valet to take care of them, not before I see him sniff in our footwear.
Insensibly, the impish carpet led us to the foot of a grand spiral staircase, under which an arched door opened to an obscure passageway of bare ashlar stones, down another flight of crimson-carpeted steps. Not that any of us wouldn’t have descended endless whirls of such stairs, to whatever remunerative turpitudes, it remained nonetheless a shred of dizziness in wait, and Dagmar wetted, too.
As we reached a low-vaulted landing, our hosts awaited, dressed up with black, red-trimmed, leather straps on steel rings, each of their precious little pintles under leather triangle cups, black silk stockings and high black Cossack dance boots. They wore no masks, and they kissed us frantically, complimenting the majordome whose trousers bulged. The trick of the contraptions was that they could be sturdily hooked up on any side.
Bowie took Dagmar’s arm and led her through a side door, Sissi literally fingered my bumhole, pushing me towards another door. It was even darker, only thin rays swept the air of a muffed-out space. She was still handling my body, and other pairs of hands joined in. She murmured in my ear to part my legs, I felt a cannula force into my back hole, and as I sensed the warmth in my entrails, my eyes were covered with a full-face leather mask with holes for my mouth and nostrils. Straps were being adjusted to all parts of me, she said I was not as flat-chested as Sarah, she made me sit on some bowl and told me to let go of my bowels, it smelled of rice pudding, and then some stout dick invaded my mouth. I had been played so a number of times —it was routine at one media-darling psycho schnorrer’s, who paid me dearly but left lash marks on my hide, he said I could not complain because I had been squirting like a possessed nun.
I was suspended tightly, face down, legs spread, my head held up by the mask; I heard a flurry of whispers and felt overwhelmingly palpated over like expensive meat before the sacrifice, the return of a dick in my throat changed my appreciation, then someone rolled under me, holding my waist and penetrating my soaked vagina carefully while a third operator reamed my fresh arsehole. My hands were assigned to taut members, my feet were ointed with drool or else, I moaned at ease.
I couldn’t discern what had become of my main handler. I was upturned with a swift easiness, only just clearing my throat in the move before another shaft dug even deeper into my dangling head. It smelled of that tepid sap and bitter weeds my master Hugo had taught me to tame when he conceded, out of resignation, that I already knew it all anyhow.
When the last of the herd had gushed his load, hurling a last cry, I passed out like a carcass, so it seemed, only to wake up untied on a leather bed, Sissi’s trifle into my inflamed anus.
In a domed bathroom clad in suave-colour glazed ceramic tiles, a round gilded metal pond allowed us four to simmer in lotus lather and heal the lash burns on Dagmar’s back and thighs; she had let be whipped like hawthorn in a gust of wind, her gazes swayed as my hands revived the stinging and she raved incoherently in my neck. The green-eyed tormentors giggled with pride, manhandling our lower bellies in harrowing efficacy like entranced shamans, and that felt heavenly. They fetched some velvety thick multicoloured towels to wrap us in against the dusky decor; they led us to what might have been a bygone fumoir, as Britishy as Westminster halls, furnished of deep-buttoned maroon leather and well-groomed woolly patrons smelling of English Cologne, a confraternity of wolves. Sissy told us the ridiculous price they had paid to overstay for us. Knowing how we had been mercilessly abused made us most desirable in their unabashed souls.
We had survived worse, Dagmar and I, not-so-holy synods or psychoanalytic congresses, and counting. Were these the beasts who had only just raped us? Eyelids were twitching, hands contorted, and breaths were fresh in any event. They spoke in many accents like bidders at a thoroughbred sale, and we had blood, hadn’t we?
They had rushed away their gallop firstly, mutely, it was time then to savour, unthirstily. It would be a dozen of them, wallowing on the age-patinated leather, keeping room to sit us near them. Girls wearing, in all, an apron and black patent leather pumps, styled like ladies, brought drinks on silver servers, allowing some wandering hands.
Our hosts had dashed to shadowy nooks, and Sissi, standing aloof, was, at once, all in the mouth of some greedy gent, Bowie rested her foot on an armrest, offering her jewellery to her client’s whim.
At the lesser of my demands, they called for the snacks cart and fed us nibbles of marzipan and candied fruit washed down with lemonade we had to beg, standing, with their fingers in our bum cracks. Puerile games that brought us dozy enough to let them free us, although predictably, the minders kindly suggested we do them a last-minute favour, mine tasted of fennel.

She was overspent, slumbering with a blissful smile across her soft visage; I couldn’t fathom she would have demanded more of the flogging. In our attic —Beryl was away on a Costa Rican villégiature— I fetched some soothing cream of Peru balsam and made her whine a last little once in the pillow.
I dreamt of horses and cavaliers altogether, flying along the cornices in Fontainebleau under the whip of a tall nobleman whose pride pole wagged out of silken breeches. Dagmar was rounded under the quilt, offering her quiet bumhole deep in a little cushioned burrow; it had been her who had woken me by stealing all the cover.
I had a stash of special crop tea, “Oriental Beauty” from Taiwan, I warmed buttered scones and opened a bottle of squeezed blood oranges. I put it all up on the bed tray, and I waited, not long, until she noticed. It was a relish as such, watching her stretch her long limbs before she paid heed to me and recap how she ended up in my bed.
She sussed that I had been a tad affrighted by her acceptance of steep manhandling, and that did not surprise her, but she had been the one to ask for scorching pain from Bowie and her cohorts, changing the all benign creature into a thorny harpy. Now her back was healed and smelled of balsam, she bantered that she would convert me to harsh play, I retorted I had seen Hugo practice on paid —so-to-speak— patients, and all it had inspired in her had been self-consciousness, albeit she might have wetted down her thighs at that sort of peeping.
Beryl had retold of me, having watched Kate squirt like a beast under the lash, in Victor’s bygone outlandish realm, where a famed pair of black operators were sought after for all the lewdest reasons. I pondered who else in our gentle hive might want the tough cuddlings. Dagmar showed me devilish eyes as she kept her thighs wide apart while nibbling her scone. I asked her if she would like me to go flog her at my regular contorted patrons’ homes, heftily rewarded.

 

Sarah says:

It felt like deserted days in the studio since the heather fairies had access to their own beyond their home landing, I believe Annabelle, under James’s blessing, had rekindled the emphasis on literary studies, for all I know. Kate and I had kind of let the fog clear, listening to audiobooks such as “A Hundred Years Of Solitude” til dusk.
Liselotte had sussed a hint of unfulfilled devilry in me, just what she could advertise fruitfully to her clientèle, and thus I found myself punching a code at the dark green lacquered door of that lavish hotel overlooking the Parc Monceau. A squeaky voice in the grid asked me to go walk upstairs.
I had been told to do formal sexy. I wore a bespoke pinstripe night blue skirt power suit, to the knee with a slit hem and no shirt, boy’s black patent opera pumps with a grosgrain knot —my faith forbids heels— black holdup stockings. I could have wanked at myself in the mirror. A simple choker line of sapphires and matched bracelet, and my grandmother’s Rolex Tank, almost on time. I invoked my ever-dearest Ayla —whom I still guilt-tripped not to have known to retain at our school and thus went to whore in the salons in Zürich, and who, anyhow, liked it— whose motto was that a girl must look like the price she asks; my hair was tousled up, and I smelled of Japanese jasmine and peach. I wrapped all of this in a black wool gabardine trench coat.
In the cobbled yard, under a prominent, pergola, a tall glazed double door glistened with its engraved panes and the lock clacked open at my push. The entrance hall was all clad in dark waxed oak, with a straight flight of stairs between two sculpted life-size nude nymphs on pillars, holding armfuls of arum lilies, beyond which other flights of stairs led to penumbra.
No one in sight, it was warm as a bathhouse, and it smelled balmy; one Venetian lantern hanging from the ornate beams cast its ribbed patterns of gold-tone light on the thick maroon acanth-strewn carpeting; it felt altogether like at aeons from Paris, and the mirrors set me like a spy in an unremembered embassy. The low steps were effortless, I regained a laid-back composure.
On the upper landing stood two more nymphs of polished walnut, facing a white marble relief showing a daintily chiselled lounged Venus unveiled by Vulcan; I had no indication which side I should go. The door on the right was quietly unlocked, and a small, contorted character dressed in white and a yellow vest risked a kind grin and beckoned me with a twirl of his hand. He ran whimsically in some manner of endless curtsey.
He spoke in none of my tongues, but he could show that he wanted my coat rather folded aside on a waiting banquette; I shouldn’t tread on the silken carpets either, hence I slipped off my shoes, however, my soles had been dry. As he ushered me into a dimly lit corridor, he couldn’t help fondling up my thighs with a childish little giggle, and then he ran —what would I purport to be, anyhow?
It should have taken generations of treasure hoarders to amass such a trove of pagan marvels, evoking as well the palaces of Gustave Moreau as Randolph Hearst —with Ziegfeld’s chorus line in San Simeon’s swimming pool, possibly. Here, in enfilade, bronze nymphets by Carrier-Belleuse pranced before diaphanous children bt Bouguereau, in all Belle Epoque innuendo.
Losing sense of direction —never would I have encompassed a layout this huge— I perambulated along the perfectly dusted collection when a tall valet in blue and yellow livery came up and asked me to follow him. We entered a dark room peopled with ormolu accents and crystal pendeloques, some light was faintly beaming from a door ajar.
It was a most formal bedroom with a draped canopy bed of Himalaya blue velvet strewn with jewels and lined with moon silver satin. Amongst the creased bedsheets lay a whitened, dishevelled man clinging to his covers, rolling larimar blue eyes up and down me, telling me to keep the stockings. The merry Yellow Dwarf was suddenly back and unclipping my skirt with manners, swiftly taking away all my suit.
The bedridden character in Little Nemo’s shirt relished what I had to offer, he grazed my flat front up and down with a pleasurable grumble, then made my turn to take hold of my bum with lauds. he commanded me to sit on the bed, legs spread, then back to him on all four, all the while fondling my crack and complimenting my girliness he said smelled of Lirinon, a name for the suave oil I had anointed my quim with —he would be a connoisseur. He carefully rolled down my stockings and cherished my feet, with night-blue toenails, like my fingers.
He said he would compliment Liselotte on her cousines and chuckled while he drew me under the covers, my back to him. He smelled of vintage scents of ambergris and sacred tars, he raved unspeakably lewd poetry in my ear, and I melted into a straw doll with loose limbs, waiting for him to root in me, as he had paid for.

And there would be more to the charter, I guessed, he wasn’t the short-breathed patron, despite this confined routine; I was in for a long feature, arguably, but the chore should be in my strings. He had shot his overture bravely, I was not intended to garner an arietta of my own, as of yet.
Amidst the gibberish that he mumbled while tormenting my foolberries, he might have called on the Nain Jaune, who ran up with warm towels so as to wipe our splashed intimacies and fetched some phial of a nasal spray for his master’s nose. Weirdly enough, that joker had disrobed and was showing a far direr attribute than his master; I knew that manner of a drill full well, he called that stuffing the fairy, and he seized me firmly upon the lubed pivot, while the three-legged jester, helped thus by his Lautrec conformation, expanded my vagina walls by many octaves, til he brushed his balls against the connoisseur’s own jewels, tickling my perineum.
The hard-working nibelung’s boorish face, as he ploughed in my womb unrestrained, was simply transfigured by his quest as he stared intensely as deep as my soul; I was heaved in a Pompadour moment, and the deluge could wait. Possibly fired up by a pandemonium of substances they dared not push me to share, they lasted til the edge of my conscience, and thus the scarlet crows of Krøneborg afforded themselves the shreds of my dreams among the green pinnacles while I burrowed into the rich eiderdowns.
As dawn’s lights suffused through cascades of gossamer lace behind the louvred shutters, it was Gunnars’ incarnate who carried me away from the tepid percale creases, and to an awakening of blissful scents in a small lazuli pond where he granted himself a few more humpings in my defenceless entrails, all the way reading his own redemption in the blue sparkles of my eyes.
The limousine had been waiting in the yard, the avenues felt colourless, and seldom had I sensed fulfilled in such a grand manner. I found Kate and Mara enlaced, thus I rounded myself, nosing in the neck of the samovar maid of the Hotel Sacher.
It seemed I had travelled very far north with the spring geese, the house was empty when I woke, strangely obsessed with whatever thing unaccounted for in my nightly adventure, so as while brewing some of my new fad tea, “Oriental Beauty” from Taiwan, it bruskly dawned on me that my jewellery was lost, of all plausibility among the frills of debauchery. I reckoned that Liselotte’s clocks might not have turned faster than mine, thus I called her to retell my night, and request her wisdom as for my mistake. After an awkward pause, she took a sententious tone to acknowledge that, obviously, I wasn’t aware that Lord Mendelssohn had just passed. I had been in the sheets of a dying man —by what I could testify had been his last pirouettes in that world, he had gone with a happy soul. We wouldn’t know how, of all processes, I could help my prized stones to fall into the enormous heirloom. Hearing that Lord Daniel had enjoyed sharing my pretty hide with some in his household, I began to devise some attempt to undertake before His Lordship would be cold.
I dressed up in a black pinstripe wool pantsuit, white shirt, black tie, black Chelseas, and my black gabardine; sunglasses to conceal my apropos eye-rings. A black Fedora would adorn me with enough mystery, if ever. It was late afternoon, a veiled cold sun through the still bare branches.
Cars, some opulent, mine did not breach the rule, were queueing to access the glazed doors. The oak-panelled hall was crowded with Jewish men of many fashions wearing kippas. I was the very only woman, but I imagined the rabbis might see me as a pretty young man; I affected to speak Oxbridge English. I was offered a shabby black strip of cloth, and I noticed in time that they all wore one dangling at their lapel. They seemed to pray, in Hebrew. All mirrors were veiled with black tulle; it smelled of mere soap.
The majordome stood at the foot of the stairs, he did not recognise me at first, but he suddenly raised an eyebrow and let me murmur from a distance in taut English my reason to be there. He waved me upstairs and told me to go right to find Gunnar, I did not let him repeat.
The right side gathered as much of a Capharnaum as the way to His Lordship’s remains, a dimly lit purple velvet niche, about three steps wide, displayed a collection of exquisitely erotic chryselephantine sculptures by Demetre Chiparrus, that the mourners would not see, anyhow. A ray of light further on the rug reminded me that I wore shoes upon treasures; I pushed that ajar door and saw Gunnar, his unusual skull rested on his elbows, absent-minded. As I called him, his gaze remained empty; I took off the hat and glasses and tousled my hair, somewhat. His face lit up, although with awkward questioning; but he stood up and embraced me daintily, just like he had abundantly a few hours before. Yes, he had garnered my jewels on the rug when they had tidied up the room.

Now, his eyes swayed with mischief, in a way I wouldn’t have condoned, had I not spent these hours at his whim, next to his boss —who had not known then that the stroke was in the making. Thus, my luck had a very easy price to afford, see? He locked the door and came to pick quietly my coat, my shoes, trousers (he sniffed my lower belly), and everything I wore, then only he fetched in the table’s drawer my precious stones, but tst, I wouldn’t wear them before I let him revel some more with my holy body, like never ever in his sad life. He said he had been times and again in His Lordship’s bed with other trulls like me, but none had looked at him more than a second, or let him serve them respectfully while his master watched.
I remembered the kitchen garden in Saint Loup, where slow and unfit boarders lived their simple life, and daredevils like me went in the shack with them and let their knickers down, under the Cossacks’ noses —they had long deemed us dirty sluts anyhow. Gunnar pushed me back upon his rough wool berth and devoured my neck, my feet, and my arse crack. Every once he caught his breath, he stared into my eyes with his forest-green fervour and that candid smile of his.
We used his simple shower booth a few times, but it was never time to let go until my nasty slits became insanely swollen; I promised there would be more, I would see to him, and he believed me. He showed me out through a side door, astonishingly far from the main entrance where the press was on a hustle and bustle lookout.
Liselotte had been titillated, but then she called me a devilish whore altogether. After I had healed my damages with infallible salve concocted by Hugo with our delicate linings in mind, I retold my misdeeds, also Kate, Cecile, and Charlotte expected the finest of worse. It has always been a tacit rule that the rookies go get run-of-the-mill groceries, as Mara had done so as I could bake French toast for everyone.
Once I sat, having fried a pyramid of golden tartines, Liselotte came near and started rummaging into my periwinkle blue tracksuit patched with a big UN logo, forcing me to open my thighs. She had also known —in multiple manners— the supremely excentric Daniel Mendelssohn, be it in his sheets or in the cellar, and she also had encountered my Gunnar, whose real name was Zev, unfortunate offspring of Daniel’s short marriage with Ayala Cohen, from Thessaloniki, who died of a brain tumour shortly after giving life to a heavily disabled son Daniel kept unadvertised amongst his secretive realm on Parc Monceau. Hence, Liselotte bantered that, be I Jewish, I should marry my sneaky faun and become rich as an Ephrussi.
Joking aside, and I had no intention to convert, I figured the motivation of the crowds attending in the Dead’s hotel. We decided to tell our tutelary authorities —upon the main reason of the profound impression the collections left on me before I let myself debauch foolhardily by Quasimodo. Come what may, my womb was on fire; I also considered ringing at the service door and seeing Zev, again.
Melchior reacted in high voltage and encouraged me to keep Zev in a bed, somewhere in the house, until he sent his own Jewish acquaintances to see to the situation fast. He also made me blush at my whorishness, in a mellifluous tone of voice.
Zev had no telephone that I knew of. I dressed up like a fast shot, a purplish ribbed jersey knee-long dress, black crotchless tights, and black Jodhpur boots; I called for a car. I felt like the epitome of a courtesan. It had started raining, city lights recited Saul Leiter’s poetry, and I let the driver peep under my skirt.
The crowd had thinned, only men. I walked unfazed on the opposite sidewalk and turned the corner of the grandiose mansion, to find this bleak little door with an enamel plate showing “service”; a bakelite button looked commonly used, I hasted to press it, and again a minute later. A sparkle of light burst through a peephole, then the door was pulled, and Zev grabbed me in with a wide grin.
One simple flight of stairs up, he drew me along, eructating in his animal noises, to the desolate room I had been in the night before. He planted me under the sole hanging light and danced around in his weird gait, his malachite green gaze into mine trustfully. There were, like, shards of expression when I sensed he would speak, but his mind wouldn’t crank up, and so he just sighed, keeping me at the tips of his fingers, lifting the dress over my head, kissing me desperately, but delicately.
I ripped off his theatrical attire, he was beautifully tautened, with big huddled-up balls, and he smelled of almond soap. He was overwhelmed to have gushed in my throat, but that remained far from quieting his want. After he buggered me again like a Royal Navy gunner, I began to ponder I would soon need my sisters to content the Minotaur. When it came to showing him signs that my poor slits couldn’t take any more, for now, he grinned, hugged me, and drew me into the shower.

Melchior called me personally, and asked that I isolate myself during our conversation. I locked what had been Fayelle’s recovery hideaway when they had chased the axolotls from her brains, and I offered my truly bare image in the video call on the bed. I only saw Van Eyck’s autoportrait with the red turban in return.
Things had gone swiftly, three main families in the community had agreed to let Zev inherit under their tutorship. Zev did not even have a birth certificate, but DNA would provide proof of his filiation, thus, after vetting the inventory of the collections —the only thing that was in order in Daniel’s realm— The Ministry of Finances would accept payment in kind, in lieu for the succession tax. In France’s high circles, no one wished to see the Mendelsohn trove scattered at auction, should it mean letting Zev live his life in the Monceau hotel. The all-time majordome, Armand Lunel, was most satisfied to keep his position and wages, plus a few trifles the tutorship had conceded.
Still baffled by my candid dedication, inasmuch I had been the ultimate bliss in Daniel Mendesohn’s life, Melchior taught me that I had been allotted a hefty sum of money, all tax paid, no strings attached, for valour. He asked me to see to Zev’s transition, suggesting I might do that not alone; it had not been my envision, either. In conclusion, Melchior proposed a villegiatura in a villa at Ravello, he let me choose whom I liked to invite.
I had sussed that Zev might use me —in so many ways— to set his wealthy boot in the stirrup. I asked to see Camille and Hugo on the matter, it constituted, altogether, a worthy tale to think about. Hugo had knowledge of Mendelsohn’s collections and his network of ropers. Camille was staggered at my audacity not to have fled the drama scene, moreover returning for another round of utter debauchery; knowing me to the soul, she granted that the game must have been worth its uncanniness. Not too prone to in-person examination, she would nevertheless indicate two or three neuropsychologists to see if there was some late help to provide to the young savage, except o course the kind I was aptly procuring him myself. It sounded wise, I would see to explain to the majordome. I had foreseen going with Zev and letting him practise the usual blood test by my example —in case other cunning sluts of my knowledge were to ring at the service door. And Liselotte had been Daniel’s procuress, who had sent me to his death, she should stay in the loop, the ways of profligacy.
Not so unexpectedly, the next time I rang the service door’s bell, I was greeted by the majordome, politely smiling, who listened to my intentions and mostly concurred, except he wanted a little taste of my seemingly earth-shattering talents, and forthwith grabbed my throat and kissed me like a desperate eighth grader. Unfazed, when he caught his breath, which smelled of raspberry, I explained that, justly, until the tests that I was recommending, all I could allow for his release —he happened to be comely enough— would be from my mouth he just had a taste of. All he knew of me was that I be a prostitute of sorts, a call girl; hence he walked the walk, unzipped his fly and showed me the dignified morsel I was to pump, matter-of-factly, at least drawing me to a small cubbyhole with disused furniture under sheets, so I could make of him an ally without having to kneel. He nonetheless explored inside my leggings and hitched up my jumper, gratifying me with chosen words that I accepted as a good omen to Zev’s future.
After I had cleaned him dry, he tidied up and brought me to a bedroom of golden yellow and indigo silk lampas where Zev had been waiting for me, nude in a plush night-blue terry robe, reading comics upon a grand padded bed cover. I was disrobed in no time, and again kindly ravaged. I had afforded a house call so we could give our different samples in homely conditions, but we had roughly an hour to play mummy and daddy.
I amply knew the doctor who came, from Philippe’s and other comfy places; Armand coughed to warn us, but I reckoned he could consider our bodies in the raw, given why he had come; the script had been settled, he would start with my dainty veins, so Zev would bravely let himself be done. For good measure, Armand —who had peeped my arse quite a few— rolled up his sleeve, begging to start a personal account.
I did not brag about having initiated a blind sexual binge, so when the doctor called my number the next day, some little blue mushroom in my inner undergrowth shivered in fear, but it turned out it was a mere trick for a personal date at the clinic, and his voice was smooth; I would also collect everyone’s black card. After he had humped me, and again, on the examination bed, he found time to let me know that, since Daniel had been also a cardholder, he had been able to compare and confirm Zev’s filiation, if needed.
On Melchior’s instigation, Hugo was appointed as one of three experts that would advise the notary and the authorities in the D. Mendelsohn inventory, he arranged to take onboard Florenz Marc and Cyprien, in due competence. The financial appraising was at the Ministry of Finances’ discretion.

In addition to prodigious lovemaking, the fire of unspeakable suffering simmered in Zev’s eyes, albeit I could not decipher his growls. A bigwig neurologist was sent, but she could not garner any shred of sense in Zev’s behaviour. We went for painful days of scrutiny, medical imagery, encephalogram and the whole shebang. Ultimately, some pretty operator in the laboratory wrote her observation that he behaved somewhat more intelligibly if he could keep in relation to me, it had been very notable during the encephalogram. The conclusion had been that his problem was probably not of a biological nature.
The case was then deferred to psychologists —through spite— and was suddenly enlightened, serendipitously, by an intern with Dr Blankfein who was attempting to draw Zev through tests, me present, after one afternoon of utter failure head to head. It happened that the young woman was from somewhere in East Moravia, and she began to hear some crippled words amongst Zev’s gibberish and slowly replicated some shreds of rudimentary communication with him. She was savvy enough not to delude herself, it was genuine mental archaeology, and Zev was soaked in sweat.
With Armand’s help, who had been twenty years in the house, we could unearth details of Zev’s upbringing. Because of the relationship between his psychopathic mother who slogged down a suicide path, and his father, a monomaniac collector haunting all the auction venues of the world, Zev was totally entrusted to a nurse who identified him as her own son and taught him her own mother tongue. If delusional, she was a lovely sweet person, enough to stir Daniel’s wants which she resisted so stubbornly that one morning, she was found dead, neck broken, at the foot of the stairs, in her simple nightgown, Zev huddled up by her.
After the nurse’s uninvestigated murder —a doctor signed the burial certificate— none other people could ever come around the child who regressed, even physically; he was never allowed in public, only, after he began to masturbate in every nook, did his father afford him prostitutes to play with, Liselotte had not known that.
I began to feel overworked, night after night with the insatiable wants of a rudish young satyr who barely spoke. Kate was the first to come along with me, and I showed Zev how she was no stranger. He read in her eyes that carnal wisdom and watched us enlace, then he was a damn bull to tame. Afterwards, when he accommodated himself to find in other women what he had craved in me, he began to dawn out of his doldrums for good. He relied on Armand to call on whomever of us he had a whim for. The majordome did not refrain from requiring his toll in kind, with manners, like a proficient hotel concierge, and he was a skilled swordsman.

Meanwhile, the Laforest sisters had called around to their social gathering with us. Those who had climbed the pillows at the Mendelsohn lair had their blood stirred. I had spent a night at Hugo’s retelling the nitty gritty of my adventure, wallowing in mellow cushions, mollycoddled as always by my unfailing mentor.
A date for Sissi and Bowie’s all-out gathering had been set; it was not utterly substantial to me, I was living some weird metamorphosis with my selfless ball player, it was intense, and all progressed by the day. With constant help from Dusa, the intern who had heard through his pathetic growl, and whom he had eventually entrusted with his lost childhood, although he would also confide more totally adult confidences into the rich comforters.

They all kept saying I detained the mental keystone in Zev’s salvation, inasmuch I had received his father’s last breath, in pivotal circumstances in his life, it constituted instant shamanism, the metaphor would have it that I had spirited away Daniel’s soul for the redemption of his son’s.
Now, the devilish sisters wouldn’t talk to me about letting me come to their home with Zev, in a private configuration, an isolated room. It would be Cecile who had to go on an embassy and paid with a few hours leashed as a bitch in an assembly of pitiless perverts, the game became more spiced up —the two lovebirds might have to come to terms with retaliation eventually— and they granted that I could use one of the stately bedrooms with my boy toy. The next day, Cecile was properly raddled, she dawdled and quipped that the two should expect a puppy from her bitch, as goes the say where she’s from.
She asked what intrigue she had been fooled with, and nonetheless amused —and rightfully rewarded— so I offered to take her with me to Monceau where Cyprien seemed to spend his days recently. No decorum was needed, she was all that desirable in the outfit I had wished for her when we met, jeans and a white tee shirt under the black Perfecto jacket, plus she had thinned a trifle, and she smelled of her Italian Cologne, I recalled our follies in that hotel room overlooking the Arno; I loved her.
I wore a simple grey cashmere sweater dress under an over-mended layered Boro coat, and Chelsea boots, like her. Our driver looked ponderous, thus I behaved myself, only warning Cecile that she was about to visit one of the most stupefying turn-of-the-century collections in Paris, if Cyprien had told her, but she had not had any news lately. The majordome considered us with his usual half-compunction, and I knew what it meant; as I introduced my protégée, he seized my arm quietly and drew us towards his snug cubby, I only nodded at Cecile and winked. The Cerberus —we had confronted many others before— greedily kissed my mouth, then asked if my little pal was as much of a slapper as I was, pulling her unabashedly by the waist and beginning to craftily unbutton her fly, as he had with all his passed master’s visitors. She artfully played the defenceless girl letting herself be done looking down most passively as he pushed her upon an armchair’s back and bent to sniff her kittie like he would a precious vintage; he said she fit prettily with me, and he would ask to shag her some other time.
Zev had had a hard day’s work, he was asleep, nose in the comforter, with no pants on. I undressed my bosom chum entirely, she looked at once like another gem in the collection, I was so proud of her. She was drawn to a cabinet on a stand showing a court scene with Nevers glass figurines, letting me crave for her perfect bottom before the soon-to-occur ransack of its secretive rills.
Once the eyes found the sight in the bedroom shadows, there would stand sundry other glazed boxes of drawn glass miniatures, from bland religious imagery till the sauciest obscenity, bawdy scenes in restless taverns, or in Olympian Arcadia. Zev fostered a long-time attachment to the little glass world, he had elected residence amidst them. Cecile couldn’t help reckoning the painstaking work of restoring those which needed to be.
Suddenly, the naughty Alberich stood all erect upon his cloud of cushionry, amazed at two Rhinemaidens for one. He had thrived in humanity, spoke like a toddler in broken French, and stretched his limbs like a sportsman. He jumped towards Cecile with his majestuous dick holding up the tails of his shirt. She knew he wouldn’t attempt any misdeed on her, so she looked him up in the eye while his Johnson grazed her belly. He glanced at me to read my agreement, smelled promises into Cecile’s neck, eyes closed, and devoured her lips like a maddened puppy.
My best craftsmaid of eastern wastelands was becoming her lewdest dancer at the hands of King Kong, and however, I wouldn’t let her duo without helping. She laid back over my inner thigh as he began foraging her bijou slit with the firebrand of his torch, measure for measure, with a perfect smile. I rounded down to catch the tip of her tongue as she moaned in the tempo rubato.
To my demented eyes, he was less and less of the beast his own father had unleashed upon me in a last blaze of whatever poison he puffed up his brains; and all the minuscule glass people in the room stood mum in awe. She gushed her streams unfetteredly, and he would never tire.

 

Cecile says:

These heaps of eiderdown had engulfed the whole world, but I needed to pee, mundanely. I snaked among the wet patches of whatever we had let flow unabashedly, I felt deviously guilty. Mr Armand stood watching me unfurl, but I reckoned he had seen me with that sort of interest before, thus I needed not to pretend modesty; he showed me to the bathroom and bided at a distance, guessing that I might smell funny; it was wise.
He ran a bath with a lather of May flowers, the same as I had dived in once at Speck’s after a fierce hullabaloo, he held my hand to the tub, took off his jacket, rolled his sleeves, and seized a plump sponge nearby to rub my back and the rest, to render me clean as a whistle, earning the favour of my mouth, he tasted of laurel soap.
I had left him neat, he was overjoyed as he dressed back up before wrapping me inside a huge terry towel and stealing a few real kisses. He had collected my street threads, he still relished grazing my flat breasts in the tee shirt. In a vast otherworldly kitchen, he brewed coffee with a Caffetiera Napolitana and asked me what I wished for breakfast. They had an imposing cookie jar in the shape of Humpty Dumpty, and Mr Armand watched me dip the cookies with loving eyes.
Back in his up-straight allure, he showed me out to the side door, whispering to my ear that he wished me back. A black car awaited and drove me home under a sparse rain, leaving Sarah in her dreams, as I always would. I began scheming a way to visit the Mendelsohn collection in the daytime, should it mean granting Mr Armand some favour behind the curtains once in a while; or Hugo —a man of many curtains— could show enough authority as to my competence, whatever my nightly existence.
Sarah came by the workshop in the afternoon; I was back at work on a black lacquered and gilt XVIIth century Chinese made-for-export double-bodied chest with an upper bookcase, from the von Brouwers’ estates in Denmark, as written on the back panel. I teased her about her ancestry, she retorted that, bar her father —she said “Far”— there wasn’t much, there, worth remembering for her, the plinth amidst the broken pediment should as well bear an empty urn. She quizzed me in turn about my awakening, Mr Armand had kindly let her be, thus she had supposed I had done the job with him; we laughed, and she said she would ask Natalia next.
Now, a few days away, the keynote for the Laforest extravaganza was “Années Folles, slutty and sluttier”, Lauritz had shown me again the confidential albums of the most secretly deviant von Speck Paris estate —each time a pretext to offer me to one of his clients. The house, one of the noble hotels on the Saint Louis island’s shore, had never been registered as a brothel, nor the women who whored there in full view of the nearby vice squad. Anyhow, the mood board would easily summarise as going bare-arsed —we do that— thus, I would don this black double-breasted multicoloured sequined blazer, just level with my bum, a choker of articulated plates of Australian black opals, and black pearlescent slippers. I had just finished my touch-up laser skin sweep along with Charlotte who then did her first treatment —and who showed off like Lulu three days later in Speck’s grand salon.
Until then, the soft waters in our pool harboured some faddish delights, when I had enough breathing in a mask for using solvents. It was about the hour when the little ballet crew offered their soulful joints freely to underwater strokings. Finlan the ginger and pale Gwen’s sugar buddy and blushing Marcelin had been stroking each other’s stems, thus I craftily ensnared them in the middle, floating weightless upon their want. I raptured them afterwards for trios in my shop, while Malo gathered the nymphets for overnight amusements in town.
We ordered finger food, soup and Kombucha, and they retold how they had flown to Den Haag to see the Nederlands Dans Theater in a new play ballet called Solitude, in which a young poet passed through the hustle and bustle of mundane life, unfazed and ultimately forlorn, the young man with the vermillion hat. They had cried and joined the thunderous rounds of applause while attendants brought Melchior’s luscious bunch of roses onstage at the salute.
Out of their pride of having been seated in one of the best boxes to enthuse in the perfect performance of the finest dance phalanx in the Western world, they stiffened anew in their sweatpants so I wouldn’t neglect another turn at the carousel and before dessert, I had again sucked and intaken their virulent semen at both ends of my unabashed anatomy. After coffee and pastries, their embers rekindled, I had them chase me to my cubbyhole where the rugs were silken and the lights propitious, I sensed them so easygoing compared to Zev’s rough truncheon. We ended up sweaty, drippy, and heavenly smelling, thus I drew them to my shower lair, where Lauritz had offered me a new toy, a rubber dome on which to rest and dare them to pee in my arse.

That Wednesday night eventually happened, late afternoon, a stealth noria of grey minibuses began in our streets, to the amazement of dawdlers. The devilish sisters had done things artfully, and the weather was unseasonably mellow; fresh greenery shivered in their park. Expectedly, Melchior had lent an army of black-suited extras proficient as the One-Two-Two squad of bygone days, did we feel ogled at!
Sarah barely hid her bum crack behind the beaded fringe of a black slapper over-beaded tunic; she smelled of true Joy by Patou, said she, a present of Mr Armand, a whirlwind of lustful luxury, a murder of jasmine in a bush of roses. She wore a diamond, sapphire, and rubies choker, bracelet and anklet, gift of Camille’s; snazzy black patent court slippers with jay knots. Arm in arm with Kate in aquamarine cascades with a bare satiny back and the scent of Iris Absolute, flaring white opals to her neck, wrists and ankle, iridescent strapped flat sandals. The pair lit up sparkles in the sisters’ pupils; and wandering hands.
Our hosts looked carried away, Sissi almost merely clad in jewels —and most looked real— on transparent crepe, and gilt flat sandals, Bowie in a mid-thigh, pearl-stitched, harlequin tunic of dainty rainbow shades, in white suede Maryjanes and white knee stockings.
Many of our cousins had chosen frankly to parade frankly as the best boarders of a cathouse, travelling wrapped in a shawl. Gwen wore a loose boxer, a cropped little shirt, and mules, in almond green satin trimmed in purple; Dagmar’s pale mauve camisole did not hide at all her coochie.
Those who had, like cats, chosen lush pyjamas, did not make a mystery of their open slits, like on Brassaï’s catalogues for Diana Slip. All in all, the motto was to show willful free access, among the perfumed undergrowth of the magic forest. And even thus, there shouldn’t be any unwelcome transgressions, mind you, Melchior’s hunks are implacable.
Deep sofas and chairs, as wide as the sacred lotus rafts, circled around a low podium where Malo, Rachel and others I did not know yet improvised in the nude a fluttering capriccio in which Rachel’s violin, rested on Malo’s maternal cello’s voice, instigated harmonies and fioriture by the other three, particularly the velvety violas who twirled like silk banners to a breeze. It had doubtlessly been Malo’s victory to undress her heavenly quintet, Rachel was blushing as Sarah tiptoed to them and gave a gracious bow salute. Entered the no less scantily costumed sylphides, Josephine and her court, in air-draught shirts made of sundry embroidery patches sewn upon nothing, flitting around the pale twirls of their impalpable dancing swathes. Nowhere other than in a sophisticated lupanar such as the idea of the preterhuman sisters had suggested could the expression of three metaphysical alley cats unfurl as gratuitously.
Djinn Delff’s genderless intuition input that carefree mockery we crave in them without bothering the meditation of the two others, like the damselfly on a Calder mobile. They did not sweat out on a long paragraph, but the shrub of applause quivered with tenderness; I felt a new crush for Rachel who stared at me as the quintet resumed its flight; she let her thighs part, and so did I.
It would have been Melchior who had flown in Ayla from Zurich along with Annachiara my Venetian courtesan of sensuous memories; as Ayla, all glimmering of jay strands jiggling upon her nudity sat upon Melchior’s lap, our Italian fling ran to me, blowing a kiss to Hugo before poking her tongue at my lips. She embalmed of oriental rose, the surefire spell of her apostolate since she had followed Ayla in the Swiss palaces. We enlaced in the deep down cushions, soon joined by silky strangers, as the rule of the game went. Sarah jumped at Ayla’s neck, who let be wanked by her haphazard hunk, thus Sarah’s bum became unavoidable for a swift opportunist; Rachel’s smile meant some obvious envy.
Natalia, naked in an open vermillion horse guard’s tunic, led a platoon of frivolous mischievous imps, Ksyusha merely decorated with a very high-waisted knit rose cardigan, Annabelle in a misty green domino hood that hardly covered her shoulders, Fayelle in a flimsy yellow organza blouse, and Beryl in a black hide and steel buckles harness letting all access as ought to be in such an urbane brothel.
At best, the Aviatrix would avail herself minutes of exascale autorun, like she couldn’t escape when she slept on Trine’s bosom, inside her Faraday cage, whatever the clock; on this occasion, she had designed for herself more on the client slope, her tight little booty snugly fit in golden jeans, her seldom seen baby breasts nested in a golden mock perfecto lined with white piqué satin. Trine’s vapourous déshabillé flit like a gold powder on her bum cheeks making Michelle proud who had never overlooked the salvation she had found at Sarah’s feet, behind the red sofa. For once, she flirted overtly with Sissi, toggling her pretty spindle.
She ended up remarkably with no pants, welcoming the tiny stiff spur into her jewel slit, I fantasised about some sisterly threading, as I knew she indulged in, between Apolline and Delff; and nonetheless, I had already witnessed her, under peculiar star aspects, enjoy the bruntish toy of some Cossack, just like the best of us, heads and tails.
While another polite John released his karma into my little winker, I had noticed Dagmar and Gwen, innamorati like Fontainebleau nymphs, being spirited away with Bowie, all smiles. As I needed the loo, I went by where they had gone, in need of washing myself up. In otherworldly plumbing appliances, of silver-lined exotic marble, that was thorough; back in the party, I followed a trail of narcissus towards heavy maroon draperies, where eerie rumours seemed to emanate from. Somewhat fascinated, I brushed along the polished wall when my arm was seized by the sturdy hand of whoever whispered into my ear that curiosity killed the cat, and drew me to a black and red stucco proper dungeon where three desirable patients were already tied up to the wall with padded bracelets and complete hoods, eyes and mouth zipped, Dagmar limbs spread out, her face to the wall waiting to be flogged all over, Gwen standing up quartered impaled to the hilt upon a footed dildo, and the third had her arms stretched between pillars, and stood all zipped up in a full black leather bodysuit with red trimmed zippers for the mouth, the breasts, and the crotch. I thought I singled out Seresine de Chalendin, because there was a lush ponytail gushing through a hole at the back of her head, and the pretty model of her feet. My capturer did not let go of me, asking which one I would like to torment, myself, and vet that their bodies would trickle with overriding pleasure.
The leather and fashioning of these utterly frivolous accessories seduced my curiosity, I walked to the black ghost with fine white feet with a want to test the zippers and get a feel of the already moist and warm hide. The fastener glided like gold, uncovering savoury lips, pearly teeth, and a playful tongue.
I did not perceive the other assailants, but before I could voice anything, my mouth was gagged with a supple chew ball, my head was hooded close, my wrists and ankles cuffed, and a corset strapped to my waist and tightened, my hands hooked to it in the back, my feet tied apart on the floor; they inserted some kind of tail into my arse, I could hear the tone of mocking comments, and, further, the cries of someone, probably Dagmar, being lashed.
Someone uncovered my ears and began cursing and insulting me softly with a mellifluous tone of voice, jolting my tail and eventually freeing the way. my nipples were fiercely twiddled, and my toes were nibbled, and then a more than real stanchion started buggering me under the sarcastic comments of more than one.
It served me right, I had been trapped like a candid fool, but wasn’t it all the more kicky? Remained one utter retaliation, I pissed on whoever was poking a tongue into my cooch, sparking a round of heated banters and compliments; I could only accept having been turned into an expendable hole, dripping like a sewer hose, unabashedly.
I recovered, befogged, in a tepid bath, enlaced with Charlotte who scolded me for having let so many cudgels into my bratty nook, she said it reminded her, on Sunday nights, at her father’s shop, once they had coerced her to drink sweet Martinis and dance like Madonna —they did not beat her, though.
The bathroom walls were entirely clad with majolica depicting explicit orgy scenes between fauns and nymphs, of a skilled brush, and marked the depraved origins of the house. Sarah found us, wiped me dry, and said in aparté that Zev was in good humour in a red lampas room upstairs.
She led us through the greedy crowd who might not know me or my bum; older jocks kept their shirts or robes on but ran their fingers all over us. The bedroom was magnificent, dimly lit by porcelain nightlights in the shapes of lifesize erect penises. The walls were upholstered in shimmering crimson lampas framed by black lacquered cornices. By a professional quirk, I took notice of a series of lewd graciousenesses, hanging in black lacquer frames, in the manner of Achille Deveria’s. Tall Coromandel screens obscured the windows, and the red background Persian rug felt opulent under the feet before a Turkish divan spread with silken prayer carpets. A burly gnome sat in an open shirt and rested on one arm, a beastly truncheon jolting up at us —but since my prime days, I had known soon that they would end inside, long patience given.
He rolled wild eyes, clumsily seizing both Charlotte and me, watching Sarah for permission, and she showed big fun while nodding. He had been taught to kiss and fondle well enough to tame worried little does like us, and Sarah pulled his nerves smoothly like the puppeteer; Charlotte was first to lie down and spread her milky thighs.

 

Malo says:

This carnal climate feeds my endlessly sauntering melodies, like the plankton the whale —if I may— that slithered through that extraneous dimension beyond all walls. And no one, alien to these tribal mores that we indulge, will ever relish the sacred chords. My calling, since I first met Hugo and his peers as a pretty ravenous fiddler —a flustered wayfarer tempting a go at whoring, before he sussed about whatever talent in me— had only been the quest for the solitude beyond, notwithstanding harmless passengers possessing clear souls, like we had shown that exceptional night. Brought down to the material groove, I needed the loo, hence I gave a stare at Rachel, meaning I would switch the soundscape to artificial calculation, for the while, at the tap on a pad, the computer rehashed a cyber version of what we had been threading until then.
One of those still dressed up showed me to a private toilet, as big as a Hollywood bedroom, with a chiselled marble seat and magazines on a low table; I read vanities about last year’s Met Gala. I had happened to perform on one of the overlooking terraces across Fifth Avenue, for a genteel crowd who rather worshipped my own kind of fashion, and they owned Brancusi damsels.
Back in the main salon, I wasn’t surprised that the courtly attendance had as soon devolved into a garden of lubricity as unbridled as the machine sounded it was. The instrument cases had been packed away safely, and Rachel had been suborned gently by Hugo at the first row.
There was hustle at each door, crowds wouldn’t miss a peep at whatever daring number, like say, Kate, heartfully ridden by three muscular strangers. In a gilded corbeille settee, Ayla with a smile offered a slit in bloom, upon her impaled rosebud, thus I buzzed around her pricey lips as her cavalier speeded pace and she rewarded me with a beastly spurt that tasted bland like unripe hazels. That was endearing, but then I needed to be done bluntly, and justly one of the said Cossacks was standing there giving me the eye in such a manner, hunky, nude and a valid shashka in the wind. He took over the bulk of me, twirled his tongue to mine, and carried me to some empty cubbyhole with no other light than some electrical indicators; the heavy carpet was enough. He spoke for himself in Zaporizhian slang as he thrust his weapon into my throat and spurt a foretaste of my share, and since I was so thoroughly gulping up, he lay me, and I pulled up my legs at his will. He gave no quarter, I sensed his pertness up through my guts, like Stravinski’s glissandi through Petruschka. He was utterly nimble, letting me dislocated like a puppet in the yellowish penumbra, I dived into bliss as he panted about me.
He had run like a thief, but I reckoned he had left me whole, with a buzzing swarm in my womb, I snuck out for a bathroom, not too keen to expose my drippy thighs, naughty girl.
Camille had missed me, said she, while she drew me upstairs by a small spiral staircase that landed in another stately bedroom with a stuccoed ceiling peopled with wanton creatures of many sexes frolicking in baroque drapery creases. In the master bed, two black athletes had captured some slender filly I soon recognised as Fæbian, that elusive slapper from the Lake Constance shores, rich and devastated since the death of her sister, she roamed the cathouses of Mittel Europa with Lizon and others.
In a corner was a rounded sofa of vieux-rose satin, probably placed there to allow voyeurs to enjoy the sight of the ongoing drills on the bed, and Fæbian was indeed worth eying up, at the whim of the muscular handlers. It helped me recover as I nosed in Camille’s neck amongst the wealth of her ginger curls. Albeit we would be considered as available prey by whoever fancied a dash of carnal tinge towards any of us, we let our embers wane in our dreamy wombs.
We would have been squealed to the wanton marauders who weaved in and saw enough of us, too, without thinking of jostling Fæbian’s passion, the three mature stooges crept around to our hideout and let their hands talk. They were mild-mannered like office clerks who know you are richer than them, wasn’t it the case? So little did they know when they dared us to kiss and to open our legs wide, I read the long-time rascalness of she who revelled in our pillow camaraderie.
One of the trio had found it funnier to use Fæbian’s mouth while she harmoniously lodged two indefatigable hooters. In our team, it went in all alacrity, Camille had always been a keen bellwether, and our jocks obtained what they had rung for, with little sweating.
Soaked like frogs, we headed to the bathroom and locked it, without saying. She felt like a lathery shower, and enough moping dry Liselotte’s wandering scholars; our turn, to corner running treats like Sissi and Bowie, whatever was left of their bonny pintles and heart-shaped bums. But beforehand, we felt a tad peckish, hence we climbed down in search of a dining room, a pretty one that is, like an English garden in May.

 

Sarah says:

I could tell Liselotte was proud of her clout, most of her influential patrons had cleared their schedules to attend that mingling with the heavenly swarm in the most intriguing estate in Paris, in the most private interwar fashion, whatever it cost. And besides an opportunity to review her ratings on both sides of the trade, it was the best way to taste the goods, rudely said.
We two dated back aeons, it seemed, and she had been the one, in our schooldays, chasing me, while I was totally enthralled with Kate, who looked down on me, the needy tomboy in Camille’s sheets; she wouldn’t waste her time, trophy mistress of a powerful geek before she ended up in the dumpster. But Liselotte had stubbornly sensed my perverse bend and sworn to nail me on it. She did not know that, behind my well-to-do Danish maiden allure, I had known more ways to trade with my violets than her; my privileged school in Switzerland, and then the confessions of a savvy teenage prostitute, as her fate had made of Camille —before Hugo eventually sent her back to school with flying colours— this all under the indefectible shield of my beloved father, granted me more leeway than she might have imagined. Hence, when our secretly debauched characters had eventually cranked up, she used me with unabashed delectation, as well as the wildflowers fate entrusted me with, like Natalia, our house fairy.
Upon fine linen, there were heaps of refined nibbles, those under the leek symbol without any meat; all fairies in our swarm condoned the eggs and cheeses, I personally craved devilled eggs —a reminder of the canteen at my lakeshore haven; Liselotte fed mainly on nuts, like the squirrel she resembled, to my all-time liking —I had been boss of Tudor City squirrels, in my New York days.
She could tell me, in aparté, who and what each dawdler was, who stared at my legs and feet with fawning greed and thriving pride under their bespoke shirt tails, it was the best gathering venue in the palace for whom needed another tryst; most were money traders, real estate moguls, many were political handlers, her preferred ones were academic luminaries —pondering types who made you kneel with your knickers down, celebrity shrinks morally adrift, waiting for Peter to straighten up. She promised me she would send me to an astrophysicist too shy to have been among the guests, he could operate the great telescope for me so that I innocently turn my backside to him.
Once perked up —the grand samovar was kept alive by a most endangered maid, in a mere apron— we strolled about arm in arm, she knew everyone, and I was fondled freely as a salutation; she was advertising my arse, wasn’t she? In a chinoiserie boudoir neatly scattered with mirror shards —like in the Margravine Hermitage in Bayreuth— lay my very own Ayla cuddling Dagmar in carnations embroidered black silk padded bedspread. The heavenly-legged hanseatic orphan, not so much overspent of pain than bliss, in German. They smelled of a potent flowery salve that Ayla relished rubbing on the tatters of an angelic bitch’s hide.
Liselotte ventured a light hand between the inflamed thighs, only to find our precious swan still revelling in full bliss, and she murmured she too, procured vicious creatures to painful patrons, for a price and atonement. With a sidelong glance, Ayla expressed her doubts, reviving the harrowing days of Esther, bandaged on the clinic’s bed, until yet, she couldn’t forgive herself for having let the frail kid go alone. Liselotte understood, and floated that she did not intercede among mental freaks, and through the years the Hellfire Club had proven safe, altogether.
The long-winged orphan wouldn’t wish to be side swept as a foolhardy freak, she sat up and hugged Ayla, thus exposing a spectacularly striated back. Seizing the tube of ointment, I took a chance at grazing the feverish muscles, she meandered with her spine, and I sensed full well the perversion of her moan; I let out that I would accompany her if she would.
A funny character, with ice-blue eyes and a winged hairdo, in a long night-blue gown and white shirt came to salute Liselotte but kept his eyes over me, as you do in such a nunnery. He was a world-renowned philosopher, but I was too attractive to bother with the principles of thought, thus he grabbed my fingers and made me stand, then follow him elsewhere.
He smelled of gingerbread, like my childhood cookies, and he kissed me at every turn of his quest for a love nest, thus he soon ended with a stiff kind of flute out of his shirt, so, behind a bust of some bygone bigwig, I sat upon my heels and pumped him proper. He mumbled and wriggled, for my well-earned pride, when I felt tentative fingers about my bumhole, and heard a smutty voice pontificating in Latin, initiating a dialogue I had better be left out of, my master clasping my head firmly until he released his quintessence that tasted of raw fish. The intruder was unexpectedly bulky, with a svelte attribute he ordered me to serve, too, in French.

They had pushed me along, one or the other’s hands on my butt, a proper disposable pet, as I did not contest. They had manners, they kept babbling, in that mock Latin that seemed to have long been their scholastic code, and I soon sussed they debated my physical traits, appraising the charm of my being a genteel tomboy with smooth skin all over and mirabilious eyes.
The Oliver Hardiesque of the two was a mathematician, but my legs made him lose his marbles, they finally dredged up a vacant bed our size, pristine white à la Reine satin and festooned pillows, and I was more than elated to let them handle my limbs with whatever science they professed. I did not need to apprehend their abstruse prattle to surmise the stake of their dispute; they entertained the fancy to shag me together, but the conformation of Oliver Hardy made it inconvenient for him to lie under the stack, then who would I turn my arse at?
Aristotle showed a vehement preference for my bumhole, he already had two or three fingers inside; he inquired if I would be a willing tom thus, I retorted I had been in a boarding school learning the lewd way. As I lay backwards upon his lesser body, he buggered me easily, letting me think he had stealthily summoned the Swiss Navy. Hardy no sooner cossetted my holy slit with his fluids and mine, they both behaved with delicious caution, and as I spread all my limbs, Aristotle tickled my foolberries like a crafty bumblebee.
I was elated to gush like a spring along with them both, a true synergy of mathematics and philosophy, and they did not wane —everybody had taken their pill, obviously. This turn, Aristotle suckled my tongue as he sheathed his rhetorics deep through Archimedes’ splatter, it took me some contortions to come to squeeze his principles, while Newton glided to the hilt in my ready-reamed entrails.
After a thorough toilet in a Pompadour tub, they cuddled me and asked if I was in Liselotte’s books; Aristotle liked my name, and they let me doze out on a dry patch of the regal bed. My whole body buzzing. I hovered in bliss with a flight of swans over the Øresund, the sea froth smelled of semen, and in the deer park, the fawns frolicked about. I resurfaced with the warmth of a long caress on my back; certainly, a sweet woman had followed me in the undergrowth and smelled of fallen poplar leaves.
It was a light-handed girl, who licked my earlobe and breathed like a puppy, one I had not slept with before. I whirled to face her, she was of the pale Slavic harmony, a blond fairy of the seafarers, a salvaged tramp from the mucky realm of lies, that burns endlessly at our borders. Lily Zavratin, her tangerine breasts and guitar belly, aquamarine gaze and flaxen hair, child stolen from a tundra caravan, she had thrived under Louis’ wing, and thus she wooed me in broken French. I could soon tell that she had shagged the night as much as I, and she said it had been pleasurable, Louis had made her a cunning libertine, she had an apartment, minutes from ours, but Mara had told her she should move with us, If only for basic security, I concurred —she wasn’t begging, but she was ridiculously lovely. We sniffed at each other like vixens then, we opened the bed to let it dry of my effluences, and we returned, embraced, play our little game.
In the reception rooms, the bazaar had luffed to scattered winds and the mood board to an afterparty. Malo’s generative soundscape still peppered the brains and rumps but all the remnant manhood was unleashed, and young mercenaries were mentally frothing at the mouth, freed of suits and liveries. As always, only the certainty that they would be caught on video, be it in the darkest light, refrained the ardours of a safe smidgen. The majordome had clearly barked that the modus vivendi be more like Dirty Bertie’s playground than the Sack Of Constantinople, while himself kept toiling hard in Rachel’s lesser access.
We couldn’t reach the foot of the stairs, two or three younglings, on their way to the bedrooms, passed us near enough, thus one joshed it would be fun to plough a couple of lesbians; he was handsome and tauten, I seized his dick and showed him a wide open crotch, resting up on the stairs, daring him to make me gush as much as my lover. He did not flinch, his determination was solid, and we played attuned to each other. The two others had carried Lily to the corner landing where she was shared doggy, no harm done, and then double, like a butterfly. I was more than happy to squirt along with my panting ram who thus earned an honorary degree of Cossackdom.
Fit and skilled, they wanted more of what had come so easy; they pushed us back upstairs looking for another sandpit. It seemed all beds brimmed over with spirit, whilst my cavalier shunned company. At the far end, we opened a door onto a desolate spiral stairwell, and that fitted his adventurous youth. The bleached raw steps led to a row of attics, much like Delff’s realm, lit by feeble indicator lights.

No one seemed to have lived there, the walls were pitch pine, the carpet of stiff fibres. When we opened the first doors, we were suffocated by the mothball stench. Only one room was breathable and filled with ghostly dummies, all shrouded in light muslin. Under the few tawny lights in the high corners, the spectacle was eldritch and scared Lily’s suitors who drew her elsewhere, giggling. I stood in awe, like in some Polish movie dreamscape; in the far corner towered a canopy bed wrapped in grey swaths of chiffon, and the panaches over the corners of the cornice resembled cemetery angels. My captor imp had known this romantic love nest, he capsized me into a stack of pluff pillows that smelled like lavender sachets.
In the amber gloom, he stared me in the eyes, proud of his catch —like I had entrapped a new candid rookie in the boxwoods at sunset in the late summer haze. I let him own me, he was pretty, small nose and dark tea eyes under raised brows, no sign of a beard but a full-grown penis jolting up at my attention, the fresh cadet said plenty of sweet words of me while I crawled down to suck his candy, he tousled my curls and asked permission to gorge me of his beastly sap, when it was already too late.
He thanked me, unabashedly licking the taste of his outspurt in my mouth, I called him a true libertine. He purred and poke his nose and tongue into every warm nook, my neck, my armpits, my navel, my wet bum crack. He murmured that I smelled like a baby as if he knew anything about that. I raised my thighs to offer him the whole province, he enraged my trigger knob till I splashed on his face without permission, and, at the peak of his pride, he threaded in my vagina with bracing alacrity, as if he felt level with my efforts. He almost overspent my unabashed sluttiness, I was brimming with semen; I swore to keep him on my list, his name was Yvan.
I woke in the scented maze of my assented debacle, a meagre ray of daylight suffused through the edges of the shutters helped me reckon my whereabouts; I needed the loo, and a small door seemed to open on a bathroom. As I pissed abundantly, I could see myself in a wall mirror, and I sniggered, I was dead filthy. It was an outdated bathroom, but clean and working, with a vast enamelled tub where I could float in rose-smelling water; enough to entice me to masturbate, again.
I found some kind of terry robe, not that I feared wandering still naked in such a hospitable house. The party was obviously over, the majordome had donned his black outfit and ordered the cleaning teams; he granted me a candid smile, showing me the way to a small breakfast room. Unforeseen, he soon pushed me behind a curtain and groped me with manners, opening the robe wide. He might as well have threaded my arse a few hours before. I did not even start to repost, he smelled of refined Cologne, and his Marshall’s staff was pretty much awake. He gave me a whirl of a kiss and concluded that he hoped we might possibly shag soon, at what I offered him an engaging smile, musing that I might grant him a free pass at Speck’s. He rewrapped and hugged me in the robe.
A little further, there was a lively art-nouveau-style room clad with enamelled tiles showing exotic birds and plants, lavish whiplash-patterned stained-glass windows, and furnished with matched sculpted chairs and tables like a belle-époque tea room.
The samovar girl sported heart-wrenching mauve circles under her sombre eyes, she poured me a mug of a dark cheerful mix and stood by the table like a slave, which triggered my fantasy, did she know? I loosely schemed a manoeuvre of the kind I had always practised with; I did not engage in chatting, but I stared so keenly and let my robe flare open. She insensibly drifted towards me, as if naturally, until she was at arm’s length and I began to play footsie, since she had been wearing only sandals. I sensed my hand could graze up her thigh under the black skirt, and discovered she wore no knickers, as if naturally. Her skin was much smoother than one would expect on a mere waitress.
She leant on my side and parted her legs a chink, she smelled of iris and ylang-ylang, a pricey fragrance then again not expected on her. As I nuzzled on her pubis and told her the luxury of her scent, she whispered that the majordome had offered it. I told her he had groped me in the corridor, and she smirked and said she had seen that; she sat on my bare lap and kissed me, I told her she moved me.
By a window, there was an old-rose velvet loveseat, she pulled off my robe and led me to it, in a turn of hand she was nude too; she said that even those who drank tea would let us be, in any case, and as to the majordome, whose name was Hubert, was probably already watching us, with relish. She said this was the way the two sisters had decreed life would go in their realm, and no one ever complained, the money, the food, and the lovemaking were that copious

Sissi had been scouring around to find me, and there I was, sipping more the maid than the tea, which I assured her was incomparably tasty. She smirked finely and said she knew that well, twiddling the toes of a high-dangling racy foot. She wore no more than daffodil yellow cashmere leggings, a floating paper-white silk shirt, and light-maize colour sneakers. She too had slender feet and smooth legs, as she sat next to Gabriela to show me they knew each other well, so thus I pulled the leggings down and pointed to a tiny spot in the silk of the thong, Gabriela bent down to suck that while I finished my first exploits on her, she tasted like Gyokuro Japanese tea; she gulped Sissi’s lesser droplets in a canny smile.
My nightly Yvan supervened, as if claiming to milk the samovar, but he was quickly aroused watching our scene, so Sissi beckoned him, his fitted Lycras unable to conceal an interesting tension. He was a cunning player, he claimed he had not yet detailed my bottoms in full light, and he did not regret serving them with the same ardour as the other twos. Sissi showed him to near and seized the tiny tab of his zipper to slide it down, freeing that arrogant dick I had greeted in all manners; with her own jewellery still flex as a fiddle, Sissy gulped in deep the wonder tool with long moans, but I doubted he could again spurt out any tangible argument, or would he?
Under an arbour of fragrant promises, we nonetheless should own up to parting ways, eventually. I found Hubert, who had sheltered my petty wares, and little was I surprised that he expected some kind of favour before he released me. I knew full well that sort of drill, and so I let him push me to that expected cubbyhole as they all have, somewhere. That one, other than those hotel concierges use, was mostly the control room for a galaxy of cameras, but I had no time to wonder to what extent they might be used; he bent me fore on a leather-clad desk that smelled of almond wax, told me to part my thighs and began to wank my bumhole two or three fingers like a true tamer, and then buggered me with some urgency, his nob even bigger than Yvan’s. After a vivacious release on his part, he upturned me to force me to squirt like a beast, hence I briefly passed out. He was faultlessly caring when he lathed me over with a sponge, in a deep-blue tiles-clad private bathroom, and I chose to try on his Cologne before I dressed up. We exchanged numbers, he said he would love to meet me at Speck’s two days later at night. He gave me Gabriela and Yvan’s numbers, then squashed me against the padded door to tell me I would be welcome to return and get shagged out of my head in this house, I had done that so beautifully.
I was generous with the driver, as if he had, in the least, participated; he took it as a windfall, ogling my crotch. My mind was obviously kind of fluttering, hence I went first downstairs to dive into the pool. Emeline was there with playful eyes, she joshed I looked like I had shagged a battalion of hussars; I unclothed deftly and dived to her, she liked that I knead her feet on which she had twirled a good while.
Malo, Rachel, and her had quit the party around midnight, she had shagged a good many customers and garnered a fat batch that smelled good. After she had overdriven her blooming youth, Melchior had pulled her apart and sniffed her out like fresh produce, then told her she should foresee in time, and thus ask Ayla for proper means to stack her hazels safely.
Rachel wouldn’t have imagined, since the mild orgy in the pavilion when she had reckoned this might offer a more desirable life walk than what she uncovered of the auditions marathon —that eventually would not spare her the prostitution sideline— surviving, on the whole easily, a world as plainly lewd as this worldly gathering when she had let be groped frankly and served perfect strangers with all the intimate slits of her body. In some well-earned pauses in the toilets, Emeline had exposed for her the modus of hard-edge whoremongering, as many of the pretty slappers in the congregation had endured before perching in this realm. Now, she knew that she wouldn’t be coerced to participate in turpitudes she would not condone freely
Emeline was seated on the basin ledge, she wriggled forward a notch and pulled up one leg aside, so I could conveniently champ her pink petunia to earn a prime taste of her bliss. Then Cecile slid in the water and swam to hold my hips, calling me sweet names before biting Emeline’s toes until she joined us. She had gone home with Zev (in my place, said she) and enjoyed the endless want of the whimsical kid amidst his trove; she concurred at least that he fucked daintily and she would gladly return. Emeline, a hardened little trull since ever, asked Cecile for the sauciest details of her babysitting, it was obvious, for me who still had my nose in her coochie, that she wanted to go lull the boy, even should he be a zany stallion, wouldn’t she?

 

Cecile says:

I took Emeline to my workshop next door, Sarah owned up mutely that I fed a fair scheme as to the irresistible balletic murderer, and so she ran to their customary bed. I proposed a binge of langues de chat dipped in coffee, and the innuendo made her laugh. She was so easily being looked at, despite the harsh training she had grown through, simpering exhibition remained her natural, or had I simply pushed her buttons? While the percolator puffed, she put her feet on the table, either as a gesture of mateship confidence, or a dare she offered me.
Indeed I knew how to content her perfect feet, reviving the chain of emotions since her big sister had hustled us, buying flowers, if there had ever existed a godsent. She had neat little toenails, and the other chicks in Malo’s cot had painted them maroon, also her fingers’, and the floorboards of the dance studio did not harm the dainty joints. I also knew she would bask retelling how her dad and his buddies had made her dip biscottis in their wine, while she rambled naked on the table, while on the outsized wall screen doom-scrolled the crudest of porn. And the butcher had insisted his daughters get to ejaculate, too, he was obsessed with fakers, and he revelled licking their clitoris, albeit his goons did not. Gangbang videos had taught him the Gräfenberg practice, and both girls had felt a smidgen vindicated when they began squirting in the butcher’s face, in spite of all.
She came to sit on me, we shared this antique earthenware bowl with a naive decor of colonial scenes. She was skilful with her tapered fingers, mine were busier among the petals of her precious bloom and the pert buttons of her timid breasts. She did not lose any of her dips. I promised she would come with me to Mendelsohn’s, she had amply demonstrated that her valliant slits feared no such onrush as I had described; I reckoned she would tame the boor like she had the butcher’s cohorts, all of them burly huntsmen eager to get their rocks off. About the bout in Zev’s realm, chances were, too, that the convulsions of beauty would permeate her soul, as they did mine.
In my bed, she right out slew me and relished my unrestrained splashes, the homunculus in the God Crow’s mouth, thus I must have let go for good. In the morning, she was warmly cuddled up against me; I had dreamt of Windsor Castle, where was a grand gilded cradle we shouldn’t have been sleeping in, but Her Majesty did not seem to care, telling Henry the Eighth —much shorter than his portraits— that thence she was dead, anyhow. It had not been a brilliant dream, but my womb purred of Emeline’s warmth like a tranquil promise.
Sneaking out of the covers and closing the bathroom door to let her glide on smoothly, looking at myself in the mirror not smiling, I pondered on our compared fates, girls’ curse, of all semblance more commonplace than received wisdom would admit. I stared into my own eyes and mumbled low that possibly all abusers were not as poisonous, once killed.
She might ask all the tenderness she cared for on her own clock, I slid on yesterday’s tracksuit and slip-on shoes, then outran to my workshop where a dose of Bach would unscramble my spaghetti neurons til evening. I had decidedly caught Cyprien’s bug for Richter’s well-tempered clavier —he had not cared for other Bach pieces, period. I made a family-size pot of Blue Mountain coffee, courtesy of Cyprien who brought big fragrant bags of it. He had not seen our worldly excesses, but he had nonetheless heard some through the grapevine. Quirkily, that morning, as he stood by as I made coffee, he touched me, frankly groped my bum cheeks and pulled down the waistband, and his hands wandered as he whispered not to fear. It lasted time for the coffee to percolate, he tidied my pants back up and hugged me with sobbing thanks. That one time, he drowned most of his langues de chat.
I had been at work on a fine Art Deco Viennese cabinet for Camille’s collection —I had had to scour the web for salvaged slabs of antique ivory, mainly from dead pianos. At my coffee break, Cyprien, who had hidden behind pinned papers, gruffly asked if I would pose for him standing, nude, only just one hour, hips gently swayed as I did while watching the coffee drip from the steam engine. I had seen that coming, he had sketched most of our visitors and I had strived at rendering that self-evident, given we never entertained white geese, did we?
Leaving my work under the press, I stood in the middle of the rug and executed, tongue in cheek, a slow strip. I found a lopsided balance with one foot back, and he suggested I cross my arms high. He tried sundry angles of my head, it lasted well over two hours in the facets o Richter’s, I figured Lauritz would buy the best drawings and hang them in chosen salons at Speck’s.
Mid-afternoon, Emeline appeared, craving coffee to dip the almond tuiles she had bought after shopping on the right bank. Then she noticed I was standing stumm, nude, so she chuckled.

She dallied by and tried to trouble my cool by fondling my bum, but eventually, she had respect for Cyprien, whom she, too, had posed for, in faultless camaraderie. Now she wore an off-white cashmere double-breasted blazer with big mother-of-pearl buttons, over high-waisted, cuffed, silk-velvet shorts, opaque white tights and white suede Chelseas. She had spent a princely ransom, but I could have heartily refunded her; there wasn’t much between her lapels, but it gleamed with lust in every move. She smelled like an English boy who would have nicked Mommy’s Cologne.
After he wrung from me a promise to resume sitting in the morning, Cyprien rested his sharp leads, visibly enthralled with Emeline’s attire. We had time, after a swift shower, I shuffled through the closets to compose a black idea in response to Emeline’s all-white spirits I should borrow one of Sarah’s vintage boys’ black coats, with red piping and gold buttons, fit enough to need nothing else, and black high Cossack boots. The tunic back was split to the waist, and Emeline couldn’t help her hand wandering. I contradicted the strictness of my black garb with puffs of my Florentine iris under my armpits and inside my thighs.
I wrapped her in a beige silk trench, I took a knee-long cape, and we ran to meet the unmissable black car on the Quai Voltaire, where it was blinking for us. The driver knew me, he couldn’t help but lower his stare, and I smiled. Emeline was all aroused to come with me into the realm of luxury whoremongery, I assured her she would master the tricks in one season if she paired with me or Sarah, on that matter, anyhow.
The chauffeur took more than the necessary ten minutes, I began to suss his manoeuvre, and thus I put on a petty show biting Emeline’s tits to make her wriggle, then closing the curtains to wake him up. We rang at the little side door, as required, and Armand was overjoyed to take our overcoats. Sarah had given me a heads up that it would play there as in all the money strongholds worthy of our depravity or, currently, our charity. I wouldn’t offend a suave keyholder like Armand, the conduit to one of the biggest troves there be —bar Randolph Hearst’s overstuffed warehouses that took three months to liquidate— thus I simply simpered for him in my open tunic, he smirked, but he wanted the other culprit, a smidgen younger, whom he told to sit on her heels and open her mouth, while he pinched my tits and ensnared my tongue; he was a savvy libertine, not the kind to bewilder the precious birds we were, he appraised his tipping in the best we had to offer, with manners.
He liked my bumm all the way to Zev’s hideaway, and he fancied intermezzi like asking me to taste him in Emeline’s mouth, in truth, nothing we had not let be done before. Emeline was nonetheless utterly impressed, like me the first time I set foot in Gustave Moreau’s house —though I had then behaved reverently, the pensive deities depicted there had fevered my lust.
Ushering us through the galleries that overawed my elegant white-clad hoofer who reacted to a few Carpeaux terracotta model drafts, hence Armand led us to the Demetre Chiparus corridor where she could exclaim in ecstasy, and whimsically entrusted me with her shoes, then all the rest of her clothes. To the fright of Armand, she dared dance in a line like an Egyptian, slyly attuned to Chiparus’ demi-monde, and she smelled like Laurens’s exotic cigarettes that had fallen behind my mother’s shelves.
Zev was dumbfounded by the day’s godsent; Emeline’s clockwork was wound up and gracious; looking into the Nevers showcases, she kept displaying her firm rounded bum. Zev knew me already, he asked me where Sarah was —I had to invent a possible visit to her ailing father— he was torn. However, his eyes hardly diverted from Emeline’s narrow hips, and when he helped me unshoe my boots, he smiled wryly.
The fluttering jinn ended her course amidst the shimmery eiderdowns, offering her moist jewels to Zev’s concupiscence. He had begun to scour out his expressing mind with the help of dedicated therapy, Sarah had said the psychologist was no less than comely and wore light skirts; she was being paid for on Melchior’s account, whatever practicum she lent herself to. Now he shivered at the wired manners of a however murderous sylphic angel and raved wildly, in clunky French. She was a savvy self-possessed tramp of sorts, she pulled all of his affects like a diligent harpist, he let himself tamed, and she drew him to dance on the rug with her despite that cumbersome detail between them; they rolled, and she let herself do the wriggling bitch unabashedly, thus he ploughed like a stag a yearling doe, just the way she liked.
I leaned over the padded bed foot, contemplative of Emeline’s talent, when a small tinkling at my back signalled Armand’s tea cart. The unblinking majordome did not avoid watching his master bonking that young slapper he had himself nicely abused at the door. He let the cart aside, at our will.
He sidestepped, but I could tell he hadn’t left the room, the back of my arm sensed the grazing coming, and then I could smell the woody-snuff Cologne next to my cheek, thus I nuzzled upon his fly like another beast. The merry huff and puff went on in the middle of the room, I craved being shagged, not merely dispensing another blowjob, hence I led him to the far side of the bed and released the whipcord trousers knowing what to expect. I wouldn’t know if there were maids on the staff, he did not feel like a frustrated male, anyhow. I fancied his circumcised penis among the creases of white poplin shirt tails, the scent was enthralling. Having twiddled one or two fingers into my drippy buttonhole, he sussed he could swash himself in, straight to the hilt, and make me wriggle wide open, moaning like a shameless catamount. He used me proficiently, smirking aloof, like the visitors at Speck’s, only he detained the key to a brilliant future for me, so I was the one who paid, in kind.
It took Emeline more than a round to satiate the beast, while Armand thanked me without having sweat on his shirt collar. After they rinsed their elated hides in the rich light-blue tiles-clad bathroom, she talked Zev to dive under the bedsheets. She felt beautifully spent, we dressed up in a wink and snuck out.
In the morning, she came down with me for a dip-and-sip game. She mused that I could take her places, I retorted we might sell ourselves as a pair at Speck’s. We wore shabby tracksuits and slippers; when Cyprien arrived with a tin of Russian cigarettes cookies, we had finished playing, I poured him coffee in his usual mug, and I stripped to the pace of Richter’s clock. I did not even glance under the rag I had spread upon my current work, but I warned Cyprien it was the last day I offered myself in the raw; he sniggered, then raved ad libitum about my person and my attitudes, my stares. He said it was no wonder Sarah had jumped to my throat and kept admiring me.
Lauritz had been looking for me, he had spent the night with Lily Zavratin, Ksyusha, Gwen, and Kate at the Panopticon, strewing mayhem and bliss till the wee hours. He cast a bid on all of Cyprien’s work about me, promising to hang them in bedrooms at Speck’s. Cyprien quested my eyes, to read in my gaze if he should rejoice of a comforting sale.

 

 

Sarah says:

I had a few pressing reasons to follow Ayla and Lizon to Switzerland. Firstly I should stop over at my Far’s house in Lausanne, I hadn’t seen much of him since he had started dating my school buddy Elsie —and now she had taken a situation as a lawyer for the UN, with Far’s blessing and advice, she should be overjoyed. But although I knew he kept busy with valuable causes at Lausanne University, we had missed aeons in our intimate narrative, and I never returned to his lair on Christiansø island, a magic place now imperilled by Nordstream’s proximity, nor did he.
We took different trains, with a rendez-vous two days later at Ayla’s new venture, a social salon in a posh house with a park, near the botanical garden.
At Lausanne’s train station, I knew he couldn’t miss me, we had been talking a few minutes before; he had parked nearby, I had never known him driving. My tweed-and-steel Far had slimmed a tad, and his icy-sharp eyes sparkled all the more under grey-peppered brows; he still smelled of Jermyn Street. He looked me up, little did he know —or would he? my real lifeway, he never bargained for his love. I refused to let him handle my aluminium trolley case.
He waited for my reaction to his new silver two-door Tesla, I thought it was the cat’s pyjamas, and it would earn him a lot of appeal on campus; he smirked like one who did not abnegate. On my unabashed girly stance, I could only measure the sleek interior with that of a Porsche 911 —I wouldn’t be the only one to have tested it— and this was an easier one, with no gear stick to start with.
I wore a night-blue pinstripe super200 manly suit, a white jersey crew-collar shirt, black silk socks and black patent leather loafers, first-class game, I had been seriously leered at as I answered my mail inserting clips of the landscape, as if all these corporate types had sussed what I would allow myself to in the second leg of my trip. I smelled of a boyish jasmine with cinnamon shoulders and sandalwood undies, far stood mum, but I knew it hustled his brains, I was still the tomboy he had shipped out to Saint Loup.
He had hired a Danish housekeeper, a lively widow from Fejø who seemed overjoyed with her new position and was, past her fifties, learning French, although I loved to hear her Dansk. Thus, my Far’s house felt a lot more “hjemlig” than previously, and he had acquired many more pieces of proud blond Danish cabinetry; he had nicely ensconced himself according to the healthiest values of his upbringing.
Not that I would in the least hit on him, but I put on a fresh outremer tee shirt, knickers, no socks, plus a dark yellow dotted twill kerchief in my breast pocket; a touch of blush, a dash of mascara, and a gentle ruffling of my curls rendered me a tad girlier, I could wear my sapphire choker and Grandma’s Rolex tank watch with the funny numerals Far had given to me in Saint Loup days.
He said I was up to the idea he kept of me, and dared kiss me on the forehead, wondering who the hell had offered me that necklace, not expecting an answer. New cars have this that you really can talk, even if you do not entrust them yet to drive themselves. Far liked me, he wanted to know what thrilling life way kept me afire as he saw me —understood he wouldn’t hear most of it. I entertained him with the unearthing of the Mendelsohn trove in the midst of Paris, and the poor heir in mental disarray —not alluding to what therapy was currently healing his poor soul— Far was interested to learn that Melchior was among the panel that appraised the estate, he pondered I was very lucky I knew such a powerful man —I could not even begin telling him why and how It had become thus, I only evoked Camille’s network he had known about in New York; he knew I had lived happily with Camille for some time before moving to Hugo’s.
In a few years, I had acquired a heck of insight into mature men, plus my Far had unburdened, for the most part, the mythological spell of being part in the acme of meta-diplomacy, benefiting his aura as a praised academic and sought after arbiter in thorny disputes. He took me to that elegant eatery on the shorefront where we had indulged in a memorable moment, in my schooldays. The first-floor venue opened on the lake view through wide vaulted windows, in such a layout that one never felt constrained amidst a worldly gathering. Grege Venetian stucco walls and thick oxblood carpeting set off the rosewood Ruhlman-class furniture and Japanese-style golden screens depicting rippling fish, enforcing an impression of intimate vastitude I revelled in. As in the halls of the Palace Of Nations, or on the terraces of Tudor City, I was the unattainable squirrel princess in my Far’s apanage, and moreover proud he had never crossed lines that I witnessed all around being leapt over. Only one symbolic little gesture had existed immemorially as some carnal bond, to help me from crying, and that would never cease.

Far sported a victor smile when the waiter brought the creamed morels toasts. He sat on the taupe brown mohair velvet banquette, I preferred the sizeable armchair with snazzy copper rails along the arm-rests, hence I could, as a carefree person, rest my unshoed feet next to him to knead them, like he had done my whole whimsical life long.
He asked about Fanny, of whom he had once long-handled the mind-boggling case, he was overjoyed to hear a description of the peaceful redemption of a war victim, in a crime that he knew plagued whole countries for generations to come. At least one such course of events had led to the dismantling of a network of criminals all around the Adriatic zone. Not what Fanny was elaborating with Dr Méant, was it? And she was currently writing her memoir on Odilon Redon for her doctorate in aesthetics.
With the crisp chestnut snow mousse, coated with fondant chocolate, and crowned with whipped cream, on a shortbread tile,
loomed slightly more intimate confidences.
When I told him I would go to Zürich to meet Ayla in her novel installation, I did not try to avoid the fact that she had been a prostitute since she fled the school. He had known that situation, for long, about her. Since she had been my ardent bestie, he had come to learn from Harmony, the school headmaster, that Ayla’s parents, in total disarray, had ceased to pay her tuition two years back, and thus he had discreetly footed the bills for her until whatever fool headed clerk leaked the sensitive truth to her. He had no legal bond in order to ask the police to find her, and her parents were social wrecks who couldn’t care less about her. He had been after all relieved when he sussed we still saw each other, and she lived like a bona fide Swiss citizen.
As a goodwill daughter; I asked about the other half of my family, he smirked and said I would not frankly rejoice at their news, my brother was contemplating politics, and not on the progressive side; once more, he would mingle our name with foul-smelling ideologies. Far regretted having leased the Rosenborg house to his practice, I understood we would be inflexible on rent payments.
So as to return on smoother grounds, I described all the extensions to our buzzing hive since it had aggregated Cynthia’s Centre for midgender research, TRÆVIX, and SEVENSTREAMS, no less, and colonised a few adjoining stairwells. Far had seen worse in his career in stealth intelligence. He was also fascinated by what I recounted of the Hôtel von Speck’s total refurbishing after almost eighty years of mummification, and thus the discovery of Cecile who then settled her workshop downstairs from us, and dwelled in one of the new bedrooms of our supernal den.
He inquired about Camille, whom he knew had been my mentor —and more— in my first Parisian steps. He had acquainted with Adlaï Stern in New York when he thought he was the only one rescapee from the Shoah in his lineage; Far said Camille must have inherited a mighty heap of riches and power, the old Adlaï was thought to have intuited the gist of hyper connexion in the financial realm a nanosecond before the competition. When I told Far that Melchior was an associate in both TRÆVIX and SEVENSTREAMS, he showed jaw-dropping amazement, and he wished he would meet the mysterious Michelle along with me, somewhere agreeable, to what I retorted that, if ever, it would be in her own palace, but that would be of a hard-earned privilege to obtain, the genius was exceedingly remote, and she almost never went out in person, to the best of my knowledge.
The moonlight was scintillating over the holy waters of my privileged youth, I wanted to tell my Far all the gratitude I fostered for the decision he had announced to me during an unforgettable week in London —when we scandalised all the fogeys at Simpson’s with my ambiguous allure. After what my brother had done, or let be done, to me, Far had sensed me flummoxed as to the meaning of my life, and trustworthy colleagues with whom he had opened up spoke positively of Saint Loup, near Geneva, where he went regularly, if he was not set on the Ivy League kind of cursus for me, otherwise, there existed a heap of so-called preparation schools they would not entrust their offspring with, most of them were European. Before he had learned about my brother’s wrongdoing towards me, he had already dug into that offbeat boarding school and its extravagant principles; he had met with Harmony for lunch in a country inn near the school. When in London, he heard my tale, which could possibly send my brother to prison, he took the decision to let me on a trial basis and find a mission in Geneva for himself for that while. And I thrived beautifully, in my ingrained certitude ever since.
I had hung my coat over the backrest and wallowed a tad, both feet at his will. They served a subtle lime flower tea with mountain honey. I could read I had given back some peace to my unfailing Far.

The sky was beautifully torn when Far drove me to the station in the morning. The wind was brisk thus I had pulled on a tight-knit ash-grey jumper. I felt enriched by the conversation we had spun on, his confidence in me was still as boundless as mine for him. The scent of his morning coffee took some sort of erotic twist like that of Cecile in my most recent trysts.
He was fit as a fiddle, smirking quietly. Hearing the bustle in the kitchen downstairs, I had gone as far as to peep into the medicine closet in his bathroom only to find your garden variety of acetaminophen, same as mine. I wouldn’t inquire, he spoke casually of Elsie, vaunting her brilliant cursus in international law and the position she had landed in the Glass Wall. I scented he knew a scheme to date other women, he was some kind of spook, wasn’t he?
Past the vineyard hills, the landscape would turn to merely nondescript clean and tidy. I fetched my tablet and found a pretty good connexion. A long silent name had heard her ears whistle, Julia Grant, the old de facto school captain we all loved, wanted to chat. It was a striking synchronicity, for she had known Far in the funniest of mix-ups when Secret Service burst into the room where we stood at Far’s hotel, without having warned them —they kept watch on a few boarders of interest, Julia’s family were all on the VIP list in Geneva.
It was very early for her, but she was drinking tea on her new terrace, as I could see. She explained that not only had she sold her collection of American Native art to the Met, but a scary event had made her apartment on West Central Park unbearable, a woman had crashed on the terrace from higher up as a suicide, and she had seen her dislocated body in the frail nightgown. Now, she had moved to a spectacular penthouse across from the Met, with only the sunny skies of New York above her terrace.
She also said finely that her terrible twin nephews still barged in her place from Yale, at times, and they would come running if I visited —I fostered a feverish memory of the mischievous pair, indeed indefatigable and well-hung. I told Julia I would ask Kate, or Natalia, to come along, possibly in Indian Summer, if she agreed. We were both overjoyed, I sent her selfies from the train, and she had a rush of nostalgia about Switzerland and our heavenly days.
She was even more wistful when I told her I was en route to see Ayla, and what she was doing in Zürich. Julia had not known what had become of my bestie, after that weird prom feast; I only told her she had been failed by her junkie parents and turned to prostitution which is not a big deal in Switzerland anyway. I promised to arrange a zoom call with the three of us very soon, Ayla would love that.
Outside Zürich Hauptbahnhof, a chauffer had been awaiting, holding an “SvK” sign, it was a ten minutes drive. Images of my terrible last visit, when young Esther had been defaced by a psychopath and lay in a dim hospital room in an artificial coma, assailed me as much as Julia’s harrowing description of the dismembered body upon her railings.
Ayla’s street was conveniently unfrequented, the gate to the house ensconced under the idly overgrown ivy. Ayla ran outside when she heard the car and thanked the chauffeur, then jumped at my neck in a frenzy of kisses. She wore a simple short mixed-colours ribbed jersey tank dress and no more undies than when I had met her that unforgettable morning in Saint Loup. The house was a nineteenth-century composite bastion of ornate assuredness, pampered like a cigar box, amidst an abundance of evergreens that might have been pruned long ago. She even drew me to a bosque of box tree wilderness among which grew a wisteria, and those same white roses as in our old garden of sins.
Four low steps led to the rounded porch and a sturdy double openwork oak door with stained glass daylights, that opened smoothly at a push of her manicured hand. It was only the end of the afternoon, but little lamps in copper sconces were lit all around. It smelled of roses and benzoin, sandalwood and lust. She walked me through at least four lounges scattered with low velvet divans and cushions, each in low-keyed harmony of maroon, malachite green, midnight blue, or panther black. Mirrors of pressed glass set in massive frames of white-gilt or ebonised wood, only reflected ghostly images of us as she pulled off my clothes ever so slowly, for the satisfaction of two or three couples wallowed here and there, pale nude hetæræ laid back in most desirable obscene compostures with grizzled clients in white shirts and black socks: they all smiled at me when Ayla presented me around, and I couldn’t help it drip down my thighs. I whispered I needed the loo, thus she led me by the hand to a bumptious Grand Portor marble toilet where she watched me piss in the gold bowl. As I attempted to undress her for good, she held my head and told me she would be the only person that would remain clad up a bit, because she owned and ran the place, see?

She said I had come here to be a full-fledged Swiss whore, hadn’t I? I dared not deny, after how she had felt in my pussy. She said half-giggling that I needed an enema and she fetched in some side nook for a supple black pipe to the end of which she affixed a gilt plastic cannula from a single-use wrapper. She told me to step up and straddle over the bowl, thighs wide apart like a funny girl, and when she tasted the water lukewarm on her backhand, she filled me up until I moaned that I couldn’t hold back any longer. I sat back down to release all the pestilence in the flushing flows, and we kissed, it seemed my arse smelled of violet.
Now Ayla had an emotional moment with me, joshing she would rather take me in the broom closet, when silly hands came and played all over my back and bottom, and I recalled Lizon was there too. Yes, she was heated and smelled beastly, I licked her neck, and she told us she had pleased a football player on steroids, her coochie was in bloom; she peed and matter-of-factly took a cannula, mounted it, filled up her pretty little bum and emptied it boisterously as we spoke.
Not letting me go, Ayla raved that Lizon had retold our course through Paris at the time she had been a depressed runaway, before she joined Dagmar and Fæbian on the high roads of the Holy Empire. Lizon, whose new warname was Adele, swore she had never encountered a better academy than Caroline of Zürich, Ayla’s emporium.
They told me that my coming ashore had been advertised to Caroline’s A-list of patrons, and I already had a flurry week schedule, on the house rule of four ninety minutes tricks a day, starting at eleven for those professionals who skipped lunch for cuddles —a gold mine. Once a time slot had been agreed there wouldn’t be any cancellation on the girl’s part, and the John paid upon reservation.
My first A-lister was in ten minutes if I cared, I would use room 102 if he wanted discretion —although she confided we might very well be peeped upon. I had a following queue of two more customers I could confirm in my telephone Ayla gave me back. My personal dwelling was up there at 307. There was a copper-clad lift, but many clients preferred the stairs. All my things had been brought up by service, a stealth brigade of unassuming women and men in black sportswear who weren’t part of the debauchery.
To Ayla’s amusement, my telephone buzzed, it was an invite to download the Zello application and inform my account, there was a code in my personal mail. Once done, I had a message from B. who awaited in the blue lounge. I remembered that grin on Ayla’s feline face when she had lured me into the laundry rooms; she fiddled in my butt crack and pushed me forward.
Mr B. looked like and gave the impression of a Doctor, a part-time golfer with a sure hand, he smelled of Connolly leather —I had once been crushed, nose upon a luxury backseat while getting buggered fiercely— and wore a bespoke three-piece suit of Italian drapery. The girls had fondled me with Neroli dry body oil, and B. ignited to it. He was fond of my sly mulberries, and made me hold my hands upon my head to lick my armpits.
We did not sit, he wanted to reach for the 102 room right away. He mumbled, lusting for my figure in the copper pane, holding me from the back, making my hips sway aside. I could tell that beyond a taste for my ghostly image, he showed an instant crush against my bum; he forgot to walk out, and we were called back down by another couple, a curly hazel mädchen with a retroussé nose who gently came lean on and kiss me for the voyeur content of our clients, she held hers out of his trousers, it sensed as she had already served him, she winked at me when we walked out to our room.
Mr B. was in no hurry, he held me against the tapestry and asked me to talk lewd, only to guess where I came from, and he did not find, I could taunt him with all he might feel an urge to do me, in more languages than Switzerland contains, that amused him. I undertook to unclothe him, he possessed a vigorous Johnson in his silk trunks that dripped already, and he relished that I lick the little drops. He was impeccably groomed, and he had been sunbathing in the raw. He told me to straddle his mouth, the bed was firm enough, so I could stand on tiptoes, sit on my heels, and offer him the whole crack to lick; he was no mere beginner, indeed, I was overjoyed to feed him a taste of my gush, right in his mouth, tit for tat with a serious load of salty semen to gulp.
He was elated that I suck him dry while he flinched up in bliss. Then he seized me and rolled aside, mumbling exquisitely virile curse words. I let be handled like a puppy, so as to find myself perched backwards upon him, legs apart like a butterfly, his relentless penis drilling into my innards as he held my haunches like a handlebar. He spewed words I hadn’t heard yet, metaphors of life and death, lullabies of madness.
He had paid dearly, he went up to his par at the game, sheathing his blade to the hilt one last time into my frenzied slit, guffawing at all that spatter. He looked at his watch, insulted me tenderly again, and dashed off to the bathroom. When I followed him under the shower, he stared into my eyes and said he wanted me back, and I did not answer.

Mr B. had covered my hands with kisses, calling me sweet names, and then running for his life. The cornflower blue quilted bed throw had a large wet stain. The blue-on-blue Morris foliage cotton print on the walls quivered visually in the faint gleam of a crystal chandelier, a fantomatic reproduction of a picture by Henry Fuseli, depicting Oberon hovering above lyingTitania, both pale and nude, seemed deliciously displaced, or not.
Ayla woke me, the maid needed to change the linens, and my next number was awaiting downstairs, I had not heard my phone. I asked how I looked to her, she said I was furiously lecherous, the same as I did in the laundry rooms, and inextinguishable like a star.
Mr N. was a stubby ginger in russet tweed that smelled of liquorice. He sported bark green eyes, his hand ventured at once upon my pubis, and I let him do, with hazy depravity. In the maroon salon, an aloof brunette lay wallowing alongside a thin young man in a monkey suit, his hand wandering under the seaweed green charmeuse satin dress, one of her legs pulled apart. My Scotsman stood fondling my butt in front of the languid couple, I understood he wanted me to join them, so I knelt and grabbed her bare foot to my taste and licked. She smelled of misty purple flowers, she was high on some druzy chemistry, and she abandoned her leg to the flow as he untied the dress. My ginger cavalier seized my head back to his crotch wanting me to suck him while she snaked her foot between my thighs.
He brandished a blistering kind of spear with a pointed circumcised glans he had no trouble shoving into my throat, properly fucking my face at no mercy —that beastly feeling of being spurted in unwittingly, my vagina dripping already again.
The sprawled couple had swayed sideways, his trousers were spread open in a bloom of white lining, and a not-so-giddy prick was forcing its way into her pretty rosette not really slidy —patience helping, he might end dripping enough clear juice, anyhow she seemed to consent to the suffering.
Tool to the wind after I sucked it clean, Mr B; asked me for my room number and thus pulled me to the lift. He sniffed my whore mouth and said he loved my all-natural face and my scent. He had the idea that we two had met before; as I undressed him, I recalled a romp with Ayla in a Parisian hotel where she had turned a few tricks with me, Mr B. might very well have been one of the Johns —my recollection was more about the surprise when the concierge taught me I had to repay him in kind for the leeway of affording my arse away under his watch, and it would have been useless to tell him I did it out of mere fantasy, he had taken it as it were, anyhow.
Mr B. spread me flat upon the new bed throw and thoroughly poked his tongue in every joint of my elated body, laughing at each of my moans. He made me shamefully vain and shivering with pleasure, and then he ferreted out my clitoris and soon made me gush and convulse a good once before ploughing in deep into my dizzy womb till the edge of consciousness; I sensed him disgorge spunk in one long tremolo, then collapse to my side, panting.
After he quieted in self-pride, I crawled out to go pee and else, I sussed he wasn’t done, rightfully, so, in any case, I had called the Swiss Navy to my silly rescue. Hearing me trickling, it tingled his bladder, and so he came to straddle me and piss over my labia while savouring my mouth. He saw the bottle of lube and guffawed, calling me a cunning little punk, at once grabbing his shaft in a handful of goo, inquiring my gaze as to my part of the play and ordering me to stand on all fours like a bitch on the soiled bed —he cared for my knees, the A-list had manners.
As I felt him tickle my ready-soothed anus with his fiery tip, he told me to shove it in myself like a shameless floozie willing to please a boor, that I did, like it be Nat King Cole Unforgettable.
His paramour time was up, and he went rinse himself under the shower and twiddled his tie back; I was too overspent to even send him a farewell glance.
After a cat-thorough toilette, it seemed to be about dinnertime, if ever, two-thirds of my day had starved me. Another charming boarder who said she was called Bry grabbed me at the foot of the stairs and pushed me softly against a curtain, stroking my quim as she would her own; she had a sensuous mouth and didn’t need to know other than the colour of my eyes, hers were periwinkle pale, her acorn hair wavy and shiny I tousled while we kissed. She murmured I must have been mischievous, my nethers regions were feverish, then she joshed that I was a true foxy amateur and she would find me for the night. She walked me to the basement kitchen, all clad in white bevelled tiles with teal accents, furnished with industrial-white enamel and steel furnaces like a full-blown eatery. Another few ladies, as little dressed as I, were seated at a large oak table before platters of the kind of food I craved. As I neared casually, they looked me up, and the word ran that I was a rookie from Paris.

It was school days again, tittle-tattle in the swimming pool cloakroom and carefree wandering hands, I loved it and bantered along finely. Lizon supervened and saved me from avowing too much, telling them I was in school with Ayla, and a snazzy amateur altogether. Brie concurred, and, sniffing her fingers, asserted that I smelled like a damn expensive whore, and they all laughed. As I bent over to pick up crisp little bites from the platters, I was actually fondled playfully, with comments about my slick muscles and my well-flexible slits, it sounded I was coopted as a harlot colleague.
Most of the girls drank Swiss white wine, and I had to make my case of being a teetotaller, thus they wondered how I did to cope with bad clients, and I said I wouldn’t let the Johns go wrong, they paid to shag me properly, not to take my head. But I had to own up that I had never been forced into selling my body, thus I could stick a finger into a boor’s eye and run like the wind. They all protested that Caroline was safe, and they would show me the armoured escape closets, just in case —Ayla owned a delightful memory, and this could have saved Esther.
Ayla walked in, overjoyed to see me behaving at level with her shapely boarders, unlike us, she wore a thin peacock jersey dress that let be seen all details of her lightsome anatomy, she demonstrated her undivided love for me, making brows hitch around us, then she chose the possibly vegan bites on the plates; then she begged the chorus to pardon us for our privileged intimacy, it had been beyond reason.
One of the tramps, all of whom in the shared taste of Ayla’s for immature damsels, caught my lustful gaze and clicked willingly; under the shadowy despise of Bry, I went to graze aside the thin hips of that jailbait. She sported a dirty blond bob hairstyle, natural brows, golden eyes, and what I would call a Hepburn Roman nose. She came from Macedonia and spoke in the funny pidgin she had learned whoring herself to the UN peacekeepers, just like her young mother; none of them knew their fathers. As I wooed her frankly, I could read amusement in Ayla’s glances. She said Jana was her name here, with a flutter of lashes; I gave her my room number.
My evening date was as ugly as an old fogey from Goya Caprichos and hung like an ass, hairy like a monkey; however, he smelled expensive and sported faultless teeth, his hands and feet utterly groomed. He struck me as a cousin to Zev’s, with whom I had unexpectedly frolicked, and again, not long ago, I felt all the more a damn courtesan, didn’t I?
So Ayla had made the appointment —and I was still mentally wearing her magic bracelet. This ogre had politely led me directly to 102, and relished making me unclothe him, jewelled shirt buttons one by one. He had mumbled unintelligibly while handling my joints like a sculptor, circling his huge paws around my waist, sniffing behind my ears, and fingering my arse so deftly as a savvy connoisseur, he wore a hefty chevalière with an intaglio emerald set in it.
He frankly succeeded at making me forget who I was, with his tongue in every nifty nook I owned, I couldn’t have done better with Jana’s toes —ones I had just ogled at. It was like horribly beastly, hair from his neck to his ankles and wrists, silky and tickly, smoother than the beards that had itched my hide in previous beds. His sturdy sceptre peaked out of a black and dense bramble he had the elegance to perfume like Zanzibar.
From experience, I knew my jawbone wouldn’t dislocate, but this was one of the thickest weapons I had ever attempted to swallow, a circus performance indeed, culminating with an eerie savour of overripe soapy banana, or was it?
He was so hulky I lost the use of my moves, he upturned me like the Pelele —inert bran dummy— as to where he intended to sheathe into, that I naturally adjusted accordingly, and squeezed to make him roar as a wounded bear. He kept tides of his gooey semen, and he cared to see my eyes capsize in ecstasy, my womb shiver in repeated climaxes.
I woke lain upon a teal blue bath towel, in the warm silence of the deserted room, with some strain to my mandible and fever in my guts, I could not remember what was etched into his ring’s emerald. Ayla came, probably to assess the damages after she had seen her client tootle off. She ran a bath with lots of honeysuckle lather in it, she remained mum, but she watched me move; I thought I smelled like a dog. Once I rested in the water without wincing at all, she slid off her dress and dipped in with me, elated.
Of course, she had shagged the monkey prince numerous times herself, and she no longer was the gamine I had played with among the box trees, hell no! I recounted how he had likely dismembered me and rummaged deep in all creases. She laughed and bantered that she could probably do me that with her foot, for free.
She explained the monkey was a long-time patron of hers, heir to the princely family of Kordary, reinstated in their estates after the collapse of the Russian-led communist rule.

The figure in the emerald was a gryphon, the head and claws of an eagle, the body and love truncheon of a lion, the ring had been walled in along with the family trove in a nondescript house in Budapest since the regency of Admiral Horthy and the following totalitarian regimes, when they had fled the country, until 1989. The Prince had been raised on the Lake Constance shores amongst Magyar expatriates. He had used Ayla regularly since she had whored in Zürich, he was immensely rich. She left me, knowing my bed was ready and warm, said she, slily, as she had nudged the gentle Jana into my bed upstairs, I did not ask who would be in hers.
I was contented and raddled, I even took the lift to the third floor. The corridor was all as quaint and comfy as the rest of the dwelling, not the neglected garrets, wonted quarters for the disposable sex cattle seen in the older whorehouses’ photographs. As on the other floors, thick carmine and purple carpeting, as well as double wall hangings in the same harmony were intended to kill any noise behind heavy black lacquered doors, that sort of privacy one may sleep through when the neighbours caterwaul in bliss —no sooner that said than one might elaborate that murder could also be let perpetrated in the most convenient secrecy, if ever.
Drained out but content, it was enshrouded in the sweetest expectations that I crossed that threshold and peeped through some entrance curtains. It was another pleasure nest, with a white-painted wide wooden sleigh bed amidst a floor-to-ceiling upholstery of blue pattern Toile de Jouy, and two white canned Regence armchairs. The carpeting was periwinkle blue and soft to the toes.
Indeed a wealth of tawny blond curls spread out of the covers, in a scent of linen lavender mixed with the reminiscence of our own Neal’s Yard Geranium-Orange. I fetched an overwashed tee shirt in my bag and I slid into the sheets with quivers of exhaustion. Jana was turned to the wall, offering me her cheeky bottom to which I rounded my underbelly, and then I squeezed her wings in mine and took her to the land of green pinnacles and crimson murders of crows.
Lizon woke us, still gently embraced under the comforter —and how came Jana to wear a nightshirt, now? bringing a bed tray with tea and coffee, she was in the know for both of us, and aroused to see us entwined. My first trick would be at eleven, while Jana could rest until two pm. Lizon said that Melchior, who had remained a regular with Ayla since the Esther ordeal, would fly me back to Paris at night, after my full day of turpitude and his own; then she helped me prep up, like the savvy courtesan she had come to be, since the days she had been my Liseron. Through the splashes, she inquired whether I would borrow Jana and take her back to Paris? I had a sense that I should ask Ayla some manner of permission, however; she was no pimp, hell no, but Jana seemed to cast the finest lustre in her necklace, for all I had seen, or was it a whimsical crush on both sides? Lison floated that she might as well return to Caroline’s after a rowdy season with us.
It was windy and sunny outside, shadows danced in the windows’ white rippled veilings. Somewhat blasé of running around butt-naked at all times, I had donned a white linen double-breasted blazer, nonchalantly crumpled, with big mother-of-pearl buttons, nothing else; it pleased Ayla, who at once pushed her hand to my crotch, kissing me. She smelled of Pausitano dew, she looked me in the eyes and said I would be flying back with Melchior after I served my last client of the day, raddled, at his caprice —I understood she had served him in the night. She reached for my twiddleberry and added I should take Jana with me and teach her French, I kissed her hand, and the Ellipse watch at her wrist told me it was time to go meet my morning hookup.
There were more cats in the salons than I had previously seen, most in Ayla’s style canon, and not many further accessories than stockings and parade high-heels. They all wore jewel watches and a telephone. One with black flat hair with bangs beckoned me to sit next to her, she smelled of Virginia tobacco with haschisch and clove, some kind of trans fragrance she made avidly girly, she shewed apple breasts with dark nipples, she stared with near-sighted granite-blue eyes hemmed in thick lashes, her name was Sheen, she was Latvian —I once had an affair with a Latvian boy on Christiansø island, I made Sheen laugh with dirty words I remembered. Then a clergyman-type appeared, and she lurched on her heels to him and let him grope her at whim, while he ogled my open jacket.
Another temptress was Vivi, an American runaway from Nebraska, who had fled from bumpkin land after three Saturday night rapes at thirteen. She soon had been owned by a Montreal pimp, snatched by another to Vancouver, and then infiltrated into Switzerland by an airline pilot who made her pose as his daughter and was currently overjoyed to see her live her life at Caroline’s.

She said she was nineteen, she could boast a luminous complexion, flax-blue eyes and thick sandy-blond hair, Greek-type nose and low cheekbones, she evoked anywhere but the American midwest, but wherever has the wind scattered genes and other karyotypes? She smelled of honey and broom flower, the yellow warbler and the summer rain, I had to kiss her bye when bushy pepper brows growled my name.
He drew me at once to the lift, one hand upon my butt, in the jacket’s rear slit. In the gleam of the lift cage, he suckled my mouth so I pulled my tongue to let him play with it, and he was a ravaging kisser.
He unclothed himself, tidying everything on hangers like he would attend a conference right after his shot. He smelled of ambergris, a priceless substance I knew from a brown bottle in the house of my grand uncle the admiral, on Christiansø; he had demonstrated to me that the almost foul-smelling matter could transform a blend of aromatic oils into a heady perfume. In a time when the old fogey liked me —before the whole island knew, and him last, that I was sleeping around, well ahead of my age— he had retold me how a block of two kilos had been haphazardly fished out in the high sea from one of his ships and offered to him so he could have it refined.
Back in 102, I was at the hands of a blistering swordsman, dizzied by his scent and vigorously titillated at every nerve tip, without shedding a scale o his sombre composure. However, he muttered his relish of my unassuming noonie weeping like a Spanish Madonna. He certainly bolstered a furious game to foreplay, but here I felt like a selfless morsel, I resigned myself to being done with, fantasising rather about bringing Jana into Melchior’s eagle, and the superior bliss of chaperoning another new youngling through our hedonistic fortress.
This Mr W. was a strong mind, he read my bluff and woke me out of my daydream, drilling a stare in my eyes while he kneaded my underbelly with his fist, making me speechless; my only idea was to pinch his nipples hard, and he begged for more, harder. He hurled then a crooked pair of fingers into my vagina to find the spot that triggered a fierce gush as I climaxed like a Bernini. He seized my wrists in my back and tilted me back upon the new paisley pigeon-blue bed throw, legs up and defencless.
He still licked and kiss my face while he did not need extra lube to force into the lesser path, drenched with my juices. It felt accordingly with the arrogance on his face, a long stiff spear that nonetheless took a few dips in the real source to become easier, thus he prevailed in both manners, filled my entrails with gooey gobs and let me roll silly.
We showered like illusory fencers, he asked for my name and country, thus I puzzled him with jollity as he kept staring avidly at my eyes. I knew he would shag me more, but he took long with the towels, he was utterly gifted as a chiropractor dilettante, and he made me wince happy with my feet. He still owned me for a while, but I begged him to connive with the Swiss Navy, or any other efficient thixotropic gel for that matter , and no, he had not yet hurt me.
There fluttered scattered scrolls of amusement in his gaze, my victory was delightfully futile; I devoted to rearm his means, like the dedicated courtesan. He upturned me on all fours amidst the moist towels strewn over the bed, fetched the transparent bottle on the nightstand, then threaded conveniently my bootyhole till I sensed the tickle of his brambles. It was steamy, the French soap smelled of cedrat-bergamot, I relived the lessons of the damned Cossack and his goons, I squeezed the ring muscle of my arse in sequence in order to make him discharge beyond his will, and show him who I was.
He could have rightfully done me once more, but he called it quits with a sly grin. While we returned to the shower, he inquired if I would remain available at Caroline’s but I let leak that I lived in Paris, and since he was a card-carrier like me, he would certainly find someone who would know of me. That was the most I did to let him know I liked what I felt of him.
The chambermaid, of coarse type with a naive face, woke me when it was time to renew the linens and wipe the bathroom; she couldn’t help staring at me all over, and I sensed it was the least I could do, allowing her to eye up what I had done almost nothing to be blessed with. My second day had augured swiftly, and it wouldn’t be correct to appear downstairs in some sort of bathrobe, so I went in the raw, holding my telephone, whimsically making a selfie at the foot of the stairs that I sent to Cecile.
Ayla grabbed me, whispering she would never tell who I had just shagged and had texted he was overjoyed with me. She groped my abs, she sported arousing shade rings to her eyes, and she boasted she had come six times in the night, I hitched up her skirt and joshed she could do better. We laughed like school buddies —that we were— when a hunky rugby player barged in and looked me up.

Mr T. wore a chalk-grey silk bourette jacket, designer jeans, a pristine tee shirt, and mahogany-brown loafers. He was as bald as a London cabby. At Ayla’s beckoning him to meet me, he smiled sparklingly. That is when I could sense a deft hand over my bottom, and Lizon asking frankly if she could join, for free. I couldn’t see the bulge in T’s pants, but the guy wouldn’t shun a pretty windfall. I had been through so many hook-ups and dalliances with Lizon that I enlaced her to show it was a done deal. Ayla looked up Mr T. and told him it was the girls’ whim —and his luck.
In the lift, I unleashed his valiance tool that cast a whiff of sandalwood, this lucky fellow had had the flair to perfume his nether parts for us. Lizon was chasing his tongue wildly.
102 still hinted a smell of my exploits, but it was suave and how would he know —if Lizon certainly did? He became naked in seconds, the new bed throw was pastel pink and padded; Lizon had already engulped the sizeable stiff dick and showed no strain letting it in to the hilt, making me proud of her; at the other end, T. ordered me to straddle his mouth, thighs wide open, so he could savour both my holy slits like candy.
Lizon had beautifully trained, in her vagrant life along with a tough cookie like Fæbian —who nonetheless looked still like a fresh daffodil— she swallowed the first salvo as quietly as a spoon of custard, it was T. that howled like a stag. For good measure, I used my hand to conveniently gush in T.’s mouth, for good measure. Lizon remained wanting of exultation, but she owned up we needed some tea or anything thirst-quenching; I tasted her mouth, it felt like soap, she ran and fetched a spare toothbrush in the bathroom, it was all good fun. After a cat’s toilette, we called for tea and soda, it was on us, T. paid princely and gulped a can of cola in a breath.
Our lucky punter was a bit of a voyeur, too, he relished more and more watching us together, and it would come easy on our part, we had had seasons under the moon. Thus T’s silly puppet was prim and proper again, and Lizon kept rolling her hips, thighs wide open until it would become rude not to boff her, for free, and she claimed my quim in a way T watched my contorting arse, and warned he would hurl his wad off and trigger a well-earned spurt all over.
T. watched us straddle the bidet and prepare for further scenes, he joshed it should be my turn, no doubt, but then a pretty animal snuck in out of the blue, Jana mused she had time to kill, she wiggled her minute bum in arms-reach of our champion who visibly did not despise novelty, nor did Lizon, by the way, she was overjoyed to meet my nightly pet again.
I devised a royal scene, T. would lie on the bed, sheathed into Jana’s complacent lesser hole, face to us, who could kindly ravage her tiny hooded switch or crook our fingers into her dissolute orchid. It was a blatant success, and Lizon spread-eagled over her mouth like the depraved ballerina, thus the light-hearted imp killed time, every so often, panting.
Mr T. easily acknowledged we had totally drained his guts, but he was delighted he had survived our demented conspiracy; he would retell to Ayla how she owned the most pleasurable garden in town.
After touching up each others’ faces, all three of us had more calls to answer for —so to speak. Downstairs, I told Ayla I would split my fees on that one, and she retorted T. had abounded for the whole festival; she took me apart into a deep velvet sofa, she wanted to recall my natural wantonness, she went south to smell me. I did not have time to lick her mad in return, for I was called for another round. Ayla then told me I was in for a big surprise, though.
Indeed, in the foyer stood two young corporate types, Armani suits and polished black Oxfords, wide smiles on perfect teeth. And they both seized one of my arms —like you would think the debauchery squad— and since Ayla had warned me, I let be done. She had been one, long ago, to draw me in some dim laundry rooms where she knew a pack of studs would hump me silly, and I would never snitch.
But here, whatsoever, the script was in my scale, a brave assuming courtesan ready to serve, wouldn’t I? They introduced themselves as M. and M. with fine smiles. They cornered me in the lift cage, one smelled of petitgrain, the other of bay rum, and four keen hands stroke my physique in fine detail, like some atonal four-hands concerto.
In 102, a wealthy bouquet of white lilac exhaled lustfully in a silver vase, on the wrought iron console, and it lightened my head already, such as wondering how would they sort back their similar outfits in an hour or two? Whirling around me, they chatted out of my grasp like starlings on Adderall, while making me sway all the most obscenely, fawning my vanity.
One was copper blond —not as dreamlike as our own golden knight Gauthier— and short-curled, which did a pretty fleece to his taunt genitals. The other was Brazilian-black and soft, with tiny down curls around a sleek pale forehead.
Wispy black hair grew on his back and shoulders, thus, he was fun to hug, with a stiff spur bustling upon my lower belly. His coffee-black eyes didn’t flinch, he was inescapable, but I had to claim some lube when he forced me to kneel on the bed and offer my butthole. Then on, he gathered his wits and sculled deftly in my guts with breezy comments, while his pal humped on the back of my throat. They were office buddies, they began to dedicate their jolts to different names they knew, in a splurge of laughter of which I was logically bearing the brunt. First I made copper fleece release a swig of his soup, he tasted like laurel shampoo, and he thanked me for swallowing.
I was provoking the bramble-eyed rider squeezing his dick with my muscle rim until he fired like a blunderbuss with a fake obscene prayer. They might have indulged in modern chemicals because, like porn actors, they did not flag after their scores, and I saw coming a figure I relished both sides. Gold rush did not even wipe my lesser hatch when he tilted me upon his spear, and I lay with my whole weight upon him, legs fully spread to welcome any other black-furred lance.
Suddenly, my head was ensnared in dire paws, pulled aside and my mouth rudely solicited as obviously, the third M. had loomed among us. Whoever he was, he wouldn’t be worse than his cohort, only a tad lengthier down my throat, well-mannered after the fright he had caused. That one’s fuzzy muff smelled of uncanny osmanthus, and I could tell he wore a pricey gold watch.
It was no hasty improvisation, they soon pounded in unison, and I sensed a drive of lewd shamanism of sorts I could drift along with like the song onto the bassline; it couldn’t have been too long, and I was outrageously drenched and smelly, but I wouldn’t even find the nerve to walk to the shower. They ran us a bath, not excluding some kind of spin-off, with a shared snigger.
Even on a no-outrage-barred day at Philippe’s had I ever ingested so much jizz in a day, but it made me thirsty; the chambermaid scoffed slightly at my new good company, frankly unabashed, I thanked her for the flowers, but she muttered it was the Mrs attention. My current henchmen laughed and rewarded the girl with Swiss flags.
There was amply of tea for all, and it dawned in my perverted mind that it might bring up certain childish sports, later. Now, I could detail that supernumerary conferee that tasted with a hint of anise. He certainly was the Alpha in their gang, with sunbleached wicks and owl-shaped goggles marks in a toffee-gold face, he was the one who went the most often swank about on Saas-Fee slopes —hadn’t I?— and also, he owned a snazzy ramrod not yet content, as it showed.
Insensibly, they drew me back to lay face down upon the black-ringlets dude, who swiftly stuffed my dewy petal purse. Flaxy-wicks had obviously set his sight on my lesser pathway, and he was already rubbing his tool with lube; I gathered my knees up and wide, he pushed upon my loins, so my hole was free access as he tickled it with his glans, and then he thrust irresistibly into my slidy entrails while his buddy suckled my tongue and rooted his schlong into my sensitive little cream pot.
All in the epitome of being busy, I hadn’t seen willowy jana sneak in by, when I felt a sweet hand stroking my pervaded throat, and the shapely sportsman had her knelt on all fours to fiddle into her butt cleft. Goldilocks —with a magic flesh wand— had seen her too and was offhandedly toying with her nipples; but it was the black-curled bugger who discharged first to my loins, causing my womb to twitch and squirt, thus garnering more spunk, while more of it was injected beyond my belch reflex in my oesophagus. Jana liked the bitter batter in my mouth; and I sussed she has made up her mind to follow me to Paris.
As we all rinsed out any proof of our turpitudes, I nonchalantly let myself piss upon their feet, to what they forced me to sit on my heels and retaliated all over my face and body. We lathered up and cheered, we soaked all of the towels stack. As they were dressing up, the chambermaid came in to collect our dirty laundry, and she was so handsomely rewarded that she blushed.
My pleased customers hurried down, I dawdled by with Jana, Melchior had texted he waited for us, and I supposed he had been peeping over our carnal playlet. For the nonce, he sat in a private boudoir, clad with obscene porcelain tiles I couldn’t help detailing; they all were in the meticulous manner of Achille Deveria’s naughtinesses, with sinewy mock savages ravaging gracile younglings. Ayla stood up, Melchior’s hand rummaging under her dress, she explained the tiles had been salvaged from a former rich brothel in France. I mused the idea of them would titillate my Cecile to spend a few days at Caroline’s, and Melchior concurred.
He grabbed Ayla and hitched up her dress above her shy tits, grazed her tight belly and overwhelmed her with compliments. Jana stood aside, in cute casualwear; loose jeans, vanilla cropped sweat, and oversized black and white varsity jacket branded “runaway” in bold appliqué red letters; she wore vanilla Chuck Taylors, too. Melchior beckoned her, as Ayla’s dress dropped back, and he asked the girl if she wished to go back with me, while he brazenly rummaged in her boyish fly.

This new aeroplane was impressive indeed, bigger and sleeker, no more top air vent, for my ignoramus glance, but Jana stood gobsmacked holding my hand. One thing had been to let the old man fumble about into her pants on the backseat of a cloudly carriage, another was to walk with me towards the sparkling metal albatross and actually climb in. It smelled of new, a masculine scent, probably designed within all the materials crafted about the cabin.
I had travelled before onboard the previous Melchior’s big birds, and if it seemed there wouldn’t be a flight attendant, I sussed I knew the crew, and they knew about me; the boss had many such nieces. The Captain and Copilot might well have known me close on long flights he told us it would be a smooth one-hour trip under the stars, and he ogled upon Jana’s navel.
We dropped our jackets, and Melchior opened his Nehru-collar suit, he seated Jana next to him by the window. Once we reached our altitude, I went barefoot to brew some tea in the thin bone-china tableware, the Emperor bought his teas in the same shop as us. It was one hour, but I felt carefree enough to take off my precious trousers and gather up my legs parted, which he greeted with a gaze. Not too long after, he alluded that I might help Jana free a tad, thus I grasped and unlaced her shoes, knowing he would relish her long, tapered toes. And, why not? I showed her I would pull on the jeans’ hems, till she let me rid her of the thick denim.
He said he could scent we had been naughty, and he loved us for that. He whispered in Jana’s ear, so she fetched his rich man’s dick like a savvy tramp ready to make herself memorable; she sucked thoroughly like a Royal favourite, and I wanked like a lady on a Japanese woodblock print, still not quieted of these two furious days. The sunset was beginning to gild our little scene.
All redressed citywise before Le Bourget, we embarked into another Imperial berline just in front of the ladder door because we were still in the Schengen zone; the chauffeur fetched our bags. All three sprawled in the back seat, we continued our gently licentious ways, and it was obvious the Emperor had a stinging crush for the newcomer. He said he would keep her with him for the while, and they would travel again in the proud white bird, before he sees into installing her near us. It was so that I had foreseen that I kissed him on the cheeks before I ran up home.
The apartment was deserted and clean, our bed tucked with new sheets. I disrobed quietly and hung my persona in the closet, shimmied for a minute in the shower, I smelled right, but I sprayed some Blue Gardenia just in case, it was still far from bedtime. I slid into an overwashed tracksuit printed of the OK Computer visual, put on old mismatched sneakers, and headed down to look for Cecile and the subterranean gang.
She was alone amidst the Mass in B; she beamed up as she saw me, she was almost finished with the mad marquetry, and it was splendid. She grabbed me greedily, shoving off her gloves to frisk in my pants, I retorted that she would be served with my little Swiss tales. She dehisced out of her spotted white overalls, true to the vision I always fostered of her, all gracile in cotton leggings and a tee shirt. She put on the needlepoint cheetah motive slippers we had purchased together at Stubbs and Wooton’s, closed the shop and followed me to the lift. Up close, she smelled like a working girl and turpentine, and that was raw and enticing, as much as when she pampered herself. She kept that same freshness which made me be called a tomboy.
It really seemed it would be the two of us, we ordered a spinach-ricotta pie, apple turnovers, and almond tuiles; the delivery boy even saw her casually denuded —it wouldn’t be a first. She did not know my father, at first she figured I slept with him; I snorted, and then I recounted the last time I had jumped against him in the shower, which earned me a famous reckoning trip to London —and my entry to my Swiss paradise, for that matter. She bantered I really was a Princess, and she grabbed one of my feet under the table and unlaced my shoe.
Henceforth, she had heard about my bond with Ayla —whom she shagged once or twice— beyond the twists of destiny. And the cunning little courtesan had strived to keep in the global Melchior loop, moreover when her young paramour Esther needed serious medical care. However, Ayla led a high-roller international escort career (Cecile should let be booked with one of the johns in Ayla’s directory, in a Paris palace). It wouldn’t be so different from Liselotte’s trade, or Hector’s, only some kind of step further but still under the shield of the black card.
And now, there was this perfectly legit pleasure house in a Zürich garden, like those Cecile had visited in Germany with her northern master, and she revelled in the details I told, while, denuded on all fours under the table, she lapped at my labia for dessert. We promised to go together to Speck’s next day. Meanwhile, we ended up in her bed and the homunculus was thrilled. I also announced my new little blond recruit Jana, whom I would willingly share, as always.
The room was unusually black, my dream had been overcrowded with Lakota riders and Swiss buggers in merry chaos; I reckoned I had slept my heart out, and Cecile had run to her workshop. Incidentally, I blessed the Swiss Navy for their beneficence, rolling my hips in bodily bliss, standing in the span of the Crow God. She had never taken me to the pleasure house the grand mask had come from —it had been there that she had begun an unabashed career in vice, like all of us, reclaiming all the shame buried in a fatidic cellar.
At this hour of the day, the sun bashed on our living room windows, and I felt like opening them wide. I brewed some special Taiwanese oolong and checked my mail; Kate had visited the newly re-opened Royal Museum in Antwerp, along with Gwen and Ksyusha, en route on a car tour of Gwen’s best memories. The Heather Fairies visited southern Ireland, they did not smile dumbly in a tender selfie against the shredded clouds of Killarney. Hugo greeted me back home and invited Jana (or whatever she choose to be called) and me for dinner, smoke signals had roamed the Empire I guessed. Camille had taken Dagmar and Fæbian to New York in Melchior’s Albatross, a spike of fever might happen to strike in the ranks of the attorneys.
I switched offline and rested my feet on the table, tea was infused to perfection, and I mused if the Albatross could reach Taiwan Hsinchu County —where the tea jassid operated his petty miracle on the leaves— in one wing stroke, would it?
Josephine barged in with Jana carrying elegant shopping bags, and one big red box of macarons from Sadaharu Aoki. Josephine said she had found this lovely stranger, pacing at our door, trying to reach my telephone, and was relieved when she saw our no-fuss manners of morning greetings. I brewed more tea and asked Josephine to seat with us, as she was visibly beguiled by the newcomer, scenting another tramp sister, all the more that she be brought in by me.
As they had put off their shoes to play footsie, Jana, in her funky pidgin, revelled explaining where Melchior had raptured her and treated her like a star, with none worse bitter end than entrusting her back to me, and us, with his mindful blessing. After they had dropped me home, they had glided to one of those places outside of Paris where he entertained the vetted Gotha of high-volage libertines with princesses of null bloodline but dazzling potential, mostly making stealth amends for fate’s wrongdoings. I knew firsthand he was a fair and inventive lovemaker, he could summon me anytime.
Early in the morning, they had discussed money, and he had lent her another black card to use in shops with a code to use in shops at her whim, under a roomy ceiling; I knew of no other beneficiary of such largesse on his part. There had been sales at Missoni’s, but nonetheless, they rushed down to the swimming pool where there wouldn’t be any Concours d’Elegance other than live skin. I was certain they would start making out in the lift.
Now then, I craved nothing more than daydreaming in our studio, a honed pencil in hand, listening to some fine audiobook, on top of the world, before Cecile and I go to Speck’s, where I had forewarned that we would be available as one unleashed pair.